A/N: HELLO! This was a quick, self-gratifying piece I wrote in like a few hours bc I was inspired by that scene where she's covered in blood... y'know the one after Moiraine's stabbed her.
Warnings: attempted assault, lanfear being covered in blood, slight m0mmy k!nk, a LOT of nicknames (as i said... self-gratifying), a lot of blood mentioned, please let me know if i've missed anything!! <3
Not proofread so I apologise in advance for any spelling mistakes or issues with writing :( <3
A/A/N: fr though, lanfear is so mommy to me i can't cope
You’d been trusted with looking after the Inn many times before. You knew this was just Lanfear’s cover to get close to the Dragon Reborn, Rand, but you still wanted to take care of it. After all, it was still important to Lanfear. It sometimes seemed to you that she cared about everything else more than she cared about you. You understood why, you knew Rand was important, and that getting him to trust Lanfear was the key to everything working, but you couldn’t deny it still hurt.
As you got lost even further in your thoughts, you were oblivious to the young man staring at you from one of the tables at the Inn. It was a big night of celebration within Cairhein, the start of The Great Hunt. Where young men and women search for the coveted Horn of Valere, which you knew was fake, but you played along. You began collecting empty cups from empty tables when the young man who’d been watching you made himself known.
“What’s a beautiful young lady like you doing working alone on a night like this?” He spoke loudly, his speech slurred slightly but he smiled at you brightly nonetheless.
“I’m capable of looking after myself, thank you. And I offered to work, so I can only blame myself.” You laughed, taking the empty cups to the bar, feeling him follow close behind you. You were quick to move behind the bar, thankful the large bar top was able to block him from getting too close, but he still tried. He leaned over the bar, his hand drunkenly reaching for you before you backed away slowly.
“You’re so incredibly pretty, far too pretty to be doing menial bar work.” He commented, making you feel more uncomfortable.
“Thanks but I’m not interested,” You turned him down politely. His face changed, dropping his smile for a more serious expression.
“Oh, c’mon. Not even a little bit? I don’t think I believe you.” He smirked at you, his eyebrow raising questioningly.
“I’m sorry, man. I’m sure you’re a nice guy but I’m not interested.” You were beginning to get nervous, his smirk dropping slowly.
“But you think I’m nice. How does that mean you’re not interested?” He asked, head cocking to the side slightly.
“I-I- Please, I’m not interested. Even if I were, I’m not available. I’m sor-” You were cut off by him grabbing your hair and pulling you forward, his grip harsh. You felt something cold against your neck, he pressed it tighter against your neck, feeling a sharp edge cut into your skin.
“Do I look like I care?” He asked, before moving the cold, sharp item away from your throat and slamming your head down against the bar. You groaned loudly, feeling everything around you spin violently as your head pounded.
“Wh-wh-why?” You asked, feeling him press you against the bar, realising he’d climbed over the bar and was now on the same side as you. He pinned you between him and the bar, your back bent awkwardly over it as his hand gripped at your hair again, the knife held back against your throat. You whimpered slightly when it began cutting into your neck once more.
“I never cared what you thought, nor what you wanted.” The hand gripping your hair let go, moving to lift your skirts up as you tried to push him away. The knife slipped from your throat, nicking your skin before he plunged it into your shoulder, making you scream in agony. His hand released the blade, leaving it buried in your shoulder as that hand helped lift your skirts.
“No, no, please!” You begged, trying to push him off of you once more without jostling the knife.
“A sweet, tender girl like you should never have been left alone.”
You thought about Lanfear, thinking about how she would feel if she knew you couldn’t fight back, that you couldn’t protect yourself against one man. You knew she was so much more powerful, braver, more courageous than you would ever be. You feared her rejection, feared losing her and her love, her care and affection as his hands gripped your body, leaving harsh marks wherever he wanted.
“Please, don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.” You begged once more, before the soft, lilting voice of your lover reached your ears.
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.” He backed away from you, letting your skirts fall back into place, although dishevelled.
“You see, that sweet, tender girl you decided to take advantage of, she’s my sweet girl.” Lanfear moved behind the bar, approaching you with love and sorrow in her face and eyes as she helped you, removing the blade from your shoulder before guiding you to stand up gently. He attempted to run while Lanfear was distracted but she froze him on the spot, not allowing him to escape his fate.
“My darling, take yourself to my room, okay? I’ll be there soon, I promise, my baby.” She kissed your forehead lovingly before gently pushing you towards the stairs to her room. You walked up them slowly, feeling her kind eyes watching you to make sure you were safe and sound in her room. You entered her room, feeling comforted by the mere presence of her within the room. The warm blue coat she wore on a regular basis hung on the back of the door, it smelled so like her you couldn’t stop yourself from putting it on. The material was soft and warm, her scent filled your nostrils, making you sigh in relief as your eyes filled with tears. You took a seat on her bed and cried, sobs wracking your entire body as your body and mind reeled with the realisation of what almost happened. He’d almost assaulted you, had Lanfear not stepped in, had she not arrived back in time, you might’ve been killed, or severely injured. As you sat and sobbed, beginning to overthink everything, the door opened and interrupted your thoughts. A bloodsoaked Lanfear walked in, approaching you immediately.
“I’m here, my sweet girl. I’m right here, baby.” Her voice soothed you as she crouched down in front of you. Before she could stop you or clean herself up, you’d launched yourself at her, wrapping your arms around her bloodsoaked frame and nuzzling your head against her neck.
“You’re safe with me, princess. I’m sorry he even thought about hurting you, let alone threatening you. I shouldn’t have left you here alone, I won’t leave you here alone ever again.” Her lips pressed numerous kisses against your temple, her hands gently channelling to heal your wounds as they held you close to her. You held each other for a long while, before Lanfear attempted to pull away, making you whimper and hold her tighter.
“My darling girl, am I okay to clean myself up? I doubt you’re enjoying hugging me like this.” Her voice was sweet, trying to coax you to let go but you just held her even tighter. You shook your head, refusing to let go. Lanfear tried to come up with an alternative option, since she knew you were highly unlikely to let go of her anytime soon. One of her hands stroked your back gently, pulling away from you slowly.
“How about we take a nice hot bath together? Does that sound good, baby girl? We can spend the rest of the day cuddling, just you and I.” Her lips left a gentle kiss on your cheek, leaving more bloody kisses against your face.
“What about Rand? Wh-What about the-the Dragon? You-you and him… You need to help him more than you need to help me. I-I understand, it’s-” Lanfear cut you off with a gentle kiss to your lips.
“Don’t you dare say that it’s okay, baby. You’re the one I want, the one I care about. Rand can look after himself for a bit, I need to look after my baby, my sweet girl. Because I love you, and only you.” She kissed you once more, making your eyes water out of happiness.
“Y-you love me?” you mumbled, worried that you’d dreamt her saying those three words.
“I do, my love. I love you to the moon and back,” her lips kissed your nose tenderly.
“I love you too, Lanny, so so much,” You kissed her jaw, feeling her groan disapprovingly at the nickname.
“You know how much I despise that nickname, my love,” You smiled at Lanfear sheepishly, giving her soft puppy eyes before she jokingly rolled her eyes, “but when you use it, it’s… tolerable, I guess.” You smiled before quickly pecking her lips.
“I love you more than I can possibly say, my pretty girl.” Lanfear kissed your forehead before picking you up, making you squeal gently as she carried you to her bathroom, using her power to fill the tub up with hot water quickly.
Lanfear’s hands undressed you carefully, taking her time as she removed each layer of clothing and leaving gentle kisses against each spot of bare skin as she did so. She praised you softly each step of the way, (“you’re doing so well, my darling.”, “easy, my pretty one.”, “just one more bit then we’ll get you in the tub, my princess.”) before she eased you into the tub, her hands reluctant to let go once your tired frame settled into the water. She leaned against the tub and watched you relax as you tiredly moved, smiling lovingly at Lanfear. Lanfear reached over to kiss your lips gently, her hand coming up to cup your cheek as she deepened it. You pulled away, smiling at her confused expression.
“Cuddles?” You asked softly, watching her nod and stand, stripping her clothes off slowly, making sure you enjoyed each moment, which you confirmed as you smiled and blushed. Once she was naked, she climbed into the gap behind you, wrapping her arms around your front to pull you back against her. You adjusted yourself so your head rested against her chest, leaving soft kisses against her pale skin. Her gentle fingers held you close, soothing your bruised skin with her power until the bruises disappeared.
“How are you feeling, my darling?” Her lips moved gently where they rested against your forehead.
“I feel better, I still feel tired and a little on edge. I have you here now, so I don’t have to be afraid.” Her heartbeat echoed in your ears, helping you settle against her chest.
“I’m staying right here with you, baby, I won’t leave your side again.” One of her hands stroked your hip comfortingly, much like she did in bed as she knew it helped you settle down and fall asleep.
“Lanny?” Your voice quivered slightly, scared to admit what you had on your mind.
“Yes, my love?” She watched you with so much love in her eyes, noticing your sheepish smile and gentle blush spreading across your cheeks.
“When you walked into the room… covered in-in blood… I found it really hot.” Lanfear’s eyes widened slightly before softening, her smile widening as she kissed you.
“Oh, baby. There’s nothing wrong with that, in fact… I may have the perfect place to take you one day, but this will do, for now.” Her nose brushed yours before she captured your lips once more. Lanfear’s hand moved from your hip to your stomach, gently tracing shapes across your skin with her fingers before dipping down lower. You whined softly, her fingers deftly reaching the tender spots.
“Is that what my princess wants?” Her voice was kind, instead of her usual condescending tone when she knew what you wanted. You nodded, prompting her to tut softly.
“Use your words, princess. Is this what you want?” Her voice moved to a more serious tone, making sure this was what you wanted.
“Yes, please. Mommy please,” You begged, voice soft yet desperate. You needed her to make all thoughts of his existence disappear with her skillful fingers and soft, tender touches.
“Anything for you, my princess. Anything for you,”
Warnings: MDNI, Smut, PWP, Marking, slight dom sub, cl!t torture ish, slight overstimulation, finger sucking, come eating? (Lmk if I missed any)
A/N: I really have no explanation for this. It’s just filthy. And so will the next three works. I tried to give a plot, but it kinda just flew out the window 🫣
Again, hope you enjoy and it’s not horrible 😓 I was also wondering about making a taglist for anyone who is interested, lmk thoughts on that 🙂↔️
(Also, I’ve begun playing around with making collages for my works, so lmk how we feel about them. I might even make some for people if they want 😅)
(Would yall believe me after reading this that im actually a virgin and have never done anything in my life 🫣)
“Why do you torment her so much?” Lanfear looked at me, shocked that I was standing at the doorway and she didn’t hear or feel me approach.
“Because I enjoy it.” I roll my eyes at the smirk on her face before I make my way further into the room, settling in the chair next to her before pulling her into my lap. She pretends to fight me before she relents and settles in. Turning to capture my lips in a sinful kiss before she pulls back to look at me. She sighs as she speaks again.
“Have you had any luck with talking to her yet?” I nod my head in confirmation. I’ve confronted Moiraine on multiple occasions, but the conversations never lasted for more than a handful of minutes before Lan or someone else would interrupt us, forcing me back into the shadows.
“And? Has she given any indication that she would be willing?” Her fingers stroke the hair at the nape of my neck as mine are planted on her hips, rubbing them with my thumbs. I sigh as I look into her eyes, shaking my head.
She hums before speaking. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to do some convincing of our own before we turn to some drastic measures, won’t we, dear?” Her lips draw into a smirk as mine do as I let out a curt chuckle. She draws our lips together, and before I know it, we’re falling asleep in each other's arms, bodies bare and sweaty.
The next time I see Lanfear, she’s on the balcony with Moiraine and Lan. I can see from the looks on their faces that they are discussing something serious. Most likely about Rand if I had to guess. Before I know it, the presence at my back shocks me as I’m dragged into a nearby alley, hands pinning me to the cold and wet bricks as the shadow reveals itself. I roll my eyes as Lanfear draws the hood from her head, a smirk firmly planted on those delicious lips.
“Well? How was your chat?” The smirk only widens at my words, before they draw my lips into a brutal kiss, teeth nipping my lips before they pull back, taking my bottom lip with them. She lets go with a pop, licking the droplet of blood off hers before she speaks again.
“Fret not, my tigress,” I huff at the nickname, causing the hands still on my waist to pinch a little before she continues. “Our little mouse has agreed to meet with me at our little abode that we keep a secret. I told her to meet me there once the sun had started to kiss the land.” The smugness in her voice doesn’t go past me. Knowing that she won the small bet we placed, trying to see who could get Moiraine to agree first.
Unfortunately for me, Lanfear won that bet, and the terms race back through my head as I let it land on the brick behind me with a solid thump. We agreed to the same terms, it was just a matter of who got to act on them first. Lanfear will tonight. Lucky little snake she is.
“Aww. Fret not, tigress. You’ll be able to make our little mouse sing tonight, I just get to have first dibs.” I shoot her a glare as she lets out a mischievous chuckle.
“Come. We have much to prepare.” She interlocks our fingers as we sink away into the crowd, going to some of the vendors lining the streets before we make our way back to the little house.
Time Jump
We both glance at each other as we feel Moiraine’s presence just before we hear the knocking on the door. Lanfear gives my hand a soft squeeze, feeling the nerves shooting through my body before she moves to the door. I disappear upstairs, perched on the edge of the bed as I try to settle my nerves for what’s about to happen.
Of course, Lanfear has broached the topic before. To invite Moiraine into our bed. And of course, she’s seen the fantasies that play out in my dreams when she would usually be returning from whoever she needed to walk that night. Typically Liandrin’s. So when she came to me, I was hesitant at first. But the more she watched the fantasies play out, the less it took to convince me. So, now here we are. Moiraine was downstairs, unsuspecting of what was awaiting her once she got to the top of the stairs.
Before I knew it, I heard the creaking of the stairs as their voices followed with it. Lanfear opens the door, eyeing me up and giving a soft smile at the shaky nod of my head before she moves into the room, widening the door enough for Moiraine to slip in. Moiraine is in such a shock to see me that she doesn’t hear the shutting of the door, or even the clicking of the lock.
I lick my lips subconsciously as I allow my eyes to rake over Moiraine’s body, thighs clenching at the desire starting to pool there. Yes, the nerves are still very present, but the innocent and timid look on Moiraine’s face, combined with the hungry one on Lanfear’s, allows a low heat to spark in the pit of my stomach, mouth drying as the burn slowly descends between my clenched thighs.
Suddenly, a warmth envelops me, causing my breath to stutter as an arm comes around my waist and pulls my body flush against them. I can feel Lanfear mold her front to my back, pinning her breasts against my back. I watch as Moiraine’s mouth opens in a gasp, her blue eyes staring deeply into my own for a brief moment before they make a jump over my shoulder. I quickly realized why Lanfear’s tongue reaches out to trace my ear, releasing it with a pop before she speaks.
“Why don’t you be a good little mouse and come stand between our tigress’s thighs?” I lick my lips as Moiraine approaches the bed, tentatively coming to stand between my thighs. Suddenly, she tilts her head and gently captures my lips between hers. I let out a sigh at the feel of her soft lips moving against mine rhythmically. I moan into her mouth as lips start to attack my neck. I deepen the kiss, prying her lips apart so I can dip my tongue inside the wet heat.
I hear Lanfear’s growl as she sees the battle of our tongues. I tangle my hand into Moiraine’s hair, angling her head better so I can plunge my tongue deeper into her mouth. Her tongue fights against mine, swiping and licking as my teeth nip at her lips. This time, the moan that slips free is from her as it bounces around my mouth until I answer with my own as I feel teeth sink into my neck.
The feel of a hand in my hair comes too late as it tightens, jerking my mouth away from Moiraine’s. I'm pulled to the side as Lanfear’s lips descend on my own, giving my mouth and lips the same treatment I had gifted Moiraine. Her moan breaks us apart, chests heaving as we stare at her.
“Why don’t you put on a show for us, Moiraine?” She huffs, and I can see the fight in her pretty blue orbs. “Oh, come on, little mouse. Don’t you want to be good for us?” We watch in awe how suddenly the fight leaves her eyes completely, morphing into desire and submission. We watch as she does as I said, putting on quite the show for us as she disrobes. Lanfear and I moan when we see her perky tits come into view. We moan sinfully as she drags her bottoms down, seeing the wet patch that had formed, just from the small makeout session we had. Lanfear and I glance at each other as we see this, thinking how we can’t wait to see how much wetter she gets when we begin to play.
I'm brought out of my stupor when I feel teeth scrape my neck, letting out a gasp before she bites down. The sharp sting sends pleasure coursing through me, forcing my eyes to the back of my head as a long moan slips free.
“Light,” I hear Moiraine moan as she watches the interaction. My eyes flutter as I slowly succumb to the pleasure that Lanfear’s tongue and teeth are drawing out of me. Her hands drift lower until I feel a tug on my top. I hear Moiraine’s moan of desire when my tits come into her view. Lanfear’s breath is warm against my abused flesh when she speaks.
“Now, little mouse, come help our tigress take off her pants, then I want you on your knees between her thighs.” I whimper as my eyes open into thin slits, enough to see Moiraine starting to move and follow her orders. The whispered “Yes, Mistress” that she lets out forces another moan out of my mouth, thighs clenching together.
When I open my eyes fully, it’s to the sight of Moiraine on her knees between my thighs. The sight makes my sopping core clench around nothing, another moan slipping free. Lanfear’s chuckle behind me doesn’t help the situation, nor does the smirk that’s planted on Moiraine’s face as she sees the rhythmic clenching of my core, face a hair away from it.
Lanfear’s voice is breathless when she speaks her next command to Moiraine. “Go ahead, dear, show Y/N how long you’ve been waiting for her.” Her hands clench on my thighs as she pulls them further apart, her whispered “yes, mistress” sends air to brush against my core before two fingers are plunging inside of me, circling to hit that spot. My vision starts to blacken as a yelp of pleasure escapes me at the rudeness.
Instinctively, I start to roll my hips, grinding into Moiraine’s hand. She withdraws to the tips before she dries into me again. And again, until she’s fucking with her fingers, pressing me back into Lanfear, leaving me to only hold on, fingers clucthing at the hand on my thigh. She draws long and husky moans from my throat.
“You sound so good, darling,” Lanfear whispers in my ear before a sharp nip follows her words. The heel of Moiraine’s hand presses firmly into my clit, moans unabashly leaving my mouth. Her surprisingly skilled fingers lift me higher, the orgasm curling low in my stomach. Suddenly, she rubs just right, making my thighs quake from the pleasure. A third finger joins, causing my eyes to roll before I plummet over the edge.
I cry out, the sound breaking from the pitch as pleasure consumes me. Shamelessly, I grind against her hand, riding out the endless wave. I can faintly feel Lanfear’s hands on my body, her breath against my ear as she whispers how good I was.
Breathless, but still hungry, I reach down to pull Moiraine up and crash my lips to hers. She hums in approval as I spread her lips apart with my tongue. Her hand drifts up and breaks the kiss with a digit drifting across my bottom lip, spreading my arousal in its path.
“You’ve left a mess on her hand, Y/N. Why don't you be a good girl and clean it up for her?” I hold eye contact with Moiraine as my tongue darts out, the tip sliding across her fingers. She smiles as I open my mouth wider, allowing her to slip her fingers inside. My tongue wraps around them, thoroughly cleaning them before pale fingers wrap around her wrist, ripping them from my mouth with a pop.
“Moiraine, come get on the bed. Lie down and spread your legs.” Lanfear’s voice is firm with an almost breathless hue as we watch her comply. We both let out a moan when she spreads her legs, her sopping folds greeting us. Lanfear moves next, drawing my lips to hers and spearing my lips apart, moaning at the faint taste of my arousal still on my tongue.
When we break apart, she shoves me toward Moiraine, and I get the hint, moving to hover over her body as I connect our lips again. I pull away as I feel the bed shift as Lanfear moves again. Moiraine, letting out a small whimper, draws my attention back to her. My lips descend to the column of her neck, skittering along until I pause on the spot right below her ear. I allow my tongue to get a taste of her skin before I clamp my teeth down on her skin.
Her back arches involuntarily, my groan shooting out as my tongue laps at her flesh. I pull back, dragging my teeth along her skin as I do so. Her hands press into my chest as they curl on my shoulders and pull me more firmly onto her. I feel the shiver wrack her body as I lick a wet trail down the juncture of her neck. I pause for a moment, allowing her to feel like she's hanging over the edge before I bite down again, pulling animalistic sounds from the depths of her chest. I continue, over and over, until I’ve left a trail of bruises down her neck and the tops of her breasts.
I pull away enough to breathe “good girl” across her cheek before I move again, back down her chest. My teeth drag along the swell of her left breast, causing a gasp to escape as I continue to leave marks on her skin. I renew my path with my mouth, leaving marks along both of her tits and even more along her stomach. Once her body is well and abused by my teeth, I lift and force her thighs further apart.
I move down her body until i’m greeted by her pussy and the arousal glisetning from within. I move my fingers back up her body until I tap her lips, encouraging them to open for me. “Suck” is all I command before I trhust my fingers into her mouth, feeling the way she starts to swirl her tongue around them. “Such a good little mouse,” I murmur before I pull my fingers out, dripping a trail of saliva following them until it snaps.
I lean down until my breath is fanning across her core. I wait until she lifts herself for a better view, connecting our eyes as I open my mouth, sticking out my tongue. I watch her as her eyes follow the saliva pooling on the tip of my tongue before it drips off onto her pussy. Her mouth opens in a silent moan as I finally see where Lanfear had moved to be right above her head. I circle her entrance with the tip of my saliva-coated finger.
“Light! Please Y/N! Please stop teasing.” Her voice is a whimper as she speaks, but I cut off her words as I dip my fingers past her folds. Just the tip, but enough to force the words to die in her throat, a strangled moan escaping her lips.
Slowly, I work my fingers inside of her, drawing out her pleasure as her body shudders. I work my fingers halfway in before I retreat to the very tips. I allow Moiraine a moment's breath before I bury my fingers inside of her. She sucks in a sharp gasp as her head falls back.
As I pull my fingers out and sink them back in again, a noise slips through her lips as a wave of pleasure rocks through her body.
“Good girl,” I breathe against her core. “Open wider, little mouse.” The hand I still have on her thigh applies small pressure. I smile as her thighs fall further apart, and I start to work a third finger into her.
“You should feel how tight her pussy is. The way it grips onto my fingers when I slide them out- so fucking pretty.” My eyes find Lanfear as I speak, watching the way she bites her lips and clenches her thighs together. I can see how Moiraine bites her lip, but it isn’t enough to hold in her moans. The suctioning and slurping noises coming from her pussy are down right sinful as I continue to fuck into her.
When I angle my fingers in a particular way, I hit the spot inside of her that sends her eyes to the back of her head, and another moan slips free from her abused lips. Her back arches as I continue to hit that spot. I lean down and clamp my teeth on her inner thigh. She cries out from the sharp bite, but I can tell it's morphing into pleasure when I hit that spot again. I keep my mouth attached to her as my movements quicken, and I can tell she’s starting to get close to her release.
“Please.” I can hear her begging as I tear my mouth away from her thigh, only to move to the other one and give it the same treatment. I watch as she glances down at me before I pull away from her thigh.
“Rub your clit, Moiraine.” I watch as she reaches down with the hand that’s not wrapped around Lanfear’s and twirls her fingers over her clit. “Good girl,” I whispered. It takes two more thrusts of my fingers before she is tipping over the edge, her ass shooting as much as it can off of the bed as her orgasm rips through her.
She's screaming, and I work my fingers inside of her faster and deeper, drawing out her orgasm until she is begging me to stop. I pull my fingers out of her and watch as her legs try to shut, only blocked by my body still between them. I watch as her body shudders from the aftershocks.
She looks at me through half-lidded eyes, still jerking from the little shocks. She follows me as I lift my drenched fingers above her head to where Lanfear sits. She opens her mouth as I thrust my fingers into her, feeling how her tongue licks every last drop of Moiraine off of my fingers..
I pull away from Lanfear and bring my attention back to Moiraine’s body. I lean down and bring our lips together, softer than before. I allow her to lead for a moment as I feel Lanfear’s form start to shift around the bed, moving to now lie next to Moiraine. I pull back and brush some hair off her glistening forehead. She smiles up at me as her hand raises to grasp my cheek.
“How do you feel, dear?” Her smile widens before she licks her lips to answer.
“Good Y/N,” I smirk as a blush coats her cheeks. I glance over at Lanfear’s spread form, the cool air having tightened her nipples into sharp buds. I allow my eyes to rake over her body until they land on her bare oussy, drenching the bed sheets below. My eyes snap back to Moiraine.
“Just you wait until Lanfear gets a hold of you,” I smirk as I plant a quick kiss on her lips before I move over to Lanfear. As I get comfortable between her legs, I let out a sharp inhale as she brings her legs to wrap around my waist, the feel of her wetness coating the skin of my stomach.
I allow her to pull me down to her awaiting lips, tongues fighting for dominance until I pull back. I lean down and place a kiss onto her pelvic bone, back arching to try and force me to her aching heat. I smirk as I grip her hips to yank her back down on the bed.
I plant another kiss, this time an inch above her clit, and relish in the whimper that releases from her mouth. I pause against her, allowing my hot breath to fan across her sensitive area. Her knees jerk inward in an attempt to close her legs against what's coming.
I wrench her legs further apart as my teeth scrape against her mound. The moan she lets out is sinful, before her body lowers back to the bed. I pull away enough to command Moiraine to move. “Go sit on her face, keep her quiet,” I smirked as she moved at record speed to do what she was told. Lanfear’s answering moan and clench of her pussy tells me she’s just as eager.
I bring my mouth back to her sopping core. My tongue slides against her clit, and a feral groan releases from my throat as I taste her. I glance up at her as her eyes roll back into her head before Moiraine lowers herself onto her.
“Light.” I hear her suck in a breath from the vibrations of my voice as her pussy throbs from the attention. I can faintly see how her juices are trailing down between her asscheeks and into the bedsheets.
I lick the entirety of her slit, tongue moving leisurely up to the bunde of nerves before I suck her clit between my teeth, and clamp down. Her scream is muffled under Moiraine’s core, causing her to let out a moan at the vibrations racking through her.
I pull my head away slowly, her clit dragging between my teeth until it slips free. Her body instinctively tries to wiggle away, but I slide my hands behind her knees and push them back to her ears. I’ve forced her body to curl so far inward until her ass is no longer on the bed. I pull back to watch as her arousal drips onto her stomach. I moan as I see the desire flooding her entrance.
I don’t waste anymore time as I bring my mouth back to her pussy and suck her clit back into my mouth. She jerks as I tug and suck at the bud. I let go long enough to bring my middle finger to slide inside of her, curling to hit that sweet spot. Her hips buck against my hand. I watch how my finger slides in and out of her, juices collecting on the palm of my hand.
I glance up in time to see Moiraine biting her lip, trying to trap her moans from escaping at Lanfear’s ministrations. “You can make noise, little mouse, but Lanfear is to come first, understood?” Lanfear whimpers as Moiraine lets out a muffled “Yes, Mistress.”
Leaning down, I capture her abused nub between my teeth, sucking it in but keeping my bite minimal gently, I scrape my teeth over the sensitive flesh. I continue over and over and curl my finger, sending blinding pleasure through her body. Suddenly, I withdraw my finger to the very tip, swiping it along her entrance, and when I sink back inside of her, it’s with two more fingers.
She moans into Moiraine’s core as I stretch her, caressing that sweet spot over and over as my teeth bite into her clit. She shamelessly starts grinding against me, annoyed that I haven’t given her what her body is craving.
I continue to scour her clit with my teeth. Nipping and biting, but refusing to give her my tongue. She growls and tries to buck out of my hold, but I tighten it. I dart my tongue out for a sharp lick, but it’s gone before she can get any satisfaction from it. I withdraw my fingers from her before I lick her again, slower. I flatten my tongue and lick her from the bottom up, going particularly slow over her pulsating clit.
She arches her back, thrusting her tongue deeper into Moiraine. Just as she starts to grind against my mouth, I stop just enough to whisper, “You two better come together.” Her ass curves towards my mouth as I speak, seeking what it needs. My tongue dives into her pussy, licking the insides with ravenous strokes. A muffled cry leaves her lips, forcing Moiraine’s out as her core absorbs it.
I continue my assault on her, thrashing my tongue on her clit, and sucking it into my mouth. I hear her suck in a sharp breath as her body falls over the edge. I plunge two fingers inside of her just as she does. I watch as she does the same to Moiraine with her tongue, thighs shaking as her release floods Lanfear’s mouth.
Lanfear’s thighs clamp tightly around my head as her moans try to wrack from her throat, my own answering. My hands clutch at her thighs, prying them apart just enough to continue to lap at her throbbing unt, forcing her body to ride out the orgasm.
I suddenly rip my mouth away just in time to see Moiraine’s body flop next to her. I crawl up her body while I contune to fuck into Lanfear with my fingers. I pinch Moiraine’s cheeks and hold her mouth open.
My mouth skates over her lips once before I let a trail of saliva drip from my mouth into hers. “Swallow her juices.” I rasp against her, a moan escaping as I watch her throat work before I crash my lips against hers.
My tongue dives into her mouth, swirling with hers as my fingers continue to draw out Lanfear’s pleasure. I kiss Moiraine until her lips are bruised, before pulling back, switching my attention to Lanfear’s lips as I extract my fingers from her. I slip out from between her thighs, chuckling softly as they snap inwards and her feet drop onto the bed.
I leave them on the bed, bodies still slightly shaking from the aftershocks, as I make my way into the hallway and down the stairs. I grab water, some bread, and two cloths. As I make my way back into the room, I pause at the doorway, taking in the sight of their wrecked bodies lying on the bed. I make my way fully into the room and set the water on the small table next to the bed.
I moved to Moiraine first with the cloth, wiping her down before moving onto Lanfear. Her legs are still clenched tightly together. I place my hand on her knee, her body jumping at the touch before her eyes fall open to look at me. I see how she looks between me and the cloth before she relents, letting her legs drop open enough for me to run the cloth through her. She flinches slightly as the cloth passes her abused clit, but she allows me to finish.
When I go to move away again, pale fingers reach out to wrap around my wrist. I look back at her, mouth opening to speak, before she gives me a firm tug, pulling me down to lie between her and Moiraine. We all shift until I can bring the blanket around us. The cloth is forgotten on the floor as two sets of pale arms wrap around my body.
I bring my hands to brush through two dark masses of hair, feeling lips press lightly to each side of my neck. We bask in the silence of each other until the body on my left sags further against me.
“You owe me now.” My words are a whisper in Lanfear’s hair as I feel her lift her head to glance at Moiraine’s sleeping form, before slumping back down with a groan.
“Can we discuss this in the morning? Please, my tigress.” I chuckle at the dreaded nickname before I relent, pressing my lips into her hair
“I suppose. Get some rest, my love.” I feel her squeeze my waist as she presses a lingering kiss to my neck, before I start to feel her body sag against mine. I gaze down at the two mops of hair on my chest, pale arms entwined on my stomach.
My lips curve into a smile as I let sleep take me too, knowing I finally have what I’ve been longing for.
MY QUEEN Natasha O'Keeffe as Lanfear, Josha Stradowski as Rand al'Thor and Kate Fleetwood as Liandrin Sedai Behind the Scenes for Wheel of Time Season 3
I just think it’s crazy how we’re so critical of women in STEM. you drill ONE hole in reality and release Evil and then suddenly people are cancelling you
From woman to woman. I scream her name in the middle of the night after a wet dream.
Having not yet read the books (soon), I can only talk about the series. So this is just me and my thoughts. This isn't for you homophobes. ♡
I don't really know if she really loved Lews or the fact that he was the dragon, but it doesn't change my thoughts much. She's whispering in my ear that she's pansexual. Why do I think she's at least pansexual? Because damn, she can't keep her hands to herself with a woman around. You'll tell me she's trying to kill them, which is also true because it's like a game. Twisted, but a game. And in my opinion, she finds it rather exciting. I don't remember seeing her play that way with a man other than the dragon. Other than the dragon, men don't interest her, but they can be a means to an end, tools, but nothing more. So in my opinion, no desire for men, but for women, yes. She wouldn't even look at men, only women. If it weren't for her obsession with The dragon, she would probably be a lesbian, in my opinion.🌒
a/n: if ariana said "can you stay up all night? fuck me ‘til the daylight?" then i had no choice but to write 5 fics that left me dehydrated, limping, and spiritually transformed, bruh this fic took way too long.
this post contains nothing but sickening smut, filthy filth, and hot women ruining me six different ways, every pairing is its own little porno novella.
i made sure nobody goes home unsatisfied, so please hydrate, stretch, and turn your notifications off
this is 10,000+ words of certified coochie combustion.
yall have been warned
➤ MINORS DO 👏 NOT 👏 INTERACT
➤ scroll carefully, some of y’all can’t handle the grayson section
➤ reblogs and likes pls, i worked my clit off
enjoy sluts 💌
—mama mila
pairings [SEPARATE]: sevika x reader, ambessa x reader, grayson x reader, vi x reader, caitlyn x reader
꒰ Sevika - baby, you might need a seatbelt when i ride it…
You wake up to her mouth already between your thighs.
It’s the softest kind of sinful. Blankets pushed down to your hips, sunrise sneaking through the blinds, and Sevika’s massive hands gripping your thighs like handles as she eats like she’s starving. Like this is breakfast. Like you’re hers.
You twitch when her tongue circles your clit again, sleep barely clinging to your body as she works you open. She's deliberate, slow, heavy licks, her nose brushing your mound as she hums against you. Your legs twitch once, twice.
"Morning, sweetheart," she rasps, lips slick and chin shiny as she peers up over your stomach. “Didn’t mean to wake you. You just looked too good.”
She kisses the inside of your thigh. Then bites it.
Your voice cracks, barely above a whisper. "Sevika!"
“Shh.” Her eyes are dark. “Back to sleep, baby. I’ll take care of everything.”
You’re already soaking, but she drags it out. Makes out with your pussy like it's your mouth —slow, tongue heavy, teasing your hole and sucking your clit between her lips until your hips buck off the bed. She laughs, low and smug.
“Already squirming?” she murmurs. “Barely been ten minutes. Thought you liked it slow in the mornings.”
"You're insane,” you hiss, fisting the sheets.
She shrugs, voice full of that cocky rasp. “You say that like it’s new.”
You whimper when her fingers join her tongue. Two thick digits, slow but deep, curling up with practiced precision. You swear she knows your body better than you do. She sets a rhythm that makes your thighs shake, tongue flattening over your clit while her fingers drag across your sweet spot like a perfect key.
The orgasm hits you so hard, your vision blurs.
She keeps going.
Doesn’t even let you come down. Licks through it like she lives for your overstimulation, like every whimper you let out is worth waking up for. She only pulls back when you tug her hair and sob out her name.
Your breath stutters. “ohh I can’t! ”
“You will,” she growls, eyes dark and gentle all at once. “One more, baby. Just one.”
Fifteen minutes later, you’re folded in her lap in front of the mirror.
She’s got her strap inside you, big, thick, and black with a low curve that rubs perfectly. Her thighs are spread wide, muscles flexing beneath you as she makes you grind down on her cock slow and sloppy. The mirror reflects everything: your flushed cheeks, your soaked thighs, the way she grabs your ass and helps you bounce, your teary, fucked-out eyes blinking up at your own reflection.
“Look at that,” she purrs, one hand grabbing your jaw and turning it to the glass. “Takin’ it so good. So deep.”
"Too much," you pant. Your hips are trembling, thighs burning, and her strap is buried so deep. You’re full in a way that makes your stomach ache, the angle hitting all the right spots as your slick makes a mess across both your legs.
“Nah, you got room,” she rasps. "This pussy always knows how to make space for me."
Her arm wraps around your waist, hand splayed across your stomach to press you down. She grinds her hips up, feeding you more of the strap, and you nearly collapse when the tip bumps your cervix.
“Thought you said you wanted a seatbelt?” she teases, breath hot against your ear. “Where’s all that bratty energy now, huh?”
Your hands scramble against her thighs, fingers digging into her thick, muscled skin. She’s wearing nothing but a wife beater, sweatpants half-down her thighs, strap cinched so tight around her hips it creaks when she moves.
And she moves.
Bucks her hips up into you, holds your waist down and grinds until you’re gasping, legs shaking, nails leaving crescent marks on her skin. You can feel your orgasm building again, too fast and too deep, your stomach's already tight, eyes already glassy,
“Go ahead,” she murmurs. “Cream on it. You're doing soo well, baby.”
You wail as you come, whole body tensing in her arms as she fucks you through it.
꒰ Ambessa - show me can you keep it up? Cause then I'll have to keep you up,
You asked to be on top.
Ambessa laughed.
And now you're here, legs trembling, face flushed, mouth locked around her tit, while your soaked pussy grinds down onto her strap like your life depends on it.
Her hand spreads across your ass, massive and hot, guiding your movements as you try to ride her in rhythm. But you’re falling apart. Every bounce makes her cock grind deeper inside you, her pelvis pressing into your clit just enough to keep you constantly on the edge.
“You wanted to be in control,” she growls, tilting your chin. “Show me, baby. Show me you can keep it up.”
You moan around her nipple, lips wrapped tight, tongue flicking it in desperation. Her tit is heavy in your mouth, sweat-slick and perfect, and she groans when you suck harder, needier.
“Such a greedy little mouth,” she purrs, flexing her hips up. You whine as the strap hits deeper.
“mmh too big...”
“I know,” she smirks. “you begged for it.”
Her arms flex, muscles rippling beneath her skin, and suddenly she’s lifting you, not off the dick, but just enough to bounce you down harder. She does it like it’s nothing. Like you weigh less than the glass of wine she drank earlier.
Your thighs burn. Your hands grip her shoulders. You can't stop moaning into her chest, sucking her tit like it’s air, while she takes your hips and drives you down on her cock over and over again.
“Fuck, Ambessa m-mommy”
“Mmm. That’s more like it, little girl.”
She slaps your ass, not hard, commanding. “Such a sweet little mess. Look at you. Crying already, and we’ve barely started.”
“I can’t,”
“oh you will.”
you’re bent backwards on her gold-trimmed bed, throat dry, legs shaking, while she fucks you into the kind of submission that leaves your soul floating.
“Open your legs for mommy.”
You obey instantly. Her voice doesn’t allow disobedience. Ambessa kneels between your thighs, strap glistening from the last round, her lips glistening even more.
She goes slow this time.
Not because she’s being gentle, but because she enjoys watching you unravel. Her hands keep your legs spread wide, and her mouth... god, her mouth moves like she’s tasting the finest fruit in the empire. She hums, deep and low, like she owns your body and wants the world to hear it.
You writhe.
"Stay still," she warns. "or I’ll tie you down."
The threat makes you clench.
She chuckles. Then she spits on your pussy and dives back in.
You cum with a scream, thighs trembling so hard you nearly kick her in the face, but she holds you still, licking until you’re sobbing, too sensitive, too full,
She loves it.
“Poor thing,” she croons, rubbing your stomach. “so small. So easy to ruin.”
Eventually, you pass out.
For like... six minutes.
꒰ Grayson - you might think i’m crazy, the way i’ve been craving…
You’re in her lap. Her big, warm hands are resting on your thighs, just under your skirt, her mouth brushing the corner of your jaw.
She whispers against your skin. “You gonna tell me why you came here at midnight in something so short?”
You shift in her lap. It’s already hot between your legs. Her thigh is thick and firm beneath you, and you can feel her muscles move through her slacks when she shifts. Her hand glides to your jaw, thumb brushing over your bottom lip.
You gasp when she slips her thumb into your mouth.
“There,” she murmurs. “just like that, relax. You’re safe here.”
She kisses you. Full lips, gentle pressure, firm hold. You moan into her mouth, and she just drinks it in, one hand cupping your ass, the other sliding up your back beneath your shirt. Her fingers are calloused. Warm. She slides them up until they find your bra clasp and unhooks it like she’s done it a thousand times.
"Is this what you wanted, darling?" she whispers against your lips.
You nod frantically. “Please, I need —”
“I know,” she says softly, like she's soothing a fire. “Let me take care of you.”
Grayson sets you on her desk.
Pushes the reports aside, the polished nameplate, the pen you’d been chewing on earlier. Her hands go to your knees and part them like it’s nothing. Like you belong to her.
She sinks to her knees.
Your heart skips. You’ve seen this woman command entire divisions. She’s terrifying in a court, powerful in every room, and she’s kneeling in front of you like worship.
Your panties are already soaked.
She doesn’t even pull them down at first. She just presses her face into the damp fabric, nuzzling, inhaling. Her breath is hot through the cotton.
“So sweet,” she murmurs. “You’ve been wet since I called you ‘darling' earlier, haven’t you?”
You whimper. "mhmm yes ma'am."
She doesn’t make you beg long.
Her tongue is slow at first. Gentle. She kisses your inner thigh. Then licks you through your panties, long, slow, messy licks until you’re squirming and your hands are in her hair.
She slips your underwear down your legs and hums when she finally gets her mouth on you.
Her tongue moves like she’s memorising you. Circling your clit, pressing into your folds, curling up into your entrance just to tease. Her hands are on your hips, holding you still.
You start to cry when she moans into you.
It’s too much, too intimate, and when you sob out her name, she finally looks up. Her mouth is slick. Her eyes are kind.
"That's it. Let go. I've got you."
When she slides two fingers inside, it’s perfect.
Not rushed. Not rough. Just deep, slow, and careful. She watches your face the whole time. You can’t look away. She’s so beautiful like this, face flushed, sleeves rolled up, blue jacket still buttoned, hair mussed from where you gripped it.
She curls her fingers, presses her palm against your mound and drags her touch across that perfect spot inside you. You cry out, back arching. She doesn’t stop.
“Keep your eyes on me,” she murmurs. “I want to see your face when you come.”
And you do.
You fall apart on her fingers, thighs shaking, body quaking as her mouth claims your clit again and she keeps working you through it, gentle but relentless, dragging the orgasm out until your nails leave marks on her desk.
You don’t even realise she’s lifted you until you’re in her lap again, back against her chest.
Her fingers are still inside you, lazily fucking you as you twitch from overstimulation. Her other hand is on your chest, cupping your breast.
“Such a good girl,” she murmurs against your neck. “So good for me. You did so well.”
꒰ Vi - Got the neighbors yellin earthquake, 4.5 when I make the bed shake,
"Strip. Now."
You’re naked and on your knees in seconds, thighs already shaking in anticipation.
Vi pulls out the toy bag like it’s a ritual. Unzips it, slow and smug, and holds up the strap first —black, thick, and buzzing lowly in her palm. Your mouth drops.
"Remember this one, baby?" she grins. “The one that made you cry and drool last time?”
She climbs on the bed, already strapping in. The curve is perfect, the base buzzing quietly while she fastens it to her hips like a fucking weapon. She's not even undressed yet, just in that damn hoodie and those godforsaken gray sweats, letting her strap do the talking.
“You know the rules,” she says, licking her lips. “Color?”
“r-red,” you breathe, already throbbing.
She nods. “Good. You’re gonna need it.”
First, she ties your wrists.
Not tight, but enough to keep you still. Arms above your head, ankles spread by her hands as she crawls between your thighs, eyes burning.
“Missed this pussy,” she whispers. “Missed the way you taste when you’re desperate.”
Her mouth hits your cunt and you scream.
No teasing. No warm-up. She eats you like she’s starving, fast, messy, spit and tongue everywhere, her nose grinding your clit as she groans into you like she’s trying to leave a mark. You writhe, sobbing into the pillows, already close because she knows you. Knows how to lick, suck, fuck with her tongue and make your brain go blank.
You come in like 90 seconds. She doesn’t stop.
Doesn’t even slow down.
She just slides two fingers in, curling, rough, and holds you there while you writhe, overstimulated and crying into the mattress.
“Already?” she laughs. “You’re falling apart and I haven’t even fucked you yet.”
When she flips you over, your thighs are trembling.
You’re on your back now, wrists tied above your head, legs open, and Vi between them with that strap angled just right. She holds a vibrator in one hand, silver, sleek, vicious.
She clicks it on. Presses it to your clit.
You scream.
She smiles.
Then lines up the strap and slides in.
You didn’t know you could feel this full.
The dildo is thick and long, already vibrating inside you as she fucks in deep and slow. Your body arches off the bed, muscles tightening as she grinds her hips down, rolling the toy against every sweet spot inside you. The vibrator is still on your clit, held tight between you.
She’s fucking you into the mattress. Literally.
The bed frame bangs against the wall, once, twice, loud enough that the neighbor knocks from the other side.
“Vi, oh!” you gasp.
She laughs.
"Let ‘em hear," she grunts. “Let ‘em know who fucks you this good.”
Your orgasm hits like a truck. You go stiff, back bowing, a cry ripping from your throat as you clench around the vibrating strap and the toy makes your clit throb. Vi watches the whole thing, smirking, sweating, thrusting through your release like she’s on a mission.
Then she turns the vibrator up. Another level.
You sob. “No no no I can’t Vi, please!”
She leans over you, breath hot, one hand wrapping lightly around your throat as she slows the thrusts to deep, grinding pushes.
“You can,” she purrs. “You’ll give me one more. I know you will. You’re my good little mess, aren’t you?”
You nod frantically, tears falling, thighs twitching as she forces another orgasm from your wrung-out body.
You scream again when you come. She kisses your open mouth, still fucking deep and slow, like she wants you ruined for anyone else.
꒰ Caitlyn - You such a dream come true, true. make a bitch wanna hit snooze, ooh
Her accent is worse than the teasing. Worse than the lingerie she bought you, white lace, half-off, thin and already soaked. Worse than the mirror showing every inch of your shame, flushed cheeks, trembling thighs, the way your cunt clenches nothing when she so much as grazes your skin.
"Eyes up," she commands softly. "I want you to watch yourself fall apart."
She touches you like it’s a lesson in patience.
No rush. Just long strokes over your stomach. A kiss behind your ear. Her hand sliding between your thighs and resting there. Not rubbing. Not moving.
“Desperate already?” she muses. “So needy for my fingers. Or is it just the sound of my voice?”
You nod, frantic. “n-need you”
She hums. “Manners.”
“Please, Miss Kiramman.”
She smiles. That smile. Dangerous. Rich. Full of pride and ownership.
“Good girl.”
The first touch is electric.
Her fingers press against your clit, slow circles that drag a whimper from your throat. Your legs twitch. She holds you still with one hand at your lower back, the other teasing your entrance without giving you what you want.
"So responsive," she murmurs. “I could do this all night.”
And she does.
She edges you. Brings you close, then pulls away. Toys with your nipples, mouth warm and wet, tongue swirling slowly as her fingers sink inside you, just enough to make your thighs shake. Not enough to let you come.
Over and over. You sob. You beg. Your knees give out.
Caitlyn just tilts your face up to the mirror again.
"See that? That’s what I do to you.”
You finally break when she pulls out the vibrator.
Small. Silver. Discreet. She turns it on and presses it to your clit with precision, holding it just right while two fingers slide back in. Your whole body convulses.
"oh Cait, please I can’t!"
She clicks her tongue. “You’ll come when I say, not before.”
You’re sobbing.
She kisses your cheek. “You’re like a dream come true, darling.”
Your orgasm hits when she lets it.
She leans down, voice velvet against your ear. “Now, my love.”
Your body shatters. You scream, legs twitching, tears streaking your cheeks as she works you through it, vibrator still on, fingers slow and loving, her lips murmuring praise into your neck.
an. the best type of young love is between older women
cw. strangers to lovers. retired business owner!reader, business owner!ambessa. vetting disguised as flirting... which turns into actual flirting. sneaking off like teenagers (because love makes us all young again). age gap; reader is in their early 30s, ambessa is in her mid 50s.
The Christmas Gala, once a ironically-named event held in your small, two-floor office space, had evolved. Greatly. No longer were you organizing the simultaneous potluck or hiding Secret Santa lists—you weren’t even organizing it at all. Despite the hefty royalty checks you cashed and the occasional memo sent your way, you’d pulled out of business and sunk into leisure.
So now, along with the company’s—corporation’s, to be precise, as of a few years ago—rapid proliferation, the Gala, in turn, had snowballed and grown to fit its name. No longer were your five employees shuttered into the break room, no. Now a river of investors, your successors, and upper management floods a grand venue once a year, to chat and consort each other and wheedle deals over seemingly unending champagne.
What was once an ugly sweater contest had turned into black tie, suits fitted and dresses ankle length. Heels are high and cufflinks are shiny, speaking to each person’s apparent wealth and influence. You, yourself, also look the part; dressing up is uncontrollably enticing, no matter if it’s your first or fiftieth time.
Pearls round your shoulders, clinging to the satin that plunges shallowly at your chest and pools low at the bottom of your spine. Each shift of your shoulders etches shadows and reveals highlights, making you an unending piece of art. Whether it be the dimples that sit low on your back or the shallow lines of your shoulder blades, they reflect beautifully in the venue’s glittering lights.
You’re greeted as you enter, but thankfully most understand your desire for observational solitude. The high, curving ceilings are a better greeting—silent, beautiful, glimmering. They meet at a point in the center of the room, the domed glass segmented and exposing the sky’s winking stars. Their light calls you, and it’s more welcome than anything that you’ve ever heard audibly. You tear your eyes away, though. Stargazing can come later, when your task is wrapped up in a tight bow.
Deal-making is not your job anymore—you’ve left that to your successors. Yet, every once and a while, they come to you with a plea. Unintentionally, you’ve become their “vetter.” They send you to speak with potential business partners, often without educating them on the company’s history and your part in it. An unaware person is an honest one, and your judgement has always been the sound law of the land.
Tonight you have another mark. It feels like a shot of lightning, thinking about it. You accept a glass of champagne but don’t sip, buzzing with too much energy. Perhaps it reflects badly on your life’s level of excitement that a faux-investigation, reminiscent of a 90’s spy film, is enough to make you fuzzy with adrenaline. Ah, well. Tonight isn’t the night to scrutinize yourself—instead, it’s time to investigate another.
You spot her from across the room, and it makes you stop. Pictures pale to the way the bare light makes her glimmer, smooth and dark and defined. Initially it looks as if she’s in a dress, the crimson fabric loose at the legs, until she moves and reveals the pantsuit’s disconnect. The golden accents shine just as her skin does, each shift of her restless stance revealing new divots for your gaze to explore.
Her eyes flicker towards you. They don’t meet, but it’s much too close for comfort. You relieve yourself of your drink, placing the untouched flute on a passing tray, and tug your CMO into a dance. She laughs against your hair as she obliges, curling her hand in yours and resting the other at your waist.
(She used to be so small—not in stature but in confidence. It’s sweet that she leads, after so many years of you taking up that role.)
ᰔ
Miss Medarda is popular. You watch her while you’re drawn, pulled, and guided through dances—reveling in the orchestra’s swell, as well as her subtle glances. She’s swarmed by people, most dwarfed by her height and beautiful musculature. They vie for her attention like minnows around a scrap, tugging helplessly in so many directions she does not move at all.
You’ll never tear through the swarm. But your gaze will.
You allow it to drift lazily, naturally towards her. The slower dance, spins less vertigo-inducing, grants ample time to meet her eyes. She glimpses you. You meet it. Unintentionally, there’s a quirk to your lips—not meant as a challenge, but merely an instinct of politeness and a show of mild amusement. But she takes it as such, meets the challenge, even though you’re an unknown from across a crowded room. You can see it in the sudden, subtle clench of her jaw.
She joins the dancing crowd not soon after, seemingly drawn in by a slightly-drunk, over-eager business partner. They hold her clumsily through the song, and you can see every wince as they stumble over her feet. Every time you glimpse her again you’re laughing silently, smile so wide she can spy the white gleam of your canines.
Thankfully for her feet’s wellbeing, the next dance is one that incorporates switching partners. She maneuvers closer and closer to you, even as you spin on the arms of others. It’s predatory in its intensity—even with other men and women in front of you, all you can pay attention to is the burning of her gaze at the back of your head.
She’s coming for you.
It’s stupidly thrilling. It feels like a spy movie—you the secret, mysterious operative and her, the intense, almost-desperate government agent. Your heartbeat picks up every time you’re passed off, wondering if you’ll be scooped up at the next switch.
The song rises to its crescendo. The flutes guide the melody, high and melodic, the rest of the woodwinds following after; the strings follow suit, rumbling bass and cello supporting the croon of the violas and violins. It climbs higher and higher, the breathtaking sound amplified by the hall’s high ceilings and far-reaching walls. You’re already breathless when she scoops you up, driven more by your heart, the muscle beating in the music’s rhythm, than by your own mind. You can’t help but laugh, the sound falling warmly between you; your hands curl around her shoulders, they roll under your palms.
“Why are you watching me?” She rumbles, low and unintentionally curious. The words are pressed into your cheek—she leans down to kiss the skin like she’s a friend. Femme fatales curled together. Who needs a James Bond or a Jason Bourne?
However, there’s no high stakes to the question, unlike in the movies. Revealing your identity wouldn’t be a detriment. But that’s not what you’re here for, and so you charm your way through a lie. It doesn’t matter if she believes you, really. It’s all just a bit of fun now.
“Because you’re beautiful.” You breathe, low and drawn out, hopelessly enamoured against her dark cheek. The skin is oh so soft, luminous and flush to your own. And her fragrance—oh, how wonderful she smelt up close. A hint of something spicy, sharp, before it melted along your tongue like tangy cherry and a morning rose.
Your breath hitches, because how could it not.
She chuckles; lets her hand venture further down your back. It presses, large and warm, into the base of your spine.
“You’re too blatant to be malevolent.” She murmurs, and drops her head like she wishes to nose at your hairline—lingering just far enough that you can feel the cool brush of every inhale and the slow release of every exhale. “But I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth, either.”
You exhale then—one slow, delicate, shaky breath. And then again, another breath, this one half-laughter. You’ve laughed more tonight than you have in the past month. It’s the full-body type that makes your cheeks hurt and your chest burn, not the half-hearted sort of chuckle you give to an almost-funny joke. It’s wonderful. Your eyes squeeze shut with the gentle force of it.
“I guess I’m transparent.” You murmur, pressing your own hands into her spine. This isn’t the first time you’re grateful her pantsuit is backless, and it surely won’t be the last. The skin at her spine, thinly covering the most defined muscles you think you’ve ever had the pleasure to lay your hands on, is as warm as the rest of her. Those muscles ripple under your fingers—every shift, you feel; every movement is cataloged and marked with your prints.
It’s quite distracting.
She spins you, then; you go turning past who was probably your next partner, their hands decidedly empty of either you or her. Their wide expression makes you feel guilty for about half of a second before she’s breathing against your ear again and nope, you’re totally willing to do another rotation with her.
“So, who are you, then?” She hums, the barest quirk of her brow following. A lie sparks across your tongue—one of the many aliases you’ve used brimming—but it fizzles and dies under her gaze. Something in it says that she’ll know. So you give her your name then, the words only loud enough for her.
She gives no reaction. There’s not even a shift in her gaze. But you know she’s heard of you. Just like everyone’s heard of her.
“Ambessa Medarda.” She offers in return, as if anyone here—or in the business world you soar above—doesn’t know who she is.
“Pleasure.” You murmur. It’s the most genuine thing you’ve said all evening. It’s not surprising—she’s warm and flirtatious, a natural conversationalist who’s not overwhelming. She appeals to your withdrawn sensibilities, not borne naturally but created through your lax early retirement. So when she smiles just a hint and starts to (not-so-subtly) ease you off the dance floor, you go with her.
ᰔ
The first thing you realize when you breach the perimeter is that it was warm in the venue. It wasn’t clear when you were in there, but the rescinding heat and subsequent brushing chill is enough to make your shoulders tense.
“Cold?” She hums, passing over a flute of champagne—two of them dwarfed by her hands, one in each palm. You didn’t even see her grab it.
You hum a denial, accepting the drink. The venue’s set on a beautiful piece of land—sprawling, manicured fields of grass intercut with intimate gardens. It’s always been a dream of yours to see it at night, ever since you first came here as a child. The light pollution that covers most other places is gone, especially further out on the grounds. If all the electricity went out, you’re sure you could see galaxies long forgotten.
Your heart pulls you again, guides your feet—not your head. She trails after you, curiously quiet, intelligent enough to read the silence and enamoured enough to sink into it.
The grass is cool, slightly misty. The sprinklers had long since gone off, leaving just a gentle sheen of water; it’s barely enough to wet your skin. You ease down to sit in it, the short, even stalks skimming your wrists and curving gently at your ankles. She sinks down next to you as you take your first sip of champagne all night, letting her long legs splay out and the crimson fabric of her pantsuit separate. Your wrist tilts, offering your flute at a subtle angle, and she bumps her own against it with a gentle tink.
“I’m not made for that anymore.” The idea has been growing in your mind for a long while. You once relished in it—in the networking. In meeting people, growing your business, and fighting to keep your principles cemented at the forefront of it.
Now you’re just tired of it. Perhaps it’s retirement (the one you swore was just a break) seeping into your bones, or maybe the ache for connections outside of coworkers, subordinates, and business partners caught up for you.
All you know is it’s not for you anymore.
There’s no sure reason why you’re sharing this with her of all people; it’s well known she’s made for this. Groomed since birth, now an eternally cemented figure. The businesswoman of the generation before you. In the years where you were struggling to scrape together salaries and your own rent, she was already there—and she’s outlasted you.
(Rumor says she’s never taken a day off. You think they’re so bullshit, but… sometimes you wonder.)
“I’m not sure you ever were.” She responds, champagne swirling in her glass. She’s never quite still. As if noticing your gaze, she takes a sip. Wets her lips, and then continues. “But you did very, very well, in a world not made for you.”
Your eyes tighten for just a second—not suspicious, but scrutinizing. She knows who you are, obviously, if not your face than your name. But everyone knows your name. She seems to know you.
So of course you ask. Burning curiosity was one of the things that got you so far, after all. Among other things.
“How do you know me? We’ve never met before.” She takes another sip from her flute, red lip printing on the rim.
“...I saw you present at a conference once. I’ve been keeping track ever since.” She may be unabashed and honest, but the words make your face hot.
“That was—” you huff, mentally searching through the years. When was the last time you presented—?
“Seven years ago. You were just getting off the ground.” Her tone is even. Soothing in its smoothness, but overwhelmingly calm. Especially with the information she’s divulging—speaking as if it’s nothing more than an itinerary.
Your mind spins. Seven years.
“Why?” Is all that comes to mind—bubbling on your tongue worse than the champagne.
“My children have never been as ruthless as I… thought they needed to be.” The words ease out—slow, controlled. As if admitting her misstep was a challenge. She turns to gaze at you, open hand coming to cover your own. “You gave me hope. That they, too, could succeed in this cruel world.”
You let the moment simmer. Watching her gaze deepen is a pleasure—the quietness allowing you to really observe her.
“...did you just attempt to flirt by comparing me to your children?” She blanches, and then bites back a laugh when she spots your wry grin. Her teeth bare with the effort, but the lines in her cheeks sink in regardless.
“You’re evil. So very evil.” Her laughter is soft. Who else gets to say they saw her laugh like this? It’s a privilege you tuck close to your chest.
“Why didn’t you talk to me that day?” That question makes her quiet.
“...you were so young.” Your head tilts, an eyebrow raising. You’re old and experienced enough to spot a half-truth—with enough younger cousins to know, instinctively, the tone they carry.
Her lips press together, caging the confession. But under your gaze, she relents. “...and very pretty. I was… different, then. I had just lost my husband. I knew I couldn’t resist, and that you’d get pulled into my grief. I wanted to let you bloom, unimpeded by anything.”
“It would have been very controversial.” You quip.
“Completely.” Her lips twitch.
“A scandal. At least your children are a… well. One of them is younger than me.” Comes your hum, your lips pursing.
“That… really wouldn’t have helped, I don’t think.” She huffs—but she’s smiling.
“...I would have been into it.” That makes you both break, falling into laughter. The motion pulls you into each other, the humor like a vortex. Her shoulder bumps yours, and your hand curls purposefully into hers. It’s heart-pounding, juvenile.
“You’re a character.” You’ve spent enough time around older people—both socially and in the business—to know that means you’ve got attitude, but I like it. It makes you beam.
The silence settles comfortably, your cheeks aching when your smile slowly melts into something softer.
“I always wanted to see the stars here.” You confess, eyes tilting up towards the midnight-smeared horizon. The sky isn’t black, here, the darkest color still carrying a tint of blue or purple, the colors only further illuminated by every bright star. “I loved this place when I was a child… but they closed the grounds at night. Even before the sunset.”
“It really is wonderful.” She hums, the sound rumbling from the back of her throat and coated with understanding. “This is my first time here; I’ve never been one for historic buildings. I’d rather frequent the war museums, or stroll through the parks. Old, rich houses are beautiful… but they’re empty of people.”
War museums.
“Your father was a veteran, wasn’t he?” You question, suddenly reminded of it; you’d learned it years ago from some stray magazine article, bored and half-asleep in some waiting room. Thank you, Vogue, for having insightful interviewers.
“Yes, yes he was.” Her huff is surprised, a subtle raise of her brow following your question. “And I’m the only one who’s been watching?”
You can’t help the grin that splits your face. “You’re everywhere. Whether you like it or not.”
She laughs brightly. You can feel her breath rush, warmly contrasting against the cool night air, against your hairline, and instantly you’re aware of how close she’s pressed. Through the conversation you’d both migrated close, until your shoulders hover just an inch apart.
The flush that settles over your entire body is juvenile. It feels nostalgic and foreign all at once, the feeling an old memory—like the lightness you felt at prom, heels digging into your ankles and dress heavy as you danced. The pain and happiness, joined, had all diminished into sparse reflections you had to grasp at. This feeling was no different, yet now it was back with a vengeance.
“...god, you make me feel young again.” You scoff, temple pressing to her solid shoulder.
“Isn’t that my line?” She teases, but her smile is soft. “I’m supposed to be revitalized by a younger lover, not the other way around.”
“I’m already retired. We could argue that I’m older in spirit.” Your words make her laugh again—a quiet thing, exhaled over your hairline.
“Sure.”
You sit there, side by side, twined for a while. It’s not clear how much, the moon’s shifts your only gauge. When someone comes to find you it’s already peaked, heading down towards the horizon, yet still with a while to go.
The house’s doors have never been quiet; oiled and maintained, yet the sound of age still echoed when they opened. Music and quiet conversation spills out over you the few seconds it’s open.
“Miss Medarda? You have—” Their breath stutters, before they regain momentum. “—um. You have people looking for you; the night’s winding down and they’d like to talk once more before it ends.”
She grumbles something unintelligible, but moves to rise. You catch her forearm, stopping her halfway.
“One second.” You slip your hand into the dress’s pocket, tugging out an old relic—a business card. It’s an old habit, but you still find yourself sliding a few of them into whatever pocket, purse, or bag you have that day. You procrastinated cancelling the continuous orders for too long, and now you’ve got about a million. But you’re thankful for that in situations like this. “Take my card.”
“...you’re asking me to call you?” She hums, looking mildly amused and wholly appreciative.
“Why not?” You quip back, brow raised subtly. Two can play at that, hm?
“...I’ll be in touch.”
ᰔ
They call you then, the next morning, after you’d completely forgotten why you were actually at the gala.
“We couldn’t find you before we left. What’d you think?” Your successor’s voice crackles over the line, half-groggy.
“Too much whiskey?” You tease instead, biting your lip to suppress laughter. You’re not successful in the slightest.
“Shut up, please. The sooner you answer the sooner we can both go back to nursing our hangovers.” They groan, and it makes you give up on holding back your mirth.
“Okay, okay.” You hum, still exhaling chuckles. “She was wonderful. I think she’d be a good partner.”
They breathe out, relief palpable even through the phone. “I was hoping she’d be good. She’s a wonderful businesswoman; she’d be a great asset.”
“Mhm.” Your phone vibrates against your ear. When you pull it back, you’re met with an unknown number. “I’ve got to go, okay? But let me know how it goes.”
You hang up before they can respond, perhaps too quickly. But there’s only one person who would be calling you right now.
“Hello?”
“Good morning.” She hums, sounding much more awake than you. “How are you?”
modern!young!ambessa x curvy!best friend!reader. men & minors dni.
synopsis: ambessa has always been your best friend, and you hers—one half of a duo everyone envies. but it turns out she’ll take any chance to remind you that no one else gets to have you.
cw: straight smut bro i'm ovulating real bad, power dynamics, homoerotic friendships, rich girl bullshit, pining, sexually explicit content, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, oral sex, face riding, impact play, dom/sub, brat!reader, brat tamer!ambessa, dom!ambessa, praise kink, face-sitting, face fucking, possessive sex, accidental voyeurism (she eats you out while you're on the phone with a date), possible infidelity? may be up to interpretation, insane sexual tension, kinda hate sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, clit play, humiliation kink, reader is black-coded but everyone can read!
notes: i have nothing to say for myself. enjoy. love you.
the problem with the medarda heiress is that she’s allowed to want you, but you are not allowed to want her. if you do, you’ve upset something delicate and impossible to rebalance. you’ve leaned too hard into it, and she’ll punish you for the weight. it was an invisible rule, but enforced with brutal consistency. you, and anyone else she ever deigned to touch, had to understand this law to be allowed inside the thicketed, thorn-laced garden of her lioness heart.
you were strategic. played it smart. tied yourself to her not through confession but through proximity. best friendship. a safe zone, or something close enough to perform as one. still, the world you built together had curdled into something sticky. mutated by a strain of possession that could only belong to two bright, beautiful, brilliant young girls, padded by old money and too many afternoons with nowhere to be.
you never talked about it, but you both knew: the relationship had grown elevated beyond all else. separate. sacred. whatever existed between you was observed with more affection than most marriages.
she had your coffee order filed away in the notes of your contact card. you had her credit cards sitting untouched in your apple wallet, every limit obscene. you did her makeup when she was afraid to try something new and needed someone who wouldn’t laugh if it all went wrong. her hands hugged the lunar curves of your hips as she measured you for brands you rarely purchased from. urged you to yield to instructions such as stand still while her thumbs pressed deliciously just below your hipbones.
you knew each other best, which meant you hurt each other best.
when she was displeased with you, she would excise you silently. you’d wake to an instagram feed newly glittering with crowds of people who would ask about the reason you hadn’t been there with rehearsed innocence. in return, you would still celebrate her birthday, but with less respect than owed. show up late. deliver a gift just generic enough to imply you’d forgotten, a last-minute grab from a boutique near the venue. it would make her lips go thin and bloodless at the head of the dinner table, her eyes going flat with insult.
ambessa would follow this with digging her nails into your thigh until she drew both blood and your sharp gasp of pain, and then look over sweetly. her face would enact a perfect collapse, a slow crumple, her face folding into the perfect picture of saccharine concern.
“jesus, [name],” she’d whisper, a hand on your knee, locs twisted up like a debutante. “are you alright?”
only you could see the violence behind it. it matched your own.
later, to get back at her, you’d lock her out in the cold and text her to call in a favor at the ritz. you’d fall asleep sprawled across your shared bed, cheek pressed to her pillow, her scent making something claw in your chest.
but the worst, the thing that really got her, was when you went on dates. she despised it. viscerally, illogically.
she’d watch you get ready from the edge of your bed like a housecat preparing to pounce, her long limbs sprawled out in quiet threat. her eyes would follow your reflection in the mirror as you applied gloss and tucked that evening’s pair of earrings into the soft swell of your earlobe. when you reached for your heels, she'd tug the hem of your dress like she was helping, but always, always popped off a bead or caught a thread.
you’d swat her hand away.
“bessa. stop.”
she’d just blink, slowly and unreadably. “i’m only fixing it.”
you’d kick at her ankle, not gently. she’d wince, delicately performative. it made you feel better, even though both of you knew she could break you in half if she wanted.
she just never did.
she always waited up.
never slouched. never drowsy. only still. it was like a meditation brought on by jealousy that coiled with nowhere to strike.
ambessa kept the suite dim, lit only by the golden hush of a single lamp and the spill of city lights leering through the windows. she sat poised in one of the chaises like she’d been born there, legs crossed, one hand rubbing idly at her temple as she looked over internship applications. her silk robe was belted in a way that suggested absentmindedness. but with ambessa, nothing ever was.
your entrance was deliberate. you’d come late, always sitting by yourself at the table for a few extra minutes just to strengthen the wound. as you walked in, she looked up, eyes glossy but sharp as if she hadn’t blinked while you were gone.
your heels hung from your fingers, limp and thoughtless, betraying nothing of the two thousand dollars they’d cost, you had played it risky, had decided to engage with what your mother once called “the wisdom of a whore”. the outfit was an electric blue, comprised of a candalously tight, micro-skirt and a matching beaded tube top that did nothing to hide the hardness of your nipples.
your hips swayed like a dare. your hair was teased large and soft, fragrant with something tropical and warm, the kind of scent that would linger kindly along bedsheets and a shirt collar. your lip combo was smudged from the sips of the apple martinis you’d ordered, the liquor a toxic green highball. it had felt threatening every single time a sip went down. your teeth bit into your bottom lip, white still gleaming. your edges were immaculate, barely curled.
you looked expensive. you were sure to taste somewhat like trouble. and she abhorred it.
you hadn't even liked the guy, but you liked his effect. it was cruel, but cruelty was the only language you spoke fluently when ambessa got like this.
her eyes crawled over you. slow. bladed. her fingers twitched, and she covered them with the lip of her robe, anxious to keep her emotions unrevealed.
“well?” she said.
you blinked. set your purse on the counter like you hadn't noticed her watching. “well, what?”
her lip curled, delicate and venomous. but then, “did you—did you have fun?”
her voice seemed to get smaller by the end, but you caught the subtle narrowing of her eyes.
you laughed. couldn’t help it. the act was borderline insane. insanely her. you dropped your heels, letting one tumble toward the couch.
“you’re so upset,” you murmured, the sound almost fond.
ambessa stood. “i am not.”
“bessa,” you said, ensuring that you sounded the right side of disappointed. “i thought we agreed to never lie to each other.”
“please,” she scoffed. you smiled wider. you began to move again.
her eyes tracked you, slow and precise, a predator unbothered by the illusion of prey. she waited until you leaned against the island in the kitchen, fiddling with a glass like you might pour yourself water. you didn’t.
then, low and syrupy, “what’d you drink tonight?”
you smirked without turning. “why?”
“i’d like to know what to order if i go there.”
she’d never go there.
you glanced over your shoulder, smiling sharply.
“if you want to know what’s been in my mouth, then come and find out.”
she slipped over like a shadow, walked unrushed and barefoot. her robe parted just enough to flash well-lotioned skin and the flex of lean muscle. her nails were painted a deep oxblood. she didn’t raise her voice when she stopped in front of you, her height even more pronounced in the throes of her possession, but her mouth was hard.
her gaze dropped: first to your gloss-slick mouth, then the dip of your collarbone, then lower still. with it went the last of her mask. her voice grew high and tight.
“did he touch you here?” she asked, reaching out. her fingers hovered. “or was he too busy trying not to cum in his pants the second you sat down?”
you sucked in a breath, heat climbing up the back of your neck.
“you sound jealous,” you said.
“i think you want me to be,” she countered. you had no answer to that.
goosebumps lit up along your arms. you were still warm from dinner, still sticky from the club, but something about ambessa always made you feel brand-new.
she stepped closer. her hand landed heavy on your hip, fingers sinking in. she wanted you to remember just how bruiseable your body was. her thumb brushed under the edge of your skirt. a threat of a touch.
“did he kiss you?” she whispered, like it would kill her to hear it.
“of course not,” you lied, soft and immediate. you licked along the faded edges of your lip liner.
ambessa smiled. not kindly.
“that’s too bad,” she said. it was so fucking hot that she didn’t mean it.
“did he touch my things?” she asked. her fingers ghosted the curve beneath your top, just under the tight squeeze of your left breast. “put his mouth here?”
“nope,” you answered, popping the ‘p’.
she moved to your hip. “here?”
your breath hitched. you shook your head, slowly. still lying.
“what about here?” her hand slipped behind you, tugged up the hem of your micro-skirt until the under-crease of your ass met the cool air. one finger traced the waistband of your thong. “this was twisted when you walked in. that’s not like you.”
you didn’t answer. your glossed lips just parted slightly, as if something invisible had just struck you. ambessa tilted her head.
“i’ll fix it,” she murmured, voice thick and poisonous. “you know how i hate mess.”
she adjusted the strap of your underwear with surgical precision. the backs of her knuckles grazed the softest part of your skin. she made sure to dip downward, drag a fingertip against your clit just to feel it twitch.
you didn’t flinch. you couldn’t flinch. then you’d lose.
finally, she stepped back, just barely.
“and what did you have to eat?” she asked, her rounds of questions cinching tighter against your throat with every turn.
you gave a half-shrug, cheeky. “whatever he was paying for.”
ambessa leaned in. she studied you, breath warm across your cheek, and then cupped your chin. with low eyes, she bit at your lip until they opened and then slid her tongue in to make it a proper kiss. she sucked and lapped at you, curling all around the wetness of your mouth and humming with pleasure when you tried to kiss her back.
then she broke the connection, lips almost engorged red from the tension.
you stood there, stunned. her taste now lived on your lips. your pulse lived in your throat.
“well.” she shrugged, casual. “sounds like it was all very unexciting. shall we go to bed?”
she shouldered past you, unconcerned whether you followed.
ambessa didn’t look up from where she was sitting on the bed, not even when you slipped into the bathroom. you left the door cracked, half-inviting her to watch the undressing of you, but she didn’t give you an inch. it was almost worse, that stillness again. how could she withhold and perform perfect patience while her jealousy dirtied her blood?
you brushed your teeth, wiped your face clean of the night, undid your top like it meant nothing, and re-entered the bedroom in just your strapless bra and thong. you tried not to rush. you knew she was waiting for only a second of displayed desperation.
the air was cooler when you stepped out. low lights spilled across the floor from the floating led light bar above the bed. her robe had been abandoned, and her legs were crossed with the intention underneath the scarlet sheer of her babydoll.
with a stifled sigh of annoyance, you moved toward the dresser to grab your pajamas. but your phone lit up before you could, its thin body vibrating with an incoming call on the bed. it lay there, ringing in suspense of your answer. you squinted and rose on your tiptoes to read the caller id.
[date’s name.]
ambessa’s eyes found it at the same time yours did. she didn’t say anything, but she shut the cover of her ipad case decisively. her gaze lifted to you with the languid, expectant delight of someone about to flip a switch.
“answer it,” she said, voice so even that you knew she must be boiling inside. it wasn’t a request.
your hand hovered. “bessa."
she tilted her head. “you were so sure of yourself earlier. why the hesitation now?”
you sighed, picked it up. “hey,” you greeted, light and airy, as if your best friend wasn’t boring a hole into the side of your head. you were suddenly so aware of your lack of clothing.
ambessa slid off the side of the bed and moved behind you, steps quiet and intentional. she didn’t touch you yet. only looked.
“uh, yeah, i made it home fine,” you said into the phone, forcing a little buyoncy into your voice. “no, it’s cool, i had a great time.”
her hand ghosted over your waist. her fingertips, at first. you turned a fraction of an inch, a subtle warning in your glance. but she wasn’t interested in warnings tonight. she was tuned into her own thing.
you felt the full flatness of her palm, warm and calloused against the small of your back, and then, without further preamble, she pushed you down. you fell with a gasp of surprise, your chest hitting the plush of the mattress and your legs splaying across the cool sheets.
“shit, sorry! i’m fine,” you said, responding to the sudden concern of the man on the other end of the line. “just tripped.”
you went to twist over your shoulder, but were stopped by a firm hand on the nape of your neck. you froze. this was new. you had no plan for this. carefully, ambessa dragged your hips up until you were in a suitable arch with your ass spilling around the baby pink lace of your thong.
“hold still,” she murmured, lips barely brushing the shell of your ear, “and keep talking.”
you fought to keep your breath even as she bent and placed a heated kiss against your shoulder, sliding further down to tattoo one against your back. her palm flattened over your ass, sliding up and under to grasp at your lower belly. her fingers splayed wide, her mouth finding that soft place between your neck and collarbone.
the graze of her teeth made you moan, which you then tried to transform into a weak excuse for a yawn.
“no, i’m not tired. just—” your voice hitched. she dragged her hand downward, slow as silk through a ring. you felt her tug up the front of your thong, so that your lips bulged obscenely around the rim of the fabric.
your free hand clenched in the duvet.
“‘m just getting ready for bed,” you lied. or maybe not. maybe this was exactly how it always went with ambessa; submission didn’t look like a loss. you wanted to obey.
the call continued as she dragged the thong away from you, the graze of lace lighting up every nerve. she left it down around your knees, bringing both hands up to spread you wide and dirty. she gazed silently at the bubblegum pink gape of your body, eyes catching the sloppy drip of your pussy as it pulsed open, messy and glistening, your cream leaking onto the sheets with every shaky breath you took.
“such a pretty girl,” she whispered. you heard the rustle of her sliding to her knees. “keep talking or i’ll make you give him a play-by-play.”
she swung herself around so that she could slide under you, hands coming up to clutch at your thighs. you managed to mute the call as she pulled you down, just in time for the wide stripe of her tongue to meet the throbbing heat of your cunt.
“ohhh fuck, babe,” you groaned, your body falling flush against her mouth. “yeah, holy shit, bessa. right there. please.”
ambessa suctioned her mouth around your clit, suckling and then pulling off with an unnecessary slurp that you knew was done only to make you shiver with embarrassment.
“put it on speaker.”
then she was back to burying her face inside of you.
you hesitated. she noticed. she always noticed. her tongue slowed just enough to make it a punishment.
“bessa, i don’t—”
she pulled back, breath damp against your skin. “i said, put it on speaker.”
you fumbled with the phone, thumb slick as you pressed the icon and heard his voice flare through the room. he was still talking. something dumb. something you didn’t care about.
ambessa hummed, pleased. the vibration traveled straight through your spine.
“hello?” came the tinny voice, tentative now. “you there?”
ambessa hummed again, this time laughing at both of you, and your whole body jolted. you slapped a hand over your mouth, trying not to make a sound, trying not to cum.
“uh-huh,” you said, voice thin and cracking as you ground down into her mouth. “no, i’m—yeah, just—yeah—yeah. shit. um, sorry. thought i dropped the call.”
underneath you, ambessa smiled.
“is this a bad time? ‘cause i can call back.” it was a shame he was sweet.
ambessa tapped your ass lightly. then sank her teeth into your thigh, not enough to mark, but enough to warn. then she went back in like she had nothing to lose. well, she didn’t. you did.
hands gripping your ass, she tugged you even lower, lips messy, tongue insistent. you could feel her breath, hot and damp, every time she moaned low, just to rattle you from the inside out.
“you watching something?” your date asked, and you nodded, forgetting that he couldn’t see you for a moment.
“yeah, sorry! i always have something on in the, unh, background while i do my routine.”
he laughed, filing away your distraction as some cute, quirky fantasy. a far more innocent categorization than the situation deserved. “nah, i get it.”
you tried to focus on the call, tried to nod along to whatever the hell he was saying, something about “doing this again,” “seeing you soon.”
ambessa refused to let up. she devoured you, alternating between firm, unrelenting strokes and soft kisses that felt like taunts. you could hear the slick echo of it, each pull and suck wet enough to shame you. and it was all happening on his time. you weren’t yours right now.
you bit your knuckle, shuddering.
she moaned like you were the one doing something to her, then gripped the backs of your thighs and pulled you further down, spreading you open with no mercy. her tongue lapped deliberately, each movement messier, filthier, designed to make you flinch like a liar under a spotlight. you could hear the wetness now. you prayed he couldn’t.
her nose pressed in. her mouth devoured. it wasn’t sweet. it was starved.
“i’d like that,” you said hoarsely. “tonight was so good. you’re so good.”
“oh, it’s like that?” your date replied, voice dipping with misplaced pleasure. this was not about him right now.
ambessa pulled back just long enough to whisper, lips glossy. she spread your lips wide, watched you clench around the emptiness. her chin was glazed with the drool of your need. “but not as good as this, right?”
then she flattened her tongue and drew a line so slow it made your knees buckle. when she grazed your swollen clit with her teeth you whimpered, far too loud. there was a pause on the other end.
“you okay?” he asked, voice laced with confusion now. “you sound a little more than distracted.”
“yeah,” you breathed, forcing a laugh. “swear. just exhausted. you know. long day.”
ambessa pulled your clit back into her mouth like she wanted to keep it, and your body betrayed you with its shivering and arching. she didn’t stop. she didn’t want you to be quiet. she wanted the performance. wanted him to hear you choke on a lie while she tore the truth out of your body.
you grabbed the edge of the headboard with one hand, the phone shaking in the other as you began to bounce. you needed it to end, needed the focus to ride the fuck out of her face.
she squeezed your ass, giggling to herself as she slapped it and you covered your mouth as your brain whited out.
“hey, look, do you want me to call back? i can let you enjoy your show in peace,” your date offered, tone unassuming and teasing.
ambessa pulled away only long enough to murmur, “answer him, baby. or i’ll do something that’ll make you.”
“no! no, that’s okay. i wanna—i wanna keep talking.”
he said something else, his tone pleased. you couldn’t even hear it, because ambessa was saying something too. between sucks. between strokes.
“look at you, mama. do you want to cum for me?”
she didn’t wait for an answer. she slid two fingers in, knuckles deep, while her mouth returned to your clit like it belonged to her and no one else. you squeezed your eyes shut tightly, tried to focus on breathing.
“you want to cum for me, right? not him. we can keep him on the phone if you want. let him here how nasty this pussy is.” she pressed open mouth kisses to your cunt as she said it, using two fingers to spread your folds as she made out with it. she slid her tongue in, french kissing it like she’d done in the kitchen before this. “it’s okay, baby girl. i’m feeling generous. let him hear what he’ll never have.”
you slapped a hand over your mouth. your eyes rolled back. the phone slipped from your fingers and hit the bed with a soft thud, still on. still listening.
“oh shit, baby, fuck. i—oh my fucking god, bessa.” you moaned, rolling your hips faster.
“yeah?” she said, uncaring of her volume now. she smiled viciously at the thought of the way that man must be feeling. “you feel good? you like it when i put my mouth on you? come on, use your words for me.”
“yeah. i, mmm, i love—i love it. love it when you eat my pussy. ‘s so good. so fucking good.”
you were bouncing vigourously now, ass slightly clapping against her chin. she didn’t mind, only guided you further into her mouth and whined into you. you were dripping, dribbling all over her face, even slipping down her neck. she reached up, brought the phone closer.
the squelch of your pussy was obscene, your walls gummy and tightening around her every time she tried to leave. she drove her fingers deeper inside of you, relishing in the way you squealed and tossed your head back. you fumbled with the band of your bra, finally getting it undone and allowed your tits to fall perky and full into your hands. you pinched your nipples, swiveling delicately as you felt that syrupy heat begin to rise.
ambessa didn’t slow. didn't pause. she held. kept you split open, held down, fingers buried, mouth sealed over you with a precision that felt cruel. her eyes never left your face.
you screamed as you sprayed, thighs snapping shut around her face as you shook and curled inward. the world fell away, your brain tumbling into the searing bliss of an orgasm that was ripping something out of you. your voice pitched high, trembling, frantic, sweet enough to haunt someone for life. then it fell into a vocal blend of three parts: sob, slurred praise, utter disbelief.
the phone was still on, the call still connected. there was silence first. then:
“…what the fuck,” he said, voice hesitant as if he didn’t want to believe what he heard. “what the fuck, [name]?”
ambessa didn’t even glance at the phone. she just kept going, alternating between fucking and kissing against your mess, tongue soft now, lapping it all up like she was savoring victory. you whined, tried to pull back, too sensitive. she didn’t let you.
“uh-uh. you can give me another one, pretty girl. i know you want to.”
she made you ride it out, whimpering, breath stuttering against your lungs, throat closing as her tongue still worked slow, torturous circles through the oversensitivity. another cry ripped out of you, lower this time. she chased every twitch and tremble, drank from you like she was feeding.
the line crackled.
“can you not hear me? because i can hear you. i’m still on the fucking phone with you! you’re fucking—what the fuck is this?”
you couldn't even respond. you were still pulsing, convulsing, twitching in her hands. she pressed her mouth against your thigh like a signature. then, with the most obscene casualness, she reached for the phone and brought it to her lips, their fullness still soaked and shining with your release.
she didn’t rush, her hand rubbing a warm circle across your back as you fell into her. she pressed a kiss to your shoulder and then said, voice soaked clean through with honey,
“wrong number, maybe.”
then she hung up.
you collapsed forward, gasping into the pillow, body wrung out and wet and glowing like a fever. ambessa crawled up behind you, mouth still damp with you, and kissed the back of your neck like she was about to tuck you into bed.
“good girl,” she whispered.
then she bit you, hard enough to leave a mark. her hands slid up the backs of your thighs, sliding between them to spread you back apart and rub a thumb against your nerve-shot pussy.
“you want me to fill you up, sweeheart?” she murmured. “tell me, and i’ll go get it. make you feel full.”
“fuck you,” you breathed. then, “yes, please.”
ambessa’s laugh curled around you like smoke. one arm draped heavy over your waist, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
༒︎ Your wife’s forearm pressing against your throat deliciously, whines spilling from your mouth as her cock drives into you relentlessly. Your hands gripping the her silky red sheets as your brain was getting milled to mush. Her arms holding you in a headlock that you’ve been craving since this morning, watching how her biceps strained when she lifted her heavy weights— this was a dream come true.
༒︎ “Wasn’t this what you desired?” She husked into your ear, her arm tightening around your throat as her hips now slapped against your ass. You tried to reply, tried to come up with a sentence that would be at Ambessas expectations— but your mind was blank. Ambessas cock taking up most your thoughts like the cock hungry slut you were. How deranged could you get? this was just filthy.
༒︎ “I expect a answer, little one.” she growls as her arm got even tighter, making your vision hazy and cunt wetter. She knew what she was doing to you and she damn loved it.
Every time she thrusted into you a small, choked up squeak left your gaped lips, your nails digging into the mattress as you took her full length, every inch stretching you just the way you wanted. Her warm lips left w lingering kiss on the cartilage of your ear, letting out a a breathy snicker as your pussy clamped down on her cock. “I guess your cunt finds this just as amusing as I do.”
༒︎ Tears began to swarm your eyes, your breathing labored from the pressure Ambessas arm pressed on your throat. You let out a strangled cry as your legs began shaking, her cock hitting your g-spot relentlessly. Your body giving away how you’re about to fall over. “You want to cum, don’t you, sweet?” She asked in a condescending tone, teasing you in such a deranged setting.
You let out a choked whimper in response, your hand finding the strength to move over to Ambessas arm that held you in a headlock and dug your nails into her forearm. She merely snickered at your action. A sinister smile taking place on her lips as she tightened her hold on you.
Your breath hitched at the action, tongue slipping past your lips and eyes rolled to the back of your head as you dumbed out. Pussy spasming around her cock as your orgasm fell upon you, squeezing her cock enough for Ambessa to plunge into your cunt. Bottoming out completely as she emptied her load in you. Her own breath now slightly labored as she spilled her cum in your tight hole she just wrecked.
༒︎ Her arms slowly unwrapped themselves from your neck, letting you catch your breath correctly, but even then you still struggled in your cock-filled state of mind.
“It’s alright, little one. In and out— that’s it. That’s my girl.”
She slowly slipped her cock out, sitting on her folded legs and spreading your asscheeks apart. Thats the sight she wanted. Watching shamelessly as her own load dripped out your used up cunt and onto her dark red, silk sheets. A helpless whine slipping past your lips.
“Don’t worry, sweet angel— im not done with you yet.”
⋆ the only difference between a kiss and a bite is how deep the teeth go.
warlord!ambessa x bene gesserit!reader. men & minors dni.
you do not have to have read or watched dune to understand this.
synopsis: primed to be one of ambessa's hand-picked elite, you have wanted nothing but to be ambessa's top commander. but then she discarded you, chose the kiramman girl instead. she might have thrown you out, but someone else took you in.
cw: bene gesserit!reader, age difference, older woman/young woman, power dynamics, power imbalance, pining, sexually explicit content, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, oral sex, face riding, impact play, pain play, light sadism, light masochism, dom/sub, switch!reader, switch!ambessa, service top!ambessa,strength kink, face-sitting, face fucking, implications of grooming, slight dub-con (bc of the voice though it is not used sexually), angst, angst with a happy? ending, ambiguous ending, sexual tension, hate sex, misandrist!reader, beefing with your age gap object of affection's daughter because that should've been your daughter.
wc: 8.06k
notes: we're back and more evil than ever. it's me and my lana del rey-length titles against the world. thank you for being patient with me. i'm glad i could return to you with this.
it’s incredible how people tend to misremember the occurrence of an event when they are the ones in the wrong.
you have never misremembered.
since childhood, your memory has been a diamond trap with steel teeth at the center. whatever falls within will never be free. your voice is the same. you have no interest in sounding as honeyed as your sisters. you need the command to be felt and heeded. you understand, however, that if you let your emotions completely consume you, you will be disposed of. the sisterhood does not need weakness, nor does it require a fractured image. so, you stay silent and beautiful. therefore, you are in control and tolerated.
(you are more than tolerated. you are loved. you have not seen this yet.)
the day starts as any other. you wake earlier than the others, sliding out from around the curled body of one of your sisters. her hair is bone white, made that way from trauma from what you understand. she has a young face, one with no tired lines and an open horizon. she sees differently than you do, often has nightmares, and climbs into your bed. you hope her vision never fades. it is good to have a soft heart.
the two of you were called lambs when you arrived. the reverend mothers would hide a smile behind their hands as they called after one of you, asking, “where is the other lamb?”
the sentiment echoes across the empty floor of your mind as you gently stand, adjusting the blankets behind you so your sister is not as cold as you are now. she is one lamb, but you are not the other. you used to be, but that has been stripped from you underneath harder hands. and you weren’t even chosen for the slaughter in the end.
your face twitches, and you try to refocus, sitting on the floor in front of the long mirror in your bedchamber. carefully, you weave your hair into a plait but find that your hands only remember what she taught you when you were still her lamb.
your hair is dragged tightly into a tight war braid, your scalp screaming for mercy. you never listen. fear is the mind killer, and pain is the strengthener.
from there, you rise, sliding into your well-loved woven navy robe. you had bathed late last evening, and now it was so early that the morning could still be confused with the bite of the night. somewhere outside, an animal is howling, or maybe weeping. you cannot tell the difference.
maybe it is you making the sound.
you slide on your headdress, the metal webbing across your face like a second skin. it is fine as chainmail, but heavy with wealth. each link is adorned with a gem the color of a bruise: deep sapphires, violet amethysts, the muted red of garnets too dark to gleam. a lattice of silver threads drapes over your crown and temples, with tiny golden hooks pulled at the skin just behind your ears to keep the veil in place.
it is beautiful. it is painful. the weight reminds you.
the metal burns against your lips, and you think of how you wish to always be shielded.
you walk the halls. it is cool here in the shadows of the tall, cool, black stone. you are sheltered from light as you wisp silently across the floors, feet bare and hot with a phantom heat from a ground that is far too cold, that it almost burns. the stone dispels into feathery grass, the blades kissing your calloused skin as you continue to hike further and further out into the landscape.
you are glad you are here, that you are one of them. you are glad to have sisters. outside of here, back home, no one seems to understand that you are angry. here, they understand, and they still call you the other lamb. in a way, you suppose you are. sometimes, you graze.
you walk and walk, trespass over borders until the ground begins to change. the terrain buckles, the grass falling away to reveal rich dark soil, then veined stone, marbled like muscle. this place is old, untouched even by the sisters who pride themselves on touching all. you do not come here to pray. you come to see.
nestled in the earth is your mirror.
not glass. it is too breakable, highly mortal. what rests here is a polished slab of clearstone: thick as a sword’s width and just as sharp, its surface tempered in volcanic heat and alchemized by bene gesserit archivists. beneath its sheen, a hundred visions have burned away and returned.
the clearstone is set in obsidian, carved into the rock like a wound that never closes. it is an echo of you. around it: salt lines, laid by your own hand. a single strand of your hair. a ring of pressed primrose and dried bloodroot. you learned this watching one of the older sisters in a trance.
you learned this the way you learn everything: precisely, completely, without permission.
you kneel, sliding the veil of your headdress back so your breath might warm the surface. you place your hands on either side of the scrying stone, fingertips just brushing the edge. it’s cold. it always is. it demands something before it gives anything back.
so you feed it.
a memory. the scent of iron and smoke. the last time she looked at you, the feel of your heart splitting cleanly into six pieces. you breathe in. you begin.
your voice does not rise. it drops, low and guttural, like an incantation slid through gritted teeth.
"reveal her. bring her to me."
the mirror clouds, then clarifies.
and then, she is there. ambessa medarda. warlord. mother. deceiver. betrayer. the only woman your soul has ever known.
she’s crouched low, speaking with someone. blue hair, rigid posture—caitlyn. you do not taste jealousy. you taste rot. this is your fruit left too long on the branch. you taste all the years wasted carving yourself sharp while she looked elsewhere. you do not speak. your cheek bleeds; you have bitten down.
you wait. you watch.
eventually, she is alone. she leans forward over her knees, rolling her shoulder, her back to the mirror. her muscles glisten in the waning light. the moment stretches like a taut wire.
then, she stills.
the voice is not needed now. she knows.
you keep the window open, watch her face tense and shift as she registers being observed. she looks up from where she is hunched over those open knees, her muscles rippling under that dark, regal skin. you keep waiting because she is intelligent, highly so, and you know that she will find you.
she does.
ambessa medarda straightens herself and turns, looking over her shoulder with those cruel, bright eyes, and stares into the looking glass across from her. you do not flinch. you do not fear. fear is the mind killer. it is stronger than her, and now you are stronger than both of them.
you let her watch. she turns to better see you. you preen just slightly underneath the attention, but the sweetness soon sours. you make ambessa medarda stare at your reflection. you are the weapon and the girl she forged.
you are the woman she discarded.
your veil begins to retract. not by your hand, but by design. it was always made to reveal, never to shroud forever. layer by layer, the silk and metal webbing slides away from your face until the sharp planes of you are shown. you are not what she remembers. you are something else now.
you hope she is seeing the edge of you: gleaming, bitter, and perfect.
the connection balks. you hold. the veil closes.
you hope she knows you will once more make her choose. or you will kill her.
time will decide.
𓃖
the bene gesserit do not accept contracts; they orchestrate them. you do not request. they summon. but time decides so, they have agreed to one.
ambessa medarda is no fool. her empire swells, but her bloodline thins. there are threats the blade cannot cut, ones that fester in secret folds. so she sends word. the sisterhood replies.
you know who will be chosen before the reverend mother superior dictates her law over the land. when your name falls from behind her teeth, you expect it. you expect the way the other name falls, too. you feel the sister settle beside you as you bend in deference and accept the assignment. you are comforted by the way she watches you with a lack of interest.
so, they send their two: you, and the sister with whom you’ve always walked in parallel. you share no friendship, but your silences are aligned. you trust her. enough.
you arrive at night. it is not meant as secrecy, but it is loaded with intention.
the soldiers of the medarda camp are already at their posts when the air shifts. low fog unfurls across the stone, rising like breath from an unseen lung. the horses smell it first, and then the men. the silence tastes different. charged. ionic.
two figures begin to descend the path carved into the cliffside, ceremonial hoods low but posture unbent. they do not speak. they do not need to.
the first is robed in burnt saffron and oxblood. pansa. broad-shouldered, flanked by iron cuffs, the oldest girl-child of a desert house long swallowed by sand. her presence carries weight similar to the feeling of seeding conflict, and her silence is an elegy. there is power in the pacing of her movements.
beside her: you. [name], though they are probably unaware.
the more in the dark you were, the more ambessa could provide you with “light.”
your indigo robes ripple like stormwater, sheer in places where flesh must feel the air, the cold, the world. this is your house’s doctrine: truth borne by skin, suffering made visible.
chains run down your sleeves like adornment, but the glint of each link speaks of restraint, not vanity. at your throat, a collar forged of black steel, inset with bruised stones: garnet, tanzanite, onyx. each is a sigil of mastery, a tale of blood. the veil over your face is gauze-thin and luminous. it doesn’t hide you. it is slightly uncomfortable to be so revealed.
you move as one, you and pansa, like a hymnal in a dead tongue.
the camp watches. no one dares to speak. but she knows you’ve come. you know this.
ambessa emerges from her command tent the way storms break: abruptly and unrepentant. she's dressed as always for conquest: dark leathers, sleeves rolled, arms dusted in the pale film of exertion. her hair is coiled high, braids tight at the sides, a crown of discipline. your scalp aches in understanding. she halts when she sees you.
she does not kneel. you do not offer her the comfort of a name.
the air is dry and perfumed with spice.
she does not speak to you first, but you feel the throb of her recognition in your spine. from behind her emerges caitlyn with her hair thick around her face and her face flushed pink as if she has been eaten by another mouth. you think of what pansa said as you traveled here, how the girl was primed for betrayal. how ambessa would be blindsided by it as long as she remained unaware. you’d laughed at that.
now, a smile twists at your mouth before guttering out. for a moment, the fire crackles loudly.
a sound like an organ crushed rings out, though no one else reacts. the melody may just be playing for you. it is not the first time.
you stand just beyond torchlight, veil drawn. still, silence.
“come to finish the job?” she finally asks.
the question irritates both you and pansa. it is her request that secured this audience, but even now, she plays for power despite not fully having it.
“that depends,” you answer, smooth and unhurried. “have you decided who you are today?”
pansa continues, “yes. which are you? warlord or mother?”
ambessa’s jaw tightens. you think you hear it crack. her eyes narrow, alight with annoyance. there’s something close to a smile on her mouth, though it does not reach her. she speaks louder, addressing the air.
“so they sent the one who hates me.”
pansa’s voice comes low, deliberate, and polished.
“no,” she says. “we brought the one who understands you. best there be no surprises. ”
a beat. ambessa looks between you both.
“and you?” she asks pansa.
“i do not hate you,” pansa replies, steady. she does not give any more.
a rustle passes through the soldiers behind her, but ambessa holds up a hand. no need. she knows what this is.
you watch her then. watch her watching you. she cannot help herself. she was always a student of strength, of shape and bearing. you wear your body like it is both a weapon and an altar. she built the first half of you. now, she must contend with the rest.
you bow your head, barely, and only to the ritual. you do not kneel. pansa, without question, remains standing. her head never dips.
and ambessa, once your ruin, now your ally by necessity, tilts her head and laughs under her breath.
“then let’s begin.”
𓃖
the decision comes at dawn.
ambessa gives the order to break camp, her voice slicing clean through the cool morning air. no one argues. no one ever does.
you and pansa are offered horses. you refuse. when your hand presses into the small of pansa’s back, she accepts. the path is remembered by your body.
it will carry you.
ambessa rides ahead, all ceremony and command, but you keep your pace slow. it is not surrender, only familiarity. you’ve made this pilgrimage before. when you pass the red rock outcrop that juts like a broken tooth from the earth’s skull, you remember the blood it once drank. yours.
the palace rises in the distance like a mirage made of bone. you feel your own ring with memory. neither of you is beautiful in this place. you are exact.
inside, you remove your veil. you are not a guest here. you are a returned variable. a ghost that knows the way the light’s path runs alongside the architecture. you know every inch. you are mapped the same way.
you are led to chambers that had once been yours. nothing has changed. this is intentional. you leave your robes folded like memory and dress in metal instead. you drape yourself in what you survived. you are practical now; the ceremonial is no longer necessary.
when the door opens hours later, it is not ambessa.
it is the girl.
she does not knock. she walks in as if it were her right, and perhaps, here, it is. she carries the signature ease of someone born into hierarchies like these.. her boots barely make a sound.
“you must be [name]. i am mel,” she says. “my mother asked me to attend the meeting. i came early.”
you turn only slightly.
“to see me?”
she looks at you. you’ve redone your hair with brutal precision: braided back, coiled tight, a single sphere of amethyst nested in the center of your plait. it glints like an eye in the candlelight. you look, now, like one of ambessa’s elite. one of her many trainees. but the set of your jaw is not hers. the clear grief, the loose fit of this fighter’s skin? that is yours.
mel continues to watch you, eyes tracking the way you stand in a simple black high necked gown, cinch a belt and gaping open like a slit belly in the back. you say nothing and only adjust the vambrace over your left wrist. she notices you’ve stripped yourself of any further ornamentation save for the onyx collar at your throat over the fabric and the house-mark inked into your back. coordinates.
she doesn’t comment on either.
you are militant, clearly, but dressed like a religious devotee.
“i see now,” she says after a pause, “why they said you were hard to read. i see they just lacked the language.”
you meet her eyes. still no warmth, but no dismissal either. just a sort of studied apathy. briefly, mel realizes you scare her.
“i don’t need their filthy mouths to define me,” you reply.
mel tilts her head in interest. you mimic the action in the opposing direction, so that she can see the dog that she is. she corrects herself, embarrassed. good. she cannot be so open with her enemies when she reads them.
you wonder how much of her is her mother’s and how much is something still forming. if whatever is being birthed will reveal itself to be something softer, still steel, but in a different shape.
“strategy room is this way,” she says finally, gesturing.
you don’t thank her.
you don’t have to.
the chamber is circular, high-ceilinged, and domed with shadow and the illumination of high-rising flame. the table is long and set with terrain markers, silk maps, and crystal pieces shaped like predators. medarda excess masquerading as military efficiency.
caitlyn is already seated, her posture composed but frayed at the edges. she looks…unwell. waxy, as if someone has drained her of life and ordered her to keep living. she stands when you and pansa enter, as if uncertain of what this demands.
pansa nods once. you only look away from her.
ambessa stands at the head of the table. she is not dressed for battle now but for rule. deep crimson and gold fabrics wrapped sharp to her body, armor only in metaphor. her hair is bound with golden wire and restraint. the grey takes nothing away from her beauty. you feel the weight of her gaze before it finds your face.
you hate the way your stomach flushes with warmth. she used to never look at you.
mel takes her place beside her mother, heir-apparent and new to its gravity. she observes more than she speaks. you and pansa move in tandem, flanking the table. you do not sit. you rest your hands lightly on the wood. palms down. no invitation to softness.
ambessa doesn’t speak immediately. she’s watching. no, reading. you can feel her taking inventory: the way your sleeves continue to hide your arms, the way your shoulders square instead of slouch, the house-stone in your hair, the absence of veil, and the bareness of your back as you twist to catalogue the meeting’s attendants.
she looks like she wants to say something just to see how you’ll respond. if she speaks, you might strip her of skin.
mel notices it first: the standoff framed in silence. caitlyn shifts in her seat. you look at her again, think of how red her blood would be against the navy of her ponytail. she tenses, and you smile. it’s a quick, white slash of teeth. there is a sapphire inset upon each of your canines.
pansa, unimpressed by drama, begins:
“the sisterhood sends us for information, not flattery. shall we get to work?”
ambessa’s mouth plateaus. she leans forward, bracing both hands on the table. she still doesn’t look at pansa.
“of course,” she murmurs, but her eyes never leave you. “if you’re ready.”
mel tracks everything: caitlyn’s nerves, your coiled silence, the flicker in her mother’s voice that is not annoyance nor command, but something else. she doesn't dare to name it. she just watches.
the first question comes from an officer. some minor strategist, brittle with pride.his face sags with the crueler marks of age, and you feel a twist of disgust. men are like animals to you. most of the time, you ached to put them down.
“why them?” he asks, gesturing at you and your sister with a flick that should cost him fingers. “why not a neutral envoy?”
before ambessa can speak, before pansa can scold, you answer.
“because we are not neutral,” you say evenly, almost pleasantly, “and we’ve never pretended to be. it is almost always personal, officer.”
the officer falters at your impeccable use of noxian to address his station. you continue.
“i was trained in piltover. groomed, they’d call it. measured for dresses i wasn’t allowed to pick, instructed in the politics of voice modulation and eye contact, given tests of how well i could wield a weapon whilst walking alongside an empress.”
you tilt your head toward caitlyn, toward the other lamb.
“i was meant to be you, commander.”
a ripple cuts through the room. caitlyn’s jaw clenches. you keep going.
“i passed every exam. i aced every simulation. i made the right friends, attended all the right parties. and then, when the moment came to choose who would be elevated, who would be adored, i was told it would be her. to this day, i don’t know if it was a result of house influence or if i was always meant to be humiliated. if that was my ritual.”
there’s no venom in your voice. that’s what makes it worse.
“i was escorted out of the kiramman estate with grace. that’s where they held the decision night,” you clarify. you can feel ambessa’s attention. it is a relentless, gravity-inducing pressure. “they gave me a coat for the cold. i was seventeen.”
you like eyes with mel. she’s very still. she is the same age you were then.
you tilt your chin, and your voice softens, but only in pitch.
“that night, cassandra kiramman came to me. said she felt sorry for the way it had ended. said i should be proud to have helped in training someone so luminous, to have trained beside her precious light of a daughter. that some of us were made to support the light, not stand in it.”
your emotions are beginning to rise. you sip your wine despite seeing the reflective sheen atop it. poison does nothing to you. the mere attempt makes your voice begin to rise. men were such putrid, leeching, pathetic creatures. so insipidly stupid and devoid of any worth.
it burns going down. your expression doesn’t change. but your voice curdles into something slow, sticky, vile.
“she told me i had a future still. that the world needed girls just. like. me.” every word is its own person. “quiet, composed, and eager to serve.”
you take a step forward.
“and then she tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. the way a mother would. the way she knew my mother never did. it was meant to be reassuring.”
you close your eyes for one brief second. a single, crystalline snowflake falling behind your lashes.
“that was when it rose. the voice. not the one they trained. mine.”
a hush settles over the room like ice over a lake.
“i screamed. and then i spoke. she bled from her nose. her eyes. her mouth.”
a hush settles over the room like ice over a lake.
“i screamed. and then i spoke. she bled from her nose. her eyes. her mouth.”
mel inhales sharply.
“i saw her skull shudder beneath her skin. a crack formed across her cheekbone. her teeth fell out one by one. i hadn’t touched her.”
caitlyn’s chair scrapes. she remembers her mother in perfect image: cold, an incredible force, and mutilated unexpectedly on her left side. she rises, fury blooming in her throat. “you—”
you don’t even turn your head. your lips part and your throat expands, a word expelling.
“sit.”
your voice doesn’t echo. it reverberates.
caitlyn’s body stiffens, jerks, then slams back down into her seat with enough force to rattle the iced fruit in her water. the silence now is unnatural. even ambessa’s protective guard glance at one another, uncertain. mel is rigid, with lips dry and cracked. you slide her the unpoisoned chalice.
you go on, soft again, as if nothing happened.
“i let cassandra live, though i marred her. i thought mercy was strength.”
you look at everyone and no one.
“then, she died. three weeks later. murdered, if i remember correctly.” you have never forgotten. “her face was unrecognizable. her mouth was open.”
you meet the strategist’s eyes.
“i know how to make hard decisions.”
then you look at caitlyn, who cannot move.
you slide your tongue, pink and wide, across the plump plane of your lower lip. you suck off the sticky film of the toxin. you look away from her to the strategist, then to the right of him, where another man has been watching you drink all this time. you speak again.
“pick up the blade.”
with shaking hands, he slides his hand forward without choice and picks up the letter opener sitting neatly before him. you take another sip of wine. again, you speak.
“drive it into your throat.”
his eyes widen in terror, but the command has been given. he must obey. like the animal—no. you love nature’s creatures, the mother’s children. like the parasite he is, you rephrase, he infests himself with the pointed tip of the blade. it pops through with a wet squelch and does not stop until it comes out from the back.
around him, his colleagues either retch or begin to pray.
you step forward, lean down, and let the wine dribble from your mouth. it erodes through his skin.
there is silence now. pansa looks immeasurably smile. the mutual respect deepens.
“i know how to execute,” you say into the silence. “and i know how to live with it.”
you step back, then, and clasp your hands across your stomach.
“any further questions?”
there are none.
you look at ambessa. you recognize the look on her face. you would never misread desire, not when your own threatened to strangle you every night.
“good.” you nod to yourself. “shall we have a break?”
you don’t wait for an answer. you turn and leave the room. you decide there is a break.
you never return, even when it’s over.
𓃖
the palace at night feels like a mouth that’s swallowed its own tongue. silent, damp, vast.
the corridor outside your chambers has long gone quiet. no footsteps. no guards. no pansa in her rustling, soft silks. they’re giving you space. after what you did, they would be fools not to.
you should be asleep. you aren’t.
you sit at the edge of the bed, spine straight, shoulders loose, your hair still damp from the bath you drew yourself. the nightgown clings to you like mist: sheer, pale, and translucent as moonlight poured thin. beneath it, nothing. just skin and breath and heat. you sleep better when nothing cups you from below.
your belly aches. not with pain, but with pressure. with wanting.
desire has found you once again, heavy in the belly with the water threatening to break.
found you is a wishful phrase. it has never lost you.
you told yourself it was residual power, the lingering echo of your voice having snaked to life when you revisited cassandra’s cruelty. you told yourself it was the adrenaline. the blood on his hands, his body collapsed like a snapped bowstring after having stabbed himself, and ambessa’s men frozen in place by what you had ordered.
but that was hours ago.
now the ache is something else.
you hear her before you see her. the door opens slowly, deliberately. no knock. no hesitation. just a push and a presence. you understand her best after all. you, therefore, will best understand her intentions.
ambessa steps into the room as if it were her bedroom and never yours. she’s softened herself with her luxurious oils and long, silk robe, but the leather smell still clings to her like duty, like instinct. she’s done her hair in a row of four neat cornrows. you always liked it best that way.
her eyes sweep over you. it feels like a trial by fire.
your bare feet press against the cool floor, your toes twisting as she appreciates how the candlelight ghosts over the curves of your breasts through the nightgown and your open hands.
she closes the door behind her.
you don’t speak.
she does. “you’re not afraid of the implications of what you did.”
“no,” you answer. your voice is quiet, but still steeled. “he tried to kill me. i defended myself and my sister, albeit rather dramatically. a point had to be made. if anything, be grateful that pansa and i have not decided to contact the reverend mother superior.”
“i agree.” ambessa takes a few steps closer. “you’ve grown stronger, little one. the way you did it was so final. so fast. my advisors have been silent ever since.”
“good.” you tilt your chin up, meeting her gaze like a blade to a whetstone. “let them speak to each other, if they’re so desperate for noise.”
your brow furrows. you say something more.
“do not call me that.” the voice rocks through her imperceptibly. "i am not little.”
she halts a pace from you, the flame pulling the sharp lines of her face into something less severe, maybe even tired. “that,” she says, “is a horrible feeling.”
“it’s not meant to be pleasant,” you tell her.
she nods. “you didn’t flinch. earlier.”
you look at her. not away. at her. “would you have, if it were mel’s chalice?”
ambessa tenses at the mention of her daughter. you smile as you glance down, cold and mean.
“is that her full name?”
ambessa makes a scoffing sound somewhere in the back of her throat. your smile widens.
“she’s a good girl. weak at the moment, but good. most likely will be formidable. and your son…” the silence is thick. “kino, right? the one with the silver tongue. i take it he is the weakness you wish to iron out?”
you glance over your shoulder then and find her with her mouth pursed in barely concealed fury. family was always a bruise on the skin for her. you didn’t have the same attachments coming from your house.
“well, we’ll begin properly tomorrow. i trust pansa did nothing but lead the room in circles without me there. she is cunning. she will never plan without another sister there to reinforce her, which is smart. that’s why she was chosen, if you were wondering.”
ambessa doesn’t answer. she just looks at you. really looks.
“you’re not wearing anything beneath that,” she says at last, low, rough.
your lips curl, just barely. “you shouldn’t. it’s bad for circulation. and your cunt needs to breathe.”
that earns you the smallest flicker of her smile. the one that still cuts you with its honesty. once, her happiness was all that you could ever imagine.
“i never imagined the bene gesserit would teach such wisdom.”
“it wasn’t the bene gesserit,” you say. “it was cassandra.”
her eyes sharpen, just a little. you rarely speak of the woman in a benevolent light. but tonight, the air is already split open. you smile wryly.
“she always knew i wasn't a true contender. she pitied me. i was the one with my foot in the snake’s mouth with no knowledge of its venom.”
ambessa’s eyes flick. a blink, maybe. or a tremor. but you’ve studied her too long not to notice the way her jaw ticks, just once, at the name. cassandra kiramman was as strong a ghost as she was when she possessed vitality. that woman’s memory would always cut like wire through wet flesh. it would destroy her daughter in the end.
but ambessa does not bleed. when she speaks, it is in that too-light voice she uses when she's balancing the edge of a blade on her tongue.
“how thorough of her,” she says, her voice low and teetering on the edge of venom. “tell me. do you teach people how to touch you properly, using the voice?”
your spine straightens, your chin lifts, but you do not answer. it is so wildly inappropriate, so surgically meant to harm, you almost laugh. instead, you sit with the taste of it in your mouth.
you recognize the wound she’s trying to carve: jealousy, intended to maim. she can’t stand the idea of you being honed by anyone but her. after everything, she still thinks she can lay claim. your mouth twists. you give her nothing.
just the cold flint of your gaze. only ambessa doesn’t need your permission.
she steps forward, closing the space like she has never lost her entitlement to it.
"you think you’re free,” she murmurs, a thread of smoke in her voice. “but i made you. you came back for me. every inch of who you are, every whisper in that sharp little tongue of yours. i shaped it. i sculpted it.”
her fingers ghost down the front of your nightgown.
“you’ve never not been mine, sister. you are another repeat of the pattern. commander kiramman left, too, then limped back like a little child.” oh, you think, so the deceit has begun, then. you’ll be sure to tell pansa. “it never leaves you. i never left you.”
you inhale slowly, jaw clenched tight enough to shatter. her hand fists the fabric at your chest.
“and this,” she says, almost disappointed as she tears the delicate cloth from your body in one clean rip, “this is thin work. i expected better from a sister of your rank. given your mission. given me.”
the fabric pools like spilled milk at your feet. you don’t flinch.
you look her in the eye and say, “the real one is.”
that stops her, for just a beat. her mouth twitches. then your voice cuts through the space again, low, intimate, deliberate:
“but i know how you are.”
like a wolf who’s caught the scent of blood, her expression shifts into possession, ravenous and half-crazed with hunger. you’ve baited the beast, and you can see her deciding whether to bare her teeth or bury them in you. her hand lands on your jaw. it’s gentle, almost. but the heat beneath it burns with old fury.
she will devour you, if only to prove she still can.
you strike her hard. she falls against the side of the bed. it feels good to move her. you bend. your breasts hover, full and glossy with your perfumes.
“i came back for me. i found my voice. you are like the rest, so arrogant and all too eager to take credit for things you don’t fully understand.” your breath smells sweet as it runs haggardly across her face, like strawberries singed with blackened sugar. “twisting those girls into weapons? yes, ambessa, that was you. but what i am? that is in my blood. you fight because you cannot speak.”
ambessa’s eyes glitter. that jagged, serrated shine that threatens a lineage torn in two. she exhales through her nose, slow, calculating. then, she laughs.
a single, humorless sound.
then grabs you by the throat. just to hold. to show you her hand still fits there. you are young again.
“you say i can’t speak,” she murmurs, voice close to reverent. “but i’ve always known your dialect best. i know what makes you beg.”
your blood thrums like war drums. you let her drag you backwards until the backs of your knees meet the bed. you fall onto it, neither helpless nor defeated. you are not as young as you once were.
she climbs over you with the patience of a beast about to feast. she doesn’t kiss you, not yet. she hovers, her mouth close enough to graze, but never give.
you breathe her in, let her essence sit behind your ribs like a calcification.
“the first step of harnessing the voice,” you say, voice deliciously devoid of feeling, “is learning how to use your mouth.”
and then you roll her. she doesn’t expect it. how could she? you’re twenty-something-summers young, and she’s upward of fifty and built like a living weapon. but you take her with a grunt, your thighs pressing into hers, your fingers biting into that thick, corded shoulder. you move like you’ve been waiting years to do this.
you shift, knees dragging up along the mountainous hills of her ribs, until your cunt hovers above her mouth, eclipsing her face entirely. her eyes flare with something primal as you seat yourself over her mouth. this is not an offering. this is a usage. as far as you're concerned, this is what you’re owed.
she moans against you as she licks into the pink of you, mouth hot as tar as she sucks. she sighs like she's grateful, but you don’t look at her. you only lean backward, sweat beading along your back, one hand braced on one of her large thighs.
you rock back and forth, eyes closed and brow furrowed. her tongue is thick as it fills you, the sounds of her feasting upon your cunt obscene. you grow steadier, more precise. the tempo quickens. you’re truly riding now, tits bouncing in tandem with your impatience.
ambessa trails a hand up until she reaches your cunt, playing with the lips as she spreads it further to provide her with more acces. she lifts you easily, holding you suspended with one hand and dragging a finger from the other up and down. her mouth runs a mile a minute, a stream of filth.
“you’re so tight,” she murmurs against your thigh, the words hot against her veins. "perfect and so eager for me. so fucking eager despite your resistance, aren’t you? you need me, don't you?”
you try to answer, fury rising, but then ambessa slips a finger in and fucks into you. you lose all ability to create a sound. one of her hands moves to rise and twist into your hair, yanking a mass of it as you chase every push. you groan gutturally, the pain so familiar and so fucking good.
but, as always, you regain yourself and your strength. you push her wrist down and out, and sit to once again smother her. she allows it, squeezing your ass as you begin to curl over her.
you grind in tight circles, chasing the peak, your hips drawing runes of impatience onto her mouth.
once.
twice.
your hands shake with pleasure and power. you come with a snarl and tears on your cheeks. it’s messy and furious and decidedly not romantic, despite this being one of the things in life you had wanted most. you grind down until your thighs are soaked and her mouth is slick with you.
you lift off, breath ragged, but she laughs. the sound rings deep in her chest.
“done already? i thought i trained you to be able to withstand, to have more stamina.”
she flips you like you weigh nothing, like you are nothing. in a matter of minutes, she has you belly-down, hips high, your knees braced. a parabola of flesh and fury across the bedspread. her hands spread you open with greedy precision.
she watches both of your holes clench, one slightly loosened and the other tight and puckered. she spits, letting you feel it slide down the crack of your ass into the hot, wet, sticky cavern of your cunt. she demeans you, over and over, only to then:
crack.
the strike lands hot across your thighs. you flinch.
she does it again.
and again.
the pain flays you open from the inside. you cry into the sheets, face sticky with tears, but your spine doesn’t break. your body shakes, but you don’t beg. you refuse. and she’s rutting into you with her tongue, carving you out like she can burn her memory back into your skin. but she still hasn’t given you what you came for.
you wrench upward, spit still shining on your thighs, and when she reaches for something to fill you. fingers, weapon, something blunt—
“stop,” you say.
she stills. you speak again.
“get up.”
she rises as though she can’t help it. she cannot. her knees betray her. her body conducts itself according to your code.
you slide on a shirt, something old and scent-worn from one of your chests, and begin to walk. you are barefoot through the dark halls. bare soles kiss the cold marble of your pilgrimage. each step echoes, lonely as a bell. you are a shadow gliding down a corridor built to swallow noise.
ambessa’s breath is still hot on your skin. you don’t have to look back to see if she follows.
it is not difficult to navigate these halls, to find your way to commander kiramman’s room. you spent so many hours doing the same steps while deciding whether or not to kill her. to mutilate her just like her cunt of a mother.
the doors, when you find them, rise before you, gold and inlaid with the kiramman crest. your heart twitches with violence at the sight.
the doors creak open with a sound like a death rattle. wood gives. dust lifts.
the room is dimly lit, velvet-draped, and humid with something that smells like sweat and something softer. a traitor’s comfort. you step in, barefoot and borderline blissful at the dense presence of subconscious fear that floods your mind. even the air folds around your voice like it’s afraid. you’re trembling with the anticipation of it.
ambessa is still following, caught in your undertow and half-naked, though covered enough and glistening with your need.
the bed is absurd in its grandeur, wide enough to bury three bodies and posts like cathedral spires.
caitlyn, ambessa’s beloved right-hand-in-training, is curled into another woman’s side. their limbs are tangled like there is a grave and they are preparing to both lie in it. her throat is blotched red, pale collarbone smeared with kisses. neither breaks from the other at first, but then you purposefully shuffle over the floorboards.
caitlyn hears you first and then bucks against the fleshy prison of her lover’s arms when she sees you. the other one—short, stocky build, and a shock of pink hair—lets her go after a moment’s confusion, limbs scrambling upright as she follows suit in taking you in.
you step forward lazily, every muscle in your body drawn taut like skin stretched back over a corpse’s bleached bones, sinew humming with ancestral effort. with you comes ambessa, eyes glazed over with a horrifying detachment. your mouth opens, and what comes out is more vibration than sound. it is something warped, raw, and cruel in its precision.
“and to think your mother died for this.”
caitlyn flinches and shifts, her foot slipping off the bed and touching the floor. her mouth parts. her shoulders drop a fraction, and in that fraction is submission.
“stay on the bed.”
she gasps, small and sharp, and rocks in place. her eyes lock on your face, wide with a personal terror. she knows you will never care if she lives or dies. the pink-haired woman, violet, remains in her place. good, she’s more than just sloppy drinking and bloody fists.
caitlyn is unable to look away from you. you with your shirt too big and riding high on your hips, inner thighs slick with want, and your most personal war. those glacial eyes flicker behind you, to where she sees ambessa just behind you, sweat-beaded and dazed, her lips parted like she’s forgotten how to close them.
she swallows. she has never seen mental control up close like this. it is always so disturbing the first time.
at least it was for others.
your gaze pins her like a blade tip to the breastbone.
“do you really think i care about strengthening a bloodline that is not my own?” you ask her, voice low, guttural, awful.
neither of them answers.
you step closer.
caitlyn curls instinctively toward vi, who twitches like she might fight. her breath even hitches like she might cry out, but for whom? you? but it’s already clear: you are the most dangerous thing in the room. even with no earthly weapon. even with your thighs still trembling from the last time ambessa buried her mouth in you. still, you warn her,
“don’t be stupid, violet. the wealth she inherits does nothing to obscure her perception of your inferiority. the indoctrination takes years to bleed out. ideally, you would like to live long enough to see if i’m telling you the truth.”
the only sound is the drip of something unseen. candle wax, or blood. your voice has stilled the room. your voice has ruled in silence before the verdict. you take one step forward, and caitlyn tries to recoil. her stupidity bites at you. her hand clenches the sheets like she might find safety in fabric.
that makes you laugh.
it is as you said in the strategy room. you are never a neutral creature. there will always be a side you lean towards. tonight, you are evil. there is no grey. there is just the black against the “white.”
ambessa hasn’t spoken since you ordered her up. her silence is leaden. the command has worn off. you made your utterance weak on purpose. she stands right behind you now. her chest is rigid, and her throat bulges with the constant swallow of her rage. she is silent, imperial with wide eyes and the shine of your wetness still glistening on her lips like sacrament.
she should look terrifying. she does. but she also looks small.
they all do.
you speak then, softly.
“i hope she was worth it, ambessa. your toy soldier. your little court pet. you gave her what was mine, and you did it knowingly. my title. my power. my place at your side.” it is so still that one could hear the fall of dust in a corner. “pattern this and pattern that. you thought i would never come back. you understood i was warped. a deviant.”
you tilt your head, as if curious. as if this is academic.
“and this is what you built your empire on? a woman who cowers at the sound of me?”
you laugh. all this joy is intoxicating.
vi places herself between you and caitlyn, squared like a wall of flesh and instinct. that almost makes you smile again.
like putting an ox before a landslide.
you lay down your law.
“three lives. one decision.”
you step back, a slow pivot on your heel until you're one end of a triangle, the other ends crowned by the lives arrayed before you. the geometry seals shut: you are the point of origin, they are your consequence.
“one death. or three.”
you don’t need to say any names. everyone understands their place.
you look to ambessa. from your sleeve, you draw what you hid before leaving your rooms: a hand-held sickle, curved like a stolen smile. you place it in the center, between you all.
her mouth parts. yours opens.
your face changes. it contorts: godlike and grotesque. a twisting mask of recollection made monstrous.
this is your grief made primal. grief too wild, too large for the bone.
no one has ever understood just how angry you are.
your cheeks flush hot, then frost. your eyes glisten, salt-hot with unshed joy. you sway under the weight of what’s to come.
they see it. they see the end.
you will not leave empty-handed. you are hideous with your hunger for vindication.
caitlyn begins to cry, body jerking awkwardly under the command, you spit upon her. she is right to weep. ambessa, the empress who has had your thighs over her shoulder like spoils, who’s felt your voice pour into her spine like acid, does nothing. that is the medarda way
loyalty is expected. never returned.
besides, she couldn’t have saved anyone if she tried.
your voice doesn’t rise, but it erupts. it shatters the bedposts. curls the fireplace flame. peels the paint. your body bears it all: sore and aching. raw, desecrated, and divine. your lungs expand with relief as you let it go.
it is final.
it is lacerating.
it tunnels into ambessa’s mind, snaps her bones, and robs them of marrow.
it drags itself out of you, twisting the skin at your jaw. your veins stand high. your eyes rattle in their sockets as it scrapes through every last one of you.
