cin (sin)

You were roused from sleep by the locks and hinges opening. It was still dark, long away from dawn breaking, and your candles were almost burning out.

Before you could even figure out what was happening, a big, strong hand pulled you by your ankle, sliding you down the bed.

You shrieked.

So many thoughts were going through your head, but were overshadowed by intense panic. You screamed again, trying to kick the intruder with your other leg. 

Why weren’t your guards, your jailers, coming in?

“Settle yourself,” Aymer spat out, and you took a deep breath, your body still shaking slightly. 

Your husband stood between your legs, which were hanging off the bed, and you could see faint shadows dancing over his face. He looked his typical self, angry and annoyed, his brows furrowed closely, his jaw tensed. He didn’t even bother to remove all of his chainmail.

You were told he would only be arriving on the morn, otherwise you would have waited for him.

“I couldn’t wait anymore,” he murmured between his teeth, almost like he could read your mind. 

He was staring at you, taking in your figure, your hair splayed over the quilts, your shift that he bunched up your thighs, all the way to your waist, your cunt on display.

He liked that your first instinct was to try to fight him off - perhaps he should be ambushing you in such a manner more. A quick sneer graced his face before he continued unlacing his breeches, his cock raging against the fabric, desperately needing to plunge into you, feel your warmth and tightness. 

“Wait,” you whispered, realising his impatience, trying to raise to your elbows, but Aymer pulled at your legs quickly again, making your back hit flush against the bed. 

“Need you now,” he grabbed under your knees, lifting your hips slightly off the sunken mattress.

It sent shivers through you, those shameful, exciting ones, the way desperation dripped from his lips. You clenched your sheets and pressed your teeth together, before hearing and feeling Aymer spitting at your already hot cunt. 

A tiny whimper escaped your mouth, which Aymer misunderstood as fear, but you knew better. He spat again, saliva landing all over your cunt and thighs.

“Shhh, shhhh, bunny,” he dragged his cock through your folds, watching how his spit glided down through them, before violently thrusting into you, his cock impaling you, splitting you in half.

Your yelp was lost among his moans, and you had never heard him moan this loud, grunting, whimpering, as he repeatedly buried his cock in you, his hips hitting at the back of your thighs, his balls slapping at your supple skin.

It felt devastatingly good, the way he was plunging in and out of your cunt, the roughness making you wet, that familiar knot in your stomach appearing, the hotness spreading through your whole body, your breasts growing tender, nipples hardening, your walls fluttering around Aymer’s hard cock.

He fucked you like a man possessed, raw and animalistic and needy, desperately wanting to empty his balls into you, to bind you to himself forever. 

It hurt, the way his cock stretched you, but it was nothing compared to the way his cockhead kept hitting that one spot, over and over and over, or the way you knew your thighs would bruise under his strong grasp. 

“Oh, bunny,” slipped from lips, almost endearingly in the way he whispered it, his eyes following yours, which were transfixed on the spot where your bodies met, as you watched in awe how your cunt greedily swallowed him repeatedly. 

He thrust harder and harder, his eyes firmly trained on your face, watching how you bit your lips, which did nothing in silencing your moans. It drove him crazy, seeing you enjoying his cock this much, even if you would never admit it.

“You’re so good for me,” he moaned. “So good for your God-given husband.”

You could tell he was close by the way his hips stuttered and how he kept moaning your nickname, babbling almost.

Aymer wasn’t away for long, but before he left, he still hadn’t had a definitive confirmation that you were with the child he so desperately wanted. It was eating away at him, coming back and not seeing you swelled up, his seed growing deep inside you.

He had no idea what to expect upon his return, but to see you now so responsive, your back arching off the bed, those sweet little moans escaping your lips despite you biting your tongue, your whole body begging for more and more of him… 

Aymer watched your flushed face illuminated more by the moonlight than dying flames, watched your furrowed eyebrows and mouth agape as you took in the pleasure, as you took in him. 

“I shall give you a son,” he breathed out between his grunts, as he leaned forward, his body now enveloping yours, the final harsh thrusts making your whole body tremble as he came, his seed painting your insides, long, warm spurts you felt deep down. 

He stilled above you, his breathing still ragged, shallow, his eyes scanning your face. Your finger gently traced the scar on his chin. You were fucked out completely, not that you had words to describe what you were feeling, and you still wanted him back inside you, your cruel husband who could snap at you at any given moment and who seemed to still only when taking you. 

It was all too complicated. You knew that you were his the moment he decided so. Still, the sheer guilt of even thinking of liking someone who slaughtered your whole family was spread thick over you, dripping through every pore of your being, suffocating you sweetly.

And then there was the shame and embarrassment of enjoying your marital duties. You liked it so much that one evening, while Aymer was away, you kneeled on the same spot he had made you swallow his cock on your wedding night, and you begged and begged, for Aymer to force you again, take you again, find his peace buried deep inside you, with his cock or his vicious tongue.

Your mind drifted.

“Are you even listening to me, you vile whore?” Aymer grabbed your face and pressed, his fingers into your skin and you into the mattress.

While you were reminiscing, he disrobed completely, which you had noticed, but he was also speaking to you, which, in your lustful fervour, you had not.

“I asked, who was here before me?”

His spittle was all over your face, and in one terrifying moment, you wanted him to lick your face. You swallowed hard, trying to suppress the sinful thought, and Aymer completely lost it.

He released you from his grasp, but kept raging about someone being here before him, buried between your thighs, or worse, as he kept destroying your chambers.

You watched him with terrifying stillness, sounds of fabric being torn filled the room, bowls and trays breaking, the high-pitched rattling sounds echoing against the walls, paintings and candelabras being tossed across the room, and Aymer’s voice, yelling, growling, screaming, demanding to know who defiled you, who dared to disobey him. 

You knew he wished to hit you, to grab you by your neck and squeeze, watch the last breath leave your body. You saw how his whole body went rigid and the intimidating way in which his jaw trembled. He yanked you by your arm off the bed, hard enough that it hurt from the place where his long fingers enveloped your forearm, all the way through your elbow, to your shoulder. He continued to scream in your face, his forehead pressing against yours, accusing you of being too excited and too wet, too fast.

“As my wife, you shall answer me!” He held a dagger in his other hand, his hot breath warming your entire face. Your eyes were half lidded, your body and mind too slow to process what was happening around you. And then you realised, you weren’t scared, not of him. 

What it did to you, when he was acting in this manner, was a thought experiment for another time. But now, right now, you started to realise two things: how angry you were and how much terrifying power you had over him.

You pressed your forehead back against his, trying to find every last droplet of control not to slap him. However, you pushed him away, which caught him off guard enough that he stumbled half a step backwards, his eyes widening in surprise as he let go of your arm.

“You despicable, fucking… Fucking beast!” your voice was breaking, and although you tried to scream at him, it came out all wrong, ragged and primal.

It was Aymer’s turn to watch and be quiet, to try to make sense of his gentle, meek wife pushing back against him, to defy him so fearlessly.

“Did you never stop to think with that bald head of yours that I might like it when you take me? That I enjoy the depravities you subject me to?” you were flailing your arms around and tugging at your shift, your eyes tearing up from the weight of your confession. 

“You tainted and corrupted me to my core, you disgusting, wicked man!” you grabbed the first thing you could reach and tossed it towards him, which in this case was nothing but a pillow he didn’t even try to evade. 

“I’m sick and tired of your temper, you squealing paranoid pig!” As you were saying it, you pushed him against his chest, but he expected that one, his body staying unyielding. There was a weird grimace on his face, and the tiny muscles around his left eye were twitching. The first light was peeking through the window, and you could swear there were tears in the corners of his eyes. 

And then he left, barely looking at you.

For the whole day, you wished for him to come back, even just to taunt and humiliate you. You could barely eat, reliving every moment again and again, biting at your lower lip until it started bleeding. When you finally left your chambers for supper, you realised Aymer was throwing a feast.

Hoping he wasn’t viciously drunk already, you slowly descended the stairs and narrow hallways, faint sounds of music and singing reaching you, until you turned a corner and heard two of his knights discussing you. You covered your mouth to stop yourself from gasping in fear, and, making sure they couldn’t see you, hurried to take your place next to your husband.

“We’ve started without you,” his voice was hoarse as he addressed you curtly, not noticing your unsettled demeanour. He pushed a cup of wine towards you, a sign enough for you to turn to him.

“I believed you,” you whispered, your hand reflexively grabbing at his forearm resting on the chair. 

“You’re not making any sense, wife,” he leaned back, his eyes locking onto your fingers tugging at his sleeve. You had never before touched him willingly, and certainly not before others. 

If what you had overheard was true, he was the last man you were supposed to talk to, but he made sure of it so you’d have no one else to ask for help, to depend on. No matter how much you hoped, in these short moments, that you were wrong and that this conspiracy was playing behind his back, what scared you was how much you wanted him to shield you, protect you, embrace you.

You were antagonising him from the very moment you met, and yet now, you wanted him to be soft, delicate even.

“When you said that I’m only yours,” your eyes were glassy and unfixed, and your fingers slid down his arm to wrap around his hand, your thumb grazing his knuckles.

Aymer cocked his head, swallowing hard. Something was wrong, terribly wrong if you were so eager to touch him so freely, to seek comfort so openly. Or perhaps, you were only trying to manipulate him, subjugate him to your womanly whims. His jaw clenched. He opened his mouth and promptly closed it.

“Bunny,” he was too weak to resist you, and he knew it. No matter how hurt or paranoid he was, he couldn’t be cruel when you were clinging to him like this. “What has transpired?”

You remained silent until he gently closed his fingers around yours, nudging you to look at him. You couldn’t see him clearly, your eyes full of tears, but you saw him leaning in. You mimicked, your lips almost brushing his ear as you brokenly whispered, with teary moans and swallowed gasps, about who and what you overheard.

“Please,” you begged him as you finished speaking, hot tears rolling down your flushed cheeks.

Aymer wanted to lick them away, to press his forehead against yours, to kiss your nose, and pull you into his lap, to tell you how much he… But he was incapable of doing any of it, bound either by propriety or his insecurity. 

Instead, he calmly stood up and walked to the drunkards. You watched him lean in to the first one, the sneering, disgusting man you never liked, and watched his face change expression and colour as Aymer whispered something in his ear, grabbing him hard by his hair before coldly sliding his dagger across his throat.

The blood gushed out, spilling over the table and floor, terrified gasps and screams escaping everyone’s lips. Music died out as Aymer approached another man, who stood up, shook his head, and put up his hands, pleading. Other faces were looking at you, silently asking you to placate your husband, as if they didn’t know any better. 

Enraged Aymer was a terrifying sight, but the cold and calculated one was a bone-chilling monster. Shadows illuminated by numerous candles danced across your husband’s face as he plunged his dagger into the man’s stomach, and then again, and again, and again, wet thuds accompanying every strike as blood spurted out, dirtying Aymer’s shirt, tiny droplets landing on his face. 

He wouldn’t stop, hard exhales rolling off his lips as he kept stabbing a corpse, until you stood up, the creaking of wood against the stone heard across the room. 

“Husband,” you asked silently, but knowing he could hear you. The only sound in the hall was the cracking of burning wood in the hearth. Aymer wiped his face, dropping his dagger carelessly. Some of the ladies flinched at the sound of steel clashing against the floor. Eyes followed him as he walked to you.

“I am tired. Would you escort me to my chambers?” your voice was soft, your breathing hitched. You knew if he went uncontrolled, he was capable of slaughtering the whole room.

He extended his hand that was completely covered in blood dripping from it, and you looked at it, long and hard. Aymer’s squire, a poor lad already used to his murderous tantrums, was hurrying with a pitcher, timidly offering Aymer his own cloak to wipe his hands on.

You accepted his hand, cold and still a little wet, as murmuring voices and trembling faces followed you to exit. You were both quiet until you reached your chambers, Aymer closing the door with a loud thud.

He finally let his mask slip, his hand wrapped around your wrist. He was breathing hard, his chest steadily going up and down, as he tried to find the right words.

“No one, ever, is to even look at you again,” he gritted out, his teeth literally making a sound as they clenched together. He opened his mouth again, just to be surprised by your lips crashing into his.

You pulled him in, your hands clawing at his neck, your lips sucking at his. Aymer’s shoulders dropped, his body relaxing around yours. He let you lead as you were both tugging and pulling at each other’s clothes.

“Bunny,” he whimpered out, making your heart beat harder.

His hands were gentle, gentler than they had ever been before, leading you back to bed. You kept kissing him, desperate to feel him all over again, free of the shackles of guilt and shame. 

His cock was already hard, pressed against your thigh, as you sighed in his mouth. He gently picked you up and placed you on the bed, positioning himself over you. His mouth immediately dropped to your neck, kissing you with a frightening care and softness. 

Aymer wanted to get lost in you and your scent and your touch. He wished you to belong to him so badly, and for so long that he wasn’t sure what to do now, except to pray that you would stay, that this moment would stay, that it wasn’t a trick or treachery, or a cruel game. His free hand was sliding up and down your body, as if trying to memorise you all over again, almost as if he couldn’t believe that you were allowing, encouraging him to touch you. 

“Oh, bunny,” he moaned into your neck, his hand spreading your legs, brushing lightly against your slick folds. To say that you were sinfully aroused by watching him execute the men planning on bringing you harm would be an understatement. You were always aroused by his violence, even if your pious self never wanted to admit it, not even to yourself.

Your hands were propped against his shoulders as you slowly pulled him towards yourself, kissing him as he settled between your legs, his cock resting lightly between your folds. He tried to keep still, but his hips were shallowly thrusting, his cock sliding over your sensitive bud. You moaned out in pleasure, and Aymer swallowed it, every little breath you would give him.

You moaned his name as he entered you, slowly pushing in, your walls struggling to accommodate him. It was exactly how you always imagined it, the way he was taking you, slow and gentle, cautious but sensual.

“Come closer, husband,” you whispered, your hands sliding over his strong chest and muscular arms.

Aymer obeyed, immediately dropping to his elbows, his sweaty body searing into yours. He moaned, the closeness overwhelming him. You traced the scar on his head, your fingers ghosting over his eye and the bridge of his nose, all the way to his lips. You pushed in slightly, tracing over his crooked teeth, as Aymer continued to slowly rut into you.

He placed a small kiss on your fingertips before kissing you, pushing his tongue into your mouth. It was wet and sloppy, but you loved it, melting into him. The knot in your stomach was warm and deep, growing tighter. You could feel every crease and bulge of his cock against your walls, every twitching vein, the slow build-up making you press harder against Aymer’s skin, leaving crescent imprints all over his neck and shoulders.

His stomach slid over yours, a little fat he had there driving you wild as you nibbled on his jaw, licking the same place to soothe it. His thrusts quickened, deepened, and your back arched off the bed, again.

“Such a good bunny,” he moaned into your temple, “taking me so well.”

The pleasure unexpectedly crashed through you, and you moaned, loud and long, and Aymer with you. It lasted longer than any of the times before, your body shaking as you desperately clung to him, your vision completely fading, and for a moment, you weren’t aware of anything except Aymer, whispering my bunny over and over again, pumping his seed into you for a second time today.

You hoped it would take, if it hadn't already.

*♡•

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It wouldn’t be Coach Mike and his annoying smug face if he didn’t order you to run extra laps, even on your teambuilding getaway.

You respected him when he initially came on, but he started to pick on you fast, and all that respect and admiration not only evaporated but turned into a deep hatred.

All of a sudden, you were too slow and too out of shape, and before you noticed, your sessions with the Coach would end long after your locker room would empty. Nothing you did was ever good enough, not a pass, not a steal, not a score. Sometimes, he made you do drills over and over again until you threw up, and then would make some snide little comment that made you want to punch his glasses off his stupid face.

You couldn’t even believe you thought he was handsome when he came on, the way he gripped the noteboard or the way his fingers would coil around that little whistle… It used to drive you crazy, in a much different way than it did now. You even accidentally gave him a concussion a couple of months ago when one of your penalty shots drills went quite off -  square into Coach Mike’s face. 

Somehow, you managed to keep a straight face and hide your proud little smirk watching him lie flat on his back, holding onto the bloody mess of his nose. Even visited him in the hospital, but not even a concussion could confuse him enough into believing you didn’t do it on purpose. He grabbed your wrist as you were leaving, those long, lanky fingers wrapped around you this time, pressing slightly to stop you from leaving. 

“I’m gonna double your laps when I get back,” his lips twisted into one of those smug smiles you knew all too well, and you wanted to re-break his nose all over again.

Surprisingly, your whole team had your back, sorta. Even the people you clashed with over the years admitted that Coach Mike went too far by constantly isolating you and ignoring all their asks and pleas to leave you alone. It has gotten so bad that, now, running your sixth lap through the forest, you thought you should just quit. Sure, you would feel embarrassed abandoning the team so close to the championship, your first one, something you've strived for your whole life, but it was taking its toll, what he was doing.

Lately, you have had trouble sleeping and eating, which has affected your performance even more. You went to your team manager and asked to be benched, but he emphatically refused, saying that your performance had improved drastically. You weren’t even sure why you listened to Coach Mike and went running, where did this fear of disappointing Coach fucking Mike come from. It’s not like you were in the field where he could watch you, his glasses idiotically hanging on his forehead. 

It wasn’t fear of disappointing him, you realised, dusk slowly settling around you, cicadas chirping in the hot air. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of breaking you, wearing you out, of Coach Mike being the reason you’d abandoned your dream. But perhaps he was right, not that he ever said that to your face. Perhaps this wasn’t for you, perhaps you gave your maximum and hit that plateau. Perhaps you should quit.

It was so humid that sweat was dripping down your legs, your polyester shorts drenched, and you cursed yourself for not packing enough of the cotton ones. You saw Coach Mike standing in the distance, his arms crossed at his chest, his legs all lumpy and pale, staring at you as you struggled to finish the lap. 

You panted hard, stopping next to him, watching his brows furrow and his lip twitch. 

“I quit,” you managed to breathe out, thinking of nothing but a hot shower and sleeping in tomorrow. You’d pack your bags while the team was out, write them all a quick group message, and cheer for them from the comfort of your couch, eating popcorn and downing beer after cold beer.

He passed you the towel.

“Very well, but I will be ordering you double the dinner. I noticed you lost quite a lot of weight,” he spat out, his eyes tracking your hand as you wiped and tapped away at your sweat.

“No,” you stood up to your full height, but still had to look up to him, the top of your head barely reaching his shoulders. “I quit quit.” You allowed him a couple of moments, but he just stared at you without blinking, his jaw moving as he chewed on that already battered gum.

“Congratulations, you win, you finally broke me,” you continued, your voice sounding much more cheerful than what you felt deep inside. 

“You’re leaving me?” Coach Mike spat out, confusing you in an instant. “Now?”

You expected more than a confusing, weird question, hoping your dramatic proclamation would just irritate him, perhaps push him into an angry tirade, but you decided to settle. As you turned to leave, he gripped your wrist again, like in the hospital, except harder. When you wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t even turn around, he yanked you towards himself, hard enough that you stumbled into him.

Bracing yourself on his chest, which was going up and down hard, you looked up to him again. His face was flushed, but you couldn’t quite read his expression. It was one of those looks he sometimes had when you would pointlessly run around the field, when he thought you couldn’t see him. The atmosphere was tense and charged. 

You never lied to yourself about your attraction to Mike, and it’s not like you never pleasured yourself to thoughts of him and what looked like a sizeable package. You were familiar with his touch, as he always insisted on helping you stretch after your extra drills, expertly finding all the teeny tiny knots in your thigh muscles, often dealing with them himself, his fingers massaging into your supple flesh, pressing and tugging as you tried hard not to grunt.

But this was different. He still wasn’t letting go; if anything, his grip strengthened, so much so that you were sure you were going to develop bruises. As you looked into those baby blues, you couldn’t tell if his pupils were blown because of the dusk or something else, but the way he continued to chew on that gum was seriously starting to irritate you. You made another attempt at pulling your hand free, but Coach Mike and his strong arms wouldn’t budge a millimetre. 

And then his free hand was on your neck, pulling your head towards him as his lips crashed onto yours. It wasn’t very gentle, more like he desperately tried to convey something. It took you by surprise, the kiss, his lips on yours, his tongue almost shyly trying to nudge you to open your mouth, and then exploring firmer, harder, his tongue swirling around yours. His other hand, finally letting you go, was splayed across the small of your back, his fingers gently pulling just a smidge of fabric up, allowing him to touch your sweaty skin.

It felt almost as if his fingertips burned into you, sliding over your skin, pressing ever so slightly, as he pressed his body into you, his teeth tugging at your lips before he pushed his tongue into your mouth again. 

You finally managed to break off the kiss, breathing harder than during the laps he made you run. His breath was hot on your face, soothing the harsh marks on your forehead left by the way his glasses pressed into it. You chewed on that gum, what was left of it, realising your mind was empty. Spitting out the gum, you pressed yourself against him, one of your hands tangling into his hair, the other grabbing the glasses off him.

The second kiss was rougher, more assured. Coach Mike was kissing you like he was trying to devour you, to finally let you know the depth of his feelings and his lust for you. His hand under your shirt went a little higher, the other still perched around your neck.

“Oh, darling,” he moaned into your mouth, a confession that sent a small electric jolt through your whole body. You wanted to pull him even closer, step into him. Without thinking, you pocketed his glasses deep into his shorts, clearly feeling how hard he was. His breath stuttered a little, and you got the most devious idea.

Palming him openly through the fabric, you listened to his small moans and breaths, his head dipping to the crook of your neck, placing open-mouth kisses on your skin, licking your sweat. You continued to tease him, your thumb pressing at his leaking cockhead, your hand sliding up and down his shaft. That was all, and although you were ready to push your hand into his pants, it was more than enough for him and his pathetic arousal.

He was hard, so hard you wanted him to fuck you, drag you further into the forest and bend you over against the closest tree. But Coach Mike was clinging to you almost like he was afraid that if he even breathed too hard, you would leave him high and dry. So you continued, palming at him, jerking him a little, feeling the cold, sticky liquid under your thumb, all the way until you noticed a change in his breathing and his moans, the way he dragged his teeth over the sensitive skin of your neck.

He was close, very close, silently begging to come under your fingers, his hips buckling into your hand. 

And then you stopped, retracting your hand and placing it on his neck, pulling him into another kiss. He whipmered into your mouth, and you realised that what you thought was only sweat on his face was actually mixed with tears of anticipation and frustration.

Still, he didn’t grab at your hand as you expected, not even trying to finish the job himself. No, Coach Mike was letting himself be completely under your mercy, and you were sure you could find some… But not before edging him two more times, his whimpers getting louder every time, burying his face deep into your neck, both of his hands grasping at your waist.

“Do you think you earned it?” you whispered in his ear as you got him close the fourth time, and although his answer wouldn’t change your decision, you were still curious about it. He shook his head against your shoulder, his fingers desperately pushing into your body, but you let him come, his spend spilling over himself, soaking through his shorts. He came in long breaths, his whole body trembling, his hips buckling hard into your hand.

You let him rest his head on your shoulder for a moment before licking your fingers.

**

You were tossing and turning, trying not to wake your roommate, as you replayed everything that happened just a couple of hours earlier. Unsure if Coach Mike acknowledged your decision, you were battling your decision again when your phone lit up.

“Come over. Now.”

Your breath hitched immediately, and like a woman possessed, you put on your fuzzy slippers and marched yourself one floor up to Coach Mike’s room. Although wearing your skimpy little sleeping shorts that did nothing to cover your ass and a tiny tank top, you didn’t even bother with the robe.

Coach Mike looked exhausted, and not even a soft light of the hotel room could hide it. He looked torn, conflicted, all manner of tortured. He was wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a tight grey shirt that outlined those huge, juicy pecs of his. He sat on the edge of the bed, and you finally noticed how nervous he was.

He practised what he wanted to say before he even sent the text. The speech and the apology for what transpired today and the last couple of months as well. The request for you to stay with the team. He was prepared to resign on the spot if needed. If the team needed it, if you needed it. And yet, he was staring at an imaginary spot on the carpet, paralysed, your words about him breaking you on a constant repeat.

When he wouldn’t move or speak, you laid down on the bed next to him.

“As far as the venues go, this one is a nice upgrade.”

Of course, you had to be a little cheeky, but you yourself couldn’t really get a read of the situation. You wanted to tug at his shirt and pull him closer, but the poor lad was obviously fighting something, so you just lay there, patiently waiting.

And then he finally turned around, lying down next to you and burying his head in your ribs, his arm snaking around you. His breathing was deep and slow, like your scent, just you being here next to him was enough of a remedy for his nerves and worries. You knew he wouldn’t be able to resist, the scent of your arousal slowly filling the room. 

And you were right.

He pulled your shorts and panties down in no time, burying his face into your cunt, inhaling like his life depended on it. The way the heat pooled inside you, low in your tummy and deep inside your cunt made your hips involuntarily buckle into him. 

“Have you been this wet the whole time?” he asked, licking a long, wide strip, tasting you, before his finger started teasing you between your folds, playing with your clit.

“Yeah,” you moaned, pulling at his shirt, which he immediately discarded. Finally, you could see him, the taut, tanned skin pulled over the hard muscles. 

“Since the evening?” he asked again, slowly pushing one finger into you; you swore you could feel him reach all the way to your cervix. 

“Yeah,” you moaned, again, watching at the strong muscles of his back, as he comfortably nested between your legs, his shoulders pushing them wider apart.

“Good girl,” he breathed into you, and you swore you were almost there already, ready to spill your juices all over his face.

He kept playing with your pussy, withdrawing and reintroducing his finger, spreading your slick all the way to your clit, sucking at it, then licking his finger, and repeating it again and again. He extended his other arm, reaching easily to your tits, bunching up the soft material of your tank top on the way.

“Let me see all of you, darling,” he breathed, his tongue flicking over your clit, sending more heat through you. 

You were finally naked and relaxed, but instead of Coach Mike being at your mercy, you were safe and sound under his touch. He played with your pussy like it was his first time seeing one, determined to explore what makes you moan and whimper, introducing two fingers into you, slowly pumping them in and out of you, relishing all the little sounds you were making. 

Close, you were so close, that knot tightening inside you, threatening to break. Mike could obviously feel your pussy walls fluttering around his fingers, because just as you were letting go, he withdrew both his tongue and his fingers, essentially doing to you what you did to him. He chuckled into the skin of your mound, a deep, satisfying laugh, almost like he forgot that, despite not standing up to him, you still had a temper.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mouthed him off, grabbing your top and sitting up.

Before you could even look around to look for the rest of your tiny pajamas, Coach Mike was on you, pinning you back to the bed, pushing his tongue into your mouth. Although you liked tasting yourself on him, what you liked more was the way he was grinding his cock on your pussy, sending more of those horny, shameless heat waves through you.

You whined into his mouth, but refused to beg, and Coach Mike didn’t even need a further invitation, clumsily pushing down his boxers, and then immediately thrusting into you, bottoming out. You only had a second to see his cock in all his glory, fat and leaking, before you felt him push inside, his heavy balls slapping your ass.

He stilled on top of you, almost like he was trying not to come immediately. You, on the other hand, were already feeling boneless, despite not even coming. You couldn’t take your eyes off him, how strong and determined he looked.

Still buried inside you, and with your legs firmly around his waist, he sat back, on his knees, pulling you with him. You weren’t completely on top, and although staying straddled on top of him in this position, with your knees outside his, but still holding onto his neck, wasn’t going to be a problem, riding him very well might be. But Coach Mike was more than happy to help you, grabbing onto your hips and helping you slide off, almost all the way, before pulling you all the way on. 

You moaned, loudly, probably louder than ever before, your eyes closing to the intense pleasure his cock was inflicting upon you.

“Come on, superstar,” he teased you, slowly upping the tempo, trying to make you come on his cock as soon as possible.

“Don’t call me that,” your brows furrowed, beads of sweat rolling down your temples.

“But you are my little superstar,” he continued.

You could barely think, his fat head kissing all the way in, feeling every throbbing vein on his cock.

“How about princess, then? I can’t call you brat, given how good you were for me today.”

You could hear him smile through his moans, his hands pulling you up and down on his cock.

“Oh, fuck me,” you moaned, somehow already fucked out. “Fuck, fuck, fuck me.” You were close again, your fingers clawing at the skin of his shoulders, already leaving marks where your nails bruised his skin.

“Princess it is,” Coach Mike breathed out. “My good little princess, aren’t you? With her perfect tight little pussy.”

The knot, the coil, it broke, more because of his praise than continued pounding. Your body went rigid, your fingers desperately holding onto him as you whined and whimpered his name as the pleasure coursed through you so intensely you felt like you fainted for a couple of seconds.

Despite the continued, overstimulated whines from you, Coach Mike didn’t stop, fucking you all the way through your orgasam and then some. You intertwined your fingers behind his neck, not even having strength anymore to hold onto him. 

“Admit it,” you cried out, barely opening your eyes, “you took something, old man.” 

It made him laugh, your allusion, and stroked his ego. He fucked you like he was trying to exorcise all the mutual hate and frustration out of you both, like he was trying to make you both more pliable to each other, more tolerant.

“It’s less sensitive after I come already,” he whispered, his voice a little strained. “I can go longer.”

Moaning in response, you wondered for how long you could go like this. Your knees were already burning, and your fingers hurt from how desperately you interlaced them, but his cock felt so devastatingly good, better than you ever had before. You wanted Coach Mike to fuck you all night, every night.

“Are you gonna be a good girl and give your Coach another one?” he cooed, the soft sound of his gold chain hitting his skin, mixed with the sounds of flesh on flesh, reaching your ears.

“Yes, Coach,” you squeaked, nodding your head. 

“Such a good girl,” he continued to coo. “And how can I not call you my superstar then?”

“Because you hate me,” you answered a little too quickly for his liking, the way you sounded sad and dejected, fat tears pooling in the corners of your eyes.

“No, no, no,” he shushed you immediately. “I can’t hate my princess, my best girl, my favourite girl. Never.”

Seeing how well you responded to it, he continued his praises, calling you his good girl, his princess, complimenting how you were making him feel, telling you how often he would jerk off on thoughts of your soft lips wrapped around his cock.

You came again, and Coach Mike followed immediately, moaning and grunting, spilling deep inside you, his hot cum already dripping out of you.

**

Already sitting with your team for breakfast, you were pushing the food around your plate when the coaches entered. You avoided looking at Mike, but couldn’t avoid him when he walked up behind you mere moments later, pushing everything from his plate onto yours.

“I told you yesterday that you need to eat more,” he mumbled before sitting at the far end of the table. The silence that followed was immediate and awkward, everyone looking at each other, then you, then him. “What?”

You decided to come clean, well partially at least, because not like no one would notice you two suddenly becoming quite chummy with each other.

“Coach Mike and I had quite a lot of things to discuss and sort through,” you started, looking straight at your team's psychologist. “And decided no more drills… Or broken noses.”

“At least he didn’t make your run laps all night like we thought,” one of your teammates piped up, trying to ease the atmosphere a little.

**

“You didn’t eat all of it,” Coach Mike grumbled in the elevator, crossing his arms. 

You were alone, but you still didn’t want to get too close to him. Rolling your eyes, you snorted at him, crossing your arms as well.

“Now that you stopped counting my laps, you need to count my calories?” you bit your lip, watching him chew yet another gum.

“You can be snarky and bratty all you want,” he whispered at the back of your head as you were exiting the elevator. “But I’ll fuck it out of you eventually.”

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You were roused from sleep by the locks and hinges opening. It was still dark, long away from dawn breaking, and your candles were almost burning out.

Before you could even figure out what was happening, a big, strong hand pulled you by your ankle, sliding you down the bed.

You shrieked.

So many thoughts were going through your head, but were overshadowed by intense panic. You screamed again, trying to kick the intruder with your other leg. 

Why weren’t your guards, your jailers, coming in?

“Settle yourself,” Aymer spat out, and you took a deep breath, your body still shaking slightly. 

Your husband stood between your legs, which were hanging off the bed, and you could see faint shadows dancing over his face. He looked his typical self, angry and annoyed, his brows furrowed closely, his jaw tensed. He didn’t even bother to remove all of his chainmail.

You were told he would only be arriving on the morn, otherwise you would have waited for him.

“I couldn’t wait anymore,” he murmured between his teeth, almost like he could read your mind. 

He was staring at you, taking in your figure, your hair splayed over the quilts, your shift that he bunched up your thighs, all the way to your waist, your cunt on display.

He liked that your first instinct was to try to fight him off - perhaps he should be ambushing you in such a manner more. A quick sneer graced his face before he continued unlacing his breeches, his cock raging against the fabric, desperately needing to plunge into you, feel your warmth and tightness. 

“Wait,” you whispered, realising his impatience, trying to raise to your elbows, but Aymer pulled at your legs quickly again, making your back hit flush against the bed. 

“Need you now,” he grabbed under your knees, lifting your hips slightly off the sunken mattress.

It sent shivers through you, those shameful, exciting ones, the way desperation dripped from his lips. You clenched your sheets and pressed your teeth together, before hearing and feeling Aymer spitting at your already hot cunt. 

A tiny whimper escaped your mouth, which Aymer misunderstood as fear, but you knew better. He spat again, saliva landing all over your cunt and thighs.

“Shhh, shhhh, bunny,” he dragged his cock through your folds, watching how his spit glided down through them, before violently thrusting into you, his cock impaling you, splitting you in half.

Your yelp was lost among his moans, and you had never heard him moan this loud, grunting, whimpering, as he repeatedly buried his cock in you, his hips hitting at the back of your thighs, his balls slapping at your supple skin.

It felt devastatingly good, the way he was plunging in and out of your cunt, the roughness making you wet, that familiar knot in your stomach appearing, the hotness spreading through your whole body, your breasts growing tender, nipples hardening, your walls fluttering around Aymer’s hard cock.

He fucked you like a man possessed, raw and animalistic and needy, desperately wanting to empty his balls into you, to bind you to himself forever. 

It hurt, the way his cock stretched you, but it was nothing compared to the way his cockhead kept hitting that one spot, over and over and over, or the way you knew your thighs would bruise under his strong grasp. 

“Oh, bunny,” slipped from lips, almost endearingly in the way he whispered it, his eyes following yours, which were transfixed on the spot where your bodies met, as you watched in awe how your cunt greedily swallowed him repeatedly. 

He thrust harder and harder, his eyes firmly trained on your face, watching how you bit your lips, which did nothing in silencing your moans. It drove him crazy, seeing you enjoying his cock this much, even if you would never admit it.

“You’re so good for me,” he moaned. “So good for your God-given husband.”

You could tell he was close by the way his hips stuttered and how he kept moaning your nickname, babbling almost.

Aymer wasn’t away for long, but before he left, he still hadn’t had a definitive confirmation that you were with the child he so desperately wanted. It was eating away at him, coming back and not seeing you swelled up, his seed growing deep inside you.

He had no idea what to expect upon his return, but to see you now so responsive, your back arching off the bed, those sweet little moans escaping your lips despite you biting your tongue, your whole body begging for more and more of him… 

Aymer watched your flushed face illuminated more by the moonlight than dying flames, watched your furrowed eyebrows and mouth agape as you took in the pleasure, as you took in him. 

“I shall give you a son,” he breathed out between his grunts, as he leaned forward, his body now enveloping yours, the final harsh thrusts making your whole body tremble as he came, his seed painting your insides, long, warm spurts you felt deep down. 

He stilled above you, his breathing still ragged, shallow, his eyes scanning your face. Your finger gently traced the scar on his chin. You were fucked out completely, not that you had words to describe what you were feeling, and you still wanted him back inside you, your cruel husband who could snap at you at any given moment and who seemed to still only when taking you. 

It was all too complicated. You knew that you were his the moment he decided so. Still, the sheer guilt of even thinking of liking someone who slaughtered your whole family was spread thick over you, dripping through every pore of your being, suffocating you sweetly.

And then there was the shame and embarrassment of enjoying your marital duties. You liked it so much that one evening, while Aymer was away, you kneeled on the same spot he had made you swallow his cock on your wedding night, and you begged and begged, for Aymer to force you again, take you again, find his peace buried deep inside you, with his cock or his vicious tongue.

Your mind drifted.

“Are you even listening to me, you vile whore?” Aymer grabbed your face and pressed, his fingers into your skin and you into the mattress.

While you were reminiscing, he disrobed completely, which you had noticed, but he was also speaking to you, which, in your lustful fervour, you had not.

“I asked, who was here before me?”

His spittle was all over your face, and in one terrifying moment, you wanted him to lick your face. You swallowed hard, trying to suppress the sinful thought, and Aymer completely lost it.

He released you from his grasp, but kept raging about someone being here before him, buried between your thighs, or worse, as he kept destroying your chambers.

You watched him with terrifying stillness, sounds of fabric being torn filled the room, bowls and trays breaking, the high-pitched rattling sounds echoing against the walls, paintings and candelabras being tossed across the room, and Aymer’s voice, yelling, growling, screaming, demanding to know who defiled you, who dared to disobey him. 

You knew he wished to hit you, to grab you by your neck and squeeze, watch the last breath leave your body. You saw how his whole body went rigid and the intimidating way in which his jaw trembled. He yanked you by your arm off the bed, hard enough that it hurt from the place where his long fingers enveloped your forearm, all the way through your elbow, to your shoulder. He continued to scream in your face, his forehead pressing against yours, accusing you of being too excited and too wet, too fast.

“As my wife, you shall answer me!” He held a dagger in his other hand, his hot breath warming your entire face. Your eyes were half lidded, your body and mind too slow to process what was happening around you. And then you realised, you weren’t scared, not of him. 

What it did to you, when he was acting in this manner, was a thought experiment for another time. But now, right now, you started to realise two things: how angry you were and how much terrifying power you had over him.

You pressed your forehead back against his, trying to find every last droplet of control not to slap him. However, you pushed him away, which caught him off guard enough that he stumbled half a step backwards, his eyes widening in surprise as he let go of your arm.

“You despicable, fucking… Fucking beast!” your voice was breaking, and although you tried to scream at him, it came out all wrong, ragged and primal.

It was Aymer’s turn to watch and be quiet, to try to make sense of his gentle, meek wife pushing back against him, to defy him so fearlessly.

“Did you never stop to think with that bald head of yours that I might like it when you take me? That I enjoy the depravities you subject me to?” you were flailing your arms around and tugging at your shift, your eyes tearing up from the weight of your confession. 

“You tainted and corrupted me to my core, you disgusting, wicked man!” you grabbed the first thing you could reach and tossed it towards him, which in this case was nothing but a pillow he didn’t even try to evade. 

“I’m sick and tired of your temper, you squealing paranoid pig!” As you were saying it, you pushed him against his chest, but he expected that one, his body staying unyielding. There was a weird grimace on his face, and the tiny muscles around his left eye were twitching. The first light was peeking through the window, and you could swear there were tears in the corners of his eyes. 

And then he left, barely looking at you.

For the whole day, you wished for him to come back, even just to taunt and humiliate you. You could barely eat, reliving every moment again and again, biting at your lower lip until it started bleeding. When you finally left your chambers for supper, you realised Aymer was throwing a feast.

Hoping he wasn’t viciously drunk already, you slowly descended the stairs and narrow hallways, faint sounds of music and singing reaching you, until you turned a corner and heard two of his knights discussing you. You covered your mouth to stop yourself from gasping in fear, and, making sure they couldn’t see you, hurried to take your place next to your husband.

“We’ve started without you,” his voice was hoarse as he addressed you curtly, not noticing your unsettled demeanour. He pushed a cup of wine towards you, a sign enough for you to turn to him.

“I believed you,” you whispered, your hand reflexively grabbing at his forearm resting on the chair. 

“You’re not making any sense, wife,” he leaned back, his eyes locking onto your fingers tugging at his sleeve. You had never before touched him willingly, and certainly not before others. 

If what you had overheard was true, he was the last man you were supposed to talk to, but he made sure of it so you’d have no one else to ask for help, to depend on. No matter how much you hoped, in these short moments, that you were wrong and that this conspiracy was playing behind his back, what scared you was how much you wanted him to shield you, protect you, embrace you.

You were antagonising him from the very moment you met, and yet now, you wanted him to be soft, delicate even.

“When you said that I’m only yours,” your eyes were glassy and unfixed, and your fingers slid down his arm to wrap around his hand, your thumb grazing his knuckles.

Aymer cocked his head, swallowing hard. Something was wrong, terribly wrong if you were so eager to touch him so freely, to seek comfort so openly. Or perhaps, you were only trying to manipulate him, subjugate him to your womanly whims. His jaw clenched. He opened his mouth and promptly closed it.

“Bunny,” he was too weak to resist you, and he knew it. No matter how hurt or paranoid he was, he couldn’t be cruel when you were clinging to him like this. “What has transpired?”

You remained silent until he gently closed his fingers around yours, nudging you to look at him. You couldn’t see him clearly, your eyes full of tears, but you saw him leaning in. You mimicked, your lips almost brushing his ear as you brokenly whispered, with teary moans and swallowed gasps, about who and what you overheard.

“Please,” you begged him as you finished speaking, hot tears rolling down your flushed cheeks.

Aymer wanted to lick them away, to press his forehead against yours, to kiss your nose, and pull you into his lap, to tell you how much he… But he was incapable of doing any of it, bound either by propriety or his insecurity. 

Instead, he calmly stood up and walked to the drunkards. You watched him lean in to the first one, the sneering, disgusting man you never liked, and watched his face change expression and colour as Aymer whispered something in his ear, grabbing him hard by his hair before coldly sliding his dagger across his throat.

The blood gushed out, spilling over the table and floor, terrified gasps and screams escaping everyone’s lips. Music died out as Aymer approached another man, who stood up, shook his head, and put up his hands, pleading. Other faces were looking at you, silently asking you to placate your husband, as if they didn’t know any better. 

Enraged Aymer was a terrifying sight, but the cold and calculated one was a bone-chilling monster. Shadows illuminated by numerous candles danced across your husband’s face as he plunged his dagger into the man’s stomach, and then again, and again, and again, wet thuds accompanying every strike as blood spurted out, dirtying Aymer’s shirt, tiny droplets landing on his face. 

He wouldn’t stop, hard exhales rolling off his lips as he kept stabbing a corpse, until you stood up, the creaking of wood against the stone heard across the room. 

“Husband,” you asked silently, but knowing he could hear you. The only sound in the hall was the cracking of burning wood in the hearth. Aymer wiped his face, dropping his dagger carelessly. Some of the ladies flinched at the sound of steel clashing against the floor. Eyes followed him as he walked to you.

“I am tired. Would you escort me to my chambers?” your voice was soft, your breathing hitched. You knew if he went uncontrolled, he was capable of slaughtering the whole room.

He extended his hand that was completely covered in blood dripping from it, and you looked at it, long and hard. Aymer’s squire, a poor lad already used to his murderous tantrums, was hurrying with a pitcher, timidly offering Aymer his own cloak to wipe his hands on.

You accepted his hand, cold and still a little wet, as murmuring voices and trembling faces followed you to exit. You were both quiet until you reached your chambers, Aymer closing the door with a loud thud.

He finally let his mask slip, his hand wrapped around your wrist. He was breathing hard, his chest steadily going up and down, as he tried to find the right words.

“No one, ever, is to even look at you again,” he gritted out, his teeth literally making a sound as they clenched together. He opened his mouth again, just to be surprised by your lips crashing into his.

You pulled him in, your hands clawing at his neck, your lips sucking at his. Aymer’s shoulders dropped, his body relaxing around yours. He let you lead as you were both tugging and pulling at each other’s clothes.

“Bunny,” he whimpered out, making your heart beat harder.

His hands were gentle, gentler than they had ever been before, leading you back to bed. You kept kissing him, desperate to feel him all over again, free of the shackles of guilt and shame. 

His cock was already hard, pressed against your thigh, as you sighed in his mouth. He gently picked you up and placed you on the bed, positioning himself over you. His mouth immediately dropped to your neck, kissing you with a frightening care and softness. 

Aymer wanted to get lost in you and your scent and your touch. He wished you to belong to him so badly, and for so long that he wasn’t sure what to do now, except to pray that you would stay, that this moment would stay, that it wasn’t a trick or treachery, or a cruel game. His free hand was sliding up and down your body, as if trying to memorise you all over again, almost as if he couldn’t believe that you were allowing, encouraging him to touch you. 

“Oh, bunny,” he moaned into your neck, his hand spreading your legs, brushing lightly against your slick folds. To say that you were sinfully aroused by watching him execute the men planning on bringing you harm would be an understatement. You were always aroused by his violence, even if your pious self never wanted to admit it, not even to yourself.

Your hands were propped against his shoulders as you slowly pulled him towards yourself, kissing him as he settled between your legs, his cock resting lightly between your folds. He tried to keep still, but his hips were shallowly thrusting, his cock sliding over your sensitive bud. You moaned out in pleasure, and Aymer swallowed it, every little breath you would give him.

You moaned his name as he entered you, slowly pushing in, your walls struggling to accommodate him. It was exactly how you always imagined it, the way he was taking you, slow and gentle, cautious but sensual.

“Come closer, husband,” you whispered, your hands sliding over his strong chest and muscular arms.

Aymer obeyed, immediately dropping to his elbows, his sweaty body searing into yours. He moaned, the closeness overwhelming him. You traced the scar on his head, your fingers ghosting over his eye and the bridge of his nose, all the way to his lips. You pushed in slightly, tracing over his crooked teeth, as Aymer continued to slowly rut into you.

He placed a small kiss on your fingertips before kissing you, pushing his tongue into your mouth. It was wet and sloppy, but you loved it, melting into him. The knot in your stomach was warm and deep, growing tighter. You could feel every crease and bulge of his cock against your walls, every twitching vein, the slow build-up making you press harder against Aymer’s skin, leaving crescent imprints all over his neck and shoulders.

His stomach slid over yours, a little fat he had there driving you wild as you nibbled on his jaw, licking the same place to soothe it. His thrusts quickened, deepened, and your back arched off the bed, again.

“Such a good bunny,” he moaned into your temple, “taking me so well.”

The pleasure unexpectedly crashed through you, and you moaned, loud and long, and Aymer with you. It lasted longer than any of the times before, your body shaking as you desperately clung to him, your vision completely fading, and for a moment, you weren’t aware of anything except Aymer, whispering my bunny over and over again, pumping his seed into you for a second time today.

You hoped it would take, if it hadn't already.

*♡•

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"fuuuck, just like that..." aerion drawls from beneath you, the words a deep and stretched hum against your palms. he has always been particularly loud in bed, even more so when you're on top. "messy girl, you take me so well."

your walls clamp tighter around him on instict. he knows just the right words to use, just how to get you to release that soft, whimpering sound that slips past your lips despite your best attempts at biting it down. aerion's mouth curls into something way too smug for someone who shouldn't feel like he's in charge at the moment, but you've given up trying to fuck him into submission by now. you can't even think straight when he's talking to you like this.

"you look so good like this. so beautiful when you ride my cock."

you make a sound that sounds too much like a sob, and your fingers are trembling when you bring them up his neck to wrap around the gold chain hanging from there. you pull him like it's a leash, the deliebrate rolls of your hips turning into a frantic bounce as you tug forcefully to bring aerion's chest against yours. your mouth is already searching his lips before he's even finished rising from his previous lying position.

aerion grunts into the kiss, a possessive sound coming from a man who has everything he wants quite literally sitting on his lap. his arms tighten around you like a vice, hands pressing into your skin so hard you're sure you'll be marked for a least a good week or so. you can't bring youself to care, though, not when his hips are snapping to meet yours and aerion is thrusting into you so deeply it knocks the air from your lungs.

you grip him tighter then, your hands flying to his shoulders to settle on the hard muscle there to brace yourself from the mind numbing orgasm that is about to crash over you. it prickles just under your skin, so strong it borders on overstimulation, stars exploding behind your eyelids when you try to squeeze them shut.

you can tell aerion notices it—like he always does—by the way one of his hands releases its grip on your waist, fingers moving to grab a fistful of your hair and using it to tug you back into consciousness.

"yeah, baby? gonna cum?" he pants against your chin. your head throws back in a weird angle, the hand in your hair keeping your face just far enough from his that he can watch it scrunch up in pleasure. "c'mon now, wanna watch you make a mess on my cock. fucking look at me while you do it."

viscount!valarr who visits the theatre under his father’s instruction, he’s never been really interested in the performances but knows how good it is for the families publicity.

ballerina!reader who’s the understudy, who’s thrown into the part halfway through the performance, dancing like your life counts on it because it does.

viscount!valarr who notices the change, and is completely entranced by the way you move. he thinks there’s a slight divine elegance about you that wasn’t there in the other performer.

viscount!valarr who literally can’t take his eyes off you for the rest of the night. who’s completely changed his mind about the theatre, even his father sees the difference in his demeanour.

ballerina!reader who doesn’t see valarr up on the balcony, or his family. who bows with grace at the end of the performance before leaving the stage.

viscount!valarr who takes a sudden interest in the theatre, coming to more performances just to be able to take a glimpse of you.

viscount!valarr who is offered the chance to go back stage one night and meet all the performers. who is polite to everyone and hides how excited he is to meet you.

viscount!valarr doesn’t get the proper chance to introduce himself to you when you both first meet. instead the lead ballerina shoves in front of him, making herself known to him and disregarding you with little importance.

viscount!valarr decides to find a way to meet you properly, sneaking up on you when you’re alone in the dressing room. he steps in with a knock on the door but doesn’t wait for permission to enter, he just leans against the doorway, gives you that charming smile and introduces himself to you properly.

ballerina!reader finds yourself flustered in his presence, trying to hide the way your face burns as he watches you….

viscount!valarr who watches a bit too much, coming to rehearsals and most performances. likes to hide in the seats during your rehearsals, somewhere you can’t see him because of the light but you feel his eyes constantly on you.

ballerina!reader who has been working your whole life to get the main part La Sylphide, who’s worked day and night fracturing bones in your feet, dealing with callouses, and spraining your ankle on so many occasions you’ve forgotten what physical pain really tastes like. it’s the only mental pain that hurts when you’re looked over again, forced to play to an understudy for someone that seems to have everything handed to her.

ballerina!reader is constantly pushed to your limit over and over again, dealing with the teachers forcing you to go past your limits like they’re trying to see if you can break. who’s humilated around your peers, who doesn’t bite back because this career is all you have

ballerina!reader who stays up late at night and finds valarr still sitting in the crowd watching your performance, he doesn’t clap or cheer but just watches and waits.

ballerina!reader is confused by valarr. either you can’t understand him or you miss read his actions. you feel like his eyes are on you constantly, either when you’re on stage or when you’re practicing with the other dancers. he seems to find you at times when you’re by yourself, hovering around your dressing room and staring at you through the mirror until you notice, even when he’s busy hanging around the lead ballerina.

ballerina!reader realises you must be imagining things when you see valarr leaning in for a kiss with the lead ballerina.

ballerina!reader who’s given the lead part twenty minutes before opening night,

viscount!valarr who congratulates you on your first show with a bouquet of flowers, along with a dozen others that try to get your attention.

viscount!valarr who finds his patience wearing thin when you don’t even acknowledge him, especially after everything he’s done for you.

viscount!valarr who follows you home after your performance, who makes his way into your building at night, who hangs you off your banister with one arm holding onto your costume that looks like it might rip from the seams.

viscount!valarr who doesn’t threaten your life but your career, knowing that breaking your pretty legs would be the end of your career.

viscount!valarr doesn’t want to hurt you, he just wants you to understand how he sees you for who you are. that there is no one that truly gets you the way he does. he put his title at risk for you, his family’s fortune sneaking around this way. doesn’t he deserve to be thanked?

ballerina!reader sinks down onto your knees in your room, who can’t help but cry as he forces himself right the way to the back of your throat.

viscount!valarr makes you gag and choke, telling you to relax until he seems satisfied and pulls you up for air. who has the nasty grip on the back of your hair as he uses your mouth as his own personal hole.

viscount!valarr kisses you with tears in your eyes after each performance, who sneaks into your dressing room that he bribed the theatre to get you, who fucks you as a congratulations every night. who pounds you against the dressing table until you have bruises on your hip bones from being slammed against it too hard, bruises on your thighs from his grip. but he’d never bruise that pretty face of yours.

viscount!valarr doesn’t ever mean to get rough with you, he wants to treat you like princess you are, wants to worship every part of you. but he just loses his patience sometimes when your instructor gets too handsy with you during stretches and can’t stand how everyone in the crowd stares at you for too long.

viscount!valarr who can never truly know your his, you might own him body and soul, he might be able to threaten you but he’ll never be able to marry you. all he’ll be able to do is to keep you as his mistress.

The AD for the job had been posted for months and not one single hit that hadn’t been from a creep with sadistic intentions. You refresh the website again, flicking through and deleting all the disgusting messages in your in box. Maybe it’s a lost cause. You thought that initially, laughed at Leta when she told you she knew someone that managed to change her job in that way. Topless maid, what a fucking joke or possibly you’re just the unlucky girl that doesn’t know the right way to go about it. 

You place the phone down, feeling two sets of eyes boring into you from behind and you look up to face him in the mirror. 

“Smile pretty girl,” he tells you, with a smile of his own that never really meets his eyes. 

You do, forcing a sweet smile on your face, lips trembling. 

“It’s showtime,” he cheers, his hand landing on the back of your neck, just holding it. To others the touch can be seen as comforting but as his fingers, kneed into the skin of your neck, borderlining on bruising, you know it’s just a way to exhibit his control. He does it to all the girls that try to slip away. 

“Showtime,” you repeat, but the enthusiasm doesn’t hit your voice. 

He senses it, sniffs it out like some mutt and to get you in the mood he offers his friendly white pouch that he knows gets you in the mood. “Want some?” 

You don’t do that anymore. You can’t if you want to get out of this place but you won’t tell him that. You smile harder and shake your head, then lift your drink up and lie, “Already got something, just waiting for it to kick in.” 

He winks then, and nods his head before lifting his hand off you. “That’s my girl.” 

Your stomach clenches at that but you don’t show it, only smiling and letting your eyes follow him out of the room. 

“Just don’t take too long. You got money to make.” 

You let out a shaky sigh when he’s out of sight, looking properly at your dolled up face in the mirror, only your eyes catch the empty dressing table next to you. There’s still residue on the table, powder and foundation but at the top the sticker has been scratched off, with a razor blade or a dull knife and over it lies a new name. 

Yesterday that was Leta’s table; today it’s Honey’s table. 

You’re not sure where Leta is now, her picture still hung up with the rest of your polaroids like a reminder. She didn’t escape like the other girls, she would have texted you. Her phones are going to answer the machine and your texts are unread. You want to believe Leta’s found herself a nice little job out of this city, somewhere so far away they wouldn’t even dare go looking for but most likely she’s been tipped off the cliff just miles from the highway. 

You have to get yourself out of here. 

Your phone pings and you look at it, hoping it’s a text from her. It’s not though, another message from your AD. You roll your eyes, frustration simmering under your skin. You’ll take the AD down, you’re over it anyway. 

You open it, fingers hovering over the keyboard to type out some angry message— only your eyes look over the message, twice, before you let it sink in. Not some nasty crude joke with it, something that possibly seemed like a genuine offer. 

Would it be too good to be true? 

Your eyes flicker from the open doorway that leads back to the club, the bass of the music pouring into the room, and then to Leta’s torn sticker, before landing back on your phone. 

Fuck it. 

Anything is better than here. You type out a rushed reply before hitting send. 

You don’t think, it’s never gotten you anywhere. You reach for Lenny’s keys that you know he tucks away in his drawer, he can do without them anyway. You grab your duffle bag and you don’t even change, nor do you turn back. 

Two hours into the drive and you’re still looking back, you only need to make it to the bus station and then you’ll ditch the car there. You do exactly that, changing from your jewelled outfit in the back seats into a tracksuit, tying your hood up to cover your face before stepping out. 

One way ticket to Dorne then another ticket to get yourself to the house you’ll be working out at. You’ll need to get more clientele of course, but it’s a start and the rest will eventually fall into place. 

You pull up outside the gates after walking a mile in the sweltering heat with your duffle bag on your shoulders. It’s not how you expected to turn up, sweating through your juicy tracksuit but you’re here at least and you can apologise for the rest later. 

You’re only coming to meet your first client anyway, a certain meeting to get things in order. You look through the wide metal gates, eyes peering through them as you stare at the huge mansion behind it and the long driveway that leads up to it. You look at the sign again and back at your phone. 

Sunspear. 

This isn’t entirely as you pictured. 

You buzz the intercom, no response so you wait. It’s still quite early anyway, gives you time to go over the questions you prepared on your phone. 

Preference on attire? 

Hours to be worked? How many days a week? 

There’s a ruffle in the bushes that has you swiftly turning around, hand darting out to slap the object down to the ground. A glock you presumed, or possibly something less eccentric like a wrench from the back of the car. It’s hard and cold, bruises the back of your hand as it comes crashing down to the floor with a thud. 

A camera. Your eyes look down to find a fucking camera, and when they look up you find a man around your age, heavily panting as sweat poured down his face. 

“What the fuck?” 

You both say it in unison. 

You throw your hands over your chest while the man goes to pick up the camera, lifting it up to find cracked glass on the floor. 

“You broke it,” he screeches, trying to pick up the pieces. 

“I’m sorry,” you say it’s like a question. Maybe if he hadn’t pulled up to you like that then you wouldn’t have hit him so hard. “Actually, I’m not sorry. What the fuck are you doing taking pictures of me anyway?” 

“Taking pictures of you.” His brows furrow and his lips turn up in disgust, and you almost feel offended. “Why would I want to take pictures of you?” 

“I don’t fucking know,” you snap back, narrowing your eyes at him. “Because you're a creep.” 

Something comes over the man’s face, and he smirks, pointing towards the house. “You’re fucking him, aren’t you?” 

“What?” 

“You’re late.” 

You twist your head around at the sound of another voice. A man in his thirties, dornish, short and round at the stomach, he’s wearing overalls. Maybe it’s the style here. 

“I’m sorry,” you meekly say, before forcing a smile on your face and fluttering your eyelashes. “The name’s—” 

“Come through, before he tries to slip in behind you,” the older man points to the man on the floor, still clutching to his camera, before he walks back through the open gates. 

You follow, picking up the pace as you try to reach him. 

“It’s really nice to meet you, Mr. Targaryen,” you splutter out, trying to keep that same enthusiasm you’re used to. “I look really forward to offering my services to you—” 

The man is quick to cut you off, “I’m not the master of this house. Mr. Targaryen is away settling some business matters and we’ll be back tomorrow. I’m Gerris, the caretaker for Sunspear.” He looks over you with his shoulder, not stopping. “Is that all you have?” 

“This.” You look down at your outfit. “Well I can change but I thought we’d just be discussing my services.” 

“Your role, you mean?” 

“Yes, exactly,” you say with more chipper than you intend. “I assume I’ll be discussing with you on behalf of Mr. Targaryen.” 

“You’ll be discussing with me and only me,” his tone seems serious, almost like he’s trying to be threatening. It makes you want to laugh. “You don’t speak to Mr. Targaryen unless spoken to. You don’t even need to look in his direction. You do your tasks and you get on with it.” 

Strange requests but you’ve definitely heard stranger. 

He stops so suddenly it takes you a moment to halt your movements, landing you right in front of him, face inches away. 

“Capiche?”  

“Capiche,” you repeat with a slight bit of humour laced in your tone. 

He turns back, walking up to the driveway like he’s marching with an army.

Is he always this serious? 

This isn’t entirely what you’d been expecting when you took on this new job role but you’re not exactly complaining, anything is better than working at the club. 

Three days in and you’d only been tasked with dusting the rooms in the master quarters. Everything else had been pretty much left clean, and in pristine condition and with the master of the house still not anywhere in sight, you’d grown quite bored. 

Who hires a topless maid when there’s literally no one around to see them? 

You have great tits, it’s a shame to waste such good money when not a soul gets to witness them. 

You decided to tie up your top, put those fine titties of yours away and continue your tasks in that way. It’s not like anyone would notice anyway. 

You drift between rooms throughout the day, there’s five bedrooms in total. The master suite, which you’d been told belongs to the mysterious Baelor Targaryen, another two bedrooms belong to his children, Valarr and Matarys. The other two while you’d been shown inside only get cleaned once a week by yourself, they look like they belong to someone, another two boys possibly, younger than Valarr and Matarys, and yet the picture frames are all sat down and there’s nothing else that really details who they could possibly belong to. Instructions are specific for these two rooms, once a week clean and nothing else is to be touched or moved, Gerris had given you a pointed look that said don’t cross him. 

It’s the only time you’ve taken Gerris stern words seriously. 

You stick to the bedrooms, the toilets and the study. His study. It’s off putting with its dark interior,  deep mahogany bookshelves lining the wall, a desk in the same wooden colour to match in the middle of the room, even the books all range in the darkest shades of green and blue. It’s by far your least favourite room, and yesterday you even skipped cleaning it. 

Baelor Targaryen will be back today though, Gerris told you. All of the staff have been working overtime, making everything perfect and pristine for his arrival. It makes you wonder what he’s like, this mysterious man that everyone seems to so badly want to impress. 

You're halfway through dusting the bookshelf when you meet him, the door to the study being opened without so much as a creek. It’s his footsteps that give him away, even on the carpet you can hear them, precisely paced footsteps, almost timed to match the last one. It’s almost how you picture him. 

It’s eight steps in when he stops, bag being thrown over his desk, his jacket over his chair but you don’t hear the roll of his chair, so you turn, finally looking at him. 

You spent the last two nights looking him up on your phone but the pictures must be outdated, and they clearly don’t do the handsome man in front of you any justice. Even in this dim room, you can’ t help but find him attractive. 

His brows pinch together as he looks at you, eyes falling from your face slowly down to your feet and back up again. 

“Who are you?” He questions with a deep frown, as if you’ve entered his space without invitation. 

You smile but you feel the tremble in your lips. It’s too forced you think, but you fight against it as you answer, “The maid.” 

“Taken over from Lucy,” he says it like he’s still questioning you, like he doesn’t know the orders of his own estate. 

“Yes.”

“Ah.” He nods, sliding out his chair but still doesn’t sit, just stares at you. 

“Oh.” It hits you and you point at your top, where the buttons are done up. You can make quick work of it, if he needs you too. “Do you want me to?” 

“To leave,” he continues to nod, lips twisting up into a smile that you can tell is all forced. “Please.” 

You should be confused and although your eyebrows do knot, you don’t see the point in questioning him. Maybe he’s not possibly in the mood right now for company. 

You fumble, grabbing your stuff quickly before bowing and heading out the door. 

Bowing. Did you just bow? What a fucking idiot. 

You make it all of five days, practically a week seeing as you’re just about to hit your two days off but five days. 

You were cleaning Baelor’s bedroom, tucking the sheets underneath the bed when he came in and yanked you towards him with one arm wrapped around your wrist. Your AD specifically referred to not touching, and while for some extra money you might have been willing to cross that line, you weren’t ever okay with someone grabbing you like that. He’d taken you by such a surprise that you didn’t even get time to think, smacking your fist right across his face without any warning. 

“Fuck,” Baelor shouted, blood pouring from his nose that he tried to cover. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Targaryen,” you say, reaching out to him. 

He pushes his hand out, looking at you then looking away just as quickly. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

“Cleaning.” 

The door bursts open then, Gerris coming through with a stern expression that twists into horror as he looks between the pair of you. 

“I didn’t mean to—” Mr Gerris starts but his wide eyes dart between the both of you, then he puts his hands up in some sort of surrender. “I- If you guys—” He looks at Baelor then, noticing the blood dripping from his hand onto the floor. “Are you bleeding?” 

“Yes, I’m fucking bleeding,” he shouts, wiping his nose with his sleeve before placing his hand back to his side. He looks at you with narrowed eyes before turning to Gerris. “Would you please ask the new maid why she’s half naked in my bedroom?” 

Gerris nods before swallowing and looking back at you. “Why are you naked?” 

“Because that’s what you hired me for,” you simply answer, shrugging your shoulders. 

Gerris points, noticing your breasts fully out and then looks back to Baelor. “Mr. Targaryen I would never—” 

“But you did,” you snap, arms crossing over your chest just underneath your breasts. “Someone hired me.” 

“As a maid,” Gerris states. 

“The ad was for topless maid.” 

“Topless maid,” Baelor laughs humourlessly, before clenching his jaw. 

“Yes, topless.” 

Neither look at you, they stare at each other instead with a shared uncomfortable look. 

“Do you need me to button this up?” You ask, pointing to the loose top. 

“Please,” Baelor answers through gritted teeth. 

“Fine.” You button it back up and cross your arms over your chest again. “Happy?” 

“There must be some confusion,” Gerris states, chuckling to himself clearly nervous as the sweat beads dribble down his forehead. 

“A big fuck up, is what it is,” Baelor states, before pointing in his face. “I trust you Gerris. Fix it and—” he points to you but doesn’t even look “ –get rid of her.” 

Baelor storms out the room, footsteps even heavier on the ground than before. 

Gerris looks at you, with a sheepish frown. “You need to go.” 

“Go?” 

“Yes.” 

“No, I can’t go.” You shake your head, voice getting higher as you plead with him. “I need this job, Gerris.” 

“You punched the boss.” 

“He grabbed me.” 

“You had your—” he motions to his own chest, grimacing slightly. “ –out.” 

“It’s what you literally hired me for.” 

“No, I hired a maid.” 

“Topless maid.” You pull your phone out, flicking through it for a few moments before shoving it in his face. “See.” You point. “Topless maid.” 

Gerris squints his eyes, reading before swallowing. “Fuck.” 

Even after showing the ad, even after falling to Gerris’ feet and begging, even after offering to suck him off, you got nothing. The last one really didn’t hit nearly as well as you thought it would, Gerris looking almost horrified and disgusted at the offer, before shoving you as gently as he could manage away from him. 

You landed in the same place you had been when you came, sat on your duffle bag outside the metal gates. 

The man’s there as well, hiding in the bushes and sweating like a pig in the summer heat. Simon, you came to learn is his name, the same news reporter that’s been lingering in the bushes for months, trying to get a glimpse of something scandalous about Baelor Targaryen, only he’s a man that’s rarely seen, always coming in and out of SUV with tinted windows. 

Simon looks at you, pointing his camera through the bushes like the greenery covers it and frowns. 

“Sup,” you nod in some sort of greeting, before turning back to your phone waiting for an uber to pick up. 

He doesn’t reply, only frowns harder before staring back through the metal gates. 

“New camera.” You purse your lips. “Nice.” 

“Hauled you out on your ass, did they?” He questions, like he’s half interested. 

“Want to make a story on it?” 

He shakes his head. “I’m okay.” 

“Your loss.” 

There’s footsteps then, the black gate swinging open and you turn to meet Gerris. 

“Come,” is all he says, not even looking at you. 

You both stand, and then he frowns, lips turning up at Simon. “Not you, idiot. Her.” 

Simon groans, rolling his eyes before getting back under his cover. 

You follow, feet taking two steps at a time just to catch him. 

“I have a contract typed out for you,” He starts off and you almost drop to his feet again to thank him. “I’ll need some sort of ID and your bank details. We’ll go to my office to fill out the paperwork.” 

“What if I don’t have bank details?” You ask. 

He halts, turning back to you and this time you stop instantly. 

“What person doesn’t have a bank account?” 

“A desperate one,” you shrug, it’s the best you can offer. 

He sighs, rubbing his fingers on his temple. “We’ll think of something.” He continues walking again. 

“You don’t know how much I want to thank you for this. Honestly, thank you, thank you, thank—” 

“This wasn’t me,” he almost laughs, shaking his head. “Mr. Targaryen asked me to come get you.” 

“Really?” 

He inclines his head back at you. “Really.”

“Must have made an impression.” 

“Oh, you did.” He stifles a laugh. “A strong one, that you can be sure of.” 

fae!aerion is crazed mad man, thirsty for blood. who hates the villages he sees over and can't stand the worthless ways in which they worship him. who starves them when they don't worship them properly, who burns their trees and houses when they dare disobey him or speak badly about him

fae!aerion who catches you out one night, headed to the temple where they worship. you who offers him fruit and flowers, and a meat from your crop, who even when you're desperate enough offers him the blood from your hand.

fae!aerion who takes your offerings gratefully, who sees to the long drought with a bit of rain and even restores a bit of peace to the forest around your village.

fae!aerion who visits your father in his human form one night, who decides that if he offers up you, his sweet daughter, he could bring harmony back to the land and even help with their crop problem.

fae!aerion who when they begin preparations starts letting it rain properly again, who grows fruits and vegetables for them in the forest, brings wildlife back for them to hunt.

village!reader who wails and sobs as your parents prepare you to be sacrificied, who tells them that this is madness and the gods have already accepted the offerings you have given them.

fae!aerion who watches you terrified, trembling as the villagers drag your body to the water, who sail you off in this tiny boat made from bamboo, all dressed in fine cloth with flowers surrounding you. who watches as your boat sails down a river, to a cliff, then to him.

fae!aerion who terrifies you in his huge form, his hand half the size of your body. his finger running along your body carelessly, feeling the subtle flesh of your breasts, and your stomach, the bones that would be so easy to break underneath

fae!aerion who turns to his human form to be with you, who tries to hush you when you tremble, who tells you that he'll take care of you now, that a beauty like you shouldn't be trapped in a village like that.

fae!aerion who pushes you down on a bed of flowers, who laughs when you bleed over his cock, who slips his cock out your walls so he can have a taste of your blood and your slick, who goes back right to fucking you again, even though you're crying underneath him

fae!aerion who makes you his queen, who thinks he can win over your affections with fancy gifts and fine jewels, who can't understand why you don't want to stay here with him forever.

fae!aerion who threatens your village when you don't play nice, who subjects them to horrible conditions until you're sitting pretty in his lap again. who smiles widely when you kiss him on the sides of his mouth and stops being so mean

fae!aerion who neglects the village not on purpose but because he forgets about them, he's so occupied with you. who starts getting confused when he finds other women turning up at his door and finds out they were sacrificed like you were, who gets all flustered when you find them and is like darling it's not what it looks like, who sends them right back where they came from with a message, no human sacrifices because you specifically said you didn't like it

fae!aerion who's whipped by you, who enjoys changing size sometimes to watch your reaction, twice your size just to see how you look wrapped up beside him, who gets so turned on when you look in fear at the size of his cock, who lets you work yourself up to it, who stretches you on his long fingers, who laughs like a mad man when you sit on it and can't even fit half of it inside you, watches you wriggle and squirm to please him, and watches how his load is to much to fit inside your pussy.

fae!aerion who makes sure to tend to your village again, who keeps a close eye on them because you make him.

fae!aerion who visits your father again and tells him that he's happy with the offering, that you are divine and should be treated as such, that they should build a statue in your honour

fae!aerion who's so giddy when you sees the statue, even though you roll your eyes at him you can't help but smile at it.

fae!aerion who literally is so enamoured by you that even hundreds of years to come they still speak of your name, like you're a god yourself, and worship you as they do him.