Tonight, you angle toward the boulder field at the end of the cove. The tide is low enough that the rocks aren’t underwater, and in the dusk, they loom like the spines of some ancient beast. You scramble up, using your hands for balance. Behind you, Rerir just walks, not even pretending to use the embedded footholds. You wonder if his boots have claws like his fingers.

“Why the caves?” you ask, panting a little from the climb. The salty dampness is making your hair stick to your lips. “We have the whole coast. You could build a bonfire, do the classic villain monologue. Why always the dark places?”

He waits until you’re both at the top of the biggest boulder, staring out at the churning ink of the sea. There’s a beat of silence, broken only by the crash of water and the screech of some distant gull. Then, he says: “Some things are easier to explain in the dark.”

It’s not an answer. It’s barely even a clue. You pull your knees up and wrap your arms around them, staring at the horizon where the sun is swallowing itself in bloody layers of cloud. Your feet tingle with cold, but you refuse to look at him. If you look, you’ll remember how this started—the needlepoint pressure at your throat, the way he pressed you into the wall with just enough force to threaten, not enough to bruise. You liked that, at first, the attention. The way he made everyone else vanish into background noise. You liked it right up until you realized he meant it.

The silence sits between you, a cold animal. You fill it again: “So, are you going to drag me back to your lair, or can we at least stop for dinner?”

He moves then, slow and deliberate, settling beside you on the rock. The bandages rustle as he tilts his head, and for a moment, you’re both statues—ruins at the edge of the world. “You’re hungry?”

You blink. “Not really. Just making conversation.”

He regards you, the way people study rare insects pinned beneath glass. “You have not tried to escape in three days.”

“Maybe I’m adapting,” you reply, voice light, but your pulse stutters. You’re afraid of making the wrong joke. Afraid of making the right one, too.

“Or maybe you’re planning something,” he says, softer now, as if he’s tasting the thought. “It doesn’t matter. You are safer with me than anywhere else.”

You laugh, short and sharp. “Says the guy who abducted me.”

The magenta eye narrows, crescent-moon thin. “There are worse things in the dark.”

You believe him.

He stands then, black coat swirling around him like a shroud, and extends one bandaged hand. It’s not a threat. It’s an offer.

You take it, because you always do. His grip is cold and unyielding, but when you jump down from the rock, he doesn’t let you fall. The walk resumes, the two of you winding along the edge of the tide line, where the foam is thick and slick as meringue. He keeps your hand in his, as if reminding you that escape is a hypothetical, not a reality.

You reach the mouth of the cave just as the last shreds of daylight bleed out of the sky. The opening is jagged, jaws of obsidian stone biting into the darkness. It’s deeper than it looks, and you know from experience that the interior is half-drowned, always wet with the memory of last night’s storm.

He stops at the threshold and looks down at you. The eye glows faintly in the dim, like an ember refusing to die.

“Go in,” he says, not quite an order.

You want to say something smart, something to tip the balance back your way. But instead, you step forward, letting the cold air swallow you whole.

He follows, a shadow at your back.

The sand inside the cave is finer, almost powder, and the walls leak with slow rivulets that catch what little light there is. It’s freezing, the kind of cold that wraps around your bones and makes your teeth want to shiver. You resist.

He brushes past you, gliding over to a ledge where someone—him, obviously—has already set up a little world of his own: a driftwood bench, a battered lantern, an old blanket spread across the rock like an afterthought.

You arch an eyebrow. “Didn’t take you for the glamping type.”

He says nothing, only sits, gesturing for you to do the same. You plop down next to him, tucking your bare feet under your thighs, shivering as the cold seeps in. You half-expect him to offer you the blanket, but he doesn’t. That would make this too easy, too domestic. Instead, he watches you. Always watching.

You decide to take the offensive. “So, what’s the story with the bandages? Fashion statement, or are you hiding something even uglier underneath?”

His jaw ticks, a micro-expression you would have missed a week ago. “Both.”

You grin, pleased to get a reaction. “Can I see?”

He shakes his head once, sharp. “No.”

You lean back, stretching your arms over your head, feigning indifference. “Fine. You know, most people would just ask for a date. Not chloroform me and drag me halfway across the continent.”

A flicker of genuine amusement this time. “You would have said no.”

You consider that, then nod. “Yeah. I probably would’ve.” You look at him, really look, and something in his posture relaxes, just a hair.

Maybe you’re both starting to believe this is normal.

The night outside is absolute now. The only sound is the sigh of wind through the cave mouth and the distant, ceaseless moan of the surf. You’re tired, you realize. Bone-tired. Not just from walking, but from being on constant alert. You let your head droop, then lean it sideways until it brushes against his shoulder. The fabric of his coat is rough, and you can feel the ridges of his muscles tense beneath it. He doesn’t move away.

For a long time, you both just sit there. Not talking. Not needing to.

Eventually, he speaks, voice so low you almost miss it: “One day, I will show you why I brought you here.”

You turn your face toward his, catching the crimson gleam in the dark. “You could show me tonight.”

He considers, then: “You should sleep first.”

You snort. “Yeah, because nothing bad ever happens when I fall asleep in a cave with a psycho.”

He doesn’t laugh, but he’s smiling, in that strange, sharp way that says you’re not prey, not anymore.

You close your eyes.

He keeps watch.

The fire starts as an insult to the dark: a crude, stuttering crackle of pine needles and driftwood that spatters resin across the cave’s soot-stained roof. The warmth is pathetic, really, but the light is enough to paint shadows on the slick black walls, orange and feverish. Moss beads the stone like sweat, and every so often a drop of water falls from the ceiling with a sound like a tongue clicking in disapproval.

You have the blanket now. He didn’t give it to you; you just took it, after waking with your cheek pressed to cold stone and finding him exactly where you left him, sitting sentinel a few meters away, watching the sea through the mouth of the cave. He didn’t protest, and you wonder if it’s because he’s used to people taking what they need, or because he wants you comfortable, pliant, grateful.

You sprawl with your back against a shelf of rock, legs bare to the knee and one foot tapping the edge of the fire pit. The smoke doesn’t bother you. You’ve slept in worse places, with worse company. Still, there’s something about the way he sits, folded in on himself, arms locked around his knees, the single magenta eye reflecting every flare of the flames. Not blinking. Not even once.

You press your fingertips to the rock, rough and cold. The surface is gritty, banded with sand and the skeletons of ancient barnacles. There’s a layer of greenish scum in the deeper cracks, and when you dig a nail in, the whole cave smells faintly of brine and decay. Beneath it, though, there’s the cleaner tang of pine smoke and something else—an almost animal musk, sharp but not unpleasant.

You look at him, the way you might look at a puzzle missing half its pieces. There’s a question that gnaws at you, dull but insistent: why you? You are nobody. Not a noble, not a weapon. You don’t have secrets worth dying for, or skills worth killing for. You’re not even sure if you’re worth obsessing over, but here you are—blanket thief, human, curiosity preserved in amber.

You clear your throat, just to see if he’ll flinch. He doesn’t.

“So, when do I get to hear your tragic backstory?” you ask, drawing one leg up so your knee blocks the heat from the fire. “Or do we just sit here until the Wild Hunt finishes the job?”

The side of his mouth quirks, a movement so slight it could be a tic. “Would it change anything?”

“Maybe. I might feel sorry for you.”

His eye sharpens, and you realize you’ve said the right thing, or maybe the wrong one. He shifts his weight, the bandages rustling. “I don’t want your pity.”

You let the silence breathe, then poke the fire with a stick. “What do you want, then?”

He takes a long time to answer. When he finally does, his voice is almost inaudible over the hiss of sap burning. “To keep you.”

The way he says it is not romantic, not possessive in the way people might say about a pet or a lover. It’s clinical. As if you’re a rare specimen, a thing to be preserved, because the world is not safe for things like you. Maybe for things like him, either.

You stare into the fire, watching how the sap bubbles out of the wood and then flashes into blue flame, gone in an instant. You wonder how long you have before you do the same.

“So why me?” The words come out small. You’re not sure you want to know the answer.

His gaze never leaves you. “Because you don’t look away.”

That surprises you enough to laugh, for real this time. “From what, exactly? You?”

He nods, once. “Everyone else does.”

You meet his stare. The fire glints off his lashes, turning them metallic. “That’s because you’re terrifying.”

His mouth curves, almost sad. “You’re still here.”

You shrug, blanket pulled tight around your shoulders. “You’d just chase me if I ran.”

He leans forward then, elbows on his knees. The flames etch hollows into his cheekbones, pick out the sharp angles of his jaw. “I would catch you. But I would never hurt you.”

There’s a tremor in his voice, not quite fear and not quite hope. Something in the timbre of it makes your heart feel like it’s hanging by a thread, the way it did when you were a child and climbed too high in the apple orchard, unsure if you could make it down without breaking a bone.

You say, softer, “You’ve hurt people before.”

He doesn’t look away. “They deserved it.”

You have no reason to doubt him.

The fire is dying, and the cave is breathing in the dark, slow and deep. You pull the blanket tighter, tucking your knees to your chest. “You know, for a kidnapper, you’re really bad at intimidation.”

He lets out a breath, not quite a laugh. “That was never my purpose.”

You want to press him, to needle until he says something that makes this all make sense. But you’re tired, and the warmth from the fire is making you drowsy, softening the edges of your resolve. You let your head tip back, resting against the rock.

His voice comes again, quiet as the falling water: “Why don’t you look away?”

You open your eyes and see him, kneeling closer than before, the deep pink eye catching every reflection of the dying fire. You could count the lashes if you wanted to, or reach out and touch the bandages. You want to.

Instead, you whisper, “Because you’re the most interesting thing in this cave.”

An ember pops, sending a spiral of sparks into the black.

For a moment, it almost feels like you’re both trapped, here in this hollowed-out world, and maybe that’s what keeps you from running. Maybe you’re not a prisoner. Maybe you’re a matched set, a collection curated by some cruel, precise hand.

The fire flickers low. You close your eyes, again.

But this time, he speaks your name like a promise.

You don’t fall asleep right away. You listen to the fire, and the drip of water, and the steady, watchful cadence of his breathing. You imagine the cave as a bubble, a suspended moment in time, where nothing else can touch you.

You can live with that, for now.

~~~

The dreams bleed in like seawater, slow and uninvited, pulling you under before you even know you’re drowning. You haul yourself to the surface of sleep, gasping in the shudder of cold air, the acrid stink of dying fire, and something else—an echo that doesn’t belong. At first you imagine the cave itself: rock contracting as it cools, or the sea heaving through some hidden channel. Then you hear it, a ragged syllable drawn out against your name, and your heart lurches through your ribs. You bolt upright, breath hammering, and see Rerir across the embers. He’s never moved in his sleep—always still, like stone—but now he’s tangled in your abandoned blanket, back arched, fists clamped so tight the bandages strain against his knuckles. His head’s uncovered; the wrappings must have slipped as he thrashed. For the first time you see both eyes, shut and rimmed with bruised violet, jaw set like iron even in unconscious pain. You freeze, torn between fear and something else—something that pulses behind your ribs. You’ve only ever seen him vulnerable when he wants you to see it, when he’s baiting you, calculating. But this… it’s involuntary. Raw. Ancient. The taste of it slips into your mouth like bile. Your instinct screams to pull away, to let him wrestle his demons alone. But the sound rises, a worn, guttural moan that fractures with desperation and pulls you closer. So you slide forward on your elbows, heart pounding, and press a trembling hand to his shoulder. His body locks. The next instant shatters you: he’s awake, erect, one bandaged hand clamped at your throat, the other pinning your wrist to cold stone. You don’t even realize you’re flat on your back until you see the fire’s glow reflected in his one free eye—bright and wild. The other eye, hidden beneath a ragged veil, rims with dark moisture.

You brace for violence, but what follows is worse: he trembles with something colder than anger. Fear, maybe. The grip at your throat tightens enough to remind you that your heart is still beating—that you still want it to.

He whispers your name again, quieter this time, and you almost miss the tremor. “Are you awake?” His voice cracks as if he’s questioning your very existence. You nod, or attempt to. Your throat feels scalded. He releases you, but his body remains close, every inch alert. He breathes in sharp, shallow lungs, and you catch something glistening at his temple—not blood, but an oily sheen that drips with memory you can’t name. You want to reach out, to wipe it away, but your arm lies useless beneath him. When words finally scrape free of your throat, they’re hoarse. “Bad dream?” He recoils as if you’ve uttered something obscene. “I didn’t mean—” He swallows hard, jaw tightening. You see the words jagged and wounded behind his stare. Your skin tingles where he presses you into the cave floor—his thigh against yours, his torso pinned to yours, the silk of his hair brushing your cheek. Each contact sears your senses. Panic churns up your spine, but something hotter stirs in your gut, hot and illicit. Rerir inhales a shuddering breath, then hisses, “You shouldn’t wake me when I’m like this.” You force a shaky grin because laughter settles the storm in your mind. “Right. Next time I’ll let you scream yourself hoarse.” No flicker of humor crosses his bruised features. He lowers his face, ragged edges of bandages brushing yours. He smells of salt and smoke and something sharp—ozone before a storm. He speaks so softly you have to lean in to catch it. “I need you.” The words crash into your chest. You want to scoff—he’d confess starvation for sunlight or food in half the breath he spares for you. But the tremor in his voice uncoils a deeper truth. “I need you to keep me from breaking.” His confession gnaws at you. You want to disbelieve, to push him away, to draw every boundary you’ve ever known. Instead, your heart flips over itself. You swallow, and he tracks the movement of your throat as though it’s the only proof you exist. His black-clawed fingers leave bruises along your arm, gentle but unyielding. “Is this about your cursed blood, or are you just emotionally constipated?” you snap, voice trembling with bravado you don’t feel. He shakes his head, each movement haunted. A thin rivulet traces his jaw. “Both.” You stare at him, at the way firelight cleaves the planes of his face, making him look both savage and achingly vulnerable. He’s beautiful like a blade—sharp, purposeful, meant to wound. You consider wrenching free, screaming, fighting. You know you could. And yet something binds you, deeper than fear or pity or lust. You hush yourself with a breath. “You still haven’t told me why me,” you breathe. He leans so close your lips almost touch. His breath stutters on your skin. “Because I want you. More than I should.” Your pulse riots, a thousand alarms, but a cold ache of longing spreads beneath your ribs. Your logic screams that this is wrong, that to trust him is to invite ruin. But a weaker part of you, starved for focus, for fire, for salvation, trembles awake. You try to twist free, but his single arm holds you firm. “Let me go,” you whisper, though your voice cracks with something else—desire, relief, terror. He reads you like an open wound. “You can’t run from this.”

The confession hangs between you, raw and dripping with risk. You stare into his one wild eye and think: maybe I don’t want to. Then he closes the gap, mouth crashing against yours through bandages with a need that borders on violence. His lips are cold, but his tongue burns you hot. You taste salt, blood, tears—every confession he won’t speak. Your body fights, then yields, because the scent of his fear, his need, draws you under like the sea. When he finally parts from you, he buries his face in your neck, jaw grazing your skin. His arms shake as though he expects you to vanish. You press back, half-afraid to let him hold you so close. “Promise me you won’t leave,” he murmurs against your pulse. Your breath hitches. “I’m not going anywhere.” He relaxes just a fraction. The hand that held your throat slides to cradle your jaw, touch trembling with reverence you never imagined in him. You lie there, knotted together on cold stone, the stench of old smoke and salt air swirling around you. After a long, breathless stretch, sleep tugs you under. But this time, there are no nightmares. At dawn, you wake to his eyes on you, softer in daylight, as if the sun bleached away some of his fury. The embers have died, and for a moment you both bask in quiet. You sit up, muscles stiff, and he releases you without a word. You brush a stray lock of hair from his brow, and he grips your fingers as though you might evaporate. He studies you, chest rising and falling against his. Finally, he breathes, “I’m sorry.” You shrug slowly. “I’ve woken up worse.” A real smile cracks his face—crooked, shy. “You’re not afraid of me.” Your pulse stills. “You’re not as scary as you think.” He pulls you back in, forehead to forehead. “Stay with me.” Your throat tightens. You don’t know how you’ll escape this, or if you want to. But you reply, “Okay.” You drift off with his arms around you, and this time there are no dreams—only the tremor of his promise echoing in your blood.

~~~

You wake slow, drifting up from black nothing to the sharp tang of smoke, the ache in your legs, and the undeniable sensation of being watched. Your heart pounds as if accusing you of something—something you can’t quite name. This time, the weight of his gaze feels more like a question than comfort. You roll over, blanket slipping off your shoulder, and there he is—Rerir, hunched over the fire, feeding it with scraps of pine bark. His hair hangs loose, tangled and wild, catching gold in every flicker of the flame. Bandages wrap his forearm again, a silent testament to how rough the night must have been. You want to feel concern, but your chest tightens with something else: fear? Desire? Both at once. You stretch, slow and luxurious, feeling muscles unkink and settle. Part of you wants to stay curled in the cave’s shadows, safe from him. Yet when he glances over—one magenta eye glinting like a gemstone—you wonder if he’s been awake the whole time, or if he ever really sleeps. You force your arms under you and push up, blanket wrapped around your torso, and shuffle closer to the fire. The cave is freezing, but the heat near the coals is good—better when he crosses the flickering light and hauls you into his lap without a word. His arms cage you in. You hesitate, back pressed against his chest, aware of the press of his claws even through the leather gloves. The impulse to push away fights the comfort of his warmth. He rests his chin on your crown, breathing in your scent like it’s the only anchor he has. You try to read him—does he crave you or need you? Does he trust you, or is he just afraid of being alone? Silence stretches between you, the kind that holds both longing and doubt. You trade body heat as the fire eats itself alive. At last he murmurs, “Did you sleep well?” His voice is soft, almost tender, but edged with something fragile.

You force a grin, uneasy. “Dreamless. Maybe you’re a good luck charm.” The words feel hollow, but you cling to them anyway.

He hums, a vibration deep in his throat. “I prefer talisman. Or curse.” The duality in his tone echoes in your chest. Are you cure or contagion? You laugh, though it cracks. “I’ll call you whatever, if you make breakfast.” It’s a weak offer, but you can’t think of anything better. His arms tighten, subtle but absolute. “I’ll give you anything.” The promise hangs in the smoky air, and you want to believe him, but a flicker of doubt slides through your gut. You glance at the fire, then at his hands—long, gloved, black-clawed. You remember the way those fingers gripped you last night, possessive and reverent, as if you might vanish if he let go. The memory ignites something fierce in you, but there’s a tremor, too: what if you’re his doom? Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Show me.” You’ll it to be a challenge, to mask the fear that you’re asking for more than you can handle. He turns you so fast the blanket slips and pools at your waist. Straddling him, you’re hyperaware of the thin cotton of shirt against your skin and the ragged hem of your own sleepwear. The suddenness makes you gasp. He watches your reaction, lit by the fire, raw hunger flaring in his eye.

He cages your hips with both gloved hands and pulls you closer. Every brush of claw, every brush of fabric, sets your nerves alight. You should be terrified—but you’re ink-deep fascinated, tied to him by some primal thread. He studies your face, as if waiting for you to flinch. You don’t. Instead, you reach up and untangle a lock of his hair, running your fingers through the white strands. Your palm presses against his scalp. He closes his eye at that unexpected softness, then opens it, hunger raging. “Do you want this?” he asks, and it isn’t a tease. It’s a lifeline tossed across a chasm you’re afraid to cross. Your throat tightens. “Yes.” The single word tastes like both confession and challenge. He moves so fast you barely register the shift. One hand slips beneath the back of your shirt, hot claws grazing your spine in a line of exquisite tension. The other hand slides along your side, fingertips ghosting the ribs you’ve been protecting. Then—careful, deliberate—it slips under the strap of your bra. You hold your breath. His cold claw brushes the clasp. It gives instantly. You suck in a breath, nerves crackling. He lifts your shirt over your head in one smooth motion. Fabric tangles, then falls away. You sit bare-chested in his lap, chest tight with anticipation and a whisper of dread. The cave air bites your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth pouring from him. His gaze roams your form, every goosebump, every pulse point. There’s awe in his eyes, as if he’s found something sacred he thought lost forever. Without warning, he bows his head and presses his lips to the junction of your neck and shoulder. The kiss is feather-soft to start, but then the scrape of his teeth sends a shock through you. Your body arcs toward him. He follows every shiver, mouth mapping each inch in slow, precise movements. He drifts south, capturing your nipple in his lips. You gasp, fingers tangling in his hair. A low hum rumbles in his chest, vibration coursing down to your core. You shudder, equal parts pleasure and the echo of the fear that churns beneath your skin. You tug at his overcoat, fighting the leather that shields him, desperate to feel bare flesh against your bare flesh. He grunts, rips it off himself, and you watch fabric scatter. His chest, bandaged and pale, stands exposed. You trace the seams with trembling fingertips. He shivers, a quiet surrender.

He shifts his grip on your hips, grinding you against him, and you press back, chasing the paradox of pain and bliss. Every thrust of his hips resonates deep inside you. A voice in your head whispers that this is madness, but your body answers with each gasp and moan. “Tell me what you want,” he rasps, voice ragged. You don’t hesitate. “You. All of you.” It feels both reckless and inevitable. The sound he makes is part growl, part prayer. He shifts again, laying you back on the blanket, settling himself between your thighs. The cave floor is stone-cold beneath your head, and for a moment you question your own sanity. But then he covers you with his heat, shields you from the chill, and every misgiving shatters. When he lowers his head to your stomach, mouth exploring, tongue flicking, you feel panic and surrender warring in your chest. Each flick of his tongue brings tears to your eyes—tears of pleasure, tears of fear, tears you can’t name. “Please,” you beg, voice shaking. He growls in response and intensifies his ministrations until you’re writhing, nails digging into his scalp. You clench around nothing but air and flame, and he pushes two claws inside you, fingers curling in perfect rhythm. You arch and clutch at him, lost in the storm he’s unleashed. And then it breaks—violent, overwhelming, as if you’ve split in two. You cry out, and he shoos the last tremors away with gentle kisses.

He crawls up your body, kisses every inch of you until he hovers over your mouth. His eyes are wild, painting the cave in dizzy silver. He sheds his pants with the same urgency that’s driven the rest of this night, and you watch, breath caught in your throat, as he strokes himself to readiness. You aren’t sure what you were expecting, with his half-human form and all. His cock is a mix of burnt embers, soot and ash blending in with the paleness of his skin. Wispy tendrils of smoke curl around him—whether from his own powers, the Wild Hunt, or your fleeting sanity, you aren’t sure. You nod wordless consent, a pact sealed in sweat and fear and longing.

He lines himself at your entrance and pauses, waits for you to meet him. Forbidden thoughts flicker—what will dawn bring? Will the world beyond this cave still exist for you both? You clamp your eyes shut, draw a steadying breath, and murmur, “Go.”

He pushes in slow, inch by inch, pain flares then softens into fullness so intense you want to cry. He holds perfectly still, forehead to yours, breaths mingling. You taste ash and something like forgiveness.

He starts to move, shallow at first, then quicker, firmer. The rhythm builds. You match him, hips lifting to meet each thrust, the wet sound of your bodies echoing. You’re both intoxicated—hungry, afraid, desperate for more. He leans down, teeth grazing your shoulder as he drives into you. You scream, and he moans your name with a reverence that mocks the divine, pounding until your second climax rips through you like artillery.

He follows with a guttural howl, and you feel him spill inside you. He keeps moving, milking the last tremors of your joined pleasure, then collapses atop you, trembling. One of his arms slides beneath your neck, the other draws you close. He kisses your forehead, gentle as the promise he made earlier. You lie there, tangled in his limbs, heart still hammering with doubt and desire. For all your conflict, for every trembling fear whispering that this can’t last, you feel something else: a shaky, fragile sense of belonging. You close your eyes, and for the first time, you’re not sure who you are without him—but you don’t mind.

~~~

The silence that follows is different. Not awkward, not haunted, just full—a heavy, animal satisfaction that leaves you sprawling, limbs too lazy to reclaim your own edges. You’re slick with sweat and something else, bare skin pressed to the blanket, and he’s half draped over you, breathing like he’s just come up from drowning.

He moves first, propping himself on one elbow. His face is less mask now, more human, though the bandages are still streaked with sweat and—at the corner of his mouth—blood, dark and metallic. His hands, when they touch you, are careful as a surgeon’s. He rolls you onto your back, brushes stray hair off your forehead, and for a second you think he might say something sappy.

Instead, he bolts upright, digs through his battered bag, and comes back with a battered metal flask. He unscrews the lid, fills the cap, and offers it to you with a look that’s not quite concern and not quite command.

“Drink,” he says, and it’s the closest to gentle you’ve ever heard him.

You’re parched, so you take it, hands shaking. The water is cold, sharp enough to make you wince. He holds the flask steady, eyes fixed on your lips, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth all over again.

When you finish, he wipes your chin with the pad of his thumb and says, “Are you hurt?”

You laugh, breathless, and flop back onto the pelts. “Only in the best ways.”

He nods, solemn. “Good.”

He puts the flask aside and reaches for you again, arms winding under your body. Before you can protest, he lifts you—cradles you, really, bridal-style, which would be funny if it wasn’t so matter-of-fact. He carries you deeper into the cave, past the fire, into a side chamber you didn’t notice before. Here, the walls are closer, the darkness more complete. The nest he lowers you into is made of old furs, scavenged coats, scraps of cloth—soft and dry, a tiny pocket of warmth in the universe of cold.

He sets you down with reverence, tucks the pelts around you, and then lays beside you, one arm heavy over your waist.

You turn to face him, noses nearly touching. “Is this the part where you eat me?”

He smiles, slow and wolfish. “Later,” he promises.

You snort, then yawn, exhaustion catching up all at once. He strokes your hair, smoothing it away from your face, and you let yourself relax, feeling the last of the tension melt out of your muscles.

You’re halfway to sleep when you feel his lips at your ear, breath hot and uneven.

“I will not let anyone take you from me,” he whispers, and it’s not a threat, not exactly. It’s a vow.

Kylo is true to his word: it’s early evening when you finally leave his room.

The mid-morning passed in a dreamy haze. Kylo’s soft, nuzzling kisses roused you from a lazy nap. He had been warm behind you. The heat of his body seeped down to your bones and enveloped you in a snug embrace. He pressed every part of himself against your back, even getting his thighs and knees behind yours.

He took you like that, on your side so he could nuzzle your neck and skim up and down your body, from your throat to your nipples to your belly and your clit as he thrust into you. At one point he hitched one of your legs over his. He brought you to orgasm like that, beautifully butterflied and exposed, as he breathed in your ear and rubbed your clit till it pulsed.

Once you recovered you’d eased out of bed and dawdled, naked, to his drafting desk. You thumbed through his folios and ran your fingers over his loose drawings. Sketches made up of thicker and thinner black lines coalesced into detailed perspective drawings of building interiors and exteriors. Kylo had come up behind you and kissed the clasp of the collar around your neck. You turned and Kylo’s mouth found yours instantly, one hand on your neck and the other, your hip.

“Daddy wants you again,” he’d breathed onto your kiss-bitten lips, dipping between your thighs. Kylo stroked your pussy until your arousal dripped down his fingers and then he shoved the papers aside so you could shift up onto the angled desk top. You wrapped your legs around his sides and pressed your heels into his meaty cheeks. His musculature overwhelmed you and you blatantly ogled him - but Kylo ate it up.

Up on your elbows the angle made you gasp for air, and when Kylo tucked the back of your knees to the crook of his elbows, leaning on the desk, it was enough to make your eyes roll back. With his forehead to yours he told you to touch yourself. 

“Do it just like Daddy does,” he’d said, and you did, falling apart all over him.

As the sun sunk lower in the sky you were looking at the awards in the bookcase. It wasn’t long before Kylo pulled you into the nearby Eames chair. He’d wrung another orgasm from you as you bounced in his lap and the heart on the collar glinted in golden hour light. When your moans became too shrill he’d grabbed your waist and guided you up and down on his dick until he came, filling you for the third time.

You’d collapsed onto his broad, sweaty chest. Kylo let you rest, running his fingertips up and down your spine. When you finally felt your legs again and suggested a shower, he followed you. Maybe originally, he did only want to clean you up, but as soon as you were sudsy and soapy he couldn’t help himself. He hiked your leg up and rolled his hips, the muscles in his backside clenching with every deep press into your pliable core. You were unsteady on one leg, it was difficult to balance on the slippery tiles on your tip toes so he’d flipped you around, pressed your top half into the glass, and mounted your lower until you screamed.

Afterwards, clean and dry and dressed for the first time all day in something more than Kylo’s collar, you announced you were hungry—starving, actually. Kylo smirked. 

Now, the smell of something delicious greets you as you descend the stairs. The hubbub of conversation wafts upwards too: it sounds like all of Kylo’s brothers are in the kitchen.

“So what’d you do all day, Matty?”

“Went out.”

“You did, huh?”

“They were,” there’s a pause, “loud, Ben. I got home from work and left—”

The conversation drops into silence as soon as you enter the kitchen. You feel Kylo’s hand at your lower back. Matt scowls and looks away, one hand pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose and the other slipping his phone from his pocket. Randy tries a smile but turns back to the pot on the stove, resuming to stir whatever it is that smells so good your stomach rumbles. Ben clears his throat.

“Hey, gorgeous.”

No one else says anything. You sense Kylo’s broad chest lift beside you, almost busting out of the black tank he wears, proud as a peacock. 

After a moment you finally say, “...Hey,” and Matt and Randy snap to attention at the sound of your voice. They look at you for a second, half hoping Kylo’s presence is somehow erased from existence. 

“Hey.” A crack in his voice, and Randy turns away quickly again.

“Hey.” Matt looks like he could crush his phone in his hand.

Ben tries again, with awkward half-laugh, half-cough. “Come, sit, babe.” He gestures to one of the stools tucked under the counter. 

You force a smile, and it feels wrong. The room feels cold, with Randy’s back to you and Matt on his phone. “You sure?” you say, trying to test the room, but the other Solo boys don’t look up again.

“‘Course,” Ben says, but he’s scratching his eyebrow with his thumbnail.

“Go on, little one,” Kylo says, and you can damn near hear the smile in his voice.

Every step feels like an intrusion. This might’ve been a shared space last night, before Kylo got home and you, Ben, Matt and Randy had chatted about this and that over pretzels and soda. But now it feels like you’re stepping out onto a frozen lake, and there’s no one on the other side, no arm outstretched ready to grab you and pull you safely to the shore.

Except, maybe there is one arm. You slide onto the stool, and Kylo follows next to you, but there’s one Benjamin Solo who watches your face with earnest attention. There’s something pleading in his molasses eyes. Is it an apology, on behalf of his brothers? Or could it be that he doesn’t want his worst fear confirmed—that you’ve had such mind-blowing sex with his brother all day that you don’t want all of them anymore.

He says lightly, “So… How was your day, babe—?”

“Did you even leave his room?” Matt accuses. 

What’s worse than Ben’s confusing expression is Matt’s, almost, hurt one? His thick lips are so red and pouty they look fuller than you’ve ever seen. He looks up over the rim of his glasses, a filthy glare. He sniffs at the air around you, and shoots a sullen look at Kylo.

“You smell like his soap.”

You match Matt’s stare, and there’s only daggers in his eyes. “Yeah. And?”

“Did he do that?” The blond brother is quick. “Wash you? Were you too fucked out to—”

“Wait.” Ben’s clasped hands drop to the counter with a thud. You see where he’s looking: his gaze zeroes in below your chin, above your chest. There’s a long stretch of silence before Ben points a thick finger.

“...What the fuck is that?” 

The air in the room shifts—but with what it turns into, you kind of wish it had just stayed awkward. Matt follows the invisible line and even Randy turns and tracks where Ben is pointing.

Oh shit. Fuck. “Ben—” You didn’t take it off. You should’ve taken it off.

Ben stands up straight. “What the fuck is that?” he repeats, but he’s not asking you. He glowers at his eldest brother, while the younger Solos gawk and stare.

Besides the almost-altercation with Matt when you arrived at the house yesterday, you’ve not really had occasion to see Ben truly angry. But in this moment, there is a thunderstorm in Ben’s deep brown eyes. His jaw is set and his brow is creased. With an unnatural calmness he quietly asks his elder brother, “You put a collar on her?”

Kylo’s features are set, his gaze fixed on Ben, but there’s a cocky gleam in his eyes. He doesn’t need to explain anything to anyone. At the sound of metal skidding across tile your gaze snaps back to Ben - who is up and has shoved a bar stool out of his way, one eyebrow lifted in a sharp arch.

“A collar. Really? Like a fucking—” 

You blink and Ben’s made his way around the kitchen island. You try to grab his arm to stop him but he’s already past you, up in Kylo’s space.

“—dog. Is she your fucking dog, you fucking dick?” Ben fumes in Kylo’s face before he shoves him.

The eldest takes a couple of easy steps back with the force of Ben’s push, like he was ready to absorb it. His jaw works—almost like he’s trying not to smile. 

“I’ll give you that one,” he squares up, closing the distance, “but put your hands on me again—”

“You think you fucking own her, ‘s that it?”

“It has your name on it.” This from a third voice. 

Immediately silence falls again, like a heavy lid on a kitchen fire.

You chance a glance in Matt’s direction. He had to have said it. His blond brow is furrowed as he looks right at the base of your throat - to the collar and engraved heart. Confusion narrows his eyes, and there’s a downward draw to his mouth.

Ben whips around instantly. “It fucking what.”

You feel him up against you, a warm hand cradling your face and turning you gently to face him. You look up into his eyes and they’re—soft. Apologetic. But when he glances below and reads his brother’s name, his mouth presses into a hard line. There’s fury in his eyes, but his touch against your skin is tender where he strokes your cheek.

“What the fuck, Kylo,” Matt says, but it’s quiet. He slings a long glare at Kylo, but Kylo would never have the humility to look chastened.

“Yeah,” Ben rounds on his eldest brother, “what the fuck, Kylo.”

“She’s happy to wear it, little brother—”

Ben scoffs. “Yeah? She’s happy to wear it?” He shoves at his brother’s shoulders once more—hard this time. 

Kylo’s face flashes, a murky glower falls across his features. He fronts up to his brother and the two are close, squaring shoulders and breathing hard.

Kylo rumbles, “I put that collar on her and she called me Daddy.”

“She calls you that because you asked her to ‘cause you’re an ego-fuckin’-maniac,” Ben snaps.

“What did you just say to me—?” Kylo shoves Ben back, and the younger is off balance for a few short steps before he’s up in his brother’s face again.

To your side, Randy tries to intervene but Matt reaches a casual hand out to stop him, fingers resting on Randy’s forearm.

The two eldest have escalated to a shoving match, their voices rising, almost yelling over one another. You’re about to say something before the quick snap of Matt’s head to yours. You catch his dark-chocolate gaze, and the bespectacled brother subtly shakes his head.

You look back at the fray to see Ben stumble back, then stop abruptly and yell out, “You know what? Fuck this. I’m calling it. Fucking—!” he looks around, panting and flushed, his gaze catching on you for a few moments as his breathing slows, “family meeting.”

xxxx

Arranged around the kitchen island, the five of you are quiet. The whole kitchen is quiet, without the hubbub of the pot boiling or the low hum of the oven. You share lots of looks and glances here and there, but for a while there’s only silence as everyone gathers their thoughts.

This is clearly something these four have done before. As soon as Ben said the words, ‘family meeting’, it was like someone turned out the light. Weird to see, as all the Solo boys, sort of, went into standby mode and gathered around together in sullen silence.

After a long moment, Ben clears his throat. 

“...So. What do we think about,” a pause, “Kylo’s collar?”

There are no takers. Kylo’s arms are folded tightly across his impressive chest. He’s staring hard at the gleaming benchtop.

“I’ll start,” Ben says. “I’m not going to uh, ‘yuck your yum’, big bro, I just don’t,” he stops, sighing. “How is this,” he gestures towards you, “not playing favourites?”

Kylo’s jaw works. He doesn’t respond. But it seems like that’s ok, because Ben looks at his younger brothers and gestures at them to join in. “Boys?”

To your surprise, Randy is the next to speak up. The youngest Solo frowns a little, pouts a little, and says quietly, “I didn’t know you were going to do that, Kylo.”

Dragging a rough swipe down his mouth and chin, Matt follows quickly, “Didn’t think it’d have your. Your name on it.”

Ben nods along as his brothers share their thoughts, then he looks directly at you. He holds your gaze, letting a beat pass before he speaks.

“...How do you feel about it?” he says, and every pair of eyes in the room lands on you.

This must be what it’s like to hover over a big red button, palm poised to strike, where pressing it has the potential to do something very, very bad. You may need to tread carefully here. Looking around at each of the brothers, especially at Kylo, you take a deep breath.

“Look. Everyone in this room has a thing. This is just, his thing.” You look at the eldest, a little expectantly. “Right, Kylo?”

You can tell by the set of his jaw and the lift in the middle of his forehead that he didn’t like that. Didn’t like hearing you say his name. Didn’t like that you didn’t call him Daddy instead.

But this isn’t a time for charades, you can tell, and the eldest answers you nonetheless. 

“That’s right, beautiful.”

You nod some. “And I,” another big breath, “like that you all have a thing. A different thing. With me.” 

You almost wince, bracing for the blowback, but you look around and see that they’re all staring at you. With intensity, with such deep dark beautiful brown eyes that a shiver flutters right up your spine. What you said has charged the air, it’s ready to ignite.

You swallow, your mouth suddenly wet with all those Solo eyes on you. “So, if I can deal, you all can deal, right?”

The brothers don’t answer you—at least, not with any words. But there’s heat, and hunger, and even hope in those four gazes. 

You push a little further, testing whether the energy in the room really has shifted or you just think it has. “Plus it was a present. Just for,” you chance a fleeting glance at Kylo, “Daddy’s day.”

Yes—yes. They’re all looking at you with parted lips, taking deeper breaths, so still and trained on you they could be statues—monuments—to desire. The air around the five of you feels like a sticky, humid day about to tip towards a thundering downpour. The room is staticky, sizzling, begging for the rush of relief from oppressive heat.

Into the thick and heavy silence, Ben breathes, “God I want you,” and Matt grunts—he grunts—in response, like it’s the only affirmative sound his ape brain is capable of making to respond to the premise Ben has put before all of you.

Kylo speaks before you can respond.

“Why don’t you,” his voice is hoarse, he clears his throat, “get her ready for me?”

The three of them, and even you, turn sharply to look at the eldest.

Kylo looks straight into your soul. “I think Daddy’s little girl would like that.”

Your heart thuds in your chest; you can only nod, but the boys aren’t as easily convinced of Kylo’s sudden change of heart. Again Randy goes to step forward, but Ben and Matt haven’t moved an inch, so he stops. 

Kylo pulls out a chair from the dining table and drags it across the floorboards a few paces, until he sits across from you.

“...Is this…legit, Kylo?” Ben asks. “You mean it? No bullshit?”

Kylo settles into the dining chair. “No bullshit.”

Your pulse races. Any trepidation the boys felt moments ago has seemingly disappeared. The three brothers make for you and it’s almost choreographed, you don’t know how it all happens so smoothly. You swivel on the barstool as Ben presses up against your right side and Matt comes up on your left and you realise: this is going to happen here, now, in the Solos’ goddamn kitchen.

And the hands - God - so many hands. Skating up your thighs, your front, across your heaving breasts and back down. Randy’s at your feet, skimming up your calves and back down to slip your fluffy slides off.

“Kiss her,” Kylo says. He sounds far away, but you’re looking right at him—sitting with his arms crossed and legs spread wide like that dining chair is a throne.

Ben trails his nose along your jaw and as soon as you turn to face him, he traps your lips in a kiss. His lips are pillowy soft, lingering against yours so long you feel your thoughts dissolve, shoulders falling and that persistent crease in your brow finally smoothing over. One of his hands glides up over your breast, chest, to the side of your neck. 

Ben kisses you like he has all the time in the world. Hell, he makes you forget what time even is, with his thumb stroking across your jaw as he deepens the kiss, licking at your lips until your mouths smack together.

That’s when you feel a hard pinch at your nipple—Matt—and Randy’s soft kisses to the inside of your ankles.

You break the kiss to moan onto Ben’s lips.

“Again, Matt,” comes Kylo’s far-off voice, “under her top.”

Ben’s hand slinks around and you end up catching his thumb in your mouth, just as Matt’s hot hand slips under your top, pulls down your bralette and rolls your stiff nipple. You groan around Ben’s thumb, and Ben hums a quiet moan as he dives for your neck. His kisses to the slope of your shoulder send flares firing, just like Matt’s rough tweaking of your nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

Your jaw drops and Ben’s hand travels beneath your pyjama top, seeking out your other nipple and rubbing his spit-slick thumb across the hard bud. 

“Knew you’d want us again—”

Matt—good God, Matt—breathing into your ear, just as the youngest brother is about to latch his pink lips to one of the most sensitive parts of your body. You almost don’t want him to—with what Ben and Matt are doing, any more sensation will spike your pleasure so much you’ll gush.

“—didn’t think it’d be so soon—”

Matt’s voice rumbles like early thunder, low and threatening and just above a whisper. His breath is hot against your ear and neck, sending your temperature climbing.

“—dirty little pet.”

Ben sucks on your earlobe, waiting for Matt to finish, and when his brother does he murmurs, “You taste so good, babygirl. Fuck I missed you. Missed your gorgeous tits.” 

Together, Ben and Matt shuck your cotton shirt up over your chest, and tug down your lacey bralette to expose your bare breasts. They tease and tweak your stiff nipples in tandem while Randy presses kisses to the pads of your toes, but when he finally sucks on them the pleasure shoots straight up your leg like it’s resetting your centre of gravity.

You’re not proud of the sound that leaves you—a pathetic humming whine—but you don’t care. You’re seeping in a way you can do absolutely nothing about, and Kylo says, “Touch her. Test her pussy for me.”

Kylo’s brothers follow his orders. Ben loosens the silky ribbon tying your pyjama shorts and Matt’s hand darts inside quickly. You can’t even take a breath before Ben follows, pressing the soft pads of two fingers straight to your swollen clit. Matt coats his digits in your silky slip before sinking them into your pussy.

Deep. First try. No resistance.

You groan, and Kylo leans forward, forearms to thighs. “Is that good, little one?”

“Didn’t get this hole that night, did I?” Matt murmurs into your ear, before you can answer Kylo. “Just you fucking wait, bitch.”

“Yes,” you cry out, but to whom, you’ve next to no idea. 

“Yeah, baby,” comes Ben’s crooning voice into your other ear, “that’s it. You lemme know. You tell me when it feels good.”

All you know is their fingers toy with you and Randy’s soft lips and tongue send pleasure zinging around your body every time he sucks on your toes, so when Kylo says, “How is she?” like you’re not even there, you feel yourself drip.

“Wet,” Ben answers, stroking circles into your clit with two thick fingers. “So fucking wet.”

“Tight,” Matt follows quickly. His fingers push and pull, slick, making your pussy make noise. “Getting your fucking girlcum all over me,” Matt grumbles quietly, “fucking slut. You love this.”

Ben murmurs, “God babe, your clit’s getting so hard. Your little cherry’s gonna pop, babygirl.”

There’s a delirium that not so much settles over you but crash-lands, with two Solo boys whispering in your ear and working your pussy wetter and wetter. The part of your mind still capable of coherent thought knows you’ve made a mess of your cotton sleep shorts, and probably soaked through to the wooden barstool beneath your ass. But you’re splayed out, and all for Kylo, who directs his brothers like a general.

“Make sure there’s enough room for me,” is the latest order from high command, and your stomach flips. With all the licking and sucking and rubbing and searching for the end of your cunt, it’s too damn much.

“Sstop. Wai-wait—”

“‘S’wrong, baby?”

“I,” breathily, weightlessly, “I’m gonna cum, Ben.” As if it isn’t your fifth orgasm today. As if your man Ben didn’t already know it.

Ben chances a quick look at his elder brother, and when Kylo doesn’t dismiss it, but gives a subtle nod instead, Ben leans into your ear once more.

“Yes you are,” he whispers, so breathy and hushed it makes your mouth water, “go on, babygirl. Show me, ‘n’ show Daddy. I wanna watch you do it.”

Matt’s a quick study. “Fucking cum on my fingers, dirty fuckin’ whore. Wanna fucking feel it. Wanna know how this slut cunt is gonna squeeze my cock.”

“You look so goddamn good when you cum. I know you do—fucking gorgeous. Gimme another one, yeah baby? I’ve got you. Your Ben’s got you, babygirl.”

“Filthy cunt’s gonna fucking flood—”

“That’s it, baby—”

“Make a big fuckin’ mess—”

“Gimme one more, lemme hear you—”

You snap - damn near folding in half as you seize and stretch and shake. Your orgasm is powerful, shuddering through every cell in your body, flickering in every nerve, making you yell and cry out nonsense. Vaguely, you’re aware that the three of them hold you, and move with you as the blissful spasms move through your body. Their voices barely register—yes and fuck and just like that—until one looming shadow appears.

You blink to refocus your eyes as awareness seeps back into your warm and weightless limbs. Of course it can only be Kylo, the big broad mass of him blocking the light overhead.

The three brothers start releasing their holds on you as Kylo, with his eyes on you, asks them, “She ready for me now?”

Ben rolls his eyes. “Yes, boss,” he replies snarkily, before he says, “But I’m sure our girl could tell you that for herself,” and sneaks a cheeky wink at you.

“She will,” Kylo says flatly, sidling up to your spread legs in the spot previously guarded by Randy. “Now get out.”

“What.” Matt’s gaze is hard. You can tell something else, pressing just into your side, is even harder.

Kylo’s already shucking your soiled sleep shorts down your legs. 

“You got her ready, like I asked. Now, you can fuck off.”

“Hey,” Ben cuts in, brow creased. You clock him glancing Matt’s way, and you bet it’s because he didn’t like how Kylo talked to the blond Solo. But you’re almost fully naked now, with your breasts hanging out of your bra and your bottoms who knows where, and Kylo can’t take his eyes off your glistening sex.

“I don’t care where you go or what you do, but it’s not happening here.”

“Fucking dick.” Matt’s the first to storm off. You don’t see where he goes, and the sound of his usual two-at-a-time loping up the staircase is conspicuously absent until you hear the powder room door swing open and slam shut. 

“Daddy,” you start, but Kylo merely loosens the drawstring on his baggy black track shorts and mutters, “Soon, beautiful.”

Randy lays a hand on Ben’s shoulder, to which Ben replies, without looking, “I know, big guy. I’m going.”

The youngest brother takes one last longing, bashful look at you before he leaves the room. Ben had been locked in a one-sided staring contest with Kylo while the eldest Solo’s attention was elsewhere. 

“No bullshit, huh?” Ben says, arms wide. “This is no bullshit? No games?”

“Better luck next time, little brother,” Kylo says cockily. He’s hauling himself out of his shorts and trunks, slipping the elastic waistbands down far enough to prise his heavy dick free. You do wish he was better to his brothers, but your turncoat body thrills at the first glimpse of his thick, flushed cock.

Ben looks between you and his brother, his perfect lips scrunching up as he sighs through his nose. “Fuck you, man,” he points a finger at Kylo, then at you, “you better fucking do her right.” 

You’re surprised to find Kylo’s listening at all, with the way he’s running the underside of his dick through your slippery, puffy lips. He looks at his younger brother, his forever rival, and deadpans, “Or what?”

You’re trying not to let loose a pathetic whimpering sigh, because that would definitely hurt Ben’s case and help Kylo’s, but the head of his fat swollen prick glides over your tingling clit and you just can’t stop it. It slips right past your guilty lips and floats up to the high ceiling.

Kylo cocks a brow at Ben, letting your sound linger on the air for an almost uncomfortable stretch. 

“...Little one?” he finally coos, holding his brother’s gaze.

You glance between them. Ben presses his lips between his teeth and he breathes hard, heavy breaths. “Don’t do this to her,” he murmurs at Kylo, searching his brother’s smug eyes.

“Tell me, beautiful,” Kylo says, and then, he doesn’t even need to look at you for this. You feel him, guiding his cock down your slit to the place where you’ve welcomed him all damn day. He presses the round head of his heavy cock to your pussy, and damn it, your body yields for him. 

Because of course it does. He feels fucking good, and has done, all day long.

That’s when Kylo finishes his question, because he knows you’re about to seal your fate any second now. “Are you ready for Daddy to ‘do you right’?”

To save yourself from making another incriminating sound, you don’t answer straight away, but because of this (and unfortunately for you), both Solo boys turn to look you square in the face.

Heat flushes you, your eager pussy seizing on just the tip of Kylo’s barely-nestled dick, but you manage words with only a slight quiver in your voice.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Kylo instantly looks at his brother. “See? ‘Yes, Daddy’.” He looks back to where your bodies are just joined, your pussy lips just beginning to bloom around the flared head of his cock. He says off-handedly, “Goodbye, Ben.”

It takes Ben Solo a long time to look away from your face. He’s stuck there, seems like. He could be ogling your body, committing the curves and colours to memory, but he’s looking into your eyes like his whole word is in them.

Then, Ben blinks away the wistfulness and in its place is his trademark glint, devastatingly charming.

“How’s about I make you some videos, babe?” he says, with another panty-dropping wink, and when you smile at him he turns on his heel and strides away.

Your gaze follows Ben, but before you can see where he goes, Kylo takes your chin in his fingers and turns your head to face himself again. His thumb trails down your throat, to the collar around your neck that bears his name.

He says, “Daddy’s gonna fuck his little girl now,” and swiftly thrusts the rest of his dick into your slick pussy until he bottoms out.

“Fuck!” you cry out, and something clatters in some other room of the house—you don’t even know where before Kylo grips your ass and tugs you closer by your cheeks.

You slink down the barstool a little as Kylo hoists your ankles to his shoulders, and the size of him like this is eye-watering.

“Shit,” Kylo mutters, then louder he says, “this little pussy always fits Daddy’s dick.”

“Yes, Daddy,” you moan—at this angle, your every breath amplifies the fat stretch of his cock, like he’s pressing into your lungs.

Kylo draws back before filling you again, building to a rhythm of rolling his hips into yours. When your mouth falls open, Kylo huffs out, “Did you like that, little one? When they touched you?”

You almost can’t think back to ten minutes ago, not without your pussy slicking Kylo’s plunging dick with more syrupy slip. 

“Yes, Daddy.”

After all the times and ways this man has fucked you today, any reasonable person would think their body has had enough. But it’s impossible not to notice the broad expanse of his shoulders as he towers over you. How strong he looks—and is—and how his smooth, pale skin almost glows. 

He’s big, he fucks like a goddamn sex machine, and he’s got those mocha-brown Solo eyes.

You’re nothing but a moth to a flame.

“What did you like?” Kylo says hoarsely. “Tell Daddy.”

You know he’s holding back. When he had you on his desk he had it shunting into the wall, had you wailing in no time. This was deliberate, purposeful. Deep, unhurried thrusts to keep you teetering on just this side of agony, but with enough to make your pussy leak onto the barstool.

Maybe this was more like a performance. Maybe you had an audience.

“I liked,” you gulp, curling your hands around the seat, “when you told them what to do and they. They did it.”

Kylo hums. He’s burying his cock deep with every leisurely thrust. “What else?”

Moments from earlier flash in your mind’s eye like thumbnails for porn clips, especially Kylo sitting across from you, directing traffic, tenting his baggy track shorts.

Your attempt at words is a poor one, a stammering mess. “When you. When you watched—”

“Good girl likes it when Daddy watches.” Kylo ends with a sigh, and your belly swoops when he teases one of your nipples and clamps his other hand to your hip.

“Yes,” you squeak, and your hands fly up to clutch at his forearms.

“You like,” a satisfied grunt, like he likes your touch there, “putting on a show for Daddy.” He picks up a little pace.

“Yes, Daddy.” You brace tight, palms sweating, clinging to Kylo like he’s your lifeboat. His rolling, languid thrusts turn spearing—straight as an arrow and forceful, making you bleat and moan, making your toes curl against his ribbed blank tank.

“Well,” a pause, a huff, “I think they’re listening, little one. Do you want to,” a puff, sighing, “put on a show for them?”

You remember when Matt stormed off to the bathroom. Well, he hadn’t come out yet, had he? And did you actually hear Randy and Ben head up the stairs for certain, or did you just assume they had?

“I…” It hits you then, as hard as Kylo’s piercing thrusts. You do have an audience, and they’ve probably heard every word. For a split second it strikes you as odd that Kylo would keep you (happily) cooped up in his room all day only to put on a public sex show now. That is, until you remember that ‘ego’ is Kylo’s middle name. So you agree—Yes, Daddy—and Kylo says:

“Tell them who fucks you.”

You insides swoop again, and you know Kylo felt your pussy fluttering around his spearing cock because he heaves a hard breath, like he’s just been punched in the gut.

“You fuck me, Daddy.”

It’s at this moment that Kylo decides to press his thumb to your clit, sweeping up over your bud as the rest of his fingers splay out over your bouncing tummy.

“Does Daddy fuck you good, little girl?”

“Yes, Daddy—” you damn near hiccup, “you ffuck me so good.” Your hands return to the barstool, curling around the wooden seat for any kind of anchor. 

Kylo has manhandled your body into this and that position all day, but the way you’re contorted now is something else. Folded in on yourself with your heels to his shoulders, if Kylo’s dick prodded any further inside you, you reckon you could taste him.

“Does Daddy own you, little one?”

A loud groan leaves your throat, because fuck, you don’t know what’s hotter: what he’s saying, that his brothers are listening, or that he’s saying what he’s saying because his brothers are listening.

And you know the answer Kylo wants to hear, because that’s the game, and hell (you let yourself dive headlong into the fantasy) maybe some of his brothers want to hear these words from your mouth, too. 

Then again, maybe some of them want to show him up, when they get the chance.

You hiss a curse, because it’s too much to think of all this while Kylo pounds you relentlessly, thumbs your clit and makes you tell him he’s God’s gift to women.

It’s too much, and it feels too damn good.

“Yes,” you moan, stammering, “you own me, Daddy.”

“Just me?” Kylo grunts.

“Just you, Daddy.”

Your temperature’s through the roof, you know you’re sweating and your slick is seeping out around Kylo’s plunging dick, you’re *this* close to shattering into a million pieces, but you can’t help wondering one thing.

For the other boys listening, participating in this private peepshow, would that have gotten them off? The picture of the three of them, alone in their rooms or just on the side of the wall, reaching their peaks with their dicks in their hands is tantalising enough to set you on fire.

And maybe it would work for some. But if it didn’t, what would?

You furrow your brow, “Oh,” and bite your lip, “Daddy!” and you let loose a string of insensate, half-moaned filth. You tell him how he fucks you so good, how his dick is so big, that he gets your pussy so wet and he makes you cum so hard you could cry. You tell him that you’re his, that your pussy is his, all for him, always.

Kylo groans; your bodies start to slap and smack together as he pounds you harder, sparking the start of your orgasm. 

“All for Daddy, little one?”

“Fuck. Yes. Daddy!” You say it with his thrusts, and make your voice extra-whiny like he likes.

Kylo’s thumb flies over your clit. “Daddy’s big dick is all for you.”

Shit. That ledge is so much closer now. It won’t be long before—

“Cum on it.”

You wail, coming apart, and Kylo dumps yet another load into your squeezing cunt, groaning and shuddering for the whole house to hear.

xxxx

You’re helping Ben and Randy tidy up after a late, light dinner, even though Randy keeps taking everything out of your hands so you don’t actually have to lift a finger. Matt bounded up the stairs after the awkward meal (you haven’t heard anything but the distant thudding and squealing of metal music since) and Kylo left ‘to get a few reps in’.

Ben slings a tea towel over his shoulder and comes up beside you. He rests his hands on the countertop and his pinky almost—almost—touches yours, as close as he dares, and you look up at him.

The second eldest Solo says, “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, babe?”

You put your phone all the way down and swivel to face him. “Tell you what?”

“If there was a problem.” Ben doesn’t hesitate to answer you. This must’ve been playing on his mind.

You sense Randy’s gaze on you as well. You know the youngest Solo doesn’t like to get in the way of his brothers, but he still bristles whenever he gets the smallest notion that something might be wrong.

You gaze up at Ben. “If there’s a problem, I’ll take it up with whoever started it.”

Ben searches your eyes.

“I’ll handle it, Ben.”

Ben nods once, a slight quirk to his lips. “Attagirl.”

Kylo appears in the opening by the stairs and calls you up to his room, hand outstretched. So naturally, you slide off the bench, saying, “‘Night, boys.” - but it’s a little too obedient for some.

As you walk over to Kylo, Ben sighs and sing-songs loudly, “Ahh, duty calls.”

You stop, slinging Ben a warning look over your shoulder. 

You were right to. When you turn back to Kylo there’s an intenseness in his gaze, and the two older boys lock eyes until you clear your throat and say, “Daddy. I’m coming up, I’ll be right there. I just have to, uhm,” you gesture roughly in the direction of the powder room, “pee.”

Kylo’s gaze slides to yours. There’s a barely perceptible twitch under one eye.

You nod at him. “I’ll be two seconds.” You take a couple steps towards the small bathroom to help your case. “Promise.”

Kylo hums, nods, and turns to head up the stairs. You wait a second, listening for his footfalls on the treads to make sure he’s going, and when he is, you catch Ben’s eye and gesture urgently towards the powder room with a point of your finger and tilt of your head.

Ben follows you, because of course he does, throwing the tea towel to the bench and carding his fingers through his hair to brush it back from his face.

Once you get to the small hallway you round on him, whispering his name. “Stop it.”

“Yes ma’am,” he whispers back, eyes glinting. “You wanna?” He jerks his thumb towards the powder room.

Your eyes widen but you can’t help the smile that plays at the corners of your mouth. You know Ben sees it, because he returns serve with the most dazzling, toothsome grin that you swear a bright sparkly ding flashes on his left canine, like in cartoons. 

“You know I can’t do that,” you breathe, “now would you stop?” 

“Hold on. Just let me…make sure I’ve got this, babe,” Ben leans in even closer, as if he’s your co-conspirator in some secret plot, “You said, I can’t. Not, I don’t want to. Right?” He gazes into your eyes for a long moment, and all of a sudden it’s far too hot, far too jungle-like in this tiny hallway for all this closeness and whispering. God above, you can count his damn eyelashes.

Ben murmurs, “...I can do it quick for you, babygirl.”

You stop. For one magical, mystical moment, it’s too tempting. The heat in his eyes draws you in, reeling you like a fish on a line.

“I’ll get it done. Promise, babe. Scout’s honour,” he holds up three fingers, winks, “remember?”

“Oh, hush, Ben.” You press playfully at the centre of his chest, pushing him back.

He rocks back as you half-heartedly shove at him, but comes right back into your space again. “You just need’a keep quiet—that’s your end of the deal.”

The little thrill you get at Ben’s proposal tells you it’s definitely something to keep in the back pocket. But for now, you’re needed elsewhere, and time’s ticking.

“I’m going. Now. Okay, Ben?” You try be chastising but there’s no use against that gleaming Ben Solo gaze. 

“You sure?” he whispers.

You smile, rolling your eyes. “Yes!” You breeze past him, but Ben grabs your wrist before you make it too far.

“Hey.”

“What?” you whisper urgently, your arms outstretched between you.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?”

This draws you up short, and not just because of the earnestness that creases Ben’s casual expression, with his head tilted back a couple degrees like he’s contemplating an art piece. It’s because not a single one of them has asked you this question, especially Kylo. Seems all Kylo wants to do is fuck you into oblivion and ruin you for his brothers—a plan as transparent as the day is long.

Not that you’re complaining.

“Tomorrow?” you whisper back, shrugging. “I don’t know.”

Ben nods. “I’ll message you.” He releases your wrist. “Tell Daddy I said hi.”

xxxx 

You wake the next morning to a text from Ben, and you can’t deny the flutter in your belly at seeing his name on your phone and realising it’s his day.

Ben’s day.

There’s a picture of course, a half-naked selfie of Ben in navy blue running shorts. His grey sleeveless shirt is between his teeth but what his hand is doing makes your mouth water. He holds the phone up to the mirror, but his other hand pulls at one side of the waistband, just enough to see his happy trail become a little bit denser and the faint ‘v’ cut that his abs make with his hip.

The texts read:

It’s not that he doesn’t… like them, they’re just not quite what he expects. They’re so extreme, so left field that in a way, he feels as if you’re mocking him, making fun of him.

He doesn’t like that feeling.

But what he hates even more, is when you pause on giving him disgustingly sweet pet names. This, makes him feel like you no longer care, no longer wanting to take the time to come up with the gushy names that keep him in a shy state.

And you haven’t given him one in days.

He hasn’t been able to sleep. Nothing major, nightmares plaguing the dreams he thinks should be pleasant, 

“Shhh,” you soothe. “Stay asleep. I’ve got you.”

He merely nods and lets his head bury back into the pillows, your lips press against his temple before he lets his breathing even out once again.

As if your kiss soothed the monsters that dance, he’s able to sleep a few more hours, waking up disgustingly late and pouting to find your side of the bed cold.

He’s not proud of the pout okay, you’re just really good at scratching the affectionate itch that digs his brain. all he wants is his ‘pooky bear’ to cuddle their little ‘chickadee’ and let him fall back asleep in their arms.

He’s sure those names aren’t far in your arsenal of names.

When he finally does come to search you out, he’s not completely surprised to see you, stretched out on the couch and in a state of relaxation he finds envy in.

“What’re you watching?” He asks, shuffling into the living room. You smile up at him and say nothing, but instead pat your lap as an invitation for him to come and curl against you.

With a nod, he does just that, letting himself lay down on the couch with you, his head nestled in your thighs. Your fingers instantly start their magic on carding his loose hair, and his eyes slack slightly at the tingly feeling.

“Feel better?” You ask, and he hums contently. “I told you more sleep would help. You just never listen to me.”

He says nothing, merely letting his fingers gently trace the lines on your kneecap.

There’s a whirl of silence in the room, and he feels his eyes grow tired from your loving touch, the post warmth of his shower, and the cat that’s curled on his feet, keeping them warm under her rhythmic breathing.

“My handsome man,” you mumble, bending down to plant a kiss at his temple. his eyes widen as he cranes his head up to look at you, curved in surprise and a glimmer of love in his dark pools. “So pretty it hurts… my handsome, pretty man.”

That. That, he could get used to.

He smiles dopily and turns his head to nuzzle into your thigh, trying to hide the heating of his cheeks from you and your potential teasing by keeping his face buried.

But you don’t pick on him. Instead, you click your tongue adoringly and press another kiss to his temple. He feels your nose taking deep breaths of his scent, and your thumb strokes his cheek lovingly.

“Shut up”, Suguru says happily, as an acceptance, letting his sleepy eyes close and allowing your affections to swallow him whole.

Yes, he thinks to himself. It’s the fluttery feeling everyone talks about. The air filling his lungs and his head skipping beats just by the tone of which you call him handsome.

You call him your man.

Maybe pet names don’t always have to be sticky and sweet; but it just makes the most meaningful ones penetrate his heart that much more.

He was resentful because he could've had so much more. He'd sometimes dream about having the largest dragon alive, both of his eyes, and an Iron Throne to claim for himself. But reality would strike him once again and he would bury all of his anger, frustration, and envy deep in his heart and present only his well build facet to others. Aemond felt so at fault he turned into a perfectionist. He needed to be the perfect pupil, the perfect warrior, the perfect son, brother, and one day, husband and father. To be respected, and to be feared. But no matter how much he succeed in his duties, he was never satisfied. Aemond's pride was wounded and he craved validation, even if he didn't admit it.

So yes, Aemond absolutely loved your attention.

When you first arrived at the Red Keep, your father a new member of the small council, Aemond believed your constant stare was due to your fear and disgust towards him, just as the other ladies. However, as moons went by, Aemond noticed there was something slightly different in your eyes, curiosity, perhaps? He felt your gaze on him constantly and decided to ignore it. But it certainly made him unease, such sudden interest. You even attended his training on certain afternoons, and he knew you couldn't mean anything good, which irritated him as well.

You, on the contrary, were enchanted with the prince the second you laid eyes on him. While reading a romance book, you believed that a person couldn't knock another's air out of their lungs upon a mere sight, but that's what happened. The air around you became thick and a soft gasp escaped your lips. He was the most handsome man you have ever encountered. You tried to pick on things you didn't like about him, and you found none. His tall and slim body, the typical leather attire, soft-looking silver hair, mesmerizing violet eye, and a, in your opinion, charming eyepatch. His face, you could have never imagined it in your head, unusual characteristics one would never think could end up looking so good when paired together. He was sharp but pretty, unique. Reminding you of a sculpture, to be appreciated, but better avoid touching it to not deteriorate the work.

Once knowing you would move to the Red Keep, Aemond was undoubtedly the royal you were most keen to meet in person. The mighty rider of Vhagar, such a legendary dragon. When you heard the story about the night he claimed her, you were standing on tiptoes. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon, he supposedly said. Only a child, you admired the boy, and that admiration didn't go away as more gossip about the one-eyed would reach your ears throughout the years, how he'd become a highly educated man and one of the finest warriors in all of Westeros, how he was collected and intimidating. Your expectations were high already, and he managed to surpass them. Even when Aemond demonstrated little interest in you or your acquaintance, you could not help but drool over him. His looks, his attitude, his voice. So delightful.

It was Helaena's name day and Queen Alicent decided to throw a banquet in celebration. The great hall was loud due to conversations and the music, not many lords had been invited, to not overwhelm Princess Helaena, who preferred calmer ambiances, nonetheless, the castle was a lot more full than usual. You poured more wine to yourself, stomach already full, half engaged in the conversation with other ladies, half watching Aemond, further on the table, across his brother. Lost in your trance, you didn't connect the voices to names, but you listened to them.

"I must confess I find Prince Aegon dashingly handsome. Princess Helaena's a lucky woman."

Giggles.

"Indeed, a shame he lacks morals."

"He's truly attractive, the whores and servants that earn his attention have nothing to complain about."

"Do you think if Prince Aemond still had his other eye, he could compare?"

"Not at all, he's simply strange looking."

You scoffed. "He's very handsome. Aegon is the one who could never compare to him, even lacking an eye."

One of the ladies smirked. "You are the only one who favors Aemond, I wonder why?"

"Perhaps I just have a better taste."

There was a sound of disapproval among the inner circle you found yourself in, and you sighed, drinking more of your wine.

"There's just something about him, a fire, an unpredictability. He looks calm, yet he seems as if he could explode at any moment, doesn't he?" You pondered, looking at him again. "Seven, he rides the largest dragon alive, is that not alluring enough?"

"Careful what you say out loud, dear Y/N, if the Septa finds out where your thoughts are wandering, she will not be pleased." Lady Vivien teased and the others burst out laughing. You rolled your eyes.

Aemond was bored out of his mind, but he forced himself to stay for his sister. He watched the feast impassive, speaking only when needed and fidgeting with his cup of wine. When Helaena left to gather with a group of young ladies, where you stood, and his mom seemed too engrossed in conversation with her friends, the young prince contemplated leaving, certain his presence was no longer a necessity. That was when Aegon opened his mouth.

"Do you think it makes her look stupid? Because I do," He drank from his cup. "But stupidly sensual."

"What do you speak of?" Aemond's tone was both tedious and exasperated.

"Lady Y/N, obviously, longingly staring at you," Aegon scoffed. "If she looked at me with those eyes, I tell you, brother, there wouldn't be much left of her afterward. Basically begging you to fuck her senseless."

Aemond would never say it out loud, but his heart skipped a beat at his brother's words. A thought that never once crossed his mind, because, surely, that couldn't be possible, not someone like you. But it made sense, yes. What he could never quite read in your eyes... was it lust? Pride filled his chest with the idea, the knowledge that you may desire him.

For the first time, when he felt your eyes on him, he locked his one with yours, watching you intently, now with the same interested gaze you held, confidently analyzing your face and reaction. When your lips turned into a shy yet flirtatious smile, only to shamefully avert your eyes right after, playing with your hair and pretending to focus on the conversation around you, he knew it. Your actions were not uncommon to him, he had seen them many times but directed at Aegon, and even his younger brother, Daeron, but never him. Gods, was it pleasant. He couldn't fight the smirk off his face as he sipped on his wine, an ego boost much needed.

You have noticed the shift in Aemond's behavior towards you after that night, it was impossible not to. How he started to return your stares and smirks, and acknowledge your presence with words rather than a nod, sometimes even engaging in small conversations, asking about you and your interests. Each interaction lets you with a foolish smile and a racing heart.

Managing to convince Helaena to ditch the Septa's lessons for one afternoon, you found yourself in the Dragonpit since the princess decided she desired to fly. Although there hadn't much to do whilst you waited for her return, you didn't mind in the slightest. The structure, so big and magnificent, had always amazed you, the dragon's power distinguishable in the air. And for that, you were more than thrilled to visit Rhaeny's Hill every time someone suggested it. After chatting a bit with Helaena's sworn knight, you started wandering around, lost in thought.

Your body trembled upon hearing the most loud and rasping squeak, followed by harsh flaps of wings, and your head quipped up. You already knew who it was, no other dragon compares to her. And if carefully inspected, one could easily understand each dragon's personality and mannerisms. You rushed outside, although still hiding behind one of the huge pillars at the entrance of the Dragonpit.

Vhagar landed on the ground with a loud thud, and it was as if the sand was shaking beneath your feet. You gawked at the creature. You had already seen her, but never this close. Although stunning, Vhagar also seemed unnatural, her colossal form not settling right in the ambiance. No living or dead being should be this big. You gulped nervously, she was otherworldly, for sure.

You listened to Aemond talking with a few dragon keepers in High Valyrian, you had studied the language for a while, but you were not fluent, especially when spoken so fast. With difficulty, you managed to understand that the prince had asked for food. Aemond petted Vhagar whilst a few workers scattered away, surprisingly, they came back not much long after, guiding two living cows and a sheep.

You were fascinated and horrified as you watched Vhagar burn one of the cows, feasting in its carbonized meat and bones. You tore your gaze from what was left of the poor animal, instead focusing on Vhagar's appearance, memorizing it, her bronze scales and big green eyes, ridiculously sharp and deadly teeth, and visible scars of ancient battles all over her body. You couldn't help but recall all of the tales, so entertained by the beast, you didn't even notice the presence of the young prince behind you.

"I must admit my utter surprise, Lady Y/N. I was not expecting such a lovely presence in here." The voice startled you and a gasp escaped your lips as your body turned around.

"Prince Aemond," You said curtsying slightly, the head also lowered in embarrassment with the flattery, and you tried to fight the satisfied smile that threatened to break in the corner of your lips. "It seems your sister also found it fit to fly this afternoon. I came as a companion."

Aemond hummed, making butterflies arise in your stomach. "The weather is nice."

"Indeed." Your body turned to Vhagar again as the she-dragon now incinerated the sheep, a burning smell invading your nostrils once more.

"You like her." It was a statement, not a question.

"She is legendary, my Prince."

"That she is."

"Isn't it hard to believe she is one of the dragons that conquered Westeros all those years ago? And still stands before us? A living piece of history itself." You rambled, watching how they brought the other cow forward. "Ancient, powerful, magic. A fragment of the Old Valyria."

Aemond stood even taller, as if it was possible, filled with pride of his dragon, a smirk plastered on his face.

"She has seen so much, more than half of the people she has known is dead for quite some time now," You continued. "Have you heard about how the wild dragon Cannibal might be even older than Vhagar? It is absurd. Amazing creatures." Your gaze returned to Aemond.

He was already looking at you, listening to your words attentively, amusement clear behind his eye.

"Well, seeing as you admire her that much, I might take you for a ride," Aemond said. "Then, you will be able to see her full glory."

You chuckled wryly, looking back at Vhagar very briefly, before laying your full attention on the prince. "I suppose there are more shameful ways of dying than falling off a dragon." You jested.

"I would not let you fall," He paused, eye surveying your body up and down. "I'd hold onto you tight." You didn't miss the flirtatious tone.

You smirked, heart pounding loudly and feeling all hot. You stared at him, absolutely entranced by his handsome face, before entering his game.

"I don't know what would be more pleasant," You took a step closer to him, whispering in seduction. "Riding the mightiest dragon alive or being pressed against you."

Your stomach tingled as Aemond's eye darkened with lust. It was something you have noticed upon admiring him for so long, that, although his body and face remained often stoic, his eye didn't really lack emotion, and through it, you should be able to read his mood.

"It would pain me not to clear your doubts, pet." His hand brushed a strand of your hair and tucked it behind your ear, making the distance between you even smaller, and your breath hitched.

"We wouldn't want that." You whispered, stepping back, only to feel the coolness of the pillar, Aemond followed you like a predator, your chests pressed.

"No, we wouldn't." His long index finger caressed your jaw, the feather-like touch making you flutter your eyes shut as the hair in the nape of your neck stirred up. "So beautiful." He whispered, now cupping your cheeks in both hands and bringing your face closer to his.

You knew you should pull away, that you were in a public space, that although hidden behind the pillar, and not seen from the front, anyone that decided to enter or leave the building, could catch you in the most inappropriate way possible with the prince. You'd be forever ruined in court and your chances of a good marriage would disappear, your parents would rightfully so doom you, because how does one even explain this situation? But you couldn't.

All you could possibly think about was Aemond, the warmth of his body, and how good it felt, his breathe mingling with yours, the texture of the leather beneath your fingers as you held his waist, his smell, of dragon, but something else as well, more citric and fresh you could only guess as his bathing oils, and the absolute desire in his eye. No, you couldn't pull away and you wouldn't. You would risk everything to have the littlest taste of him. Aemond smirked, nose brushing yours, and then, he kissed you.

Aemond kissed you, and you could swear you floated, all of your other senses went numb, and you could only feel his warm and soft lips on yours. You sighed in contentment, and you moved your lips against his tentatively, a hot and pleasant sensation taking over your lower belly. You gladly let him deepen the kiss, and not even if you tried you could have prevented your soft moan from slipping out of you. You met him at his pace, not slow or fast, just right, the two of you getting to know and exploring the other. Growing confident, one of your hands moved to his strong jaw, stroking it gently as you had only dreamed of, Aemond groaned in pleasure, tightening his grip on you. And you continued to kiss him, eager and tenderly, somewhere in your mind, fearing that you were showing him how much you appreciated him, how much you wished for this, longed for this, longed for him.

Aemond noticed, of course he did, and it made him feel so good. You needed him, and Aemond enjoyed being needed. His hands slide down your body, caressing and squeezing your ass as he swallows down your moan with his lips fervently devouring your own, his hands traveled through your hips and waist, going to the swell of your breasts and gripping on it, your surprised whimper making his cock throb. Aemond's lips moved to your jaw and exposed neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses and slight biting. You pulled at his hair, bringing his face to yours again, and he could only stare at you.

Because there, panting and with swollen lips, after letting him kiss and palm you in such a dangerous place, looking at him with a look that Aemond could only identify as pure adoration, he knew he'd got you in the palm of his hands, at his complete mercy, a sheep in a dragon's claw, and that you were his. He smiled wickedly, mine, he thinks, heart swelling in pride. He locks your lips with his again, but in a peck. You were blissful.

"Come," He takes your hand, subtly leading you inside, towards one of the many uninhabited tunnels.

Defeated and tired from yet another day of preparing exams and planning class trips, he drags himself up from his old armchair to grab the lukewarm cup of coffee from the machine. His eyes, barely opened, are dull with exhaustion when he takes a careless glance at the old alarm clock, counting away minute after minute in what feels like mere seconds. 04:34 am, it says, on a chilly Friday morning.

Normally, he tries to keep his Fridays as free from work as possible. Two days off in a week of seven is just nowhere near enough. You spend one of them recovering from plodding around non-stop and the other preparing for the repetition. What a stupid custom, really. If he had the power to change it somehow, he would. But he doesn’t, so instead, he makes time for just half a day more. As much as his schedule allows him to, at least. And he makes it clear to everyone that if they have business with him on a Friday, they better be quick about it. Because after his early morning class, he’s gone.

Though today is a bit different from that.

Taking a sip from his cup, Aizawa leans against the wooden cabinet and takes a look out the window. In about twelve hours he’s going to pick you up from that train station down there, right where the bakery’s old ventilation engines drone peacefully, greeting occasional passersby, without rest.

Sigh.

He’s too old for this. Waiting like a small puppy, impatient and fidgety, for someone to finally arrive. To ease that demand for attention. Yet it seems he can’t quite fight that feeling because you’re not just anyone.

You’re his little secret. His new-found spark of hope that love hasn’t completely desert his heart yet, and he wants to trust it this time.

On that train a few months ago, when you had the courage to ask him for directions, he was sure you would fade into the obscurity of his mind just like the rest of the passengers. Ever since he became a teacher, he couldn’t allow himself to waste his capacities on trivial things anymore. Like memorizing someone’s face, let alone their name. But then you thanked him so kindly, so genuinely and with such authentic relief that he couldn’t help but wonder whether there was even the slightest chance he would get to meet you again someday. So that he could help you out once more, like on that day. Just to hear you speak such honest words again, like a breath of fresh air, causing all of his daily stress and concerns to fade away for just a bit.

Aizawa chuckles lowly, the corners of his mouth raising into a gentle, tired smile. He can feel his breathing increase a little at the thought of how he found you two days after that train ride. In front of a grocery store by the station, crouching down to collect a bunch of oranges that had fallen from an elderly woman’s grip. Your cheeks were flushed pink from the glowing sun rays as you waved her goodbye. And you still wore that beautiful smile when you turned around, ready to go home.

But then your eyes spotted a familiar silhouette standing on the other side of the street. It took a moment for you to realize, yet when it hit you, the last thing you could hear was the sharp breath you drew before the thumps of your heartbeat drowned out your entire surroundings.

Slowly, your feet carried you towards him, parted lips turning upwards as the distance between you dwindled.

“It’s you!”

It’s you.

Truly, it felt like fate.

To him, your presence is like a blessing, one that wants to be cherished with care – and he’s willing to try again. He’s far from perfect, he knows that – and by now, you do too – but with the way you admire him every time you meet, with the way you bring his flaws to his attention so respectfully, it seems he has found a reason to hope.  

Today, on a rainy day at the end of September, he’s going to keep his promise and take you into his home for the first time. It’s ridiculous how the mere fact that he’ll be able to have you so close without anyone to see won’t let him sleep tonight. If it wasn’t for you, he might seriously fall asleep again during class – when everyone’s busy solving overly complex questions.

Another sigh escapes his lips as Aizawa turns his gaze over to his bedside table, a prickling sensation spreading in his stomach as he remembers how he made sure it wasn’t empty.

Again, he’s too old to be worrying so much, but you’re special to him. He wants to treat you right, so he lets you make all the decisions today. However you want to spend the night together, he doesn’t care as long as you’re alone and comfortable within the confines of his apartment.

Little does he know how you’re already tossing and turning in your bed right now, thinking of him in similar ways.

Your heart is beating with such force you wonder whether it might knock you out any second. No matter how hard you try to calm yourself down, the fuzzy feeling in your lower belly just won’t come to rest. You feel ashamed somehow, having these thoughts about a man you haven’t even kissed yet.

It's already 04:59 am, the rain has started pattering against your window as well, and you’re caught in that drowsy state between sleep and waking. A very abstruse and confusing state in which you find yourself struggling to tell apart reality from imagination.

Though one thing is certain: the man who has you feeling this excited and nervous in the middle of the night is undeniably real, and there are only 11 hours left until you’ll be able to make sure of that one more time – and afterwards, forever.

Closing his eye briefly, Silco let's out a small sigh as your quiet steps padded over to his desk. "Did I wake you?" He asked quietly, and you snorted. "No, but it was a bit suspicious that Jinx hadn't set something off. I think my body is naturally primed to wake up at random points in the night, if only to put out the fire quick enough."

Despite himself, Silco felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I think I share the same condition. Though I got to her before you could wake." "Hm, thanks," Walking over to the desk, you placed your palm on it as you leaned slightly, blinking down at the sight of this man, hard at work, in the dead of night. "But it's late. Maybe we should both think about returning to bed."

"I agree. I believe I'll follow you back, shortly."

It was an amicable reply, but you saw right through it.

"Silco, come back to bed." A small frown, unfortunately more commonplace on the Eye of Zaun's face, appeared. "And I will, once I've completed this report... Topside is practically mocking us with their success, you know," He added underbreath, voice dipping into a growl. "Honestly, so dullminded and yet constantly leaving us squandering-"

The hand slipped over, and covered his own, stilling the pen that was starting to dig just a bit too much into the paper.

"Silco," You said again, simply, and ran your fingers along his arm as you stepped around the desk. Unwillingly, but unable to do anything else, Silco's eyes trailed from the report to watch your fingers slip slowly over his knuckles. Hand, wrist, then tickling the skin lightly on his arm to rise goosebumps on his pale skin, eerily made aglow by the outdoor lights of the Undercity, beyond a green window.

Palm slipped over his shoulder, and he turned his face in time to watch you step over close on his side of the desk. Knuckles reaching up, brushing the jawline as he raised his chin up to gaze up at you.

Your brows furrowed, you were offering him a small, but encouraging smile with your tired but caring eyes.

"Silco, come back to bed." Glancing over at the report, you added in a pitying stage-whisper. "I don't think Piltover and their airship docks will disappear overnight." A small sigh, "No... no, that would be too much to hope for." Sigh melted into a hum as your fingers unfurled, cupping slightly at his cheek.

Seagreen and bloodied-black depths raised up to meet yours, and only you were privy to the sight of the normal iron in his eyes melting into stone, and then softening into something more human. And tired. This man was so tired, but you didn't rub it in too much, except with a small smile and a little whisper, "Come back to bed, and I'll let you be the big spoon."

The kingpin rolled his eyes immediately, reaching up to cover your hand with his own palm on his cheek. "I don't think we've changed sleeping positions in all our time together, darling." "Well, if you insist on being the little spoon..."

"No." The firm dismissal was undercut by the exasperated look in his eye, even as he turned slightly to kiss the side of the hand held to his face. "No, I rather like having you in my arms. I don't think I'd want you to leave them, even for a night." Butterflies, still impossibly after all this time, fluttered in your stomach as the man gazed up at you through a half-lidded gaze.

"And I don't think," You managed slow and quietly, " that I want you to leave me all alone in that bed tonight."

It was asking without actually putting a question-mark at the end. And, paperwork forgotten, Silco responded in kind, by curling his fingers to interlock with yours as he stood, from his desk, and indeed, returned to bed with you.

In the end, you both got what you wanted.

Asshole.

He asked it like it was an accusation, and it made you scowl with your sharp, pain-fueled retort.

"Bad punch, then a bad fall, where's the doctor?" You didn't care if it sounded short, just like you didn't care how his question sounded sharp too, his eyes zeroing in on your injury. Forgetting about the goon relaying the mission, the slim man narrowed his remaining eye until you tucked the crooked, dislocated-jointed fingers closer to your chest.

"...Out," Silco paused, pressing his lips tightly. You thumped your head back slightly on the wall with a strained chuckle. Of course he was. "Why didn't any of you reset them?" Another accusation, but at least it shared between you and all the others.

"Funny thing, you didn't exactly hire us all as medics," You snapped, ignoring Ran's prodding-elbow to watch the tone. Silco's rebuke never came, instead, he tilted his head to the side in a single half-nod, and without further instruction, the rest of the team disbanded and dispersed throughout the warehouse. Even though you wanted nothing more than to join them, you thunked your head back onto the wall behind you, huffing out a breath though your nose as he stepped over.

"A bit surprising, you seem like the sort who would've obtained any and all manner of injuries on the street," His comment was smooth and measured. "Yet you know nothing of how to fix them?"

"Again, not a doctor."

"No, but it's a quite miracle you survived this long."

Again, an asshole.

But he paid decent, and Ran seemed to respect him, so you only steeled your jaw when he held out a hand. Slender fingers wavered slightly in the air, not exactly inviting, but you didn't want to trek home with half your fingers in a different direction than normal.

"Other hand on my shoulder," You followed the order as he took your wrist in hand, and you were now standing closer than you have ever been. "Loosen your jaw, we don't want you breaking teeth." "Can't fix that, can you?" Your grumble was meant with a small squeeze of his hand at your wrist - something that you could almost mistake as a comforting gesture, before he took one of your dislocated fingers in the other hand and snapped it back into place.

A life on the streets made you strong.

You've been dealt plenty of punches, kicks and even a fair amount of stabs over the years, but it's almost embarrassing how loud you scream out at the suddenness of your joints snapping into place.

Your head snapped forward and down in an attempt to curl in on yourself, but Silco doesn't allow it. His grip on your wrist is strong, unyielding for your own good, and you repay him by nearly tearing into the shoulder of his shirt with the next snap of your finger moving back into place.

The third, and final time he does it, you're sure you black-out momentarily. Held up by stubborn legs, and the hand that fists loosely, but securely on the front of your shirt, coupled with the one still wrapped around your wrist.

You know you should be grateful. That your boss even considered you worth helping in the first place, and that he didn't drag out the pain any further than necessary. And the fact that he isn't taking this as an opportunity to berate, or worse, monologue in front of the scattered assembled of his gang. Which you know aren't technically watching, but would catch every word he says without issue.

But then any hint of gratefulness fades, when you feel a thumb rubbing your skin, comfortingly, and a smooth, low tone to reach your ears alone when the ringing of pain finally recedes. "-rong. You are so, impossibly strong..."

Silco is mocking you, surely. This man does nothing but glint and glare, eyes ever on you the moment you walk in, watching you at every training or wrestle. Waiting for failure, surely, as evidenced in the way he all but verbally pounces when you trip, or fall, or forget to eat, or get to drunk, or break half the fingers on a hand for one of his damn missions-

"Truly, you have no right to be, but here you are. Strong, daring, and bold." Blinking away what remains of your pain from your eyes, you raise your head up and find that he's mere inches from your face, the fiery-eye smoldering while the green isn't too far off, hooded as he leans close.

You blink, but still catch the end of his tongue slipping out to wet a bottom lip, before he speaks again, "You truly... you have no idea what you do, do you? The effect you have on my group, my goal, my mission, me-"

"Shut up!"

Gods, you could HEAR the building accusation coming from a mile away!

Whatever he was about to say, be it a slow-built insult on you slowing down the group, distracting him or even more insulting, being a weakness, dies on his lips as you thrust your face even closer. The bright seagreen is blown wide as your noses are now nearly brushing.

"I am tired, sir," You hissed, managing to ignore the spots in your vision as you curl you re-fixed hand into a fist, save one black-blue finger to wag in his face. "Tired, and we have no time for... for this!" You gestured between the two of you, his eyes dropping down to follow with a brow furrowing.

Was he... upset that he couldn't belittle you? Silco's brow was furrowed, something almost akin to disappointment. But instead of your ire rising to volcanic levels, you feel your energy drain entirely. Reaching up with your freehand, finally detaching from the grip on his shoulder that he never once flinched at, you pinched the bridge of your nose. "Just... can we do this thing with us later? I'm hurt, exhausted and can't think right now, and you have a lot of work to do too. Later time, please, Silco?"

You missed it, because your eyes were closed as you focused on massaging out the headache, but Silco slowly winked his remaining eye in thought.

Then concentration filled his gaze, pulling back and releasing his solid, comforting grip on your wrist.

For now, now that you've, from his perspective, asked him to wait for a later time. Reasonable enough, there was still much to do, much to plan...

Silco could wait as long as you needed. He trusted you to come to him.

"I believe that is... a beneficial arrangement for us, seeing as we still do indeed have work to do," He said, before, firmer, slipping back into the role of an employer. "Later, then. For now, I think it would be best for you to return home." Your eyes flashed open, but your scathing reply was quickly cut-off, "You said it yourself... exhaustion and pain can only motivate for so long, and I don't need you motivated for anything at the moment." The scarred man tilts his head towards the exit.

"You'd be more use at home. Resting, and healing up."

More use? Your anger now truly flared, but so did the burning in his eye, as he stepped away from you, and called for Ran to escort you home.

For you, this was a grave insult on your capabilities, to be dismissed in such a fashion by this asshole.

For Silco, he hoped you had a restful night st home. Watching you go, already grumbling under your breath as you followed Ran out, he could tell why you wanted to wait, until later indeed.

It was clear, that you were very tired.

-

Janine’s words are the catalyst, spoken around her tobacco pipe and layered with a tenderness you’d gotten so used to.

“You’re the best girlfriend he’s had, honey.”

The feeling of his arm gliding around your waist is simultaneous with the words from your mouth, “Oh, Janine, we aren’t dating.”

Silco’s arm freezes, barely resting against you before it’s gone again. You’re painfully aware of its placement, and though it hadn’t been there for longer than it took you to say those words, it’s already sorely missed. Janine’s eyes flick between the two of you with eyebrows raised and a slack jaw, and the moment stretches on just long enough that you’re beginning to think you’ve missed something.

Silco’s footsteps are out the curtained doorway faster than you can register, and Janine’s expression twists to one that matches her apologetic voice, “You’d better go after him. I’m sorry honey, I just… With the way he looks at you, and he’s attached to your hip, it seemed like…”

“Not your fault, Janine,” You wave her off and grab your jacket to swing over your shoulders to follow after him. You don’t even say goodbye, your concerns are far more focused on the man now leaving the entrance of the brothel. He looks furious, his shoulders set in a hard line and his fists jammed tightly in the pockets of his jacket.

It takes you jogging after him to finally catch up - he’s made it a few blocks by the time you’re able to grab his elbow and drag him to a stop. When he whips around to look at you, his arm is yanked from your grip with the force. The look on his face doesn’t match his anger, not with how his brows pitch and his cheek is being chewed on.

Silco’s hurt.

“Go home,” Is all he says to you, monotone and unfeeling. It feels false, like a front he’s wearing to hide the obvious distress he’s under. Letting this slide isn’t high on your list of priorities, and you’re not about to let him go home upset over something you’re very clearly confused about.

“Not until we talk about whatever that was-”

“There’s nothing to talk about, apparently. Go home.”

“Silco,” You reach for him again, but he deftly weaves away from your grip with a step backward that you match to keep yourself close, “Will you at least come with me? You said you’d crash there-”

“I said that when I was under the impression you were my girl,” Silco’s words hit you like well-aimed bullets, and you’re left breathless in their wake. Frantically, your mind starts to pick through interactions with the new lenses that it’s wearing, and puzzle pieces begin to fit together to show you the whole picture.

The lingering touches, the times you’d catch him watching you in the quiet moments, the coat he’s currently wearing being offered to you on a nightly basis, sharing your bed when he would stay for the night. The more you think about it, the more you realize that… Damn, maybe you have been dating Silco.

The man took the boyfriend position but never received the boyfriend paycheck.

Silco starts to walk away again, turning on his heel. Stubbornly, you fall into step beside him and he lets out the smallest scoff. Silco won’t look at you, doesn’t even acknowledge your presence as he lights a cigarette between his lips. It can’t be healthy with the speed at which he’s smoking it, but you don’t dare to say a word like you normally would.

Like you’d normally chide him for not taking care of himself. How you’d miss him if he was gone. How you’d nag him like a girlfriend. Damn, you’ve really been blind.

The twists and turns become more familiar - he’s not going to his apartment. It’s not until you reach your street that a little bubble of hope wells in your chest. As if reading your thoughts, Silco grumbles around the filter, “Don’t get excited. I’m just dropping you off. Last hurrah as your not-boyfriend and all that.”

“Silco, just come up and-”

“And what? You can let me down gently?” Silco’s words lash out quickly, emphasized with the way he throws his still burning cigarette against the brick wall the two of you are passing, “I’ll pass, probably just going to go to the Drop and wallow in my post-breakup woes.”

You can’t tell if he’s seriously that torn up about this, or if he’s laying it on that thick. To his credit, he does at least walk you all the way to your door and waits until you unlock it before he makes to leave. The only thing that stops his footsteps is a quiet call of his name, your voice laced with a plea that forces him to look over his shoulder at you.

“Can you just… stay? Please?”

Silco turns to look at you, his jaw shifting from side to side as he watches you clutch the door frame with white knuckles. Instead of looking you in the eye, he’s more focused on that as his voice shakes, “Are you serious? Do you think I’m actually okay with this?”

“No, I-”

“Then you’re playing a game, is that it?”

“Silco,” You cut his questioning off harshly, and he flinches at the unfamiliar tone in your voice. It’s a night for surprising each other, it seems, “Do you seriously think I’d do that? You don’t have to stay, just talk to me about this and then you can leave if you want to.”

The wheels are turning in his head, you can see it happening up until the moment he makes his decision and moves forward without a word. It’s the first step toward fixing this, one way or another. Out of habit, Silco locks the door behind him when he enters, and his jacket gets draped over one of your chairs that creak under the weight of the leather.

The edge of your bed is where you sit, and he pointedly stands just across the small room with his lower back leaned against your kitchenette counter. The tilt of his brows is his only indication that he’s listening, and you know you don’t have much time to convince him or talk through this.

Honesty is the best policy with Silco, so you lean into it with a simple question, “You thought we were dating?”

“Obviously yes,” There’s a bite to his words, but it’s not as vicious as it had been only minutes before. It’s a small victory, but you don’t savor it for very long. Not with this great mystery to hopefully solve so you can sleep soundly tonight - not having Silco’s arms around you means a night of restless sleep, and you wonder how long it’s been since that started.

“For how long?”

“...That night we shared a bed, the first night I took you out on recon gathering.”

“Silco,” You squint with a tilt of your head, disbelief beginning to lace your words, “That was months ago. You didn’t question when I… didn’t even kiss you or anything?”

That’s the question that makes pink begin to bloom across the high points of his cheeks, and his gaze rolls over to your dirty window to look at the smudges of the lights beyond it, “I thought you weren’t ready. I uh… figured I was your first.”

Oh. That… makes a lot of sense, even though he should have mentioned all of that to you in the first place, and you tell him that, “It’s probably something that should’ve been talked about, don’t you think? Instead of assuming things?”

“Doesn’t matter much now, does it?” A bitter laugh is how he ends his question, then he’s pushing himself to stand straight again, “I figured I was spoken-for, but now that I’m suddenly not, I’m going back to Janine’s.”

That strikes a nerve, because you know what he’s implying and the jealousy in your heart feels too-large and too-ugly. If he notices the immediate scowl on your face when he reaches for his jacket, there isn’t an indication of it that he shows. It’s your words that make him pause.

“Silco, I’ll give you two choices, alright? Whichever one you pick, I need you to know that I’ll go with it and be alright,” The flicker of blue at the corner of his eye shows that he’s paying attention, and that’s all the indication you’re going to get, “You can go back to Janine’s and… finish out your evening there. We’ll pretend this never happened in the first place.”

There’s a bob of his adam’s apple before he speaks, “And the other choice?”

You’ve got him, you realize it immediately, but with a firm push you make the fluttering of your heart settle before you answer, “Or you can just… ask me outright, like you should have at the beginning.”

“Ask you-... You’re shitting me.”

“Do you think I would’ve let you do… any of that, or gotten as close to you as I have if I wasn’t interested? Silco, I’ve been head over heels for you before I even met you after everything Dawes told me.”

A quiet “Huh.” leaves Silco’s mouth as he turns toward you, dawning begins to cross his face in a manner that you’re convinced is similar to how you’d looked when you realized what all his little gestures had meant. With how small your apartment is, he crosses the room in three steps to sit beside you on the bed, the force of it making the springs creak below.

“You seriously want to be mine?” None of that sharpness is there - Silco is soft again, the hard edges rounded out for your comfort. At your eager nod, Silco’s arms reach for you to pull you closer to his side. Now that you know the intent behind them, the feeling, it’s so much more satisfying than the same gesture had been before.

“Does this mean you’ll stay?”

“Yes,” Silco’s answer is emphatic when he nearly scoops you up and deposits you in his lap, your chest pressed to his as he holds you tightly with both hands. Returning the embrace is easy, as autonomous as breathing when your chin drops to rest on his shoulder. It’s not the first time Silco’s hugged you, but it’s the first time it’s been like this. Never this close.

A thought itches at the back of your mind as he holds you, and against your better judgment you speak it, “Would you really have gone to Janine’s?”

Silco laughs his answer out, fingertips pressing harder into the skin of your lower back, “No. I’d never have moved on that fast from you. Like I said, I’d probably just go to the Drop and have a good cry about it before I tried to forget my dreams of how good you’d feel sitting in my lap like this.”

“Is it like you expected?” You tease, and that’s enough for Silco to pull away and look you right in the eyes.

“Only thing that would make it perfect is if you let me kiss you.”

“What are you waiting for, then?” The tripwire is set off and Silco’s hand brings you in by the back of your head to kiss you soundly, a quiet groan through his nose being the indication of his relief at finally getting to have you. As far as first kisses go, you’re entirely sure this is the best one that’s ever been had.

Silco is slow and methodical, even when he pushes past your lips to glide his tongue languidly against yours. Sure, there’s passion in it, but it isn’t overwhelming or all-consuming. It’s comfortable and warm and somehow this felt like the part you’d been missing with him all along - the logical next step, if you think about it.

Apparently the Topsiders were celebrating something special this month.

Not surprising, while the Undercity toiled and worked to the bone, the cushy, comfortable members of their 'sister' city, were eager to throw themselves into a celebration or whatnot at every opportunity.

You'd rolled your eyes, until you heard it was apparently a celebration of love.

Immediately, you looked over to him, and your tongue had stilled the instant you realized he had immediately looked over at you at the L-word. The question still in his eyes, and the answer still trapped behind your lips.

The words you'd been struggling to say, remained unsaid, as he slowly turned back to the casual conversation about dumb Topside celebrations, after a moment of your staring contest, and you could only internally scream out the words he'd already said to you, and that you hadn't, and still couldn't manage to say back:

"I love you."

-

Love had an... interesting relationship with you.

Being in a rebellion, you didn't necessarily have time to mingle, or try to catch a date at a pub. It was easier to satisfy your physical needs with a quick, one-night fuck or your own hand, then it was to navigate the emotional, mental mazes to go through when being in love with someone. Not to mention, in the Undercity, death was much more of a constant than romance could be.

Especially in a revolution.

It was easier for you to prepare for death, and divert your attraction to sex-alone, than something as juvenile as love.

And then you joined the Children of Zaun.

And then you met him, and you got along well with him. Then really well. And then you got along really, really well with him.

Then you started staying later with him than the others. Started chatting more, smirking more, laughing more, and then smiling more. Smiling with him, and just at the mere sight of him.

And then you started sparring, pinning him down onto the spar-mat with pants filling the air between you, as you simply stared into his seagreen eyes. Silent, since words seemed to stop working when he looked at you like... that.

And then you invited him to your apartment.

And then, after a one-night fucking (around the fourteeth occasion of the original one-night arrangement) the co-leader of the rebellion had whispered out hoarsely against your neck, with his cock still slammed full-hilt into you as his climax tampered off deep inside: "I love you."

Silco.

Silco, saying he loved you, while the remnants of your own orgasm was still dripping onto the mattress, and his cock was going soft inside you, said, "I love you."

You couldn't even deny that your brain came to a screeching halt right then and there. Mouth couldn't even begin to come up with a response, as the silence stretched. He slowly pulled out, also suddenly silent after nearly an hour of growls, moans of your name and filthy words bouncing off the walls of the bedroom.

Silco had then cleaned himself off, quietly handed you a towel, pulled his clothes on, and left your apartment.

And your mouth couldn't come up with a damn thing to say in response.

This led you to realize there was now two reasons it was easier not to mess around with love: you did not believe you had enough time, and apparently, you could fuck it all up without saying a single word.

-

Silco didn't avoid you, persay. Couldn't really, as you had rose up quickly through the ranks of the Children, and working together was a daily occurrence, but he was professional. Courteous, friendly even, and the sparring sessions you had, blades flashing, were no different than any of the others.

But he hadn't come back to your apartment.

And there was a new glint in Silco's eyes, everytime he looked at you. You were sure no one else could see it, just as you sure you weren't imagining it, as every time he looked at you, there was an apprehensive, questioning look as he met your gaze.

As if he were still asking for a response.

Still asking on how the hell you were going to respond to him slipping out, 'I love you.'

Your mouth, being absolutely useless, couldn't find an answer to that question every time you met his eyes. But they could ask other people.

-

You'd slipped away after a full-scale meeting of the Children of Zaun, thoughts half-racing as your legs carried you to the closest black-market stall. Coincidently, just a block away from a small cluster of brothals. Perhaps your mind already subconsciously knew what you wanted, even as you rather helplessly, and extremely honestly, told the stall saleswoman, "The guy I've been fuckin' said he loves me, and hasn't come back to my place since."

"You 'ere for something to keep him crawling back for more, or a locksmith? Because if you want to keep 'im out, I ain't the one to talk to..."

Groaning, you put your face in your hands. "I-i just... I don't know, I don't want us to stop, but I don't... know how to... urgh, damn it..."

Your lack of knowledge in this situation must've shown, because there was a pitying sigh. "Couldn't look 'im in the eyes and say it back, could ya?"

At your pause, then nod, there was another sigh, and a ruffling sound as she began to look through her wares. "And now he's trying to act like it's all fine and dandy, but you know, and he knows, that he's gonna want to hear something sooner or later?" "Yeah, but I..." You paused, smoothing your hands upward on your face and through your hair, interlocking your fingers as you rested your hands atop your head, glaring upwards. "I just... fuck, I don't know how to say it back."

You realize that you would mean it if you repeated it back to him. But that was the thing, your initial hesitance seemed to be chronic, and every time you looked in those seagreen eyes, that lead weight on your tongue came rolling back to be the most annoying hindrance on your speech.

The saleswoman hummed, understandably. "Ya seem like a tough-cookie, think ya above all that soft-shit, so the words don't coming naturally to you. Ya gotta say it in the heat of the moment, or ya ain't gonna be able to say it at all."

You dropped your eyes back onto the counter as the dark box, with a red bow smacked on top, was slid across to you. "Ya also gotta make sure you have 'im crawling back for more, and you don't get spooked off when he lookin' at ya like you're a million-golds. Can't help ya get your speech-notes in order, but I think that will help to keep him coming back, no matter what you end up saying. Or not, point is, he'll be back soon enough after ya put those through the paces with 'im."

Against your better judgement, you smacked a handful of coins on the counter before you even opened the box. She was counting while you stared at what was inside the box, brows narrowed at the...

"Real Topsider silk there, got me a good supplier." At your questioning, slightly confused glance, she sighed and made a fist as she held up her hand. Then made a wrapping motion around it with her other hand. "...Oh." You glanced back down into the contents of the box. "Oh, I don't... I'm not sure he's into this kinda shit...?"

"Well, if ya do it wrong, he won't. You do it right though, that man will never want it vanilla again. And if he already said he loves ya, pretty sure he'll go though hell 'n back to hear you say it." Satisfied with your price and pocketing your coin, she then crossed her arms and raised a brow at you, deadpanned. "Ya plan on doing it wrong?"

-

You thought you had done them wrong.

Critically glaring at them, you swallowed thickly while your hand twitched, struggling not to reach out and following the soft, maroon-red cord to ensure it was...

"You aren't planning to leave me here, are you?" Eyes snapped back, and you saw the hint of a raised brow over the black-band resting across his face. Otherwise deadpan, you could imagined that humored look in his eyes. "Be rather rude if you did... I was looking forward to being invited back here."

"Invitation never really expires, you know." "Oh? I wasn't aware." Nonchalant and deadpan, he was, even with both wrists wrapped securely, leashed to either side of the headboard. Dark hair askew on the pillow you'd shove under his head before slipping the black band securely over his eyes, skin bare and cock already half-erect from your pre-makeout session.

-

When you'd broken the long, half-desperate and well-missed session of kissing, gripping and touches that made you shudder, you kept your eyes closed as you panted, and told him you wanted to try something. You could almost hear the brow-raise.

And you saw the brows rising when you returned to the bed, and opened the lid of the box without a word. Long digits had reached in the pull out the red cord, while Silco tangled it in-between fingers with a note of surprise in his voice, "I didn't think you'd be into this stuff... you've always been one for a few rounds of fucking, then smoking."

"Yeah, well..." You shrugged, tapping your fist on your knee as you looked around the room. Debating if it was worth getting a second chair for the table, consitering the cramped space you had. "... wanted to do something special tonight."

"... Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I see... Any particular reason?" And then your mouth, traitorous, stupid mouth, failed you again as you looked up at him. Fingers loosely wrapped in the red cord as his gaze locked on yours, waiting, expecting, hoping... You managed something out, and even to you, it sounded weak, "Topside's... got something going on. Figured we could do something special for ourselves, kinda... celebrate our way."

"By getting you tied up for a fuck?" That bemused quirk was on his lips as he stretched the cord between his hands, and you were suddenly looking at how nice red looked on his pale skin. Like other members of the rebellion, solid dark colors like black, navy and browns were a necessity and having different outfits for special occasions wasn't exactly a luxury of Zaunites.

Red looked good on Silco though. And you decided, suddenly, that maybe your original idea needed a bit of a role-swap.

"How about you?"

For a moment, he said nothing, tilting his head just-so in that quiet, consitering way. He didn't look discouraged or odd at the prospect, more curious that you suggested it. You were still waiting for the disapproval, and were instead surprised by the unexpected, paitent, "If you tell me why, then yes."

"I told you," You mutter, quickly as you glanced up st his eyes. "... it's just something special." You had to break the eye-contact between you, reaching into the box to pull out the second-silk and the small black band, just as he began to smirk. "Oh, I'm sure it will be..."

-

Now, the smirk was gone, and you quietly asked if he needed anything to stop or change. "I'll tell you, just..." He shifted, muscles flexing in his arms as he gave a small tug to his restraints, headboard smacking against the wall behind it when he put a little more effort into it. "... new, is all. As you know well by now, this isn't something I normally do."

"Or you," He added, but you could only hum, the bed dipping beneath him as you sat on edge. You reach you, watching goosebumps raise when he jumps slightly under your touch. He hums as you trail your fingers over his forehead, catching a few of the errant strands and tucking them out of the way as he murmurs, "This also isn't normally your style. I see you're going all out for this something-special..."

Silco's voice trails off as you silently cup his cheek, thumb smoothing over the sharp edge of his cheekbones before it starts sliding down. The small jerks as he takes-in the invisible touches are becoming less and less frequent as he got used to the darkness, and your touch.

You still caught the small breath on your thumb as you ran it over his bottom lip, still red from your earlier abusement of it. Which you continue, as you move down to bring your lips to his once more as you cup under his chin to keep his head tilted.

He's right about one thing; this isn't your normal M.O.. Soft, and slow, he's quick to match your pace with a hum at the warm round of osculation. Slipping the hand from his face to balance yourself on one arm, you keep your mouth locked sweetly with his as you shift your position, soon raised just-over him on your elbows, with knees on either sides of his hips.

"I get..." Tongue peeks out to swipe at his bottom lip again when you pull away, dropping his head back onto the pillow after he fruitlessly tried to follow your mouth in his darkness. "... get the feeling this isn't about some ridiculous Piltover-celebration month."

"You'd be right; this is about us." You murmured, watching his parted lips as you slid a hand down his sternum. Curling fingers just so you could drag your nails along his skin, leaving faint pink trails while you could picture his eyes squeezing shut at the amplified sensations. "Y-yeah? You ready to talk about it?"

You raised a brow, though he couldn't see it, and shifted back slightly on your knees to dip down, nudging his chin up with your nose so you could begin leaving marks. "You've been waiting?" "Have I been- fuck." He let out a small grunt as you darkened a mark just next to his pulsing jugular, and your nails reached down to scritch along his hip. "... yeah. Yeah, I've been waiting."

"I needed some time to think," You murmur in lieu of an apology as you nipped, biting playfully at his skin as you slowly trailed your fingers just over his pelvis. Tauntingly slow, you could hear his teeth start to grind as the headboard gave a sudden shake - curiously in time with your fingers starting to glide at the base of his shaft.

"And?" He almost snapped out in a stained voice as you closed your fingers lightly around him. "And..." You pause, admiring the bruise suckled onto his skin as you slowly dragged your fingers up the twitching cock beneath you. "I think you sprung it on me a little fast. Like you were eager to let it out," You flick your eyes to that blindfold, even though his eyes were blocked for you. "How long have you loved me?"

Silco's reply broke into a sharp inhale as you brought your thumb to the leaking head of his cock, rubbing slow circles around it even as he bucked into it. "After the 10th time?" You ask, innocently, putting a little more pressure on as you tightened your grip around him. "Maybe the first time I let you go down? Or when we went down on each other...?"

The red-cords went taut as you finished spreading his precum around him, stroking your fingers in slow earnest as you pulled his foreskin down, just enough to rub directly onto his cockhead. "C'mon Sil," You openly taunted as you leaned back to sit on your knees, pinning his upper thighs as you smirked at the blinded man. "You love me but you can't even remember when you started to-?"

"S-sparring session. On the rooftop." He grits out, trying and failing to jerk his hips up when you stop, stunned. "... w-we were Topside. It was raining, and all I could think about on the way back was the... how ridiculous, that you looked so beautiful while kicking my ass, all dripping and... fuck, why'd you stop?" His jerking, twitching hips finally came to a halt as he panting, dark lock of hair sticking to his forehead with his growl of impatience as your hand stayed still on him.

You didn't move, staring. "... Sil, that was before we started fucking."

"Y-yeah, I noticed, now will you-"

"You..." You closed your eyes, and finally gave him a bit of relief, stroking him once, twice-... "No, I'm sorry, you were falling in love with me before we started having sex?" The headboard banged agaisnt the wall again, and he growled as you stopped. "Fallen. I'd fallen for you-" "And you said nothing?!"

That Topsider silk really was something else. You're sure chains could cracked under the strain Silco put them through as he gritted out, leaning up towards you as much as possible with eyes no-doubt burning behind the black-band, "I did. On our last date, after I finished fucking you dumb and leaving you leaking, I said I loved you-" He broke off, mouth falling open with choked moan as you quickly pumped him. Your brain was whirling.

But your confusion could wait a few seconds as you responded to his voice dipping into the filth, filth you knew and lov-

"You thought it was a date?" You croaked, shifting back further to start leaning down, your tongue out to flick over the leaking tip as you slowed your hand. Bed thumping as he crashed back down, you felt his body shudder as you swirled the tip with your tongue. "You thought we were dating?"

The Son of Zaun's upper body writhed for a moment as you held him in your hand, flicking the tip of your tongue over the leaking pre-cum. "F-fucks sak- are we not?!" His appalled tone almost would've made you laugh, if you weren't so stunned at the revelation. "Why are we... fuck, can we discuss this after?!"

"No, because I thought we were just fucking for fucking!" Genuine ire in your voice even as you obliged him, other hand moving further down to cup his sac to swipe your thumb in a way that had him groaning-out openly, as you locked your lips around the tip of his cock.

"I-if I just wanted to fuck, I would've found a whore, instead of taking the time to make you into one-" You popped your mouth off as you felt his thighs tensing, shifting your head to the side to bite openly at his hip. Leaving a mark as dark as the ones dotting his neck, he growls, shudders through the ministrations on his sac while you suckle a trail along his pelvis.

"G-gods... YES, I love you. I l-love the spark in your eyes as y-you throw down Enforcer scum, the high pitched of your laughter after whisky, the way I can make you scream like a damn banshee when I fuck you like y-your hole is the only useful part. about. you-"

"I love you too." Your mouth finally works, and he comes to a standstill above you when you flatten your tongue in your mouth and hold his cock upright. You didn't even need to see his eyes, to know that they had snapped open as he was blind to nothing but the feel of you taking him fully until your mouth, stopping only when your nose brushed at his base.

Wrapping your arms under his thighs to keep him still with nails biting deep, you hear his breath catch as he starts grunting out between each slow, but quickening movements of your head bobbing with his cock. "Gods, gods... you fucking slut. Of course, I love you, of course I thought we were dating, that's why I fucked you, like y-you're my own private, wonderful and perfect whore-" You groaned around him, and he repeated the sound as you begin to take him faster, deeper.

The headboard banged, once, twice, and then you had to hold Silco's thighs down in earnest as his back bowed-up off the bed, and cum shot into your throat. Practice kept you from gagging on the warm jets, but you still felt your eyes water and a dribbling leak from the corner of your mouth at your enthusiastic treatment on his cock, which he was blessing above you as you started to slow.

"-ove you, do you hear me? I don't care what I have to do to prove it, if you still don't believe it, but I. Love. You. You're mine, you're all fucking mine, and I love yo-" Swiping your palm over your mouth to clean your lips, you catch a ragged breath as you crawl up his body, hands shaky as they work the blindfold up and over his sweaty dark-hair.

His bright eyes find you immediately, still wild and blinking rapidly from the exposure of lamp-light, but he only stares at you as you both catch your breath. Chest rising and falling deeply, he sags back onto the bed as his eyes go hooded after a moment. "Did you... r-really think we weren't already dating?"

"I... no, I didn't." You admit, giggle actually bursting out at the thought. "I... fuck, I never even consitered dating anyone. Always just one-nights and whatnot... not like we have time for much else." Silco went quiet, and closed his eyes, and hating your bluntness, you try to explain."I m-mean... we could end up dead at any time-"

"Exactly," He mutters, cracking open his eyes to give you a flat look, even as he pauses to lick his dry upper lip. "Exactly, so why waste time hesitating? I already know what I want from this, what I think of this, us, as. I want you. I want you. I consider you mine, and I love you."

Resting his head back, cheek brushing agaisnt his arm, he watches your expression quietly as you can only stare at him fully, and for the first time, are able to look him full-on as you murmur out a quiet, raw and honest, "I love you too."

A small flash of chipped white, even as he lets out a tired chuckle, "Took you long enough..." His eyes watch as you manage a small bit of laughter, shaking your head at your ridiculousness as you turned slightly, catching his captured wrist to begin undoing the knots, before moving on to it's twin on the other side of the bed. Silco's fingers curl slightly, his palm facing towards you until you slid yours into place with his.

He apparently wasn't entirely devoid of strength, as you quickly found yourself sprawled into the bed with him, arms wrapping around your waist as he buried his nose at your hairline. Lips press tight to your forehead, as he mutters quietly, "I can't believe you thought we were just... what? Fuckpals?"

You snorted, shrugging as much as you could with his arms pinning yours at your sides. "I just... never really consitered it to be more. Or that you would want more..." "I want so much from you, you have no idea... so much that you'll have no doubts or second-guessings, ever again," He swore quietly, slipping one arm out to cup beneath your chin, raising your face so he could kiss you gently.

You didn't doubt him, not for a second. Not after this but judging by the quiet rumble in his chest as he vowed that, you had an feeling you were going to greatly enjoy whatever he had planned for erasing your nonexistant doubts.

You hummed, and you felt him smile before he pulled back. Eyes still adjusting after a round in darkness, you saw a flicker of smugness as he took in your tousled hair and swollen lips. "...Later though," He decided, a note of deep, dark promise in his voice, as if he expected to see this look on you quite often in the future. It made you shudder in anticipation, even as he brought your lips sweetly to his once more.

"We can plan for something special later..."

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