#tricksh0t

He laughs, even, "In times of peace, knighthood gets boring. Especially King's Guard knighthood."

He claps on your shoulder one last time, too quick for you to shove off, "Be careful. The pretty ones are always temperamental."

He fucks off before you can tell him to.

Though, you suppose, Aerion is pretty, it's why your stare lingers; and he's hardly even doing anything, just sparring, albeit roughly, with his brothers. He is good with his sword, you'll admit. Even better with a flail… and his armor, and the way he rides his horse?

Fuck.

You were not sworn into the King's Guard to oggle. Get back to work, dickhead.

Aerion knows you're fresh meat. Perhaps it is because any knight sworn to him has been replaced within a couple weeks. You only know this because you heard it whispered betweem the King's Guard—gossips, they are—otherwise, you weren't even warned about it. Nor could you refuse. Aerion has a reputation about him, even amongst common folk or circles outside the Keep.

Regardless, Aerion torments anyone around him, man or woman, in spite of status; that meaning, for one, that such behavior is below his standing, and for two, he readily antagonizes his uncles or older cousins.

It is worse, of course, to those beneath him. Like you.

Except, actually, the silence he partakes in in your presence is unsettlingly consistent. He is trying a new strategy, you heard Ser Roland say once.

You cannot assume anything about Prince Aerion, and that is something you learned quickly. He does not hold any shame over his own body, even when you are stationed inside his chambers rather than outside.

Most nobles have the ability to blur out the servants around them as if they weren't real people; and of course, Aerion has this, except he doesn't use it for you. His eye holds yours in the mirror as he is fitted, mostly naked, for his next robe.

When the tailor pricks him with a pin, Aerion does not flinch, for his focus is on you. Instead, he raises one pale brow.

The brow snaps you out of your stupor, and you clear your throat, "I suggest you be more careful, tailor."

It is unfortunate that the tailor is subject to the tension in the room, for tension that would not be there if Aerion did not find a twisted pleasure in your gaze. He bows his head nervously, "Right, Ser. I apologize, your Grace."

Aerion gives but a small nod.

One day, he speaks to you, during a walk in the Keep Gardens. It is silly, to think Aerion would walk the gardens, but you have not mentioned it to anyone and so you don't know if it is unusual.

"Tell me, Ser," Aerion says, voice passive and yet powerful, and curious too, "how bears the heat on you?"

"It is manageable, your Grace." You reply; curt, polite, and apparently appeasing to him.

"That is good to hear." He nods his head, both the polite action and words are rather shocking. "I'd hate it if my habits inconvenienced you."

Hopefully there is no surprise in your voice as you speak, "It is my duty."

To which he laughs, more jovial than maniacal. "Ser," He begins, eyes creased with joy, "are you suggesting it is your duty to be inconvenienced by me?"

Panic must rise in your expression as you sputter for words. "Of course not, your Grace. Your actions are not inconvenient—I merely say that it is my duty to serve."

His teeth appear onto you dragonlike, ready to bite; but instead, they widen into the most pleasing smile you have ever been graced with. "Good. At my every whim, Ser?"

It is your duty to follow everywhere he goes, so, "Yes."

That is pleasing to hear too. Put at ease, Aerion turns his back to you and continues the walk.

Though the moment—and his looks—had vexed you, you're not stupid. He is building for you the visage of the Maiden: innocence and joyfulness; whilst trying to get you to admit your submission to further elevate his ego. Sooner or later he will torment you, and if, for the moment, the torment is but the small pain of thinking how best to word a sentence to your superior, then you should relish in it.

Aerion has done worse to his knights. You're sure he has disgraced at least one, and you are determined to not fall into his games.

"My squire is not here today." Aerion says it as a matter of fact, settling himself the seating area by his chamber window. He does not say why— why, you should never doubt him—only makes himself at home. "Will you pour my wine, Ser?"

It is not your job to do so, but you'd rather not get yourself punished for disobeying. "Of course."

After the wine, Aerion pleads for the grapes. For a moment you think the next task might be to take off his shoes and massage his feet whilst setting them upon your lap as you kneel, but what he actually orders from you is much less trivial.

"Feed me." It's simple.

You huff out breath from your nose at the task, one you hope is easily ignored. You pick up a grape cluster and hold it up for him.

Aerion smiles. His gaze finds yours once more, violet eyes looking like they want to bore into your chest and nestle deep into what remains of your ribcage—while you look him in the eye, Aerion uses the first semblance of violence he ever has with you to take your wrist and bring your hand closer.

You know what he means to portray then, when, gingerly, he brings his lips close to the particular grape by your finger. His long, reptilian-like tongue envelops the bottom of the grape before he takes it in his mouth.

Against your best wishes, your cock fights against the metal of your armor, no space to bulge up. The more you entertain his pretty eyes with yours, the more blood rushes down.

Aerion keeps up the behavior for the rest of the cluster.

In this late time of the night, your attention is scattered. Mirroring what Ser Roland has said before, knighthood gets boring; nights, especially so. There is no danger lurking around the corner. No one would kill Aerion over his pissy behavior, it reflects nothing of the political environment nor old grudges.

So when the door opens, of course you're surprised. Aerion barely peaks his head out of the crack and snatches your helmet from your hands, before disappearing back into his room.

He left the door ajar, he took your helmet… he's trying to play. Whatever his ulterior motive is—and you know he has one—you don't know it.

At least, not fully.

Aerion is in his night clothes, that is what first comes to your thoughts, as he holds your helmet upon his lap, sat on his chaise lounge.

"Your Grace." You call, voice passive. You're annoyed, of course, but you have in you enough restraint to hide it. "If the Lord Commander sees me without helm, I will be punished."

He'd like that, you think distantly in your mind.

"Oh? Then apologies, Ser." Aerion's smile is wide, all sharp, pearly teeth. He holds out the helmet, "Come and get it."

It's a game—you know it for a fact—but what else can you do?

When you just about reach the chaise, he holds the helmet to his chest and stands up. Your eyes meet for a pause before you reach out for it, and of course, he darts away.

You're tired enough as is. You heave a sigh, and follow after him.

To his credit, Aerion is as fair as can be. He lays no traps for you, no pillows or robes upon the floor; but you're in armor, and he's in his lightest of layers.

You chase not like a cat towards a mouse, but like a charging boar with no finesse. You run straight towards, heavy armor weighing you down so that you cannot make any precise movements, but Aerion ducks away from your arms and moves right before you can get him.

Aerion's laughs are loud, uncaring, as he prances around you in circles. Your helmet is in sight at all times, but most tauntingly, he holds it atop his head at times where he draws nearest.

You've all but lost your breath and woken the next door neighbors, with your clanking armor and his taunts, when you finally catch him.

Though, evidently, he wanted you to catch him.

With your hands preoccupied upon your helmet, atop his head, Aerion takes the opportunity to kiss you.

He tastes like an aged wine, one you're not allowed and could never afford after all your years of servitude; he tastes forbidden, because you'd have to steal such a wine to savor it.

Anger sprouts across your face as you part. You grab the helmet away from him so fiercely that it has him recoiling away out of pure instinct.

You'd like to say that all these games he's playing finally make sense, but truly, some part in you already knew. The stares he gives you are enough to start a fire in your groin, what else would they mean?

Aerion sits down at the foot of his bed with a triumphant smile. You wish to scrub it off his face.

All your restraint breaks at once. "You are a fool, Aerion, to think you can toy with me like this, to think that I am helpless to do anything. You think to make yourself innocent, to convince me that your mouth will stay shut if I take you. You pretend to favor me. Most of all, Aerion, you are truly stupid, if you think I would break my oath for you."

His smile does not wane. For a moment, you think him truly dense if the words do not frighten him, but then he says, "There are eyes and ears everywhere in the Keep, Ser. I have planted seeds of your indecent fancy of me already. Tomorrow, I will tell my father that you have fucked me anyway, and you shall be disgraced."

The color must drain from your cheeks, or it might even rise, as despair fills your chest but a thought in the back of your head tells you you could end his streak of torture once and for all—you've the sword, after all.

"You might as well take what I'm offering."

Your feelings change once more, this time for the better. He's right, of course he is. If he shall disgrace you, strip you of your titles and throw you into Flea Bottom, you might as well have your fun first.

"Fuck you."

Your belt and sheath come off before you lunge towards him and capture his lips. He reciprocates immediately, forcing his long tongue between your lips. You bite it. He doesn't seem to care.

His hands come upon your shoulders, groping and grabbing, intent on getting your pauldrons off. He must've squired once in his youth, you're sure, because they come off easily.

He knows how to serve, too, but nothing's stuck from his squiring years except how undress a knight. You wonder how handy the skill is.

You return the favor by taking the collar of his night clothes and pulling. With a screech, the gown falls apart, torn into two pieces.

Aerion does not mourn the loss of his gown, but he does part from your lips to gasp. He's shocked, an emotion you've never seen in him before. You keep it in him when you push him against the bed, making him scramble up onto his elbows.

He wasn't even wearing small clothes underneath his night clothes. "Dirty whore." You call as you crawl between his knees, forcing his legs open. His cock is open for your touch, as is his cunt, but you don't care for either yet.

You press yourself against him and slot your bodies together. The cold of the metal ambushes him and makes prickly chicken skin rise across his body, you discomfort him as well as arouse him. The heat will never leave his groin, that, you're sure about the little cuck.

"Who are you to degrade me?" Aerion fights against you; brave, for he is under the weight of a strong man and his armor.

While his mouth is still open, you shove the web of your thumb into it: an easy gag, he cannot bite your hand through your gauntlets. It's like putting a bit in a horse's mouth.

Panic rises in Aerion's eyes—satisfaction, in yours—when he pushes against your hand with both of his and finds it unyielding. Your other is quick to snatch both his wrists up and cage them above his head.

"And who are you to fight back? You've picked a fight with a King's Guard, Your Grace." The title is mocking now, as it rolls off your tongue. You push your groin against his and it makes him moan—revealing him an animalistic creature. "Look at you, silenced. You're nothing without your tongue."

Aerion has the audacity to shake his head no. You push your hand harder against his mouth, restricting the motion. He cannot even indicate a no or a yes anymore, not that you care.

"Undress me." You say, no conditions; none at all, because you hold both his pleasure and freedom in your hands. You let go of him.

Even with his hands, there's no escape. Even with his tongue. He opens his mouth to speak, and you know it will be nothing pleasant, with the furrow of his brow.

You spit on his tongue before he can get anything out. "Swallow." You say, pinching his mouth shut. "Swallow."

Aerion's eyebrows screw up with discomfort while his cock throbs against your fauld, as his adam's apple bobs up, then down, with the swallow, and your saliva slides down his throat.

Your hand moves to his neck, then his shoulder, which you use to toss him off the bed, "Now do as I said."

He's hard, but you don't say anything about it, only ponder upon it as his once violent hands turn obedient. As you expected, he knows his way around the King's Guard armor, and he undresses you quickly without a word.

When he's got the top half of you naked, you kick his calf and force him onto his knees.

Aerion doesn't groan out in pain, but he whimpers as knees meet the carpet. His eyes find yours, dark and intense, as he bares his teeth at you. "Fuck you." He says, your words repeated.

Your hand, now bare, strikes his cheek. "Get to work."

He whimpers again, while his cock twitches. He's a masochist. His head lowers as his hands return to work. As a reward, you step on his cock, not painfully, but enough to apply pressure.

"Fuck." He moans, not curses. When the fauld comes off, you slide your foot under his cock. Silently, yet gratefully, Aerion grinds himself against it.

He's preoccupied with the pleasure, though there isn't much friction from the smoothness of your armor. It's pathetic, really. You grab a handful of his hair, to which he gasps, and tilt his gaze back up. "My foot is a reward, princeling. Don't make me take it away."

If the cogs turn in his head, they go awfully fast. To keep his reward, he turns to debauchery, willingly it seems.

Aerion undoes your pants quickly, and then his lips wrap around the tip of your cock, not shy but not scheming. He doesn't bite, in fact, it feels like worship the more inches he slides in his mouth.

It feels like worship, but it looks like expertise and practice. You shove a hand in his hair and pull him down just to see him struggle, "Have you taken other King's Guard like this, princeling?"

He chokes, burning eyes—burning with tears—directed towards you with a certain recognizable hatred. He cannot answer, and that is precisely your design.

"Don't look at me like that, little thing," You chuckle, easing yourself into a rhythm of slow grinds into his wet mouth. He cannot do anything about it, but his humping against your foot enboldens. "I am showing you a mercy you'd never had shown me."

You don't know where to rest your eyes, not in lock with his gaze, surely. You much prefer watching your cock sink into his mouth; or should you rather prefer the sight of his dick, a concerningly bright red, grind furiously upon your foot? It is quite the dilemma.

The sight of his pitiful humping makes pride rise in your chest—but watching him take your cock, silencing him with it, feeling his saliva drape around your length and his long tongue work pliantly as you slide yourself in and out of him… yes, you suppose you do have a preference.

You suppose you've shown him too much mercy, too.

You give him no warning as to your next thrust into his mouth being much less restrained, and deeper. You prod his throat with the tip of your cock, and Aerion gags.

"Don't resist me, princeling." Your tone is gentle, but it's the only soft thing about you. Your words are harsh, as is the grip you have in his hair, and the next thrust.

You breach his throat with this one. Distantly, you see Aerion's cock twitch, but that's not your concern.

His mouth is wet, but his throat is something different. Much, much tighter. Gods above.

You pull his head down to further maneuver yourself into his throat until he's taken you whole. His nose hits the hairs at the base of your cock, and his expression is utterly dazed.

Mercy finds you again when you pull out of his mouth so he can regain his breath.

With his panting chest, Aerion looks pathetic, but then his gaze finds yours again. He looks like he might just bite.

"Got something to say?" You scoff.

He doesn't. Instead, voluntarily, he takes you back in his mouth and back down his throat. He gags again this time, but his determination pulls him through it, like he's learned a new party trick he wants to recreate.

"Fuck." You grumble, instinctively bucking up into his mouth and making him gag once more.

With two fistfuls of his hair, you push and pull his mouth over your cock—the right words are that you fuck his mouth and throat.

You'd think Aerion might hate him, but his tongue works to match pace and his humping does too.

If you get to fuck him like this, maybe it's worth sticking around… but this is your last night truly alive, isn't it? Besides, you only like him right now because he is not talking.

His gags dissipate into pleasurable moans, you think, that vibrate around your cock. As much pleasure as he brings you, that just won't do.

When he pull him off your cock, his tongue dives out of his lips to kitty lap at your tip. He's cockdrunk. It's hard to deny yourself of his mouth, but you do so anyway.

"Get up."

You snap Aerion out if his stupor with those words. He spits at the ground, likely to show his disdain for what you've done to him, but you both know he's just playing pretend. "You're stupid. You were just about to come."

"Shut up." You grab him by the back of his hair and tug up until his body goes up with it.

Aerion lands on his own bed on his back. One look and the click of your tongue, and he turns onto his stomach.

You know he won't obey you when you ask him to prop his hips up, or perhaps you want to manhandle him yourself. You force him onto his knees so his ass is up and all for your viewing.

His hole just looks like it's gaping for you, begging for you, but fuck it, you know you can't fit in there.

When you grasp his cheeks and pull them apart, he gasps. When you spit onto his hole, he yelps. Finally, when you stick a thick finger into him, he whimpers.

"Is this the night you were hoping for?" You ask, grabbing a handful of his hair so that he may not muffle his shameful words into the pillow.

"Fuck off." Is Aerion's first reply. He thinks you're mocking him.

"I mean it. What did you expect? That I might suck your cock? That I may take it?"

Silence follows unbearably until you prod a second finger into him and force his lips to open with a painful gasp. "No," He whimpers, then chokes out, "I wanted to see how big you were and–"

He moans beautifully when you reward him with gentler movements, gentler scissoring of his hole. He continues now less coerced, "I wanted to ride you."

But of course, he still wanted to be in control. "You're a dirty whore of a prince," You click your tongue, and the sharp insult makes him clench around your fingers. You force him to open up with a third, "is this all that you live for?"

"No–" Aerion chokes out. You believe he is saying the truth, because violence is of course his favorite hobby, but you'd love humiliating him more.

You stretch your fingers far apart, spreading his hole open roughly. It silences him. "You are lying. I know that it has been your motive since the moment I was sworn to you. Why else would you act like a saint, eating grapes off my hand?"

Whether he is to speak or not, you don't know, because you grope one of his cheeks, nails digging into his flesh. Aerion sucks in a sharp breath. His hole clenches around your fingers in preparation for your spit, but you don't give it to him.

"Look at you, clenching around my fingers like that." You mock, "Only a whore would do that."

"Just you!" Aerion gasps out before you can stop him from speaking with some other trick. When you don't do anything in retaliation, he grinds against your fingers a non-subtle tad. "I haven't fucked any of my other King's Guard. I swear it."

He's desperate, he wants you, you know he is telling the truth—but you don't care for it. "How can I trust your word?"

You wish you had him on his back, so you could see the utter desperation on his face; but then again, you get to see your fingers stretch his helples hole out, and later, your cock sinking into it.

Or now.

"You're stretched out enough for me, aren't you?"

Aerion must be confused, because he gasps out a "what?" and presses his cheek to the pillow to look at you. He's confused at your gentle tone and your fingers receding before he's even ready to take you, for his mouth spelled the size of you out for him earlier: big.

He doesn't have the time to even beg you with a please before you're pushing your length into him.

Aerion pushes his forehead into the pillow, muffling his groans and screams, a real shame. You spare him no concern, his tight hole squeezing around you brings you too much pleasure to care.

He's no common whore, you'll give him that. "Tighter than any brothel girl," You say as you fully sheathe yourself inside of him; even after that you give him no rest, as you start to shallowly fuck him, "though that may just be my fault, hm?"

Aerion's thighs tense so that he may take your ever-faster thrusts. Even when you are giving him his desires, he protests, "Asshole!"

The cruel Prince is not the bane of your existence. He has treated you with monotony and silence, politeness as best he can achieve. He has treated others, men you can now call your brothers, much, much worse—but he has just taken your job and honor from you, hasn't he?

You're taking payback for the anger that still boils your blood (your future, you have not yet pondered dreadfully) and for other King's Guard who have been disgraced by his doing.

"Say that again." You dare him, pushing his head into the pillow with your hand. He was hardly loud enough to hear in the first place, but now his words come out as unintelligble muffles.

His hole pleasures you well with its tightness, but its resistance hinders you. Your strength prevails and is evident in your thrusts, forcing themselves into him, forcing him to take.

You still have most of your lower-half armor on: your cuisse, greaves, boots… when you bottom out into him before rearing back, all of it presses into him, hard metals that don't give, sharp edges. Wails come from his mouth and silence him in turn, the armor is not sharp enough to pierce but harsh enough to hurt. Your cock does pierce him, though, and as much as it brings pain and a stretch, it brings him pleasure too, his desire.

You can tell by the way he his heavy dick, with its pretty slit, leaks pearly white onto his sheets.

You wonder…

Wails of pleasure escape his mouth into the air finally audible, when you slip his chin and mouth off the pillow and only press his nose into it. They simmer down into whimpers when you push your hole length into him and merely grind.

You're doing that to him—you've confirmed it now—you're making him lose control of his own voice.

"Please."

"What was that, prince?" You shift a little lower, grind elsewhere, and it makes his moans turn all the more high-pitched. That's the spot.

"Ugh," Aerion's back arches as if to entice you, though you know it is merely him wanting more of your cock. "keep going. Keep–just fuck me."

You tug his head back with his hair—he yelps—then let it fall onto the pillow. It's like you've taken control of his senses and his head is too heavy. "Who are you to make demands?"

You rear back a little, press back in, the shallowest of thrusts. Aerion whimpers because he knows there's better, that you can give him so much more. "Please." He begs again…

…much too quiet, much too little. You click your tongue and the way he shifts, the tension in his bare, pale shoulders, spells guilt that rises from your disappointment. "Louder," You beckon him with another taste of what you could give him, another shallow thrust, but this one harder, "since you do so love to speak."

"Please." Aerion speaks deliriously into the pillow. With thrembling thighs, he pushes himself off and on your cock. It should incite punishment, but it is pathetic and so pleasing to watch. "Please," He recites, "please, please, please, Ser."

For a moment you ignore his pleading and simply watch. It's almost riding, which is what his goal was at the beginning of the night, but he's doing so bad it's laughable. Would he have ridden you like this?

No matter. You fuck into him again, a longer thrust and much harder. It makes him yelp loudly with surprise.

"Awh, oh fuck." Aerion moans sweetly as you begin fucking him anew. His nose works hard to breathe and keep up, but you've got it pressed into the pillow.

If he passes out, you're not sure you'd care. You'd much rather chase your pleasure.

It's not just his hole squeezing around you that tightens your balls, it's having this untamable prince begging, it's his nose desperately begging for air, it's his ass meeting your thrusts.

None of your brothers are going to believe you.

But Aerion's father will.

"Gods damn you." You take hold of his sure-to-bruise hips and use them to fuck your cock into him harder as well as pull his ass against your pelvis with each thrust.

As far as you're concerned, this is your last night alive. Tomorrow you may be exiled, or worse, executed. You will have your way with him, if it's the last thing you do.

You're no longer pressing Aerion's head down, but he does not lift it. He shifts up, actually, to smother his mouth and sounds with the pillow.

That, you will not have.

"If you are so determined to take me, then speak it." You grab hold of his hair and tug his head up once more, to which he whimpers. "On your elbows, princeling."

Aerion obeys without complaint. His mouth continues to spew nonsense, pleasing nonsense of moans and breathy ah's, not muffled anymore.

If his father shall know, then let him hear it. Let Aerion's moans bounce throughout the Keep. If you are to be disgraced, then let him be disgraced too.

Even if you were having him without anyone's knowledge, his honor has already been disgraced by you. To be taking your cock as good as he is without complaint, but rather with begging, he has lost his dignity.

If it isn't evident already by his whimpers, Aerion enjoys you splitting him open. Honors aside, he wants you.

His cock leaks steadier, it throbs too. He's close, and so are you.

You grip his hips harder and his hole reacts by clenching around you. Still, it's looser now and way easier to fuck into, melded into the shape of your cock.

His hole is loose, he's not resisting you anymore.

"Fuck," The idea of it… your thrusts turn less quick, more meaningful, harder. When you spill, it'll be inside of him. "look at your little hole, sucking me right in."

"Sh-Shut it." Aerion barely manages to protest.

"Shut up, you whore." The name makes him whimper, and you don't back down, "Tell me you want to come."

You don't do anything—stop, grope, spank, nothing—to get him to admit it. With wet lips and tongue, Aerion says, "I do! I want to."

He's so easy.

"Attaboy. When you tell your daddy I've fucked you, tell him how needy you were for it."

You come inside of him, fill him up with everything you've got. The mere feeling of it makes Aerion come too. You ride your high out in his clenched hole, punching more cries from his used throat.

He positively leaks when you pull out of him, your claim of his hole steadily dripping away. It's quite the sight.

You give him no reprieve nor tender heart as you stand, nor yourself the time to look at his hole spill and gape wide.

"Help me put my armor back on."

The morning after, you are not dragged from the safety of your sheets and shoved into the mud. The morning after, you put your armor back on like it is any other day.

That mid-morning, you stand at your post outside of Aerion's chambers; the princeling does not come out, nor does he call for you. When his duties begin, you trail after him in silence. He does not mock you, you do not mock him. The memories of the night before don't resurface on either of your tongues, but your eyes do linger.

You survive until the day after. You awaken again in the safety of your bed and the morning goes on much the same: uneventful.

Aerion has not snitched on you.

Come mid-morning, you notice no servants attend him, in fact, they seem to avoid his hall. Regardless, dutifully, you are at his chamber door again when he calls for you with a sharp, "Ser?"

When you enter the room, Aerion's sitting pretty on his bed, the sheets pooled around his hips and the shape of his cock. He's naked, no night clothes—perhaps you'd torn his only pair, or perhaps he undressed on purpose.

"Care to wake me up?"

You chuckle and close the door behind you. It seems he is intent on keeping you, and if you can get a repeat of that night? You're intent on keeping him your cum rag too.

He's used to waking up at ungodly hours, for a shift, or because he's on call. You shouldn't be confused. It's just the way my body works, he says.

It works with a crack and a pop, you always reply, like a machine in need of oiling.

So you complain about it, obviously. "You should be resting."

"I'm in bed, aren't I?"

"Eyes closed. Mouth open for snoring, but vocal cords not in use."

"Did you just tell me to shut up?"

Your laugh rumbles your chest, shaking Robby too. "Yeah, I did."

"Make me." He says, sitting up slightly to look you in the eye with the purest of intents.

"Make you shut up?" You scoff, "What are you, thirteen with access to Wattpad?"

"No, dipshit." Robby rolls his eyes. His body protests as he manages to straddle your thigh, or thereabouts. Half of your body, he manages to lean over, and that's enough for kissin' at least. "Make me sleep. Tire me out. Do I have to spell it out for you?"

What do you say to that? Nothing, you don't say anything. You kiss him.

His morning breath sucks, you don't care, yours probably does too. Besides, he tastes like familiarity, a mouth not your own but still yours. You crave it.

He's all soft under your touch, under the palm of your hand as it grasps the hairs at the back of his neck, as it then follows down his spine. He groans when you shove it crudely under his shirt—groans a little more when you play with the waistband of his pijama pants. They're accessible.

Early morning makes him soft, and yet also greedy, when his tongue dives into your mouth. The day has just started, better to grasp it by the balls and start strong.

Much to his disappointment, your hand leaves his pants... then it comes down on his ass and gropes. "Fuck," He groans audibly into your mouth.

"She's into superstitions, black cats and voodoo dolls!–"

"Fuck!" You groan audibly, making a grab at your phone. It falls off the nightstand in your fruitless swipe, and you lean over the edge of the bed to find it. You make more fruitless swipes that just barely hit the floor—and your phone case—with the tips of your fingers. You can't get a grasp of the damn thing.

You lean further off the edge; Robby leans off your lap to allow you. Further and further, you've planted a palm on the cold floor now, but further is too far and you roll off.

Faintly you hear some laughing above you, but you don't care for the moment. By the time you find the damn thing, Ricky Martin is on his 4th "livin' la vida loca!" and you're on your back on the floor.

"Hello?"

You're on call.

You listen to the grim voice on the other end, nodding your head, trying your best to remember all the details. Then finally, "Yeah. Yeah, I'll be right there, no worries."

You're on call, not on the phone on call, but come to the hospital it's urgent on call.

"Baby," You meet eyes with Robby, who safely only has his head leaning over the edge of the bed and not his entire center of gravity. "I'm sorry, I—"

"I know. Duty calls." His smile is wide now, fond and energetic (what a way to start the day). He understands.

You can do nothing but breathe out, "Thank you."

When you come back, you're like a zombie. You take off your shoes and shuffle into indoor sandals like procedure, your jacket peels off your body like a second skin, your bag thuds on the ground.

When you hug him, it's also like a zombie, with the way your arms wrap around him, leaving no room for escape, and the way your head is at his neck, hot breaths spilling out.

You don't groan like a zombie, but he does, when you kiss his neck.

"Is this a reward for breakfast?" Robby chimes, knocking his head against yours affectionately.

"Now that you mention it..."

"Har har."

Really, it wasn't even on your mind—not even the smell of the charr on the bacon. You were only thinking about him, about the comfy, homely, yours smell of him, and you were only salivating at the thought of kissing him.

"Are you fucking hard?" It's pressing right against him, and you didn't even notice.

Oh my god. "Listen, fuck, I can't help it. After this morning was interrupted, after those tough hours at work, I just need something–"

The stove turns off with a click and Robby spins in your arms, "Shut up."

He kisses you. It starts out strong already, teeth clash before tongues do; but you don't cringe. He tastes better now, like toothpaste and coffee, mint chocolate ice cream on a warm vessel. He tastes good, and you want more of it.

It's a push and pull, you keep against the stove, he pushes forward. Ultimately, he wins and you very nearly lose your balance and recreate the morning.

He's got you against the counter, hands blocking you against it like you'd dare to go anywhere else—but you're right where you want to be.

Your hands find the back of his body—or more indecently, his ass—like a recreation of the better side of this morning. His pants are still accessible, and this time, you do push a hand below the waistband.

Before long, your hand sneaks around his hairy, thick thigh, and finds itself between his legs. You don't delve your hand below his boxers, and that gets a frustrated groan out of him, but you do splay a hand over his half-chub. It's easy to wrap around with the looseness of his boxers, easier still to pump.

Robby's kissing gets sloppy, his breath gets steamy; you imagine, so does yours. Your only thought right now is to pleasure him.

To embarrass him. You work a wet spot into the fabric, and when you feel it, you thumb at it. He's leaking for you. You coax more out, thumb rubbing over the slit with purpose.

When you take a hand out of his pants, he stops kissing you to give you mean look. It melts into an involuntary moan when you press the wet pad of your thumb against your tongue.

"Freak." Robby laughs to cover up that sound.

"Bi–"

Ricky Martin's boisterous voice cuts you off from giving the rest of the word a voice.

You frown, digging your phone from out of your pocket. You answer the call, accidentally, with your spit-wet thumb, but can only grimace at it.

"Hello?"

Crap.

You're still on call, still bound to the duties of a contract and the heavier duties of your role in the balance of life and death. The idea makes your proud cock go limp in your scrubs. Great.

You end the call with your second "I'll be right there" of the day, then shoot Robby another apologetic look. "I'm sorry, baby." You mouth after pressing another quick kiss against the corner of his lips.

"Don't be." Robby calls after you, watching as you sprint off towards all the things you'd just taken off a minute ago. "More bacon for me!"

You've left him with wet underwear.

You're a bit less sluggish the next time you trudge inside, pumped up on several cups of coffee; though it doesn't mean that you're entirely at attention.

You roll your shoulders after dropping your bag. Damn, age is getting to you.

"Hey, doll." Before you can register him, Robby's got his hands on your cheeks and he's pulling you into a kiss, except this time it's sweet.

Not that you're complaining though.

You wrap your arms around him and all but slump your tired weight over him. Some would say you melted into the kiss, others would say you're just tired... others, like you, would say it's because Robby is your lifeline.

Robby guides you over to the couch blindly, then sets you down, both, atop it.

Atop it becomes atop him, when your hand pushes between his arm and his body to press onto the cushion and to press him down.

You're sure he'd meant it to be chaste, but it had quickly turned into something else. You didn't mean it to, and this time, it wasn't even because he—well, more you—had left you hanging earlier. Twice.

This time it was merely because you wanted him.

And maybe you missed him too.

"Doll–"

"Mm?" You hum in reply. Really, your mind wants to hear him out, but your body craves the heat of his like it needs it. You keep kissin' him, relentlessly, leaving hardly any room for reply.

You swallow up the moan he lets out when you grind into him, tent pitched in your pants right up against his own.

Robby really doesn't know what he wants—now wanted—to say. All he can think about is how delicious your cock feels against his own.

Between the two of you, who's had it harder? You've got the time at work to distract you, whatever case calls you with urgency must have been hard to solve, and he knows how easy it is to ignore yourself in favor of finding a diagnosis. Meanwhile, he's been at home: moping about, watching a comedy on the TV like the jokes would make him forget about his hard-on, till the thing realized you weren't home.

So that settles it, then. He's had it harder, and fuck, does it want it harder.

"More." He gasps against your lips, then breaks the kiss to say it—no whisper, he needs out and loud. "Hurry up."

You scoff, but oblige, because you want him too. You want him split open on your raw cock, or even just dick-to-dick, veins-to-veins contact. Anything to get you off.

Robby's sweats are halfway down his thighs, by your hand, when your phone rings superstitions, black cats, and voodoo dolls.

"Goddamnit." You curse, sitting up and damn near kicking the coffee table out of frustration. "5 pm. Can't I end the day one hour early?"

"Be right there" turns into "be there" this time around, less than ten seconds into the call. Your urgency is there, but your desire to do something about it isn't quite the same. You grimace up at him, eyes teetering between apology and frustration.

"You're sorry, you'll be right back?" Robby speaks for you. This time, there's not as much forgiveness. There's only so many times he can be blue-balled before his patience wears thin.

"Yeah." You reply, breathlessly, surging forward to press another kiss against his lips. It's slow.

He cups your cheeks again, wanting so hard to keep you there with him, but no. "Okay. Go on."

You shuffle out from between his legs, then shuffle more urgently, less needy, towards your stuff. Even if this case isn't quick, you're going to make it quick.

You're not back quick. You're back 3 hours later, technically outside of your work hours, but when you're less horny you're more focused on your job. The case was successful, anyway: a good work day, but a bad, bad personal day.

It feels good to kick off your shoes for the last time of the day, better still with a bag of takeout in hand. Takeout for two, to be clear. Whether or not Robby has figured out his own dinner, takeout is supposed to be compensation (that is, if your full, undivided attention isn't enough).

"Baby, I'm home!" He doesn't reply.

He's not in the living room. You make a quick stop at the kitchen to drop off your takeout bag, then head to the only other place in the house he could be: the bedroom.

And there he is, of course, though not in the way you hoped for. He's asleep, curled up in bed, under the covers, book open on his chest. He's even still got his reading glasses on.

He looks lovely; and really, you should want to go about the rest of your night in silence. You should eat alone, take your shower quietly, put the book back and take his glasses off, then join him in bed—but you don't. You don't want to do any of that.

You want him, and it feels fucking dirty to want him, not because he isn't desirable but because it's the only thing you can think of.

You can't wait to rip his legs apart, to bury yourself between them, head or body.

"Baby?"

Robby stirs when you call his name this time. His eyes flutter open and a soft sight escapes him. "You're back."

"It's late, I know." You skip a couple steps to your forgone plan when you steal his book and place it on the nightstand, then take off his glasses. "I'm sorry."

"I've heard that enough times today." Robby stretches, things crackle and pop. When he opens his eyes, you're leaning over him, and it's not even a surprise.

You kiss, hungrily on your part, lazily on his. His legs part, and you take your place between them so naturally, it's like puzzle pieces. It's like picking up right where you left off, except this time, Robby's got no hunger for it. Nevermind his half-chub poking at you, he's not reciprocating very strongly.

"Doll." He breaks the kiss by cupping your cheek and pushing it. You meet eyes.

Now, where you've had the time to think about him—as if you were a soldier at war—at work, Robby's been asleep... with no evidence of a wet dream, at the very least.

His eyes are soft, apologetic; yours must be desperate and unsettling.

"...yeah?"

A smile blooms where you expect a frown to. Your eyebrows furrow, while he laughs at you. He tucks some hair behind your ear and admires your hairline like some lovesick fool, making you simmer in anticipation. Finally, he says, "I'm just kidding."

"Oh, fuck you." You press harder into him, kiss him harder. His hunger is there, finally reciprocated, and it makes you throb in your pants.

Robby squeezes his legs around your hips, digging his foot into your ass to pull you in closer, as if it were possible just yet. He's still laughing into the kiss, and you want nothing more than to shut him up.

So you grind into him. It's nothing new, but it still feels fucking good to rub cocks together like horny teens, and it's got him moaning. You press further kisses into his hairy jaw, into his salt and pepper beard. As you work across his cheek, Robby's moans get closer to your ear.

"Getting off on this?" Dry humping, through your clothes. Scrubs against sweats, it's not hard to feel each other, not hard to get up. The friction is delicious. You're shaming him for it—but you're making the bed too.

Robby doesn't reply with a word, just a moan, which is a yes in its own right.

You slide down his body, and yet the contact doesn't disappear. It's only replaced by the next part of your body, 'till your tongue's making a wet spot against the less shadow, more bulge in his pants.

As much as you mouth at it like a rabid dog, and as hot as he sounds groaning at just a hint of touch against his little bud, when you finally get his pants and boxer down for the first time in the day, you skip right to his hole.

You haven't had dinner yet, but his hairy hole is fulfilling enough. It's sweet, fucking sweet under your tongue. You want more of it, so you suck.

Robby's thighs clamp around you. You've no doubt his head falls backwards, too, when you work a finger into him like you want to dig his sweetness out of him for a taste.

Freak, he'd said earlier. Well, he was right. You are a fucking freak.

But one with good taste.

His hole's dinner, but sticking your cock in it is dessert. You're trying to skip towards it already, alternating between swipes of your tongue and fucking him with your fingers. Or both.

Both is good, real good, because it has Robby groaning. His hand comes down on your head to grip at your hair, pull you in closer, but there is no closer.

"I need you right now." He voices, somehow finding enough restraint to plant his foot on your shoulder and push.

Getting pushed off of him is a rude awakening, but it's damn funny. It also doesn't snap you out of your lust—no, that burns like magma—but awakens you to how his hole is ready for you.

Next thing you know, your scrubs are flying right off, and it has him laughing. "Don't just sit there." You grumble, pants half-off.

"Alright." He snickers, pulling off his shirt.

There's nothing impressive under there, no bodybuilder muscles, just the functioning, moving-people-from-gurneys-to-beds ones. That's not entirely what you're looking for, anyway. You're looking for his chest hairs, the way they curve at the middle of his chest and dive down into hair at his belly and the beautiful trail towards his neglected cock.

After this whole temptatious day, the sight of him feels like a fucking reward.

"Good god, baby." You breathe out breathlessly (only oxymorons can describe a marvel like him) and immediately lean over him for a kiss.

Where you're marveling, he's grinding against you for the first sinful skin-on-skin contact of the day. Fuck it feels good—you groan it out for him to hear.

"Hurry it up, hunk." He says, legs still wide yet somehow coaxing you inside.

There's not much he needs to convince you on.

When you're finally inside, even just the tip, you both moan embarrassingly. Your head falls onto his shoulder, "Worth the fucking wait."

And as you push into him, it gets harder for Robby to breathe and speak, but, "I would rather not the wait."

You groan when you bottom out, when you feel his gummy walls clenching around every inch of you. "Ditto."

"Did you just say "Ditto"?" He snickers, hand crawling between your hairs, nails digging into your scalp, before he grabs and tugs and makes your eyes roll way the fuck back.

"Fuck off." You start rolling your hips.

"No, I don't think I will–"

"I'll make you," You pull back, cock over half-way out and wet, before slamming right back into him. "Isn't that what you wanted this morning?"

To your credit, it does work, and just like you'd intended this morning: mouth open for snoring (moaning) and vocal cords not in use. Though, only for the moment.

Robby's lips part with a moan that makes your cock throb in tandem. It closes then, with a grimace, half his body shaking. "You're too good at this."

"Isn't that why you picked me?" You lift your head up from his shoulder only to watch his reaction as you work up a pace.

His eyes open, lock onto yours. When he opens his mouth, strings of wet saliva connect his teeth. You yearn to lick at them, but he'd probably bite you with how seriously he says, "No."

"Right." You dare to anyway, kissin' him so hard it almost distracts him from the way your hips grind into his, from the way you piston him into the mattress. "You love me."

Robby laughs. He tugs at your hair again, then rakes a hand with sharp nails down your back. "As good of an excuse as any."

You gape at him, "Jerk."

"Don't you mean "baby"?"

"Baby." You fix with a softer tone. He has half the mind to tease you about it, if you weren't then interrupted by goddamn Ricky Martin again.

You don't check the caller ID. Hospital or family or friends, you are not gonna answer the thing while balls-deep in your man. You toss the damn thing onto the floor for later.

"Damn right." He chuckles, using his hold on your hair to bring you back into him, "Missed you, doll. You've been off at work and I've been so restless."

"Missed you too." You sigh, pressing your forehead against his.

The soft moment fizzles out when you wrap a hand around him, making him gasp out. His hand joins yours. It's almost like holding hands, pumping them up and down his length. He clenches harder around you—with his hole, to be clear—like a thank you.

Lust replaces whatever softness you hold—not lust, actually, but that craving for pleasure. You feel like your balls are drawing tighter each time they slap against his ass, tighter than usual.

You want him as much as your body does, which is a lot. Whatever exhaustion had creeped into your limbs throughout the day is gone.

You've one goal, and that's to get the both of you to come.

Not in a way where you want this over with, but in a way that you want to take him however it goes; and that is, with fervor.

Things go sloppier where you've lost focus, you do end up licking at his saliva. The both of you are panting and moaning like dogs in heat, both needy for each other. His hands scramble at your shoulders for purchase (much too erratic to join yours around his length, he'd deduced early on), your hips snap into his.

Things are right where they need to be where you are focused, thrusts hard and quick and jesus, you're right fucking there.

"Fuck, baby." You let out something of a whimper, embarrassing but needed. Your tip digs into his prostate and you're both sensitive. "Robby." You correct, "Goddamn, Robby."

"Just a little more." He replies. You can barely hear him from where he's got his lips buried into the corner of yours. With the way he throbs in your hand, you don't doubt him.

Robby's right with that conjecture. Just a little more and you're both spilling right over. If it takes less time than usual, you don't even notice. Nor care.

With hot come inside him (plus you), he could just doze right off, but he doesn't. Sex ed and med school have taught him enough to know—yeah, whatever. Maybe later. Right now he just needs you here with him.

His legs don't let up around your hips, even as they ache. What he cares more about is the controlled kiss he shares with you, soft and loving, and he sighs into it.

"We should schedule our off-days to be the same." Robby suggests when you part, his hand caressing your cheek.

The second time you fucked him was just the same, albeit teetering less on black-out, more on tipsy.

The third and final time you fucked him, you were sober. Unsurprisingly, the next morning, when you declared you wanted to end things, you were also sober.

...he started opening the curtains at dawn. Robby had mentioned offhandedly once that Jack does naked yoga at sunrise, and you never thought you'd see it.

But you're his next building neighbor, and he's opened the curtains.

Fuck, you're gonna be late.

Nothing's stopping you from stepping away, except... except him, the way he stares at you knowingly, the way his body contorts: how his dick stands proud in tree position (either morning wood, or it's because of your stare), how his ass looks in downward dog, how his tits look as big as his ass in cobra pose.

He knows you're staring. You're making eye contact, even. Him, in all his naked goodness, in his stretching muscles and indecencies; and you, in all your ready for work-ness.

When you stand up, it's self-restraint. When you close the curtains, it's refusal.

But when you pull down your pants in the comfort of darkness, it's something else.

"You're early."

"You're slacking."

Your shift is almost over. You needed fresh air... barring the cigarette between your fingers. You needed to relax, is all, why is he judging you with that face?

Oh, that's not judgement.

"Not gonna head inside?"

"You're right, I'm early. Maybe I should just keep you company instead." He stares at you intently, arms crossed in that way that show off his biceps.

Your cigarette suddenly seems unappealing right now. You stare at it, at its dying tip and the ash that forms around it, just to stare at anything that isn't Dr. Abbot.

Anything not to look at his dark eyes, because they'll bring with them the thought of his naked body, both under you and on display. The thoughts of this morning resurface in your mind with a twist in your chest that you don't want to interpret.

Your head finds itself attracted, anyway, and you can't stop it. It looks his way, and you lock eyes again.

"I get it. Everyone needs to relax every now and then." His voice is low, familiar to you only in the bedroom and its preamble. He's doing something. When finally you bring yourself to decipher that look on his face, you realize it's desire: mouth slightly open with a peak of his tongue, half-open, intent eyes; his unashamed proximity.

You huff a scoff out of your nose, "What game are you playing at, Jack?"

"No game." He promises, except his hand reaches around your face to cup the back of your neck. "Is it a crime to look at you?"

Your eyebrows furrow, conflict on your face. You haven't even begun to ponder your own decision to break things off, now Jack is making you ponder the aftermath. The twist in your chest is desire.

Your cigarette falls from your grip, because you're much more interested in getting a grip of the muscle beneath his scrubs; and your lips forget words, because they're much more interested in answering with contact.

You kiss with a fervor reciprocated, matched. It feels like nothing's changed.

His lips burn just the same, electric and good, familiar. You've only had him three times, but you know the way he kisses and the way he tastes, because it's unforgettable.

Your lips move like they want more, even between the closeness, the noses knocking against each other. Jack answers with his tongue, because he knows your body and the way it twitches under his touch, and its need.

When your tongues meet, you flinch, or maybe shiver with pleasure. He doesn't tease you about it, he just pulls you closer by the back of the neck, forcing you to kiss him harder.

It's so easy to want Jack Abbot when he kisses you like this. It's so easy to want him when the tension is thicker than the blood that rushes between your legs.

His foot drags over the pavement in a screech, putting out your cigarette butt. You hear that before you feel him pulling away, though you keep chasing after his lips with pecks until you can't.

"Your shift is over." He speaks in a careless whisper, while his calloused hand leaves your neck. "Go home. I'll clock out for you."

You bite your swollen bottom lip as you watch him turn heel and walk into the ER. What the fuck was that?

Door's open.

A single text, late into the night when Jack finally ended his shift and returned.

Door's open, he says, two simple words that imply everything: that he wants you, that you still want him too, that he's ready for you to barge in and fuck him.

No game, he'd declared before, but goddamnit, he's a liar. He's playing a game, with his open curtains and the way he kissed you.

You watched willingly, you kissed him too.

Yeah, you want him. Of course you do. You want to lick every salty inch of his body. But it's his fault that you do.

The doorman lets you in, he recognizes you. You recognize the way to his apartment. The door stares at you with its neatly printed numbers, imposing, impenetrable; until you push it open.

When you find him, he's in the bedroom, of course. Naked, also what you expected, and yet you can't control what the sight of him does to your body.

The covers are pulled aside, and yet the pose he's splayed in isn't cliché like a porno magazine, it's fucking hot. Arms behind his head, ankles crossed, every bit of him on display. Cock proud, too. No game, he said.

Your arousal concentrates in your face, with the redness of your cheeks and the way you cover your mouth and rub it raw to try to contain every possible thing you want to spew from your mouth. You want to do so many things to him, it's unbelievable.

"On all four."

Jack smirks something victorious. The smirk remains as he gets down on his hands and knees. You know it's there, even though you can't see it, because the both of you know he's completed his mission of goading you into sex; add onto that his endless, oozing confidence.

You've just thrown your shirt off your back when you climb onto his bed. When you grasp his hips, you've only unzipped your jeans enough to dig your aching cock out.

In mind games, he controls you, because he knows that you still want him, that the sight of him tempts you.

In physical games, you're gonna fuck him until he his voice goes hoarse. You press his head into the mattress with a hand on the back of it as you push into him, all the way in. You're in charge, supposedly, but he's prepared himself for you. His body is yours, but only because he has allowed it.

Do you fucking care though?

You've got everything you could've wanted right here: his hole 'round your cock, milking you dry.

"Fuck."

There's no waiting. You can't. He protests with gulped groans, you can't care for those either.

You fuck him with a fervor, with a need. His hole tempted you today, gaping as he did whatever those fucking yoga positions are called; and it keeps tempting you now. You watch your cock disappear in and out of it, and you realize, Jack wants you too.

At least, his greedy hole does, sucking you in. You don't know games, not like the ones Jack plays, but you know his body. You know that the way his hole flutters closed around your cock, how his walls tighten, means he feels fucking good.

You slide your chest over his back. You're not sweaty yet, but soon you will be, and your skin will stick together in the hot mess. Your lips find his ear, where they whisper, "You like that?"

Any other time, Jack might reply something snarky like "of course I do", but right now?

"Fuck yeah." He spits the words out, their evidence on the pillow.

You push two fingers into his mouth, not to gag him, but to claim his tongue between your fingers and make things filthy. His tongue swirls around them, tasting their salt, he takes them easily.

"Yeah you fucking do."

The mattress shakes, the bedframe whines, his spine trembles. The neighbors will complain, but the only fucks you give are Jack's.

Gorgeous women come to your sides, and though your eyes wander, they are not your concern for the night. One of them takes off your shoulder pad, trailing her hand across your chest once she has rid you of it. The other takes a place behind you, pressing herself against your back as she undoes your belt blind. The pressure of her skin leaves you as the first helps you out of your pants, and then the women are gone as quickly as they came.

Viserys eyes the scene with, what, worry? There's sweat upon his brow, from the warm torches on either side of the bed, he argues, though he cannot find an excuse for the fire that lights in his loins. His ankles dig into the mattress as he pushes himself away from you, but it's futile.

Your knee contacts the bed first, and then your palms. You crawl towards him and it makes Viserys' breath pick up. You look like an animal come to devour him.

This is a punishment for Viserys, that much became apparent when Dany's insufferable husband had his brothers take him away without any care for the bruises they'd leave on the future king's body. What he doesn't realise is that this is a reward for you.

He's seen you around before, quiet behind Drogo, boasting and loud around the rest. He knows how important you are, more importantly, he knows how ruthless you can be.

He yelps when you grab his ankle, winces when you crawl closer and wrap it around your hip.

You say something that sounds brutish in Dothraki, and all hope leaves him when he hears the foreign words spill out from your mouth. Apparently it's clear on his face.

You laugh something barbarian, but then speak in the common tongue, "Fragile."

"What?"

"Cannot extend your leg around my body. Am I too big?"

Viserys scoffs. His foot meets your—well defined—abs, intent on pushing you away , but you take that ankle too. He can't decide whether it would have been better if you knew how to speak common or not, because by now he's sure that Drogo's warned you about the poison his words carry. Will it be worse that you can understand his protests and ignore them, willfully?

"Answer."

Viserys rolls his eyes. "Yes."

Your next words make him scoff once more. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry?" He repeats, eyebrows raised. You say it like if you could change the fact, you would. Some humanity in this otherwise inhumane punishment is surprising.

His words fall on deaf ears as you sink into the bed, face to face with his cock, but you don't seem to care for it, for you delve lower. The first lick makes him yelp again... but it's not pain that he feels. It's rather weird, a kind of feeling that makes him tighten his stomach.

The leg he had around you had settled atop your shoulder when you lowered down... Viserys realizes it's pleasure when his body acts without his thinking and his other leg clamps around your head.

"Fuck," He shouldn't like this: a man between his legs licking at his hole like it's a cunt; and yet, he does. That's the bad part. "oh gods."

His hips jut up, his cock fucks the air. It's not friction there that he wants, but friction against your tongue, another swipe of it, another kiss of your lips. It's instinct. You don't laugh at him, you merely push his body down with one hand upon his stomach. He moans at that, moans, at how warm your hand is, at how strong you are.

When your first finger worms its way into him, it doesn't feel like an intrusion. It just makes more heat crawl up his body, more need, more desire. You don't make him wait for it. Maybe this is the Dothraki way—stretch him just enough so that he won't bleed, but will still feel like he's being stretched in two, because–

"That's not gonna fit." Viserys says. It's more of a realization than anything, because he had seen the thing earlier... well, he hadn't seen it hard and throbbing, just waiting to get into him.

Either you don't understand him, or you ignore him, because soon you've got the tip prodding into him and it makes him keen. His head falls back and his hands struggle in their restraints.

Your sudden care is gone, and now you look almost animalistic, like you only have one goal in your mind.

Viserys feels full just half-way in, but you continue on even past that. What is there past full except bursting? Viserys groans, he clenches around you, it's futile. It only makes him feel every inch of you even more. Feeling like he's bursting only makes him feel the need to have you out of him—and then in, in, in—sooner. "Hurry."

The first thrust has him gasping; the second, moaning. The rest put him in a state of ecstasy. Though the better parts of his mind scream at him, it feels so good. He's had famed cunts at brothels, but this—this doesn't compare.

The Dothraki way is to take from behind, but the blurrier his vision grows and the harder it gets to keep his eyes open, the more he realizes that this punishment was designed so that he'd lose his dignity—so that he'd look the man taking him in the eye.

It obviously does not account for him liking this.

"Don't stop." Viserys calls, back arching.

"Stop?" You scoff at him, not understanding him like the brute you are. You continue to snap your hips into him, taking on a daring tone, "No."

"I said don't stop, you oaf." He bites back, wrapping his legs around your hips, making his desires known. "No stop. Yes continue."

And it is demeaning, looking at the man that fucks him, how his body is so much bigger and so much more muscular—looking at his own dick, the way it flops uselessly against his stomach, the way he would be touching himself if he weren't restrained; though only if his mind paid attention.

When you lean over him and crash your lips together, it almost feels right, like this right here is a lovers' tryst. He can't get enough of you, his lips and tongue pushing against yours with a fight because he needs to get closer than close.

You keep fucking him, as he asked, and it takes embarrassingly little to get him to finish.

The same can't be said for you.

For the moment the pleasure piles on... he no longer feels like he's bursting, more like your bodies are made for each other. He finds pleasure in the heat of your tongue and the strength of your thrusts, and it makes him even more of a mess.

The way you fuck him, it's like he feels you in his throat, punching the words out of his mouth, "Gods! You're–fuck, don't stop. More!"

He can't even complain about your boastful laugh, he hardly even heard it over the brain fog of ecstasy and skin slapping skin ferociously.

In time, you drag out of him a second orgasm... and it becomes apparent to him that your endurance was the point.

Because your stupidly short mind will focus on one goal only, guided by your cock, your own orgasm. And who knows how long that will take? Will you seek another?

His wrists scream at him when he tugs against his restraints, his hips too, from being angled up for you; and though your cock is steadfast and giving, overstimulation bites at Viserys just enough that a part of his mind realizes it will only grow.

"S-Stop, I've–"

You cut him off with some stupid grin on your face, "What happened to 'no stop'?"

He's about to bite back, but your cock meets his prostate, and it has all words dying on his tongue.

Robert Robertson the Third is not the type to call anyone daddy, much less papi. It's not just about dignity, it's also straight-up mindset. Daddy? In bed? To your lover? The thought just makes him cringe. "Whatever gets you off, I guess" is something he'd definitely say...

But you don't really know him. Maybe that's why he lets you break him down into a whore breathing pleas to receive a harder fuckin' from his papi.

"I want more." More? What more is there to ask for?

He's clearly not in the right mindset to be thinking coherently, and you find it all the more amusing. "Manners, princesita."

And the nicknames too. Robert would never let anyone call him any of that... just you. Though he knows what to say, it doesn't come out of him procedurally. It's heartfelt, you can tell because he's teary-eyed. "More, papi, please."

You do just the opposite, pausing to settle on your knees and bring his thighs on top of yours, making Robert whine out loud. "Pero, nena, what more are you asking for?"

"Keep going, please, I was so close, papi." His eyes struggle to focus on yours, through their glassy, teary sheen. For once, his gaze isn't so intense that it strips you of your confidence. It's conflicted now, frustrated.

"Eh, but that's what you want now." You laugh, splaying a hand over his stomach, which he eagerly reaches out for. "What did you want just seconds ago?"

"I–" He doesn't fucking know, and it's clear in the way his eyes unfocus and his unkempt eyebrows furrow.

"Focus your pretty little mind," You bring your other hand up to his cheek and stroke the apple of it just so nicely. "I know you can do it, baby."

The praise, the pet name, the hand on his cheek, none of it is helping him think; and to top it all off, you've started shallowly fucking him again, and it's nowhere near as good as he knows you can give him. The frustration grows until, eventually, it spills over and he gives up. "I don't know, papi."

You tut your lips, disappointment clear, and it makes shame burn deep in Robert's chest. "Oh, pretty girl," and there's the pity. You chuckle, thumb following down the apple of his cheek, tracing its path down to his mouth. You slip it past his lips and he immediately gets to suckin'. "How about this? I'll give you a couple choices."

Robert needs no convincing. His words come out slurred around your thumb, but, "Yes, please."

"We switch positions, I don't know, doggy, side fuck; you sit on my face, or... hm," This really isn't going to be a choice, with the next thing you say, "Or, I breed you full."

"That one." Robert says immediately. You give him the mercy of taking your thumb out of his mouth, because you know you're going to like what he says next, "Please, papi, I want you to fill me up."

You'd laugh a bit more boisterously, but it's really not the first time he's asked you to come inside. It's been your preferred way for god knows how long—but who are you kidding? It's a little more than that.

You push your arms under his knees and plant them on the mattress with no warning, but really, there's no subtlety in putting him in mating press. It has Robert's dick leaking all the more in anticipation, because there's nowhere to go now.

Your voice in his ear, whispering as you begin thrusting into him again, makes his moan. Those words of yours, Spanish, make his thoughts all the more intangible. "Yo sabia que ibas a decir eso, nena. Eras tan predecible, tu sabes? Ay, pero este coño tuyo es una fuckin' maravilla."

"Papi!" Robert moans. There's a little bit of your pre already slickening things up inside of him, and he can only imagine how it'll compare once you've bred him full.

"Sí, cariño, keep calling me that. Yo sé que quieres que te llene—que chica más traviesa."

You keep whispering in his ear in Spanish. In his right mind, he knows that it's literally just another language, but right now, it's so fucking hot imagining everything you're telling him. Are you calling him a slut, or are you calling him the love of his life? He's not sure which he'd like more.

His moans are uncontrollable, and his tears that had once been drying (when things where starting to go his way) come back anew, like the pleasure you're bringing him just by sliding your cock in and out of him and leaving his own untouched is too much to handle.

It really is too much to handle, as the tears drag on, down his cheeks. "Papi," He cries, "more, please."

That same mistake. You won't condemn it for him this time, you're far too close to do that. Plus, you want to breed him full too. "Ahi va, nena. Solo espera."

You fuck him harder, zeroing in on his prostate. God, right now, you imagine it's his cervix, like just a little more will have you piercing his womb.

You voice those thoughts for him, and rightfully, it has Robert whining, "Fuuck–I know, papi, it's–I can feel you there."

He's fucking delusional, but god, doesn't it feed you too? He's driving you crazy, clenching around you like—no, he does want to milk you dry, for his own little purposes. Ha.

The more you whisper nonsense in his ear, the more your cock stretches him gaping, the closer Robert is; but he doesn't want to come before you... he really, really, wants to come with you. He wants to come at the feeling of you filling him up, because, fuck, he wants it more than coming. He wants you to breed him more than he wants to finish himself, it's pathetic.

Look what you've turned him into. "Papi, I want... fuck, fill me up already, please!"

Normally you'd tut your lips and say something about patience, but you're almost there. He's already driven you crazy. "Is that what my princesita wants?"

Robert whines for the umpteenth time, "Yes, please."

You give it to him right there—that's pathetic too, but you're fools for each other.

Robert comes too, but he doesn't even think about it. All that he can focus on right now is the feeling of your come deep inside him, sticky, warm, and extremely filling. "Thank you, papi." He says, and despite needing his breaths to go down, he kisses you. It's real gratitude.

When you pull out of him, he can't even clench to keep all of it inside of him. You've left him gaping, like usual, but it's extremely satisfying now to watch it leak out of him. "You're welcome, nena."

"Hi." Robert replies, eyes already shut. No better place in the world to go to sleep than on his boyfriend's chest... wandering hands all but make it easier.

They start at his hair, scratching the itch left behind by the pressure of the headset on his head; then another hand peruses the buttons of his shirt and sneaks under, light, gentle, chaste. It's a warm touch over his heart, delivered by a smooth hand. You might as well be lulling a puppy to sleep, with the way he melts under your touch.

"Hard day?"

"Yes." Robert pauses to sigh with pleasure, "Feels like I take care of a gang of children everyday."

"So you've said."

Robert snorts, "So I've–". He cuts himself off with a groan, involuntarily, as you flick at his nipple.

"Sorry, is that okay?"

He clears his throat as heat rushes to his cock, trying to regain a semblance of control. "Yeah, that's okay, babe."

"Good." You murmur against his hair. Your fingers continue where they are, caressing Robert's sparsely hairy chest, then flicking his nipple randomly. It drags sparse whimpers from his throat, but they grow all the more frequent as your other hand runs down his side and settles on his thigh. You pull it aside and the other follows like a mirror.

Robert spreads his legs for you, but you don't do anything about it just yet. You just caress the inside of his thigh, drawing and closer and closer to the imprint of his growing cock in his pants.

"I..."

"You want to tell me about your day?" You ask, and Robert hums a yes. "Okay."

Your hand doesn't wander any higher and your fingers leave his nipples as you let him speak. You're sure that's not what he meant to do, but you take the opportunity to unbutton the rest of his shirt as he speaks.

"–and I know he means well, they all do, to some extent. Even Chad. He's–"

You draw circles over his sternum then drag that hand over his abdomen, tracing the faint lines of his abs. Then you hook your thumb around his waist, appreciating its slenderness.

"–everytime Herman fucks up on a mission, I have to remind myself he's just a rookie. I'm sure I'd handle that just fine if the other fuckers didn't mention it all the time–"

You grow bored eventually—well, not bored. Restless, because you have this shirtless man, your boyfriend, splayed over you.

So you bring your hand back up again, discrete about it, and flick his nipple. It breaks his trance, obviously, but you continue. You press the pad of your index finger against it and rub.

"Sorry." You mutter, but you don't stop, and Robert doesn't want you to.

"Keep–" He lets out something between a wince and a whimper. "keep going."

When your hand at his crotch grows closer, Robert holds his breath in anticipation. You can hear it. You give him what he wants, a quick swipe over the silhouette of his cock, and the breath he was holding blows out.

"Sounds like a hard day." You say, keeping a heavy palm over the base of his cock to rub your thumb over the rest of it. Teasing or just foreplay? "Tiring too, I can imagine it: sitting at that desk for god knows how long, stuck in one place."

Robert can certainly hear you, but he tunes it out in favor of the pressure on his dick. "Please."

"Good boy," Robert whines at that, and you continue, "I was just waiting for that."

As much as Robert claims that he doesn't like the pet name, you felt him throb clear as day. Regardless, you don't make him wait any longer. You undo his pants, which he lifts his hips for so obediently, then pull down his underwear; and there's his cock, just waiting for you.

You twist his nipple instead, making him yelp a "fuck!". He shudders, evident in his voice, as you keep rubbing it straight after, forcing jittery shocks up his spine.

You don't let up, pushing your thumb against slit of his cockhead. He's leaking already—and there you have it: Mechaman reduced to tatters in seconds.

He’s a groaner more than a moaner, most times, but right now he doesn’t care about what sounds come out of his mouth. Your hands on him, jerkin’ him off, are more dirty than tender. They have purpose, and Robert wants more. He bucks into your hand, seeking pleasure, and when he realizes you don’t stop him, he loses it.

Look at him: half-naked in his work clothes, pants pooled at his ankles like he couldn’t wait, because he couldn’t. His muscles jump under your touch, jittery, when you run your hands over the soft inside of his thigh, forcing his legs further apart. His feet dig into couch cushions for better leverage to fuck into your fist. Soon enough, you don’t have to do anything except let him fuck into it… and thumb at his tip.

Robert leaks all the more when you do it, and you gather it in your hand, slather it all over his length. He shudders the closer he gets, hips just as stuttery.

He actually looks great like this, a mess. Not the kind that he usually is, a slob with no trash can but a heavy black bag instead, that kind; but the kind that’s usually tidy with the things he says, who can control his instincts. He’s a mess, because he’s surrendering to them now, chasing that white-hot pleasure.

Your hand returns to his nipple, flicking and flicking relentlessly, then the base of his neck, where Robert’s breath hitches and he finally quiets down for a second.

“You need this?”

“Yes, I do.” Robert nods his head vigorously, opening to look up at you. He’s glassy-eyed in the best way possible, like a puppy, but that’s about where that ends. His mouth is open, more like a slut than a man catching flies.

“Then go and get it.” Fetch.

You let him work for it, and he does. The more he fucks into your fist, the more he pushes it away, and it forces him to reach higher with each consequent thrust. He does so, anyway, because he needs it. If he doesn’t come right now he might just die.

But that’s not a concern, even as the thought occurs to him that you might just rip your hand away. You wouldn’t, wouldn’t you? You don’t even know how close he is—won’t know, not until he finishes.

Robert’s back arches as he comes, feet slipping where they were planted on the couch. His cock spurts hot streaks of come all over your fist, over the cushions, but he doesn’t think about it until his body falls back down onto yours.

You help him through it, of course, finally putting your hand to work again with its own motions. At first it feels good, like a guiding hand, like extra pleasure piled on like a tip… but then when you’ve milked him through and you continue, Robert winces.

His hand snaps towards your wrist, holding it tight, but not… not stopping. He trusts you, just, “Sir,” He never calls you that—even if you ask him to—but the way his words are slurred, you can tell he’s in that headspace. “please. What are you doin–?”

“You’ve got more in you. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” You say, and Robert holds his tongue. You rub your palm over his tip, only his tip, while his fingers remain around your wrist like an accomplice.

He swallows down any protests, “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.”

He wanted to come, but this is more than that. Overstimulation overpowers, but pleasure begins to grow under it and it makes Robert whimper uncontrollably. He feels something else building up in his stomach, something new, like you’re asking for more than what he has to give.

He squirts with a yelp, thin, watery liquid that’s nothing like come. You take your hand away and watch as Robert’s tip shoots spurts of it, so much it looks like it won’t end until it does. Something about the sight of it makes a guilty pleasure rise up in Robert’s chest, knowing that you’ve taken him fully… also knowing that he can squirt, and clearly you find it fascinating.

The hand at his neck pushes his chin up so that he’ll look at you, and he does: little furrowed brows unknit themselves at the sight of you. “Didn’t know I could do that.”

“Well? Did you like it?” That smug grin on your face makes him want to say no.

But he doesn’t. “Yeah... thank you.”

You think you read something once in your teens about men with assholes that leaked just like cunts do, and you wonder if it feels just like this.

It’s not sticky, not like come, but it makes it fucking easy to slide your cock in n’ out of him, Herman, and you love it. You love that it’s so easy to take him whenever you want to, to pull him into the janitor’s closet because he is the janitor, so there’s no fear of anyone comin’ knocking. You love, also, that he lets you.

Herman is so eager to have your cock in his ass that he gushes like a waterfall. It’s not sticky, like come, but it’s still filthy. You like to see it dribble out of his ass, in a ring around your cock, and down his thighs, it’s like he’s squirted.

The only problem is, of course, is the noise.

Herman can’t keep his mouth shut. He’s eager to speak, eager to tell you how good you’re fuckin’ him through stutters and whines, and even more eager to moan. It’s beautiful, really, and only makes you throb harder—but you have coworkers.

“‘S too much,” Herman whines, a wince following his words, but the way he pushes his ass against your pelvis and squeezes around you says otherwise. “p-please, I-“

“Shut up.” It’s harsh, but Herman likes it. You can tell, as another wave of not-come but opaque water rushes around your cock.

Herman's head slumps forward as he arches his back. His lips fall open with a moan, and you take the opportunity to shove your fingers into his mouth.

"Oh my god–!" He gasps, muffled and wet around your index and middle.

"What did I tell you? Shut it."

His mouth is even wetter, but it's sticky and satisfying, with the way he sucks and slobbers like he'd rather it be your cock.

Soon enough, you pick up the pace, fucking his body into the crate you've got him bent over, and Herman can't keep up anymore. He gags around your fingers—but you don't even think to stop, because he keeps sucking. He wants them.

"You fuckin' like that?"

Herman whines, lips smacking as they part, but you shut them once more with a thumb on the underside of his jaw. He nods his head instead, vigorously.

Even with his lips shut, he moans like a bitch in heat. You'd be lying if you said it didn't turn you on... if it didn't make you take him harder.

You grin up at him and, like a couple with concerning power play but no concern for PDA, he steals a kiss from you, smiling into it himself. "I know it made you feel all hot and bothered under those suit pants of yours—I can feel it poking at me right now."

You pepper kisses down his neck and let your laugh rumble against his chest. "We should celebrate. What do you want? I'll give you anything you ask for."

The both of you know full well that Lestat doesn't need the money, but it has always been fun to live off of another man's good fortune under the pretense of love—and Lestat is self-indulgent.

"I do not need anything from you," Lestat says, a rare thing. Last time he asked for an all-out boudoir photoshoot. "all I need is you and me in a coffin; after a bath, accompanied by, perhaps, a good fuck. Mm, and liquor! Don't forget the liquor."

You chuckled, setting a warm hand upon the space between his pecs, "Anything else, my love?"

"Well... yes, a reunion." Before you can ask, Lestat clarifies, the utter ecstasy in his voice turning into vestiges. "I've been planning on settling a dispute the civil way with an ex-lover of mine for some time now... Do not fret, chérie! I settle this because I only have eyes for you."

Lestat had interpreted your curiosity as disdain. You fix that quickly, sending him an easy smile. "Do go on."

"Yes, well I heard through the grapevine that he is going through another divorce himself." Lestat laughs at that himself, like he has manifested downfall for both of the people he refers to like a teenage girl and it has actually worked. "I thought: why not kill two birds with one stone, and invited them to coffee."

Though it spells disaster, Lestat and his endeavors have always been entertaining. "Of course, my love... might I ask what year you had been with this lover of yours?"

"1910."

You expected a vampire, of course. The other lover might have been a vampire too, but vampires do not usually marry under the law because the promise of lifelong companionship is much too fickle, so you doubted that. You also thought you knew neither of them.

You were wrong, it seemed. Lestat's newest disaster will be one you'll be roped into this time... or, you'll be the main focus.

"Lestat." Louis greeted Lestat with a polite smile, gesturing to the seat in front of him. His mouth began before his eyes reached yours, "You brought your lawyer–? Oh."

"Louis." You begin politely, settling onto the loveseat couch next to Lestat. The awkward creak of its leather represents your state of mind. "...Armand."

Armand's orange eyes seem like they will bore a hole into the side of your skull. He calls your name after clearing his throat and says, "Hello to you too."

"You have history?" Lestat finds your hand under the table. He doesn't hide it, he showcases it by placing it on the table.

Louis' eyes wander down with a mere ounce of shamet, though they snap up with politeness, "Yes."

⛥ ⋅ ☾ ⋅ ⛥

You had been, to Louis, a realization; a month-long escapade under expensive, silk sheets that he couldn't afford at the time.

He was sweet and shy, young and inexperienced. You were his first man and, perhaps, his very first. It had gone undiscussed, as had your feelings, as had your origin and eventual departure.

There were much more pressing matters that took your mind and stole your voice, mind.

Some nights, it was sweet. You'd take his cross between your teeth and lean over him while you took him, slow. It had felt like blasphemy, but that guilt in Louis chest mixed with the pleasure and his developing love for you so perfectly that it made him forget.

Other nights, it was carnal.

His back turned to you, his hole clenched around you—it was hard not to bite him, to let his last moments be those of bliss... it was harder still, not to turn him.

But you reared your ugly head and worked on pleasuring him instead, pulling his ass flush to your pelvis and fucking him 'till he couldn't take it no more.

He moaned for you so sweetly, though hidden in the pillow he'd shoved his face into. Sweat and tears stained it as much as his heavy, ragged breath did. The way your cock dove into him, the way your skin slapped together, it was hard to breath. He felt like he was growing delirious.

"I–you–ah, fuck!" He didn't know what to say, he didn't even know why he needed to say anything in the first place, just that he wanted to please you, "It's so good..."

You paused, then, lifting his head off the pillow, ignoring the way he whined for you to continue to plow into him, "Do you love it, Louis?"

"Yes," He mumbled, the sound wet, and then he rambled on, "yes, yes, yes, I do."

His grinded back into you, wanting more of your cock. You gave it to him. He was hard to deny.

You had been, to Louis, a dive into sin wearing a mask of sweetness and giving wealth. Though he'd later come to learn that such loving didn't require atonement, you had been the one to show him it was possible.

⛥ ⋅ ☾ ⋅ ⛥

"History is an understatement." Armand says next, tapping his fingernails on the table. His eyes are cold, but his mind is open: a big one.

Lestat raises a brow, "At the same time?"

"No, no, hell no." Louis objects, eyebrows squeezed together while a useless, refuting hand is pointed at Lestat. "You didn't think to consider things were platonic?"

Now, both of Lestat's eyebrows raise with surprise. He doesn't need to read anyone's minds to tell where the tension in the room comes from. "Well, I know it wasn't."

It was far from platonic, you think, locking eyes with Armand.

⛥ ⋅ ☾ ⋅ ⛥

You gasp, head falling back onto the pillow. Your fingers tremble at Armand's waist, falling, then, to his hips and then finally the sheets to claw at something, anything, that isn't your fragile lover's skin.

Armand on top is something you can't resist, the way his hole feels like heaven being ripped away from you then returned, swiftly, it's everything.

Armand pours his very being into riding you, into taking care of you and ravishing your cock. His hands find your abdomen. He takes it as leverage, his sharp nails pointed away from you... until he gets too caught up in the feeling of you deep inside of him, and they dig.

You gasp, because of the pain, because it feels like he's staking his claim on you.

You cry out his name, which begs Armand to steal your voice from you. He captures your lips with his own, as much teeth and fangs as tender passion.

When you finish, his lips aren't enough to stop the groans from spilling out with the second call of his name.

Armand collapses beside you, but then is quick to snuggle into your side, purring and sighing contently.

It is truly a blessing to have found him in Rome, for Rome is a city of ancients that whine about how their times have passed. In Rome, he is something new.

"I have been thinking of traveling," At the mention of travel, Armand perks up. He had received orders to leave for Paris; he hadn't told you yet. But then, "to America."

"America?" Armand sits up and leans over you, his palm planted next to your head. Those copper eyes bore into yours. "What do you want with that newborn continent?"

"Think of it. Exploration," You turn your head, kiss his wrist, "it is not enough to lead a coven. Imagine leading a city."

Armand doesn't let himself be swayed by your affection. "Listen to yourself. You will starve, in those plains and deserts between villages, because those new men and women will have no history for you to devour and so you will leave again, unsatisfied."

He fought, but you had made up your mind already.

⛥ ⋅ ☾ ⋅ ⛥

So maybe you had history with all of them, but they had history too. It was a fucked up square: you had been Armand, then he had been with Lestat, you had been with Louis, then he had been with Lestat; Louis and Armand had broken a fruitless, seventy-seven year long companionship, and you and Lestat were just beginning one.

Point is, you've never been together at the same time, much to the disappointment of Lestat's polyamorous heart.

That's why he sought to remedy it.

"Do you like this cock better, knowing who else has had it now?" Lestat doesn't have a hair tie, so you help him, one hand gripping his hair. He sure seems like he is enjoying himself much more, as he bobs his head in earnest.

He locks eyes with you, those icy-blues like a predator's. He pulls off, then licks a stripe down your length. With his cheek pressed up against your cock like that, he should look pathetic, but, "Are you two just going to stare like creeps or are you going to join in?"

Louis is the first to stand. He sighs, but his smile gives his emotions away. When he settles down next to you, head on your shoulder, he looks like a doll. He kisses like one too, soft against your neck, making you sigh like a damsel. He whispers into your mind, Lestat is trouble, you know?

The good kind, you reply, grip loosening on Lestat's hair anyway, the amusing kind.

Ordinarily, Lestat would complain at losing your attention, but you can smell his arousal, feel it as he grinds against your shoe. It's why he allows Armand to sit behind you.

You left for America, for this? Armand whispers into your mind as he bites and kisses at your ear. He presses his chest to your side, his hand sneaking under your shirt to smooth over your warm skin. For a broken, religious boy and sweaty rockstar?

"If you wish to speak, speak plainly." Lestat speaks up. He is making you a mess, keeping his hand wrapped around your cock as he addresses his former lovers, "It is unfair that Louis and I cannot speak to each other as privately–"

"I don't wish to speak to you." Louis says, making Lestat sputter incredulously. Louis kisses you, even, so neither of you have to speak to the blonde seductress. The way he kisses you, it almost makes you forget that Lestat is your current lover.

Armand takes the space Louis left behind at your neck. He doesn't dare use his fangs, but he bites between kisses, holding a grudge, perhaps. He doesn't leave you to guess as he whispers, vocally, "You left me in Rome, to rot. Did you ever think about what love I might've held for you?"

Lestat snickers from where he kneels, but Armand is quick to put his mouth back to work for you. His hand joins yours at his hair, forcing him to take you down his throat. "You too, Lestat," Armand spits out, "for the very same reason. I pick the lousiest lovers."

Louis pulls away from you. He speaks, even as you chase after his lips, "Aru–"

"Do not speak my name." Armand appears a vision, both a devil and an angel on your shoulder, eyes narrowed at his ex-lover. "The wounds you have inflicted upon my heart–"

Lestat, ever the instigator, pulls himself off your cock with a pop. "–are fresh. Oh, pity me, I am Armand the vampire, the servant, the–"

And you are left in the middle with no chance to speak or think at all, with Louis at your lips, Armand at your neck and Lestat in your cock.

They all had disdain for one another, but perhaps, to them, you had the least wrongdoings under your name... not for Armand, but you could remedy that.

Armand moaned as sweetly as you remembered as you rocked your hips into him. His nails scratched down your back, this time not in revenge, but by pure instinct and need. They drew blood, but you let him have it. "I–"

"Missed you." You finish for him, "you are as beautiful as I remember."

Louis has Armand's head on his lap and he caresses his hair, but his concerns lie with you. He cups your cheek and steals a kiss from you, this one more tame.

Lestat watches from the side, busy with his own cock, jerking himself off at the fast pace that you fuck Armand. A twist, considering how he'd roused Louis and Armand into action earlier. "Louis–"

"Shut up, Lestat." Louis breaks from your kiss to say it.

Lestat, surprisingly, actually settles down. He smiles, even. "Fine. Have your way with my boyfriend, just know he is coming home with me!"

Armand calls your name and Louis reluctantly lets you leave his grasp. You look down at him, just catching the way he arched his back for you, into you. When you spoke to him in the language you'd lived and breathed together the first century you'd been alive, it was intimate, "Nothing compares to you."

Though it is a sweet lie, Armand replies the same way, "Don't stop."

"Never," It's a promise. You've broken promises before, but not this time. "I wouldn't dare."

"Wow, so very unfair to Louis here, your only lover who doesn't speak Italian. The archaic kind!" Lestat's voice comes strained, a clear sign of how close he is, just as close as Armand, you imagine. "Louis. Please."

"Shut up Lestat."

Armand cuddled up to your shoulder, just like the night you'd expressed your wishes to him—except, this time, you've no expectations. There's the sweet, warm burn in his chest of contentment, and that's all that matters. He watches lazily as Louis rides you, the bitterness in him gone. He is laughing, even.

"For all the years that we were together, you never rode me like that." He grins, the very image of domesticity with his curls falling over your body.

Lestat chimes up from his corner of the room, "That's funny, because I have."

"Do I have to tell absolutely everyone to shut up around here?" Louis' nose is scrunched up with annoyance.

When you thrust up into him, everyone else is forgotten, though. You speak into his mind, because every other vampire in this room has at least a century over him, and he deserves something for himself.

No cross around your neck, I see?

No. Louis smiles, there's pride in it. His chest swells with confidence—some of it comes from the way your face screws up as he rides you, even if you are much further along already than he—and you are happy for it.

You smooth your hand over his forehead, ending over the side of his face. Shame. I quite liked the metal between my teeth. Could've even bitten it right now.

You blasphemous man, Louis laughs and leans down over you.

Hey, I'm happy you're free from it, you say in defense of yourself, sneaking your hands now onto his hips. The way you grip them makes Louis bite his lip. He rocks his hips with more hunger, now.

Armand begins to press kisses against your neck, though his jealousy spikes, you know he does not seek much attention.

Why didn't you turn me? Louis' eyes stare more intensely into yours with the question. The way he clenches around you should distract you, what with your increasingly heavier breaths, but it makes you focus on him.

You had a family, the answer is simple, though you know it displeases him. In one swift movement, you turn him onto his back and take charge, swinging one of his knees over your shoulder. You press a kiss to it, an apology, you were a treasure. I couldn't bear the idea of corrupting you.

Louis wraps his other leg around your hip, pulling your cock deeper into him. He moans, body shuddering fully. But somebody else could.

Jealous? You quirk a brow.

No. Louis replies quickly, but how can he lie to a man balls deep inside him? It is not a good lie, it's quite easy to look through.

He is a toy. Nothing more, you assure.

Louis would agree, but Armand distracts him. For a moment, all is forgiven: Armand presses kisses against Louis' neck, no cruelty in it, no bites; you keep fucking him, pressing your own kisses against his knee and calf, it's almost like you never left.

Louis loses himself in his mind, you know it because you delve into it. His pleasure is yours and yours his as your minds intertwine.

As you take him, Louis asks for more, begs for more, in his sweet voice.

It is all a spectacle for Lestat, though one that pleases him.

He complains as he settles on top of you—Louis and Armand have taken your sides—about how you finished into another man, about how this is technically cheating, but he does nothing more than demand you wrap his arms around him.