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The world is a groggy place at first. Beneath him, something soft cushions his back; he sinks into it comfortably, reluctant to wake up, relishing the warmth. Despite his reluctance, light peeks in through his slitted eyelids, bright white and briefly blinding, until he blinks a few times, letting his eyes adjust. As they do, a gentle voice fades into his ears – familiar, he thinks. It sounds almost… almost like his mother. He’s pretty sure that’s her, only there’s something slightly off about it.

Eventually, finally, his vision clears and some of the fog dissipates from his mind. He recognizes this place, he thinks. It looks… almost exactly like his mother’s chambers at King’s Landing, though it’s been many years since the last time he was here. Much of it is exactly the same as he remembers; the same four-post bed, the same dressings, the same pillows, the same curtains over the same windows. It feels almost like stepping back into a memory.

Why was he brought here? It doesn’t make any sense, he can hardly remember where he was before this moment. It's a blur of a dream, of a pretty face and a pretty voice hovering over him, and before that… before that, he remembers… fear. He remembers being terribly afraid of something, he remembers flying, he remembers–

Just as his heart rate begins to escalate, just as his memory begins to crystalize, the terror is disrupted and dissipated by what he’s absolutely certain must be his mother’s voice speaking to him. A flood of overwhelming relief rushes through him, as his head snaps in the direction of that gentle, “Good morning, little one.”

What he sees isn’t at all what he was expecting. There stands a woman towering over the bed, stunningly beautiful. Her fair skin and silver hair look ethereal in the sunlight streaming through the curtains, and there’s a soft, amused little smile on her face. She looks to be about his age, and undoubtedly of the old blood. Targaryen, almost certainly, though it’s strange that he’s never met her before. It’s hard to be disappointed that she wasn’t who he expected, when he’s confronted with such a stunning sight.

Could this perhaps be a sister he’s never met before? A cousin? Someone secreted away on account of being an inconvenient birth? Or has he simply gone mad, and he’s hallucinating the voice of his mother coming from the lips of this young woman? He feels a compulsion to find out, an urgency pounding in his chest.

“Good morning,” he returns somewhat awkwardly, shifting to sit upright proper on the pillow. He’d stand, but he feels a little dizzy still, a little shaky, a little disoriented. “I’m sorry, my lady, but you look so familiar, but I don’t believe we’ve met. May I ask- who are you, exactly?”

The young woman before him smirks. It looks, for a moment, like she’s in on a joke he doesn’t understand, or like she’s got a terribly funny secret she hasn’t shared with him. To be fair, it’s been a very long time since anyone hasn’t recognized her by sight, if not because they’ve met then at least because of her features and context clues.

She offers him a little half-curtsey, half bow, and says, “I am Rhaenyra Targaryen, princess of Dragonstone, rightful heir to the Iron Throne and all the seven kingdoms. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Luke is left stunned, staring at her in awe, his mind working to comprehend what he’s hearing. In some ways, it certainly makes sense – she sounds so very much like his mother in voice, and now that he’s looking closely, he can see all the ways her features match up to the mature version he’s familiar with. In other ways, though, it reads as complete insanity. How could this possibly be? She can’t be much older than he is! It’s simply- it’s simply impossible.

And yet, there she stands before him, undeniably existing. There’s only one answer, then – through some means, some sorcery, some magic, some interference from the Gods, he’s been transported into the past. Now, he sits before the younger version of his mother.

He understands with sudden intensity why it is she was called the Realm’s Delight – though as soon as the thought occurs to him, a fierce blush overtakes his features. He’s ogling his own mother! He is, undeniably and embarrassingly, utterly attracted to the beautiful figure before him despite the fact that she will, in future years, be the one to birth him. A flush of shame creeps through him, and he thinks scolding himself ought to make her look at least somewhat less appealing to him, but… no, there is simply no dampening her beauty. It stands firm, heedless of their relation.

“I think it only fair, little sir, that since I’ve given you my name, you should give me yours also,” she says pointedly, arching a playfully challenging eyebrow at him. It reads as a chastisement, but not so serious – she’s teasing him, and he flushes again with embarrassment.

“I- my name is Lucerys,” he tells her, clamping his mouth shut before he accidentally spills his last name. It seems like the sort of thing he perhaps ought to keep to himself, though he cannot quite say why. Perhaps, he thinks, because she would not believe him if he were to tell her. She’d ask of his parentage, and he’s ill-equipped to lie to her. He certainly can’t tell her that she’s his mother, at least not yet, not until he has a better, more stable footing in what’s going on. Not until he feels confident he can convince her, perhaps.

Although secretly, privately… it may also be that if she knew he was her son, she might not look at him with as much interest as she seems to carry now, with the way her eyes flicker over his face and his small form like she’s solving a particularly complex puzzle. It occurs to him that he doesn’t want her to think of him as a son, but rather–

No, he ought not think like that. It’s not proper.

“That’s a lovely name. Lucerys,” she repeats thoughtfully, her eyes drifting briefly to the ceiling as she considers the feel of it in her mouth. Evidently she must decide she likes it, because her smile widens, and she repeats it again, “Lucerys. Well, little lord Lucerys, I’m afraid to say I found you having taken a spill in the halls. You were out cold, right there in the middle of the floor. Have you anywhere to go?”

“No, your grace,” Luke admits quietly, nervous. He can’t imagine where in the world he should go now, or what he should do, or how to even begin with getting back to his own time. He is alone here, even as his mother stands directly before him. He feels… lost, and the fear is beginning to creep back into him now. As small as he is, how will he ever survive without the privileges and safety afforded to him by being of highborn blood?

To this his mother – his mother, he can still hardly fathom it – only smiles gently, a private and curious kind of smile that leaves him wondering at it. He isn’t given much time to ponder; she reaches out with delicate fingers and lightly strokes a fingertip across his hair, just as she always used to do – or, just as she always will do, one day? Arranging it in his mind is confusing and complicated, but either way, it tugs at a string in his heart so hard it reverberates through his chest.

It’s a strange combination of feelings – she sounds like his mother, smells like his mother, that sweet perfume and skin scent he knows so well. But she looks so young… He feels a pang of missing her, just the same as he feels a clenching kind of interest in the young woman before him.

“It’s quite alright, little one,” she says gently, “You’ll be staying with me, then. As it so happens, I have a vacancy exactly your shape and size in my employ. What do you think of being my little valet?”

“I- well, of course I’m honored, your grace, but I have no experience being a valet, and I’m not sure what I could do for you at my size… I’m hardly capable of much,” Luke admits uncertainly; it’s a position lower than any he’d have ever expected to occupy, but what alternative does he have? This way, he gets to be with his mother, someone that will keep him safe. He gets a place to stay, food in his belly, and a life relatively similar to the one he knows. It’s a foregone conclusion that he’ll say yes, he just needs a moment to let the thought unfold in his mind.

Rhaenyra seems unbothered, happily standing to glide over to her dressing table. There she sits, plucking up a brush to drag absently through her silvery hair. The way she grips the brush – by the round of it rather than the handle – is so familiar to Luke, he feels another pang reverberate through his chest.

“Don’t worry about that,” She says wryly, her expression almost catlike in its mischief. “I’m sure I’ll be able to think of plenty to do. I have a wedding coming up, after all. Perhaps you can help me with the stress I’m bound to endure. Being a bride is no easy task, particularly in such an important arrangement as mine.”

“Stress, my lady? How could I possibly help with that? Don’t misunderstand, please, I’m happy to help you in any way I can, of course, I just don’t know what good I could be to you at this size…”

“You’re already helping,” Rhaenyra points out with an arch of her eyebrow and a little, pointed nod his direction. “You’re keeping me company now, and you’re giving me somebody to talk to. Someone who will keep my affairs private and confidential, I trust?”

There’s a little bit of warning in that last bit, and Luke nods eagerly, intent to leave her no questions about his loyalties or his ability to keep her secrets.

“Of course! I’d never- I mean, who would I even talk to? I haven’t got anyone to tell. Not that I would if I did, I just- mean to say, I swear to honor your privacy, your grace. Of course.” He feels stupid, tripping over himself like a fool, tongue-tied in her presence. He’s got to remind himself for the dozenth time that this is his mother, he should feel comfortable around her. He shouldn’t have such nerves flaring up in his guts, making him bumble over his words.

“Well then,” Rhaenyra says approvingly, straightening up and lowering the brush from her hair. “What do you say? Will you be my little valet? You’ll be treated well, and kept so long as you pledge your loyalty and your service to me.”

“Yes, your grace,” he says solemnly, rising to his feet on the cushion. He stands before her, though even seated at her vanity she towers over him and he has to crane his neck back to look up at her beautiful face. “I swear my loyalty and my service. It would be my honor to be your valet.”

Rhaenyra’s smile blooms over her face like a flower, wide and pleased, teeth white and lips a pretty pale pink, smile lines at the corners of her eyes. She’s a vision, and Lucerys feels his heart fluttering away, swooping like his very first time ever riding a dragon.

“Good,” She beams, raising the brush to her hair again. She drags the bristles through the soft strands, and there’s something almost secretive written in her expression when she adds, “I think we’re going to very much enjoy our time together, you and I.”

The way she looks when she says it, her tone, her body language, all strike him as – odd. He puzzles over her meaning, over the intention hidden behind it, but he can’t bring himself to inquire. Instead of prodding, he only offers her a small bow and agrees, “Yes, your grace.”

Finished with her brushing, Rhaenyra places her brush back down on the table and stands, looking triumphant and excited. She reaches down toward him with her careful fingers, plucking him up off of the cushion and lifting him up to her face. Luke can’t help but stare at her lips as she talks, so very close to him like this, looking at Rhaenyra in a way he’s never, ever looked at her before.

In the dimly lit command center of Camp Anniston, a squad of field operatives stand at attention before Platoon Sergeant Reynolds. Each one of their rank is decked out in navy tactical gear, equipped to the nines, well-built with perfect, unshakable posture. This is Bravo 13, one of the highest ranking, most well-trained squads left in this branch of the timeline. Sergeant Reynolds paces slowly back and forth in front of them; their eyes remain directly forward, expressions unwavering, as she begins the mission recap.

“As you are all well aware, our enemy has been capitalizing on our weaknesses and enjoying the inherent advantage of one of our most grievous misfortunes. Our forces are limited, our resources are scarce, and we can’t afford to let any of our assets go to waste,” She speaks tersely, confidently. When she reaches the end of the row of operatives, she pivots on her heel and turns back, pacing the other direction. “One such asset has been misplaced for too long. The Synth Saruei was misplaced during a failed recon and assassination mission, and the rebellion hasn’t let us forget it. Now, we finally have the opportunity to retrieve her again.”

Once Sergeant Reynolds reaches the center of the row of operatives she stops, pivoting on her heels to face them. Arms clasped behind her back, she continues on, “The mission is simple. You will be transported to the location of Saruei. Our scientists have managed to get a lock on her. You are to retrieve the asset by any means necessary. Chief scientist Watkins will explain further.”

She gestures off to the side, where a reedy, nervous-looking blonde man wearing spectacles and a lab coat stands. He shuffles hurriedly forward to stand before the intimidating troop, pushes his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose, and launches quickly into his technical explanation.

“The science team managed to recover and repair the equipment Saruei used during the incident, but it was only designed to handle the transference of a small number of people at once even at its peak capabilities. Transporting all of you at full scale would be impossible, and you would all almost assuredly explode into a thousand little pieces-”

“Watkins,” Reynolds barks sharply. “Stay on task.”

“Right. Sorry. Um. In order to reduce the strain on the transportation device, we’ve altered the scale at which your avatars will emerge on the other side. It isn’t actually you that we’re sending, but a manufactured likeness greatly reduced in scale, which each of you will have full immersive control over throughout the duration of the mission. Obviously sending real people through at one hundredth scale would be wildly irresponsible, you could be crushed into paste-”

“Watkins,” Reynolds snaps again.

“Sorry! Um. As I was saying. Should any lethal injury become your manufactured avatar, the connection will simply be severed, and your consciousness will return to its natural state in your current form. All this to say, it might seem scary, but it’s- perfectly safe. Mostly. Barring unforeseen circumstances-”

“Thank you, scientist Watkins,” Reynolds says, stepping in front of him. He takes this as his cue to stop talking, and eagerly shuffles away from the center of the room. “The mission is simple. Cooperate with transport. Arrive at the anchor point that is Agent Saruei. Attach the following probes to her skin. This is very important, the probes must make direct skin contact in order to transport the asset back. Once skin contact is achieved, enter the activation code. At that point, mission completion will come into effect and all operatives will return to base – if all goes well, with Saruei in tow. Am I clear, operatives?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” the squad calls out at once, a perfectly unified chant that demonstrates their competency and cohesion as a team. Reynolds nods, satisfied, and then barks, “Well, what are you waiting for? File out!”

Minutes later at the meeting point, one thick, tan-skinned operative with a tattoo on his neck turns to his blonde-haired female companion as she attaches one of the probes to the molle of her vest. “You ready for this, Johnson?”

“As I’ll ever be, Rodriguez. Just try to keep up this time. I’d hate to have to save your ass again like that one time in Savannah,” she says wryly, her lips quirking up as she gives her fastenings one final tug. Rodriguez rolls his eyes.

“Never gonna let me live that one down, huh?” He asks with a fond shake of his head. Johnson’s crooked, shit-eating grin is all the answer he needs. Before either of them can continue the razzing, a stern voice barks out from behind them – it’s their team leader, Justice.

“Hey, can you two chuckleheads shut the hell up and fall in? Everybody’s waiting for you. We’re go for transport in two minutes.” He doesn’t wait for an answer before stalking off. Rodriguez and Johnson follow behind, suddenly serious. Geared up, they file into rank, expressions solemn and eyes wary. Justice begins the count. Transport in three… two… The portal opens. They step through.

Johnson stares up at the sight before her, and for a moment, forgets everything. The mission, the portal, her gear, her training. She is displaced by staggering awe at the sheer immensity of the body she’s staring up at. Larger than the ruins of any skyscraper, any redwood tree, larger than anything she’s ever seen, the titanic form of Saruei looms over them.

Her thighs alone are staggering; they’re settled on either side of the team, stretching out into the distance, towering up two stories tall and clothed in the thick material of her suit. Dotted all over her, strangely, are round balls the size of cars – Johnson doesn’t have any way of knowing they’re for motion capture, they just look… strange, foreign.

“Get it together, Johnson,” Rodriguez murmurs from beside her, startling her out of her stupor. She glances over her shoulder at him to find him in a similar state of awe, but he seems to be a little more recovered than she is. He reaches out, gripping her tightly on the shoulder for one reassuring squeeze, and she nods at him. They’re fucking professionals; they can do this.

An attempt is made to cross the expanse of chair between her enormous thighs, but it soon becomes apparent this isn’t going to work. She keeps shifting in her chair, disrupting the environment and plowing through what is, from their perspective, several dozen feet of space in one go. Attempting to cut through that fabric at the wrong time, getting caught up and swept underneath one of those thighs, would be an instant termination for whatever poor team member happened to be assigned the task. They’d never manage to attach the probe.

There’s only one thing for it, then. They have to go deeper. It’s an arrangement they all seem to come to unanimously, and so the squad grimly sets off toward the more stable juncture between her thighs. Where her legs are constantly shifting, her pelvis is stable. They’ll cut a hole at the center seam of her suit leggings, they’ll find the first bit of skin they can get their probes on – wherever that might be, whatever part of her body that might mean – and they’ll get the job done. That’s all there is to it. Bravo 13 is known for completing any and every mission, no matter what lengths they have to go to in order to accomplish it.

The trek across the chair takes minutes. Ten operatives march in perfect unison, stoic in the face of the shifting terrain to their left and their right, doing their very best to block out the sight above them: Saruei’s staggering torso, the underside of her breasts, the bottom of her chin, all bent slightly forward as she eagerly clacks away on her keyboard with loud, pounding fingers. Her voice is a constant, deafening drone in the background – like loud, reverberating whale song. Too big, too deep, too loud.

They make it to the juncture and most of the squad stands point while Rodriguez and Johnson begin to cut, slowly but surely burning through fabric as thick as steel cables, severing strand after strand. It’s hard work, time consuming, but after painstaking minutes of this dedicated attention, they finally manage it. Rodriguez straightens, wiping the sweat from his brow and holstering the laser cutter on his thigh harness.

“Alright, I think we’re good, boss,” he says to Justice, who nods and then turns to address the squad.

“Line up, team, we’re-” an earth-shaking rumbling cuts him off before he can finish. His head whips around, and the rest of the team follows suit. On either side of them, the walls are suddenly, abruptly closing in. Saruei is closing her legs, shifting to cross one over the other, and the space between them is being rapidly, unsympathetically eradicated.

“Get in! Get in the hole! Go, now!” Justice barks, shoving Johnson forward. She stumbles through, the thick, unforgiving fabric ripping at her gear and tearing away some equipment in her haste. Once on the other side, she wraps both hands around the dense fabric flap and pulls it back with all of her strength to make room for Rodriguez to quickly file in after her. He drags himself through to the other side, tugging the flap open wide, and the two of them stare out, watching as, one by one, members of their squad are crushed under tons and tons of thick thigh. They make eye contact with Justice, and a single second seems to stretch out into infinity as he, too, is demolished by Saruei’s unthinking, unaware, unconscious shifting. She doesn’t have the faintest idea what she’s done.

They let the flaps fall closed. Silence and darkness descend upon them, and the two of them stand in stunned silence for a long moment, processing what just happened.

“That wasn’t really them,” Johnson says, and whether she’s reminding herself or Rodriguez is hard to say. “Just facsimiles. Just- avatars. They’re not dead, they’re just out of the mission.”

“I know,” he answers grimly – but they’re both thinking the same thing. What if it had been... They shake it off. They’re the only two left, and they have a job to do. The worst is surely past them, they’ve made it inside the thick, durable fabric of her body suit, so now all they have to do is-

“Shit,” Johnson swears, patting herself frantically down, her eyes rapidly searching the dimness all around her. “The fucking probe! It’s gone!”

Rodriguez searches himself as well, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out by the shape of his defeated posture that his isn’t in its holster either. They must’ve gotten dislodged in the chaos, or ripped off with some of the rest of their equipment on their way in a hole as sturdy and unforgiving as a chain link fence. They have to be around here somewhere, they can’t have just disappeared – and so the two begin to search, hitting their hands and knees atop the strangely soft, humid substance that makes up their flooring.

It’s too dark to see clearly without night vision enabled, and once it’s toggled on, the strange green filter distorts the landscape around her. It’s hard to know just exactly what it is they’re standing on, but as Johnson’s hands make contact with the ground… she begins to have a sneaking suspicion.

There’s no time to share that suspicion with Rodriguez. Without warning, a new act of God descends upon them to reorient their landscape and throw a wrench into everything. They cannot know this, but their host feels the tiny, tingly little movements of their bodies on her most sensitive parts, and the itch is distracting enough that it’s starting to impact her gameplay. She uncrosses her legs, and with no modesty to speak of, she reaches between them to rub roughly at her labia through the thick fabric of her suit.

They’re separated, dragged roughly around the damp landscape. Pressed roughly into pearly pink flesh tinged green under their night vision, dragged several yards in circles around sticky, tender flesh. The pressure is nearly unbearable, and Johnson can hear Rodriguez’s pained groan several feet away once the pressure finally releases.

Johnson and Rodriguez peel themselves out of what they both, by now, know to be the delicate folds of Saruei’s labia peeking out of her lower lips. They must have been an irritant in their search for the missing probes, and despite being on camera, she hadn’t hesitated to reach down between her legs to give herself a good little rub.

After a moment spent recovering, they hear what sounds like the giant rumbling of laughter. They can’t know why; they have no way of discerning that it’s because her live chat lost its shit pointing out they could see her rubbing herself thanks to her character model.

The two remaining operatives continue their search, more careful now of where they tread, and how delicately. Far above their heads, Saruei feels the sensation again – but it’s less of an itch, more a pleasant tingling sensation. Mild enough to ignore, nice enough to enjoy if she focuses on it. Her awareness drifts to and from it as she alternates locking in on her game. She lets out a soft sound, a carrying gust of hurricane wind that is her breath, and focuses up.

The landscape is completely alien to Rodriguez and Johnson. Not because either of them suffer any lapses in their knowledge of the female anatomy, but because the sheer scale of it all is overwhelming, and the green glow of their night vision casts strange shadows, skews hills and valleys and towering peaks. They wander farther, both of them frustrated by the knowledge that Saruei’s absent little rub could have sent the probes absolutely anywhere. She might’ve dragged them up, down, or anywhere in between – and while they may be making skin contact with her, none of that matters if neither operative is there to initialize the transport.

There is no other choice, no other way. They simply have to search to find the probes – and so they wander, splitting up and heading in separate directions. Johnson climbs, working her way over cliffs of soft, quivering flesh, distantly and dimly aware that she can begin to feel Saruei’s heartbeat underneath her palms. Given the scale of it all, she doesn’t truly have the first inkling that the flesh beneath her is swelling gently as Saruei’s clit firms from their movements.

Rodriguez, meanwhile, searches low. He squeezes himself through crevices like a man spelunking, searching every narrow crack and every delicate coral bit that spills out before him. Unlike Johnson, he becomes quickly aware of the state of things – because the walls around him and the ground beneath him slowly but surely becomes slick. It becomes harder and harder to find handholds, harder to keep himself from slipping with every absent flex or clench or ripple of muscle that passes through. She’s getting damp, and he’s in a very, very precarious position.

In the enormous world above, Saruei’s frustration begins to mount. The game she’s playing is becoming souls-like levels of difficult, and she keeps getting two-shot by bosses on repeat no matter how well she times their attack patterns. It’s almost certainly due to the distracting sensations she feels between her legs, the swelling of her clit, the clenching of her cunt, her entire pussy gently but persistently demanding her attention. If she can’t give the game her all, she’s never going to get past this area.

There’s only one thing for it, then. She tells her chat she needs a quick trip to the restroom, pauses her on-screen model, mutes her mic, and sets the stream to stand-by. Within practically the same breath as all that, she wastes no time trailing her fingers around her neck for the switch to her suit. She presses it, and the skin-tight, durable material relaxes around her just enough for her to shove her hand down the front of her bottoms to get to work on what is most certainly no longer just an itch.

Rodriguez gets no time to react. A gust of fresh air joins him, light streams in, his eyes only barely adjust to the new blinding white, and already there’s an enormous fingertip descending directly for him. He means to scramble, to drop, to do anything, but he simply isn’t given the opportunity. Saruei’s finger slams into him, crushing him against her labia with hundreds of thousands of pounds of pressure. His terrified shout is the last thing Johnson hears before Rodriguez is ejected, forcibly removed from the mission and thrown back into his own body in the future.

Grimly, Johnson realizes she’s the last one left. It’s entirely up to her. If she cannot find one of the two probes surely stuck somewhere against Saruei’s vulva, the mission will be Bravo 13’s first failure. She cannot let that happen. As that massive finger begins to slide upward, Johnson throws herself roughly into the overhanging shelter, the flap of flesh delicately shielding Saruei’s massive pearl. She slides her way in deeper as that finger seeks out sensitive nerves, winding her way around an ever-swelling bud.

Above the microcosm of her clothes, Saruei props her heels up on her desk, leaning back in her chair – completely oblivious to the fact that her foot bumps the side of her mouse. Her eyes aren’t on the screen; she does not know what she’s done. That each low whimper, each building moan, is coming through her mic loud and clear to her live chat – and they are absolutely thriving over it.

She works herself expertly, circling her clit with her middle finger in practiced, rhythmic motions. Round and round, her pace steady but slowly quickening, her pressure light but perfect. She can feel the pleasure begin to mount within the confines of her needy pelvis, a wet-hot curling electricity that unfurls and builds.

And then, quite unexpectedly, a flash-fire of a new sensation surges through her clit. Not one she’s ever inspired in herself before, nothing she can blame on her own stimulation. It’s a deep, sparking pleasure that rockets through her clit, driving a high-pitched, sudden squeak from the confines of her tight throat. She dips her fingers low along her labia, dragging wet slick up the length of her, coating her finger in it before returning to her clit with intention and purpose.

Johnson has no recourse. There is nowhere she can go, nothing she can do, as the walls begin to swell around her. She can’t work her way back out again, she’ll only be crushed by that deadly, constantly moving titanic finger. She cannot go deeper in, she’s at a dead end. The walls close in. She feels breath being forced out of her artificial lungs. Her eyes squeeze shut. She flattttens herself as thin as she can, but it isn’t nearly enough, and the squeezing pressure becomes immense, almost unbearable –

And then, quite suddenly, it’s gone. She comes-to gasping, flat on her back and staring up at Rodriguez’s unhappy expression. He extends a hand to her. She sighs and reaches out, allowing him to pull her to her feet. All around her, the expert operatives of Bravo 13 are littered upon the ground in varying states of health. Some of the sensation seems to have transferred over from their avatars to their living bodies, though how much of that is psychological and how much is due to experimental tech is something Watkins is going to have to work out.

Platoon Sergeant Reynolds is on them in a second, stern and unhappy. They snap to attention as she sharply demands, “Mission report. What’s the status of the probes?”

“Lost, ma’am,” Johnson admits defeatedly, disappointment lacing her tone and creeping into her posture. “We were unable to attach them before we were disrupted.”

Reynolds sighs, then snaps her fingers at a medic. “See to Johnson. Johnson, once medical gives you a full work-up, I want a report detailing today’s mission on my desk in an hour.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she affirms, surrendering herself over to the medic. This has been a historic loss for the operatives of Bravo 13, and the morale of the team certainly reflects it.

The opposite could not be more true back in Saruei’s timeline. Her finger flies in rapid, light circles around her clit and in seconds, the first teetering peek of orgasm teases her. She tumbles over the edge with a stuttering moan, feeling her muscles contract and her clit pulse under her finger. Feeling every hot minute of pleasure pouring out of her, second after lingering second, until it slowly begins to fade. At last, at last, she is satisfied – and she allows her hand to slip out of her suit.

God, that felt good.

She’s pretty sure it was fast enough that chat shouldn’t be suspicious, and she has ample time to clean herself up with a wad of tissues she keeps on her desk for just such occasions. Once she’s suitably dry and her hands have been washed, she settles back at her keyboard to pick up where she left off.

She makes to unmute her mic.

Her mic is already unmuted. How long has her mic been unmuted?

A quick glance at chat reveals the mortifying answer – almost the whole time. They heard every moan, and they’re going absolutely off the rails. She curses quietly under her breath.

He flounders. All around him the thick consistency of the dip acts like quicksand, threatening to drag him under the more he moves. Thrashing wildly only serves to make him sink faster, slipping from waist to chest to throat deep in fragrant white ranch. Soon enough, only his little head is poking out, virtually indistinguishable from the little flecks of herbs and spices scattered throughout the dip.

Think, Parker. Think. You can get out of this. You just have to think-

Rhythmic earthquakes gently jostle the semi-solid consistency of the dip, not terribly unlike the glass of water in that really old movie Jurassic Park. It wobbles, and Peter wobbles with it, dread filling his lungs as he stares up out of the bowl. Soon enough, two faces encroach upon his sky, filling it up with their oblivious smiles.

For a second, he thinks they’re looking right at him. For a second, he almost feels relief – he’s going to be saved, they’re going to tease him, but they’re going to get him out…

Until he sees the first chip descend from on high, aiming directly for him.

For all of five glorious minutes, Eddie was able to tell herself she totally got her shit together. Stepping out of the bathroom, crotch mostly dry, stomach suddenly famished for the cold remains of her food, she found an unexpected confidence sliding into her step. After all, if she could survive an orgasm that intense in front of the guys, surely nothing else could possibly rattle her, right? It was the unwitting, naive confidence of someone who truly believed things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

Unfortunately, Eddie doesn’t know Billy Hargrove nearly well enough to know better than that, even if she’d been aware of his tiny little existence among her folds. Nothing will ever be as simple as a one-and-done for him, not when he’s pretty much rearranged his entire life to revolve around this. It’s his job, his hobby, his favorite pastime.

The booth is dry, the fries are cold, the soda’s refilled. That second thing doesn’t seem to matter in the slightest to her stomach, which demands that she shovel french fries into her face as fast as she can reasonably manage, scooping up two at a time and chewing enthusiastically as the guys around her talk shit. It’s clear by the casual, comfortable air around her that none of the guys detect anything amiss. Thank god.

Minutes tick by, and Eddie begins to relax. Say what you want about an unexpected orgasm at a diner table in front of all your bandmates, but it’s done wonders to sap the stress out of her body. She feels… languid, warm, comfortable. She feels almost boneless, heavy, like a cat in a patch of sunlight. She feels good – and maybe, in the end, that only helps contribute to the speed of the chaos yet to come. Literally.

Between her legs, Billy’s mostly dried himself off too, no longer fighting a battle against sticking to her skin. He’s able to swiftly maneuver around his new home with practiced ease, ascending from hair to hair until he’s once again nestling himself comfortably in alongside her clit. He strokes it tenderly, cooing, “Did you miss me, sweetheart? I missed you.”

As though responding to him, the tiniest bit of blood begins to flow to her bundle of nerves; it pulses under his palm in a manner that would be utterly imperceptible to anyone of average height, but it’s utterly clear to Billy. He decides, naturally, to take that as a yes, and rewards his sweet, precious companion with a deliberate, thorough smooch of approval. Mwah. Atta girl. That’s what he likes to see – responsiveness, obedience, and a clear readiness to give him anything he asks for from it.

Eddie herself might not be on the same wavelength as Billy, but that hardly matters when her clit is. In a way, her pearl has become its own separate entity to him, distinct from the young woman it’s attached to. It has a mind of its own, and it only cares about one thing – which, coincidentally, is exactly the same for Billy himself. They’re the best of friends, the two of them. Thick as thieves.

With her body’s clear and obvious, enthusiastic permission, so begins the next round. He presses his palms flat on her nub, and begins the steady, wide, sweeping gestures he’s come to learn as the best way to get Eddie worked up. It’s becoming muscle memory for them both, at this point, he thinks. His body knows exactly how to give, and hers knows exactly how to take.

Above the table, Eddie nearly chokes on the potato fluff of her next bite of french fry, going suddenly still as she recognizes an ominously familiar feeling. Her throat feels suddenly dry, and it takes effort to swallow down her bite rather than coughing it back up again. Hurriedly, she reaches out for her coke, bringing it to her lips and downing swallow after swallow as she tries to steady herself.

This can’t be happening. Not so soon. Not when that last one was so deeply, consumingly satisfying. It shouldn’t be possible, should it? Don’t guys have a refractory period? Shouldn’t women, too? Not for the first time, she laments not having a chick friend she can ask about something like this – that is, if it wouldn’t absolutely mortify her to do so.

Regardless, if such a thing even exists for women, her clit didn’t get the memo. It is, if anything, very quickly raring to go. Having lacked any outright stimulation from her last orgasm, it isn’t hyper-sensitive like it would’ve otherwise been, and it feels almost eager under the tingling sensation building up between her legs. Heat begins to pool rapidly in a matter of thirty, maybe forty seconds, and she can feel the wadded up toilet paper between her legs begin to slowly dampen.

No way. This cannot happen again. This cannot possibly happen again. She can’t spill her soda in her lap a second time. There’s only one thing for it – she’s just going to have to make Kick get up again, get out of the way, and excuse herself to the bathroom to get things over with in there. She–

Oh, fuck. A wet-hot bolt of electricity unfurls in her pelvis with the force of a sledgehammer. She has to bite down on the inside of her cheeks to keep from moaning, steeling her expression into something stoic, locking her throat in a way that has, over the last few weeks, become something of a practiced maneuver. If she had enough space in her mind to think about anything other than the present moment, she might be either amused or affronted that she is, technically, getting good at this. Somehow, some way, her mind and her body are learning how to get away with being utterly, consumingly aroused in public – and she’s learning how to cum without making a single sound. Almost like she’s being trained…

Of course, this doesn’t occur to her. Not yet, not now. She isn’t thinking about pattern recognition, or the changes to her daily habits, or the way she’s reshaping herself to better suit the needs of her wanton pussy. She’s only thinking about the fresh, quickly-mounting waves of pleasure, and how fast they’re coming in. Desire and peak, itch and scratch, every needy wave is met with a perfectly executed answering sensation, ratcheting her from baseline all the way up to the edge at terminal velocity – like her clit is jealous it didn’t get to be involved last time, so it’s making up for lost time with a vengeance.

She realizes, with distressing and resigned suddenness, that there is no time to excuse herself to the bathroom. If she moves, if she starts to part her legs to slide out of the booth, that’s all it’s going to take to send her over the edge, and she’ll lock up in place halfway out of the seat in front of everyone. Instead, stubbornly, helplessly, desperately, she crosses one leg over the other and clamps down, thighs gone taught, squeezing her legs shut with every viable muscle in her body.

This would probably work against, say, a probing finger, or an errant toy, or anything intrusive enough to be blocked out by the rigidness of her musculature. By how tightly her thighs press her lower lips together. Unfortunately for her, it doesn’t mean even the slightest thing to her tiny little passenger, her trainer, the new owner of her clit, who is so small between her legs even the steely clamping of her lips is hardly an inconvenience. It just slams him more firmly against her clit, pressing him roughly against it, making stimulating her a full-bodied affair. He puts his knees and his back into it, dragging himself around in eager circles, rolling his hips, using the sudden firm wall at his back to his advantage for something to leverage himself against.

And then he feels it. The sudden, steely diamond stiffening of her clit as it swells to peak, the fragile moment of stillness that comes at the precipice before the fall. The calm before the storm. One single sterling second of absolute tranquility passes, and then chaos erupts. Her clit twitches, throbbing wildly, bucking and pulsing against him, slamming his back against the tightly closed wall of her pussy lips again and again as orgasm ripples through Eddie’s pelvis. It soaks the wad of tissue between her legs, it gravitates between every fold, sticky fluid carried down and forced upward from momentum and tightly sealed flesh. It rushes up Billy’s back, soaking him once again like a warm bath. He basks in every moment, surrendering himself to the force of nature that is her body, letting himself be battered and used as her clit drags every speck of sensation it can get from his flailing body.

Above the table, Eddie’s pupils dilate. Her teeth clamp down on the meat of her cheeks, digging in until she can practically taste copper. Her throat flexes under the strain of muting all sound. She is as frozen as that moment had been, statuesque and blank, face perfectly neutral. Her thighs have never been more tense, locked into place in a vice grip in a futile attempt to hold back the tide. The orgasm swells, falls over her like a blanket, courses through her like a river. It steals all of her sensory awareness, leaving her entirely checked out of the conversation around her, food and drink entirely forgotten.

As the chaos begins to wind down and the throbbing begins to slow, Billy gives Eddie all of ten seconds to think she might be staring down the barrel of relief before he slaps his palms down on her clit again and returns to his efforts in full, forcing her bundle of nerves to ratchet itself right back up to the peak again, ruthlessly, unforgiving, irreverent, relentless.

Now that her clit has had its time in the sun, the nerves are hyper-sensitive to every single touch, every movement, everything. The pleasure Billy forces onto her almost burns, an electrical signal firing wildly beneath the layers of heat and lust and arousal she’s grown intimately familiar with. She doesn’t even have time to despair; she barely stifles a little mewl of incredulity before she’s thrust back up to the precipice again.

It’s unbelievable. It’s absolutely unbelievable that she’s sitting here having her third orgasm in front of her bandmates. It crashes over her faster and harder than the first one had, and she’s positively soaked again. The wadded up toilet paper has become an uncomfortable kind of paper mache between her legs, sticking to her pussy and to her jeans as another round of release floods into it. The surreality of her situation descends on her, and she very nearly laughs deliriously at the thought. She’s cumming, again and again, right at this table, right in front of them, and they don’t even know…

The strangest thing begins to happen. Whether her secret training is taking hold, or she’s just losing her mind, or the flood of dopamine is impairing her thoughts, she couldn’t possibly say, but for a moment of temporary insanity… Eddie begins to enjoy it. Her eyes drift closed right there at the table, and she gives herself over to the feelings rippling through her pelvis over and over, like a relentless assault of orgasms. The first, the second, now the third in a span of less than fifteen minutes. She gets to sit there, indulging in orgasm in front of everyone, with them none the wiser, and absolute pleasure crashing over her like waves on the shoreline.

Something snaps in front of her face, jarring her out of what was rapidly becoming something akin to an out of body experience. Her eyes fly open, startled, and she sees Kick’s hand inches from her nose, deliberately snapping his fingers over and over again to get her attention.

“Earth to Munson, Earth to Munson,” he’s saying, and her bleary eyes urgently focus on him, trying to replay the last several seconds, to pick up on anything she might remember, anything she must have missed – but it’s all blank. Not a thought in her head, not a bit of perception of her reality for the last minute or two at least, so gone was she on the feelings of pleasure unfolding between her legs. “You falling asleep on us over there? We boring you or something?”

To her horror, this has attracted the attention of every one of her other bandmates; every single eye on the table turns toward her just as the peak of her last orgasm is beginning to fade, and she can feel her cheeks turning a hot shade of scarlet. It takes some work to unstick her throat, to feel like she can speak without descending into rusty, needy sounds, but she eventually does manage to cough gently and answer with a lame, “Sorry, just… tired after practice, I guess. You know how it is… haa…”

The voices carry down between her legs, down, down, down, through the muffling layers of denim, toilet paper, and flesh, to a supremely amused Billy. He can’t have seen her face, he can’t know for certain that she’d finally given herself over to him, but judging from what he’s hearing… she may just have.

Utterly pleased by this turn of events, Billy ducks in to press a chaste, approving little kiss onto the abused, overworked, overstimulated bundle of nerves he’s plastered against. It’s tempting, so very tempting, to put her through another round… but he thinks, just this once, he’ll reward her for her good behavior by cutting her some slack.

The longer they sit and talk, the more satisfied Cersei feels. She’s no stranger to socially engineering conversations, to subtly and slyly steering them the way she wants them to go to achieve the ends she means to achieve, and it never gets old. They speak of Jon’s family, of how he doesn’t quite fit with them, of his place as an outsider. They speak of the Lannister family reputation, and how it’s placed above all else. They speak of Joffrey and Sansa’s eventual engagement. How he only has eyes for her.

“Couldn’t be less like his father,” She sighs, a scowl slipping into her expression despite herself. “These days, it seems like whores are all Robert has eyes for.”

“It isn’t right,” Jon says firmly, stubbornly. “A man should honor his wife. King or no king.”

It’s shocking, for more reasons than one. To hear someone speak out so brazenly against royalty is one thing, though she supposes if it were going to come from anyone, it would be an honorary Stark. Part of her very nearly snaps at him for his audacity, until she realizes the far greater emotion she’s feeling – a surprising, uncommon sense of gratitude. She can’t remember the last time somebody didn’t excuse Robert for his actions, for the way he slights her, for the way he so carelessly tarnishes her honor every time he takes a new woman to bed.

He has no reason to pacify her, no agenda, no ulterior motive. He isn’t trying to win her favor. Jon’s commentary is motivated by nothing other than the same genuine kindness she always found in Rhaegar.

Something fierce and proprietary burns in her chest.

“It’s gonna be great, you’ll see,” Astrid informs him cheerfully, holding him in her open palm at about chest height as the two of them make their way through the lush, frequently travelled forest just outside of the village. “There’s nothing like getting in a really great workout to start the day. It just makes everything better. Even you gotta get a little cardio in every now and then.”

She teasingly pokes Crag in the middle with her free hand, and he smiles.

And, to be honest, the first half an hour is great! He watches from a perch on a tall stump as Astrid unleashes her axe into a perfect bullseye on her target tree, he cheers her on as she sprints circles around her running path, and he even hustles around the perimeter of his own stump just to feel like he’s participating.

He’s midway through his second lap when the shadow slowly overtakes his stump. He knows in an instant that it isn’t Astrid’s shape, and his heart leaps out of his chest when he catches sight of an enormous, outstretched hand reaching forth just on the cusp of his peripheral vision. Oh, no-

He stumbles, falling to his knees hard, and thinks – this is it, someone’s finally going to-

Before he can even finish the thought, Astrid swats the hand clean out of the air with a sharp, resounding slap of her own hand.

“Don’t even think about it, sister,” she barks sternly, planting her hands on her hips and interjecting herself between the titanic blonde and Crag. “This one’s not on the menu.”

“Jeeze, okay,” Ruffnut grumbles, holding her hands up in surrender. As she walks away, Crag can just make out her muttering of, “You’re crabby when you’re hangry, just eat your stupid snack already.”

He breathes a sigh of relief as Astrid gently scoops him up, looking at him with soft, apologetic eyes. “Are you okay? Sorry, I didn’t expect anyone else to be here…”

He smiles up at her, wrapping his arms around her thumb.

In his darkened bedroom at number 12 Grimmauld Place, Harry Potter set bolt upright in his bed, his hand wrapped around his wand, sweat clinging to his brow and a yell still cutting his throat. Panting heavily, his eyes frantically searched the room looking for any trace of the spectres he’d been fighting in his sleep, but there was nothing. No Death Eaters, no Voldemort, not even any of the creepy crawlies that once infected the house – the whole place has been effectively sanitized over the last year, and nothing but oppressive safety is there to greet him.

If he were to be completely honest with himself, Harry would almost have preferred a fight. At least then he’d have an outlet for the adrenaline flooding his system. As it stands, all he has now are nightmares, bad memories, and a phantom pain haunting his scar. He rubs at it with the heel of his palm, thinking. Considering.

And, like any Gryffindor worth his weight in salt, what he ultimately elects to do is make a brash, impulsive decision without thinking about the consequences. Pointing his own wand at his temple, he closes his eyes, and hoarsely chokes out, “Oblivia-” only to devolve into a coughing fit from the yelling he must’ve been doing in his sleep.

In an instant, a flash of white light explodes from the tip of his wand, blasting through the room and rippling outward, on and on and on, sending books flying off their shelves and dishes clattering to the floor.

Oh, no.

What has he done?

He doesn’t feel any different, he can still remember everything clearly, which must mean he’s messed up something... but what?