jamie

And today is just one of those days. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, trying to massage away a kink in his neck that persisted well into the afternoon. But he hadn’t had time to complain or think too much about how excited he was to crawl back beneath the sheets, because the northernmost barn was falling to pieces. 

So, not only was he functioning half empty from the start, but the work today was also strenuous. Sawing raw timber to the perfect length, sanding down the sharp edges, hammering nails into plywood. A full day. 

And when Denise had stopped him on his way home, waving him down with a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in hand, she’d given him that bright, hopeful smile and said, “Little Sammy ran that damn bike into the back door again. Would you mind fixing the hinges?”

His back ached and his knees were creaky, but Joel soon found himself knelt on Denise’s porch, screwdriver and fresh nails in hand.

It didn’t take long, but it did take every last scrap of energy that remained inside of him.

Joel’s house was always quiet. Too big for him, really. Ellie was in the garage already, lights still on, up too late when she had early patrol the following morning. But Joel didn’t have it in him to remind her how important sleep was. Not when he was running on fumes himself.

So he dragged those tired, old bones inside. Kicked off his boots and jeans right at the door of his room, hung his flannel over the back of the chair at his work bench, and let out a long sigh as he climbed beneath icy cotton sheets.

He’s half asleep, eyes closed and muscles sinking into the mattress, when he hears it. 

The click of the latch on the unlocked front door. The creak of your careful steps as you climb the stairs.

Joel feels you before he sees you. Too exhausted to pull himself out of blissful almost-sleep. The mattress dips beneath your weight, limbs outstretched, seeking him out of instinct. 

This isn’t the first time this has happened. Not the first time you’ve found yourself peering out of your window next door waiting for him to get home. Not the first time you’ve ended up in his bed or in his arms.

And Joel knows he should put a stop to it—you’re too young, too sweet, too…good. 

But he’s too worn out to fight his impulses. He’s tried for months to keep his thoughts pure when you cross his mind, but it’s been a losing battle from the start.

Especially when you’re like this. Warm and soft, pressed up against his side, wearing an old t-shirt he’d let you borrow the night before and not much else. A comfort that feels more like home than this house does.

The tips of your fingers tickle his forearm, rousing him just enough that he lifts the heavy limb so you can crawl right into his embrace.

Joel holds you tight. He always does. Biceps big and strong around your shoulders. He holds you like he might lose you tomorrow, because there’s a part of him that fears one day you’ll wake up and see something you don’t like. 

He worries you’ll begin to see him for what he is; old, weary, tired. Not even half the man he used to be. Not half the man you deserve.

But for tonight at least, you still wear those rose tinted glasses. Pressing sweet kisses to his face; his nose, his forehead, his cheeks. Nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck, making cute, whiny noises at the back of your throat. Like you’re desperate, unable to get close enough despite every inch being pressed against him, leg hooked over his hips. 

You find a comfortable position and still beside him, letting out the same sort of long sigh Joel did just moments ago. But you don’t sleep—your breathing doesn’t even out, your muscles don’t go slack. 

Joel knows what you need. Long before your hips tilt, before you press your center against his thigh, before you whisper his name in the dark. 

“S’okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice deep and dark and sleepy. “C’mere.”

He reaches over and brackets his arm around your waist to drag you on top of him, your center already warm and wanting.

It’s starting to get out of hand, he knows. Starting to become a routine. But Joel doesn’t have many sweet thing in his life, not anymore, and he finds you near impossible to resist. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Take what ya need.”

You lay against his chest, ear pressed right over his heart. Joel kisses the crown of your head when your hips begin to tilt, rubbing yourself against the steadily growing bulge beneath the thin fabric of his boxers.

Soft, wanton sighs leave you at the sensation, and even with a barrier still between you he can feel your clit pulse against the underside of his cock. 

Needy little thing you are. But Joel doesn’t mind—he likes the feeling. Of being needed, wanted. Especially by a girl as sweet as you.

You grind on top of him for a while. Not seeking release, not yet. Just feeling the hard warmth of him beneath you, savoring the weight of his big hands stroking softly up and down the expanse of your back. 

He can feel your arousal growing with each pass, wetness slowly seeping through his boxers, slick and sticky. Joel nudges you gently with the tip of his nose, the prickly hairs of his mustache tickling the side of your face. “C’mon, sweet girl. Let’s get this shirt off, hm?”

When you nod, you pull yourself up tiredly. The movement is slow and thick like molasses, so Joel uses the last of his energy to help you. 

His hands find the hem of the oversized t-shirt and pull it upwards, over your head to be discarded on the floor beside his bed. It leaves you completely naked, bared for him in more ways than one. 

In an instant, you fall back against him, breasts pressed up against his chest. Your skin feels cool against his, smooth and pillowy. “S’warm,” you mutter, rubbing the side of your cheek against the coarse hair that litters his chest, graying in some places.

Joel’s cock throbs beneath you, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. He just lets you settle back down and allows you to rest. His hands wander, though, the way they always do. 

Sliding down your back, over the sides of your thighs, thumbs massaging gentle circles. He strokes his fingers gently back up to your shoulders and then brings them down your arms, smiling when he sees goosebumps rise in his wake.

When they settle back at your hips, his touch is a little more eager. Kneading at the softness, inching over the curve of your ass until that’s all his hands are filled with. 

Joel loves touching you. Not just suggestively, but intimately. He loves feeling the closeness and the trust you put in him to take care of you, to keep you safe, to make you feel good.

He massages the supple flesh, holding you close, until his need for you begins to grow teeth, gnawing at his psyche. 

Joel knows he shouldn’t. He knows that. 

But he’s just so tired, and you’re so soft. Gentle and kind. And you make him feel loved—something Joel Miller has not felt for a very, very long time.

He guides you with his hands gripping at your curves, sliding your slick cunt over his aching cock. His breath feels hollow, stuck in his lungs.

When he lifts upward, just a little, enough to provide a little extra pressure, you mewl in response. 

Joel is quick to soothe, shushing softly into your ear. “Shh, you’re alright. Hang on, sweet girl. M’right here.”

He knows what you need. It’s become a nightly ritual at this point. You come to him seeking connection, seeking the comfort of an older man. Most nights you just need to be held, to be nurtured, to be loved the way you deserve. 

But other nights, Joel knows you need a little more. A connection that runs a little deeper.

He reaches beneath you, hooking his thumbs in the elastic band of his boxers and tugging them down his tired legs. Just enough to free his cock, already hard as stone just from your proximity. 

Joel pulls your forward, up his torso, giving himself room to line his length up with your entrance.

He slides in real easy.

You’re already soaked, dripping with arousal. And the moment he’s fully seated inside you, stretching you real wide, filling up your belly, you let out a breathy whine.

It feels right, being here like this with you. It feels like coming home. 

Joel moves you slowly, guiding each roll of your hips, slowing you down when you try to pick up the pace. 

There’s no rush. Not here, not with him. He’ll get you there. He’ll get you what you need. What’s the sense in hurrying through it? 

He wants to savor it. The feel of your sweet, soft pussy, clenching and leaking around his length. The way your stuttering breath tickles his skin. The way your hands grip him harder and harder, holding him impossibly closer.

He wants to savor the way you love him. 

“Gimme a kiss, baby,” he whispers in the dark.

You turn your head, just enough so that he can press his lips to yours. In this, too, Joel moves painfully slow.

It’s not a claiming, it’s an exploration. His lips move against yours, memorizing the feel of them, the shape and the taste. He slowly licks into your mouth, tongue gliding against yours, breathing in your exhalation. 

The building coil around his spine is anything but slow, however. He loves being here with you maybe a little too much. He loves you a little too much. 

Joel thrust upwards, keeping a steady, unforgiving rhythm while he slides his hand between you. His fingers search blindly for your clit and he finds it in seconds, circling those slow, tight circles around the pulsing nerves. 

Your sounds grow louder, release building. The sound of your joining echoes in the empty room, slick and wet and feverish.

He knows your close when you start manually breathing—lungs stuttering, chasing the delicious relief that only he can provide.

“You got it,” he encourages. “S’right there, baby. Give it to me.”

Your eyes stay locked to his, lips parting on a jagged moan. You don’t say anything; no warning, no begging. You just feel it, feel him, moving deep inside you, fucking you through it. 

“That’s it,” he says, voice all soft and warm the way it only ever is when he speaks to you. “There you go.”

He doesn’t stop until you find the natural rhythm of oxygen again, until the shaking in your thighs relents to an easy tremble. 

Joel feels that white-hot coil beginning to spool within himself, and pulls out of you with just enough time to shoot thick ropes of cum over your pubic bone.

He thrusts the underside of his cock through your syrupy folds, a gentle rocking until he’s spent. He somehow finds the energy for a few extra thrusts, smearing his release over your clit.

You don’t move an inch, and Joel doesn’t want you to.

Instead, you just lay there on top of him, sticky mess between you, your head resting delicately on his chest. 

When you reach up to card your fingers through his graying hair, Joel feels his muscles go completely slack, tension bleeding from his weary bones.

“M’sorry I woke you up,” you say, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I know you were tired.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Joel says, and he means it. “I’ll always have time for you."

A month after the Gullet, the castle still smells faintly of medicines, as though the sea itself has followed Jacaerys home and settled in the stone with him.

You have grown so accustomed to it that you hardly notice anymore.

A month ago, you would have given anything to smell it. A month ago, there had been blood. So much blood. But now there are only maesters, all the time.

Three of them stand gathered around the table right now near the window, speaking in low, serious voices while Jace sits in a carved chair looking increasingly irritated with every minute.

Sunlight spills through the narrow panes behind him, catching in his dark curls and turning the edges of them gold, softening him in a way that makes him seem almost boyish despite everything he has endured in the last couple weeks.

His injuries have faded from terrifying to merely alarming. The worst of the bruising is gone, the cuts have begun to heal, and colour has returned to his face, though not yet enough for you to relax.

Unfortunately for everyone else, so has his stubbornness.

You stand beside him with one hand resting lightly on the back of his chair, partly affection but mostly precaution if you're being honest with yourself, because the prince has developed an unfortunate habit of forgetting that nearly dying is supposed to slow a person down.

"Your Grace is recovering admirably," Grand Maester Gerardys says at last.

Jace straightens immediately, as if the words themselves have restored him. Gerardys clears his throat with the patient air of a man who has spent his life delivering unwelcome truths to the powerful. "Recovering admirably, however, does not mean recovered."

Jace slumps back with all the theatrical suffering of a man condemned to the Wall. Gerardys continues as though he has not noticed the prince's offence.

"Your ribs are still mending. The wound to your side has not fully healed. The fever has passed, but weakness remains. Any unnecessary strain could set back his recovery considerably."

Jace folds his arms. "What strain?"

The three maesters exchange a glance, and you immediately become suspicious. Jace notices it too, his brows drawing together. "What strain?" he repeats, sharper this time.

Nobody answers.

The silence stretches, and stretches, and then stretches a little further, until finally the old maester clears his throat again, looking faintly pained. "This includes physical exertion."

Jace nods at once. "Yes, I gathered that, obviously."

"Excessive physical exertion."

"Yes."

"Particularly..." Gerardys pauses, and one of the younger maesters suddenly finds the floor fascinating. "...marital exertion."

The room falls completely silent.

For a single moment Jace simply stares at them. Then his face changes all at once, horror and outrage arriving together.

"I beg your pardon?"

You turn away quickly because you can already feel laughter rising in your throat and you know if you let it out now you will never stop. Beside you, Jace looks scandalised beyond measure. "What do you mean?"

"My Prince-"

"No." The word echoes off the stone walls. "Absolutely not. This is absurd and I refuse to accept it."

Gerardys remains maddeningly calm. "It is only temporary."

"Temporary?" Jace sounds personally betrayed. "You are forbidding me from bedding my own wife."

The younger maester goes slightly red. You stare very intently at the tapestry across the room, because if you look at Jace now you will lose whatever dignity you have left. He points an accusing finger at the entire collection of healers. "I survived a naval battle."

"Indeed."

"I was shot."

"Yes."

"I nearly drowned."

"Correct."

"And your conclusion is that my greatest threat is my wife?"

The maesters look vaguely embarrassed. Jace looks outraged. And suddenly, despite the lingering ache that still lives in your chest whenever you remember the sight of him bleeding on a bed, you feel lighter, because this is familiar. This is your Jace. He's alive enough to argue and complain. Alive enough to glare dramatically at innocent old men and be stubborn.

Your hand slips from the chair to his shoulder, and immediately he covers it with his own. Gerardys notices, and his expression gentles. "My Prince," he says, "the restriction is not punishment."

Jace groans. "I would beg to differ."

A few of the maesters smile despite themselves. Gerardys gathers his papers, "It is only another month."

Jace nearly chokes. "A whole month?"

"Perhaps less, if recovery continues."

"A month."

"You survived the Gullet. Surely you can survive a few more weeks."

Jace mutters something deeply disrespectful under his breath, and you squeeze his shoulder in warning and affection both. His fingers immediately tighten around yours as he looks up at you, exhaustion and frustration playing on his features.

You smile at him, and his expression softens immediately.

Then Gerardys speaks again, and the spell breaks at once. "And separate beds may also be advisable."

Jace's head snaps around, "No."

Silence settles over the chamber. Jace's hand remains wrapped around yours, firm and warm and immovable. "I nearly died, so I am not sleeping without my wife."

They exchange glances and then, wisely, surrender. "Very well."

You lower your head to hide your smile, because truly, there are battles even the maesters cannot win.

That evening the matter should have been settled, at least in theory.

The maesters had spoken, their instructions delivered and their warnings had been repeated no fewer than six times over supper, as though saying them often enough might somehow make Jace more inclined to obey.

Instead, he is attempting to negotiate, which is perhaps exactly what you should have expected from him and yet still feels faintly absurd when he is sitting there shirtless on the edge of the bed, looking incredibly offended by the very concept of restraint.

You sit beside him with a fresh roll of linen in your lap while he holds one arm lifted so you can reach the wound along his side.

The chamber is quiet except for the crackle of the fire and the distant, steady sound of waves striking the cliffs below; night has fully settled beyond the windows, leaving only darkness on the other side of the glass and the warm gold of candlelight within.

Carefully, you peel away the old bandage, and he hisses through his teeth at the movement. You glance up at once. “You are being dramatic.”

"Three arrows pierced my body.”

“A month ago.”

“It still counts.”

You make a skeptical sound and reach for the ointment, though you cannot quite keep the corner of your mouth from twitching. For a few moments silence settles between you. You smooth the salve across healing skin, studying the angry scar that is beginning to form there, the sight still makes something twist painfully in your chest.

There are moments when you look at him and see only Jace; your husband, your best friend, the boy who once raced you through castle corridors and stole lemon cakes from the kitchens with the shameless confidence of someone who had never once been told no in his life.

Then there are moments like this, when memory comes back all at once and with it the blood, the fever, the endless waiting, the terrible certainty, however brief, that you might lose him. Your fingers pause before you can stop them.

Immediately, his hand settles over yours.

He notices. Of course he does.

You lift your eyes, and his expression softens at once. “I am all right,” he says quietly.

“Mm.”

His thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles.

Then, because Jacaerys Velaryon possesses the survival instincts of an overconfident golden retriever, he says, “I still think the maesters are being unreasonable.”

You close your eyes for a brief, weary moment. You had been wondering how long it would take.

“You are recovering from grievous injuries.”

“I am recovering exceptionally well.”

“You still tire walking up stairs.”

“Well, I dislike those stairs.”

You begin wrapping the fresh bandage around his ribs. “They are not unusual stairs, Jace.”

"They are steeper than other stairs."

Despite yourself, you laugh, and his grin appears immediately. He tilts his head, thoughtful in the way that always makes you suspicious.

“What exactly constitutes marital exertion?”

You nearly drop the bandage. “Jacaerys.”

“It is a reasonable question.”

You finish tying the linen perhaps just a little tighter than necessary, and he winces. You feel no guilt whatsoever.

“They were quite vague,” he says after a moment.

“They were not vague. They were, in fact, extraordinarily clear.”

Jace considers this with the air of a man weighing evidence in a trial he has already decided to win. “Perhaps to you.”

“To everyone.”

“Not to me.” His smile widens, and you are suddenly struck by the realisation that the maesters should perhaps have prescribed confinement in separate castles.

“They said strain,” he says, as though he's continuing a perfectly sensible conversation.

“Yes.”

“And exertion.”

“Yes.”

“So theoretically-”

“No.”

“What if-”

“Jace.”

He stops, though only because he is laughing now, actually laughing, and the sound fills the room so easily that for a moment you forget everything else.

“You are impossible,” you inform him.

“I have been told.”

He reaches for your hand, and you let him take it. His fingers close around yours with a warmth that feels almost unbearably familiar, and when he speaks again his voice has lost its teasing edge. “Another month is a very long time.”

You shake your head, smiling softly, but before he can begin constructing another ridiculous argument, you lean forward and press a kiss to his mouth.

The effect is immediate. Jace falls silent, blessedly, wonderfully silent, and when you pull back he blinks once, then twice, as though he has forgotten every thought he was having.

A second kiss lands at the corner of his mouth, then another against his cheek, and with each one his smile grows slower, softer, warmer, until by the third he has entirely abandoned his campaign against the maesters.

You feel rather proud of yourself.

He grins and reaches for you, and you allow him to pull you nearer. The blankets shift around you both as you settle beside him carefully, because he is still healing and you are both painfully aware of it.

His arm slides around your waist. Your head finds its familiar place against his shoulder.

The first week after the maesters' decree is irritating.

The second becomes ridiculous.

By the third, it's infuriating.

Jacaerys Velaryon approaches recovery the way he approaches every obstacle in his life: by refusing to accept that it is truly an obstacle at all.

If the maesters insist upon restrictions, then he will simply find exceptions.

One evening, as you sit beside him on the bed with your book open in your lap, he glances over and says, almost casually, “I stand by my opinion that their instructions were imprecise.”

You do not look up. “No.”

“They never actually provided definitions.”

You turn a page. “They are maesters, Jace, not scholars debating philosophy.”

He sighs, long-suffering and theatrical, and shifts a little closer.

Recently, he has become fond of finding excuses to sit beside you, or hold your hand, or drape an arm around your shoulders, or rest his head in your lap while insisting he is 'too weak' to move despite having spent the entire afternoon arguing in council.

“What if,” he begins. You close your eyes.

“What if,” he repeats, undeterred, “the concern is specifically overexertion?”

“It is.”

“Then surely the solution is simply avoiding overexertion.”

At last you lower the book and look at him properly. His expression brightens at once, as though he has won something merely by drawing your attention.

“Jace.”

“Yes?”

“No.”

He groans, and you return to your book.

Three nights later, he appears to have developed a new argument. You discover this when he is sprawled across the bed with his head resting against your shoulder, warm and comfortable and entirely too pleased with himself.

“What if,” he says thoughtfully.

You nearly laugh. “Again?”

“I have had several days to refine my position on the issue.”

“Gods preserve me.”

“What if I simply did not move very much? You could do all the... moving... uh, like difficult parts.”

You lower your embroidery hoop and glance down at him. He looks entirely sincere, which somehow makes it worse.

“Jacaerys.”

“I am not going to do any part because we are not going to do anything.”

He studies the ceiling for a moment, then turns his head just enough to look at you. “I think you are dismissing my proposals too quickly.”

“I think you enjoy hearing yourself talk.”

“I enjoy talking to you.”

Oh, you hate how good he is at being charming.

His arm slips around your waist. “You know,” he says quietly, “I do understand why you’re worried.”

The humour fades a little. You look at him, but his gaze remains fixed on your joined hands.

“You frightened me,” you admit.

Something flashes behind his eyes. “I know.”

Silence settles between you, gentle and sad and comfortable all at once. Then, because he is incapable of allowing a serious conversation to remain serious for too long, he lifts his head and says, “So that is still a no?”

You stare at him.

Jace immediately begins laughing, and when you throw a cushion at his face he catches it easily, looking delighted by the rejection.

Which, unfortunately, only convinces you that recovery is proceeding exceptionally well.

One morning at the beginning of the fourth week you're standing at the edge of the bedchamber, the salt-laced wind moaning through the open shutters as the last embers in the hearth crackle low.

Jacaerys is desperate today, even more than usual

He lies propped against the pillows, his bare chest rising and falling with quick, restless breaths, the angry red scars along his ribs and hip still mapped in fresh pink, but they are scars now, nonetheless.

It's been two months since the Gullet.

To the naked eye he seems fully recovered — he partakes in council meetings, goes on long walks with you along the shore, is no longer winded by those particularly steep stairs — but the maesters’ edict remains iron.

No strain, no exertion, no touch that might tear what they say has barely knit. Yet here he is, dark eyes fixed on you with shameless hunger, voice low and frayed.

“Please,” he murmurs, the words thick with frustration, his hand extended, palm up, fingers flexing as if he can already feel the shape of your waist.

“I cannot do this, I’m not some broken thing anymore. I feel you every night in my dreams, and then I wake up and you won't even let me touch you properly. I need your hand, your mouth, anything. Just… let me feel you again.”

He sits up a little straighter, a small grin finding his lips, voice dropping to a growl. “You’re aching too, I know it. Two months without feeling how wet you get for me-"

"Jacaerys, stop being so crude, you cannot possibly think-" but he continues, completely disregarding your objections.

"Gods, I’d give anything to see you under me like I used to, but I won’t move. I swear it. Just you, I'll even lie still.”

Your fingers tighten on the bedpost, because you cannot dent he's right. You do miss him, painfully so. You miss the feel of his hands on you and the stretch of him inside you, but reluctance still coils tight in your chest.

You take one hesitant step closer.

The cool stone floor beneath your bare feet gives way to the softness of the mattress as you perch carefully at his uninjured side, your fingers brushing the edge of the linen without yet touching him.

“Jacaerys,” you whisper, “I cannot, the maesters said-” But the way his hips twitch, just once, desperate and involuntary, stops the protest on your tongue.

A soft, helpless sound escapes him, and something shifts inside you, because this, in a way, is also him in pain, except this time you actually have the power to help him.

Your hand drifts over the sheet, hovering just above the bulge you can just start to see emerging beneath the linen.

“You must promise me you’ll lie perfectly still,” you remind him, the words gentle but unyielding, “There are reasons they forbid it; you could open one of the wounds.”

His dark eyes flash, jaw tightening as if he might argue, but apparently the months of forced stillness have left him too raw, too aching, and he nods once, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple.

You smile then, small and maybe a little teasing, and let your fingertips graze the linen over the head of his cock.

Slowly you peel the sheet down, then work on the laces of his breeches before pulling them down and finally revealing him fully to the firelit air.

His cock thick and flushed dark, the vein along its length pulsing visibly as you wrap your fingers around the base with deliberate lightness, still not quite sure how this is going to go.

He groans, low and broken, head tipping back against the pillows, but he holds himself rigid as promised, muscles trembling with the effort.

You lean in, breath ghosting over the sensitive head, and press the softest kiss there, tasting the salt of him while your free hand rests lightly on his uninjured hip to remind him of the boundary.

“Only on my terms tonight, dearest husband,” you whisper against his skin, stroking him once, slow and torturous, savouring the way his breath hitches and his fingers clutch the bedding instead of reaching for you.

“I will give you this, you just lay there and let me take care you.”

You tighten your grip just enough to draw another shuddering groan from him, your thumb circling the slick head of his cock in slow, deliberate strokes that make his thighs tense against the sheets.

He’s so hard it must be painful, the heavy length twitching in your fist with every pass,

The sight of your big, strong husband, normally so commanding, now reduced to biting his lip to keep from thrusting stirs something warm and aching in your chest.

It feels like the biggest relief.

You still remember every moment of the last two months, watching him wince at every breath, lying awake beside his bandaged body while fear gnawed at you both, and now here he is, flushed and leaking for you, trying so hard to obey even as his hips give one tiny, involuntary roll.

It’s adorable, that stubborn flicker of dominance surfacing in the way he grits out your name, only for it to dissolve into a whimper when you lean down and drag your tongue along the underside of his shaft.

His fingers fist the bedding harder, knuckles white, and you can see the war in his eyes, the urge to grab your hair and guide you deeper warring with the maesters’ warnings and his own fragile healing.

“Fuck… just like that,” he rasps, voice cracking with need so raw it makes your own neglected body clench.

You take him deeper into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks with a soft suck that has him arching his head back.

It's as if you're watching him heal in real-time, because he’s becoming himself again, that fierce, passionate man who once pinned you laughing to the furs.

You hum around him, savouring the salt-bitter taste of him while your free hand strokes soothing circles over his tightening stomach.

You pull off just enough to murmur against the flushed skin, teasing the slit with the tip of your tongue until his breath stutters.

“Still, Jace.”

Then you resume your rhythm, slow, twisting strokes of your hand paired with wet, deliberate licks. He trembles beneath you, every suppressed sound proof of how desperately he’s craved your touch.

You quicken your pace with deliberate mercy, not seeing a point in dragging this out any longer than you have to, lips sealed tight around him as your tongue swirls and your hand pumps in steady rhythm, feeling the way his thighs quake despite his vow to stay still.

His voice breaks on your name, half-command and half-plea, while one of his hands finds your hair and grips tight, not that you mind at all.

Finally, he spills hot and pulsing across your tongue, thick spurts you swallow with a soft moan of your own. You keep stroking him through it, gentling your touch as the last tremors fade, watching the tension drain from his battered body until he lies boneless and breathless, dark eyes glassy.

For a long moment afterward, neither of you says anything.

The chamber is quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire and the distant rhythm of the sea beyond the windows. The candles have burned lower than either of you realised, leaving the room washed in warm gold and shadow.

Jace lies beside you with that same dazed, contented smile still lingering on his mouth, as though he has not quite remembered how to put it away.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye and shake your head. “What?”

His smile only deepens. “Nothing.”

“Mhmm.”

He gives a quiet, breathless laugh and reaches for your hand where it still rests atop his stomach, threading his fingers through yours. His thumb moves over your knuckles, warm and absentminded.

The sight of him like this, softened and unguarded, makes something in your chest loosen.

You fuss over him out of habit more than necessity, fetching a washcloth, straightening the blankets around his hips and making certain he is comfortable, searching his face and posture for any sign that he has overdone himself despite every promise he made.

Jace watches the whole business with open affection, his expression growing gentler by the moment.

“My darling,” he murmurs, though there is no real complaint in it. You ignore him. “You are checking on me.”

“Someone has to.”

His teasing fades then, leaving something softer in its place. For a moment he simply watches you, and when he lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, the gesture is so familiar that it catches you off guard all the same.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

You look up at him.

The words are not playful nor triumphant, not even particularly clever. Your chest aches unexpectedly, because beneath all the bargaining and persistence and impossible shamelessness, you know what this has really been about.

Weeks of fear. Weeks of recovery. Weeks of being careful. Weeks of wondering whether life would ever feel normal again.

You squeeze his hand, and his fingers tighten around yours at once.

“You do not need to thank me.”

“I do.”

His voice is gentle. “I know I was insufferable.”

You giggle softly. “Do you now?”

Without either of you needing to say anything, Jace opens his arm toward you. You move into it at once, as naturally as breathing, as though you have done it a thousand times before. Because you have. Your head settles against his shoulder, his arm folds around your waist, and the blankets shift around you both as you settle more comfortably together.

Eventually you feel his lips brush lightly against your hair, a sleepy, lingering kiss that makes you smile before you can stop yourself.

“Tired?” you murmur.

“A little.”

“You should sleep.”

“So should you.”

The waves continue their endless song beyond the walls.

You’d had your fair share of lovers and experienced more than a good deal of fun. With everyone in the past, climax came the same way, every single time: clitoral stimulation, and clitoral stimulation alone.

By this point in your life, you suspected your g-spot was probably just a figment of your imagination, no more real than Atlantis, Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy.

That was, until, you met your boyfriend, Simon.

And things had only been official for a week.

You and him had fooled around a handful of times—made love, as he called it, and kissed and cuddled and occasionally dry-humped until the two of you were both panting, groaning messes—but all of this was new. Simon was still learning you, as you were him.

He finished between your tits. You came on his tongue. He fingered you to the point of tears, and you learned how to touch his sac just right to get him to blow his load in seconds. On this night in particular, you were fucking missionary, and holding hands while you did.

Lovesick puppies, Price would say. Neither one of you seemed able to unglue your lips or unlace your fingers or keep your hips from colliding again and again and again in frantic search of the other’s furthest depths. You were perfectly wrapped up, with no desire to move

Except, you needed to reach down between your bodies to actually get off. That was a minor detail.

You didn’t think the man above you would mind if you moved your touch from his, but then that grip tightened the second you tried pulling away.

“Keep it there, lovie. Like holding you like this,” he said.

You enjoyed it, too. It was intimate, and sweet, and with your hands pinned on either side of you, locked securely in his, you felt safe. You just couldn’t finish.

“But I…I need to come,” you whispered against him. You rolled your hips and felt his cock twitch inside you.

Simon grunted, then swallowed. Nodded slowly.

“Yeah. I’ll get you there. Feel this?”

He slid deeper for emphasis.

You didn’t.

You rarely did, or at least not in the way you figured you were supposed to get when something pressed there.

“I think…sort of, yeah,” you hedged your answer.

Don’t bruise his ego, don’t hurt his feelings.

This is all on me, Si, I promise it’s not you.

Cutting in over your thoughts, Simon moved swiftly. Took your hips in his big, strong hands, lifted up, and plunged his cock to the hilt. The girth of him was enough to knock the air out of your lungs, and you felt your walls stretch, sting, and weep sweet liquid warmth around that intrusion. You moaned.

“Better?” The man’s question was simple.

Before you could answer it, he was sliding a pillow underneath your backside. Sawing his long, thick, leaking cock in and out of you, he reached a new spot.

You made a face, feeling good from that but…strange.

Simon snatched your hands up again and planted them beside your head on the mattress. He thrusted steadily. He peppered kisses all over your face and your neck while the bed frame squeaked in time, and you had to dig your heels into his ass to ground yourself.

“Talk to me, baby. Can’t make it better if you don’t.”

“I—I know, I just can’t—”

At the same time, Simon tilted your hips slightly once more, and the tip of his cock kissed something soft and wet and dizzyingly pleasurable inside your body. A loud, embarrassing cry slipped out between your lips.

You wanted to clap a hand over your mouth, hating the way you’d just sounded, but your fingers were stuck to his. Simon grinned down at you, toothy and approving.

“Can’t do what, now, darlin’?”

The warm, bulbous head of his cock had found its mark, and he just kept prodding that spot, like it entertained him to do it. The fingers laced between your own constricted their grip even more, and Simon leaned down to kiss you while his cock carved a mind-numbing path. In between kisses, he praised you.

“That’s my girl. She’s likin’ it now, isn’t she?”

“Feel good when my cock hits that spot?”

“Your pussy’s fuckin’ soakin’ me, baby.”

But still, somehow, it just wasn’t quite enough.

Maybe you’d never found that place after all.

This was where most men gave up—after a few good minutes of fucking when their balls had gotten to be as swollen as stones and their bodies were aching for release, more often than not, they’d go off chasing their own high. That was when you usually started rubbing your clit, or waited for your partner to finish so they could get you off with their tongue or something.

You hated to feel like a burden, and you really despised the thought of being the reason your sweet Simon couldn’t get to orgasm. So you squirmed again.

Straining to reach down, to try and touch yourself, you whimpered, “Si, please, it just—it takes me too long—”

“Good thing we’ve got all night,” Simon replied bluntly.

Then, once again, he twisted your bodies like you were as soft and malleable as putty in his hands, and this time, he hitched one of your legs around his hip, high.

With one slow-rolling thrust and an audibly squelching sound, Simon’s cock stretched your hole to maximum capacity, and then a little more. Your juices leaked down his shaft, aiding the slide, and he stabbed in a few shallow strokes. Probing. Testing the waters, as if he were trying to find something hidden inside you.

You sucked in a breath. Simon’s gaze slid to yours.

“Let’s find that precious spot, lovie. Easy, now.”

Gently coaxing your body open, he drove a slow, measured pace. He split your cunt like it was the easiest thing in the world, delving within your wet, velvety heat to tease every contour and crevice of your pussy. His tip leaked precome. His balls glistened in your arousal and landed with the gentlest plap, plap, plaps while he explored your insides with his member.

It really was as simple as that, nothing more and nothing less than poking around. Having patience.

“S-Si,” you stammered, nose wrinkling slightly.

“What’s’at, baby? Got something to tell me?”

Like a teacher, almost, he pressed for more.

Like his cock was showing you something new about your body but he needed your help to tell him just how and where to find it, Simon took care to be kind. He smoothed a hand over the crown of your head and then cradled the back of it, one massive set of fingers splayed out against your skull and engulfing it wholly.

He still held onto your other hand tight.

Your cunt pulsed. Ached. Fluttered around him.

Stuffed to the brim, you had only to feel, and murmur:

“Higher.”

“Higher?”

“Um, to the…to the left.”

Simon tilted his hips left.

Yes.

That was just it. So close.

Almost…

Or, maybe…

“Maybe it just…isn’t there,” you huffed out, deflating. “Know you’re trying so hard, baby, but I think I can’t—”

Then Simon hit the same spot as before, only higher.

Just like you’d told him: to the left, and then…

“Oh, fuck,” you cursed. “Oh, fuckfuckfuck.”

The grin above you stretched even wider.

“There, lovie?” Simon goaded you on.

“Right there.” You nodded furiously.

A wave of pleasure swept through your limbs, from your core down to the soles of your feet. Your toes curled, and you squeaked, feeling Simon’s cock graze that soft, spongy, sensitive place—except he’d pushed in deeper. The sensation made your eyes roll back.

“Little dove doesn’t mind my pokin’ after all, huh?” Simon’s words were a tease, but you heard a strain in them, too. The second you were caught in the throes of real pleasure, your cunt must’ve clamped like a vice.

“Keep…keep pokin’, Si,” you choked out. “I like it.”

Your lover kept at it—poking from the inside.

The routine almost felt like losing your virginity all over again, together. Simon cradled your head, told you how good you were doing, how sweet you were for him, and you whimpered under his hold. Squirmed and clung to him for dear life, then kissed him feverishly.

Simon’s mouth was hard and hungry, his thrusts deep. His cock throbbed within the wet, clenching confines of your pussy, and he seemed to be going wild at the feeling. With the idea that he was driving you wild, too.

You realized as much when he whispered it to you.

“Could lose my bloody mind when you’re like this—” Another sharp, labored breath. Another shudder passing through his body when your insides squeezed. “—so why didn’t you talk? Ask for what you needed?”

Your voice was small. “Didn’t wanna be a bother.”

Your eyes were locked with Simon’s, and in his irises, you caught a shade of concern. It flared, hot as anything, then mixed with disbelief. Disappointment.

“Don’t be angry, Si, I—” you started, hurried.

“‘M’not.” Simon blinked. But he gritted his teeth, and he withdrew his cock until the head was bumping and teasing between your folds, then he shook his head. “It’s those fuckin’ pricks who should be sorry, yeah?”

The ones that you’d been with before.

You wanted to protest, insist that you were at least partly to blame, but you never got the opportunity.

Simon was back inside you in a blink.

Hitting that same spot again, and again, and again.

He grinned, the tic of a muscle in his jaw telling you that he was less amused this time around, but proud.

Vindicated.

“Well. It’s not like they’re ever gettin’ a chance in between these pretty legs again, are they, lovie?”

You nodded in agreement.

You smiled back at him, only to have that gentle curve falter a little when you felt Simon’s thrusts accelerate.

“Only thing that’s gonna touch this spot other’n my cock is my seed, splatterin’ all over your walls, right?”

When he gave a playful nip to your lower lip and squeezed your hand tighter, you knew that he meant it. The man had plunged so deep inside you that his pubic bone was now grinding against your skin, and the rest of him was buried. His balls, all full and warm and heavy with his release, rested firmly in your cleft.

And the steady, measured strokes of his cock landed with near-surgical precision on the G-spot you’d convinced yourself up until tonight didn’t exist.

Simon beamed. You were overcome with ecstasy.

“This it, lovie? This spot right ‘ere?” he cooed.

His cock bobbed against that gummy and indescribably dizzying place, causing your last moan to morph into something more akin to a shriek.

You nodded your head: “Y-Yes. Yes.”

“Feel good when I hit it?”

“Fucking perfect, Si.”

You sighed when the man bottomed out for what felt like the millionth time, and the pleasure never waned. He felt just as good now as he did when he first got in.

“Yeah? Gonna come on my cock then, pretty girl?”

“Yeah. I’m— I’m so close.”

“Go on then, love.”

And, shortly, you did.

Maybe three, four, five more stabs of his cock to your most precious, intimate place and you were unraveling beneath him, stars bursting in your line of vision. It seemed dramatic to say, but that was really what it came to—your mouth hanging open, eyes wide, gaze peering into Simon’s while he fucked you through the most intense orgasm of your life. You clung to him, and your walls spasmed again and again and again, milking the man’s release in the next few seconds. Simon shuddered and grit his teeth as he unloaded a thick, gooey load inside, dousing that spongy, body-numbing spot and then some. The two of you moaned in unison.

Your body was boneless, your head a hazy mess.

It took several seconds for your conscious mind to come back online fully, and when it did, Simon was leaning in again and planting kisses along your face.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, breath fanning hot across your skin. “My perfect girl. You did so good.”

You smiled and caught his mouth for a proper kiss.

“Thank you,” you murmured against him.

Then Simon squeezed your hand—the one he’d been holding this entire time. He lifted it gently, like he was afraid too rough of a movement might split you in two.

He turned your wrist and kissed the back of your hand, eyes locked on yours and expression soft while he did.

leon sat in his car, hands squeezing the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. he hasn’t even left the parking lot of the private airport. he’d watched government officials remove the remains of the BOWs he had managed to bring back. he was trying to make sure they were contained properly, but that just turned into him staring off at the blinking lights on the landing strip. little beacons in the night.

if he’d had a normal life he would’ve probably been in bed asleep with a wife curled up against him. maybe kids asleep down the hall from them. a modest home in a quaint neighborhood. that was the goal, right?

but nobody stayed very long, or leon just didn’t give them a chance to — except for you, but that ended months ago at this point.

the key to your house still attached to his key ring was a painful reminder of everything he couldn’t have. everything he lost. it mocked him when he’d return from missions.

leon never knew why you hadn’t asked for it back, maybe you’d forgotten that he’d had it, or maybe you let him keep it on purpose. like giving him an excuse to come back. or maybe you’d changed the locks and it didn’t matter if he had the key at all.

that thought stung the most. he knew you didn’t want him to come back, your words made it evident the day he was called in the middle of the night five months ago for an assignment.

he’d slipped out of your bed and packed his bag with his gear— he’d kept it all at your house because he was there more often than he was at his apartment at that time. leon had known for a while that you weren’t happy with his job, but that time was your breaking point. it was all so fresh in his mind. the things you said, how you’d begged him to stay, but his feet carried him to the door anyway. how your voice sounded when you told him not to come back after he was done with the assignment. leon had barely looked over his shoulder at you before grunting like it was a response then left without a word. he hadn’t even really given it much thought until he had returned from that assignment to find his stuff in a couple boxes on your porch. that was real.

the breakup didn’t stop leon from checking in on you. he’s gotten into a habit of parking in the street across from your house when he returns from assignments.

he tried to tell himself he wouldn’t do it anymore but he’s breaking. feels like he’s deteriorating, like his fight has been depleted. and he’s leon…he’s supposed to be strong, be the one who never quits because that’s how he was trained…

leon couldn’t explain why this mission had sent him over the edge. why this time he’d come back completely and utterly shattered. he didn’t think it was one thing in particular, but a culmination of everything he’s seen and been through over the years. that maybe after almost dying for the nth time he just couldn’t help it.

your porch light is on, the single bulb illuminating the front door. you’d gotten into a habit of leaving that light on whenever he was away, guess that hasn’t changed.

he knows it’s a mistake, knows he shouldn’t go to the porch, shouldn’t try to use the key.

but steps out of his car and across the street before he can stop himself.

everything feels like it’s too much, too heavy and dark. so fucking dark in his head.

leon just needs the one person that had been his only safe haven.

he stops at the door, unblinking as he stares at the light, watches how a couple months fly around it. he understands how they feel. trapped, stuck in this loop because they don’t know any better. does he know better?

his jaw clenches as tears collect in his eyes. he didn’t have the energy to stop them. he was strong, but he’s still human. and he’s seen so much bad.

when he works up the courage to slide the key into the lock he’s surprised the lock clicks and he’s able to open the door.

a brief worry about scaring you considering it’s the middle of the night and he’s not sure if he’s really welcome crosses his mind, but when he steps inside and lets the door close behind him, he’s enveloped in the familiar smell of you, your home— and it wrecks him.

his back hits the door with a thud, hands shaking and legs giving out as he slides down until he’s seated on the hardwood floor.

you had always been a light sleeper, so when you heard noise coming from downstairs you grabbed the metal bat you kept next to your nightstand and crept out of your bedroom. calling the cops would’ve probably been the logical reaction to thinking there was an intruder in your home.

you tried to rationalize the sound. it was just an animal or the wind. when you step off the stairs and poke your head around the wall you see the figure slumped against the door. even in the dim lighting you know it’s leon. you’d know it’s him regardless if you could see or not.

“leon! you scared the hell out of me.”

your voice cuts through the silence. sighing, you set the bat down and step into the hallway. it’s only when you get closer that you see how he’s shaking. his legs are pulled up to his chest and he just looks so small, so unlike himself.

“leon?” any irritation you were feeling about him just showing up after no contact for months was gone instantly.

you knelt in front of him. unsure of what to do or say. you’ve seen how his work effects him before, how he would get sometimes between missions. it’s why you asked him to stop, why you broke it off with him when he continued to leave. but you couldn’t recall a time that he was like this. never like this.

“baby,” the term of endearment slipped off his tongue broken, tinged with a sadness that never was there before.

“hey, talk to me,” you reach forward, gently placing your hand on his cheek, lifting his head.

the pain in his eyes is so clear. you know something happened, something must’ve happened for him to be like this.

“i should’ve listened to you,” the words came out with a sob, empty eyes meeting yours. he knew that you had been looking out for him and his well being when you asked him to quit, asked him to stop risking his life every single time the DSO calls him, and yet, he kept going back.

you watched tears slip down his face, he was clearly dealing with something you couldn’t begin to comprehend.

leon had shared some details regarding his job with you. he had to after he showed up bloodied, bruised and in a sling from dislocating his shoulder. that was all mild, thankfully, but he did end up having to tell you more than he wanted because of that incident.

“i’m so sorry,” his words were barely audible. he just couldn’t hold himself together anymore. he leaned into you, needing you’re warmth. he just needed tonight, that’s it, he’d leave in the morning.

you blink a few times, finding that you’re growing emotional over seeing him this way. tentatively, you wrap your arms around him, letting him lean against you fully.

leon pressed his face into the crook of your neck trying desperately to calm his breathing, quiet his torturous mind.

“please don’t apologize.”

“i should’ve listened—“

“no, it’s not your fault,” you press a kiss to the top of his head. trying to find the right words. “i should’ve handled things better.”

the love you have for leon runs deep. you’re unsure whether he knows it, but the breakup didn’t dull your feelings for him, nor his for you.

“just let me stay tonight,” it felt more like a plea than anything else. his hands weakly grab at your sides, he’s hanging on by thread. “please don’t kick me out again.”

your heart sinks at the pure desperation in his voice. the brokenness of his voice. how hollow he sounds.

you hold him tighter, threading your fingers into his hair. tears cling to your lashes as they begin to fall from your eyes as well. throat burning from the raw emotion.

you press your cheek against the top of leon’s head, cradling him against you, trying to comfort him as best you can. there’s no way you could ever push him out again, not after this, not now.

“you don’t have to go, this is your home too,” you whisper, it’s all you can manage now. if this is hard for you, you can’t begin to imagine how hard this is for him. you’re not the one who’s witnessed horrific things and been on the verge of death countless times.

you feel him relax then fall apart more, holding nothing back. the sobs that wrack his body are so powerful that you have to bite your lip to keep yourself composed. now isn’t the time for you to fall apart too. it isn’t until the shaking stops and his tears have run dry that you’re able to find your voice.

“we can talk in the morning. let’s…just get some rest for now,” you’re uncertain of what the conversation will bring, but you know now is not the time for it, it can wait until tomorrow or the next day. leon can’t, he comes first.

leon nods, lifting his head to see your face wet with tears like his. his lips brush against yours, a ghost of a kiss. he pulls back before either of you have a chance to do something emotion fueled. it’s evident neither of you are in your right mind.

you meet his eyes once more, and they are damning. they say more than he can put into words right now.

‘i can’t do this alone anymore, i need you, i need your strength’.

he leans on you as you both stand. silence passes between you two, there’s a million things you both could say right now, but none of them come. this is enough for now.

you flick off the porch light before wrapping an arm around leon, walking you both to your bedroom.

you’ll figure this out when day breaks because leon’s home, and he’s not leaving again.

⊹₊⟡⋆ thanks for reading. ⊹₊⟡⋆

it was all will could think about during that evening in bosnia. the child. the little boy that, in hindsight, did ‘ruin’ his and mikey’s perfect footage from their little shopping spree interlude for the video he was recording for the main channel.

however, this was different. as will nursed his pint, the interaction with the little boy stayed fixated in his mind. the warmth he felt as the small lad had attempted to take his microphone, the warmth he felt as he called him a ‘cheeky sod’— it all stuck. lingering there, almost as if it was tormenting him.

his brain now was replaying the interaction over and over again, causing his mind to brew with a multitude of ‘what ifs?’ and regrets of missed opportunities as the soft instrumentals of the bosnian bar fizzed into background noise around him.

how he craved for that joy again. there was something about his paternal instincts in that clip— as it continued to play in his mind repeatedly like a broken record— which clung onto him like a shadow. if anything, the joy he had gotten from it was addicting, a happy stimulant to his brain— almost drug-like, that he didn’t ever want to lose.

and it wasn’t like will was getting any younger. no, he himself, knew that. and in all honesty, that pained will even more. the steps to parenthood were steep but he couldn’t help but shift how good and relieving it felt to watch a child smile with pure elation at doing something which was relatively silly to anyone else other than them.

the rest of the time at the bosnian bar was a blur to will. as the taxi now back to the hotel was torturous. it was too slow for will, not with his raging mind anyways.

he was fidgety, the lingering thought that he didn’t want to waste away his life anymore causing him to adjust the rings on his fingers subconsciously as a result— as he tried to find anything to ease his mind.

uneasy thoughts plagued his mind, swimming erratically around his head. what if you said no? what if this was all some mistake? what if he was being selfish? it didn’t help that you’d both not expressed your opinions about having children before this, which added into will’s already dooming spiral of doubt.

a mix of adrenaline and ultimately fear was what eventually made the taxi journey seem like nothing. will practically stumbled out of the vehicle, his limbs woozy from not only the alcohol but the cocktail of emotions that his body was experiencing all at once, whilst his brain fixated on one thing: you.

the moment will stepped into your shared hotel room, he was on autopilot. there was a faint scent of vanilla and the room seemed a little warmer than usual, hinting that you’d just had or recently had a shower before he’d finished filming.

will felt his own welcoming warmth fester in his lower stomach. he felt relaxed in the presence of you, carefree, like it was where he was meant to be. so, his feet subconsciously brought him deeper into your rather large hotel for the evening, his whole being driven by his lingering desire to become a father some time on this trip.

as he proceeded on, will sighed contently when he finally caught his eye at the sight of you as he walked fully into the room. he was now met with you dressed in your loungewear, comfortably hugging your still slightly wet body in some places, whilst your hair was also still a little damp from being in the shower too.

you turned around, sensing someone else in the room. your eyes softened as you realised it was will, smiling.

he continued to walk up to you, with purpose it seemed before you could even speak. and when you did, you were immediately cut off. “oh hell—oh.”

will moved onto you quickly before you could even finish your sentence, his large hands coming up to cradle your cheeks with a gentleness that contrasted the ferocity of the kiss he gave you itself.

he almost growled into your mouth as your hands tangled in his hair subconsciously moments after. his large hands moved down to your shirt, daring to push themselves underneath the fabric as he kissed harsher— more passionately as you felt his ragged, uncontrolled, hot breaths on your face.

you moaned into him stupidly, your limbs turning into melted butter as you moulded against his body, kissing with the same passion he gave you. you smiled as his lips pressed harder, more passionately as if he wanted to dominate every inch of you.

his arms wrapped around you tightly, as he took a swift step forwards, making his way towards the large king-size bed you’d both be sharing for the evening. your heart pounded in your chest, and you could swear you could feel will’s too against your skin too. in the same erratic rhythm. like you were both as one.

your shins abruptly hit the plush mattress behind you as you faltered for a second. your’s and will’s lips parted from each other for a moment so you could both catch your breath. however, will was quickly latched back onto you, one large hand now entangled in your hair, pushing your lips even deeper onto his, as if he couldn’t get enough of you in that moment.

will then pushed you gently onto your back on top of the bed. he crawled on top of you, his demeanour softening as he kissed you gentler now— more tenderly, even.

it allowed you to catch your breath for a moment. kissing him more slowly, letting yourself fully melt into the kiss as will then moved himself so he could trace your jaw softly with his lips, causing you to shiver.

though, he brought his lips back up to you, pressing one final deep kiss onto them before he then removed his mouth from your’s. he let his eyes drink up your beauty below him, breathing heavier than usual as you both lay in a silence that spoke much louder than any words could ever do.

you could smell the faint aroma of beer on his breath as he breathed more softly, his nose now nudging your own. “you’d make such a good mother, you know” will then spoke breathlessly as he continued to take in your frame.

it felt like a confession. if anything, it was one. it was something raw— passionate, even from will, as you both let the comment linger in your mingled, soft breaths.

your heart pounded inside your chest. it drummed a rhythm you’d never felt it play before. not because of or with fear, no, instead it was an overwhelming feeling of love and admiration for the man who stayed on top of you, as his two brooding arms caged you in below him.

“you think?” you whispered ever so softly, your voice feathery and gentle. your eyes were wide as you maintained eye contact with will from below, whose lips were slightly agape and cheeks flushed the lightest shade of pink.

“yeah.” will confirmed as he nodded, before chuckling, “hell, i don’t just ‘think’, i know.”

you could’ve sworn in that moment you felt your pussy become damper than it was before. hot blood of tense, raw emotion surged through your veins as will’s assuredness caused you to take a sharp intake of breath in an attempt to compose yourself.

you opened your mouth to speak, but will was quick to put a finger over your plush lips ever so tenderly. “don’t,” he spoke breathy, yet his eyes were wide and pleading.

your own hand came to move will’s hand from your mouth, before you spoke. “will,” you began, “are you telling me that you want to have a child?”

the silence came back immediately again. swallowing you both whole in it’s tense awkwardness. it loomed uncomfortably, like an itch you couldn’t scratch. waiting. waiting for someone to break it.

will then cleared his throat before an uncomfortable lump formed inside of it. “yeah,” he confessed hoarsely, before clearing his throat again for some composure.

there was a quick beat of silence before you began again. “yes,” you then repeated, clearer and more confident now, whilst your eyes became softer with even more emotion again, “yes, i want to have a child with you.”

will’s eyes widened in shock. his mouth was dry with awe, his heart now pounding at the revelation. “seriously?” he practically choked out, whilst now dumbfounded and taken aback.

you breathed deeply, gaining some composure. “yeah,” you whispered again, “it’s not like we’re getting any younger, is it?”

will laughed in response. “yeah, suppose you’re right.”

“no. i am right,” you said confidently, “and you know it”. you added, whilst your forehead rested against his which was covered in a thin layer of sweat.

will took a sharp intake of breath before he spoke again, trying to calculate how to say his words in the best way. “you’d look so sexy pregnant, you know,” will said quieter than usual.

he then gulped as the silence lay thick again, clearing the nervousness that wanted to grow in his throat, “it’s something i think about a lot. which i know is fucking disgusting.”

you could feel the faint imprint of will’s cock against your leg as he continued to ramble on. you smirked to yourself at his filthy confession, before looking up at him again. “you know i’m being serious, right? i want to have your kids. no need to fantasise with me, let’s make it a reality.”

will’s breath hitched again, his stomach churning with a type of devilish excitement. “a-are you sure?” he asked again, just to make sure.

you rolled your eyes, before speaking again. “for fuck’s sake will, just give me your kids. and stop talking,” you basically growled against his lips, your hands grabbing onto his t-shirt.

before he could speak, you pressed your lips deeply onto his, letting him melt back into the moment of passion.

that kiss, along with the words of affirmation too, was all will needed as the green light on the situation. he growled into your mouth again, his top row of teeth nibbling on your bottom lip a little until it was a rawer red colour.

you let out a sharp gasp, your hand trailing down will’s front slowly. your fingertips feverishly coming to grab the bottom hem of his white t shirt, but not letting him strip just yet. one of your hands pressed against his stomach, (the other tugging on the back of his head), slowly dipping lower, grazing teasingly over his hardened member confined and blocked by his trousers.

“you don’t know how badly i’ve wanted this,” will panted breathlessly, his cheeks flushed red as you started to remove his tee from his body, quickly discarding it to the ground.

your own hands came up to your pyjama top as you started to remove it. you tossed it to the side, like you did to will’s, before you spoke again.

“oh yeah?” you laughed, slightly breathless too, all with a bold smirk on your face. “well c’mon then, handsome. fuck a baby into me,” you teased, but the fire of passionate desire behind your eyes burnt brightly.

will chuckled darkly. “challenge accepted, beautiful,” he mumbled, his lips soon attaching to yours again like a magnetic force drew you both together.

your back pressed down on the soft mattress below you, the crisp white sheets becoming ruined as you and will kissed with so much passion. his hardened bulge grinded against your clothed cunt, now making you panties sticky and wet, as he dared to dip his tongue into your mouth.

you let out a strangled noise in response which was a mix between a gasp and a groan, your hips rutting against his clothed member as your one of your hands slid into his brown mullet, whilst the other cupped his jaw, pressing his lips deeper onto your own.

will let out a grunt. “fuck, i need to be inside you,” he muttered against your lips, his own hips now rutting in a rhythm with you.

your limbs at this point were tangled and intertwined with his as you looked up at will, your expression flushed and full of lust. “not yet,” you managed, before letting a moan slip out, “wanna stay like this for a little longer.”

so you did. you both continued to dry hump each other for a couple of more minutes, groping each other passionately and hungrily in the process. your nails dragged down will’s chest, feeling the hairs that had started to grow across his pecs. whilst will’s hands massaged your boobs, his thumbs rubbed your nipples into sensitive, hardened peaks all whilst your clothed abdomens also continued to clash in a electric rhythm.

it just eventually got to the time where you both just snapped.

your lips left will’s abruptly, leaving him scorching hot with lust and overall confused. “take your trousers off,” you commanded lowly, your hands already frantically grabbing at will’s belt, fumbling to take it off.

the leather soon went clunk as will slid it quickly out of his belt loops, throwing it onto the floor like discarded junk. you laughed as your hand fumbled with the fly to his trousers, before attempting to help him wriggle out of those too.

soon he was just left in his boxers as his hands came back to work on you. two thick fingers hooked under the elastic of your pyjama shorts, tugging them downwards and slipped off of your ankles and onto the floor too.

you giggled, biting at your bottom lip as you watched will’s eyes dilate with lust and excitement. he was practically salivating at the sight of your soaked panties, licking his lips with anticipation.

you both soon tugged your soiled and ruined underwear off of your bodies, tossing them without a care in the world too.

will’s hands came and engulfed your thighs, tugging you closer towards him. “c’mere, pretty,” he mumbled, before settling himself between them.

your pussy fluttered at the compliment. before you then bit your lip again as you watched in awe at how his cock bounced against his lower stomach, red and angry with lust. then, one of his large hands came and wrapped around his dick, giving it a few concise pumps.

once he was satisfied with his erection, he spit on his shaft, smearing the saliva around the erect, hard length. after, will then brought the tip up to nudge against your already sopping wet folds. you mewled as he collected some slick on his throbbing tip, letting out a sigh of content as he looked down at you with a smug grin on his face.

after that, will slid himself in with a guttural groan. your hips jolted forwards in response, your eyes becoming wide as your cunt walls tried to accommodate for his size, your body overwhelmed for a short moment.

“fuck!” you cursed softly, letting your head rest against the mattress now, your hair flowing messy below you.

will started off slow, but soon found a bold pace. it was merciless and hard, hitting that good spongy spot that made you see stars. you couldn’t even attempt to swallow your moans as the feeling was that good, and it made will chuckle deeply whilst above you.

“yeah? you like that?” he practically panted, thrusting deep and hard into you.

your eyes began to roll back, your hips struggling to match his pace. “mhm,” you mewled, “s-so good.”

will chuckled again. “good. because i’m gonna fuck you until you only scream my name.”

you sighed contently, pleasure surging through your veins like hot electricity. your hips rolled erratically with will’s deep, unmeasured thrusts causing all the breath to leave your throat. your whole body throbbed— vibrated, even— with pure ecstasy as you just let will fuck you like he wasn’t a person, and was instead a feral animal.

“gonna fill you up, pet,” he grunted between thrusts. he then brought one of his hands down to your lower stomach, so he could feel you belly bulge. “you feel that, baby? that’s where i’m going to put my baby— our baby.” he panted again, his pace quickening gradually more and more.

you looked at him with a blissed out expression, a large smile plastered across your face as some stray hairs began to stick to your forehead. will’s fingernails dug deep into your skin, causing red, burning marks to cover the sensitive flesh. but you didn’t care. all you could think about was carrying his child, and that’s all will could think about too.

he brought his face down to your ear, grunting into your ear. “you’re going to look so hot carryin’ our kid, darling,” he spoke gravelly into your ear, the tone like thick tar to your blissed out self as you began to pant— your breath now uncontrolled as you teetered on the edge of glory.

moans spilled out of both of your mouths as the room began to smell of sweat and sex. will had now gripped onto your thighs again, pushing them wide so he could thrust even deeper into you, causing you to see blissful white.

“yes, oh god!” you exclaimed, your throat hoarse and raw from all the moaning you’d already been doing, “w-will, ‘m so close, yes!”

you could sense will was close too. at this point, he’d become a grunting, groaning and moaning mess of a man. his grip was so tight that it was like he was about to break your bones from the intensity of his grasp on your legs. his movements had become sloppy too, the slapping of your skin now widely apparent within the room.

you moaned loudly again, looking up at will. “are you close?” you asked breathlessly, “cause i need to come. fuck ‘m gonna come!”

will gritted his teeth. “yes. oh fuck!— yes,” he responded through gritted teeth, “gonna fill you up so much it’s drippin’ out of that pretty cunt of your’s, darling.”

one of will’s hands came down to your pussy as his thumb began circling your clit in fast, circular motions. in that moment, you were long gone, your release ready to come crumbling down on you in one swift motion. you felt your thighs trembling uncontrollably with the intensity of your orgasm impatiently ready to come and crash over you.

one final moan ripped raw from your chest as you felt your orgasm crash down on you with a final thrust and rub of your cunt from will. “will!” you screamed out loud as your cunt walls clamped down on his dick, “oh, will!”

will’s hands clamped down on you even tighter as your pussy milked him dry. hot shoots and spurts of his sticky white seed shot out of his dick, painting your walls and insides fully white. he sighed with relief, breathing heavily as he kept his dick nuzzled deep inside of you, not allowing any of his release to drip out of you.

will breathed deeply. “holy shit,” he said as his voice shook a little, “you’re amazing.”

you giggled, your face burning with a crimson blush. “yeah? you’re amazing too, you know,” you said with a loving smile.

after a couple of moments, will slowly removed his now softened dick from your slick, sensitive pussy. you winced a little at the removal, before sighing as he flopped down next to you on the bed. he looked as dishevelled as you were, his eyes wide yet loving as he pressed a tender kiss to your lips.

you smiled. “that side of you is so hot, by the way,” you said after, your voice merely a whisper.

“mmm? yeah, you liked that?” will chuckled, gently tracing the side of your body, whilst a hand came to press softly on your stomach as if you were already pregnant.

“yeah,” you confessed breathlessly. you looked at him again before speaking, “are we.. going to do this again any time soon?”

he knows this because he has been there long enough for the ice in his untouched glass upstairs to dissolve into something thin and flavorless. he prefers it that way because it tastes like nothing, like rubbing alcohol, clean, innocuous. a purging translucence that makes him feel hospital clean the next morning, prepped for a blood transfusion.

you are seated at the bar between angel dust who drapes himself across your shoulders like a feather boa and that unfortunate soul you dragged in on your arm. vaggi it's with charlie who seems simply delighted that everyone is in the same room without immediate bloodshed and husk is nursing on a bottle.

the wretched creature decides to lean in, hand sliding just a fraction too familiarly along your waist, mouth hovering near that delicate hinge of jaw. and alastor balks.

for some reason, he can stomach the thought of you doing what you're doing—finding a surrogate who fits the part, works like a band aid, fills the void—but the thought of another man touching you like he has touched you makes him sick.

( maybe because nothing has ever been so totally and completely his as your body. not even his own body, not since rosie's deal. but you— you give yourself to him. every fraction, every whole belongs to him. your mouth and all it's teeth, your flesh and all it's blood. )

that is when charlie's eyes flick over your shoulder and wave an overly enthusiastic hand to him.

"oh, alastor!" she chirps, bright as a flare. "i'm happy you accepted the invitation!"

of course she does. he had not planned to assist in the first place. he had been occupied— either with swallowing and torturing sinners to relieve stress or ripping his hair off and measuring amber liquid in a glass. not like it matters.

"why, of course," he says, stepping forward into the light, "it would be rather dull if i didn't."

your shoulders go rigid before you school them into something looser before you turn, expression morphing into a wince, like you've bitten your tongue and tasted something metallic.

"you didn't tell me you were coming." you all but hiss through clenched teeth.

"you never asked," he makes a non-commitment sound at the back of his throat.

"and i'm supposed to know these things?"

"no. hence why you are supposed to ask"

angel dust lets out a low whistle, gaze ping-ponging between you and alastor. "ohhh, this is new. is this sexual tension or am i just projecting again?"

"angel," charlie warns gently, even if you can hear her swallowing. "everything's fine. we are all friends, right?"

"perfectly fine," alastor's forces his smile wider.

it's weird, trying to find something salvageable amid the wreckage. trying to be his partner when he's still so in love with you, and when he's not your partner, you're still his ex-wife. alastor doesn't want to be your partner and certainly he doesn't want to be your fucking ex, but at least there are seconds to count.

your date clears his throat. the fellow has the audacity to look confused rather than afraid. "uh, hey. i'm—"

"irrelevant," alastor supplies, but he extends a hand anyway just so he can have an excuse to squeeze until he feels the tremor in the other man's bones. "a pleasure. any friend of our dear princess is a friend of mine."

crossing your arms, you lean against the bar. "we were in the middle of something, you know."

"i apologize" he says after he finishes cleaning his hand along the front of his suit. "i must have mistaken this for a public establishment."

husk coughs into his hand.

"it is," you reply, and your frown deepens. "but you're making everyone uncomfortable."

"am i?" alastor snaps his neck back unnaturally. "charlie, dear, does this feel uncomfortable to you?"

"w-what—?" vaggi pets her back when charlie chokes on her own drink, a painful smile stretching her lips. "um— i think maybe we're just all a little tense?"

"that's one word for it," you repeat. "some people have a habit of inserting themselves where they're not wanted."

a small flinch at the corner of his mouth, there and gone.

your fingers curl around your glass but you do not drink. he wonders if you let the burn do the talking for you. he hopes not. he hopes yes.

"we were just talking about—"

"i can imagine," alastor interrupts lightly. "you do seem the talking sort."

the man bristles, and you shoot alastor a vexed look. it only makes him want to bare his teeth wider, to see how much of your patience he can peel back before he hits bone.

"you don't have to stay if you're bored."

"on the contrary," alastor folds his hand behind his back, "i find myself invested in how your peculiar tastes has evolved. i'd think you might refine your selection process."

your jaw tightens. "that´s none of your bussiness."

the man shifts, uncomfortable. "if this is a bad time—"

"it is," alastor answers.

"it isn't," and you snap back, placing a hand on your date's chest, reassuring. alastor watches your fingers splay there and thinks about how easily he could fold that hand back, knuckle by knuckle, until you remember the proper shape of it.

out of the corner of his eyes, he can see angel dust gesturing "what the fuck is happening?" while vaggi murmurs something urgent to the princess. charlie, bless her saccharine heart, claps her hands once.

"okay! maybe we all just take a breath?" she jumps out of her sit. "alastor, do you want a drink? we have—"

"no," he says, too quickly, then softens it into a lilting chuckle. "i'm quite satisfied, thank you. wouldn't want to overindulge."

the glitter, the bar, angel's soft snickering, husk's bottle clinking against wood, sound dipping and warping. the gilded molding gleams like rows of polished teeth. he imagines biting down on the moment, cracking it open, tasting the marrow inside.

you slide off the stool before anyone can corral you, disentangling from your date with careful fingers.

"we're fine, charlie," you insist, and turn to alastor, furious, "stop it. you only show up when—"

"when you invite carrion to feed?" alastor leans in, enough that the din of the bar swallows the rest. "i thought the buffet was open."

the man beside makes a pitiful, scandalized sound "maybe we should—"

"maybe you should," alastor doesn't even look at the creature anymore, and the temperature drops a degree.

"and maybe you should stop being angry," you say softly. it´s a warning. a plea. he can taste both.

"oh, i would never" he places a hand to his chest in mock offense. "i simply wanted to make sure this gentleman was aware of how fortunate he was."

"he does."

"mm." his gaze drifts to the man beside you. "i imagine he appreciates many things he hasn't earned."

no sleep, his mouth everywhere, his stomach a cavernous pit of hunger eating him alive. you look at him with those exhausted, angry eyes like you're a benevolent god. like you don't also destroy the things you create.

"why the fuck do you care now?"

something fractures: an invisible glass barrier rendered to glittering dust around him. he feels wild—like a dog with it's leash unclipped at the park. he spins, he does donuts. he salivates, he bites. it all comes out as laughter—wheezing, hysterical, on the edge of tears.

"whyever would i ever do something like that?" he asks, smiling with every last one of his teeth. "i only keep things that make me laugh."

that makes you flinch, expression pinched and savage as it reduces him to cinders. he planned for the possibility of something coy, don't flatter yourself, sweetheart, maybe, but then your hand jerks, and the edge of your glass tips. amber arcs through the air in a brief, glittering parabola before cascading down the front of you.

there's a colective silence before angel moves first.

"shit— that's a look" he hops down from the stool, already snatching up a rag from behind the bar to press the cloth to your chest.

you stand there, looking down at yourself, at nothing at all. your date hovers uselessly at your side, half-reaching, half-withdrawing, as though you might bite. alastor knows you would.

"oh my gosh! are you okay?" charlie and vaggi are hovering as well, but you don't seem to notice.

alastor's fingers twitch behind him. for a moment, he has this impulse to press his mouth to the damp fabric, tasting the spill, proving a point no one else in this room would understand.

"i need a moment," you spin on your heel without sparing a glance, pushing past angel towards the stairs.

the silence you leave behind is thick enough to chew.

"what the fuck was all that?" vaggi is talking, probably, or so he thinks.

alastor is quiet for a moment and prays she won't bring it up again, won't push, because the truth is, he feels as he is made from wet tissue paper and he'll rip if someone pushes him. alastor resisted you once and it was the hardest fucking thing he has ever done and he is not sure he can do it again.

"if you'll excuse me," he says instead, already stepping toward the stairs, "i've just remembered something terribly important."

the wanting is what ruins him. the desire for something more makes him feel like his skin has been torn off and what lies underneath has been exposed for everyone to see. he feels like a disgusting mockery of a man. to feel is abhorrent. to want is repulsive. sometimes you look at him like he is absolutely transparent and he cannot handle the sensation of being scrutinized any longer. he wants to tell you the truth so whatever deluded idea you have about his nature can be shaken out of your thick skull.

"what is wrong with you?"

you turn left, another five steps. you pass the tall window at the end of the hall, red neon from the street below staining the carpet, and then your feet suddenly stop.

he does none of that.

"my dear," he drawls from the dark, because of course you know he is there, poured into the shadows like ink, "i haven't the faintest idea what you mean."

he can see your squared shoulders where he stands, smell the sweet, acrid booze that clings to your dress like a second skin. you don't have to turn around for him to know what kind of expression you must be wearing.

"so we're gonna act like you didn't make a fool out of me in front of everyone?"

"that wasn't necessary," he steps forward, cane tapping once against the carpet before he stills it. the red light from the window catches in his grin, paints it infernal. "you did a splendid job of that on your own."

"this isn't a joke."

"oh, but it is a joke." he spreads his hands. "an exceptionally funny one, i must say. you always liked to play make believe."

you whirl on him then, eyes wet as two open wounds, sulking and skinny. you are enacting some elaborate plan to punish him, but it doesn't work because he is so good at punishing himself.

"look around and tell me what part of this is make believe, alastor."

there are no longer delirious afternoons of seeing you in the kitchen and memorizing every freckle and mole and stroking your hair and seeing you wake up, drifting and hazy. he ruined that by trying to protect you, and now, when it happens it comes in short, pathological bursts of near-violence. a swinging pendulum on a broken clock.

sometimes he keeps his distance and you stop being regular in the hotel and he lies to himself it's over, he's cured, until he can't take it anymore and he erupts in a overflow of maddening, animal desire.

"you surely didn't expect me to applaud you." he says instead. there's a trapdoor beneath his feet.

you take a step toward him this time.

the hallway holds the echo of the party three floors below—distant laughter, the faint clink of glassware, someone shouting something that might be angel dust's voice carrying through the stairwell. it all feels very far away. the carpet here muffles everything, turns the world soft and padded like the inside of a mouth.

"you know that's not the point."

"then do enlighten me."

your jaw tightens. another step.

"whatever. not like it matters, now. you're going to decide for me one way or another."

"i decided nothing," he laughs. it sounds too big for the walls. "if your companion wilted under minimal scrutiny, that hardly speaks well of him."

you take a step. then another.

the corridor feels suddenly narrow. the neon glow from the window across your face, painting one eye red and leaving the other swallowed in shadow.

alastor wonders briefly if this is how prey animals see predators in tall grass—half revealed, half imagined. he should know this.

"you're jealous."

"of that?" alastor can feel his ears pinning, wrestles them back into place by sheer force of will while you close the distance in three quick strides before he can decide whether he intends to move and shove him in the chest.

it is not particularly hard. you have never been especially violent. it is, however, startling enough that his cane skids a fraction against the carpet. alastor also knows you are not trying to hurt him, but your palms hit solid muscle under tailored fabric and the contact sends a bright, stupid spark up his spine.

"jealous," you repeat, and shove him again. this time your hands don't retreat, fingers bunching the fabric of his coat for half a second before doing it again.

up close, the smell of alcohol blooming from your clothes becomes something warm and sweet and faintly medicinal. it reminds him of sterile rooms. antiseptic. the clean burn that scrubs rot from wounds.

"you—" you start, breath hitching with anger, "—you ruin everything i try to build and then you act like i'm crazy for being upset about it."

your fist lands against his sternum this time. it barely moves him. but it keeps happening—small angry pushes, the heel of your palm bumping his chest, your knuckles knocking against the bone beneath his ribs.

"you had no right," you say, breath sharp. "none."

alastor lets it continue longer than he probably should. it's almost comical. almost. and maybe there is some humor to be found there but humor is another one of these emotions that alastor doesn't feel too strongly these days, and even if he is maybe considering laughing, something deeply unpleasant sears into his stomach.

"is that enough small talk, or do we need to run a few more lines before you get to the point?" he asks instead.

"shut up," you hiss. tap, tap, tap. "stop acting like you are the victim here when you were the one who left. you said—"

alastor catches your wrists mid-swing. it happens quickly: one moment your hands are hammering uselessly against his chest, the next they're pinned between his palms. his grip it's firm, the bones shift slightly beneath his fingers.

"how curious." his head tilts, antlers casting crooked shadows along the wall. "i seem to recall the situation being a touch more mutual."

you stare up at him, burning vicious and bright.

"get your creepy hands off me."

your arms jerk to no effect.

"temper, temper," he sighs, leaning down just enough that his voice brushes your forehead, "we're far too old for tantrums."

you twist against his hold. he can feel the tendons flexing, the stubborn strength in the movement. you have always fought him like this—quietly at first, and then with your whole body.

"fuck off. all this drama because you can't—"

"can't what?" he snaps, something sharp finally slicing through the sugar. "can't what, darling?"

you yank again, and he tightens his grip just enough to stop you. your chests are nearly touching now, alastor can feel the damp chill of your dress through the fabric of his own.

"can't stand that i'm finally happy without you" you finish.

and that's the thing, isn't it: deep down, at the heart of all this, he wants you so bad because he loves you. he has loved you so hard his whole life that in this after life, he dugs straight through the crust and the mantle and the molten center of the earth to the other side, where everything is upside down and backwards. he has loved you through blood and rot and grief and mud and agony and one hundred nightmares, through normal and not-normal and whatever this is, here, now. he loves you, and he was alive, and it's over a hundred degrees outside every day, and a decade ago you died.

"if that is happiness," he replies quietly this time, "you have set a remarkably low bar."

you half growl, half laugh, before surging forward instead of back. for a split second, alastor genuinely thinks you've struck him across the face— his teeth knock together, jaw snapping shut on instinct.

you make a small sound against his mouth but you don't pull back. if anything, you press closer, fingers bunching in his suit while the other fist into his shirt as though you intend to drag him down with you. he can taste copper now— breath hot, liquor-sweet and blood-bright.

you are bleeding, and you are not stopping.

your hand slide from his lapels to his jaw, gripping, insisting. alastor it's not entirely sure if the strangled noise at the back of his throat it's meant to be a laugh or a growl because for a brief, terrifying second, alastor considers the possibility that this is a hallucination brought on by some delayed intoxication. it doesn't matter, you're furious and shaking and still choosing him in the most reckless way possible.

his hand slides up your back, fisting in your hair just enough to tilt your head. it's been so long since he kissed you alastor forgets how to kiss you. a broken dam, a sudden downpour—he just lick at your mouth like an animal, claw at his skull, try to eat you alive. everything is wet, like you're both bleeding. you bite back, just to show him you have teeth too. the neon from outside paints your skin like a fresh wound and he has the irrational thought that if he presses hard enough, he might crawl inside your ribcage and sit there where it will always be warm for him.

your mouths finally part with a wet, loud sound. a thin thread of saliva stretches and snaps between you like a severed wire. your lip is split where his teeth caught you earlier. a bead of red gathers there, bright as a dropped cherry. yours, mostly. perhaps a little his. he can't tell anymore.

alastor's gaze fixes on it, the way one might watch a drop of syrup sliding down the rim of a glass. it's just you and him—this messy, mutant, melted-together thing—you'll talk him out of it. you'll get in his head, you'll get him high, you'll poison his spit with your spit and he'll end up lost in the taste of you all over again.

he has to hurt you, he decides. he has to hurt you to make it stick. hurt you for real.

"well," he hums, a little breathless around the edges, "that was profoundly embarrassing for you."

your expression snaps from stunned to furious so quickly it almost makes him proud.

"excuse me?"

alastor releases your hair as he smooths a nonexistent wrinkle from his sleeve.

"you heard me," his thumb brush absently across the corner of his mouth where the blood has begun to bead. "if this is how you behave when denied, it's no wonder none of your companions could keep up."

( he feels like every night he's digging himself deeper into dysfunction, destroying his shot at living a normal life again. he has create a high that's unreachable without you. no one in the whole world has skin as soft as yours. lips that taste like this. no one will ever, ever look at him with more adoration or more hatred. other futures forevermore pale in comparison to the thrill of this.

every night he is condemning himself to a life of that is either empty, or on fire. eternally oscillating between dullness and danger. )

your grip loosens, the muscles in your hand suddenly remembering how to work.

"i—"

it's almost casual, the way his leg slips forward between yours. the polished edge of his shoe nudges past your ankle, then further, until your stance falters and instinctively widens to keep your balance. suddenly you are propped up on his thigh with his knee pressed into the wall behind you.

the movement presses you back a fraction into the wall, whatever hurtful thing you could have said died on your tongue, replaced instead with a shaky, quiet breath.

"you are doing wonderfully," he murmurs, voice smooth and venomous, tilting his head. "do try again."

your mouth open, then close it again. it's mostly a testament of your willingness to play this game, or else is his knee that keeps pushin up, up, up— until he feels the heat of his skin againts your clothed crotch, and you jolt.

"move," it's all you can spit out before it stumbles into nothing because alastor's hand is squeezing a side of your hip, fingers digging into your pelvis, close to your cunt.

"oh?" he lets his eyes widen in faux surprise, pausing his claw's slow, inevitable descent. "i thought touching you is exactly what you wanted from me,"

"i want you to get the fuck off my life."

you wince because it sounds so bad, like that, so clear, so indisputably fucked up. his stomach betrays him as it twists around the shape of you, the memory of your body against his, that terrible perfect fit.

"i can tell," he says immediately. the words drag against his ribs on the way out. "you've been doing a marvelous job demonstrating that, haven't you? cycling through replacements like a child with broken toys."

there's hurt seeping in your face through the anger before you can seal it over, and alastor relishes in the treacherous, sickening curl of satisfaction coil warm in his gut. he needs it to. he is the one who tears open his ribs for the sake of becoming less of him and more of you, and you are the one who cradles the heart inside

( tell him to close you up again, he will close you up from the inside )

"i've never done that," baring your teeth, alastor can feel the tremor in your legs now. the effort it takes for you to hold yourself rigid above his thigh rather than sink your weight into it. "but i guess i would be bitter too if i realized i've never needed yo—"

his legs shifts upwards at the same time he lifts your body up just a little, it's not enough to carry you, not enough to truly move you anywhere— but it's breaks your footing completely before his hand tighten on your hip and drags you down against his thigh.

the sound that leaves your mouth is mortifyingly soft as your head tips back against the wall with a small, helpless sound. your fingers tighten in the fabric of his suit like you might tear it off him.

"what was it you were saying?," he coos. his fingers drum lightly along your hip, the same idle rhythm he once used when hearing you talk—tap, tap, tap. "something about not needing me?"

"i´m—"

alastor is reaching down, shushing you, but even then, that grip of his on your hip, the one that keeps you right where he wants you, starts grinding you hip down and forcing you to surge and move as he shifts you. the angle has you moving up more against your cunt than your clit, another impossible-to-satisfy little trap of looping pleasure.

"see," he hums, almost gently, as if explaining something obvious to a particularly slow child, "this is precisely the problem, my dear." his thumb traces an absent, idle line against your side, mockingly soothing. "you insist on saying things you clearly don't mean."

it makes you melt all the same, forehead knocking lightly against his collarbone when you sag forward for a second before catching yourself. there's sheen gathering at your lash line. they cling stubbornly, making your eyes shine in the dim hallway light.

"i said i don't need you," you force out, quicker this time, like if you rush it you might outrun him.

it's okay. if he has to choke on this—on you, on everything you've ever been to him—then you will too.

"i'm beginning to suspect otherwise," his eyes flick briefly toward the direction of the stairs, where distant laughter still echoes faintly "then should i fetch your charming companion from downstairs?"

you make something akin a whine. your hands have landed on his shoulders at some point, whether you are trying to push him or just helping yourself to rut against him, the intent has clearly been lost somewhere along the way.

"what— no."

he leans in and down until he curves closely around your head. his hand grips your hips bruisingly now, guiding your back on his thigh as you whimper in relief at the long-desired friction to your cunt. alastor knows it's a bad angle, shallow and not quite firm the way you want it, but it's something.

"no? you don't think he'd enjoy it? you seemed so keen on his attention" he presses. alastor can feel the tremor run through you where your body rests against his leg. it travels up through bone and fabric and settles somewhere low in his stomach. "though i can't imagine he's ever seen you like this."

alastor hates thinking about it, his teeth itch and his guts tie into knots. he has mapped out every part of you with his lips. he has licked your shin bones, kissed the back of your knees, the crease of your thigh, the bones of your sternum until your little pink nipples pebbled up into hard points and then he licked those, too. nothing in the world is as his as your body, and that means all of it.

"don't— talk about him," you bite out, though it lacks its usual edge, probably because alastor decides that would be the perfect moment to shift slightly so the friction hits you just right, and you can feel him tensing under you to help you along. your mouth gap open as moans and whines push their way out of you at the abrupt change, hands digging into his shoulders. "alastor— "

the friction burns right through you, a lot but not enough- not enough for you, even if you are so fucking wet that you're sure he can feel it by now, the damp patch steadily ruining your flimsy lace, slick against where his fingertips are just shy of pressing against your cunt.

"what do you suppose he'd think?" he hums conversionally. "would he still look at you the same way, i wonder?" alastor's tone brightens, cruel amusement curling through it. "or would he finally understand what exactly he was borrowing?"

small whines and whimpers leaving you, despite the fact that you're biting your lower lip in an attempt to stop them, eyes are all bleary and unfocused.

but you shake your head once while a tear slips free this time, it gathers at the corner of your eye, then another. your lashes clump slightly as they spill over, sliding hot and silent down your temples.

alastor look absolutely livid about it.

"sweet girl, crying for little ol' me," he coos, acrid tone and all. "don't look so upset," he says, almost fondly, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. he doesn't wipe it away, just smears the evidence of it, like ink dragged across paper. "you're the one who wanted attention, aren't you?"

he pulls back to admire his work. you're debauched like this, erratic pants leaving your mouth, and then you finally meets his gaze, eyes a dark, sexed shade, pupils blown from the rush of the moment and your red of him.

"you don't need me," his smile tilts. "and yet you're still right where i left you."

in hindsight, alastor is surprised it didn't happen sooner. it was unspoken but he expected you to snap sooner than this. every thought is gone. your hands snap up, fingers closing tight around his throat, where you squeeze to feel his pulse, his swallows.

a sharp, jagged burst of sound cracks out of him, distorted at the edges. static crawls up his spine, spills from his mouth in a brief, violent flicker of radio feedback. you surge foward, and in an explosion of blood-red static sends both of you crashing down in a dull, carpeted thud. every denial and precaution and restraint wholly obliterated by the steady, unrelenting churn of your body.

his heel skids on the carpet; his staff clatters somewhere useless. alastor hits the floor first, back meeting the ground with a soft impact that knocks the air (not breath, exactly, but something adjacent) out of him. you follow immediately after, landing over him. teary-eyed, clothes a wreck, something like praying.

his antlers scrape faintly against the floor as his head tilts back, red eyes blinking up at you.

"well now—"

"you know what the worst part about you is?" you cut him off with a laugh, cracked down the middle, "is that you talk too much for someone who couldn't even stay."

you're considerated enough to remove your hands for a moment, fingers no longer at his throat but fisted tight in his lapels. a shame he can't say the same about your knee that keeps pressing uncomfortably against his crotch and the obvious hard-on.

another flicker of static threatens in his throat, instinctual, but he swallows it down this time. barely.

"what is it, then?" you drag him up slightly by the coat before letting him fall back again. it echoes in alastor's skull. "can't stand the idea of me choosing someone else? or is it that you can't stand not being the one i come back to?"

that gives you just enough time to rip apart the suit. you snatch the bow tie first, you're grabbing his red shirt next until the first buttons give up. alastor is acutely aware that you would be tearing him apart if he hadn't been wearing clothes.

your eyes are half lidded and it makes him throb and you're going to leave and he misses you even though you're right there, scalpel bared, and just like that, alastor lets you cut him open.

"or maybe—" your voice dips, quieter now, crueler for it, "—maybe it's simpler than that. maybe you just hate i'm the only thing you've ever wanted that you couldn't keep. embarrassing for you, huh."

well, you had your fun. at least you don't have to worry about him using his tentacles or his demonic form because alastor has the upper body strength to hook one arm around your waist while the other catches your shoulder, grip iron-tight as he uses your own forward lean against you.

he twists, shifts his weight, and suddenly the balance tips again.

you make a startled sound when the carpet rushes up to meet your back. alastor even catches your leg mid-flailing kick, jamming it into the floor before latching both of your wrists to the floor.

"i do admire the effort," he murmurs, watching a stray lock of hair trail down and brush against your temple "truly. it's not often you bare your teeth first."

you swallow, eyes flicking to the side. you have a look like you're about to say again something alastor suspects he will not like at all, but self-preservation clearly gets the best of you, so you stay quiet.

"pity you don't know when to stop biting." he can see the slight shiver of your starched collar as alastor's breath brushes against it. the closeness is that of a lovers' intimacy in all ways except that alastor's intentions are not so benevolent as any of that. "shall we correct that?"

"as if ever beg for you again," you spit, even as shadows writhe out from under the floor to hold your hands above your head, pinned like a butterfly. "i should have left when we were still alive."

alastor is too pleased with himself to fully feel the sharp sting of those words.

"now there's a thought," he muses instead, and slides down your legs until positions himself primly between your thighs. you don't try to kick him this time, which says a lot about your pants and cries.

alastor puts his hands above your knees and shoves your legs apart, wrenching your dress up in the process.

"fuck you."

"if you insist," alastor says, and finishes yanking your dress. you whine once.

you're wearing surprisingly regular panties. alastor isn't sure what he expected—something more deliberately sensual, perhaps. you did wear pretty lingerie when you were with him back then, at least in the few special occasions. alastor doesn't know how to feel with the fact that you didn't dress up for your date.

"good grief, what a mess you've made of yourself tonight." alastor hums, tracing a claw up the inside of one of your thighs. the muscles don't so much as twitch. "and you were so worried about making a scene."

and you really are such a mess: wet with arousal, the swell of your clit visible through the dampened fabric of your panties and moulding to your pussy lips, leaving nothing to the imagination. slick beading through the material of the underwear.

alastor pulls them aside, but clicks his tongue and just cuts them off entirely, dragging the sharp edge of his claw through the simple fabric until you are entirely naked below the waist.

then he snaps his fingers and peculiar toy manifest in his hand.

"what—" you choke out, scandalized, voice still ragged with tears. "why— how do you have that?"

alastor's grin is unfriendly but wide. he is holding a—sex toy. yours, he may add, and it sits awkwardly in his palm: a thick, textured, gaudily purple thing with a strange weight to it that he assumes you sometimes use and alastor just happens to know you keep it hidden in a drawer under your clothes.

"all those little outings and not a single one capable of satisfying you?" alastor sighs, shaking his head like he's genuinely disappointed. he bumps the head of the toy up against your cunt, watching idly as the head of it parts your labia and nudges teasingly at the underside of your clit.

"you don't know anything about that." your eyes flick up from where you're straining to stare at what alastor is doing, and your eyes meet for a split second before you avert your gaze.

"i know enough."

he takes his time positioning you just right. he'd shoved your legs apart haphazardly earlier—now he takes care to set them at the appropriate distance, bending them at the knees and propping them up. it's like posing a helpless little doll, if the doll was whimpering and dripping all over herself about the whole thing.

"i know you keep this tucked away like a shameful little secret," alastor says, dragging the tip of the dildo down to prod at your entrance—this earns you an anticipatory gasp, which he rewards by pressing in just slightly before dragging the dildo back up, reveling in the way your face drops and then twists in annoyance. "i know you only reach for it when whatever poor substitute you've dragged home fails to measure up—"

"that's not—"

"—and i know," he cuts cleanly over you and taps it lightly against your clit, watching the involuntary reactions of your body with fascination, "that you never needed such tools before."

alastor is too frustrated, with this, with you, to argue and instead he finally works the head of the toy inside your drooling cunt unceremoniously. you're shaking, trembling, as he pumps the cock into you slowly, feeling it fill you to the brim and beyond. you squeeze, shocked at the intrusion, and your back arches with a cry ripping from your lips.

it's a stretch, your mouth drops open in silent pleasure. you can't utter a single word, not with the silicon abusing your cunt at the pace he's set. he doesn't even provide you with enough time to adjust, so you just lie there and you take it, blinking back tears and your walls fluttering around the toy, sobbing and chewing your lip until you're choking on your own tears, and throws yourself into getting fucked with the same aplomb at the exact same time.

alastor imagined that this would bring him some sort of satisfaction, to see you undone like this. he's meant to be getting his revenge, in truth. making you feel as wretched as you made alastor feel. he doesn't know what this is. he doesn't want to know, but you are perfect and putty beneath his hands, with all the hard-won inches he finds inside of you and begs him to find your heartbeat up there, a precious nervy tremble.

he touches it and your head tilts back, your eyes roll. he touches it and wonder if this is what it felt like for god when he made you, then let you slip away all the same. something so striking, so beautiful, so fragile, he knew it couldn't last.

"wait, fuck," the toy it's pounding into you, alastor's steady hand pumping it into you at a speed that has you seeing stars, that has you on edge. "you're—such a bastard."

"that may be," alastor responds flatly. a moan is punched out of your lungs. satisfaction and pleasure makes a mess of your nerves— so worked up you have to make effort to breathe around the pleasure. "i assure you, i'm far more offended than you are."

you moan his name feeling especially helpless to it. your mind feels completely blank, you're barely able to respond to his taunting. all you can feel is white-hot pleasure, heart pounding as your fingers curl up. the euphoric drag of the head through silken walls.

( it makes him feel like he wants to touch you again. or let you touch him. he feels hot under the collar, watching you cry and writhe. the cold satisfaction of violence is gone—all that's left is the memory of your warmth.

and it's really fucking pissing him off. )

"don’t you think its unfair, acting so shameless when i’m meant to be taking it out on you?" alastor hums, and snaps the toy against you with such intensity, that it makes you feel like he hates you. it borders on painful. "that certainly explains how you seem to be incapable of doing anything except thinking with your littler brain, sometimes."

he can hear the slick sounds of the dildo driving in and out of your pussy, feel the arousal dripping from your hole down your thighs with every thrust and it makes you breathless how quick he's changed the pace.

"fuck, i can't—s-slow down—oh god—it feels so oh—" just as the words leave your mouth, his hand is re-angled to push up into your pussy, the right-bound hook he sports curving right up to a gummy cushion in your walls.

"but that's not what you are trying to say," alastor smirks down at you, shaking his head mockingly, like his heart isn't thumping a rabbit-quick pulse in his throat, "tell me what you want"

he's not wrong though. you can feel how wet you are, sticky on your skin as the thrusts make it hard to think. you can't even focus on how it makes you feel good, how he manages to push it deep enough inside against your sweet spot and paints dark spots in your vision. your eyes are going hazy, thr pleasure building and threatening to send you over the edge.

"i-i want—" the sheer weight of this impassioned thrusting has you jolting up the floor and thrashing around under him, looking to escape the white-hot harvest of pleasure pulsing in your pussy. "cum oh— i'm cumming—!"

"well, i don't want you to"

you come with a shriek of snapping electricity. sort of. alastor doesn't know what he's doing—all he knows is that he's angry, so he rips the dildo out off you in one, swift motion and tosses it away, vanishing it into the extradimensional space.

"what—what are you—" you make a small, wounded sound. the shadows tighten instantly when your hips trash senselessly against the floor while your thighs try to rub together, but with alastor between them there's so much you can do.

tears stream down your cheeks to mix with a layer of slobber splayed on your skin—a pitifully nasty mess, born out of the relentless palms of him. he has the liberty to see you at your most vulnerable: degeneracy painting itself all over your body. a beautifully disgusting mess, you are, and he only makes it worse.

"oh dear, that looks like it really hurt" alastor laughs, delighted.

your clit is so engorged with your arousal that it twitches with your frantic heartbeat, and your abused opening leak, almost incessantly. it spams and clenches over nothing even as alastor smooths a hand over the inside of your knee.

he doesn't try to touch you again, instead watching until the pitiful not-quite-orgasm fades.

"this isn't fair," you whine—and then wince, the breath leaving you all in one go, before alastor pulls his hands away. one of your heels kicks at the ground, somewhere to alastor's right.

then it ends, the shadows loosen first at a snap of fingers—reluctant at best, curling back like they were never there, and your wrists drop, your body following a second later while the sensation returns in uneven, trembling waves. you don't move immediately. you can't.

alastor has the half-mind to help you, or tries to, pulling your dress down over your thighs again as you gasp, abjectly appalled at the disgusting, wet sensation between your legs before you threaten to boot his side. your hands fumble with your clothes instead, smoothing, pulling, fixing what can be fixed. it's a losing battle, but you try anyway.

across from you, alastor is already standing.

he straightens to his full height, settles his suit back, tugs his cuffs into place shortly after and adjusts the bow tie at last—the torn fabric you left behind doesn't even last; it mends under his touch, threads slipping back together until there's no evidence left of your hands on him.

by the time you've managed to sit down, a tendril is already handling the microphone to him. alastor thinks you're about to ask him for help, see if he can carry you to your room and then clean you up.

you do none of that.

"why did you leave?"

ah.

that is the absolute last thing he wants to deal today, a figment from a far off daydream in which he finally got the chance to tell the you how he felt, not unlike a ragdoll being dragged around by its owner under the promise of eventual love and affection.

"now, now," he starts, and he can feel his smile straining at the corners, "i hardly think dredging up old domestic grievances is—"

"was it me?" you insist, looking dazedly around the walls until your eyes fell on him, an unrecognizable emotion blossoming behind them. "was there something i did that—"

"don't be ridiculous"

you push yourself to your feet, slower when your shaky legs threaten to betray you, one hand dragging along the wall for balance while the other fists at your side like you're bracing for impact.

"then why?" your voice rises just slightly, the remnants of breath mold into something ugly, something animalistic, something that makes you sound like you got blood in your mouth and you're trying to swallow around it. "because you never gave me a reason until—"

you swallow the words, and while it never bothered him before, this time he needs you to say it, need to hear you dismissing him from your own mouth. the desire is utterly masochistic, yet his reasoning behind it is one of the most selfish things he has ever felt, ironically coming from him. alastor wants more from you.

the silence is heavy, and he's wrecked.

"it wouldn't kill you being honest for once. you owe me that much."

"owe you?" he echoes, a soft, incredulous laugh slipping through. "i don't owe anyone anything."

"except maybe the person you married."

he stands there, despite he knows you want to go for his jugular. he's irritated for no real reason. alastor's fingers twitch againts his staff.

"i—"

"well!" he claps his hands together once, the sound makes you flinch all together. "that's quite enough of that. i appreciate the entertainment—"

you blink at him. "what?"

you're genuinely confused, and for a moment he feels bad for using you to quell his own rapidly growing hunger. there's no way he can be honest. he never learned how to chew through without choking.

"—but i do believe we've overstayed our welcome and frankly, it's becoming boring."

"alastor—"

"do try to compose yourself before returning downstairs. wouldn't want your date to get the wrong impression—"

"i don't care!" you shoot back. "i don't know what i did wrong! i don't know what to do, i don't know why you left!"

"it wasn't my fucking choice."

neither of you speak, and he's conscious of another line in the sand between the two of you. he's well acquainted with boundaries. he's the first one to cross it.

alastor can feel his ears flatten, an involuntary reaction to information that he was never meant to share. fuck. fuck, he hates this—you always do this, always makes him feel things and say things and do things that he doesn't want.

your breath catches, but he doesn't wait for you to finish. doesn't give you the chance.

"goodnight, my dear," alastor hisses, and turns to the shadows. a split second before he fades, he can see your mouth moving—but he's already gone, too far to hear what you're saying.

he returns to his room and wonders what in the hell could have possibly been worth all this loss.

he keeps forgetting why he did it, he lets himself just want, purely with his chest, his guts, it's okay because you're safe, and so is he. he is those holes that keeps getting bigger the more the storm erodes away its sides. mud in the pit of it, worms, sludge. he is bad at being good. even if he bit, he can't pierce your skin. he can't make new holes in you. it's better this way, he thinks.

he lies face down in bed, does nothing about the uneasy ache between his legs and pretends he is made of acid rain.

maybe you both deserve this. to fit against each other, one begging, one dying inside.

You'd resigned yourself to another boring morning of doomscrolling, mediocre cereal and even worse coffee, and more doomscrolling once you'd dragged yourself back into the warmth of the bed, when Arthur bustled into the room. 

The man was a whirlwind wherever he went, so his rapid movements and senseless muttering didn't bother you in the slightest as you continued to deplete your braincells by scrolling through TikTok after TikTok. Only when you heard the telltale sound of a belt buckle did you finally tear your eyes away from the screen. 

Arthur never wore a belt. Ever. You could count on one hand and still have fingers left the amount of times you'd ever seen him wear one. Your boyfriend, despite his attempt at appearing as a put together, sophisticated musician, spent most of his days in joggers and whatever t-shirt he'd picked up first. Or, now that the weather was getting slightly warmer, he'd forgo the shirt entirely, walking around the house with those godforsaken grey joggers slung dangerously low on his hips and those tattoos you love so much on full display. 

So, imagine your surprise when you looked up from your phone to see him not only wearing a belt, but wearing a crisp dress shirt and black pants as well. Whatever video you'd been watching continued to play on your phone, the sound looping over and over, but it fell on deaf ears as you shamelessly stared at Arthur. 

He wasn't quite fully dressed yet, still carrying that disheveled, sleepy quality of the early morning - his shirt not fully buttoned, leaving a sliver of collarbone and just enough of a hint of chest hair to make your mouth water, the edge of his tattoo peeking out from behind the fabric. His black pants sat fastened just above his hips where he was busy feeding the belt through the loops, fingers nimble and quick handling the leather. You bit your lip, phone forgotten entirely now as you watched him. 

Arthur, for his part, seemed none the wiser to your predicament. He finished fastening his belt, all too aware of the glowing numbers on his phone screen taunting him for his lateness. He was due to leave to start filming YouTube court with his friends in less than ten minutes, and he hadn't even managed to get dressed properly yet. 

He'd even woken up early with the specific intention of powering through his morning routine to get there on time, but admittedly all of that had flown out the window when he'd seen you next to him, still asleep and clinging onto him with as much strength as someone dreaming could muster. So, of course, he'd stayed, not wanting to be the reason you had a bad start to the day. Unfortunately, despite gaining boyfriend points, he was significantly more behind schedule than he'd planned to be by this point. 

He didn't hear you shifting behind him, pulling the covers back and standing up before replacing them behind you. He didn't hear you walk over to him, or call his name softly. 

You smiled, watching as he haphazardly tucked his shirt in before reaching for his undone collar. You met him halfway, stifling a laugh as he flinched in surprise. 

'Oh, morning, love. Sorry if I woke you up.' he said, tilting his chin up so you could fix his buttons for him. You shook your head, toying with the plastic underneath your fingers. 

'You didn't. Why are you dressed up all smart?' You asked, not really having the patience for small talk when your boyfriend looked so delicious right in front of you. Arthur blinked at your directness, lowering his head to look you in the eyes. 

'YouTube court, babe. With George, Bach, Arthur and the rest. We're filming the first part today.' he said. You nodded along, honestly trying your best to pay attention until you decided that a better use of your time would be to undo the buttons of this shirt which was, frankly, in the way. 

You made a noise of agreement, deftly undoing the last of the buttons and pushing the shirt open to reveal the muscle underneath. Humming appreciatively, you ran your hands over the soft skin, tracing the tattoos that littered his chest and stomach. Arthur laughed softly, letting you get your fill of him, not wanting to spoil your fun just yet despite the time pressure weighing down on him. 

Eventually, though, he had to call it off. He drew in a deep breath, summoning all the willpower he could to gently push you away. You looked down at the hand on your shoulder, then up at him and back again, judgement clear on your face. Arthur sighed. 

'Sorry, love. S'just I'm already running late...' he admitted, bringing the hand on your shoulder up to your face to cup your cheek, thumb running gently over the apple of it. You leant into it, fixing him with your best puppy-dog eyes, something you'd come to master over the years of your relationship. Eyes just wide enough to persuade, lashes lowered in a way you knew he couldn't resist, and the kicker, the small, perfectly formed pout of your mouth. 

Right on cue, Arthur groaned, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. You took the opportunity presented to you, swiftly grabbing him by the lapels of his shirt and dragging him towards your bed, pulling him down on top of you as you lay on your back on the covers. 

'Angel, I can't, I have to-' he started, but you weren't in the mood to hear him out. Quickly leaning forward, you pressed your lips to his in a hot, messy kiss that was more tongue and teeth than anything sweet, hoping it conveyed the message of your need for him. He made a small noise of surprise, hesitating for a second before melting into you, lateness momentarily forgotten. 

You smiled against his mouth as he began kissing you back, drawing back to catch your breath before diving back in again. Arthur groaned, hands automatically coming down to prop himself up either side of your head, effectively caging you right where you wanted to be. 

You two exchanged kisses like this for a while, tongues slipping into each other's mouths in a rhythm you knew all too well. Kissing Arthur had always been one of your favourite things to do - you could spend hours perched in his lap with his lips on yours, never tiring of the way he let out soft little sighs and happy grunts when your fingers slid into his hair. If you weren't so keyed up right now, you'd have happily left it at that and sent him on his way. Unfortunately for him, the ache in your lower half had only grown since your lips met, and you weren't going to let him go that easily. 

You kissed him more insistently now, pressing your teeth into the fat of his bottom lip just to hear him groan again in response, lowering himself down a fraction closer to you. The rough fabric of his shirt brushed against your heated skin, causing you to whimper into his mouth as your hands became greedier. They roamed across his exposed torso, nails scratching lightly at the skin you discovered. His breath stuttered, fanning across your mouths, practically panting into you as he once again pressed your mouths together. 

Arthur had always liked it when you left marks on him, though he’d never admit it. He loved walking around with scratches, bites and bruises hidden under his clothes, revelling in the thrill of being claimed in a place only you got to see. This was a surefire way to get him on your side, you thought, appealing to his more…..submissive tendencies. yYou two had only just begun exploring that, after one fateful night here you’d grabbed Arthur a little too hard by the hair whilst he had been down on his knees eating you out - the pathetic, high-pitched little noise he’d made had lived in your mind ever since. 

And what better time to delve into that side of your boyfriend than right now? No time like the present, you always said. 

So, with one swift movement, you hooked a leg over Arthur’s back and pushed downwards, bringing your pelvises flush together. The contact ripped a moan from your throat, back arching off the bed at the heat and weight of him against your cunt. Arthur swore, hips involuntarily bucking forwards, chasing the friction of your clothed core against him. You pushed down harder, any semblance of control or willingness to tease thrown entirely out the window. You needed him, and you needed him now. 

Unfortunately, this is when Arthur decided to, for once, be the responsible one. ‘Mm, no- love, - can’t- I have to- have to film - soon.’ he rasped, valiantly continuing his sentence despite your best attempt to distract him by pressing little kisses to the corner of his mouth and down his jaw, trailing a hot line down to the column of his throat, sucking a dark hickey in your wake. You shook your head, continuing your assault on the soft skin of his collarbones and neck. Despite his protests, Arthur’s dick didn’t appear to have gotten the memo, as it continued to grind against where your bodies connected in a slow, torturous rhythm that had you trembling. 

‘They’ll live without you for ten minutes, baby.’ You said. It wasn’t a question. Arthur lifted his head to look you in the eyes, and you stifled a moan at his expression. His eyes were wide, pupils blown so wide you could only make out a thin ring of the soft brown you loved so much. His hair was mussed from your fingers, curls falling into his face and sticking to his forehead. His lips were red and raw, swollen from your earlier kissing. He looked absolutely fucking delicious. You trailed your eyes down to where he was still grinding into you, catching sight of the hard, thich line of him through those godforsaken dress pants. The sight of his cock straining against the fabric sent a bolt of heat through you, your hips chasing friction against him once more, pressing down insistently, making sure he could feel the wet spot that was undoubtedly forming in your panties. 

‘Love, really, I need- I need to go-‘ Arthur tried again, pushing weakly against the leg that kept him trapped against you. You huffed. Enough was enough. 

You let go of where you’d been holding on to Arthur’s shirt, your hand finding its way into his hair and grabbing roughly. Arthur yelped in surprise, pain quickly dissolving into pleasure as you forced him to look at you. 

‘Arthur Hill, if you leave this bed right now, I won’t touch you for a fucking month. I mean it.’ You started. Arthur’s eyes went wide. ‘Yeah, baby. That means no eating me out in the mornings before you go to work. No quickies in the shower, and I know how much you love those, so it’d really be a shame if I had to say no to you, so-‘ You said, trailing your other hand down the planes of his chest, pointedly stopping just above where his cock was threatening to burst through the fabric of his trousers, toying with the downy hairs you found there. Arthur shuddered, twitching against the rough pads of your fingertips. You watched him intently, and you could almost pinpoint the moment his patience ran out. 

‘Okay, okay! I get it. Just —fuck, love, okay-‘ He said, resolve finally, finally shattering. You smiled up at him, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

‘Good boy, Arthur. I knew you’d come around.’ You said, watching the way his throat tightened with those two words, and the way his hips twitched forward ever so slightly. 

‘Come on then, let’s get you out of these, shall we?” you said, tugging on his belt. Arthur scrambled to obey, sitting back on his haunches as he undid his belt, practically flinging it away as he shoved his pants and boxers down just enough to free himself. You bit your lip as he took himself in his hand, leaning forwards to hover on top of you again. ‘Pretty’ wasn’t a word you’d normally think to use to describe dicks in general, but it was certainly true of Arthur’s case. Thick, heavy, flushed a pretty pink at the tip, and already dripping for you. If this were any other time, you’d flip him over and take him down your throat until he was crying, but right now, there were other things on your mind. Namely, the all-consuming need to have him inside you. 

‘Well come on then, baby. Don’t just look.’ You said, lifting your hips in encouragement. This seemed to snap Arthur back into action, and he eagerly reached forwards to slide your, now completely ruined, panties down your legs. He tossed them to the side, grabbing your thighs and dragging you towards him, throwing your legs over his shoulders and pressing his ringed fingers into the sensitive flesh of your thighs. 

‘So eager, baby. And I thought I was the needy one.’ \You teased. Arthur just moaned in response, not even bothering to fully answer you. He thrust his hips forwards, sliding himself up the seam of your cunt, the flushed head of him bumping against your clit, causing you to hiss in response. He did this a few more times panting softly as he moved. You could sense that he was getting restless, so you took pity on him, lifting your hips slightly to catch him at your entrance. He whined, bucking forwards and shoving an inch or two of him into you without warning. You keened, hands scrambling for purchase and finding it on his back, your nails digging into the skin on his back through the sweat-soaked fabric of his shirt. 

‘Come on, Arthur. Be a good boy for me and fuck me, yeah? Nice and hard, wanna feel you afterwards.’ You said breathlessly. Your boyfriend whimpered at that, actually fucking whimpered, and did as you said, grinding his hips forwards to fuck into you in one harsh thrust. 

‘Fuck!’ The curse burst from you before you could help it, mind reeling at the sudden fullness. Arthur’s cock throbbed inside of you, the blunt head poking insistently at that spot inside you that made you see stars. You scratched at his back, urging him to move. He complied, drawing back until he was almost all the way out of you, before driving back in with one thrust that sent your eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

‘God, fuck- love, feel so good.’ He breathed, ducking down to capture your lips once more. You eagerly kissed him back, rolling your hips in tandem to meet him halfway, the sound of your skin slapping together and the obscene squelch of your cunt around him filling the entire room. 

‘Yeah? Feels good, huh, baby? See what happens when you listen to me?’ You said, voice breathy and broken, breath hitching in time with Arthur’s sloppy thrusts that sent you both dragging against the bedcovers. Arthur nodded, fucking into you with deep thrusts that bullied your sweet spot, causing you to clench around him and draw needy moans from the both of you. 

‘You gonna listen to me more often, then, sweet boy? Gonna let me make you feel good?’ You asked. Arthur nodded again, blindly agreeing. He was gone, absolutely drunk on you.The way you smelled, the way you tasted, the way you felt wrapped around him, cunt practically sucking him in every time he drew back to thrust in again. He’d never really considered himself a submissive man, but apparently all it took was a few sweet words from you and he was falling over himself trying to please you. Right now, he bet he’d do just about anything if it meant you’d keep talking to him in that sweet, heady voice. 

‘Yes, yes- fuck, gonna be good for you, I promise-‘ he said, thrusts growing somehow messier as he neared his orgasm. He drilled into you, grabbing your things and pressing them towards your chest to drive in deeper. You cried out when you felt him shove impossibly deep into you, head thumping back against the pillows as he fucked you with reckless abandon. His hands dug into your thighs, rings pressing hard into the delicate skin, sure to leave bruises. The idea sent a little thrill into you as you spied the cool metal of his rings in the low light. 

Sweat beaded at your temples, dripping down onto the sheets below you as you moved together. You disconnected your mouths to once again press kisses to the alluring expanse of Arthur’s throat. In his haze, the imminent shoot seemed to have exited his mind entirely, as he didn’t stop you from biting and sucking numerous more hickeys into the soft skin. Arthur moaned again, driving into you, cock dragging against your sensitive walls and sending ripples of pleasure throughout your body. He leaned down to press his forehead to your collarbone, hips bucking wildly against yours. The rough scrape of his chest against your nipples sent a shiver through you, the sharp pleasure bringing you closer towards the edge you’d been teetering on since the moment you’d first kissed him. 

‘Come on, Arthur. Come for me, angel, wanna feel you fill me up- fuck, need it so bad. Needed it since I saw you in this shirt- and that belt- shit, come on, baby.’ You gasped, egging him on as he fucked into you wildly. HE looked more beast than man at this point - hair disheveled and wild from the humidity and heat of your bodies, throat and chest littered with dark purple bruises and shiny red bite marks, the black ink of his tattoos starkly contrasting teh constellation of scratches and marks littered across his skin from your ministrations. His eyes were now almost completely black, and focused directly on you. He fucked you like a man possessed, solely focused on feeling you come around him. One of his hands left its iron grip on your thigh, snaking down between them to find your clit. You practically screamed as he began working you in tight, perfect circles, his movements perfected over months of practice. You squirmed, the sensation almost too much, yet his other hand kept you pressed firmly against him, leaving you with no other option but to take it. He thrust into your hard and fast, carving a place for himself inside you. 

‘Fuck, angel- gonna come-‘ he stuttered. You just nodded, grabbing onto his shoulders to steady yourself against his wild thrusts. ‘

Fuck, fuck, fuck-‘ He gasped, muttering your name like a prayer as he pounded into you once, twice, three times before spilling deep inside you. His fingers never stopped their movements, drawing a perfect pattern on your clit, and so you found yourself following not long after, orgasm crashing down on you with a force that knocked the breath out of your lungs. 

You clenched hard around him, milking him dry as he fucked you full. Arthur pitched forwards, landing on top of you with a ragged exhale. You caught him, one hand sliding back into his hair to scratch gently at his scalp, working through any knots you found there. You could feel him soften inside you, though neither of you made any more to disconnect just yet. You lay there for what felt like hours, catching your breath and basking in the afterglow of your orgasms. Slowly, your breathing returned to normal, and Arthur begrudgingly made a move to sit up, hissing slightly at the overstimulation as you clenched involuntarily around him as he moved. 

‘Sorry, love.’ You murmured, shifting slightly as he pulled out of you. You could feel the sticky mess of his cum and your slick painting your thighs, and, when you looked down, the tops of Arthur’s dress pants, which were now covered in a thin sheen of sweat and come from both of you. You laughed despite yourself, the sound hoarse yet utterly content. 

‘Shut up.’ Arthur fired back, though there was no real fire behind it as he pulled up his boxers and discarded the ruined trousers, coming back with a cloth from your bathroom. He gently cleaned you up, soothing your aching thighs with gentle hands before handing you a glass of water from the bedside. You drank greedily, gulping down the water as Arthur settled himself next to you on the bed. 

‘You okay? Hope I didn’t hurt you or anything.’ He said, ever earnest. You shook your head, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

‘No, it was perfect. You were perfect.’ You said, watching the way his cheeks tinted at the praise. 

‘Good, because for a second there, I was-‘ He started, only to be interrupted by the loud vibration of his phone against the dresser. He looked back at you for a second, confusion painted across his features in a way that made him look adorably like a lost puppy. Then, in a moment of panic you’d never seen on his face before, he shot up and across the room like a rocket, snatching up his phone. 

‘Shit, it’s Isaac. Fuck, I forgot- shit, oh my God I’m so late. Fuck- why do I let you drag me into this?’ He said, dragging a hand through his hair as he began frantically searching through his drawers for a clean pair of pants. You just laughed, lying back against the pillow. 

‘I didn’t drag you into anything, thank you very much. I seem to remember you telling me that you’d be good for me, you promised me, in fact-‘ you said, before a hand slapped over your mouth. 

‘Okay, enough of that before I decide to cancel this fucking shoot entirely and drag you back into bed. Don’t.’ He added, when you opened your mouth to protest. You closed it, pouting. He turned away pointedly, pulling on the trousers he’d decided were appropriate enough for a courtroom. 

You decided not to mention the hickeys littering his neck and chest as he pulled his shirt on, buttoning it so hastily that he had to redo it three times. You also decided not to mention the fact that his hair looked like he’d been pulled through a bush backwards. He’d figure it out in the Uber, you decided. 

Then, just because you could, when his back was turned, you snatched up your panties that he’d so carelessly discarded on the end of the bed, balled them up, and shoved them into his back pocket. Yet again, he didn’t seem to notice as he hurriedly pulled on his shoes and grabbed some gum from the bottle you two kept on your dresser. You covered a smile as you watched him look over himself in the mirror, grabbing his phone and shoving it into his pocket once he deemed himself acceptable. 

‘Right, I really have to go now. Love you, see you later.’ He said, still taking the time to bend down and press a sweet, chaste kiss to your lips despite everything. You humoured him, keeping it short before ushering him towards the door, desperately trying to keep your gaze away from the hint of pink poking out of his pocket as he legged it out the door. 

You sighed, relaxing back into the sheets that definitely now needed changing. That was a job for later. Right now, all you wanted to do was sleep for a little while, thoroughly fucked and entirely satisfied. You didn’t remember falling asleep. 

And, somewhere across London, Arthur starts to worry about why his friends keep laughing whenever he turns his back on them. 

“yes, darling?”

he asks with a sigh, he couldn’t say no to you, ever. leon was a weak man, always had been for you.

you didn’t even answer him, no, instead you were already sliding off the couch, kneeling between his legs. your hands tugging his sweatpants and boxers down without hesitation.

you look up at him, batting those pretty eyelashes before a feral grin tugs at your lips.

fuck, you were gonna end him one of these days.

leon’s cock twitched as blood rushed south. you wrapped your lips around his still soft cock. not even waiting for him to get hard before you started.

“christ, you just couldn’t wait could you?”

he laughs, bringing one hand down to your hair. leon knew he was about to feel really good, maybe this was what he needed to unwind after that awful mission.

you swirl your tongue around him, humming at the way he grows hard in your mouth.

“so fucking greedy.”

leon clicks his tongue, he should’ve known you’d get like this. you’re always super needy when he comes back from missions.

you bob your head, pressing your tongue against the vein on the underside of his cock. spit spills from the corners of your mouth making him a slick mess. you pull back only to stroke him and suck gently on his balls. releasing them with a ‘pop’, you continue stroking his thick cock as you circle your tongue around the sensitive head. tasting the beads of precum leaking from the tip.

“you like my cock, baby?”

“love your cock, leon.”

you tell him as you practically nuzzle against his dick. kissing along his shaft, tracing your tongue on the veins.

“show me how much you love it, yeah?”

leon grabs your hair, holding it up in a makeshift ponytail as he guides his cock back into your mouth. he trusts up into you, holding your head steady. you don’t fight him, even as he repeatedly hits the back of your throat over and over. you love it. almost as much as he loves seeing the tears collect on your lashes and spit bubble from your lips until it’s coating your chin. you let him fuck your throat, moaning and gagging around him loving the way he handles you. he’s just rough enough to have you soaking your panties.

leon’s dangerously close by the time you tap his thigh, he pulls you back off him and you suck in a gasping breath. leon fists his cock, stroking himself roughly.

“c’mere baby, let me paint your pretty face.”

your eyes light up and you nod excitedly. you were so fucking perfect for him. leon was already teetering on the brink, but as soon as you part your lips and hold your tongue out for him he topples over the edge. leon grunts, hips bucking up into his hand as he spurts ropes of white, pearly cum across your face. your cheeks, nose and mouth are covered with his thick seed.

you swallow what had landed on your tongue, muttering a ‘tastes good’ before you scoop the rest off your face. making sure to look up at leon as you lick the cum from your fingers.

“fuuuck.”

he groans, running a hand down his face as his cock starts to swell again like he didn’t just cum all over your face, and you…you have the audacity to giggle.

yeah, he was gonna bend you over the couch and fuck you senseless.

⊹₊⟡⋆ thanks for reading. ⊹₊⟡⋆

The feast is louder than you expected it to be. 

Not joyful, per se—not in the way laughter shared between friends feels joyful—but swollen with wine and anticipation, a noise that presses in from all sides until it feels almost physical, as though it may crawl beneath your skin if you let it linger too long. Cups slam against tables, voices overlap, someone laughs too loudly at something that isn’t particularly funny at all. 

And here you sit, right in the middle of it. 

Your hands are folded neatly in your lap, posture composed in a way you learned long before you ever set foot in King’s Landing. It’s a disposition born of long observation—of knowing when to speak and, more importantly, when not to. It’s served you well these past few weeks and still serves you well now, even if you have to consciously remind yourself not to fidget or pluck at loose threads on your gowns. Anything to keep from betraying the tight coil of nerves winding slowly in your stomach. 

You can feel people staring, their gazes almost palpable against your skin. 

Not all of them are curious, some are calculating—measuring the cut of your gown, the steadiness of your expression, the way you hold yourself beside your princely husband. Others are… far less subtle, sliding over you with open speculation, already imagining you in a bed you’ve hardly even glimpsed yet one you’ll be in soon enough. 

And then there are the women. 

You notice them in the margins at first—the tight lines of their mouths, the way their gazes linger a moment too long before flicking away when your eyes finally meet. A few look at you with something like sympathy, poorly concealed. Others don’t bother to hide it at all. 

Oh, the poor girl, their eyes seem to say, She doesn’t know yet. 

Raising your cup, you take a small sip of wine—a fancy, imported Dornish variety—more to give your hands something to do than from any real desire to drink, before letting your gaze drift, unbidden, to the Queen. 

Alicent watches you from a few seats away with a stillness that feels carved from stone, hands folded together so tightly her knuckles pale. There is no warmth there, but neither is there cruelty. What you see instead is somehow altogether worse and makes your chest tighten unexpectedly. 

Pity. 

Not for what’s about to happen tonight, exactly, but for what they all assume will follow: a husband who will tire of you quickly, who is well-known on the Street of Silk. 

A marriage measured in contracts and novelty rather than any sort of devotion. 

The thought settles uneasily in your chest—a quiet, unwelcome companion. You look away before the thought can fester. 

Beside you, Aegon sniggers at some comment thrown his way, one you thankfully only catch the heels of. 

He sprawls in his chair like a man wholly at ease with himself—head tipped just slightly, goblet never empty for too long, an ever-present smirk on his lips. He laughs too loud, leans in too close to whichever lord has the misfortune of catching his attention, tosses out remarks sharp enough to draw both groans and applause. 

You’ve seen this version of him before—all exaggerated grins and crude remarks, sharpened just enough to wound before anyone can wound him first. 

You remember the first time he’d tested it on you. 

It had been the day after your arrival in King’s Landing, when he’d taken it upon himself to lead you through the Red Keep’s gardens. He’d paused before some marble statue and made a vulgar quip about its breasts, glancing at you from beneath pale lashes, waiting to see whether you would laugh along, or gasp in scandal, or perhaps retreat altogether.

“Mm, at least let me finish my wine before you drag me off,” he calls at one point when someone shouts a lewd encouragement from the crowd, lifting his cup in mock salute, “I’d hate to disappoint her sober!”

The table roars. 

You don’t flinch, though you feel it—that ripple of attention tightening around you once more. You’ve learned, over the course of the evening, that reacting only feeds them. Better to let the noise wash over you like surf against stone, even as your pulse skitters briefly at the sound of your name on so many tongues. 

Aegon’s knee presses deliberately against yours beneath the table, grounding and possessive in a way that feels almost startling. When you glance at him, you catch the edge of his grin—sharp and practiced—but his eyes flick to your face with something more assessing.

“Still breathing?” He murmurs sideways, voice pitched low but laced with humor. 

“Last I checked,” you reply evenly, though you’re suddenly far too aware of the rise and fall of your own chest. 

That earns a huff of laughter, quiet but genuine, before he tips his cup back again and returns to the performance. 

Mere moments later, the call for the bedding cuts through the din, loud and gleeful. The shift is immediate. The entire hall seems to lean forward as one, anticipation sharpening into something almost ravenous. 

You rise when prompted, smoothing the ivory skirts of your gown while you try to ignore the anxious flutter of your heart, the way it pounds like a hummingbird’s wings. You can feel it now—the way the room narrows, how every movement of yours is cataloged and judged. 

Aegon stands beside you, movements exaggerated as he bows theatrically to the crowd as though answering applause after a particularly fine act. “Pray for me,” he calls out, smirking wickedly, “Gods know I’ll need the strength!” 

More laughter. 

But when he offers you his arm, his grip is firm—something you’re thankful for—and when you take it, his thumb presses briefly at your wrist, right where your pulse beats, lingering just long enough to be felt. 

As you’re ushered from the hall, the noise follows—laughter spilling into the corridors, voices calling after you with half-drunk inspiration and unhidden crudity. The stone beneath your feet feels colder here, the air heavier, the walk longer than it ought to be. 

You glance at Aegon, expecting another quip, another deflection. 

Instead, you find him quieter now. 

His shoulders are still loose, his expression still easy enough to pass for confidence, but the sharpest edges of his swagger have dulled. His gaze flicks ahead, then back to you—not lingering but aware. 

It occurs to you, suddenly and uncomfortably, that the bravado may not be for the court at all—that it may be for you, as if he’s daring you to believe what they all do, to find some reason to be disappointed in him. 

“You’re handling this better than most,” he says after a moment, voice lower than before, stripped of its performative bite. “I’d wager most would look like they’re marching to their execution.”

You consider that, humming softly. Footsteps fill the corridor behind you—the Small Council, a Septon, a maester whose name you forget, the Queen, and her all-too-serious father who seems to be taking the place of the sickly King. 

“Perhaps they are,” you say finally, attempting to match his carefree cadence.

“But not you?”

“I suppose that bit depends on you.” 

That earns you a snort, warming something within you. “Fair enough.”

The doors to his bedchamber loom ahead, already flanked by guards, and you slow despite yourself. Not enough to draw comment, hardly enough to even label the movement as hesitation, but just enough that Aegon notices. 

Before either of you can speak, your lady’s maids appear at your side, hands already reaching out to guide you away. 

“Your Grace,” one murmurs gently. The suddenness of their hands sends a jolt through you. You’ve only known Aegon for a few short weeks but he’s by far the one you know the best, the one you’re most comfortable around. 

His fingers tighten reflexively around yours before he releases you, jaw flexing as he reins himself in. “They’ll bring you back,” he says lightly, halfway laughing as if you’re some ridiculous thing—all performative, all for the benefit of those listening, “It’s not as if I’ll start without you.” 

It’s meant as a jest but his gaze holds yours for a moment longer than necessary, something quieter flickering beneath his usual bravado. 

You merely nod, speechless. For the first time since you’d arrived in King’s Landing, the anxiety that you’d held so carefully at bay gnaws at the forefront of your consciousness as the maids gently steer you away. 

Looking back once, you catch his gaze again, only briefly but it’s enough to catch the genuine concern in his gaze—a glimpse of the man beneath the mask. It steadies you more than you expect. 

The corridor turns and he disappears from view, though you’re not taken very far. They lead you back to the chambers you’ve been occupying these past few weeks—rooms that have slowly, somehow, begun to feel like your own. The door closes behind you with a soft finality, muting the sounds of the Keep. 

The familiarity of it does not bring the comfort you expect. 

Candles burn low and fresh linens have already been laid out with careful precision. The maids move around you with practiced efficiency. 

Your gown is unlaced slowly, pearl buttons freed one by one. As the fabric finally slips free of your shoulders, the weight of the evening seems to settle heavily onto them and the awareness of what’s coming settles sharply in your chest. 

For only a precious second, you let yourself wonder if Aegon feels the same. If he, too, is standing somewhere alone and bare of pretense, wondering about whether tonight will prove everything they’ve ever said about him right. 

You’re left in a simple chemise—thin, pale, meant for bed rather than ceremony—and the air suddenly feels far too present against your skin. 

Someone smoothes your hair while another removes your jewelry, setting each piece aside on your dressing table. 

Your hands tremble, only slightly. You clasp them together to hide it. 

It’s only one night, you tell yourself, drawing in a slow breath as your ladies finally finish with you. 

A knock sounds at the door, causing you to jolt as the maids go about tidying up the room. One of them moves to the door and exchanges a brief murmur with the guard outside before turning back to you. “They’re ready for you, my lady.”

Your stomach tightens at the words. 

For a fleeting, cowardly moment, you consider asking for another minute—just one more breath, one more second where the world has not yet closed in on you. 

But the impulse passes, schooled away by the same placidity that’s been drilled into you since birth. 

Nodding once, steadying yourself, you stand from the dressing table and allow yourself to be guided from the room. The corridor beyond feels longer than before, quieter in a way that sharpens every sound—the soft padding of your feet against the smooth stone floors, the rustle of fabric, the faint clink of a guard’s armor.

When the doors to Aegon’s chambers are opened, the room greets you like a held breath finally being released. 

They are all there, already poised. 

The Small Council stands near the hearth, murmuring in low voices that cut off the moment you step inside. The Septon waits near the foot of the bed, hands folded in solemnity as he mutters some banal prayer. The maester stands beside a small table, quill and parchment already prepared. Otto is next to him, looking just as grim and bored as he always does. 

Alicent is stock-still near the wall, rigid in a way that pleads for invisibility. Her dark eyes are fixed somewhere just past your head, as though looking directly at you would be too much to bear, some verdict already written in her own mind. 

And near the bed—

Aegon. 

He looks up the instant you enter, attention snapping to you so quickly it’s almost startling. The sight of him like this—stripped of the finery of your nuptials, clad instead in a simple nightshirt with his hair loose around his shoulders—sends an unexpected twist through your chest. 

For a moment, neither of you move until he finally steps forward, head cocked to the side as if he’s waiting for you to make a run for it. 

You don’t, of course. You couldn’t—wouldn’t. 

When he reaches you, he doesn’t hesitate—not with them watching, not with your breath so unsteady, nor with the way your fingers twist into the fabric of your chemise. His hands settle on the delicate straps, thumbs brushing along the curve of your shoulder. 

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, too quiet for them to hear. “Would you like for me to send them away?” 

The question is genuine in its impossibility—foolish, impulsive. Aegon would do it, would try, without hesitation if you asked. That, more than anything, makes your throat tighten. 

But his tone carries just enough of amusement that it catches you off guard, like a private joke shared between conspirators rather than husband and wife. 

His grip tightens slightly before he leans in closer still, “Or… I could make sure they never forget this night?” There’s no malice or teasing in it, only the same boldness he’s shown from the moment you’d first met—the kind that hints that he would both dare you into trouble and then shield you from the consequences. 

Despite your nervousness, the corners of your lips twitch up into the faint hint of a smile. Huffing out a quiet laugh, one only he can hear, you lean into him as well and angle your head away from the onlookers. 

“She’s worried you’ll treat me roughly,” you whisper, pitching your voice low enough that he has to strain to hear it. “The Queen, I mean,” you clarify, tilting your head just enough to meet his violet eyes, “She fears you’ll ruin me.”

The words taste strange in your mouth, borrowed from weeks of whispered conversations—all behind closed doors, all well away from Aegon. She knows of her son’s perversions—knows what people whisper—and though her worries had been genuine, they’d been misplaced. 

His fingers toy with the ribbon tie at one of your shoulders as he hums, mulling over your words. Unsurprising as they are—his mother has never exactly hidden her displeasure for him—they still sting. 

Does everyone truly think so lowly of him?

“Oh?” His voice is low, rough with feigned amusement masking something sharper beneath it—a challenge, some need, “She’s worried I’ll treat you like a common Silk Street whore, is she?” 

The phrasing is crude by design—another test of your want of him, a final offering of the worst version of himself before you can discover it on your own. If you flinch now, he’d understand. 

He wouldn’t stop you from turning your back like everyone else. 

“I know you won't," you say quietly, without hesitation. The certainty of it surprises you almost as much as it seems to surprise him. You see him, then—not a prince, not the lecher they whisper of, but a man who has learned to be exactly what’s expected so they can never be disappointed by him again. 

For a heartbeat, that constant bravado of his slips just a fraction, fissuring at the edges. 

Something unreadable crosses his face—then, his mouth curves, slow and deliberate, into something darker, more intentional. 

“Shall I prove them all wrong, then?” he whispers, his gaze flicking once toward his mother before returning to you just as the Septon finishes his prayers and retreats back to his place among the others, “Treat you gently as a Septa’s hymn?”

For a second, it’s as if the room holds its breath. 

Aegon’s hand is still at your shoulder, fingers idly worrying one strap of your chemise. He doesn’t tug at the ribbon there—not yet—like he’s waiting to see whether you’ll push him away. 

When you don’t, when you only meet his gaze with that same steady certainty that’s undone him all evening and tilt your head in a small nod, something settles in his chest. 

“I’ll be good to you,” he murmurs, just as solemnly as he’d uttered his vows in the Sept earlier in the afternoon, “I swear it.”

“I know.”

His mouth twitches in the faint flicker of a smile. 

With a deliberate slowness, he unties the first strap. Then the second. 

The silk gives way easily, whispering down your skin before slipping from your shoulders altogether, pooling soundlessly at your feet. The air feels cool against your skin despite the fire crackling in the hearth, every inch of you alight beneath so many eyes. 

Though yours stay on Aegon, not straying—not daring to, lest you lose your nerve. 

He goes still before you, his dark gaze tracking the fall of the fabric before finally lifting to your face—searching, reverent, wanting desperately to get this right. 

Behind him, someone clears their throat and Otto mutters something about “nice, wide birthing hips” from the corner and just as he sees your face starting to crumble, sees the reality of the situation flooding back to you, Aegon steps forward. His chest is warm against yours, the fabric of his nightshirt the only thing separating the two of you now as his hand settles at the curve of your waist—steady, full of intent. 

“Let me worry about them,” he whispers lowly, just for you and rests his forehead against yours, “Just focus on me.”

“Yes, husband,” your voice is hardly audible even to your own ears but he seems to hear you still. Another noise from the corner—fabric on fabric, the shuffle of feet—prompts you to press yourself somehow closer to him. 

The way your body instinctively presses closer to his ignites something possessive in him. His fingers trace idle patterns along your ribs, featherlight touches that leave goosebumps in their wake. 

“I’ve been thinking of this, you know,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. His voice is rough, low with an almost surprising amount of desire, “Ever since you stepped out of that damned carriage all those weeks ago.” 

His words make you shudder and you surge forward, acting quickly before you can talk yourself out of it, and press your lips to his. The kiss is clumsy, messy in a way that showcases your inexperience, but it makes Aegon hold tighter to you all the same. 

He guides you backward until the backs of your calves hit the edge of the bed, forcing you to sit. You go willingly, expecting him to hover over you or guide you onto your stomach—some position you’ve overheard whispers about or read of in flowery, flowing poems. 

Instead, your brows furrow when he glances over his shoulder at their expectant stares and sinks to his knees before you. Confusion paints your features as one of the onlookers chokes out a gasp. Someone—the maester, you think—mutters something about impropriety too lowly for you to catch most of it. 

Eyes wide, you prop yourself up on your elbows and peer down at him. Your stomach does a little flip at the smirk on his lips. “W-What…” You start, words catching in your throat as he huffs out a breathless, eager laugh—one that has your fingers curling into the furs at your back. “What’re you doing?” You finally manage, cheeks burning. 

“Something no one seems to have expected,” Aegon murmurs, tracing idle circles just above the inside of your knee with his thumb. For the briefest of seconds, his gaze flits over to the corner by the hearth where the Small Council, the Septon, his damned grandsire, all of them remain. 

He grins—sharp and reckless—before leaning forward to press a lingering kiss high on your inner thigh. When he speaks again, it’s loud enough for them all to hear: “If my lady wife is meant to endure me,” his voice drips with sarcasm, “I might as well make it sweet for her.”

Then—with a purposeful slowness—he parts you with his thumbs and drags his tongue through the heart of you in one long, practiced stroke. 

A choked off, strangled keen tumbles from your lips before you can stop it. The wet slip of his tongue against you is unlike anything you’ve felt before—anything you could’ve dreamed of feeling. 

In a bid to keep the pleasured noises threatening to spill from you inside, you clamp a hand over your mouth and bite at the curve of your finger. Back arching against the blankets, you hardly register the shocked murmurs of those in attendance. 

Undeterred, Aegon doesn’t dare stop—not with the taste of you so sweet on his tongue. Gods, but you rival even the finest of wines.

His hands slide under your thighs to pull you closer, grip firm as he seals his mouth over you in earnest, groaning against you. 

“No,” he rasps between flickering strokes of his tongue, “Let them hear.” One hand reaches up to tug yours away from your mouth, fingers lacing with yours as he pins it against your hip instead. “I want to know what pleases you.”

He nips at your thigh, teeth grazing just shy of pain, before soothing the mark with another languid lick before resuming his ministrations against your cunt. 

Each touch—every lick and suck and kiss—against you is mesmerizing. New sensations seem to arise with each one, making your head spin as the maester’s quill scratches faintly against parchment in the distance. 

“Gods,” you moan shyly, voice cracking. Without a hand over your lips, pleasured keens spill from you freely—breathy little things that make the flush on your cheeks deepen with each passing moment. 

He drinks you in like a man starved—every sigh, every tremble of your thighs as they press against the sides of his head. His free hand grips your hip, thumb digging into the soft flesh there as he redoubles his efforts, dragging his tongue in slow circles around the most sensitive part of you. 

The Septon's low prayers have petered out, softened into some inaudible whispering as he clutches his robes in horror. The maester’s careful notes have devolved into scribbles and beside him, Otto stares aghast at the stone floor.

And Alicent—

Aegon catches her eye over the curve of your thigh just as another broken, breathy moan tears from your lips. There’s something smug in the way he holds her gaze before ducking back down to lave at you with renewed fervor. “So responsive,” he murmurs against your skin, the words vibrating against you. 

Wholly caught up in the feel of him—of his tongue, warm and slick against your center—all thoughts of an audience drift to the wayside. Your thighs tremble at his shoulders while you writhe in his hold, muscles tensing and relaxing in time with his licks against you. 

“A-Aegon,” you whine, heart thundering in your ears while you keen. Your walls clench around nothing, aching as the ball of pleasure in your belly winds tighter and tighter. Desperate for an anchor, your fingers clamp against his at your hip. 

The way your body tenses beneath him—muscles coiled, breath ragged—is more intoxicating than any wine he could dare dream up. He knows the moment you tip over the edge: your fingers clutch his, your thighs shake against his shoulders, and a broken cry spills from your lips that has half of the onlookers in attendance flinching as if struck. 

Pleasure flows through your veins like fire, igniting every nerve ending while Aegon carries you through it. 

He doesn’t let up—not until every last shudder has been coaxed from you, not until someone clears their throat in pointed disapproval. Only then does he finally pull back with a satisfied hum, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth with a deliberate slowness. 

By the time he pulls back, your muscles feel like jelly and it’s all you can do to lie against the sweat-damp bedding while your chest heaves. It takes a moment for your head to stop spinning enough that you remember you’re not alone—that there are others in attendance. 

Before the embarrassment of that can settle in your chest, Aegon is up and moving—completely stripping out of his nightshirt and tossing it aside rather than simply tugging it up and out of the way. 

Yet another small act of defiance that makes your chest tighten. 

He hooks a hand behind one of your knees as he leans over you. Both of you pause at the same instant—panting and wide-eyed while the weight of what’s coming finally seems to rush over you. 

For a moment, he’s struck dumb by the realization of how easily you’ve laid your trust with him—how you’ve let him lead, let him be the guide. It’s something few people—no one, really—have ever done. His cock throbs where it presses against your slick heat, but he forces himself to stay still despite the burning urge to sheathe himself inside you. 

“Look at me,” he murmurs, fingers gentle as they brush sweat-damp hair from your forehead. When your gaze meets his, he leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss—one meant to distract you as he begins pressing forward with a torturous slowness. 

The first breach wrenches a sharp gasp from you that he swallows greedily and he holds you a bit tighter when you whine and wince, your thighs trembling as the slight sting of him settles over you. He doesn’t stop until he’s fully seated inside you—until there are whisper-soft murmurings of ‘evidence of consummation’ and the scratching of quill on parchment. 

The Septon prays, his voice a low hush as he thanks the Father, the Mother, then the Maiden. 

“Mine,” he rasps against your mouth, “All mine.”

Your chest heaves, though you try to keep your breaths even. “Yours, husband,” you breathe, voice shaking but so sincere it’s nearly painful. 

The word alone—husband—has his heart clenching in his chest. He’d never imagined such a simple thing could sound so sacred, that anyone speaking to him could sound so reverent. His hand cups your face, thumb sweeping over your cheek—a tender gesture in complete defiance of his earlier bravado. The noises to the side hardly even register. Aegon has much more to worry about than any of the Gods. 

“Are you alright?” he asks quietly, not daring to move until you answer. 

Swallowing thickly, you lean into his touch and give a subtle nod. “I’m wonderful,” you whisper, voice catching in your throat when he shifts a little—only barely, but enough to wrench a soft gasp from you. Your brows furrow at the feeling of being so… full; it’s so foreign and yet so right. “It feels like you’re everywhere,” you say lowly, cheeks flushed at the low noise your words pull from his chest. 

Above you, Aegon is in awe at you—at the way you look beneath him, stretched around him, ruined by him. He shifts again, just slightly, just enough to feel the clench of your body around him. 

“You take me so well,” he rasps, just barely managing a grin, “Like you were made for this.” For me. 

He begins to move—slow at first, agonizingly careful despite the hunger burning in his veins. Every drag of his cock draws a sweet sound from you that has various onlookers shifting uncomfortably. “Let them hear,” he breathes against your neck, leaning down just enough to nip at the sensitive skin there, “Let them know how I please you.” 

All you can do is nod, breath hitching as he thrusts into you. A shaky exhale tumbles from your lips each time he presses forward, the head of his cock feeling as if it’s pressing against the base of your ribs. 

“I love you,” you gasp suddenly, back arching as his length brushes against a particularly sensitive spot within you, making you see stars.

The words strike him deeper than any blade possibly could, ones he never thought he’d be deserving of and yet they sound so natural on your tongue—so right. His hips stutter against yours, losing rhythm for a moment as his chest tightens. 

His hands tighten at your waist and he huffs out a breath, almost an incredulous laugh, before leaning forward and claiming your lips again. There’s no teasing now, no performance for those watching—just the two of you tangled together. His tongue licks against yours as he quickens his pace and he swallows down all the sweet sounds pouring from your lips, as though committing them to memory. 

Your walls squeeze around him a moment later and he growls, unable to take much more. Guiding your hands up, he grabs at both of your wrists with one hand and pins your arms above your head, relishing the way you gasp and whine. 

“Show them how good it is,” he pants, grinning against your cheek. His other hand finds where you’re joined together to stroke circles against that little bundle of nerves until every thought is wrung from you in shuddering waves. 

Your world quickly narrows down to little more than the feeling of him against you, strong and solid, and the tight stretch of his cock within you. Hardly a moment later, you mewl beneath him as pleasure washes over you for a second time. 

Your muscles tense as your walls squeeze rhythmically at his length and, Gods, he feels it—the way you fall apart so sweetly. His own climax crests with yours and he spills into you with a snarled groan against the curve of your shoulder. 

For a long moment, he doesn’t move—just breathes you in, sweat-slick and trembling beneath him. When he finally lifts his head to meet your gaze again, there’s something tender in his expression. 

“Okay?” He asks as he lifts himself off of you, soothing the way you wince when he finally pulls out with a soft stroke to your cheek. He exhales when you nod, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. 

Paying no mind to the figures still lingering by the hearth, he busies himself with taking care of you—draping a nearby blanket over your form and fetching a nearby pitcher of wine, uncaring of his own nudity as he stands from the bed to pour you a cup. 

“The prince has done his duty,” Otto finally declares, watching as the Maester records it on his decorated parchment. 

Aegon pays them no mind as he comes to lie beside you again, pulling you in close and pressing a kiss to your forehead with surprising gentleness. Everyone files from the room without another word a moment later—as if the entire ordeal had never happened, as if they too cannot wait to wipe it from their memories. 

The doors shut with a dull thud and silence settles easily over the room, like ash falling after a fire. For the first time all night, no one is here to watch. 

Aegon stays still beside you for a moment longer than necessary, as though expecting someone to burst back in and announce it had all been insufficient—that he’d done it wrong somehow, that it hadn’t counted. 

When no one does, when the silence holds and the door stays firmly shut, his shoulders loosen beside you almost imperceptibly. It’s only then that he turns his gaze to yours once more. 

The smirk he so often wears is gone, as is the swagger that typically shields him. That sharp, careless edge he’d wielded so expertly over the past few weeks has softened into an uncertainty that does not belong to princes or kings or men who boast in crowded halls. 

It belongs to someone much younger, someone still waiting for approval that will not come. 

He studies your face as though searching for something there—for disappointment, perhaps, or regret, or even the faintest flicker of revulsion that would confirm everything he’d ever been told about himself. 

Instead, he only finds warmth as you look back at him. 

A breath leaves him slowly. 

“Well,” he says, voice low, almost shy, “You’re… alright?” The question is simple enough, earnest. His hand lifts—tentative, like he’s unsure whether he’s permitted the gesture now that there’s no audience to justify it—and brushes a stray lock of hair from your temple, fingertips lingering there longer than they need to. “I didn’t hurt you?” he adds more quietly, searching your eyes. 

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head and leaning into his touch, “You didn’t.”

Something eases in him then—not entirely, but enough that the tightness around his mouth softens. 

You watch him in the low glow of the hearth—the loosened fall of his pale hair against the pillow, the faint flush still high on his cheeks, the way his jaw remains set as though bracing for a blow that never lands. 

“You were watching her,” you murmur. 

He doesn’t even pretend not to understand. 

A small muscle jumps in his cheek, the only outward sign that your words have struck something within him. “Of course I was,” he answers, no jesting cadence to it, no flippant edge to dull the admission. 

For a moment, he says nothing more.

Then, almost absently, as though speaking to the canopy above the bed rather than you, “I thought… Perhaps she might finally look pleased.” 

You shift closer despite the lingering ache in your body, your fingers threading with his where his hand rests against the furs. 

“She’s wrong,” you say softly.

He huffs a faint breath as a sardonic smile tugs at the corners of his lips, “She usually isn’t.”

“She is,” you insist gently, turning more on your side to face him, “About you.”

Aegon’s gaze finds yours then, without shield or smirk or challenge. For a heartbeat, he looks almost startled by the certainty in your expression. 

“You don’t need to prove anything to me,” you continue, your thumb tracing slow, idle circles along his knuckles, “Nor anyone else.” 

The fire shifts in the hearth, casting a flicker across his face. 

“I wanted her to see,” he admits suddenly, like the words have been punched from his lungs, “That I can be… good.” 

There’s something unexpectedly young in the confession—something that doesn’t belong to a man of his age or standing at all. 

“I know.”

“And?” he presses with the quiet vulnerability of someone who’s never been given the benefit of the doubt, someone still waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“I saw.” 

Your words are simple and that seems to unsettle him more than any grand declaration could’ve. 

For a long moment, he goes quiet again. 

Then he moves, drawing you closer against him with a tenderness that feels far more intimate than anything that had come before. His arm wraps around your waist, palm splayed warm and steady against the small of your back. 

“You don’t care what they think of me?” He asks, voice rough against your hair. He knows there will be whispers come morning, there always are. 

You lift your head just enough to look at him. 

“No,” you murmur simply, and then, softer, “I care what you think of you.” 

He merely blinks at you for a second as if struck dumb before eventually exhaling, long and unguarded, and pressing his forehead briefly to yours. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, satisfied that for once, there is no judgement left for him to chase. 

You thought a makeout session with your best friends would feel akin to the ebb and flow of a calm shore, a slow and sensually rhythmic back and forth exchange of kisses. Ever since your boyfriend had left town to start anew with some gal, they had been so kind and patient with you in their endeavors to heal your broken heart.

Whatever you asked for, Alastor and Vincent were there, ready and willing.

It was almost as if they were trying to atone for some sin they’d committed, but what? You didn’t know, or at least you didn’t care enough to find out.

Right now, you only knew that you were terribly wrong about your assumption.

Their mouths descended on you, crashing against yours like tidal waves in a tempestuous sea, rushed and passionately intense. Neither of them could agree on who should kiss you first, and oh, were you drowning. There was a lot of pushing and pulling, and with the addition of their hands in their frenzied efforts, you could hardly breathe.

Your best friends were sloppy and uncoordinated, taking your lips for no more than a few seconds before nosing the other aside.

“Move, it’s my turn.”

They flanked either side of your smaller frame on your full-sized bed, shoes off and shirts unbuttoned and hanging open. Alastor’s palm soothingly ran up and down your thigh, all while Vincent’s hand traveled up the concave of your belly from under your blouse, fingertips bumping your brassiere.

“You are so impatient.”

Your fingers curled into the sheets beneath you, eyes screwed shut, brows furrowed, not a single clue of whose mouth was locked on yours.

At some point, their lips started to feel the same, even though you knew Alastor’s had more volume than Vincent’s. But when they staunchly refused to spare each other more than 5 seconds with your mouth, again, there was no telling whose lips were gliding so deliciously across yours before being suddenly torn away and replaced.

Arousal and frustration coiled in your belly, your fingers uncurling from the sheets to grasp either side of their faces, moving your head aside in an attempt to put a ceasefire to their little war.

The upwards curve of a sharp nose brushed against yours — Alastor’s — softly exhaling a sigh of relief through your nostrils as you captured his lips.

He gently squeezed your thigh, an appreciative groan seeping into your mouth over the fact that you chose him first. On the other hand, Vincent’s jaw stiffened in your hold, clearly displeased.

You couldn’t blame him. Between him and Alastor, he was the one who spent all of his free time with you. He even dropped by at the restaurant you waited at during his lunch breaks. And though he had wriggled his way into your heart, his presence making your pulse quicken, you kissing Alastor first wasn’t personal or done consciously.

You simply wanted to kiss either one of them without the constant pushing and pulling, but Vincent couldn’t seem to grasp that in his jealous-haze, his lips pressing soft kisses into the side of your face with a disappointed whine.

“Unbelievable,” Alastor tutted as you turned around to give him the attention he so desperately desired after only 15 seconds of your mouth. “You’ve no shame, Whittman.”

You turned your head the other way, the downwards curve of Vincent’s hooked nose bumping yours before his lips greedily accepted yours, no hint of remorse seeping into the kiss over the pathetic nature of his sound.

He was grateful to have your full attention on him, the tip of his tongue laving over your lower lip, begging for entry. Alastor watched in unamusement and mild displeasure as mismatched eyes fluttered open to glower at him, tongue simultaneously plunging into your mouth, your back arching off the mattress in a sinuous curve.

Still, Alastor eventually broke eye contact with Vincent and lowered his head to mouth at your jaw, your neck, arousal shooting down to your core.

With their combined efforts, your frustration was quickly snuffed out, but you found yourself pulling away from Vincent’s lips anyway. Your bedroom was starting to feel hot and suffocating, and the warmth emanating from the two men's bodies wasn’t helping, relinquishing their jaws so you could peel your blouse off your sweat-stricken skin.

You also needed a moment to gasp for air, chest heaving and swollen lips parting as you sat up and flung your blouse across your room, relieved.

An appreciative groan seeped past Vincent’s lips at the sinful sight of your breasts in your brassiere, hooked nose pressing into the side of your neck, kissing the skin there.

“Oh, I missed these pretty things,” Vincent huffed, a hand reaching out to palm at your breast, squeezing and feeling through fabric.

However, it was fleeting and short-lived.

“Quiet, you,” Alastor hissed under his breath. “Don’t ruin the moment with your wretched voice. The sound of it is repulsive and off-putting.”

Vincent would have told him an unsavory thing or two, but then Alastor took advantage of the fact that he was distracted by the mere sight of you in your brassiere, diving in with his mouth.

And suddenly, you were pushed below the surface of the water as quickly as you had broken through it, a mewl vibrating in your chest.

His supple lips captured your own, and though you would have appreciated a few more seconds to catch your breath, you didn’t make a single effort to pull away. Instead, you shut your eyes and melted into the kiss, feeling Vincent’s hand fall from your breast, but only because Alastor proceeded to grab your hips and pull you onto his lap.

Your hands instinctively went to grasp his biceps, fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt to anchor yourself, chest pushing into his.

“You fucking cheat!” Vincent sputtered, mismatched eyes narrowing to glare at him.

Alastor didn’t utter a single syllable, but he shot him a sideways glance and smiled against your moving lips, unapologetic and shameless.

Of course, Vincent took that as a challenge, the mattress rudely creaking as he settled himself behind you. His chest pressed up against your back, the downwards curve of his hooked nose grazing the side of your face; but it was the sensation of his long, slender fingers gripping your jaw that had your eyes flying open.

A trail of saliva cascaded down your chin as your kiss with Alastor came to an abrupt end, head maneuvered to the side, lips seized by Vincent’s.

And, just like that, the two of them were back to pushing and pulling you against each other.

The hands on your hips tightened their grip, nails etching crescent moons, the upwards curve of Alastor’s sharp nose pressing into your cheekbone.

He tried to push Vincent out of the way, but then he proceeded to relinquish your jaw to seize your waist with both hands, your body sliding away from Alastor’s lap. The swell of your ass bumped the considerable tent in Vincent’s slacks, your chest vibrating with a gratified moan at the familiar size of him, wetness pooling in between your thighs.

“Fuck you,” Alastor let out a rare curse.

Now it was his turn to shoot him a sideways glance and smile against your lips.

“I’ll pass on that,” Vincent hummed.

With your arms still on his biceps, however, Alastor dived right back in. His hands tugged at your hips, back consequently arching towards him in a sinuous angle, but instead of pulling you away from Vincent as you thought you would be, he tried a different tactic that involved leaning in and pressing his lips into the corner of your mouth.

Your eyes flitted down, chest heaving, wetness no doubt penetrating through your pants.

His lips were touching Vincent’s, too.

You could feel him still against your back, the hands on your waist twitching.

As shocked as he was by the homoeroticness of it, though, Vincent refused to back down. His pride, his ego beat whatever mixed sentiments he held over Alastor being so close to convening with him in a kiss, and oh, did you find yourself drowning once more. Your chest heaved and your nostrils flared, face flushed with heat and arousal.

The sinful sight of their mouths accidentally slotting together had you screwing your eyes shut, but the sound of their glasses clacking in their efforts to push themselves away from your lips drove you wild anyway, your brows furrowing. Partaking in a three-way kiss instead of alternating between the two men was simply overwhelming.

Still, you allow it to happen for a bit.

Feeling two pairs of lips sloppily glide against your own as they vied for yours was utterly exhilarating.

It was unlike anything you’d ever dreamt of.

However, at some point, you did have to gasp for air again. You could hardly breathe with both of them like this. So, you released Alastor’s biceps to wrap your hands around his and Vincent’s necks, only to thread your lithe fingers into the hair on their napes, tugging their heads back, procuring filthy, debauched whines in the process.

Your eyes fluttered open to see their swollen lips and flushed faces, glasses at the end of their noses, a pang of amusement resonating in your chest.

“My goodness, you two are insufferable,” You managed through shaky breaths. “Can’t a gal just have a simple makeout session with her best friends? I mean, it’s not that hard to take turns.”

Your fingers remained in their hair, keeping them from making any moves.

Vincent whined at that, but Alastor?

Oh, he wasn’t phased, not one bit. His lips curled upward in a grin, flashing his canines to you.

“Forgive me, sha, I tried,” Alastor offered you, rich brown eyes overshadowed by blown pupils. “I really did, but this whiney bastard here wasn’t exactly willing to patiently wait his turn.”

To a certain extent, that was true. Both you and Vincent knew that, but he still grew defensive.

He turned to glare at Alastor.

A deep crease formed in the space between his brows, teeth baring in a snarl.

“This is why they say men are dogs,” You huffed, releasing the hair on their napes, only to shimmy off their laps and drape your legs over the edge of the bed. “Unbelievable, really.”

You snatched your blouse off the ground and pulled it over your head, making your way out of your bedroom, legs wobbling. You were wound up and undoubtedly aroused, but at the same time, you knew there was no point in trying to resume your makeout session. Vincent was too impatient, and Alastor, well, he was too much of a tease.

You should have figured from the first and last time the two of them had their fill of you that they would act somewhat similarly.

“Wait! Where are you off to?” Vincent started, bare feet thumping against the wood flooring of your apartment, catching up to you in your living room.

Long, slender fingers caught your wrist, whirling you around, your chest pressing up against his with a startled gasp. You scrambled to grab his bicep with your other hand, anchoring yourself.

“Christ, Vinny! Nowhere, just the kitchen,” You craned your neck to look up at him, vision filled with a panicked expression. “I’m parched.”

His shoulders slumped and a long exhale of relief seeped past his lips, but there was a glint of disappointment in his stare, making you sigh.

You pulled your wrist from Vincent’s grasp and reached for his jaw, balancing yourself on your tiptoes, urging him to meet you halfways. Of course, he readily complied, an appreciative groan reverberating in his chest as he let go of your wrist to cradle your face in his palms, thin lips eagerly pressing against yours.

A gust of wind caressed your side, a snicker resonating throughout the living room. It was Alastor, brushing past the two of you and sitting himself on the couch.

“I hope that satisfies you,” You gave him one last peck as you pulled away, feigning inconvenience.

He offered you a dopey smile.

“Not really, but I suppose it’ll do,” Vincent shrugged, making you roll your eyes.

You turned around and made the short trek to your kitchen to quench your thirst. Meanwhile, Vincent adjusted himself in his slacks and went to button his shirt, his feet taking him to the living room.

As he joined the other man on the opposite end of the couch, cushions dipping beneath his weight, he shot him a sideways glance. Alastor didn’t turn to look at him, too busy cleaning the fogged up lens of his glasses with his shirt. But even through the blurred edges of his vision, he saw it, shooting Vincent a wink that had his pale skin flushing.