β οΈEvan who tried his best to hide your existence from Habit, not wanting to be hurt again
β οΈEvan who would leave flowers and various gifts outside your home, being your secret admire
β οΈEvan who was so scared to ask you out, fearing what Habit would do to you
β οΈEvan who would try his damn best to keep Habit form taking control whenever he's with you (fails but at least he tried)
β οΈEvan who got so jealous when Habit also started to develop feelings towards you
β οΈEvan who fell even harder when you found out about his past and you still stayed
β οΈEvan who feels like he doesn't deserve you no matter what he does
β οΈEvan who always comes running to you whenever you feel down, bringing bags of your favorite snacks that he got on the way
β οΈEvan who feels like he found his sun, moon, and stars within you, finding comfort in your presence as if it's the most important thing in the world
β οΈEvan who would distance himself from you whenever Habit hurt your feelings, feeling like It was his fault
A/N: Heavy on the self indulgence with this one chat
with the bb and dreams ask, sorta adding onto that, how would bb react to companion having a sex/wet dream? how would companion explain THAT concept to this ageless entity?
so bb monitors you while you sleep. we've established this. he watches your face cycle through expressions, tracks your breathing patterns, is soothed by your heartbeat. he's running a passive scan of your entire biological state at all times because that's just what bb does when you're snuggled into him.
so obviously he notices immediately when the dream shifts.
your breathing changes first. deeper. faster. your heartbeat picks up next. not the sharp spike of a nightmare, he knows that signature, this is different. a gradual climb. a building. your skin heats. blood rising to the surface of your cheeks, your chest, your neck. your lips part. your hips shift against the blankets in a small, restless roll that's definitely, unmistakably, not a nightmare.
bb goes still.
because he can smell it. whatever bb uses for perception is tuned to you permanently and your body is producing a scent signature he recognises all too well. it's the one that accompanies arousal, the one he recognises from proximity, from the nest, from every time his mouth or his hands have drawn it from you deliberately. except this time he's doing nothing. you're asleep. he's three inches away with his hands at his sides and you're generating this response entirely on your own, from the inside, from whatever your brain is constructing behind your closed eyes right now.
and then you moan in your sleep.
soft. barely audible. a sound bb has heard at full volume with his face between your thighs and is now hearing at quarter volume from a girl who is unconscious and dreaming, and whose hips are rocking against nothing and whose fingers are curling into the blankets and bb is experiencing seventeen different emotions simultaneously and cannot prioritise a single one.
fascination. arousal. his own, immediate, the body he built responding to your sounds with ridiculous urgency that bypasses his conscious thoughts. confusion immediately after. and finally, jealousy (stinging, hot, irrational) because who are you dreaming about? is it him? is it bobby? or some faceless composite your subconscious assembled from spare parts? the possibility that you're experiencing pleasure from a source he cannot see or participate in is making something in his chest burn.
but underneath the jealousy, feeding it, complicating it: the arousal. because you're making those sounds. in his nest. beside him. your body flushing and shifting and producing the scent that drives him out of his mind and the cause is internal. invisible. a private theatre in your skull running a show he hasn't been invited to and the exclusion is maddening and the performance is exquisite and bb wants to watch and he wants to be in it and he wants to peel your skull open and crawl inside the dream and replace whatever is touching you with himself.
your back arches. slightly. the moan again. louder. and your mouth forms a shape that might be a name and bb leans closer ( inches from your sleeping face, black eyes wide, every receptor straining) trying to read the name off your lips.
he can't tell. the shape dissolves before it becomes a sound. your hips roll again. your thighs press together and the scent spikes and bb is vibrating with the effort of not touching you and the effort of not touching himself the way you showed him and the growing, bewildering realisation that watching you dream about sex is doing things to his body that actual sex sometimes doesn't.
you wake up.
slowly. blinking. still flushed. that disoriented warmth of surfacing from a dream your body was fully committed to. your pupils are blown. your breathing is ragged. and bb is RIGHT THERE. face inches from yours. black eyes enormous. the expression on bobby's face one of intense, focused, bewildered hunger.
"you were making sounds," he says promptly before you've finished blinking.
"Iβwhat?"
"sounds. the sounds you make when Iβwhen weβ" he stops, draws a breath you both know he doesn't actually need. "your heartbeat tripled. your skin heated. your arousalβ" he inhales through his nose, deliberate, savouring, "βis significant. and you were moving your hips in a rhythm i've observed duringβ"
"oh god."
"βa rhythm that corresponds toβ"
"OH god."
"explain." the head tilt, but his voice is lower than usual. thicker. the fascination threaded through with something more molten. darker. he's affected and trying to be clinical and failing at it completely. "your body responded to something that wasn't happening. something inside your brain. explain how."
you press your face into the pillow. can feel heat spreading down your neck and his hand has found your hip under the blanket and his thumb is stroking a slow, absent circle on your skin as though the touch is involuntary. as though his body moved toward yours before his brain authorised it.
"it's a sex dream. sometimes when you're sleeping your brain just... creates a scenario. a sexual one. and your body responds like it's real because your brain can't tell the difference."
"your brain can't tell the difference," he repeats slowly, his thumb still circling on your hip. "between real sexual contact and imagined sexual contact."
"basically."
"so you wereβin your sleepβexperiencingβ"
"yes."
"with someone."
"yes."
"who?"
and there it is. the edge beneath the curiosity. the black eyes fixed on yours, the jaw tight. the needy possessiveness surfacing through the fascination like a fish fin through water.
"who was doing the things that made you make the sounds?"
"you," you admit quietly, because it was.
bb's whole body locks up.
the edge dissolves. the tension in his jaw releases with it, and what replaces it is hunger. pure, luminous, fascinated hunger. the slow blink. the purr igniting low in his chest. the satisfied warmth of hearing that he exists inside you even when he's not trying to.
"me." soft. his body shifting closer. "your brain chose me? unprompted. unsupervised. it just... reached for me?"
"that's generally how it works, yeah."
"and myβthe dream version of meβwas doing things to you. intimate things. things that made your body respond as though they were real?"
"...yes."
he wraps around you.
slowly. coiling. his arm sliding beneath you, pulling you against his chest, his legs tangling with yours under the blankets. his chin settling on top of your head. the purr deepens at once. his body curls around you snugly because he wants something and is going to be patient about getting it. the cat-with-a-mouse configuration. the one where the mouse is already caught and the cat is just deciding which angle to start from.
"tell me." murmured into your hair. his hand sliding up your spine in a long, slow stroke that makes your still-sensitive body shiver. "tell me what he was doing. the dream version."
"bbβ"
"i want to hear it." his mouth finds your temple, pressing. his voice drops into the register that makes your stomach flip. that low, warm, intimate one, coaxing. "i want to hear what your sleeping brain thinks i do to you. what it invents when i'm not directing it." his thumb tracing the knob of your spine. "think of it as quality control. how accurate is the dream version? does he get the details right?"
"this is embarrassing."
"your heart rate just spiked again and you smellβ" a long inhale against your hair "β incredible. you're embarrassed and you're aroused and I want to hear everything." his lips against the shell of your ear. the purr vibrating through his chest into your back. "start from the beginning, baby. please. where were we? in the dream. what did it look like?"
"...the nest. we were in the nest."
"good. and I wasβwhat was I doing?"
"you were..." you trail off. press your face into his chest. his hand strokes your spine again. patient. coaxing. the purr steady.
"take your time." whispered against your hair. "we have nothing but time. and I want every detail. every single one." his arm tightening around you. his hips pressing forward against your back and you can feel that he's hard and has been hard since you started moaning in your sleep and the knowledge that your dream aroused him is doing things to your ability to form sentences. "was i touching you? where. show me where."
you take his hand. guide it. place it where the dream version's hand was and his breath catches against your scalp and the purr stutters and restarts at a higher frequency.
"here?" barely a whisper. his fingers curling against the spot you placed them. "like this?"
"slower. he was... you were slower."
bb's fingers adjust. slow down. match the dream's pace with the same meticulousness he gives to everything you teach him. "like this?"
you sigh. "yes."
"what else?" his mouth on your neck now. between words. kissing the skin he's speaking into. "tell me what else. what did the dream version say. did he talk? did he use his mouth?"
and you find yourself telling him. in fragments, in whispers, in half-sentences that dissolve into gasps when bb's real hands mirror the dream hands' movements. because bb is coaxing it out of you with ancient patience but with gentleness of someone utterly besotted. he's not interrogating you. he's unwinding you. peeling the dream out of you layer by layer, his voice low and warm, murmuring encouragements into your hairβ "yes, and then what?" and "show me" and "like this?"βwhile his body wraps tighter around yours and his hands learn the choreography your sleeping brain invented for him.
"your dream is more honest than you are," he murmurs against your throat. his fingers stroking you in a way you've never asked for out loud because asking would require admitting you wanted it. "your dream doesn't have embarrassment. your dream just wants."
"and what does the dream want?"
"me." said with quiet wonder. "it just wants me."
he's quiet for a moment, his hands still moving. his mouth presses to your pulse, the purr running deep and steady.
"tonight, when you fall asleep," he drawls against your skin. "i'm going to watch again. and tomorrow morning you're going to tell me everything. again."
"bbβ"
"i want to learn every version of me that lives inside your head." his arm tightens around you, voice thick with something that goes beyond arousal, or curiosity, even beyond possessiveness. something closer to reverence, to simple, unadorned, love. "the dreaming one. the waking one. every version your brain builds when i'm not looking. i want to know all of them. i want to know if they're getting me right."
he presses his mouth to the spot behind your ear tenderly.
"and if they're not," he whispers, "i'll teach you the difference."
βπ Summary: Your truck breaks down in the middle of nowhere, your phone is dead, and the last person you expect to see is your ex-boyfriend. Shawn shows up anywayβand the more questions you ask, the more you realize he knows your routines, your routes, and exactly where to find you. Not because he's obsessed with you. Because losing you was never something he learned how to survive.
βπ contents: Strong language, breakup/reconciliation, emotional angst, abandonment issues, possessive/protective behavior, relationship conflict, explicit sexual content (18+), and themes of self-worth and emotional dependency.
If life was a joke, you were the punchline.
At least, that was the only explanation you could come up with.
Because somehow, against all odds, anything that could go wrong usually did. Not always in spectacular, world-ending ways. Just enough to make you wonder if the universe had singled you out for its own private entertainment.
Today was no exception.
You sat behind the wheel, gripping it a little tighter as the truck rattled beneath you. The engine gave another uneasy rumble. Then another.
The dashboard lights flickered, a dying pulse of amber in the suffocating dark.
"Donβt you dare," you breathed, the words barely a whisper against the steering wheel.
It's not like anything you said would fix it, but you were desperate.
The truck shuddered beneath you, before the engine ripped out an agonizing cough. Then, a metallic grinding protested that sounded like bone scraping against bone. And then silence.
Complete. Absolute. Silence.
The kind of quiet that swallowed worlds. The kind that settled into your skin like ice.
You closed your eyes, letting out a sharp, bitter breath.
Perfect.
Right in the dead center of this stupid, gossiping excuse for a town.
You gripped the steering wheel, glaring at the dead dashboard as the heat inside the cabin immediately began to rise, thick and suffocating.
A heavy, bitter weight settled in your chest. There was no one to call. Not that you wanted to anywayβthe thought of reaching out to anyone made your throat tight with a familiar, defensive anger. You preferred the isolation. You thrived in it.
But as you reached over, a cold jolt of dread shot straight down your spine.
The screen was black. You tapped it, once, twice, but it remained utterly lifeless. A breathless laugh escaped your lips. You couldn't have called for help even if you wanted to.
The phone was dead.
You sank back into the seat, a heavy, jagged sigh escaping your lips. You were going to have to walk. Miles upon miles through the brutal, unrelenting Southern heat that already shimmered off the asphalt like a physical barrier.
With a hard set to your jaw, you grabbed your things, shoving open the heavy door. The humid air hit you like a wall, but you forced your boots onto the gravel. One pace. Two.
You didn't even make it three steps before a low, familiar rumble vibrated through the soles of your shoes.
Your entire body went rigid.
You knew that sound. You knew it like the back of your mind, a dark rhythm etched into your very bones. The deep, aggressive thrum of a truck engineβhis truck. Your ex.
A wave of pure, unadulterated fury crashed over you, hot and sharp. Because fuck, of course things could get worse. Fate just loved to twist the knife.
But you squared your shoulders, keeping your eyes locked straight ahead, and kept walking. You forced one boot in front of the other, refusing to look back, refusing to give him the satisfaction. But it was a pointless effort. The sudden jerk of your shoulders when the engine appeared, the way your stride had instantly stiffenedβit was glaringly, painfully obvious you had seen him.
The rumble slowed, matching your pace, the heavy tires crunching lazily along the gravel beside you. The passenger window rolled down, letting out a blast of air conditioning that mocked you in the heavy Southern heat.
"Need a ride?" his voice drifted out, laced with that effortless, arrogant familiarity that made your blood boil.
"I'm fine," you snapped, not breaking your stride, your gaze burning a hole into the horizon.
"Right. Because walking miles in a hundred-degree heat with all your gear looks completely fine."
"I'd rather melt," you threw back, a vicious edge to your words.
He let out a low chuckle, a sound that rubbed like sandpaper against your raw nerves. "Come on. Don't be stupid. Just get in the truck."
"I am perfectly capable of handling myself." You pushed faster, sweat beadng at your collarbone, your throat already parched.
"Nobody said you weren't," he countered, his tone dropping into something entirely too patient, entirely too knowing. "But you're a long way from anywhere, and we both know it."
You stopped. The heat was a physical weight pressing down on your skull, the dust from the road coatng your throat. You looked from the endless, shimmering expanse of empty highway ahead, then turned your head just enough to glare at him through the open window.
Every instinct pricked with pride, screaming at you to keep walking until your boots fell apart. But realismβcold, harsh, and devastatingly practicalβcut through the anger. You had no phone. You had no water. You had absolutely no other choice.
With a silent, venomous curse that promised retribution later, you ripped the door open and climbed inside.
The silence inside the cabin was suffocating, thick with a history that neither of you wanted to touch. You threw yourself into the passenger seat and looked around. The truck was exactly as it had been, a preserved capsule of the time you spent as his passenger princess. The little crystal hanging from the rearview mirror still caught the harsh Southern sun, and the familiar scent of his cologne mingled with the vanilla air freshener you had insisted on buying. It was a brutal, beautiful reminder of the girl you used to be in this very seat, back when you belonged here.
"Where to?" Shawn asked, his voice low and tight. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, that nervous energy vibrating off his frame despite his casual posture. The tension in his broad shoulders told a completely different story.
"My place," you muttered, staring resolutely out the passenger window. Your apartment was on the southern edge of town, just past the boundary line. But even as the words left your mouth, the sheer exhaustion of the day settled deep into your bones. It was too far. Pointless, even. By the time he dropped you off, you'd just be sitting alone in an empty apartment with a broken-down vehicle miles away, stranded all over again.
Shawn let out a sharp, erratic breath. "We're not going to the south side. It's out of the way, and you need to figure out what's going on with your truck."
"Then drop me at a shop."
"Itβs past five on a Friday. Every mechanic in this town is already closed and drinking a beer," he countered, his words carrying that harp edge you used to loveβand now thoroughly detested.
"Fine. Put me out at the bus stop on Main."
Shawn cut a frantic, intense glance toward you, his pale eyes burning. "The next bus heading toward the junction doesn't run for another two hours. You want to sit on a metal bench in a hundred-degree heat after walking the highway?" When you didn't answer, his grip tightened violently on the wheel. "You're coming back to my place. We'll call a tow from there."
Your stomach did a flip. "No."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because going back to your house is awkward," you snapped, finally turning your head to glare at him, the raw armor of your pride slamming firmly into place. "It's inappropriate. And I don't want to."
You didn't need to say the rest out loud. You didn't need to remind him of the six-month-old ghost sitting between you, or the brutal wreckage of how things had ended. He knew. Every line of his twitching, restless posture screamed that he knew.
Shawn pulled up to a red light and turned his full attention to you. His gaze traced the stubborn set of your jaw, the flush of the heat on your skin, down to the quick rise and fall of your chest. A familiar, dangerous spark flared in his light eyesβthat manic, unpredictable confidence that always managed to dismantle your defenses.
"I'm not gonna fucking bite," he growled, the roughness of his voice vibrating straight to your core. "Unless you want me to."
A breathless, furious laugh escaped your lips. The sheer audacity of Shawn. It was completely insane. He was the one who had walked away. He was the one who had initiated this ruthless game of an eye for an eye, breaking your heart and shattering whatever future you'd been building. And now, here he was, playing the protective caretaker with that frantic, desperate need to control the situation, demanding to look after you as if he hadn't been the one to ruin you in the first place.
"You don't get to do this," you whispered, the sharp edges of your exterior hiding the sudden, treacherous ache in your chest. "You don't get to act like you care."
Shawn didn't flinch. Instead, his gaze darkened with a predatory focus, dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to your eyes. He leaned just a fraction closer, invading your space, reminding your body of exactly what it had been missing for half a year.
"I'm taking you home with me," he said, his tone jagged and leaving absolutely no room for argument. "Deal with it."
He didnβt wait for your reply. He slammed the truck into drive, the powerful engine roaring to life as he pulled away from the intersection.
You pressed your spine hard against the leather seat, staring straight ahead as the familiar landscape blurred past the windows. The silence returned, but it wasn't the dead, empty quiet of your broken-down truck. This was thick, highly charged, and heavy with a suffocating tension that made it hard to draw a full breath.
Every time he shifted gears, his knuckles brushed against your knee. It was a fleeting, accidental contact, but it sent a jolt of electricity straight down your spine. A vicious reminder of how intimately you knew the weight of those restless hands.
You crossed your legs, pulling away from him, anchoring your gaze firmly to the side mirror.
Five minutes later, the truck tires crunched onto the gravel driveway of his place. The house looked exactly the same. The same weathered porch, the same shadow cast by the oak trees, the same isolation that used to feel like a sanctuaryβand now felt like a trap.
Shawn cut the engine. The abrupt silence in the cabin was deafening.
"Get your things," he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that left no room for negotiation. He didn't wait to see if you complied; he simply unbuckled, threw his door open, and stepped out into the stifling heat, his movements quick and tense.
Your fingers wrapped tightly around the strap of your bag. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, warning rhythm. You could run. You could walk out to the main road and wait for that bus. But as you looked through the windshield at the shimmering heat waves rising off the driveway, your stubborn pride finally cracked under the sheer weight of exhaustion.
With a silent curse, you opened the door and stepped down.
Shawn was already at the porch, his keys jingling in his hand. He didn't look back to check on you. He knew you were following. He always knew exactly how far he could push before you yielded. He unlocked the door and threw it open, stepping aside to let you pass.
As you walked past him, the sheer physical presence of him caught in your throat. He smelled like cedar, gasoline, and the crisp bite of the truckβs air conditioning. You kept your shoulders rigid, your head held high as you crossed the threshold into the cool, shaded interior of his home.
The door clicked shut behind you, the sound final and absolute.
You stood in the center of the living room, your bag clutched like a shield. Nothing had changed. The same dark wood, the same leather couch where youβd spent countless nights curled against his chest. It was an overwhelming rush of memories that threatened to tear right through your carefully constructed defenses.
Shawn tossed his keys onto the counter, the sharp metallic ring echoing through the space. He tracked your rigid posture, a slow intent darkening his pale eyes as he closed the distance between you.
"You look like you're waiting for an execution," he murmured, his voice dropping into that sharp, breathless register, the unhinged asshole facade slipping right back into place. He stopped just inches away, his heat radiating off him in waves. "Relax. I told you I wasn't going to bite."
"Yeah," you rasped, the word a razor-sharp defense mechanism against the overwhelming gravity of him. "I heard you."
Shawn didnβt fight the barb. Instead, a mocking smile touched his lips, though his pale eyes remained entirely cold, tracking the frantic pulse at your throat. He let out a sharp, breathless laugh, taking a step back to give you spaceβthough it felt less like a mercy and more like a tactical retreat.
"Well," he murmured, his voice dropping into that jagged cadence. "Suit yourself. Stand there all night for all I care."
He turned on his heel, his heavy boots thudding against the hardwood as he walked off into the kitchen, completely leaving you to your own devices. Only when you were entirely certain he was gone did the rigid tension leave your shoulders.
Slowly, carefully, you let your gaze drift away from the empty hallway and began to look around.
Your chest tightened. It was a sensory assault.
The house was an exact mirror of the day you had walked out, a preserved monument to the wreckage youβd left behind. On the coffee table sat the same heavy glass ashtray you used to complain about. Across the room, his worn denim jacket was tossed carelessly over the back of the armchair, looking so familiar it made your breath catch.
But it was the smaller details that truly made your knees weak. On the bookshelf near the window, the silver lighter you had bought him for his birthday still sat in its exact place. Beside it, a faded receipt from a diner road trip youβd taken over a year ago was pinned beneath a smooth river stone.
He hadn't cleaned it out. He hadn't wiped the slate clean or scrubbed the memory of you from his walls. For six months, you had torturing yourself with the belief that he had moved on without a backward glance, but the truth was staring you right in the face.
A horrible, hollow ache opened up in the center of your chest, heavy and devastating. It pressed down on your lungs until you could barely breathe. Moving like a ghost through the quiet room, you made your way to the worn leather couch, your knees giving out as you sank into the cushions.
Seeking any kind of comfort against the chill of the air conditioning, you reached for the blanket draped over the back of the sofa and wrapped it tightly around your shoulders.
Your breath hitched.
It was the blanket. The one you had spent weeks crocheting for him years ago, your fingers raw from the heavy yarn. Your eyes pricked with sudden, hot tears as your fingers found the fraying edgeβthe small, jagged tear near the corner. A memory cut through you, sharp as a glass shard. You had offered to take it back to fix it, but Shawn had gripped your wrist, his pale eyes intense, arguing fiercely that it didn't damn well matter because he liked it anyway.
He had kept it. He had kept it on his couch, right where he could touch it every day.
The heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots echoed down the hall, and you quickly blinked back the moisture in your eyes, pulling the armor of your hard exterior back over your features.
Shawn strolled back into the living room within minutes.
He had changed into a fresh white tank top, the cotton clinging to the broad, powerful expanse of his chest and shoulders. He held two TV dinnersβthe Stouffer's meatloaf, your favoriteβsteam rising into the cool air, and set them down on the coffee table with a casual flick of his wrist.
It felt so agonizingly strange. Being here, sitting on his couch wrapped in your own handmade blanket, while he moved around the space like nothing had ever happened. Like the last few months of silence hadn't been a brutal, bleeding wound.
Shawn sat on the opposite end of the couch, leaning his elbows on his knees as he looked at you. His pale eyes searched your face, that restless energy simmering just beneath his skin.
"Eat," he murmured, his voice dropping its sharp edge, replaced by a rough, quiet gravity. When you didn't move, only tightening your grip on the yarn, he let out a slow breath.
He set the plate down on the coffee table and sank onto the opposite end of his own couch, leaning his elbows on the sides of his chair as he watch you. He knew you wouldn't starve yourself, it would only be a matter of time, but he wasn't going to force you into normality. You had made it glaringly obvious that you wouldn't allow that.
"Truck looked pretty bad out there," he murmured, as though trying to fill the silence with something harmless.
He took another bite of his food, chewing slowly. The muscle in his jaw flexed.
You nodded, picking at your own plate.
"Yeah." You shrugged. "It just... stopped."
"Probably the alternator." His gaze dropped to the coffee table between you. "Could be the fuel pump."
A brief pause.
"I'll take a look under the hood tomorrow."
"You don't have to do that. I can just get the tow to take it straight to the shop."
"I said I'd look at it." The sharp, stubborn edge returned to his voice, but it quickly faded into a clumsy quiet. He shifted his weight, his large frame suddenly looking far too big for the couch. "You, uh... you moved down to the south side huh?"
"Yeah." Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was agonizing. The polite, superficial small talk felt like a mockery of the history that burned between you.
"You like it down there?" Shawn asked, his voice low, his eyes fixed on the condensation pooling around his glass.
"It's fine," you lied.
Truthfully, you hated it. Living on the south side was infinitely worse, a bleak expanse of isolation that pressed against your windows every single night. It was too dark down there, a suffocating blackness untouched by city lights. There was nothing but endless, tangled swamp forests and massive, swaying fields of wheat that seemed to swallow the horizon whole. It felt like living in exile. But you hated this excruciating, superficial small talk even more. It was a poison, a slow-bleeding joke.
You swallowed the lump of bile in your throat, tightening your grip on the crocheted blanket until your knuckles ached. You couldn't take another second of the pretense.
"Why?" you asked flatly.
Shawn froze, his fork hovering an inch above his plate. The mundane, awkward facade fractured in an instant. He set the utensil down with a slow, deliberate click. "Why what?"
"Why are we doing this?"
He cut his pale blue eyes to yours, his jaw tightening as that volatile energy began to simmer beneath his skin. "Are you asking me why I'm helping you?"
You didn't answer. You just gave him a cold, deadpan lookβthe kind that told him exactly how little of his bullshit you were willing to buy tonight.
Shawn let out a sharp, cynical breath, leaning back against the cushions. "So I can't help you now? Is that it? I see a girl stranded on the side of the highway in a hundred-degree heat, and I'm just supposed to drive on past?"
"Yes," you snapped, the armor of your pride completely slamming into place. "I figured since you kicked me out six months ago, you didn't want a damn thing to do with me. And yet, here you are. Acting like the protective savior. This entire place is frozen in time, Shawn. The truck, the house, the blanketβyou're living in a ghost town and acting like absolutely nothing happened."
Shawn went still.
The truth tore through the room, violent and undeniable, ripping away his defensive, asshole exterior. A dark flush crept up his neck, his pale eyes flashing with a sudden, erratic anger because you had finally broken the seal. You had dragged the monster out into the light.
He stood up abruptly, towering over the coffee table, his chest rising and falling in rapid, jagged breaths. "You think I want to live like this?" he growled, his voice cracking with a raw, fury. "You think I like sitting in this house every goddamn night surrounded by your things? You don't know a thing about what it's been like!"
"Then why did you do it?!" You threw the blanket off, standing up to face him, the six months of agonizing heartbreak finally exploding to the surface. "You walked away! You ruined us, you kicked me out, and now you have the nerve to get mad at me for pointing out that you're stuck?!"
"Because I was trying to save you from me!" he roared, stepping around the table, invading your space until he was directly in front of you, his large frame trembling with a chaotic, desperate intensity.
The words seemed to echo off the walls, a sudden, heavy plateau that left the room completely breathless. The raw fury of the argument stalled, hanging in the air between you.
"What?" you breathed, the word barely slipping past your lips as you stared at him, your hands frozen against his chest.
Shawnβs chest heaved, his pale eyes wild and fractured as he looked down at you. The aggressive, asshole armor was entirely gone, leaving something desperate and unhinged in its place. "I was a piece of shit," he rasped, his voice dropping into a rough, jagged cadence. "I was a shit guy, and I knew it. Every time we fought, I felt like I was dragging you down into the mud with me, and I thought... I thought cutting you loose was the only way to stop it."
He shook his head, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping him as his hands flexed at his sides. "But moving on? I wasn't ready for that. I couldn't do it. Every time I get in the truck, I look for you in the seat. Every time I walk in here, I expect to see your shoes by the door. I notice every little thing, every single day, and it's driving me fucking insane."
He started pacing a short, frantic line, rubbing a heavy hand over his face as he began going off, his words tumbling out in a restless, chaotic stream. "I see the blanket, I see the lighter, I think about the way you laugh when you're actually happy, the way you look when you're stubbornβ"
"Shawn," you called out, trying to cut through his words.
He didn't seem to hear you, turning back to you, his eyes burning as he kept mumbling, the thoughts spilling straight from his chest without a filter. "I just... I can't scrub you out of this house. I can't scrub you out of my head. I didn't think it would be like this. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I just want you back, I want you back in this goddamn house so badlyβ"
He froze, his jaw snapping shut as the realization of what heβd just let slip finally hit him.
You stared at him, your heart hammering a frantic, echoing rhythm against your ribs. "You want me back?" you repeated, your voice trembling as the truth settled heavily in the quiet room.
Shawn blinked, his pale eyes widening slightly, a sudden, defensive panic flickering across his features. "What?"
"You want me back," you said again, holding his gaze, refusing to let him run from it.
Every muscle in his broad frame went completely rigid. He grew intensely quiet, the manic energy vanishing, replaced by a raw, devastating stillness. He looked at you for one long, breathless second.
"Yeah," he growled, the word low and jagged. "Yeah, I do."
Before you could say another word, before you could even draw breath to reply, Shawn closed the distance between you.
His hands found your face first.
Like he needed to make sure you were real, his fingers tangling in the strands as he hauled your body flush against his chest. He crashed his lips down onto yours in a brutal, deeply passionate kissβa desperate, starving reassowal that tasted of months of agony and pure, unadulterated fire.
He pulled back just a fraction, his forehead resting against yours as his breath fanned hot over your lips, his hands trembling where they held your face.
"I'm sorry," he whispered against your mouth, his voice breaking with a roughness that went straight to your core. "I'm so fucking sorry."
Your hands shook against his chest, the fabric of his shirt bunching beneath your fingers as you pulled back just enough to look up into his pale blue eyes. The heat of his mouth still burned on yours, but the armor of your hard exterior wasn't entirely goneβit was just cracked wide open.
"I never cared about any of that, Shawn," you whispered, your voice cracking with the sheer weight of six months of buried agony. "I wanted you for who you are. The good, the bad, and the ugly. I wanted all of it. I always did."
Shawnβs breath hitched, his fingers tightening in your hair as if he were terrified youβd vanish if he let go. The unhinged, dangerous edge to his posture completely dissolved, leaving him exposed.
"But if I give you that chance," you continued, your gaze locking onto his with absolute, unwavering intensity, "if I let you back in... you have to prove that you want me. No more running. No more saving me from yourself. You prove it."
He didn't hesitate. Shawn nodded, the movement desperate and heavy, looking less like the volatile man who had picked you up on the highway and more like a boy who was utterly, completely yearning for the only sanctuary he had ever known.
"I will," he rasped against your skin, his forehead resting against yours. "I swear to god, I will."
The silent agreement hung in the air, thick and binding, before the final remnants of restraint shattered between you.
Shawn didnβt waste another second. With a low, feral growl, his hands slid from your hair down to the small of your back, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your boots dropping to the floor as he hauled you flush against his massive frame. He marched you backward through the living room, his mouth crashing back down onto yours with a starving, territorial hunger that left you completely breathless.
Your back hit the solid wood of the wall, a sharp gasp escaping your lips that he instantly drank down. His hands were everywhere nowβrestless, burning, and possessiveβsliding beneath the hem of your shirt, his rough palms searing against your bare skin. The scent of cedar, gasoline, and raw desire filled your senses, making your head spin as you tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, demanding everything he had promised to give.
His hands gripped your hips like a vice, fingers bruising your skin through your clothes as he pinned you firmly against the wall. The rough plaster scraped through your shirt, but the friction was nothing compared to the white-hot heat of his body pressing into yours. He pulled back just an inch, his breathing ragged, his pale blue eyes dark with an unhinged, consuming need.
"I'm going to take you right here," he growled, the words a rough promise whispered against your jaw. "Right now."
You didn't answer with wordsβyou couldn't. You gripped his broad shoulders, arching your back to meet him as his hands tore at the fabric of your shorts, shoving them down past your hips along with your underwear until they pooled around your ankles. He didn't wait. His fingers found the damp, aching heat between your thighs, stretching you open with a rough, possessive stroke that made your eyes roll back, a fractured sob tearing from your throat.
Shawn let out a dark, breathless laugh at the sound, his thumb sweeping over your swollen center until you were trembling, dripping against his hand. "Look at you," he rasped, his voice vibrating straight to your core. "Still so perfect for me."
In one swift, desperate motion, he unbuckled his belt and freed his thick, rigid length. He didn't ease into you. He lifted your thighs higher around his waist, adjusting his grip, and drove himself inside with a deep, uncompromising thrust that buried him to the absolute root.
The sheer fullness of him stole the air right out of your lungs.
Your eyes snapped open, locking onto his wild, intense gaze as he held you pinned to the wood. He began to move, his strokes heavy, relentless, and devastatingly deep. Every slam of his hips against yours sent a jolt of electricity straight up your spine. The slapping sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed sharply through the quiet house, a rhythmic, primal friction that blurred everything else into oblivion.
"Tell me you feel that," Shawn demanded, his pace quickening into something feral, hammering into you until the wall groaned behind your back. He bit down on the column of your neck, his teeth scraping over your pulse point. "Tell me you're mine."
"Shawnβyes, please," you cried out, your fingers clawing at the muscles of his back, your head tossing against the plaster. The friction was unbearable, building a tight, coiled tension in your lower stomach that threatened to shatter you completely.
Through the haze of overwhelming sensation, a vivid, agonizing rush of memory crashed over you. You remembered exactly how good this felt. How good it had always felt to have him fill you up like this, completely and utterly, stretching you until there was no room left for doubt, or anger, or the past six months of agonizing silence. It was a visceral, cellular recognition. Your body knew his fit better than its own heartbeat, molding around his heavy, relentless thrusts as if you had been uniquely, explicitly made for him.
He didn't slow down. He caught your mouth in another deep, bruising kiss, drinking in your moans as he drove you over the edge. Your walls clamped down around him in tight, rhythmic spasms as your orgasm tore through you. Shawn let out a low, guttural roar at the sensation, his thrusts becoming frantic, desperate, his broad chest heaving as he hit his own limit.
"I'm close," he choked out, his muscles locking up, his eyes losing all focus. "I'm gonna finishβ"
He didn't slow down. He caught your mouth in another deep, bruising kiss, drinking in your moans as he drove you over the edge. Your walls clamped down around him in tight, rhythmic spasms as your orgasm tore through you. Shawn let out a low, guttural roar at the sensation, his thrusts becoming frantic, desperate, his broad chest heaving as he hit his own limit.
"I'm close," he choked out, his muscles locking up, his pale eyes losing all focus. "I'm gonna finishβ"
Before he could pull away or release himself inside you, you slid down the wall, your boots hitting the floor as you dropped heavily to your knees right in front of him.
Shawn gasped, his hands instantly wrapping into your hair to steady himself as you took his leaking, trembling length fully into your mouth. The heat of your throat swallowing him whole made his knees buckle. He arched his hips forward, a desperate, broken sound tearing from his chest.
"Yeah, right there," he choked out, his fingers tightening in your strands, guiding the frantic, rhythmic plunge of his hips. "Take it. Don't stop."
He pulsed against the back of your throat, and then he let go. A heavy, hot torrent of thick release flooded your mouth. Shawn shuddered from head to toe, pinning his hips forward as he came in deep, shuddering waves.
"Swallow it," he whispered roughly, his voice completely unhinged, his eyes closed tightly as he breathed through the aftershocks. "Every fucking drop for me. That's it."
You swallowed the last of him, the heat coating your throat as you slowly pulled back, your lips slick. Shawn let out a long, ragged breath that trembled through his entire body.
Before you could even move to stand, he was dropping down to the floor with you. His heavy knees hit the hardwood, completely uncaring of the impact, as he gathered you up into his massive arms. He pulled you tight against his chest, wrapping his arms around you so fiercely it stole your breath, burying his face into the crook of your neck.
He was shaking.
"God," he choked out, his voice thick and broken against your skin.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his large, calloused hands cupping your face with an agonizing tenderness. His pale blue eyes searched yours, bright with unshed tears, before he leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your mouth. It wasn't like the brutal, starving kisses from before; this one was gentle, reverent, tasting of salt and a deep, aching relief. He kissed the corners of your lips, the line of your jaw, and the tears that had dried on your cheeks, treating you like something fragile, something sacred.
"Fuck, I missed you," he whispered, his forehead coming to rest against yours as his thumb gently wiped a stray drop from your lower lip. "All of you. The fighting, the stubbornness, the way you look at me... everything. Please never go. Don't leave me in that ghost town again."
The hard exterior you had spent half a year building didn't just crackβit dissolved entirely into the warmth of his embrace. You tangled your fingers in the soft fabric of his damp tank top, pulling yourself even closer into his solid chest, letting the familiar scent of cedar and gasoline wash over you like a sanctuary.
"I'm not going anywhere, Shawn," you murmured against his lips, sealing the promise with a soft kiss of your own.
He let out a breathless, watery laugh, squeezing you so tight your ribs ached, but for the first time in six months, the suffocating dark of the Southern night didn't feel threatening. Sitting there on the floor of the house that was no longer frozen in time, wrapped in the arms of the boy who loved you for exactly who you were, you finally felt the ice thaw completely. You were right where you belonged.
γ €γ €γ €β VENUS AS A BOY :
aerion 'brightflame' targaryen !
βΛΰΏ finn bennett as aerion x actress! reader κ° β κ± β¦ you are an actress playing a prostitute from Lys, and Finn is so committed to giving his best on stage that he makes you wet, and you lose control between the acting and the desire. β based on this ask.
warnings β’ +18 (MDNI) β smut β p in v β oral sexΒ (cunnilingus) β rough sex β praise kink β consensual β anal play β intense orgasm β fluff and smut β masturb. β you're not just acting. β’ words count: ~11,1k
notesΒ β’ I'm in my ovulation era, and this was the sun of Icarus in my life heheh writing this was a perfect dose of any drug. βΒ please like & reblog if you enjoyedΒ !
β MASTERLIST β AKOTSK TAGLIST β TIP JAR β
The air inside the set-built brothel smells of cheap incense.
Youβre on all fours on the fake silk sheets, and the weight of Finn Bennett β no, the weight ofΒ Aerion TargaryenΒ β presses your back down against the foam mattress thatβs meant to mimic straw and duck feathers. His platinum lace front is starting to peel away at the nape, out of sync with the sweat beading at your temple, and you feel every inch of his body against yours; his broad chest against your shoulder blades, his large hands gripping your hips with a force that isnβt purely the characterβs, his warm, uneven breath against the curve of your neck.
"I donβt need a dragon, you hear me? I donβt need one to devour you," he murmurs, and Finnβs voice blends with Aerionβs in a way that makes your stomach turn. "Look at me."
You obey because itβs what the script says. You turn your face, your jaw resting on the pillow smudged with makeup, and you meet his pale eyes, a blue so glassy it hurts to look at, but thereβs something underneath thatβs entirely human, entirelyΒ him, and itβs burning.
The cameras are at every angle. You know this. You know the cinematographer is three yards away, crouched behind a monitor, and the Steadicam operator is circling the bed like a vulture. You know there are earpieces, reflectors, a clapper loader holding a slate somewhere beyond your peripheral vision.
But what youΒ feelΒ β what you canβt ignore β is the way the tip of his cock presses against your inner thigh through the modesty pouch they use as standard production practice.
Weβre both covered, you repeat in your head.Β This is choreographed. This is professional.
Heβs wearing an unlaced linen tunic thatβs been open since the scene started, and youβre in a silk robe torn at the shoulder β a costume deliberately destroyed to suggest Aerionβs violence, decadent luxury, the aesthetic of Lys where everything is bought and sold. Underneath, youβve got nothing on, because your body needs to be exposed, because you donβt have a problem with that, because you signed the contract that agreed to it.
The first take was a disaster.
The showrunner, Ira, yelled βactionβ and Finn moved over you like a dragon, and you suddenly forgot every single mark youβd spent two weeks rehearsing in an office with no cameras, no lights, without the smell of him β neutral soap, cold coffee, and something warmer, more human, that your fingers had memorised.
On the first take, you laughed.
Not on purpose. It was that nervous, childish thing, a strangled sound that escaped when Finn tilted his head to bite your neck like the script said, and his lips tickled your skin in a way that made you squirm. He stopped right away, pulling back enough to ask βare you alright?β with that concern he has in every interview, every behind-the-scenes clip, every time a fan gets too close at a convention.
βSorry,β you gasped, and you felt your whole face catch fire. βSorry, I justβ¦ I didnβt expect it to be soβ¦β
βItβs fine,β he said, and his thumb traced a small circle on your waist. βWeβll go again.β
The showrunner didnβt complain. Iraβs known for her patience with intimate scenes, and the first take was written off as βcalibration.β But you knew β and she knew β that there was something wrong with that first attempt that wasnβt just your nerves.
On the first take, when Finn pushed your legs apart with his knees and settled between them, when your breasts pressed against his chest through the layers of fabric and his hand grabbed your hair (wig, you were wearing a silver wig to match his, to look like a Lysene courtesan of Valyrian descent), in that moment, you felt it.
You felt the heat coming off his cock against your body. You felt your own nipples harden in a way no structured bra or padded body stocking could hide. You felt his mouth brush yours, and how his tongue slid between your lips as if you were alone, as if there weren't 47 people standing around watching.
And you kissed him back.
With tongue. With teeth. With a small moan that escaped your throat before you could swallow it, and that got picked up by the boom mics, that made the sound tech raise an eyebrow, that made Finn lose his rhythm for half a second.
That's why the first take wasn't any good. Not because of your nervous laugh, but because you both forgot you were acting.
The second take went differently; it was more professional, and you repeated those words in your head while Finn moved over you, his breath warm against your ear, his weight pressing your back into the mattress.
Youβre on all fours, as the script dictates. This is the part of the scene where Aerion, exiled in Lys after the incident at Ashford, drowns his frustrations in the body of a whore who dares to look like the family that rejected him β silver hair, violet eyes (your contacts sting a bit, but youβre used to it now), sharp features that couldβve come straight off an Old Valyria tapestry.
"Please," you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you rehearsed. Thatβs not acting. "Please, my prince."
He obeys. His body presses against yours with a rhythm that isnβt penetration β it canβt be, the laws forbid it, the contract you signed forbids it β but it mimics penetration with obscene precision. His hips push against your hips, and the pressure against your cunt through all those layers is exactly the wrong pressure to relieve whatβs building inside you.
Youβre wet.
Youβve known it since the first kiss of the second take, when Finn pushed you against the brothelβs fake wall and bit your lower lip with a ferocity that made your knee buckle. You feel it now, while being on all fours exposes you to him, while he can surely see the outline of your cunt, the way you open for him instinctively, the way your body asks for something the script wonβt allow.
Heβs hard.
You felt it when he got into position behind you on the first take, and you feel it now. The tip of his cock presses against the inside of your thigh, and thereβs a dampness there β heβs wet too, you realise with a jolt, with a wave of heat that travels down your spine. His precum has soaked through the fabric covering the head of his cock, and you feel the cool wetness against your skin.
Heβs aroused.
Thatβs not acting. You know the difference now. On the first take, when his mouth went down your neck, when his lips closed around your nipple (and you felt his tongue, the wetness, the heat), when he murmured "youβre so beautiful" in a way that wasnβt in the script β you knew.
And on the second take, the two of you are trying to hide it. Youβre trying to turn desire into performance, to channel all that electricity into the choreographed gestures, the memorised lines, the rehearsed moans. But the truth is, on all fours, with your breasts swinging with each thrust of his hips, with your mouth open and your eyes rolled back because thatβs how the script describes it β youβre not acting.
"Iβll spend inside you," Finn growls, and the line is Aerionβs, but the accent is Finnβs, terrifyingly intimate. "Iβll fill you with my seed, and youβll thank me for every drop."
Your reply is in the script: "Please, my prince, please, I beg you."
But what youβre really thinking, what echoes in your head while he grabs you by the hair and pulls, arching your back into a position that exposes your cunt even more to him, is:Β yes, Finn, please, yes.
The fictional orgasm of the scene is choreographed down to the smallest detail.
Aerion grabs the whoreβs head β your head β and slaps her arse with his open palm. The sound echoes across the set, loud and wet, and you let out a cry you didnβt need to rehearse. The pain is real but small, a warm tingling that spreads across your skin and blends with everything else: the heat, the friction, the constant pressure of Finnβs body against yours.
"Beg for more," he orders, and his voice is shaking.
You notice. He's losing control too. His hands, which should only be placed on your hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. His breathing, which should be an actor's panting, is genuinely uneven, breathless with almost, with nearly there.
"More," you moan, and the word comes out wet, desperate. "More, Aerion, more, moreβ¦"
He slaps you again, and another, and another, timed with the thrusts of his hips, and you feel your own orgasm approaching slowly at first, then faster. You're so close. So close that your hands grab the sheets and your vision blurs and you bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out the wrong name, his name, the name you can't say because this isn't real, this is just a scene, this is just work.
And then Finn moans.
It's a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your back. You feel his whole body tense, the muscles of his stomach contracting against your spine, his fingers digging deep into your flesh. For one second, one terrifying and glorious second, you think he's actually going to spend inside you, despite the barrier between you, despite the cameras, despite everything.
And you're going to spend with him.
You can feel your body getting ready, your pelvic muscles clenching, the warm wetness pooling at your entrance. If he pushes one more time, if his hand moves from your hip to your clit, if his mouth finds your neck one more time, you'll fall apart. You'll writhe and moan and drip onto the set sheets, and everyone will know. The director, the camera crew, the assistants. Everyone will know you weren't acting.
Cut!
Ira's voice echoes across the set like a bucket of cold water.
Finn freezes on top of you. His breathing is still heavy, his chest still presses against your back, his erection still hard against your thigh. For one long second, no one moves. You hear the techs sighing, cables being coiled, the assistant director jotting something down on a clipboard.
"We got it," Owen Haris says, and his voice is elated. "My God, we got it. That's the best simulated sex take I've ever seen in my career."
You want to die. You want to bury your face in the pillow and never come out. Your face is burning, your whole body is red, you can see the flush spreading across your chest, your arms, your thighs. There's a heat between your legs you can't hide, a wetness you're sure has left a mark on whatever is actually covering your cunt.
Finn pulls away from you slowly, almost reluctant. He sits on the edge of the set bed and runs a hand over his face, pushing back the platinum-blonde wig that's come unstuck at the side. You watch him through your lashes, still lying on your side, trying to steady your breathing.
He's flushed too, you notice. His neck is blotched red, and there's a bead of sweat running down his temple. He looks at you and for a second, the two of you just breathe.
"Fantastic," Ira says, already walking over with her tablet, showing something to the cinematographer. "Break for hair and makeup. You two, rest. We'll review the scene later."
Assistants move around you like ants. A makeup artist approaches with a powder compact, and you instinctively cover yourself, embarrassed by your blush, embarrassed by what nearly happened, embarrassed by how your body is still trembling.
Then Finn picks up Aerion's tunic β the costume he took off at the start of the scene β and drapes it over your shoulders.
The gesture is quick, almost impersonal. He doesn't even look at you while he does it, focused on steadying his own breathing, on regaining some composure. But the fabric is still warm from his body, and his smell wraps around you.
"Sorry about the slap," he murmurs, and now he looks at you with a genuine smile. Small. Almost shy. "I hit harder than I should have."
You shake your head, pulling the tunic closer to your chest. "I barely felt it."
That's a lie. You felt every single one. You can still feel the tingling on your skin, and some dark part of you β a part you didn't know existed before this scene β wants him to do it again.
A production assistant appears with two fluffy robes, the kind they use between takes to keep warm. You wrap yourself in yours gratefully, hiding your nipples that are still painfully hard, hiding everything your body is screaming.
Finn puts his on and sits beside you on the rumpled bed, the sheets bunched on the floor. A makeup artist approaches him with a brush, touching up his face, and he closes his eyes patiently.
You watch his profile. His nose, his strong jaw, that curve of his lips that was on your mouth, your neck, your breasts, only minutes ago.Β Finn Bennett, you think. The man who nearly made you come in front of forty-seven people.
He opens his eyes and finds you looking.
The embarrassment rushes back, and you look away at your own hands, which are trembling slightly in your lap.
"Have you done many scenes like this?" he asks, breaking the silence.
You laugh, a short, nervous sound.
"Never. It's my first time taking a role with simulated nudity." You hesitate, then add, trying to sound light, casual: "At least I'm just another one of Aerion's whores, right? I don't have to worry about being special."
Finn laughs too, and the sound is warm.
"Yeah, Aerion has a definite type." He pauses, his pale eyes studying your face. "But you wereβ¦ you were incredible. Really. I did a scene like this on an earlier project, an indie film, and it was awful. The actress wouldn't stop laughing, the director didn't know what he wantedβ¦" He shakes his head. "With you, it was different. It was easy."
"Easy?"
"Natural," he corrects. "You're very good at what you do."
The compliment warms you in a way it shouldn't. You're a professional. You're both professionals. It was just a well-executed scene, choreography and acting and professional chemistry.
So why are you still wet?
The silence stretches between you, and Finn opens his mouth to say something β you see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he bites his lower lip, the same lip that was between your legs β but before he can say anything, Owen appears again, tablet in hand, the satisfied smile still plastered on his face.
"Good news," he announces. "The Lys scenes are practically in the can. You've shot everything we needed for the arc today." He flicks through something on the screen. "We need to reshoot some close-ups β the bit where you beg, the initial seduction, a few reactions β but the core of the sex scene is already done. You can rest while the crew relights for the close-ups."
"How many takes?" Finn asks, and there's a tiredness in his voice that echoes in your own body.
"Five, six. Nothing major." Owen is already walking away, giving instructions to the assistant director. "We'll be back in an hour. Go freshen up, eat something, go over the script."
The production assistant reappears to guide you both off the set. You stand up, your legs still shaky, and follow the familiar path through the studio corridors β past sets of Lys, Dorne, Ashford β until you reach the trailer block.
You walk a few paces behind him and Finn doesn't look back β at least not right away β and you catch yourself watching his broad back through the robe, the way the platinum-blonde wig sways slightly with each step, how his shoulders are tense, muscles pulled tight beneath skin covered in body makeup.
The director said a break for hair and makeup, but what you need isn't a touch-up. What you need is five minutes alone, five minutes to sit in silence and try to understand what the hell happened on that set bed.
"See you in a bit," he says.
"See you in a bit," you reply.
His lips part like he's going to say something β a question, maybe, or a confession β but then a runner dashes between you with a cable in hand, muttering "sorry, sorry, coming through", and the moment shatters like a glass hitting the floor.
When you reach the fork in the corridor β individual dressing rooms to the left, the collective hair and makeup bay to the right β Finn finally looks back again.
His eyes meet yours, and you see it.
You see the want that's still there, latent, burning beneath the surface of the professional performance you're both trying to maintain. His pupils are blown, even under the harsh corridor lights. There's a flush in his eyes that isn't from the red body paint, and you feel the same heat rising up your own face, the same tightness in your chest, the same almost unbearable urge to touch.
He turns and goes into his dressing room, the door closing with a soft click. You stand in the corridor for a second longer than you should, your fingers gripping the belt of your robe, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.
Then you go into your own dressing room, close the door, and lean back against it with your eyes shut.
The dressing room is small but comfortable. A makeup table with LED lights around the mirror, a clothes rack with costumes hanging in protective plastic bags, a small sofa covered in a grey throw, a table with a tray of snacks and bottles of water. The air smells of hairspray, liquid foundation, and the sweet perfume of the soy candles the makeup team lights to "create a relaxing atmosphere".
You push yourself away from the door and walk to the table, letting the robe fall from your shoulders as you go. There's a darker patch between your legs, visible through the modesty pouch, and you feel your face catch fire when you see your own reflection in the mirror.
You're a mess, you think.Β A complete mess.
Before you can do anything β before you can even think about cleaning the stain or changing clothes or doing anything to salvage your dignity β someone knocks on the door.
"Costume," a woman's voice calls from outside. "Can we come in?"
"Yes," you reply, and your voice is strangely steady, professional. "Come in."
The door opens and two women walk in carrying makeup cases and hair kits. They're the same ones who were on set during the shoot, the same ones who ran in to touch up your blush and lipstick between takes.
"We'll do a full body check first," one of them says, already opening her case. "The director wants close-ups of your neck and shoulders, so we need to cover all the marks."
All the marks.
"God," the same one murmurs, and you look at her reflection in the mirror. An older woman is examining your body with professional eyes, but there's a blush in her cheeks. "Finn went overboard, didn't he?"
You look down and see what they're seeing.
Marks. Bites.
On your neck, below your right ear, there's a dark purple bruise where his teeth sank into your skin. On your breasts β both of them β there are red circles around your nipples, fingerprints where his hands squeezed harder than necessary. On your hips, there are dark finger-shaped marks, five purplish blotches on each side, where he grabbed you during that final on-all-fours sequence.
And on your arse...
You don't need to look to know. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting of each slap he gave. She turns you sideways and lets out a low whistle.
"That'll take a week to cover," she says, but she doesn't sound annoyed. Just... impressed. "What were you two doing in there, exactly?"
The other one laughs.
"We thought we were watching actual porn," she confesses, picking up a pot of corrective foundation and starting to apply it to your neck with a damp sponge. "Seriously. For a moment, we looked at each other and said 'are they even acting?'"
Your face burns. You keep your eyes fixed on a vague spot on the wall, trying not to show how those words affect you, how they hit the centre of your guilt dead on.
"You were so intense," she continues, picking up a smaller brush to work on the marks on your hips. "The way he looked at you, the way you looked at him... It looked like you were actually making love."
"We're good actors," you say, and the excuse comes out automatically. "Finn's a great scene partner. Very generous. Very... present."
Present.Β It's a safe word, professional, something you could say in any behind-the-scenes interview. But she raises an eyebrow and lets out a little "hmm" that could mean anything.
"Present," she repeats, running the sponge over your shoulder. "That's one word for what happened in there."
You wonder if they know, if they saw. If they noticed the way your nipples hardened before Finn even touched them. If they saw the fluid that ran down your thigh during that last take. If they heard the moan that escaped your throat that you tried to pass off as acting.
"Honey, we've been in this industry for twenty years," she says. "We know the difference between good acting and... that."
"That?"
"Chemistry," she finishes, applying translucent powder to your neck to set the foundation.
You don't know what to say. You don't know if you should deny it, or thank her, or just stay quiet and hope the subject changes. So you do the only thing you can think of β you change the subject.
"The costume," you say, your voice a little louder than necessary. "Do I need to put the dress back on?"
They exchange a quick look but let it go. The older one steps back a little and nods toward the clothes rack, where the torn dress is hanging on a padded hanger.
"The director asked for you to wear it," she confirms. "He wants to redo the adjustments for the requested scenes. The light was different on the first take, and he wants to make sure the fabric's texture is visible in the close-ups." She pauses, examining the dress with a critical eye. "We'll have to fix the wig too β it's all out of place after the scene."
She's already picking up the lace front from a mannequin head on the counter. It's a long, silver wig with loose waves meant to resemble Valyrian hair but which now look like a bird's nest. You wore it throughout the whole scene, and Finn pulled your hair at least four times β once to turn your face, another time to arch your back, and twice during that final sequence that still makes your stomach turn just thinking about it.
"I'll brush it out," she decides, already pulling a natural-bristle brush from her case. "Sit down."
You obey, sitting in the makeup chair while she starts detangling the wig with careful strokes. She goes back to working on the marks on your body, applying layers of foundation and powder over every bite, every scratch, every fingerprint Finn left on your skin.
The silence is almost comfortable now, filled only by the sound of the brush going through the synthetic fibres and the occasional click of makeup pots being opened and closed. You close your eyes and try to relax, try to let your body soften into the chair, try not to think about how the hand pressing the brush against your hip is almost too gentle, almost as if she's stroking the marks another man left.
"Done," she announces after a few minutes. "The marks are covered. But you'll have to be careful with sweat during the close-ups, otherwise the foundation will run."
You open your eyes and examine yourself in the mirror. The marks are still there β you can see their outline through the makeup, darker patches under the foundation-covered skin β but they're disguised enough for the cameras. Your body looks intact, untouched, as if the last forty minutes never happened.
But you know they did. You can still feel the tingling, the gentle sting where his teeth bit down, the sore muscles from the position you held for too long.
"The wig's ready," Clara says, placing the piece back on your head carefully. She secures it with glue, adjusts the fit, brushes a few strands over your shoulders. "Perfect. You look like you've just stepped out of Lys."
You manage a smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes.
"Thanks."
The older one starts packing the pots and brushes back into the case.
"The dress is over there, whenever you want to put it on. We need to see how it hangs after the adjustments, so call us when you're ready, alright?"
You hesitate. The dress is hanging on the rack, the fabric torn at the shoulder exactly as Finn left it, as if it was ripped off violently. You remember the feeling β the sound of the fabric tearing, his hand pulling, the cold air kissing your bare skin β and a shiver runs down your spine.
"Actually," you start, and your voice comes out weaker than you intended. "Can you leave me alone for a bit? I just... need some quiet. To relax. And go over the script."
They exchange another look, but nod without questioning it.
"Of course," she says, packing the last thing into the case. "We'll be back in half an hour to look at the dress. Try to rest a bit, alright? You seem... tense."
Tense.Β It's such an inadequate word that you almost laugh. Tense is what you feel before an interview. Tense is what you feel when you forget a line. Tense isn't enough to describe what's going on inside you right now β the heat still pulsing between your legs, the wetness that still hasn't dried, the thoughts spinning in a loop in your head like a film that won't stop playing.
"Thanks," you repeat, and the two women leave, the door closing with a soft click behind them.
The silence in the dressing room is deafening.
You sit in the chair for a long minute, just breathing, trying to convince yourself that you're in control, that you can handle this, that it's just physical attraction, just on-set chemistry, just nothing.
But then your eyes land on the script on the table.
You pick up the script with trembling fingers. The pages are marked with coloured Post-its β blue for your lines, yellow for scene directions, pink for the moments of physical contact. You flick through to the scene you just shot, reading the words you've already memorised, the dialogue you rehearsed dozens of times.
She kneels before him. He grabs her hair. She moans.
He turns her over. He presses her against the mattress. She arches her back.
He fingers her. She screams.
The script doesn't sayΒ she feels his body shake. It doesn't sayΒ she almost comes. It doesn't sayΒ she wants him to keep going even after the showrunner yells cut.
You drop the script on the table and bury your face in your hands.
What are you doing, you ask yourself.Β What are you feeling.
But you know what you're feeling. You feel it now, stronger than ever β the echo of his touches on your skin. His hand grabbing your hip. His fingers squeezing your neck. His mouth sucking your nipple.
You can still taste him on your tongue, still smell him in your hair, or maybe that's just your imagination, but you swear you can feel his warm, human scent wrapping around you. You feel the heat between your legs, insistent, painful, unbearable.
You look at the mirror and see yourself β the silver wig perfectly brushed, the flawless makeup hiding all the marks, your naked body. You look like a doll, a puppet, a Valyrian courtesan ready for the next take. But despite being an actress, you're just a woman. A woman who's wet. A woman who's alone. A woman who can't stop thinking about Finn.
Your hand goes down.
You don't decide to do this. It just happens, your hand sliding down your stomach, your fingers finding the wetness between your legs. You're so wet. Your fingers slip without effort, finding the spot that's been throbbing, pulsing in anticipation since he whispered that last line in your ear. You press, slow, gentle circles, and a moan escapes your throat.
"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a prayer.
You close your eyes and let yourself fall back into the chair, your legs opening wider, your fingers working faster. In your mind, it's not you touching yourself. It's him. It's his hands, his fingers, his mouth. You imagine Finn kneeling between your legs, the platinum-blonde wig askew, his pale eyes fixed on yours as he leans down, and the moan that escapes now is louder, less controlled. You bite your lip to quiet yourself, but the sound keeps vibrating in your throat, mingled with his name:Β Finn, Finn, Finn.
Your other hand squeezes your own breast, and you imagine it's his hand. You remember his strength, the way he squeezed you there, the way his fingers dug deep into your flesh and left marks that the makeup is still trying to hide.
Your fingers slide faster, finding the rhythm he used against you, that hip movement that mimicked penetration with obscene precision. You arch your back in the chair, and your other hand squeezes your nipple harder, not as hard as he squeezed it, but enough to hurt, to remember.
You're so professional, the thought comes like a whip, but you can't stop. You can't.
The guilt comes in waves, mixed in with the pleasure. You should be going over the script. You should be resting, drinking water, getting ready for the next takes. You should be the actress who signed the contract, the professional who delivers the work and goes home without leaving anything on set except the performance.
Instead, you're here, your fingers stuffed inside yourself, thinking about your scene partner.
He's just your scene partner, you repeat, while your thumb presses your clit and a moan escapes through your parted lips.Β He's just the actor playing Aerion. This is just professional chemistry. This is just...
You open your eyes and see yourself in the mirror.
The image is obscene. You're naked in the makeup chair, your legs open, your hand shoved between them, your fingers glistening with how wet you are. Your lipstick is smudged, the makeup that was meant to hide his marks can't hide the blush rising from your chest to your face. You look like a degraded version of the Lysene courtesan you're meant to play; a woman who wants to be fucked by a man she can't have.
"Finn," you moan again, and this time you don't hold back the volume.
In your head, he's behind you. His large hands on your hips, his warm breath against your nape, his body pressing yours against the chair. You feel his weight, feel his erection against your arse, feel his uneven breathing in your ear.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers in your memory, and you don't know anymore if he actually said it or if you made it up. "You're so beautiful, and I want..."
What did he want? What was he going to ask when he stood staring at you in the corridor, his eyes wide, his lips parted?
You don't know. But you want to know. God, how you want to know.
Your fingers plunge deeper, and you imagine it's him inside you. You imagine his cock β you want his cock inside you β thick and hot and hard the way you felt it pressing against your thigh. You imagine him properly fucking you, without the bloody modesty pouch, without the cameras, without the showrunner yelling "cut". You imagine him throwing you onto the set bed, tearing off the rest of your dress, shoving his face between your legs and...
This is wrong, the thought comes like a punch.Β This is so wrong.
You're an actress. Are you in a relationship? No, you're not. But that doesn't matter. What matters is professionalism, the contract, the clauses about on-set conduct, about not harassing colleagues, about maintaining strictly professional relationships.
You're not harassing anyone, part of you argues.Β You're alone in your own dressing room. You can think about whatever you want.
But the guilt doesn't disappear. It wraps around the pleasure like a rope, squeezing, suffocating. You think about Finn and you feel dirty. You think about how he trusted you to do that scene, how he said it was "easy" and "natural" working with you, how he covered you with his tunic.
He was kind. He was professional. He was respectful.
And you're here, wanking to thoughts of him.
This is a breach of trust, you think, but your fingers don't stop.Β If he knew...
You remember his erection against your thigh. You remember the hot, wet fluid that escaped through the fabric. You remember the muffled groan he let out when his whole body tensed against yours.
The pleasure builds, a hot wave rising from your belly and spreading through your chest, your arms, your throat. You're almost there. So close. If you press a little more, if you squeeze harder, if you close your eyes and let the image of Finn completely overtake you...
The door opens.
Your eyes shoot to the reflection in the mirror, and your heart stops for a full second before racing into a desperate tachycardia.
Finn is standing in the doorway.
He's still in costume β the platinum-blonde wig, the dark makeup around his eyes that makes him look more threatening, more Aerion than himself. He's wearing a different robe from yours, black and fluffy, and there's a cup of coffee in his hand, as if he came to offer it, as if he knocked and you didn't hear, as if...
Your eyes meet his in the mirror.
You pull your hand away from between your legs so fast you nearly hurt yourself, your wet fingers glistening under the dressing room lights. Your face is on fire, your heart is beating so hard you're sure he can hear it, and for one long second, no one moves.
You want to die. You want the floor to open up and swallow you. You want to go back in time five minutes and simply not do this, or at least lock the door, or at least...
"Sorry," Finn says, but he doesn't leave. He doesn't turn around. He just stands there, in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on your face in the mirror, the coffee cup forgotten in his hand. "I knocked. You didn't answer. I just... brought coffee. Thought you might want some."
Your hand is wet. You wipe your fingers in a quick, ashamed motion, but he saw. He knows.
"Finn," you start, and your voice comes out strangled, broken. "Finn, I... this isn't... I was just..."
"Relaxing," he finishes, and there's something in his voice β something low, something rough β that makes the heat between your legs, which had started to fade, come back full force.
He puts the coffee cup on the table by the door. Closes the door behind him. And walks toward you.
"Coffee," he repeats, as if he's explaining. "I thought you might want some. After the scene. You seemed... tense."
The same word the makeup artist used. But in Finn's mouth, the word sounds different. It sounds likeΒ wet. It sounds likeΒ ready. It sounds likeΒ me too. He stops a metre away from you, too close to be professional, too far to be intimate. His eyes travel over your body in the mirror.
"You don't have to stop," he says. "You deserve it."
You hold your breath. "What?"
"You deserve it," he repeats, taking another step closer. "I did it too... after the scene. As soon as I got into my dressing room." His hand rises, his fingers touching his own nape, where the wig meets his skin. "I thought about you. About how you looked... how you moved... how you moaned..."
"Finnβ¦"
"Let me finish." His voice is firm now, but gentle. "I had a wank thinking about you. I thought about what it would be like to actually be inside you, without the clothes, without the cameras, without the script." He crouches down, coming to your level, his pale eyes now level with yours. "And you deserve to do the same. You deserve to feel real pleasure, not just the simulation we did out there."
You're trembling. Your whole body is trembling, and it's not from cold.
"Finn, we can'tβ¦"
"We can." He interrupts, and his hand finds your knee. Just rests there, light, a permission rather than an imposition. "We can do whatever you want. But I need you to know that you don't have to hide from me. Not after what happened on that set."
His knee is touching yours. You feel his warmth through the fabric of his robe, and your breathing goes uneven.
"You can call me Aerion, if you prefer," he continues, and now there's a small smile at the corner of his mouth, a smile that isn't entirely innocent. "If that helps. If it's easier to pretend this is just... a continuation of the scene."
"Finn," you whisper, and his name leaves your mouth like a plea.
"Keep going," he asks, and his fingers move from your knee to your thigh, one centimetre, two centimetres. "Keep doing what you were doing. But now... while my face is buried between your legs."
The air leaves your lungs as if you've been punched.
"What?" you manage to say, and the word is barely audible.
"You heard me." He kneels down. Actually kneels on the floor of your dressing room, his knees pressing into the cold floor, his face now level with your waist. His hands find your knees, gently pushing them apart.
"You're going to fall apart in my mouth. And you can call me whatever name you want. Aerion. Finn. Both. It doesn't matter. I just want to hear you."
The pose is one of pleading, but his eyes βΒ God, his eyes β are pure fire. The platinum lace front is slightly out of place, a few strands escaping the glue at his temple, and the dark makeup around his eyes has smudged a little at the corner, giving him a wildness that's entirely Aerion.
"Finn," you whisper.
"Can I?" he asks, and his voice is hoarse. His hands squeeze your knees, and you feel the heat through the thin fabric of the robe. "Can I taste you, darling? Can I make you feel what you deserve?"
Darling. It's not Aerion calling a Lysene whore that. It's Finn⦠or maybe it's both, merged into one, the actor and the character so tangled together you can't separate them anymore. The man who's been inside you in every way the script allowed, and some the script didn't plan for.
You nod, unable to form words. Your hand's still wet from what you were doing, and you hide it in the robe, embarrassed, but his eyes follow the movement, and he gives you a small, warm smile that isn't judgement but want.
"Show me," he says, and his fingers travel up your thighs. "Show me what you were doing. Show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."
You obey. Not out of obligation, but because you want to, because you've never wanted to be seen by someone this badly. Your hand goes back down, finding the wet heat between your legs, and you moan when your own fingers touch your clit β already sensitive, already throbbing.
"That's it," Finn murmurs, and his eyes are fixed on your hand, on the movement of your fingers. "Keep going. Don't stop."
He leans in and his mouth finds the inside of your thigh β a light kiss, almost chaste, so different from everything that's happened on set. His lips are soft, warm, and they trace a slow path from your thigh to your cunt, kissing, licking, teasing.
You arch your back against the chair, your fingers still moving between your legs, but the rhythm falters, goes uncoordinated, because all you can feel is his mouth getting closer, his warm breath against your skin, the promise of what's coming.
"Finn, please," you moan, and you don't know if you're asking him to stop or to keep going.
"Finn or Aerion?" he asks, and then his tongue finally finds your clit β a light touch, just the tip β and your whole body convulses like you've been shocked.
"Both," you gasp, and the word comes out strangled. "Both, both, pleaseβ¦"
He laughs against your skin, a low sound that vibrates through you.
"Greedy thing," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on you for real.
There's no hesitation now. His tongue presses against your clit with exactly the right amount of pressure β not too soft, not too hard, perfect, as if he knows what your body needs before you do. His lips suck, and your vision blurs, and the fingers that were moving between your legs are replaced by his β one finger sliding inside you so easily it makes you moan loud.
"You're so wet," he murmurs against you, and there's pride in his voice. "Is that because of me? Was it the scene? Or was it what you were doing just now, thinking about me?"
"Everything," you confess, and the words come out in fragments, between moans. "The scene, you, what I was doing⦠everything."
He pushes in a second finger, and you feel the stretch, the fullness. His fingers are longer than yours, thicker, and they find a spot inside you that makes your legs shake. His mouth goes back to your clit, his tongue pressing, sucking, while his fingers move inside you in a rhythm that's exactly like the simulation from the scene, only better, because it's real, because there's no fabric between you, because you can feel the heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, the way he moans against you like he's devouring you.
"Your cunt is perfect," he says, and the word sounds obscene coming from his mouth, erotic. "Sweet. Tight. I could stay here forever."
You grab his wig β the platinum lace front that's supposed to be Aerion, but now it's just Finn, because Finn is the one on his knees between your legs, Finn is the one with his fingers buried inside you, Finn is the one taking you to the edge with his mouth and hands. Your fingers tangle in the synthetic strands, pulling, and he moans β a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your cunt.
"Pull harder," he says, and his eyes meet yours over your belly. "Make it hurt. I want to feel it tomorrow."
You pull, and the wig slips a little, revealing his dark hair underneath. The sight is strangely intimate β the character coming undone, the man showing through underneath. You pull again, and he lets out a moan that's almost a growl, and his fingers inside you speed up, his mouth presses harder.
"I'm close," you warn, and your voice is more desperate now. "Finn, I'm going toβ¦"
"Go," he orders against you. "Come in my mouth. I want to feel you fall apart."
The orgasm comes, building slow and then sudden, violent. Your body arches in the chair, your back lifting off the rest, your head thrown back. A moan tears from your throat β too loud, too obscene β and you feel your muscles clenching around his fingers, feel the hot wetness running down your vulva, feel his tongue licking up every drop, every spasm, every tremor.
He doesn't stop. His mouth keeps going, softer now, licking you through the orgasm, prolonging each wave of pleasure until you're so sensitive that any touch is almost pain. Only then does he pull back, his lips shining, his chin wet.
"Get up," he says, and his voice is as hoarse as yours. "Get on the chair. I want you sitting in my lap."
You obey because your body's so limp you can't do anything else. He stands up, and you see his robe β his erection pressing against the fluffy fabric, so obvious it hurts to look at. He sits in the chair you just vacated, pulls you into his lap, and you feel his cock against your cunt through the robe β hot, hard, so close.
"I want you," he murmurs, and his hands grip your hips, grinding you against him. "I want to feel you. But not here. Not now. Not like this."
You moan in frustration, your hips moving against him in a slow, unconscious rhythm.
"Then how?" you ask.
"With your mouth," he answers, and there's something in his voice that's more Aerion than Finn. "I want you on your knees. I want to feel your mouth on me. But I don't want you to pretend. I want you to want it."
You slide from his lap to the floor, your knees meeting the cold stone where his were just moments ago. Your face is level with his waist, and your hands find the knot of his robe, untying it with trembling fingers.
The robe falls open, and you see.
His cock is beautiful β there's no other word. Thick, slightly curved upward, the head pink and glistening with pre-come. There's dark hair at the base, and you want to bury your face there, want to smell him, taste him, everything.
"Touch it," he says, and his voice is so vulnerable all of a sudden, so little like Aerion. "Please."
Your hand wraps around the base, and he moans β a low, rough sound that makes your stomach flip. You slide your hand up, slow, feeling the texture of his skin, the heat, the wetness at the tip. Your thumb rubs the pre-come, spreading it over the head, and he throws his head back, eyes closed.
"Like that," he whispers. "Exactly like that."
You lean in and run your tongue over the tip.
The taste is salty, slightly bitter, strangely addictive. You lick again, slower, and he moans louder, his hands gripping the arms of the chair like he needs the support.
"Your mouth," he murmurs, and his eyes open, meeting yours. "Your mouth is a sin."
You smile against him β a small, wicked smile β and then you take him in your lips, sliding over the head, feeling the pressure against your tongue. He's big, thicker than your fingers, and you have to relax your jaw to fit him.
"Really slow," he says, and his hand finds your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "You set the pace."
But you don't want the pace. You want what he did to you β total surrender, the loss of control. So you slide deeper, feeling the head of his cock hit the back of your throat, and your eyes water, and your body fights the gag, but you don't stop.
"Fuck," he growls, and his grip slips. His fingers curl in your hair and he pulls. "Like that. Exactly like that."
You start to move, your head bobbing up and down, your tongue pressing against the underside of his cock with every motion. Then you look up. His eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide, and there's a flush on his neck that climbs to his cheeks. He's biting his lower lip, and you see the moment his control finally breaks.
"I need to," he says, and his voice is broken. "I need toβ¦ please, let meβ¦"
You nod your head as best you can with your mouth full.
He thrusts his hips.
It's a small movement at first, almost shy, like he's testing. His cock slides deeper into your throat, and you feel the gag rise, but you don't want to stop. He thrusts again, a little harder, and your eyes water, and you swallow around him, and the moan he lets out is so loud you're sure someone outside must have heard.
"Like that," he groans, and now his rhythm's faster, his hips pushing against your face in a movement that's almost brutal, almost desperate. "Like that, like that, like thatβ¦"
You relax your throat, open your mouth wider, and let him. Let him use you. Let him drown in the heat of your mouth, the tightness of your throat, the way your tongue presses against him with every thrust.
"I'm going to come," he warns, and his voice is so close to the edge, so close to breaking. "Where do you want it?"
You don't answer with words. Instead, you slide your hand up the base of his cock, squeezing gently, and moan β a low sound that vibrates through him.
That's enough.
His body tenses, his hips pushing one last time, deeper than before. You feel the hot rush at the back of your throat, feel the salty, bitter taste spreading through your mouth, and you swallow, keep swallowing, while he shakes above you, his hands now loose in your hair, his breath coming in sobs.
You pull away slowly, your mouth still wet, your eyes still watering. You wipe your lips with the back of your hand, and the gesture is so mundane, so human, it contrasts with everything that just happened.
Finn's looking at you with an expression you've never seen before. It's not Aerion, all pose and arrogance. It's not Finn, the professional actor, polite and distant. It's something in between β a man who's just been unmade by you, who's just given himself over.
"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls you into his lap.
You go without resistance, feeling his cock now soft against your thigh, his robe all dishevelled, the sweat on his forehead.
"You're incredible," he murmurs, and his fingers trace a slow path from your waist to your neck, stopping at your jaw, tilting your face so he can kiss you.
The kiss is different from the ones you've shared on set. There, it was choreographed, measured, professional. Here, it's uncoordinated and deep, your tongues meeting with an urgency bordering on desperation. You taste yourself in his mouth β the salty, slightly sour taste of your own orgasm β and your lower belly clenches in response.
"Finn," you whisper against his lips, and the name is a question.
He understands.
"No," he answers, and his hand drops to your hip, squeezing. "We're not stopping. Not yet."
"But the crewβ¦"
"We've got time." He bites your lower lip, a gentle tug that makes your eyes roll back. "An hour, remember? And it's only beenβ¦" He glances at the clock on the wall β a thing that doesn't even work properly β and laughs. "I've no idea, but we've got time."
You want to believe that. You want to believe you can stay here, in his lap, with your makeup smudged and your wig askew and your body still trembling from the orgasm he gave you, and just⦠exist. But there's something burning inside you that's hunger, it's need, it's the demand for more.
"I want you in a certain way," you begin, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "Not the way we just did. The way I imagined."
His eyes darken.
"What way?"
You get up from his lap, and he lets you, his eyes glued to every move you make. You walk to the centre of the dressing room, where the small sofa sits against the wall opposite the mirror. It's a simple piece, upholstered in grey velvet, with wide arms and a low back β nothing luxurious, but functional. You sit down on it, your back straight, your legs open, your arms resting along the back on either side.
"As Aerion," you say. "Rough, cruel, but still being you."
Finn stays still for a second, just watching.
"Are you sure?" he asks, but you don't answer.
He hesitates for another second, his pale eyes searching your face for any sign of doubt. And then, slowly, something in him shifts. His shoulders straighten. His chin lifts. His eyes β God, his eyes β lose that human vulnerability and fill with something far more dangerous.
Aerion Brightflame is standing before you.
Your body responds before your brain processes it. A shiver runs up your spine, and your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of wetness between your legs.
He walks toward you. Each step is slow, the soles of his feet β he's barefoot, you realise now, his feet broad and his toes long β pressing against the floor with a feline stillness. The robe is open, revealing his chest, his stomach, the line of dark hair that runs from his belly down to his waist.
He stops in front of you, so close you can feel the heat of his body. His hand rises and grips your chin, forcing you to look up.
"You teased me," he says, and his fingers tighten, firm enough to hurt. "On set. With your moans. With the way you looked at me. You knew what you were doing."
It's not a question. You shake your head as little as possible, your eyes fixed on his.
"Yes, my prince."
"And now?" His hand drops to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a gesture that doesn't squeeze β not yet β but promises to. "Now you're going to pretend you don't want it? That it was just acting?"
You swallow hard, feeling his fingers against your windpipe.
"I want it," you whisper. "I want everything you want to give me."
"Everything?" He repeats the word as if he's savouring it. "You don't know what you're asking for."
He pushes you back against the sofa. It's not a violent movement β it's precise, controlled, his shoulders blocking any attempt at escape. One hand is still on your neck; the other drops to your waist, his fingers hooking onto your hip bone.
"Lie down," he orders. "On your back."
You obey, your back meeting the cool velvet of the sofa. He positions himself over you, his knees either side of your hips, his weight resting on his forearms. His cock is hard again.
You lift your hips, and the cool air of the dressing room kisses your exposed cunt. You're so wet you can feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, leaving a damp trail on the velvet of the sofa.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, and for a second, Finn shows through underneath Aerion. "You're so beautiful."
But then the moment passes, and he leans in, his mouth finding your neck with a ferocity that makes you moan. He bites β but with teeth, with intent β leaving marks no makeup artist will be able to hide.
"Finn," you moan, and the name escapes before you can think.
"Wrong," he growls against your skin.
"Aerion," you correct.
"Better."
His mouth travels down to your breasts, his lips latching onto one nipple while his hand squeezes the other. He's not gentle β he pulls, bites, sucks with an intensity bordering on pain β and your body arches against his, your hips lifting in search of contact.
"Please," you beg, and you don't even know what you're asking for anymore. "Please, Aerion, pleaseβ¦"
He pulls back, leaving your nipples sore and wet, and sits down on the sofa, pulling you into his lap.
"You want to ride me?" he asks, and the suggestion is obscene. "You want to sit on a dragon's cock?"
You don't answer with words. Instead, you position yourself over him, your knees either side of his hips, your cunt pressing against the base of his cock. You're so wet you slide without effort, the head of his cock brushing against your entrance, and you both moan at the same time.
"Ride," he orders, and his hands grip your hips. "But I'm not going to let you come. Not until I say so."
You sink down onto him, slow, feeling every inch of his cock filling you. He's thicker than your fingers, thicker than any toy you've ever used, and the stretch is almost painful, but the pleasure is greater β a warm wave spreading from your centre through your whole body.
"Fuck," he groans, and his control slips for a second. "You're so tight. So hot."
You start to move, your hips rising and falling slowly. His cock slides out almost completely, then back in, each thrust deeper than the last. Your hands find his shoulders for support, and you throw your head back, your eyes closed, just feeling.
"Look at me," he orders.
You obey, your eyes meeting his. They're dark, almost black, his pupils blown so wide they've swallowed most of the pale iris.
"Faster," he says, and his hands squeeze your hips, guiding your rhythm. "I want to feel you bouncing on me."
You speed up, your movements growing more erratic, more desperate. Each downward stroke drives his cock deep into you, and you feel the pleasure building β slow at first, then faster. You're so close. So close.
"Stop," he orders.
What?
"Stop," he repeats, and his hands grip your hips, stopping your movement.
You freeze, his cock buried inside you, your breath coming in gasps. The orgasm was seconds away, and now it retreats, leaving you with a feeling of emptiness, of almost, of frustration. You feel your cunt clenching, begging to get there.
"I said I wouldn't let you," he reminds you, and there's a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Not yet."
You groan in frustration, your hips trying to move against his hands.
"Please," you beg. "Please, Aerion, I needβ¦"
"What you need," he interrupts, "is to learn patience."
He lifts you off him, his cock sliding out of you with a wet sound that makes your face burn, and turns you around so you're facing away from him. Your belly meets the velvet of the sofa, your breasts pressing into the upholstery, and you feel his hands on your hips, pulling you back.
"On all fours," he orders.
You position yourself, your knees on the sofa, your hands braced on the arm. The mirror is in front of you β you can see yourself, can see the image the two of you make: you on all fours, your silver wig askew, your makeup smudged, your body covered in marks; him behind you, his robe open, his cock hard and slick with wetness, his eyes fixed on your exposed cunt.
"Look," he orders, and his hand grabs your hair, pulling your head back so you've no choice but to stare at the reflection. "Look at what you do to me."
You look. You see your wide eyes, your open mouth, your breasts swaying with every breath. You see him behind you, his body tense, the muscles of his stomach clenched, the expression on his face a mixture of desire and hunger and something darker.
"You're mine now," he says, brushing your cunt with the tip of his cock. "Tonight. This hour. Whatever happens tomorrow, right now you're mine."
Suddenly, he moves his cock up to your arse. You feel your body shiver; you press yourself harder against him, trying to beg him to shove his whole cock inside you, to explore both your holes, to make you feel like he's fucked you entirely.
"You like that?" he asks, brushing his cock against your arsehole, pressing the head against your opening. "You want me to go in there?"
You do, but there wasn't time for that β you'd need patience, you'd need to be relaxed β but all you want is for him to fuck you.
He settles himself with his cock at your arsehole, pressing just enough for you to let out a little squeak when a tiny bit of his tip threatens to enter, when you clench and then relax, wanting to receive him.
Then he lowers himself to your cunt and pushes, and his cock enters you all at once.
The moan you let out is so loud it echoes in the small dressing room. He's deeper like this, on all fours, hitting an angle that makes your legs tremble. He starts moving immediately, his hips slapping against your arse, exactly as you asked.
"Like that," you moan, the words coming out in fragments. "Like that, like that, like thatβ¦"
One hand grips your hip; the other drops down and finds your clit, his fingers pressing in circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts. The pleasure comes back, faster now, building from where it left off.
"You're close," he observes, and it's not a question.
"Yes," you confess, your voice broken. "Yes, please, let meβ¦"
"No."
He feels you clench around him, and then he pulls his cock out of you quickly, shoving three fingers into your cunt all at once, masturbating you fast, making you grip the sofa and moan without being able to stop yourself. You feel a pressure in your lower belly, and then when you push, you squirt, gushing as his fingers slip out, and he slaps your cunt.
"There," he appreciates, and shoves his fingers back in. "All of that for me?"
You nod, and a few seconds later he pulls his fingers out again and you squirt again, receiving another slap to your cunt. Then he shoves his cock inside you, and when he feels you're almost there, his hand on your clit stops. His hips stop too, his cock buried inside you, motionless. You want to cry from frustration. Your body is shaking, your muscles clenching around him, begging for the orgasm he keeps denying you.
"Why are you doing this?" you ask, and your voice comes out weaker than you'd like.
"Because I can," he answers, and there's something wrong with his smile in the mirror. "Because you asked me to be rough. And becauseβ¦" He leans in, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Because when I finally let you, you won't remember your own name."
He starts moving again, slower this time, each thrust deep and deliberate. His hand returns to your clit, but the movements are soft, almost teasing, bringing you to the edge over and over without ever letting you go over.
"Please," you beg, and you've lost count of how many times you've said that word. "Please, I can't take any more."
"Yes you can," he answers, and his voice is shaking β he's at his limit too, you realise. He's holding back too. "A bit longer. Hold on a bit longer."
He speeds up, his hips slamming into you with a force that makes the sofa creak. Your vision blurs, and you grip the arm of the sofa so hard your knuckles go white.
"Now," he orders, and his hand on your clit presses firmly. "Now, now, nowβ¦"
Your body arches, your back curving, your head thrown back. A scream tears from your throat β his name, Finn or Aerion or both β and you feel your muscles clenching around his cock, once, twice, three times, each clench stronger than the last.
He keeps moving, guiding you through the orgasm, and when the waves finally start to ease, he buries his face in your neck and groans.
"Where do you want it?"
"Inside," you answer, without thinking. "I want to feel it."
He obeys. His body tenses, his fingers digging hard into your hips, and you feel the hot rush inside you, filling you in a way no performance ever could.
For a long moment, no one moves.
His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his body heavy on yours. You feel his cock softening inside you, feel the fluid dripping down your thigh, feel every place where his body touches yours.
"Finn," you whisper.
"I'm here," he answers, and his voice is his now, only his, with no trace of Aerion. "I'm here."
He pulls back slowly, his cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. You feel the loss immediately β an emptiness that's both physical and emotional. He turns you over, pulling you into his lap, and you go without resistance.
The mirror is still in front of you, but you can't look. You can't face the sight of what the two of you have become: the smudged makeup, the marks on your skin, the fluid running down your thighs.
"Look," he says softly, and his hand finds your chin, guiding your face toward the mirror. "It couldn't have been better."
You look. And for the first time, you don't feel ashamed.
You see a woman who was desired. You see a man who desired her back.
"Are you alright?" he asks, and the concern in his eyes is genuine.
You nod, unable to form words.
He holds you tighter, his face buried in your hair. And for a long time, you just stay there β two naked bodies, sweaty, exhausted, curled into each other on the small sofa in a dressing room.
"We need to clean up," he murmurs after a few minutes. "The crew'll be back."
You laugh, almost hysterical.
"How?" you ask. "How are we going to explain this?"
He pulls back just enough to look at your face.
"We don't explain," he answers. "We justβ¦ go back to set. Finish the takes. And thenβ¦" He hesitates. "Then we talk. If you want to."
"I want to," you answer, before you can think. "I want to talk."
His smile widens, and he kisses you β almost chaste, so different from everything that came before.
"Come on," he says, pulling you to your feet. "There's a sink over there. And towels. We'll manage."
You follow him to the little sink in the corner of the dressing room, and together, you clean each other. He takes a towel and wets it, running it gently between your legs, and you do the same for him.
When you're done, you look in the mirror again. The marks are all on show β bites, scratches, purple fingerprints on your hips. Your makeup is completely ruined.
"It'll hurt tomorrow," he comments, touching one of the marks on your neck.
He smiles, and you feel your heart tighten.
Outside the door, you hear the crew coming back, the production assistants calling the actors back to set. The real world is out there, waiting, with its cameras and its reflectors and its script that needs to be finished.
"Ready?" Finn asks.
"Ready," you lie.
He opens the door, and the two of you step out into the corridor, his hand finding yours for a second before letting go.
Seeing people hate on us, poor Bobby "backrooms" Franklin readers and writers is so funny, because they are doing an entire essay on how we are racist and misogynist for wanting "the five minutes alive white boy" instead of the other characters.
Guys we are just Aerion Targaryen's widows feeding on any crumbs of Finn Bennett we can find. Relax!!!
Bobby shut the door of the supply closet quietly, peering out the crack to make sure there was no sigh of Clark coming to tell them to stop slaking on the job. He turned the lock before turning around with a mischievous grin spread across his face.
You shook your head smiling as well.
βSee. Easy Peasy.β He said in almost a whisper as he moved to put is hands on your waist, eyes looking at your lips.
βWhat if he comes to get something from here.β You said quieter than Bobby in fear that you might be heard.
βHey. Donβt you worry your pretty little head.β Then he leaned in, kissing you softly.
His hand ran down the sides of your body before resting on your hips. He pulled them against his own letting out a small hum. The kiss became more intense. You stepped backwards and your back hit the wall making a small cardboard box fall from an overhead shelf. It hit the ground with a quiet thump. Probably not enough for anyone outside of the closet to hear. You broke the kiss, eyes growing wide.
βBobby!β You yelled in a whisper.
βShh.β He remained smiling but put a single finger over his lips before bringing it to yours.
Then, he brought his lips to your neck, kissing and sucking gently on your soft skin.
βI really am not trying to get fired.β You barely protested, melting into his touch.
βThen be quiet for me. Yeah?β His voice was lower than usual and you could feel his breath on your neck as he spoke. Your cheeks began to heat up immediately.
You quickly nodded your head, forcing out any thoughts of being caught in this situation. You felt as his hands slipped under the fabric of your shirt which he began to pull up.
βPut your arms up.β His lips disconnected from your skin as you did as he said, easing your arms over your head while he pulled off your shirt.
You were exposed now, only wearing a lace bra you had bought just for Bobby. If Clark or anyone walked in right now they wouldnβt have to guess what was going on. Something about that idea made you feel weirdly excited.
βGod youβre beautiful.β His eyes lingered on your body as his hands softly grazed your skin.
Then, he made a swift movement removing his shirt as well and tossed it on the floor. He kissed you again and you could feel his warm skin pressed against yours.
You could feel his hands move down as he began to unbuckle his belt with one hand while his other stayed on the back of your neck, pulling you into the kiss.
Right as he was about to remove the belt completely, the door knob began to shake. Then it stopped and a voice called from behind the door.
βIs someone in there.β Clark.
βYeah, yeah. Sorry one sec iβm just putting some stuff away.β Bobby said frantically grabbing the two of your clothes off of the ground. He tossed you your shirt and you pulled it over your head quickly.
You mouthed the words βWhat do i do!β to bobby as he finished doing back up his belt.
βCan you please unlock this Bobby.β You could hear Clarke growing impatient as he tried the door knob again.
βSorry!β Bobby said before turning the lock. The door opened immediately to reveal a not so happy Clark who was dressed in a pirate costume, camera in hand.
He looked at the two of you. Clearly unimpressed.
βSorry sir.β You finally spoke, cheeks red from embarrassment and from what was happening moments ago, and he just shook his head.
βI donβt even wanna know. Back to work.β He said pushing through the two of you to grab his fake peg leg off a shelf.
You stepped out of the closet looking over to Bobby who was somehow still smiling. He gave you a wink and you just rolled your eyes.
areudirty
titsay
