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warnings: self-indulgent & canon divergent. a pinch of angst. yearning luuk (shocker!) and use of ichor that most likely contradicts canon. did i mention this is canon divergent? — explicit smut. soft & unprotected sex. cunnilingus. handjob. table sex. (kinda) praise kink. mid-coitus explicit confession. luuk loves it when you pull his hair. i think the aftercare is cute hehe <3 no fucking, just making love 🙂‍↔️ — not proofread!!

notes: FIRST EVER SMUT FIC !!! i’d been wanting to try writing smut for a while now & i think this turned out much better than i could’ve thought <3

notes 2.0: whimpering wastes ❌ whimpering luuk ✅ ugh… the only psychiatrist that makes me more mentally ill…… i need him

despite the far distance between the academy and your destination, you run your motorcycle at a leisurely pace, taking in the scenic landscape of lahai-roi bathed in the sunlight of spring and committing to memory as much of it as you can.

there’s a heaviness pressing down on your chest as you count down the days before you have to leave. you try your best to stay in the present, as per lucilla’s advice, and go through your remaining days one at a time. and you can attest to its effectiveness.

that is until you receive a message from luuk on wavesline.

luuk herssen: hi, golden girl.

luuk herssen: are you free?

luuk herssen: we haven’t had the chance to catch up. i’m at the “workspace” if you’re up for it.

you: as long as you have waffles

luuk herssen: consider it done.

you: then i’m on my way!

luuk herssen: haha. i’ll see you soon

luuk herssen: :-)

it’s only then that the full extent of your reality sinks in and you become painfully aware that despite the time you’ve spent with him, you’ve never addressed… well, non-threnodian-related matters.

and you can’t blame luuk either. none of the recent occurrences seemed to be the right time and place for your personal woes.

soon, you spot luuk’s silhouette from a distance where he waits by the shore just outside his secret workspace. you hit the gas and at the revving of your engine, luuk turns to your direction, immediately beaming at the sight of you.

“you didn’t have to wait for me out here,” you tell him as you hop off your motorcycle.

“i wanted to,” he says with a shrug. “hi.”

“hi.”

luuk steps aside, outstretching a hand towards the entrance that leads to his workspace. “after you.”

as soon as you’re inside, a odd sense of homesickness washes over you. your eyes roam the space, taking in the dim hallways faintly illuminated by the huge monitors scattered about, the thousands of books that crowd every shelf in the room and even more of them stacked on the floor. you’ve always been aware of them but it’s only now that you’re truly noticing.

having coming back from the voidspace renewed your perspective and brought about newfound appreciation for the most mundane of things. one wrong move can take every bit of their normalcy away from you.

you relish in the stillness of luuk’s private space, a stark dichotomy to the chaos that awaits you outside.

“i didn’t think i’d see this place again,” you speak, simply thinking out loud but luuk responds anyway.

“we all knew you’d make it back. it was just a matter of when.”

you grin at him. “you have too much faith in me. maybe i should do it again.”

“i’d prefer it if you didn’t,” luuk banters but there’s truth underneath his playful tone. still, it gets a chuckle out of you. then with conviction, he adds, “you know we’d all find a way to get you back, one way or another. no other outcome would do.”

luuk states it as if rescuing you was solely a collective goal—and it was. but when neither of you say anything after that, the silence hangs in the air and a voice nags at the back of luuk’s mind.

if i am to lose you someday, at least, let me choose how.

when the quiet becomes too much to bear, he changes the subject. “how’s aemeath?”

“she’s fine. better than i expected, actually. it’s like she was never gone.” you briefly pause to ponder over your next words, “she told me she’s going to stay in startorch for a while to finish her studies. can i ask you a favor?”

“i’ll look after her while you’re away,” luuk promises, already hearing your unspoken request.

“thank you.”

you smile at him warmly but luuk notices how it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. with a voice much quieter than before, he asks, “how are you?”

“i’m… okay. i mean, aemeath’s back so mission accomplished for now. but dealing with everything else, it gets heavy sometimes,” you admit, “but i also know i’m not carrying it alone.”

“never,” luuk promises.

you stare at each other, eyes charged with something both of you are too careful to name.

“i know you didn’t just ask me to come here for the waffles,” you jest. “what is it?”

luuk chuckles, mostly to himself. “it’s nothing.”

“you said it yourself, this place doesn’t have ears. you can talk to me.”

“i was just wondering how long before i see you again.”

seemingly embarrassed by his admission, his gaze drops to the floor as he digs his hands into the pockets of his coat. you hear the faint rustling of plastic wrappers and you realize he’s fiddling with the small stash of candy he carries everywhere, a futile attempt to release his nerves into something.

an epiphany dawns on you. for the first time in a long time, luuk, who is known for his steady calm and composure, looks completely vulnerable. so emotionally bare and unguarded in front of you.

“if it makes you feel better, i’m not forgetting you this time,” you quip in attempt to keep this conversation light—even you’re starting to crumble under the weight of your reality, if you’re being honest. but even if you can’t control the cards you’ve been dealt with, you can still choose how you play them. “luuk, i’m still here. we can still make the most of our time before i go. you can miss me later.”

with the courage he’s never been able to muster before, he reaches for your hand. “i’m afraid the second you walk out of here, i’ll miss you already.”

“you’re making it really hard for me to say goodbye, you know?”

luuk chuckles. “i wasn’t planning on making it easy.”

then as if an idea pops into his mind, luuk takes off his glove, revealing the tacet mark across his palm. you never really had a good look at it up to this very moment and to say you’re mesmerized is an understatement.

under what looks like an open wound, you see his golden blood flowing and radiating from within. you wait for an explanation from luuk but it doesn’t come. so with bated breath, you watch as he wills his ichor to take shape right before your very eyes. you throw a quick glance at his face but his expression remains neutral, gaze fixed on the aureate liquid as it solidifies in his hand.

you don’t get the chance to ask what it is because soon, held between his fingers is a gold ring.

luuk gives it a quick inspection until he’s satisfied with it before covering up his tacet mark with his glove once more. with your permission, he takes your hand and slips the band onto your ring finger with utmost care.

“luuk?”

he can’t help but grin at your confusion. “i’m not proposing. it’s just… something to remember me by.”

he knows solaris is far from seeing the end of the lament but without the threat of aleph-1 striking lahai-roi anytime soon, perhaps he can allow himself the indulgence in the thought of living a future where you’re both happy and free to give into your heart’s desires without the guilt for acting so selfishly. a future where neither of you still have to tiptoe around your feelings—it’s distant but not impossible.

and as long as you’re alive, there’s no reason for it to not exist.

maybe that sliver of hope can be enough for now.

“perfect fit,” luuk murmurs. he continues to toy with the gold ring on your finger before bringing it to his lips for a delicate kiss.

you twist your hand so your palm cradles his cheek and almost instinctively, he leans into your touch, basking in the one thing he begrudgingly craved since your reunion. at least, in the privacy of his workspace, he can let himself have that.

no words seem accurate for the emotions swirling inside you so you don’t say anything at all. you slide your hand to the back of his neck and pull him in for a chaste kiss. when you feel his breath hitch at your sudden gesture, you giggle against his lips.

just as you’re about to pull away, he recovers from his daze almost in the same instant, his hands immediately finding purchase on your face as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss. the second you match his fervor, his grip descends to your waist before it settles on the small of your back to pull you flush against him.

you gasp at the closeness, feeling the warmth eminating from him in a way you never have before, and luuk takes the opening to slide his tongue into your mouth, pouring all unspoken feelings into it.

for someone with hands so nimble and precise, luuk isn’t sure how to hold you, the tips of his fingers trembling along your curves as he maps out your body and burns it into his mind to the best of his abilities. not once in his life did he think he could ever have you so pliant in his hands.

“luuk…” you breathe out as you melt into his touch.

luuk backs you up to the nearest wall as his lips move away from yours, trailing down your jaw and along the expanse of your neck, his wet mouth leaving goosebumps in its wake. you raise a hand to the back of his head, tugging his hair at times as the pleasure spikes within you and he hisses at the delicious sting, reciprocating it immediately with a light nip at your skin before he soothes the spot with a stroke of his tongue.

a moan slips out of you and whatever it is that still tethers luuk to his sanity is now completely severed.

he pulls back for a brief moment and with his teeth, he takes off the glove that doesn’t conceal his tacet mark—despite your forgotten memories, you’re certain that it is the hottest thing you’ve ever seen in your long life. unable to contain your arousal, you take it upon yourself to bring your lips together once more, moaning into his mouth when he slides his bare hand between your legs.

“ngh….. luuk.. please……” you whine, gyrating against luuk’s fingers over your bottoms to chase your release but he’s perceptive to your needs. without pausing his ministrations on your core, his kisses move lower until he’s on his knees, his mouth just about where you need him the most.

with his face now level with your crotch, he groans at the sight of it glistening with your slick. he wastes no time ridding you of your lower garments completely and burying his face between your legs. he licks a fat stripe between your folds before his lips latch onto your clit, humming in satisfaction at the taste of you.

overcome with pleasure, your hands begin to pull at the tufts of luuk’s hair more aggressively and it only spurs him on. you almost double over at his vigor but he’s quick to lift your leg to his shoulder and stabilize you.

it doesn’t take long before you’re teetering over the edge, your climax fast approaching and it only intensifies when luuk slips his tongue inside you. you scream his name and it’s almost instinctive the way you’re pulling him further into your pussy and humping against his face. still, luuk’s pace doesn’t relent. along with the lewd cries that escape you, his groans and the smacking of his lips against your squelching cunt fill the room.

the last thing you feel is luuk’s hand squeezing your thigh—a signal for you to let go for him—then you’re cumming, gushing into his mouth which stays latched onto you as he slurps up your juices, down to the very last drop. only when you start whining from overstimulation that he pulls away from you.

setting your leg back down, luuk gets up on his feet and you’re grateful his hands don’t let go of you. otherwise, your knees would’ve given out.

you momentarily shut your eyes in exhaustion, resting your head on luuk’s shoulder as you try to catch your breath. you hear him whisper, “hold onto me.” so you do. you snake your arms around his neck and his hands move to the back of your thighs to lift you up.

next thing you know, he’s carrying you to another room and sitting you atop his desk. “tired?”

if you’re being honest, you are but you’re not going to tell him that. not when you feel his bulge poking at your thigh.

without a word, you simply slide your hands away from his neck, moving at a slow descent and over the ridges of his abs, relishing in the way his muscles contract under your touch. after a few agonizing seconds—for luuk—one of your hands settles on his belt while the other palms him through his trousers.

“take it off,” you tell luuk and he obliges in a heartbeat, pulling down the waist of his slacks along with his underwear just low enough to free his erection. the instant your grip closes around his girth, he lets out a guttural moan. he turns putty in your hand, leaning against your body as he nuzzles into you where he groans into your neck.

you give his cock a few pumps before he starts bucking up in your hand, lost in the pressure of your touch. with your free hand, you gently pull him by his hair so you’re face-to-face and you take in his current state—his glassy crimson eyes, his flushed cheeks and swollen lips, all beautifully framed by his blonde locks that now stick to his skin with sweat.

“you look so good like this,” you whisper in his left ear before giving his helix earring a soft tug with your teeth. something snaps in him at the praise and soon, he’s closing a hand over yours, guiding your grip to tighten around him. his head drops to your shoulder once more as occasional whimpers fall from his lips and straight to your core.

with your fingers in his hair, you rake your nails lightly against his scalp and his body immediately shivers at the sensation.

“hng…. feels so good,” he shamelessly moans as his hips speed up frantically. after a few more thrusts, you squeeze his cock, ultimately giving him the release he’s been chasing. as he spills into your hand, you feel his load spurt over your thighs.

you don’t let go of him but he doesn’t seem to mind as he stays snuggled into you, heavily panting against your skin. and the warmth of his breath does nothing but add to the ache you already feel in your nether lips.

desperate for any relief, you urge luuk to step even closer, bringing his tip to nudge against your clit and you both shiver at the contact. despite having just reached his climax, luuk grows hard once more. he removes your hand from his length, taking it upon himself to slide it between your folds, spreading his cum with it.

as you throw your head back in pleasure, luuk lies you down on his desk with his body hovering over you then he takes your swollen lips into a searing kiss. the friction of his cock against your core doesn’t cease and he happily swallows the moans you spill into his mouth.

“ngh.. luuk please…..”

“tell me what you want.”

you spread your legs wider, making as much room for him as you can. “put it in…”

luuk doesn’t need to be told twice. he slowly sinks into you and as soon as the head breaches your hole, you moan in unison. when he’s finally enveloped in your warmth, your back involuntarily arches at the same time luuk curls into you, both of your desires being taken to new heights.

“are you okay?” luuk forces the words through his teeth because truth be told, he’s not faring any better. while you take your sweet time getting used to his size, he’s losing his fucking mind at the tightness of your walls around him.

after a few seconds, you trap him between your legs again, locking your ankles together to keep him as close as possible before you’re motioning for him to move.

the first roll of luuk’s hips is slow, almost experimental. still, it almost knocks the wind out of you.

“does it hurt?” luuk asks through labored breaths.

you simply shake your head, pulling at his hair for the nth time just for the sake of holding onto something—anything—before you completely lose your wits and succumb to the fullness only he can provide. “keep going.”

luuk thrusts a few more times before the discomfort turns into unadulterated pleasure and he finds the rhythm that has you whimpering beneath him. a constant stream of curses spill from both your lips, the sounds of your skins slapping and your wanton moans now completely unrestrained and it doesn’t help that luuk eggs you on, “feels so good inside you……hng….”

“luuk…ngh…. just like that…” you babble on and on. the sight of you unraveling like this and it’s because of him awakens a new hunger in luuk. he grips your waist as he picks up the pace, eliciting more obscene noises from you, “fuck- right there… ahh!”

your grip on his hair doesn’t loosen even at the slightest and that’s enough to tell him he’s doing something right. he hits the same spot inside you over and over, the desk beneath your bodies scraping against the floor in time with his thrusts.

in the split second you regain lucidity, your focus shifts on the man before you. the man you never allowed yourself to adore until this moment. you can’t help but wonder what memories you chose to erase but maybe it’s true what people say—what the mind can forget, the heart never does.

it’s the only explanation you deem logical as to why after your “first” encounter, there was already a brewing connection you couldn’t resist and you’ve been irrevocably drawn to him ever since.

before you can contain your emotions, tears already well up in your eyes and luuk doesn’t fail to notice.

his movement slows down, his visage now etched with concern but you immediately ease his worries, pulling his face down to crash your lips together as you thrust up into him, making him gasp into your mouth. without a second thought, you blurt out, “i love you.”

luuk’s brain momentarily short-circuits at your direct confession. this isn’t the ideal situation he had in mind but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t say it back.

“i love you…” he resumes his pace with renewed passion as he rolls into you deeper. “i love you… fuck- ’m so in love with you…”

“ngh..love you….. so much….” you chant, as you repeatedly lift your hips to meet his thrusts.

keeping one hand on your waist, he brings the other hand to intertwine with yours.

his eyes once again land on your finger, now adorned by the glimmering gold that came from the very ichor that flows through his veins. a fleeting thought comes to mind—even if neither of you spoke your love for each other out loud, he wonders if words are truly needed at the moment. or even at all.

because what could be a bigger act of love than the irony of his blood being that of the gods yet here he is, completely at your mercy?

“i’m yours…” the words slip out of him before he can stop them. he captures your lips again, pouring into the kiss all the love he’s harbored for you, hoping it’s enough to make up for when you leave until you’re back in his arms—however long it takes. “i’m all yours...hng…. never been anyone else’s…”

his words only fuel your arousal and tears continue to fall from the corners of your eyes at the pleasure. as you inch closer to your climax, you wind your legs around luuk, digging your heels into his buttocks to push him even deeper into your cunt.

“luuk- ugh….‘m so close…“

“ngh…fuck… me too…” luuk begins to crumble under the overwhelming sensation of your pulsating walls, his hips becoming erratic as he continues to plow into you. his hand once holding your waist flies to your crotch as his thumb rubs fast circles on your clit. “let go for me…wanna feel it……..”

soon enough, you’re crying out from the toe-curling orgasm, coating luuk in your essence as you continue suck him in and his release shortly follows, pumping a few more times before his body tenses up and he spills inside you, filling you up with his seed.

as if all life has been sucked out of him, his body drops onto yours, almost smothering you with his weight but you’re too exhausted to care. for a moment, you bask in each other’s embrace in silence, save for the huffs from your lips.

luuk is the first to speak. “stay tonight.”

“okay.” you don’t think twice granting his wish. “i can’t go back to the academy looking like this anyway.”

luuk puffs out a laughter. “let me get something to clean you up with.”

he finally pulls out of you, giving you a quick peck on the lips in apology when you wince at the sudden emptiness.

for a moment, he leaves the room and comes back with a washcloth in hand. upon noticing his jeans already fastened back to his waist, you assume he’s cleaned himself up so you sit up to take the cloth from him and do it yourself but he moves it out of your reach. “just sit still for me.”

he leaves you no room to protest as he’s already crouching down before you and with delicate hands, he begins to wipe off your mixed fluids that have now dripped out of you and made a sticky mess between your legs.

as if his ichor-made ring is enough surprise for one day, he proves you wrong by suddenly fishing out your stained underwear from the pocket of his coat. you shoot him a look, an eye brow raised dubiously, but he just shrugs.

“i couldn’t just leave it there,” he explains, cocking his head to direction of the hallway where he just had his first taste of you. “the floor’s dirty. that’s unsanitary.”

the feigned seriousness in his tone pulls a hearty laugh out of you. “right. because everything we just did was so hygienic.”

right away, you notice he’s only wearing one glove.

“where’s the other one?” you ask with genuine confusion but he only looks at you knowingly, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. glancing past him, you crane your head just far enough until you see his glove on the unsanitary floor of the hallway. you snort at his hypocrisy. “so much for being sanitary.”

“i only wear that on my hand. this, however…” he trails off, sliding the underwear up your legs for you, before he continues, “…goes here.” he shoots you a wink as he places a lingering kiss on a spot on your inner thigh that’s dangerously close to your crotch.

you’d be lying if you said you’re immune to his charms. judging by the boldness in his expression that only becomes more and more blatant with each passing second, you can tell that he, too, knows exactly his effect on you.

resisting the urge to jump his bones, you wilfully ignore the throb between your legs and give him a playful kick on the shoulder, creating some space between the two of you as he stumbles backwards. with a laugh, he holds onto your ankle for support before standing upright.

luuk leans into you, closing the distance with a kiss that’s more innocent this time. you can’t help but smile against his lips when you mumble, “you said you love me.”

“i do,” he reiterates in between kisses. he refuses to pull away until you take it upon yourself to break the kiss then a cheeky grin stretches across your face. “what is it?”

“i’m hungry.”

luuk is briefly stupefied before he’s smiling himself, amused by you. he simply shakes his head at your implied request but his gaze is nothing short of adoring.

You looked at him again, he laid shirtless in bed, cuffed to the sides. Fresh gauze, alcohol, cotton, a medical stapler and tape sat on the crate beside you, just in case you needed them, which was very likely. They had patched the worst of the wounds before leaving, but the bandages on his side were already seeping again.

You didn’t want to be here. Matt had asked you because he trusted you, an old friend who’d survived Fisk’s wrath once before.—The bald bastard had tried to get you killed, after all— and because Karen had tried to put a bullet in Pointdexter’s head the moment they dragged him in.

To be honest, a part of you, a dark, whispering part, wanted Dex awake and mobile. Wanted him to walk out of here and finish the job Matt refused to fucking do.

But it’s not a matter of what you want.

With a sigh, you made your way to him with the gauze, cotton, alcohol and tape in hand, kneeling next to him on the bed. Your eyes flickered to him, making sure he was still out before daring to touch him. You peeled back the old dressing on his side as carefully as you could. His skin was fever-warm, muscles sculpted even in unconsciousness, marred by fresh bruises and the ugly gunshot wound. You used the cotton and alcohol to wipe him clean again, and then pressed clean gauze over the wound, securing it with tape, trying not to think about how still he was. You tried very hard not to think about how dangerous even this version of him felt, the man could kill people with anything, literally anything.

His hand snapped up without warning.

Fingers locked around your wrist, yanking your hand up against his chest. His eyes flew open, sharp, pale, instantly focused despite the pain. It was an intense stare that pinned you where you knelt beside the bed, it was scary. He didn’t squeeze hard enough to bruise, but there was no escaping his grip.

“You’re not Karen,” he rasped, voice rough from disuse and pain. A faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, it was honestly a little unsettling. “Good. She’d have finished the job by now.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You didn’t pull away immediately. “Let go.”

He didn’t, of course. His thumb brushed once over the inside of your wrist, almost curious, feeling your pulse racing under his fingers. “You’re playing nurse for the man who killed your friends’ buddy.” His eyes flicked over your face, reading you. “Matt’s idea?”

“Yeah.” Your voice stayed steady even as heat crawled up your neck. “He had to take Karen somewhere else, you know, before she actually shot you.”

“Smart. She’s got fire. You’re different.” He tilted his head against the thin pillow, still looking up at you like you were the only thing in the room worth focusing on, not that there was much else. The cuffs clinked softly as he tested them without real effort. “And you’ve got that look. You've got your own deal. I’m sure you’ve got a motive of your own to keep me alive.”

You swallowed. The temptation was there again, thick and ugly. All it took was one set of keys to unlock the cuffs. He could slip out, disappear into the city, and do what Matt won’t: end Fisk.

Fisk who sent men to drag you into an alley and put two bullets in your torso because you asked the wrong questions.

You’re tempted to reach for the keys, but Matt’s words echoed right after: killing Fisk now would only make him a martyr. Create ten more Fisk’s in his place.

You hated how reasonable it sounded. You hated how much you still wanted the other, less morally correct option.

“I’m here to keep you alive until Matt gets back,” you said quietly. “That’s the plan.”

His smile widened by degrees until it was a quiet, knowing thing. He loosened his hold on your wrist, though his hand remained heavy against your skin. He sat up with a stifled groan, the movement stiff and careful, you watched his expression tighten, knowing exactly how much those staples must be pulling at his side.

“You’re lying. I can see it in your eyes. Part of you wants me walking out that door, part of you is wondering what I’d do to Fisk if I did.” He licked his dry lips, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before returning. “I’m good at finishing things. Ask Foggy.”

The name hit you like a slap. You twisted your wrist free from his grip, standing up fast. Your hand hovered near the gun at your hip. “Don’t.”

“You know I could take him out.”

“You won’t.”

Dex watched you, calm as ever, even while restrained, bleeding, unarmed and in a clear disadvantage. “Why not? You know what he is. What he almost did to you.” His voice softened, almost gentle. It was fucking eerie coming from someone who holds no regard for feelings. “I’m still balancing the scales. You could help tip them.”

“Who told you about that?”

“I know Fisk tried to get you killed in an alley like a dog that needed to be put down, and I know you’re not happy about that.” He kept talking, and you’re not sure if he’s trying to taunt you or if he’s acknowledging what you went through when no one else seemed to be able to.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do,” he debated, rightfully so. “I know he sent his men to kill you, your friends know this too, and yet, the man responsible for it is walking around still, free and as the mayor. And… What are your friends doing? Nothing”.

“Don’t.” You tried interrupting him, but he kept going. The gift that keeps on giving.

“They won’t deal with him themselves, and they won’t let me deal with him either—“

“Stop it,” You said, more firmly this time. Without realizing it, your body leaned forward, one knee bending onto the edge of the mattress as you hovered over him, drawn in by his words despite yourself.

“—Which means that your friends are doing nothing to avenge you, you almost got killed and they did nothing.”

“Shut up!” You finally gave in to his provocations and had a reaction, which is what he probably wanted. Your voice came out sharper than intended, breathier, the space between you now dangerously small.

The air felt too thick. You could hear your own breathing, could see the way his chest rose and fell right beneath you, the hard line of muscle leading down to his v line, covered by his sweatpants.

He noticed where your eyes went and tilted his head, shifting his hips deliberately.

That made you draw the gun at him.

“Enough.” The barrel leveled at his chest. “Not another word.”

Dex’s eyes flicked up to yours again. That slow, crooked smile returned, the bastard was having fun despite everything. “You’re not gonna shoot me,”

You kept the gun steady, still leaning over him, hovering close enough that the heat of his body rose up to meet you. You had no intention of pulling the trigger, this is not the way you did things, but the weight of the gun felt necessary.

You held his gaze. He looked up at you from the bed, that intense, unblinking stare locking onto yours, with slightly parted lips, eyes dark and focused only on you. The silence stretched, thick and dangerous.

One twist of the key… Let him go. Let him finish it. The thought slithered back in, hot and treacherous, twisting right alongside the sharp awareness of how close you were to him, with your knee planted on the mattress, body leaning over his, gun steady between you. His warmth radiated up through the thin space that remained. You could smell the faint copper of blood, sweat, and something darker underneath.

Your eyes betrayed you. They dropped.

He was hard. Painfully, obviously hard beneath the thin gray sweats, the thick outline straining against the fabric as he sat upright on the bed, using his strong arms to steady himself, legs slightly spread.

You scoffed, half-shocked. “Seriously?”

Dex followed your gaze. For two full seconds his face flickered, genuine mortification flashing across those sharp, blood-crusted features. His ears went pink.

“You’re very close, and I’m still a man,” he said, voice low and rough, almost apologetic for that split second before the smugness crept back in.

You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “A weird man, yes. Who gets hard when someone points a gun at him?”

He tilted his head, that unsettling little smile returning even as his breathing grew heavier. Oh.

“Guess so.” His tongue slowly wet his lower lip. “Yet I’m not getting slapped… So what does that say about you?”

“Shut up.”

Oh, that got him smirking.

The gun stayed pointed at his chest, your finger nowhere near the trigger. Your eyes kept flicking down despite yourself. You kept noticing how the thin gray sweats tented obscenely, how the thick, heavy line of his cock strained against the fabric, a small wet spot already darkening the material right at the head.

Dex didn’t look away from your face. His breathing had deepened, each inhale pulling at the fresh bandages you’d just taped down. The cuffs rattled faintly as he tested them again, not hard enough to break free, but enough that the metal bit into his wrists. His gaze dropped to your mouth for a long second, then back up, pupils blown wide and dark.

“You’re not gonna shoot me,” he said again, quieter this time. “And you’re not gonna walk away either. Not with the way you’re looking at me.”

Your free hand moved before you could stop it. You fisted your fingers in his short hair at the nape of his neck and yanked his head back sharply, exposing the long line of his throat. A low, involuntary sound escaped him— not quite a groan, but close— his Adam’s apple bobbed. His eyes stayed locked on yours, pupils flaring even wider at the rough treatment. He didn’t fight it. If anything, his hips shifted forward a fraction, cock twitching visibly in the sweats.

“Tell me to stop,” you said, voice low and steady, searching his face.

The moral storm still raged in your chest: Matt’s trust, Karen’s grief, Fisk’s smug face while his men dragged you. But right now, with Dex’s pulse hammering under your grip and the way he was staring at you,, it all felt distant.

Dex’s tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip again. His stare never wavered. “Don’t stop.”

The words were simple. No hesitation.

You leaned in and crushed your mouth to his, he was already meeting you halfway.

The kiss was messy, desperate, teeth clashing because he surged up to meet you as much as the cuffs and his injuries allowed. His lips were a little dry from dehydration and blood, but he kissed like he was starving, open-mouthed, tongue sliding against yours with surprising heat. The kiss tasted like the metallic taste of blood mixed with salt and something unmistakably him. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your tongue as he instinctively tried to raise his hands to touch you. The cuffs clinked hard against the sides of the bed frame, metal biting into skin, but he didn’t stop pulling, didn’t stop chasing your mouth.

You tugged his hair harder, tilting his head exactly how you wanted, and he let you, melted into it with another low, hungry noise. His cock jumped against the fabric, hips rolling up in a helpless little thrust that made the sweats stretch obscenely.

When you finally broke the kiss for air, a thin string of spit connected your lips for a second before breaking. His eyes were half-lidded, lips shiny and swollen, that unsettling little smile gone, replaced by raw want.

“Fuck,” he rasped, voice wrecked. His gaze flicked down to where your knee was still planted on the mattress between his spread thighs, then back up to your mouth. “Do that again.”

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you holstered the gun—not trusting yourself with it anymore— and climbed fully onto the bed, straddling his lap. The moment your weight settled over his hips, his cock pressed hot and rigid against your core through the layers of clothing. He hissed through his teeth, head staying upright as his hips bucked up once, grinding into you with surprising force for someone cuffed and bleeding.

You shoved his sweats down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavy and thick against his lower belly, flushed dark, the head already slick with pre-cum that beaded at the slit and dripped down the shaft. He was big, longer than you expected, with a slight upward curve and a thick vein running along the underside.

Your hand wrapped around him without preamble, but you didn’t stroke him properly. Not yet. You kept your grip loose and torturously slow, sliding your palm from root to tip in long, dragging pulls, thumb barely grazing the sensitive head each time. Every time his hips twitched up chasing more friction, you eased off just enough to deny him the pleasure.

Dex’s breath hitched, eyes fluttering but staying locked on your face. His pupils were huge, dark, and when you gave one particularly slow twist around the head, smearing pre-cum everywhere before pulling your hand almost all the way off, a low, wrecked sound escaped him. He loved it. The denial, the suffering. You could see it in the way his abs clenched, in the desperate little jerks of his hips that he couldn’t fully control.

You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear as you edged him again, stroking just fast enough to make his cock throb in your fist before slowing to a crawl. “This is what you get for taunting me,” you whispered, voice rough. “For knowing exactly what I want and dangling it in front of me.”

He didn’t beg. He just stared at your lips, hungry and unblinking, chest heaving. When you squeezed tighter on the upstroke and then stopped completely, letting his cock twitch uselessly in the air, his wrists yanked hard at the cuffs on either side of him. The metal rattled violently against the bed frame, but he couldn’t reach you. He couldn’t touch your thighs, couldn’t grab your hips. All he could do was take it, sitting upright, muscles straining, cock leaking steadily over your fingers.

“Fuck… yeah,” he rasped, voice low and rough, almost reverent. His gaze never left your mouth. “Keep going. Just like that.”

You stroked him again, faster this time, fist gliding slick and tight until his thighs started to tremble and his breathing turned ragged, and then you stopped, pulling your hand away entirely. His cock bobbed angrily against his stomach, flushed and dripping, and Dex let out a shaky exhale, head tilting back slightly before snapping forward again to watch you.

The moral battle roared back louder than ever while you tortured him like this. Matt had asked you to keep Dex alive— locked up, controlled— so he wouldn’t kill Fisk and turn the bastard into a martyr. Karen wanted him dead for Foggy, her hands already stained enough by Wesley. And you… you wanted Fisk gone more than almost anything. The alley, the bullets tearing through you, the fear… it still woke you up some nights. Dex would do it. You knew it in your bones. If you uncuffed him right now and whispered the words, he’d walk out of here and end Wilson Fisk without a second thought.

He’d love it. He’d do it for the sport, for the balance, and maybe— just maybe—a little for you.

But Matt’s voice echoed in your head: I cannot let her kill him and do something that will haunt her forever. And you knew he was right. Killing Fisk now would only create ten more monsters in his place.

Still, with Dex sitting there cuffed to the sides of the bed, cock throbbing in your hand, eyes dark with want and that eerie calm acceptance… The temptation to just let him go afterward was thicker than ever.

You gave him one more slow, punishing stroke—tight, twisting, dragging your thumb hard over the leaking slit— then stopped again, watching his face twist with frustrated pleasure.

“Enough,” you finally growled, voice breaking with your own need. You stripped your pants and underwear off in one rough motion, kicking them aside. Then you climbed back over him properly, lining his cock up with your entrance. You were soaked, already embarrassingly wet from the power, the wrongness, the sheer intensity of edging him while he sat there helpless and loving every second of it.

You sank down onto him in one slow, relentless slide.

The stretch burned in the best way, his thick cock splitting you open as you took every inch. Dex’s head stayed upright, eyes rolling back for a second as a guttural groan ripped from his chest. “So fucking tight— Jesus Christ.”

You bottomed out with a moan, hips flush against his. For a moment you just sat there, letting yourself adjust, feeling him throb deep inside you while he remained sitting, cuffed hands useless at his sides. Then, when it stopped being too much, you started moving, slow, grinding rolls of your hips that dragged his cock against every sensitive spot inside you.

His hands were useless, cuffed tight to the sides of the bed, so all he could do was take it. Take every roll of your hips, every clench of your pussy around him. His abs flexed with every thrust, the bandages on his side darkening further, but he didn’t care. He just stared up at you with raw hunger, lips parted, occasionally bucking up to meet you when he could, the cuffs rattling with each desperate pull.

You braced one hand on his sweat-slick chest, the other fisting his short hair again as you started riding him in earnest. Slow at first, then faster with deep, grinding rolls of your hips that dragged every thick inch of his cock along your walls, the wet squelch of your soaked pussy swallowing him obscenely loud in the quiet room.

That should’ve sobered you up, it didn’t.

Dex stayed sitting upright, cuffed hands useless at his sides, but he didn’t stay passive. Every time you leaned closer, chasing the friction on your clit against his pelvis, he craned his neck forward with a low, hungry sound. His lips found your throat, hot and open-mouthed, sucking messy marks into the skin just below your jaw while his tongue dragged greedily along your pulse point. When you slammed down taking him to the hilt, he groaned against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot hard enough to sting before soothing it with his tongue.

“Fuck- so wet,” he rasped between kisses, voice wrecked and rough, lips brushing your collarbone as you rode him faster. “Can feel you dripping down… squeezing me so fucking tight every time you sink down.”

His hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes as much as the pain and cuffs allowed, the motion limited but forceful, driving his cock deeper with every thrust. The cuffs rattled violently against the sides of the bed with each desperate yank, metal biting into his wrists, veins standing out along his forearms as he strained uselessly to touch you. He wanted to grab your hips, to pull you down harder, to feel your skin under his palms so badly that his fingers curled into tight fists, tugging harder every time your pussy clenched around him.

You ground down in tight circles, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you with every roll, your clit rubbing slick and insistent against the base of his shaft. Dex’s head tilted, lips latching onto the side of your neck again, sucking hard as a broken grunt vibrated against your skin. His breath came in hot, ragged pants between each messy kiss, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat.

“Harder,” he muttered against your throat, the word half-command, half-plea, but he didn’t beg, just kept staring up at you with those blown pupils whenever you pulled back enough to meet his gaze. Another violent tug at the cuffs made the bed frame creak as you bounced on his cock, the wet slap of your ass meeting his thighs growing louder, filthier.

Your walls fluttered around his thick length, the stretch burning so good as you took him deeper, feeling every vein and ridge as you rode him without mercy. Dex’s abs clenched visibly under your palm, and he groaned louder when you traced them with your fingers, mouth chasing your neck again, licking a broad stripe up the column of your throat before biting down lightly, hips stuttering up to fuck into you from below.

The pleasure coiled tighter, your pussy gripping him like a vice with every downstroke, slick sounds echoing as you slammed yourself onto his cock over and over. Dex’s breathing turned into shallow, desperate grunts against your skin, his cock twitching and pulsing hot inside you, the head nudging your cervix with every brutal grind.

When you came, it hit like a freight train. A good one. Your pussy clamping down rhythmically around his throbbing cock, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you ground down hard, riding out every pulsing wave while your nails dug into his chest.

Dex followed right after with a low, “Fuck—”, his hips jerking up as much as he could, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spilled thick, hot ropes of cum, flooding your pussy while he stayed sitting upright, lips pressed open-mouthed against your neck through the whole thing.

The room fell quiet except for your shared, ragged breathing.

You stayed there for a long moment, still impaled on his softening cock, both of you slick with sweat and cum and a little blood from his reopened wounds. Your fingers loosened in his hair, stroking through the short strands almost gently now.

Dex’s eyes were half-closed, but he was still watching you, only that now that intense, pale stare had softened just a fraction by the afterglow. His voice, when it came, was rough and quiet.

“…You still gonna keep me locked up?”

You didn’t answer right away. The moral storm was already creeping back in, quieter now, but still there. Matt’s request. Karen’s rage. Fisk still breathing.

But the way Dex had looked at you when he said “don’t stop,” the way he’d yanked at those cuffs like he’d die if he couldn’t touch you… you knew one thing for certain.

He would do it if you asked, he’d walk out of here and put a bullet in Fisk’s head without blinking.

the targaryen retinue is travelling and the walls in this castle are less thick than those of the red keep. aerion's lying in bed when he starts to hear a noticeable thud thud thud coming from his brother's room. soon he can hearing groaning and whimpering and little 'uh uh uh'. it's muffled, but obvious enough what's going on. aerion smirks and starts stroking his cock without even a hint of shame.

***

the next morning at breakfast, aerion sees daeron and is ready to start shit. slyly asks his brother how his evening ride was. makes all sorts of crude remarks, asks if the mare was an easy enough ride. if she struggled to bear his weight. if his mount was all worn out now. but daeron is just confused and it's no fun if his food doesn't realize it's being played with. so aerion outright says "could hear you and your ride last night. didn't think you had it in you, but it sounded like your wife thoroughly enjoyed herself."

and daeron is so annoyed with his little shit of a brother, mostly for the disrespect towards you. and he probably should keep his mouth shut but he doesn't. "you're the one obsessed with our family's history. you should know dragons don't ride. they're ridden."

and daeron leaves to return to his wife's side. aerion watches the two of you and notices for the first time that it's daeron who nuzzles into and is utterly devoted to you.

***

aerion's never deemed you worthy of much attention, but now he can't stop thinking about you and wondering what exactly you do to his brother.

aerion doesn't have many opportunities to speak with you without another's presence. but when he does he probes with devious questions, testing you. compliments your horsemanship. asks how you manage to tame a stallion. plays at being the good brother by commenting on how happy daeron seemed with you. how much he had improved under your...influence. is so bold as to acknowledge that his brother had given up whoring for you, a sure sign of his...happiness in the marriage.

if you understand his meanings, you don't let on, and aerion may be bold but he is also intentional. he can't be too direct lest he ruin the game.

***

because the family is travelling, he has the opportunity to sneak into your things. aerion goes into your room and takes one of your dresses, the lowest cut one, and uses it to fist his cock until he cums thinking about you riding him. he leaves it in a bunch on the floor. he assumes the servants must have found it and if they recognized what the residue was, they didn't raise the alarm. he also stole your perfume before he left.

he listens every night but he doesn't hear you fucking his brother again. he groans in frustration.

he finds a whore that looks a little like you, if he squints. he makes her wear your perfume. aerion gets her to ride him, but it's not right, she's too careful about it. she's not making him feel whatever you made daeron feel. he flips the whore over and fucks her, but ultimately finds the experience disappointing.

he tries to linger outside the bathing house the party stops at so he can sneak a glimpse at you, but the ladies are too well guarded and he spots his father and has to make himself scarce.

***

the weeks that drag on are torturous. finally, the retinue returns to king's landing and aerion has his chance. that night he uses the secret passages in the red keep, one of which fortuitously leads to daeron's room. he peers in through a crack in the wall and, just as he hoped, finds you taking advantage of having your husband all to yourself.

daeron's laid out on the floor while you ride him, both naked. his mouth's hanging open and he's whimpering. his hands grasp at the rug and it's obvious to aerion that you've told daeron he's not allowed to touch you.

"please please please" daeron moans.

"what do you want, dear husband?" you smirk down at him.

"w-want to suck on your tits."

you grip his hair and pull daeron to sit up. daeron's practically drooling, dipping his head down towards your pretty breasts, when you shove him back down on the rug again. daeron whines.

you lean down, tits bouncing near his face but not close enough.

"do i need to tie you down?"

"n-no," he stammers.

"is my husband going to be good for me?" you purr.

"s-so good!"

aerion's cock is out and he's touching himself, matching your rhythm so he can pretend it's his cock you're riding. he speeds up as you do. you're both going faster and aerion can feel himself getting closer and see that daeron's the same.

then, you stop.

daeron cries and grasps at the rug. and, though aerion had no intention of stopping, no desire to stop, he found his hand no longer moving. aerion's face presses against the wall and he pants, hard.

you pull daeron up into a sitting position and your legs wrap around his back. both you and daeron moan, the position evidently pushing him even deeper inside you. you begin moving again and aerion can see you're riding for your pleasure, not your husband's, though the sounds daeron is making make it obvious he's still very much enjoying it. aerion began stroking his cock again.

you stick your fingers in daeron's open mouth and he obediently begins sucking on them. you ride your husband again faster and faster until you suddenly stop short again. daeron is distraught and aerion only manages to remain quiet by biting his fist as he also stops touching himself, though he keeps a tight grip on the base of his cock.

daeron's actually crying and aerion wonders if his brother is this pathetic (hypocrite, he's hardly any better) or if you'd edged him before this. maybe even denied him for days.

"you're going to cum if i keep going, aren't you, sweetheart?" you cooed.

daeron nodded and whimpered.

"well, i can't have that. you look too perfect like this. my good boy." you cooed.

aerion's hips jerked forward.

"but it's not fair i don't get to keep having fun just because you can't control yourself, is it?"

daeron shook his head.

aerion never understood the stories of men who brought kingdoms to war and ruin over desire for a woman. seemed too much trouble for some cunt. aerion had assumed it was romantic nonsense, the work of storytellers, but it's now obvious to aerion his brother would agree to anything you said in that moment. give you anything you asked for. anything at all. daeron was completely pathetic and miserable and utterly weak for you, it was embarassing.

gods, aerion envies him.

you untangle yourself from daeron, your bodies separating with a wet sound that has aerion's hips thrusting again. he can't help it. he can't deny himself. he keeps pumping as you drape yourself across yours' and your husband's bed.

you spread your legs wide. aerion can see every inch of you. his hips buck uncontrollably as daeron crawls towards your exposed pussy.

daeron presses his face between your legs and licks a stripe up your cunt. you moan, and that does it for aerion.

aerion cums, hard, biting his fist until he tastes blood.

he's shaking all over as his body comes down. aerion feels he could topple over, but he braces himself against the wall. he can't rest now.

“Gods above, I can no longer handle the stench of us,” you bemoan. You bring your horse up beside Dunk’s. “Ser, you must find me a stream. Something to clean myself in.”

Dunk purses his lips. He ought to say no. It’d be better to travel another day before stopping for something so frivolous. But then you’re tugging at the collar of your dress, letting out a groan of discomfort as your breasts become dangerously more exposed. 

He clears his throat, ripping his eyes away, missing the disappointed scowl you wear. “Alright,” he croaks, not at all because he knows you’ll ask him to guard you while you bathe. And not at all because he knows there’ll be a split second where he might actually be able to see something. 

Because he is a knight. A hedge knight, but an honorable one nonetheless. And an honorable man does not sneak glances at women he’s sworn to protect while they’re vulnerable. 

And naked. 

And dripping-

No. 

It’s not too much time later that you all come upon a stream deep within the woods. Egg runs off first, off to hunt something for dinner. He knows to avoid the water until you’ve finished, but Dunk doesn’t have much of a choice. 

Because of course, you need your big, strong knight to aid you. Nevermind the fact that your father had you trained by a Braavosi Water Dancer. You need Dunk. 

For reasons. 

“Come along,” you call and Dunk clears his throat, tugging on his pants as he follows. He feels no better than a hound, trained to salivate at the sound of rushing water. 

You cast a look over your shoulder, spinning your finger and he nods, turning away. But he misses how you watch him, slipping off your dress and hoping to catch him steal a look. 

When he doesn’t, you try not to let your disappointment show, reaching down to tug your dress off the rest of the way. Dunk glances over his shoulder, nearly choking as his eyes drag along the curve of your skin, the slight arch in your lower back as you walk into the stream. 

He shakes his head, forcing himself to turn away, hand on the hilt of his sword. He's a horrible man. All he can think of is how he wished you had turned around. 

“Here, m’lady,” he takes your hand and helps you onto your horse. One large palm cups the curve of your rear as you swing your leg over the saddle. You’ve learned to ignore that touch as nothing more than a helping hand. Dunk has no such luck, the feel of you burned into his skin. 

He gets up behind you. Your own horse had to be sold to afford some more rations for the road. Until you can scrounge enough coppers, you’re stuck with Dunk. 

Honestly, he probably should have let you ride with Egg. He’s already big enough for his own mount; Thunder don’t need another weight to carry. But, selfishly, he enjoys the feel of you pressed up against his chest, your soft curves rubbing against his arms as he holds the reins. 

And you, you certainly wouldn’t complain at whatever rare form of contact he’ll allow you. Especially not when he bucks his hips, urging Thunder on. But you know you’ve reached a fresh hell in your life when he whispers praise to the creature and you’re jealous of the damnable thing. 

The group of you stops off at a local village market. The place seems familiar to you, somehow, but you can’t place it. Dunk goes off to ask after some work around the area, to see if he can make some spare change. 

Egg doesn’t wish to join him and listen to the boring pleasantries. Dunk permits his leave only if he swears that he won’t leave your side. Egg promises, of course, none of you realize that Dunk’s just damned you all. 

You probably would have been able to get out of this if it weren’t for Egg’s big mouth. 

You stand before a fruit vendor, eyeing the apples and checking for any wormholes. The man behind the stall is casting you an odd look that is beginning to make your skin crawl. 

“I know you?” He suddenly snaps and you jump at the volume of his voice. 

“Er, no, I don’t think you do.” You cast him a wary glare as you debate abandoning your search for a half-decent taste besides salt beef. 

Before you can leave, his hand snaps out, clammy hold wrenching up your wrist. “Sir!”

“I do know you. You stole my favorite mount!”

Your eyes widen as you suddenly realize who this man is. A year past, when you first began traveling with Egg. You’d passed through this village on the way from Storm’s End. Daeron, drunk and testing the true boldness of a Baratheon bastard, had promised one hundred gold stags if you stole this man’s horse. 

There was nothing against this man in particular. But it was quite possibly one of the most gorgeous mounts you’d ever seen. A Dornish steed, you were sure, with a coat like fire and sand. Of course, you’d done it. You just hadn’t thought that anyone had seen you. 

“I’m afraid you’re confused-“

A shocked gasp cuts you off. “It’s him!”

You whip around and see Egg staring up at the man. You rip your wrist from the vendor’s hold and slap your hand around Egg’s mouth. 

“What was that, boy?” He barks out, leaning over the table. 

“Nothing, sir, please. My boy- he was knocked in the head by a mule, that's why he’s bald as he is, truly.” Egg rips from your hold and stomps down on your foot. 

You jump back with a gasp, hands swiping out at him. “Unhand me,” he snaps. “I was not kicked in the head!”

Your eyes clench shut as the vendor growls,” Guards!” He shouts. “Guards!”

“Oh,” Egg’s face drops as he realizes his blunder. You let out a groan and snatch up his wrist, racing through the stalls. The fruit merchant calls after you but you keep going, ignoring the clash of armor as the guards follow close behind. 

“Next time I silence you, stay quiet.” You growl down at Egg. He’s too busy looking over his shoulder to nod. Eyes wide with panic as he follows alongside you. 

Through some blessed mercy, you manage to find Dunk. You grab his arm, turning him away from the barkeep he’d been speaking to. “Oi,” he trails off as he takes in your face. “What’d ya do?”

“Problem,” you pant out. A loud shout catches your attention and you all turn to see the guards just behind you. “Big problem!”

You’re cut off by your own yelp as Dunk squats down. He presses his shoulder to your stomach, lifting you as easy as he would a sack of potatoes. You let out a little squeal as he straightens, hauling Egg up in his other arm. 

Your hands scramble for grip along his back as he hightails out of the market. You can’t believe his stamina as he runs with you all. 

It’s actually all you can think about now. Wondering how this translates to other aspects of his life as he gets back to the horses. 

He sets you down with a huff and eases Egg onto his horse before returning to you. You don’t get to enjoy the feel of his hand around you for long before the guards catch up. 

“Hiyah,” his hips buck against yours and you let out a low, frustrated groan as he urges the horses on. 

Dunk lays a heavy hand around your waist as he helps you down from your horse. You rest your weight against him, pretending not to notice how he stares down your dress as you push your chest up. 

“Are you coming?” Egg shouts and then Dunk’s releasing you. Your fists clench at your sides as you let out a belligerent curse. You love the prince, but you’ll have to find a way to get rid of the boy for a night. 

With a low grumble, you follow behind the pair, plotting to yourself all the while. You’re fine enough admitting that you’re perverted as you watch Dunk’s nicely shaped rear as he walks. But you wish you could say the same about him. 

You’ve seen glimpses of his true hunger. Moments where he’s shoved a knee between your legs and hauled you up his body. Or squeezed a little harshly at your backside while his tongue explored your mouth. 

But he always drifts away just before you really get to taste it. There must be a way to tempt a virtuous man. You’ve broken monks before, Gods above. A simple hedge knight should not be proving such a challenge. 

“Are you gonna be alright here?” Dunk asks you, standing amid a camp of other traveling knights. You’re somewhere in the Reach, growing ever closer to Egg’s destination of the Red Lake. 

It’s happenstance that you found yourself in the company of so many rugged men just as your patience snapped. Not to say you would lie with any of them. No, your lusts are solely for the knight beside you. But they could prove incredibly helpful to your plan. 

“I have you, don’t I?” You ask, glancing up at Dunk with wide eyes and a coy smile. He flushes slightly before backing off with a stiff nod. 

“Of course, m’lady.”

“I’m not a lady, Dunk,” you remind him. “Far from it,” you mutter, dragging your hand along his waist as you pass by. Dunk jolts under your touch, posture going stiff straight. It’s almost laughable if you weren’t so frustrated. 

You wander off to help Egg set up the tents and smile when you see him chatting eagerly with the other squires. You don’t feel the stare burning into your back. Or catch how Dunk’s head tilts, catching the curve of your hips as you walk. 

He shakes his head, cursing himself, and wanders off toward the other knights. He’s damned straight to the hells, he’s sure of it. Being tempted by a kind woman such as yourself. You cannot help that you’re beautiful. It ain’t your fault he’s so easily tempted by you. 

Except it is. 

Later, sitting around the fire, you realize the knights really don’t have any proper accommodations for a lady. No seat to rest on, only the hard earth or flaking logs. Well, that simply won’t do. 

You trail your hand across Dunk’s shoulders, grinning at the way he shudders. You come to a stop by his side and he glances up at you with eager-to-please eyes. “Do you mind, Ser?” You whisper. 

He frowns but then you’re uncrossing his arms and making room for yourself as you drop on his lap. Dunk immediately goes stiff, mind racing as his hands hover at your sides. 

You simply hum, taking his hands in yours and wrapping them around your waist. Warmth emanates from you, the soft curve of your breasts rests atop his arm and it’s the only thing he can feel. 

He knows he’d been speaking to another knight before this. Gods only know what he’d been saying. You laugh as you continue the conversation for him, conversing as if your mind isn’t as disturbed as his. Must not be. 

Dunk lets out a low grunt, shifting his thighs so you can’t feel the steadily growing bulge in his pants. Your nails dig into his thighs as he readjusts, shooting him an odd look. Dunk can only offer a tense smile, trying to tilt his hips so you don’t brush against him. 

He lets his hand rest along your thigh, thumb moving restlessly against you. You shift at that, thighs clenching as you push back against him. His breath hitches as you finally catch what he’s been trying to hide. He waits for you to storm off, to curse him for being so perverted. But you don’t, if anything, you seem to move closer, a low sigh slipping from your lips as you shift further against him. 

All Dunk can think about is lifting your skirts and taking you there. Pushing you into the grass and leaves and mounting you like an animal. 

You let out a sharp gasp, and he glances down, having pushed you from his lap without realizing it. “Oh, m’lady,” he reaches for you but you slap his hands away. “‘M sorry.”

“Enough,” you shake your head and let out a tired sigh. “Enough,” you mutter, stepping away from the fire. Dunk watches you go, something tight twisting his chest. 

“Oi,” one of the knights slaps him. “How much does she cost?”

Dunk’s brow furrows and he shakes his head. “My lady isn’t a whore.”

The man backs off with his hands raised. “Sorry, lad, didn’t realize she was your woman.”

“No,” Dunk shakes his head, ready to correct the other man. But he doesn’t want any of them thinking that you’re up for grabs. That any part of you might be open to them. It’s not his place to make that decision. And he’s sure he’s doing you a disservice, but Dunk can’t care about that right now. 

He gets to his feet, checks that Egg is still with the other squires, and goes traipsing after you. He follows your trail all the way to a stream. You’re kneeling by it, hand lazily dipping through the water. 

His boot snaps against a branch and you leap to your feet. “It’s just me,” he assuages. You turn with a small smile. “I’m sorry-“

“No,” you cut him off and he huffs. “I’m sorry, Ser. I’m afraid I’ve been unfair.”

“Unfair?”

“I am not a lady, Dunk. I have needs. Needs as bad as any man. But I’m afraid I’ve been blinded by lust. Forcing my affections on you when you haven’t wanted them. I’ve shamed myself, I’m sorry.”

Dunk’s jaw drops as he stares at you. “Affections- Needs?” He rakes a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “You haven’t forced anything, woman, what the hell are you talking about?”

You’re frowning now. “By the fire when you… well you were-“

“Hard,” Dunk finishes and your eyes blow wide. 

“Gods, I hadn’t thought you capable of such crass language.”

“I’m a knight, not a lady,” he chides you and that drags a laugh from you. “Are you saying, all this time, you’ve known what you’re doing?” Dunk stalks closer and he catches a gleam in your eye that he can’t believe he hadn’t noticed before. 

“Well,” you take a step closer to him. “Yes,” you laugh under your breath. It cuts off as he reaches out, snagging your waist in his hands and pulling you closer. 

“All this-“

“Enough talking,” you groan, pushing onto your toes and grabbing his cheeks. You pull him down, lips crashing against his as you back him up. He lets out a low groan as his back hits a tree, hands roaming greedily along your body. 

You can’t believe how stupid you’ve both been. Well, you can believe him. But Gods, how blinded by lust have you been that you haven’t seen such obvious signs from him?

Perhaps he’s far more discreet than you’d given him credit for. Or, you’re losing your touch. 

Dunk’s hand cups your jaw, finger squeezing lightly at your cheeks as your lips part. His tongue wastes no time, dipping between your parted lips as you let out a low moan. He flips you both around, pushing you up against the tree as he lowers himself. 

You catch your breath as he breaks away from you. Hands greedy as they sweep along the hem of your dress, hiking it up above your hips. You almost question him, but the sight of his broad shoulders parting your thighs shuts you up. 

“May I?” He asks, fingers coasting the edge of your undergarments. Your hand smooths along his cheek, up to his hair as you nod. He wastes little time in ripping the flimsy fabric apart, nose dipping low and brushing against you. 

“Oh,” you let out a shaky moan, head falling back against the rough bark as his tongue darts out, a tentative taste of you. It’s alarming how quick he is to flatten his tongue and drag it along the length of you. How quick he is to grow greedy. Large hands pinching at your thighs as he hikes one over his shoulder, practically drowning in you as he buries his face deep. 

“Gods above,” you hiss, biting down on your palm so you don’t alert the entire forest to your perversions. You feel Dunk’s smug smirk as he lifts you, tilting his head to allow his tongue a deeper angle inside you. 

You’ve lain with plenty of men before. But you don’t think you’ve ever met one so eager, so hungry for your release on his tongue. A sharp cry leaves you as your hands tighten in his hair, hips bucking against his large nose as he sucks on your small bundle of nerves. 

“Dunk,” you gasp out, core pulsing near painfully as your pleasure mounts. He doesn’t stop, if anything you seem to be encouraging him. Rapid, bucking hips grow desperate as you chase your release. 

“Come on,” he urges, eyes eager as he spares you a brief glance. That look in his eyes seems to be enough as you cry out his name, chasing your release. He reaches up, large hand smothering the bottom half of your face as your pleasure crashes over you. Your moans go muffled against his palm, eyes burning with unshed tears as he slowly lifts himself. 

He waits for you to calm down, thumbs rubbing circles into your hips as he presses soft kisses along the curve of your neck. 

When you finally catch your breath, you only have one question. “Where the bloody hell did a hedge knight learn that?” 

Dunk snorts and leans back. “I’m not a blushing maid,” he admonishes. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” you tease. 

Dunk shakes his head, dipping down for another hungry kiss. You can taste your release on his tongue and it only stokes the fires of your lust. “Please,” you beg, reaching for his breeches. 

His hand stills yours and he leans back, looking shamefully at the ground. “I’m quite… big,” he warns you. 

You pull back with a huff. “You say that like it’s a problem. Not a maiden, need I remind you?” You scold him. 

“Yes, well-“

“Dunk, do you wish to lay with me?”

His eyes go wide as he nods eagerly. “Then relax, love.” It doesn’t seem to sate him much, but it’s enough for you. You work on the laces of his breeches while his own hand clumsily undoes the ties of your dress. 

He pulls it down just enough for your breasts to spill out, palms greedily cupping them as he dips his head to kiss you once more. You don’t get a chance to see what’s between his legs. But you feel the weight of it in your palm. The length, the girth. 

Lords above, he might be right. 

But you’re a Stormborn. You don’t back away from danger. You run to it. Or, in this case, allow it to split you in two. 

“Are you sure?”

“Please, Dunk,” you encourage, wrapping one leg around his hip while he pushes your skirts back up. He spares you one last look before nodding. His hands cup your thighs and you let out a small moan as he lifts you easily, pressing you higher against the tree. 

It’s been a while since you’ve lain with a man. But not so long that it feels like losing your maidenhead again. Dunk’s slow as he guides himself inside you, and you’ve been wanting him so long, you hardly feel the sting of his size. 

The only thing your lustful body can think of is how deeply you want him to bury himself. Your nails drag through his hair, scratching at his scalp as you press hungry kisses along his jaw, his neck, before sinking your teeth into his shoulder. 

He lets out a low hiss, grip turning bruising around your legs as he buries himself completely. The moan you let out is sinful, the pressure inside you feels close to exploding as he rests there for a moment. 

“Gods,” he lets out a low noise that has pleasurable shivers running up your spine. 

You pull back from him, tilting his chin down. “Please, move.” He gives you a shaky nod, one arm bracing against the tree as he uses the other to adjust you. Even that small movement is enough to have you keening. 

The first roll of his hips is slow, tentative. Like he still worries he might hurt you. But then, you’re tugging in his hair, begging for more, and he’s snapping his hips against yours eagerly. Each movement jolts you further up the tree, the bark snagging at the lace off your dress. 

You hardly care, legs clenching around him as you bite your tongue. Each thrust knocks the breath from you, feels so good it hurts as you try not to make a noise. 

Dunk hardly even needs the tree; he’s so tall, so strong, he keeps you upright all on his own. That only serves to further your desire, your nails dragging along his back as he nearly kisses your cervix. 

His thrusts begin to fasten as you clench around him. Your pleasure begins mounting once more. Either from your previous release or simply having what you’ve coveted for so long. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t take much more for you to be squeezing tight around him while his warmth spills in you. 

“Gods,” you mutter, arms limp along his shoulders as he shifts to hold all of your weight. You’re not eager for him to set you down. You doubt your legs will be working right now. The tips of your toes still tingled with the numb pleasure of your release. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, slowly helping you down. Your legs tremble as you stand straight and you can only nod, tongue too loose to attempt conversation right now. 

He pulls up his breeches while you work on fixing the laces of your dress. After a minute, when the fog has begun to clear from your mind, you admire his form. The thick arms that held you so easily, bigger legs that you still had yet to ride. Not to mention what rests between his legs. The gods surely had favorites. And you had to be one of them for them to have sent you such a man. 

“Next time you wish to do that, do not hide behind the guise of honor,” you scold him but he can only grin at you. A boyish, incredibly self-satisfied look about him. “You only punish us both.” 

Dunk nods, kneeling to pick up his sword. You’re not even sure when he dropped that. “Yes, m’lady.”

You take his chin between your fingers, pinching it and tilting his face toward your own. “I’m no lady.”

“No,” he laughs. “You’re not.” You scoff, reaching to swat at him. But he snatches your hand in his and hauls you easily over his shoulder. 

“You brute,” you accuse, grinning at his chuckle. And more than grateful. There was no way in the seven hells you were walking back to camp. 

Now, you only had to find a way to excuse those noises the others had heard. Perhaps you could lie, say it’s mating season for elk. 

It’s certainly just become mating season for one beast, and you’re currently tossed over his shoulder. The poor thing has no idea what he’s just done. 

a/n: me whenever I see this beefy man

end. — I do not own the characters or the show A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

You scrunch your nose up in disgust at the thick stench of Aerion’s metallic blood and the rotten smell of mud and whatever else he was covered in, filling the room as he weakly hobbled closer to you. His first demand wasn’t for a healer, no, it was to see you. 

The sight of you looking away from him with such disgust and disappointment pulled a weak and desperate whimper from the back of his throat. He tried to move closer, but the look you gave him had him falling to his knees, the sound of his armor clanking, and his sounds of pain filled the silence. 

“Please,” he begged, voice cracking and hoarse as he tried to hold his head up. Please, look at me. Please, tell me I did well. Please, let me touch you. 

“And have you ruin my dress?” you scoffed with a roll of your eyes. It was beneath you to even be in the presence of such a weak-minded and bodied man. He couldn’t defeat a fucking hedge knight, and yet he dared to be on his knees before you, begging. 

“If I shall die tonight…” he trailed off into a pained mixture of a gasp and wheeze as he fully lifted his head to look up at you. His breathing was labored, but the pain he felt was nothing compared to the desire and yearning he felt for you. “I want to die with the taste of you on my lips.” 

“The same lips you used to yield?” you dramatically pouted with a tilt of your head, looking down at him with faux sympathy. And for a very brief moment aerion believed the gods answered his prayers and you’d give him what he’s always desired, even if that meant his death. 

But the gods were cruel, as were you. 

You slammed your goblet down on the table, the sound echoing loudly through the chamber. He couldn’t help but flinch, pain surging all through his body. Tears well in his eyes at the look of pure disgust you give him, your tone cruel and mocking, “you’re filth aerion, you don’t deserve to taste me.” 

“Maybe I should go to see Ser Duncan, tend to his wounds,” you taunted, a sickly sweet smile on your lips as you took a slow step closer to him. Your fingers played with your rings, a feeling of pride washing over you at the sight of tears in his eyes. 

Another sound of pain left the Prince's mouth as he shook his head weakly at your words. Hearing such things coming from you made him feel even more sick. That Hedge Knight didn’t deserve to have his eyes blessed at the sight of you, let alone be in the same presence as you, breathe the same air as you. 

He’d rather take another touch of a blade than have that cunt ever feel yours. 

“I deserve a man that doesn’t yield, don’t I?” You whispered with a click of your tongue. Your eyes were sparkling with amusement at the pained cries leaving Aerion’s bloody and busted lips. His body shook with helpless sobs. 

All of his pride thrown away as he bowed his head, his shoulders sagged, and his gloved hands brushed against the stone before he placed them flat, willing to crawl towards you. He cared very little for the blood loss or his reputation as he knelt there in front of you. 

“please princess,” he got out between his sobs, more blood pooling from his mouth and down his neck. He looked so pretty when he cried, so pathetic and small. He looked like how he liked to make people feel. 

You took a step closer, scrunching your nose in annoyance at the cries and pleading leaving his lips. You’d enjoy it much more if he weren’t making such a mess and smelled so badly. You licked your wine-stained lips as you looked down at him, stopping in front of him. Far enough that his blood wouldn’t touch your dress. 

You wouldn’t give him what he truly desired, not after that embarrassing performance he gave for all of Ashford to see. By nightfall, the truth of the weakness of the prince would spread across the realm, no doubt. And like you said, you weren’t going to let his filth ruin your pretty dress. 

He looked like he was dying, and he smelt of it too, you weren’t that cruel (you truly were) to not answer the ‘dying' prince's plea. 

“Two, and that is all.” Your tone gave him no room for discussion or disagreement. You outstretched your hand in front of his bloodied face; your fingers would have to do. 

Dark spots clouded his vision, and he could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he quickly lifted his head. A desperate whimper left his lips as he eagerly opened his mouth, his bloody tongue slipping past his lips. 

Your fingers softly grazed his bottom lip, pressing hard into the cut on his lip, causing him to let out a strangled moan. The pad of your index and middle finger pressed against his tongue. 

The corner of your mouth twitched into a pleased smirk as the prince looked up at you with dazed eyes, waiting for your permission. When he does get the small nod of permission, he’s quick to close his mouth around them. 

A loud moan filled the room as he immediately started lapping at your soft fingers. His eyes never left yours as he sucked them deeper into his mouth, coating them in his spit and blood. 

He could taste the lavish oils you would get from Dorne and have your body covered in them with the help of your handmaidens. To many nights he spent imagining himself rubbing the oil into your body himself. 

You sigh boredly, clicking your tongue in disappointment, “can’t you do better than that?” 

Aerion whined around your fingers, more tears rolling down his face and mixing beautifully with his blood. The pain his body felt was nothing compared to the pain he felt when he disappointed you. 

You lean down a little, his eyes nearly rolling back as he gets a better whiff of your addictive scent. You pouted dramatically as you watched him drool around your fingers, such a bloody mess. “and to think you thought I’d let you taste my cunt” 

He shook his head weakly, nearly gagging on your fingers as he tried to do better. He wasn’t going to fail you too, not again, but you never gave second chances. 

You pulled your wet fingers from his mouth, a string of his mixed saliva and blood following. A desperate whine left him at the loss of your fingers. He’d chase after your fingers, but he wouldn’t be able to handle the sting of your slap, no matter how much he craved it in his current state. 

You looked down at your fingers that were covered in his blood and spit, and then back to him. He looked up at you with those pathetic eyes. If you really focused, you could hear his blood drip into the stone. You grip his face, spreading the blood and spit all over his mouth, scoffing at the pathetic noises he lets out. 

“You deserve nothing but to lick the bottom of my boots,” you hissed as you pressed into the cut on his cheek. Aerion moans and leans into your touch, pitiful cries filling the room. And that’s when you noticed the way his hips subtly jerked forward. 

A big and twisted grin spreads across your face at the realization that he was turned on. Your laugh was amused and airy. “You’re such a nasty whore.” 

You slipped your fingers back into his mouth, knuckles deep as he sucks and swirls his tongue around them. Your words were sharp and cruel as you belittled him, tearing him down word by word, but all he did was moan around your fingers, his hips jerking desperately. 

The fatigue from the blood loss, mixed with the pain and the pleasure he felt from you, was sickening. He felt like he was drunk. His body didn’t feel like his, your voice sounded distant, his heartbeat getting too loud to hear your beautifully twisted words. 

His jaw was going slack, too exhausted to do any more. But you didn’t care, thrusting your fingers into his mouth as he gagged and whined. Blood and drool making lewd wet noises.  

“Such filthy, pathetic lips, only good for one thing, aren’t they?” You cooed tauntingly, your eyes never leaving his. He nodded weakly around your fingers, the movement causing him to gag. You watched him closely, how his tears pooled out of his eyes. You wanted to watch him fall apart.

And fall apart he did… 

“Nngh!” He let out a choked and pained moan around your fingers, his eyes rolling back and his hips stuttering as he filled his breeches with his seed, mixing with the blood. 

You kept your fingers in his throat until he tried to pull away, desperate for air as he felt his body slowly and uncontrollably jerk. For a split second, you thought of what your life would be if he were dead…but there was a sick part of you that wanted to keep him around. To see him look at you with those pitiful eyes full of tears. You did enjoy how he sounded when he begged…

You pull away your fingers, a thick string of blood and saliva connecting the two of you. Aerion’s chest burned as he tried to catch his breath, barely able to keep his eyes fully open. A cough leaves his throat, blood splattering all over the front of your dress. 

You shrieked and took a step back, nearly tripping over the skirt of your dress. The sound of your shriek snaps him back from fully surrendering to the pain, his half-lidded eyes looking up at you. Your face was twisted in a look of pure anger. 

Panic surged through his beaten body; the tears were quick to come back as he realized what he had done; he failed you. “Princess, I’m sorry—“ 

“You truly are pathetic,” you were quick to cut off his pathetic attempt at an apology. Your tone was scarily calm as you turned your lip up in disgust. Your jaw clenched as you looked down at the kneeling prince, a disgrace, “And a waste of Valyrian blood.” 

A broken and agonized sob left his body from your words. Watching as you lifted the skirt of your dress with your clean hand as you turned away from him and moved towards the wooden doors. He tried to move his body, but all he could do was helplessly watch as you opened the chamber doors. 

He fell from his knees and forward onto his hands, begging between his cries, “Please don’t leave me.” 

You paused, looking over your shoulder at him. There was no emotion in your eyes, no anger, nothing for him. Your words were sharp and effective at breaking everything in him, “I bet that Hedge Knight would have listened.” 

You stepped out of the room and out of his sight. The last of his strength going with you. He felt his body sway before crumpling down onto the stone floor with a pained gasp. He lay there on the cold and blood-stained stone floor.

The last thing he tasted was your body oil mixed with the metallic taste of his blood, and the last thing he heard was you shouting at your handmaiden to bring you a new dress, before his eyes fluttered closed as he succumbed to the darkness. 

┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜

Ი𐑼 I’m sorry if none of that made sense I wrote most of it in a delirious state at 4 am in the morning. I rlly don’t know what this is , but I hoped you enjoyed it !! pls tell me all of your thoughts ,, naughty and good !! 😁

taglist : @pixiebratz @doeeyedcrucifix @cuntibrina @tartybleedinghearts @jimhalpertldn @chunkpiboli @briefwinnerpersonaturtle @godblesslarsvontrier @joyfulyouthlover @ameliadonovan

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you gasp louder than he does. choso's head turns with the force of your strike, and the hand that had been kneading your boob like a stress ball flies up to touch his cheek.

and then you feel it. the sudden jolt of his hips upward into you, the release of his fourth orgasm of the night spurting hot inside of you. he just came.

and so, you lean into the sadism now pooling in your heart. your legs are pushing you up off his only half-hard cock and dropping it back down before he can even find his breath to ask you to slow down.

"wait, wait," he chokes, a loud gasp sounding as he grabs at your hips to try and control your mean pace, just to be slapped again.

you watch his eyes roll back a little, and something sick and twisted indie of you spurs you on. "count."

"...huh?"

"count. you know how," you repeat, lifting up on his cock and slapping him across the face again as you drop down and take him to the base. "come on, count or i'll stop."

that gets him going. "god... three."

you ride him like you aren't exhausted, reaching out to take choso's chin between your fingers and guide his gaze to yours. he flinches as you do so, which tightens both your heart and pussy, because apparently you're one of societies sickest.

"now thank me," you lean forward, manoeuvring his head so that you can lick up the side of his cheek. the skin you've slapped is hot on your tongue and makes choso's entire body squirm.

"please," he uses his manners, though not the ones you asked of him. grabbing at your hips, digging fingers into flesh so hard it hurts enough to spur you on. "please, thank you. more, thank you... please."

well—you've gone and broken him.

he takes the fourth nicely, with a choked thank-you and a few tears now cradled in his lash line. a part of you wants to hold him close and wipe his tears dry, but the poor soul is bucking up into you to meet your pace and clenching every muscle in his body preceding his fifth orgasm of the night.

and before you can even raise your hand to slap him a fifth time, he's looking up at you with these huge eyes and your spit on his face and sweat sticking his pretty hair to his forehead. "five," he's counting before-the-fact. so eager for you. "five, five, please."

god, you love him.

the fifth slap sends him nicely into his fifth orgasm. his whole body shakes, spurting nothing inside of you because he's been milked dry as it is. still, the absolute mess of a man that he's become beneath you is enough to tip you over that same fine edge.

you don't have half the mind to consider the ethics behind orgasming this hard after striking your sweet boyfriend across the face. if you're this dazed—struggling to catch your breath as you lean forward and press a relentless assault of kisses to the face you've just slapped senseless—you can't imagine was kind of sludge you've turned choso's brain into.

"still alive in there?" you manage, checking his eyes like you're observing a head trauma victim. "too much?"

despite a face wet with tears and an apparent inability to find his words, choso shakes his head. he looks dumb with overstimulation, but still manages to grip your hips and start lifting you up on his cock again.

"what are you—" you look down to where his shaky arms are guiding you to start riding him again. "i think i might have damaged your brain, baby."

The bus wheezed like it was exhaling its last breath, sputtering to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Dust kicked up around its wheels as the brakes hissed and the door creaked open with a reluctant sigh.

You stepped off into the heat—that heavy, wet Southern heat that sticks to your skin like tacky glue, curling into your clothes and dragging its teeth across the back of your neck.

The sun hung fat and merciless in a sky bleached bone-white, cicadas crying loud enough to shake the treetops. Sweat bloomed across your collarbone before your boots even hit the dirt.

It wasn’t real pavement, not out here. Just cracked-red earth, dry and crumbling, veined with weeds and the roots of things too stubborn to die. The main road—if you could call it that—was lined with rusted fence posts, bowed under the weight of creeping kudzu and wire that hadn’t held anything in years.

The town itself looked like it had been forgotten in a drawer: sun-wilted storefronts with paint peeling off in strips, glass windows clouded with grime, and a gas station that hadn’t changed its prices since Prohibition.

A man with no teeth watched you from a bench outside a bait shop. A girl gnawed a peach in the shade of a feed store awning, juice dripping down her wrist as she stared without blinking.

No one smiled. No one welcomed you. Just silence and the shrill, electric whine of summer bugs, loud as a curse.

You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle—leather, secondhand, the clasp a little loose—and stepped forward, your boots crunching on gravel as the bus hissed again and pulled away behind you. The sudden stillness in its absence made your ears ring. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked once, then went quiet.

The driver who’d agreed to take you the last few miles was late. Or not coming. You checked the watch on your wrist—scratched crystal, the hour hand a little jittery—and waited. The skin on your shoulders prickled. Not from the heat. From the eyes.

They were still staring.

A woman in a gingham dress crossed herself. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at you twice.

Then a voice—cracked with age and smoke, coming from just over your shoulder—broke the thick, humid quiet: “That house got ghosts in it.”

You turned. It was the man from the bench, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes milky with cataracts. He spat to the side, aimed like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“He don’t come to town. Don’t let him touch you, honey.”

Before you could ask what the hell that meant, the groan of old suspension and rattling chains cut through the air.

A pickup truck, wheezing like the bus, pulled up in a cloud of red dust. Faded forest green with rust eating away the sides and a crooked license plate hanging on by one bolt. The man driving it looked as old as the truck—tan leather skin, yellowed shirt, a straw hat pulled low.

He didn’t say your name. Just nodded once. Like he already knew.

You climbed in beside him, the vinyl seat burning hot through your skirt. Neither of you spoke. The ride out of town was long and winding, lined with cypress trees and fields that had gone to seed. Every now and then, the man would spit out the window. You watched the land unravel into nothing—just swaying grass, rusted scarecrows, and buzzards perched on telephone wires.

Then, after what felt like forever, the truck crested a hill.

And there it was.

The house.

Aging Victorian farmhouse, two stories tall, white paint weathered to the color of bone. Porch bowed in the middle like a snapped spine. Shutters hanging off their hinges. The front door was so dark it looked like a hole punched through the front of the house. Vines crept up the sides like veins, crawling toward the chimneys and windows like they wanted to choke it. Or hold it down.

The iron gates at the front were rusted and tall, still latched shut. You could make out glass-paned windows that looked hollow, staring out at the road like eyes that hadn’t blinked in years.

The man parked, killed the engine, and didn’t move. You stepped out. Shut the door behind you. He didn’t offer to help with the suitcase. Just lit a cigarette, slow and deliberate.

“He sleeps durin’ the day. House is yours ‘til sundown. Don’t linger on the porch.”

You waited for more.

He didn’t offer it.

He put the truck in gear and reversed down the dirt road without another word, vanishing behind the veil of oak and kudzu until there was nothing but eerie birdsong and your own breath.

The wind kicked up. Dry. Hot. Mean. The house creaked—just once. Like it had been holding its breath too.

And then…the front door groaned open.

The open door breathed out a draft of air—cool and heavy, smelling of cedarwood, old paper, and something vaguely sweet, like dried flowers pressed between book pages. It curled around your ankles like mist.

You stepped forward. The porch groaned beneath your feet, boards soft with age, and for one heart-pounding moment you thought the whole thing might give. But it held. Just barely. The screen door had been ripped clean off its hinges long ago. The wooden door itself was open wide now, dark as pitch inside.

You crossed the threshold. The world behind you dropped away like a curtain falling shut.

The house swallowed sound. Swallowed light. It was dim and old in the way caves are old—cooler than it had any right to be, shadows pooling like ink in the corners. Lace curtains yellowed with age hung limp at the windows. The wallpaper had peeled back in strips, revealing ribs of rotting wood beneath. A hallway stretched long ahead of you, lined with crooked picture frames and closed doors.

Your hand skimmed the wall, trying to find your balance. The place felt like it was holding its breath.

Then you saw him.

He stepped out of the parlor like he wasn’t used to being seen, like he expected to vanish the moment your eyes landed on him.

Remmick.

And he was…nothing like you expected.

Not some grizzled recluse with wild hair and yellow teeth, not a hissing, skeletal shut-in like the townsfolk seemed to imagine. No. He was—

Broad.

His shoulders were built like a man who used to work with his hands, chest thick under the open collar of a blue-and-white pinstriped button-up, the sleeves messily rolled to his elbows. Beneath it, a threadbare white wife-beater clung to his torso like second skin. His jeans were dark, faded, worn at the knees, and he was barefoot—toes pale, dust smudged across the tops of his feet, like he hadn’t stepped outside in years.

His hair was short and messy, soft-looking, brown with uneven bangs that fell just above his brows in a way that felt almost boyish, almost accidental. Not styled. Just…unbothered. Untamed. Like he’d dragged his fingers through it and given up halfway.

And then his eyes.

Blue. Too blue. Not sky-blue. Not ocean-blue. The blue of cracked porcelain. The kind of blue that shouldn’t exist in nature. They looked almost glassy, as if someone had painted them on too carefully.

You didn’t know that they were artificial, not yet, like a predator blending in with its surroundings to fool the naive prey. That the real eyes were red as flame and waiting underneath.

But even so, you felt it.

Something inhuman. Something primordial.

You didn’t know what you were seeing. But you knew it wasn’t just a man and yet—you weren’t scared.

He froze when he saw you. Like he’d walked into a memory.

His mouth parted slightly. His hands hung at his sides, rough-knuckled, long-fingered. One of them twitched, just once, like he meant to lift it—and then stopped. Like the very thought of touching was…too much.

His voice came slow, thick. Raspy from disuse. “Evenin’.”

You blinked. “Hi.”

That same hand moved to scratch the back of his neck—awkward, almost boyish. He ducked his head slightly, eyes flitting away from yours. His lips pressed together like he wasn’t sure whether or not to smile, and then decided against it.

“I, uh…I didn’t expect you so soon.”

There was a tremble in his voice, barely there beneath the deep drawl. But it was there. Not nervous. Not quite. Just…unused. He sounded like someone who didn’t speak unless he had to. Someone who had been silent for too long.

You stepped forward, instinctive. He flinched.

It was subtle—just a twitch of his shoulder, the stiffening of his posture, a faint shift backward—but your body caught it. Your eyes caught it. His eyes never left you.

“I’m your nurse,” you said softly, giving your name, your voice feather-light.

He nodded. Still didn’t move closer.

There was a thin gold chain around his neck, peeking out from beneath his collar. It caught the faint light from the window and glinted, just for a second, brushing against the pale hollow of his throat when he leaned forward slightly. Like it had weight. Like it mattered.

You took a breath, trying to read him. He was watching you the way a starving man watches a feast. Not greedy. Not desperate.

Haunted.

Like he was talking to someone who no longer walked this mortal coil.

“Where should I…?” you asked, fingers curling slightly around the strap of your bag.

He startled. “Oh. Right. Room’s upstairs. I, uh—” he hesitated, scratched at his forearm where the button-up had slipped back just far enough to reveal the edge of a vein that looked darker than it should—“I ain’t had company in a while.”

“How long?” you asked.

He blinked at you. Like the question hadn’t occurred to him before.

Then, just as softly, with a note of old sorrow so quiet you nearly missed it, he answered:

“Too long.”

He turned, shoulders shifting beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, and motioned for you to follow. He didn’t offer to carry your bag. Not out of rudeness—it was something else. A hesitation that clung to him like sweat in the air.

The hallway creaked under your steps, your boots heavy against the worn floorboards. His bare feet moved near-silent, just the soft pad of skin on old wood. Dust stirred where he passed, curling like smoke in his wake. You watched the muscles move beneath his shirt—the way the thin material clung to his back, the curve of his shoulders, the faint outline of his spine shifting when he turned a corner. You could almost imagine him once being a laborer, maybe a carpenter, with those thick forearms and that sunken posture—like he hadn’t stood tall in years.

He didn’t look back at you until he reached the stairs.

“They’re steep,” he warned, voice low, accent thickening just a touch like the words were sticking to his tongue. “House wasn’t built for comfort. Not anymore.”

You followed him anyway.

The staircase was narrow and curved, wood darkened by age and use. The banister wobbled when you touched it. His hand hovered near the wall as he climbed, but he didn’t steady himself on anything—as if he was afraid to touch the house too long.

The landing opened into a hallway lit only by a single cracked window. Dust motes danced in the beam of sunlight, and Remmick avoided it completely, skirting the edge like a shadow. You didn’t think much of it. Just heat, maybe. Or habit.

He stopped in front of a door at the far end. It was plain—faded green paint, iron handle gone dull with rust. He opened it for you but didn’t step inside.

“Room’s clean,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “Did it myself this mornin’.”

You peered in.

Small, but tidy. The bed was old but made, white sheets tucked tight. There was a vanity with a tarnished mirror, a small closet door that hung slightly crooked, and a bedside table with a worn oil lamp and what looked like a book left behind years ago. A hand towel had been folded and left on the pillow.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured.

“I did,” he said simply. Then, quieter: “Didn’t want you thinkin’ I’d leave it…unfit.”

He stood there, barefoot and awkward, hands half-curled at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His bangs had fallen deeper over his eyes, hiding them. But you saw the shape of them behind the strands—wide, almost deer-like.

He looked like he didn’t know whether to apologize for being alive or thank you for showing up.

You stepped inside. Set your bag down. When you turned to speak again, he was already halfway down the hall.

He hadn’t made a sound.

Later, after you’d unpacked and washed your face in the cracked porcelain basin, you made your way down to the kitchen, following the faint clatter of dishware. You paused at the doorway.

He stood at the sink, back to you, sleeves rolled higher now—his forearms dusted in pale hair, thick with muscle, the veins just barely raised under the skin. The gold chain shifted at his throat as he rinsed out an old tin mug. He didn’t seem to notice you.

The light from the window cut across the floor, a bright bar of late-afternoon sun. It stopped just inches from where he stood, and he didn’t cross it. His toes curled against the edge like it was a line he couldn’t breach.

You finally spoke. “Do you want any help?”

He jumped.

Not violently—just a twitch. His shoulders drew in, spine straightening, as if your voice had reached into him and plucked something loose.

Then he slowly turned. His eyes—still too blue—met yours, and for a second you thought he looked guilty. Like he’d been caught doing something shameful.

“No,” he said, swallowing. “But…thank you.”

You stepped forward anyway.

He froze. Again.

“I’m just getting a glass,” you said, brushing past him, your fingers grazing the inside of his forearm by accident—just a whisper of skin against skin.

He flinched. Actually flinched. Not hard. Not violently. But enough to feel like a blow. You pulled back, brows furrowing.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, voice hushed and low and cracking like dry wood underfoot. “You ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

You turned your head, studied him.

“Do you not like to be touched?”

A pause.

He looked down at the floor. His hands opened and closed once.

“I just…ain’t used to it, is all.”

Not used to it. Not anymore. Not in a long, long time.

You felt something tighten in your chest then, strange and aching. A tether drawing taut. You didn’t know what had happened to him. Why the town feared him. Why the sunlight seemed to singe the air around him. Why his voice trembled when you spoke too softly.

But you did know this:

He was alone.

And he had been alone for a very, very long time.

The glass was cloudy. Not dirty—just old, like everything else in this house. When you turned the tap, the pipes groaned in protest before surrendering a stream of lukewarm water. You sipped, then leaned against the counter, your eyes sliding back to him.

Remmick hadn’t moved.

Still by the sink, shoulder just shy of that stripe of sunlight, arms stiff at his sides like he didn’t know how to stand. The water dripped from the mug he held. A single droplet clung to the edge of his knuckle and then slid down, curling over his wrist.

He stared at the floor. At your boots. At anything except you.

“You live here alone?” you asked.

His head tilted slightly, as though the question had startled him. He nodded.

“For how long?”

A beat.

“…Long.”

He didn’t elaborate. Just that one syllable, spoken like a stone dropped into a well. No echo. No follow-up.

You took another sip. “Locals said you don’t like company.”

His lip twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. It was more like…a ghost of a smirk, something he might’ve worn naturally once, long ago, before it fell out of practice.

“I reckon they said worse’n that.”

“They said not to let you touch me.”

That made him flinch for real.

A sharp intake of breath, his spine straightening, knuckles whitening around the tin cup. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak. But the shame bled off him like heat, pouring into the space between you until the air turned too thick to breathe.

You waited.

And when he still didn’t say anything, you set your glass down with a quiet clink and asked gently:

“Why would they say that?”

He looked at you then.

Really looked.

Eyes wide. Blue. Too blue. Glassy in the way that porcelain is glassy—shiny and fragile and false. A color that didn’t feel real, not on a living thing. His brow was furrowed like the question pained him.

“…They scared,” he said softly. “Always been. But fear makes folks say things that ain’t...whole.”

“Is it not true?”

His throat bobbed. That thin gold chain moved with the motion, catching what little light the room offered. His jaw tensed, a tick pulsing just beneath the skin. When he finally spoke, it was so quiet you almost missed it.

“I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.”

He said it like it was a rule, not a defense. Something sacred. Something self-imposed and unshakable.

“I didn’t think you did,” you murmured.

That made him pause. Head tilted again. Studying you like you were a puzzle with too many pieces.

“Then why’d you come?”

You gave a small shrug. “They said you needed help.”

“And you believed ‘em?”

“I believe you now.”

That silenced him.

He set the tin mug down gently, almost reverently. The sound was soft. Barely there. Like he’d learned to be careful with his strength. Or maybe he was just scared of breaking things.

“I ain’t had a nurse before,” he said. “Didn’t think I needed one.”

“Well,” you said, tone light, “I’m here now.”

Another pause.

He nodded, still not smiling. Just…accepting. Resigned. Like he’d already decided you were temporary.

A flicker of something passed behind his eyes then. Regret. Fear. Hunger. You couldn’t tell. But it made you step closer. And again—he moved back. Just a step. Not far. Not fast. But enough.

Like your nearness singed. You didn’t take it personally. You were starting to understand: it wasn’t you he didn’t trust. It was himself.

“Can I ask your name?” you said, after a beat.

He blinked. Then, slowly, he answered:

“…Remmick.”

You repeated it once, soft. Let it settle. His breath hitched. And just for a second—less than a breath, less than a blink—his eyes flashed red.

Bright. Brief. Burning.

Gone just as fast.

You didn’t say anything. You weren’t even sure you’d seen it. But he turned away like he had something to hide.

“I’ll, uh…be out on the porch. If you need me.” His voice cracked again. “Dinner’s in the oven.”

“Remmick.”

He stilled.

“Thank you.”

His hand touched the doorframe. Just the tips of his fingers. Then he left without looking back, the gold chain glinting once over the curve of his collarbone as he slipped into the shadows again.

You didn’t know what you’d just seen. But you knew you weren’t afraid. Not of him. And not of whatever was buried beneath those woeful eyes.

The dining room was crooked.

The long table—mahogany once, now dulled and water-stained—sat slightly uneven, legs warped from heat and time. One chair at the end had been worn smooth with use. The others were still draped in white sheets, untouched, forgotten. The chandelier above was dust-choked, only one bulb flickering faintly. Shadows wavered across the ceiling like they were alive.

Remmick was already seated when you stepped in, spine stiff, hands folded neatly in his lap. Not touching the silverware. Not even looking at the plate in front of him. A modest meal—roasted potatoes, black-eyed peas, cornbread—steamed in a careful arrangement across two plates, though yours was a little fuller.

He’d set it out like it was a ritual. Like it mattered. His eyes jumped to yours the moment you crossed the threshold. That same stare—wide, dark in the low light, too big for his face—gave him the look of something puppyish, soft in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.

“I hope it’s alright,” he said quickly, words too fast, too eager. “I cooked it this mornin’. Tried to keep it warm without dryin’ it out.”

You slid into the chair across from him. “It smells good.”

His shoulders relaxed a fraction, like a wire had gone slack. “Ain’t had much reason to cook for two.”

You took a bite, slowly. It was simple—salt, butter, heat. No herbs. No flair. But it was made with care. You could taste that.

Across from you, Remmick didn’t eat. He watched you instead.

You didn’t comment on it at first, but when you finally glanced up, fork paused midair, he looked away too quickly. A flicker of red threatened behind his lashes—gone before you could be sure.

“You’re not hungry?” you asked gently.

He hesitated. “Not for that.”

You blinked.

He flinched. “I mean—nothin’ wrong with it. I just—I don’t eat much. Not lately.”

You let it go. For now.

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t easy either. It strained under its own weight. Not tension between you, but the kind that comes when someone’s forgotten how to be in a room with another person. He kept shifting in his seat—shoulders tight, hands flexing slightly in his lap, like he had to remind himself to stay still.

You tried again.

“So…you’ve lived here a long time?”

He nodded. “Since before the war.”

“Which one?”

His lips twitched. “Exactly.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “Do you ever leave?”

Another long pause. He looked down at the table, fingers tracing the edge of a scratch in the wood.

“I used to,” he said. “Town was smaller then. Or maybe it just felt that way.”

“You don’t go anymore?”

“I scare folks.” He said it plainly. No self-pity. Just fact. “And I don’t…do well in the sun.”

You watched the way he said it—carefully. Intentionally vague. Like he was testing how much he could say without scaring you off.

“I noticed,” you murmured.

His eyes lifted again. In the dim lighting, they looked almost black, shadows swallowing all the unnatural blue. The wide shape of them gave him a look so innocent it was disarming—a big-eyed, vulnerable softness, like a boy too shy to ask for what he needed.

“I’m not scared of you,” you added.

He swallowed hard. The gold chain at his collarbone shifted.

“You should be,” he said softly. “But I’m glad you’re not.”

The food sat cooling between you.

You noticed he kept glancing at your hands—how they moved, how they curled around your fork, how they pressed briefly to your chest when you swallowed water. He didn’t leer. Didn’t ogle. But he watched with the intensity of someone who’d gone without touch so long, he’d forgotten what warmth looked like.

“Do you miss it?” you asked.

He looked up sharply. “Miss what?”

“Conversation. Company.”

He blinked like you’d hit him.

“Yes,” he said. Just that. No hesitation. Voice cracking around the edge.

Then, quieter:

“I try not to. But yes.”

You sat with that for a beat.

“I could talk more,” you offered, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Or less. If you’d rather quiet.”

He shook his head, too fast. “No—no, I like it. I…I like your voice.”

You blinked. Your cheeks went warm.

He blinked too, startled at himself. “Shit—I mean—not like that. Just. It’s nice. I ain’t heard anything like it in…”

He trailed off. His ears had gone pink.

You laughed gently. “You’re a little out of practice, huh?”

“I’m fuckin’ terrible,” he muttered, half to himself. Then, with a glance at you: “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you said. “It’s nice. You’re…nice.”

He stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with that word. And then, without warning, a loud creak echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. The pipes moaned. The lights flickered.

You jumped.

Remmick didn’t move. But the red flashed again in his eyes—just for a blink, just enough to raise the hairs on your arms.

“Old house,” he murmured.

“Right.”

But he was staring down the hallway now, like he heard something you couldn’t. His jaw clenched. One hand curled tight against his knee, as if fighting the urge to stand.

“Is it safe?” you asked, your voice dipping instinctively into something wary.

His eyes cut to yours.

And something about the way he looked at you then—those big, dark, wide eyes still soft as a dog’s, still scared to ask too much—made your breath catch.

“With me?” he said.

A beat.

Then, softer:

“Always.”

The house changed at night.

It didn’t creak. It breathed—slow and hollow, like the walls had lungs of their own. The old wood carried footsteps in strange directions. Voices turned inward. Time unspooled.

You lay in bed, still dressed, still wired, the heat slick on the back of your neck. The lamp on your bedside table cast a low, amber glow across the ceiling. Somewhere outside, a whippoorwill called once and went quiet.

The room smelled like lavender soap and old cotton. The fan in the corner ticked every fifth rotation. You hadn’t seen Remmick since dinner.

He hadn’t said goodnight. Not that you blamed him.

He’d looked like he wanted to linger. Like his legs didn’t quite want to carry him away. But something in him—something knotted deep—had yanked him back into the dark, like a leash.

Still, you thought of him as you lay there. The way his eyes kept dropping to your hands. The way his voice cracked when he spoke too kindly. The way he watched you like he hadn’t watched another soul in decades—and didn’t know if he was allowed to.

You didn’t mean to doze. But the silence folded over you like a sheet.

And then—

You heard it.

Low. Fragile. Muffled.

A sound curling up through the floorboards.

You blinked awake, heart ticking faster, every hair on your arms rising before your mind even caught up. You sat up slowly. The fan ticked again.

And again, that sound.

A moan.

Male. Soft. Throaty.

Followed by something rougher. Shaped by a tongue and a mouth. Words.

You slid from the bed, bare feet ghosting over the cool floor. Pressed your palm to the wall. Leaned close.

The voice—Remmick’s voice—was speaking. But not English. Something old. It came in broken fragments. Whispered. Half-strangled. And aching.

“A chuisle…mo chuisle, mo chroí…”

(My pulse…my pulse, my heart…)

The wood under your fingers thrummed.

“Táid mo lámha ag crith…Dia, tá brón orm…”

(My hands are shaking…God, I’m sorry…)

A sound followed—wet. Guttural. Like he’d tried to breathe through a sob and swallowed it.

You stepped back, heart rabbiting, heat pooling low in your belly—not from fear, but from something else.

The need in that voice. The loneliness. The way the words clung to his throat like they hurt coming out.

And then—

A moan. Sharp. Broken open.

“Lig dom é a mhothú… lig dom tú a mhothú…”

(Let me feel it…let me feel you…)

You were rooted to the floor, bare toes curling against the wood as something bloomed low in your abdomen—hot and needy and shameful in its intensity. Your thighs pressed together before you even realized you’d done it.

He sounded desperate. Not sexual—not entirely. But starved. Ragged.

Destroyed.

Like he was begging for something he didn’t think he deserved to have, not even in sleep.

“Tá tú anseo…tá tú fíor…ná fág mé…”

(You’re here…you’re real…don’t leave me…)

The words were choked now. Slurred. Drenched in a broken kind of longing. You didn’t mean to press your palm flat against the wall. Didn’t mean to close your eyes.

Didn’t mean to whisper: “I’m here.”

But you did.

And somehow, the sounds stopped. Not abruptly. Just…slowed. Faded.

As if he'd heard you.

As if, wherever he was in that dream, the presence of you at the wall soothed something raw and ancient inside him.

The air stilled. No more moaning. No more whispers. Only quiet. You stood there for a moment longer, breath shallow, chest tight. Then turned back to the bed.

And as you crawled beneath the covers, something inside you whispered—

He wasn’t dreaming of just anyone. He was dreaming of you.

You didn’t sleep long.

When you woke again, the air was different. Thicker.

Your body was heavy with it, sunk into the mattress, heart drumming in your ears like you were already in motion. The fan had stopped ticking. The lamp had gone out. A soft glow slanted in through the hallway—a light left on downstairs, maybe. Or—

No.

Someone had turned it on.

You sat up slowly. The floorboards creaked outside your door. Once. Twice. A pause. Then a knock. Soft. Barely there.

Your stomach flipped.

“Yeah?” you called, voice still sleep-rough, soft enough that he could ignore it if he needed to.

But he didn’t. The door opened a crack. And there he was.

Remmick.

Still barefoot.

Still dressed the same—pinstriped button-up wrinkled from sleep, sleeves rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose at his sides. His hair was mussed now, falling harder into his face, and his chest rose and fell beneath the thin white wife-beater like he’d climbed stairs too fast. Or hadn’t been breathing right since sundown.

He didn’t cross the threshold. Not at first.

He stood there like a man unsure of his place in the world—a broad shadow outlined in gold from the hallway light, wide-eyed and fidgeting, arms at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to lift them.

“Sorry,” he said, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.”

He hesitated.

Then: “Can I…?”

He didn’t finish the sentence. But his eyes flicked toward the inside of the room—dark and private and unthreatening—and you understood.

You nodded once. “Yeah.”

He stepped in.

Carefully. Like the floor might bite him.

The door shut behind him with a click that echoed louder than it should have. He stood near the dresser, eyes darting—not in panic, but like he was looking for something to anchor himself to. His fingers worried the hem of his sleeve. His shoulders were hunched, defensive, vulnerable despite the width of them.

His eyes—dark in this light, wide and glassy—looked almost wet. Puppyish. Devastating.

“I heard you,” you said quietly. “Last night.”

He stiffened.

“I didn’t mean to,” you added. “I just…couldn’t sleep.”

His jaw flexed. His throat bobbed. He didn’t look at you.

“You were speaking in another language.”

“Gaelic,” he muttered, almost like he was ashamed of it. “From…before.”

“Before what?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped closer. His hand twitched at his side.

“I didn’t know I was talkin’,” he said. “I don’t—usually.”

“You sounded upset.”

“I was.”

You waited.

Then, just above a whisper:

“I was dreamin’ of you.”

The room tilted. Your breath caught.

He raised his eyes then—still that soft, drowning dark, still wide like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say your name, let alone admit this.

“I know it ain’t right,” he murmured, voice hoarse, almost breaking. “But I’ve been here so long. Been quiet so long. And then you—” His breath hitched. “You come in here like you’re made of light. Like you belong. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

You stood slowly.

He didn’t move. He watched you with that same broken hunger, like he’d already decided you were too good for him, but couldn’t stop himself from needing you anyway.

“You’re shaking,” you said.

He glanced down. His hands were trembling. You stepped closer. He didn’t flinch this time.

But he didn’t touch you either. Just stood there—shoulders tight, breath shallow, like if he touched you, you’d vanish.

“I ain’t touched anyone in so long,” he whispered. “And I keep thinkin’ about what they said. About me. About my hands. That I ruin things.”

You reached up, slowly, brushing your fingertips just above his collarbone—where the thin gold chain clung to his skin.

He gasped like it burned. You didn’t pull away.

“You didn’t ruin this.”

His eyes fluttered shut. His lip trembled. A sound caught in his throat—half a sob, half a moan—as he leaned forward, forehead just barely grazing yours.

“Tell me not to,” he whispered. “Tell me to leave, and I will. But if you don’t—if you don’t say it—I swear to God, I’m gonna fall to my knees.”

The air between you crackled.

And his voice dropped, Irish blooming up from the roots of him like something ancient and helpless:

“Cuir do lámha orm…ná tabhair uaim thú…”

(Put your hands on me…don’t take yourself away from me…)

You didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move either.

Just breathed—slow and even, like you were the calm center of a storm, and he was every desperate gust of wind trying to press against your skin.

Remmick stood there, trembling. Not from fear. From need. It curled off him like steam, thick and desperate, clinging to the air between you. His pupils were wide, swallowing the color of his irises until they looked nearly black, and his lips parted like he wanted to say more, to beg, to confess—but didn’t know how to start.

You reached for him.

He gasped—actually gasped—when your fingers slid up the open placket of his button-up, brushing the edge of his white ribbed wife-beater. You felt the tremor through him, all the way down. His chest was warm and solid, rising and falling like he was trying not to pant.

Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, palms splaying against the thick muscle hidden beneath soft cotton. And then, softly—gently, like it was a kindness—you pushed him.

He let you.

Without resistance, without question, he backed up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and then he sank down like he didn’t know how to carry his own weight anymore. He sat there, breath shallow, eyes wide and wet and locked on you like you were the moon and he hadn’t seen the sky in a hundred years.

You stood between his knees. Tilted his chin up with just two fingers under his jaw.

“Hands to yourself,” you ordered, soft yet firm.

His breath hitched. His fingers dug into the comforter on either side of him, white-knuckled and obedient.

You watched the way he fought his own instinct—fought it like it pained him. He wanted to touch you. God, did he want to. It rolled off him in waves. His thighs were tense, knees spread wide, shirt wrinkled where your hands had touched him. He looked wrecked already.

“Y-you sure?” he asked, voice cracking like shaky glass under the burgeoning weight of desperation.

“I didn’t ask for your hands,” you said. “Not yet.”

His throat bobbed. The gold chain swayed at the base of his throat as he nodded—once, sharp, frantic.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, I—yeah, I can do that. I’ll be good.”

You smiled, slow and soft and wicked.

“I know you will.”

He whimpered. Actually whimpered. A soft, strangled sound pulled from the depths of him, one he didn’t seem prepared for.

His hair had fallen over his brow again, mussed and curling faintly with sweat at his temples. You brushed it back, deliberately slow. He didn’t lean into the touch—he melted under it. His lashes fluttered. His lips parted.

“You’ve really gone this long?” you murmured, thumb stroking the sharp line of his trembling cheekbone.

His voice was barely audible.

“Thirteen hundred years.”

You blinked. He looked away, ashamed.

“I feed when I have to,” he said, “but touch? Mouths? Skin? That kinda closeness?” He shook his head, jaw tight. “Not since—fuck. Before the plague hit London.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“You’re starved.”

He looked back at you with those wide, dark, pleading eyes, red bleeding into his pupils like a fresh laceration, like a man who's learned to lick his wounds clean in silence finally cracking open wide and letting you see the most vulnerable parts of him.

“I’m starvin’.”

You nodded, slow and understanding, letting your hand fall away from his face.

“Then sit still, Remmick,” you murmured, hushed, like you were afraid to shatter the silence. “And let me feed you.”

His breath shuddered out of him like you’d punched it from his lungs. His hands curled tighter in the sheets. His voice was hoarse, shaking, with the faintest Irish crack as he whispered:

“A ghrá…táim i do lámha…”

(My love…I’m in your hands…)

You stayed standing between his knees, just looking at him, because even if you didn't know what those words meant, you could feel them carve into your soul like a brand.

And Remmick—God help him—let you. Didn’t dare breathe too deep, didn’t dare move a single muscle. He was shaking with it. With restraint. With want. With that terrible, ancient hunger not just for blood, but for closeness, for skin-on-skin, for the obscene luxury of being touched.

Your fingers reached for him. He twitched.

Not in fear. In anticipation. His lips parted, a fine strand of spit hanging off one corner, catching in the gold glow of the hallway light behind you. It glistened, trailing down toward his chin before pooling at the dip beneath his lower lip—thick, warm, a little foamy, and wholly instinctual. His breath came in short, shallow bursts now, as if his body was preparing for something it didn’t fully understand.

You slid his suspenders off the broad slope of his shoulders first, snapping one against his pec, feeling arousal pool into your cunt like molten hot lava when he whimpers at the pleasant sting of it, letting the thin scraps of fabric fall down beside his hips.

Then you undid the first button of his shirt. Then the next. And the next. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact.

Remmick’s eyes were huge in the dark—dark and shiny, wide like a dog waiting to be called forward, like he’d sink his teeth into the floor just for a word from you. Sweat pearled at his temples. His thighs spread slightly wider beneath you as the shirt parted open.

His chest was beautiful. Scarred, but beautiful—pale muscle threaded with faint blue veins, the sort that spoke of long nights and longer hunger. His skin was cool beneath your fingertips, though you could feel the heat roiling beneath it, just under the surface.

But what drew your eye—what made you pause—was the tattoo.

On his left ribcage, inked into him like a brand, was a budded cross—old, faded, the lines a little blurred from age but unmistakable. A Christian cross, yes—but older, rougher, like it had been carved into him by a trembling hand in candlelight.

You stared.

He followed your gaze, and his throat worked, the motion making his chain jump slightly against his collarbones.

“I got that when I still thought it’d save me,” he whispered, voice tight.

You dropped to your knees. He whimpered.

No contact yet—just the sound of your body lowering between his thighs, the shift in the room, the weight of your presence pressing into the cradle of his hips. He tipped his head back against the edge of the bed, more thick drool sliding from the corner of his mouth, breath now shallow, frantic, like he was trying not to choke on his own spit.

You leaned forward. Pressed your mouth to the edge of the cross.

He hissed.

You kissed it. Then licked—tongue flattening over the cool ink, tracing it reverently, slowly. He trembled beneath you like a man being sanctified and defiled all at once.

The irony rolled off your tongue with every stroke.

A man like this—older than gunpowder, older than the books that tried to define him—wearing a cross close to his heart like it still meant salvation.

You dragged your lips lower.

Down his ribs. Over the ridges of muscle. To the soft trail of hair starting just below his navel—a dark, fine line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

You licked that too. Just once. Teasing.

Following the path slowly, like you were on your knees at an altar, taking your time with worship. His happy trail twitched under your tongue.

Above you, Remmick made a noise that wasn’t a moan or a sob but something shattered between the two.

More drool slipped from his lips now—foamy, thick, sliding down his chin, catching on the curve of his neck and the edge of that trembling gold chain. He didn’t wipe it. Couldn’t. You’d told him not to touch.

His voice broke apart.

“I c-can’t take it,” he choked. “I swear to God, I’m gonna come just from you lookin’ at me like that—just from that tongue—fuck, darlin’, please.”

You looked up at him.

Still on your knees. Still reverent. And said, with quiet finality, “Good.”

You reached for his belt.

His breath caught—sharply, like the sound a deer makes when it hears the snap of a twig too close behind it. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared down at you with those wide, wet eyes, black in the low light, pupils blown to the edge. His chest rose and fell like he was sprinting through mud.

The leather was worn, soft from age and use, the buckle cool in your fingers.

You took your time.

Slowly, purposefully, you undid the clasp, the soft clink of metal loud in the hush of the room. He whimpered, his thighs tensing beneath you, and more drool spilled from the corner of his mouth—thick, glistening, sliding down his chin

“Stay still,” you reminded him, voice silk-wrapped steel.

He nodded, a jerky, miserable little movement, and you swore his lower lip quivered. You dragged the zipper down, each tooth catching slightly, the sound sharp and intimate.

And then—finally—you pulled him free.

Your breath hitched.

He was hard. Painfully so. Flushed deep red at the tip, already leaking, the slit glossy and wet. He twitched in your hand, a thick vein pulsing along the underside, and his thighs quivered like he could barely keep himself grounded.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

Remmick gave a breathless, broken laugh, chin tilted back as he struggled not to move. His hands were fists in the sheets now, white-knuckled, his gold chain trembling across his throat with every shallow breath.

“I—fuck, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I can’t stop—fuck, it’s so much—”

You looked up at him as you gave him the first stroke.

Just one.

Slow.

Base to tip, twisting your palm, watching his mouth fall open wider—thick drool spilling freely now, down his neck, dampening the edge of his shirt. He looked utterly destroyed already.

“Does it feel good?” you asked, your voice soft, cruel with how gently you said it.

He nodded frantically.

“Use your words.”

His head lolled forward. His voice was wrecked. “Feels like heaven,” he groaned. “Oh God, sugar, I cain’t—I cain’t believe—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned forward, licking up the length of him, tongue flat, slow, letting his taste settle warm and heavy on your tongue—salt and skin and something a little coppery, something distinctly him, something old. He sobbed. Actually sobbed, chest hiccuping, thighs jerking just slightly before he caught himself and moaned through clenched teeth.

Your mouth wrapped around the head. He cried out.

No words now. Just a strangled sound ripped from his throat, and more drool frothed at the corners of his lips. He looked dazed—eyes rolling back, lashes fluttering. His hips bucked once—a reflex—and immediately stilled like he was terrified to move again without permission.

You pulled back just enough to speak, saliva stringing between your lips and his flushed cock.

“I told you,” you whispered. “Hands to yourself.”

His voice came out wrecked, breathless.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Then your mouth was back on him.

You took him deeper this time—slow, tight suction, twisting your wrist around what you couldn’t take yet—and the way he howled, you’d have thought he’d been starved in every way a man could be. Which, of course, he had. Thirteen hundred years of this. Denied. Suppressed. Begged away.

His thighs trembled. His belly tensed. And still he didn’t move. Didn’t touch. Didn’t dare.

You sucked harder.

He broke.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—darlin’, I—I can’t—oh, please, please, I’m so sorry—”

He was crying.

Not just drool now—actual tears, shining in his lashes, streaking down his flushed face as you sucked him through it, as he jerked and shook and whimpered out your name like it was a hymn.

He came with a sob, hips barely stuttering forward as his whole body went taut, his cock pulsing against your tongue, spilling hot down your throat in waves, thick and heavy and so much you almost gagged on it.

He was loud.

Pathetic.

Perfect.

When you finally pulled off, he was slumped forward—a wrecked, shivering mess, his lips bitten red and his chain soaked through with spit and sweat. His chest heaved. His thighs twitched.

You sat back on your heels, wiped your mouth slowly.

“Still with me?” you asked.

He nodded, weakly. “I ain’t ever lettin’ you leave.”

He collapsed.

Not fell—melted. Like every bone in him had turned to syrup and grief, his body slumping forward, catching on the edge of the bed before slipping down to the floor.

Boneless.

His cheek pressed to the old wood, hair clinging to his forehead, the buttons of his half-undone shirt twisted beneath him. He was drenched—sweat slicked across his chest and ribs, his pale skin kissed pink from effort, a shine of drool still slicking his chin, clinging to the corners of his mouth like foam. His gold chain was crooked now, stuck against the sweat-damp hollow of his throat.

You rose slowly to your knees, then leaned forward—not to comfort him, not yet—but to press your lips to that chain.

Right at the dip of his collarbones. He gasped. Like it burned. Like your mouth was fire and he’d been craving the flame.

His eyes fluttered open—glass-wet, dazed, the whites shot red, his lips trembling from overstimulation. He looked wrecked. Used. Holy.

And still. Still, he tried.

One shaking hand rose, dragging along the edge of your thigh—hesitant, aching, reverent. His fingers brushed your hip like he was praying through it.

“Lemme touch you,” he breathed. “Please. Let me—wanna make you feel good—want your taste on my tongue, sugar, please—”

You caught his wrist mid-rise. Firm. Final. His breath hitched. His mouth parted. But he didn’t resist. Didn’t fight. You leaned in close, until your mouth was at his ear, and whispered—

“You don’t get to yet.”

His eyes fluttered. His breath caught.

“You’re gonna learn to wait.”

A tremble rolled through him, from head to toe. His hand fell away, limp at his side. And then he nodded.

Small. Shaky. Utterly obedient.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait, I swear.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, gently now, and he whimpered at the touch.

“Look at you,” you murmured.

He did. Glassy-eyed. Pathetic. So fucking into it.

His tongue darted out across his lower lip, catching more of the drool clinging there, and he looked at you like he’d fall on his knees all over again if you so much as told him to.

“Did I do good?” he asked, voice so small, so needy it nearly broke something open in your chest.

You smiled.

And whispered, “You were perfect.”

He didn’t get up. Didn’t even try.

Just curled in beside your legs like a dog, bare chest heaving, forehead pressed to your knee, as if your body alone could tether him to the earth. His arms folded in at his chest, drawn tight like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you again.

You stayed still. Let him have it. Let him exist in the aftermath—his breath still catching, his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his brow, drool drying tacky at the corners of his mouth, his jeans half undone around his hips, completely forgotten. He looked small down there, despite the size of him. Small and wrecked.

He murmured against your thigh—words so soft you almost missed them, lips brushing the fabric of your skirt like a confession:

“Didn’t know it could feel like that…”

You glanced down.

His eyes were closed, lashes wet. His lips parted as he pressed the side of his face closer to your leg, as if nearness was the only thing keeping him from coming apart again.

“Didn’t know I could feel like that.”

You stroked his hair gently. He shivered.

“I ain’t been held like this since…” He swallowed. “Since before.”

You waited. Then, with a sigh that hitched in his throat, he said:

“Before I stopped bein’ a man and started bein’ a thing.”

Your fingers paused at his temple.

But he nuzzled into your knee like he hadn’t said something awful. Like he hadn’t peeled that truth out of himself and bled it onto your lap.

“I remember what it was like,” he whispered. “Before I turned. Before the hunger. Before all that silence got in me and stayed.”

Another pause.

“I used to think about what it’d be like, y’know? Fallin’ apart for someone. Just crackin’ open. Bein’ touched like I was human.”

He sighed again.

“Didn’t think it’d ever happen.”

Your hand returned to his hair, soft strokes over the messy bangs sticking to his forehead.

He let out a low, contented whine.

“Felt you on my tongue before I ever tasted you,” he breathed, voice thick and syrup-slow. “In my dreams. In my fuckin’ bones.”

His fingers brushed the floor. Not reaching. Just hovering.

“Tell me you won’t go,” he whispered.

You didn’t say anything. But you didn’t move. And that was enough.

He breathed deep then, nose brushing your thigh, the gold chain glinting dully in the light. His body slackened further, weight pooling against you like he meant to stay right there forever—a crumpled thing collared in sweat, salt, and shame, held together only by the sound of your breath and the soft drag of your fingers through his hair.

“I’m ruined now,” he said sleepily. “You know that, don’t you?”

You smiled faintly.

“Good.”

He whimpered again. A sound so low and lovely it curled down your spine and planted itself deep in your stomach.

your romance hadn’t started right away. in the beginning, bob was in too fragile of a state to even entertain the idea of falling in love with someone. you, as well, weren’t ready for such a thing. instead, a friendship blossomed between you. something sweet and delicate, soft and light, like the petals of a rose. you spent time together as you adapted to life in the recently renovated avengers tower. at first, the place had felt cold and sterile, but together, the team had made it into a home. nicknacks and various odds and ends littered each surface. different posters decorated the walls. special touches left by each person. and along with that, came the feeling of home. a comfortable sort of warmth that settled upon your shoulders like a cozy blanket.

you weren’t sure when you started falling for robert. but it happened. gradually. as the tower started to feel more like home, so did he. you began spending more time together. enjoying little moments of peace. reading books together. sitting beside each other at dinner. exchanging shy glances in passing in the halls. and then came the movie nights. in which you would often find yourself curled against his side, warm and content. over time, this turned into shy touches. quiet whispers of “is this okay?” as you slid your hand into his own. and he would nod and smile, and say “it’s perfect.” because it was. you were the only one whose hand he could hold, without being transported into your darkest moment. perhaps it was because, in your presence, the darkness hid. it was still there, to some extent, because it would always be part of him. but it seemed that the light you brought into his life was enough to keep it at bay, if only for a little while.

and because you were the only one who could touch him fully, without fear of reliving unspeakable trauma, he found himself seeking it out more. linking your pinkies beneath the dinner table. sitting knee to knee on the floor as you built lego sets or worked on puzzles together. bumping shoulders as you walked side by side. those touches soon turned into something more deliberate. and as your love for one another progressed, so did your need. shy hand holding gave way to kissing. kissing gave way to lazily making out on the couch after everyone else had gone to bed. making out gave way to a sudden, desperate grinding against each other, fully clothed. things escalated until neither of you could resist stumbling into bed together for a session of tender, shy, giggly lovemaking. and that lit an insatiable fire in bob. he wanted more, more, more.

and you gave it to him. exploring each other’s bodies by the light of the moon shining in through your window. tasting, moaning, moving together as one. learning how the other ticked. what elicited the prettiest sounds, and delicious shivers, and quite pleas for more. and along with that came discovering what kinks you shared. including that of hair pulling. it was an accident at first. an action taken in the heat of the moment, as you straddled him in bed, hurriedly rolling your hips against his, cock seated deeply inside you. your mouths moved lazily against each other, whines and gasps mingling. your hands were tangled in his curls, and as you neared your peak, you involuntarily tugged on the roots. and to your utter amazement, bob squealed in surprise against your mouth, eyes rolling back in his head, and seconds later, you felt it. sticky warmth seeped into the deepest part of you, his cock pulsing as he pumped you full.

he buried his face against the side of your neck as he fell apart, and as he came down, he tensed beneath you. “oh…oh my god,” he whispered hoarsely. “oh no. i-i didn’t mean to do that, i—” but you knew he was seconds from rambling on, so you captured his mouth in a sweet kiss. “don’t you apologize. that was the hottest thing i’ve ever seen,” you admitted. his cheeks flushed red as he blinked up at you. “r-really?” as if he couldn’t believe you’d think such a thing. little did either of you know what you had just awakened. that moment led to many more, in which you would tug on his hair, just to test how he’d react. you’d do it when his head was between your legs, when he was on top of you, when you were riding him, so on and so forth. and he couldn’t get enough.

that was what led you to this very moment. this beautiful man kneeling reverently on the floor of your bedroom, eyes wide and earnest, gazing up at you as if you’d hung the moon and stars. you liked him like this. so willing to do anything you asked. so eager to please. “you’re my sweet boy, aren’t you?” you cooed, as you stroked your fingers down the slope of his button nose. “uh-huh,” he breathed, wishing you’d hurry things along. he was achingly hard, cock heavy and pulsing between his legs. but you wanted a verbal response, so you reached out, fingers curling into his roots, before you roughly (but not enough to hurt him) tugged his head back. he gasped sharply, eyes immediately glazing over, mouth parting. you gasped softly when you realized drool had begun to drip down the side of his mouth. “say it,” you instructed. he swallowed, trying to gather his wits about him, though his brain felt as if it was melting. “i-i’m your sweet boy.”