maeve

this was all for you ♡

[sunbleachedmaeve]

LAY ME DOWN WHERE THE TREES BEND LOW

PUT ME DOWN WHERE THE GREENERY STINGS

eighteen ✧ she/her ✧ african american ✧ dilf lover ✧ jack’s fav resident ✧ daughter of cain

【 STATUS 】 ━ up reading x reader

current fixations — the Pitt

[hatethysinner]

hi mamas !!! I'm the one who asked when your reqs would be back open :) and be prepared, this is kind of... detailed. (again, no rush) anyways, I had an idea where remmick would kind of stalk the reader- like straight up BEGS the girl every night to be let in. but, reader lives with her mama and maybe siblings, so she's worried he'll hurt them and she says no every time. but then this MANIPULATIVE ASS HO gets in anyway bc he deep fries himself in sun like how he did in the movie, and reader's MOTHER lets his dumbass in. and reader's mom is all nice to him and trying to patch him up, and reader's worried af but maybe pretends to not know this burnt up white man in her mama's kitchen. and later, it's nightime and all, and reader's tryna sleep but is scared for her family. and ofc, remmick's crazy ass is watching her in the dark. but then he comes into her room, and they talk, which calms reader down a bit. eventually, she's comfortable enough to start getting curious abt remmick being a vampire, so she ends up in his lap while checking out his fangs and claws… all of which leads to thigh-riding while remmick teases and kind of taunts reader. then, it gets spicier (ofc) and they do whatever you want them to do. but PLEASE at least once, let that man's hand be around reader's neck. (again, for the like third time, there is no rush, and ik if you do write this it'll be AWESOME bc you're just that iconic <33 i hope this isn't too much btw and ty for taking the time to answer my first question :)))

ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ ᴏᴘᴇɴ

ᴡᴄ: 8.1k

ᴀ/ɴ: no because why is this song so delulu remmick coded. but don't give me such good requests yall because i will get carried away and completely twist the ask into absolute degeneracy. i also took some (many) creative liberties so i hope that's okay with you anon :3! please mind the warnings and do not interact if dark themes aren't your cup of tea (totally valid)!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: 18+ MINORS DNI!!!!, shamelessly nasty smut, minimal plot all porn, dark themes, noncon, degradation, groping, fingering, p in v, rough sex, choking, breeding kink, dacryphilia, babytrapping, cockwarming, fantasies of exhibitionism, threats of violence, dom!remmick, creep!remmick, delusional!remmick, feral!remmick honestly, sub!reader, poc!reader and the 1930s suspicions that follow, stalking, manipulation of a sweet old lady, slightly excessive divider usage, i got addicted to italics again, overall depravity in every sense of the word

It started with flowers.

Wild ones, mostly—asters, cosmos, bluebells with tangled stems. Arranged without rhyme or reason, more a fistful than a bouquet. Always fresh. Always different. Always left somewhere you couldn’t ignore.

Tucked into the curve of your fence.

Balanced on your windowsill, pressed in place by a rock so they wouldn’t blow away.

Dropped just outside the screen door, nestled like an apology beneath your feet when you stepped out in the morning.

You never brought them in.

You crushed the first bunch with your heel, left the second to rot. The third, you flung into the weeds and didn’t even bother to look back. You knew where they came from. What they meant. And he knew you knew, because the next one came with a note.

“It hurts when you don’t look.”

You tore that one up before your mama could see it.

And still—he kept coming.

You never saw him outright. Not at first. It was always shadows. Footsteps. The soft rustle of leaves behind you on your walk home from the grocer’s. A shape moving just past your periphery when you passed the fields. A cigarette still burning in the woods across the road when you shut the gate behind you at night.

You told yourself you weren’t scared.

You told yourself he’d get bored.

But one night, after a long shift and an even longer walk, you turned onto your road and saw it.

Right there at the bend before your porch steps, where your shoes always scraped the gravel just so.

Your necklace.

The one you lost weeks ago. The one your mama swore must’ve slipped down the drain. The one you’d already stopped looking for.

It was laid out neat, untangled, gleaming under the moonlight like it’d just been polished.

You didn’t sleep that night.

Your mama called him a “godsend.”

Said it with a sweet smile and her hands buried in the laundry basket, humming as she folded clothes and made her neat little piles. You stood frozen in the doorway, the sun hot on your back, heart sinking as she said it again.

“He came ‘round again this mornin’, right before the sun came up. Said he was passin’ by and saw the yard needed work. Ain’t that somethin’? Didn’t even ask for nothin’ in return.”

“Mama…” You didn’t even know where to start.

She waved you off, smile deepening.

“I know that tone. And I’m tellin’ you now, you hush with that. Just ‘cause he’s a stranger doesn’t mean he’s bad. You oughta be grateful someone’s willin’ to help. The weeds were up to my knees out there.”

You gritted your teeth. Tried to keep your voice soft.

“What’d he look like?”

She thought on it.

“White boy. A little short. Lean, too. Pale as could be, no wonder he doesn’t like the sun. He’s got the sweetest face. Oh, and you should hear his accent. It’s so silly! He’s not a talker, but real polite. His name was... Remmick.”

You didn’t say a word.

Ran out the back door so fast you almost left your shoes behind.

And there he was.

Right outside the fence, crouched low by the overgrown roses, a pair of gardening gloves tugged tight over his hands.

Remmick.

He looked up like he didn’t recognize you.

Like you were just some stranger walking out into the yard.

And then he smiled.

God, that smile.

Soft. Gentle. Like sunlight on water. Like apology in the shape of a man.

You wanted to claw it off his face.

But your mother was at the screen door already, waving at him.

“He’s gonna finish up the hedges,” she called. “Ain’t that kind of him?”

“Real kind,” you murmured, eyes locked on him like you could peel him open with your gaze.

He dipped his head—humble, almost bashful—and gave you a nod.

Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

Because you saw it.

The glint in his eye.

The curl of his fingers around the shears a little too tight.

The way his gaze flicked back to your mother just long enough to remind you that he knew.

Knew who she was.

Knew where you lived.

Knew how to worm his way into her soft spots, the same way he’d been trying to worm into yours for months now.

And you couldn’t say anything.

Couldn’t call him out.

Not without seeming crazy.

Not without hurting the woman who still smiled when strangers offered help, who still believed there were good men just walking the streets, who still thought angels could come in the form of a neighbor with strong arms and nice teeth.

So you stood there.

You watched him trim the hedges.

You watched your mother bring him lemonade.

You watched him wave goodbye and promise to stop by again tomorrow if the weather held.

And when he looked at you—just for a second—he smiled again.

Not sweet this time.

Not bashful.

Just knowing.

Like he’d already won.

A week passed, and with it, your sense of control.

It started small. It always did.

Remmick became a fixture.

He came by each morning just before sunrise, long before you woke, and stayed through the overcast days. Always outside. Always busy.

If he wasn’t mending the fence, he was hauling brush or tending to the many, many gardens he’d set up. One morning, you caught him beneath the house, dragging out years of junk like it was his duty—like he belonged there, under your home, under your skin.

Your mother fed him like a stray.

Brought him biscuits and bacon wrapped in a dish towel. Let him take water from the pump, even gave him a chipped mug to keep so he wouldn’t have to drink from his hands. You never saw her treat anyone like that before. Not the neighbors. Not her own family.

Just him.

Remmick never took more than he was given. He always smiled, always thanked her with that soft lilt in his voice—like honey caught on something colder underneath. You saw it clearer every day. The way he shifted when she wasn’t looking. The way his posture changed when it was just the two of you in the same breath of space.

He started speaking more.

To you, not her.

Small things, tossed off like threadbare compliments.

“Mornin’. Pretty out today, ain’t it?”

“Must be hard carryin’ all that weight in yer shoulders. Want help with the bags?”

“Y’look tired. Ya sleepin’ alright?”

You ignored him the first time.

The second, you muttered something sharp, just enough to sting.

The third, he got bold.

Tried brushing past you in the backyard, even though there was plenty of space. His hand didn’t just graze your side—it pressed, firm at your hips, fingers splayed like he had every right. For a split second, he dipped lower, just enough to make your skin crawl.

You spun so fast he nearly lost his footing, but he only chuckled, soft and low.

“Yer awful jumpy.”

“You’re awful close.”

He lifted both hands like a preacher at the altar, all innocence and soft retreat. Didn’t matter. You still went to bed that night with your dresser shoved against the door.

Now it was Friday.

Too long since he first walked into your mother’s good graces with dirt on his knees and a saint’s smile. The sky hung low that morning, heavy and gray. Rain tapped soft against the awning, not quite steady—more a hush than a downpour.

The kitchen was dim but warm, lit gold by the bulb above the stove. Your mother stood at the sink, wrist-deep in suds, humming something low and wordless while the faucet ran. Steam curled from the dishwater. Her breath fogged the glass when she leaned toward it, squinting through the haze to watch him work.

You leaned against the counter, arms folded tight.

Remmick was out back again, kneeling by the raised beds he’d built himself. From the window, you could see him—shirt rolled to his elbows, sweat darkening the collar, hair damp against his temples. He looked up at the glass like he felt her gaze, and when he smiled and waved, your mama gave a little wave back with the sponge still in hand.

“Lord, he’s somethin’,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Boy works like he’s got a home here.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just watched the way his hand settled at his waist. Right over the spot where he’d touched you.

“Mama,” you said, quiet but tight. “Don’t it strike you as strange?”

She blinked at you, then returned her attention to the dishes.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You shifted your weight. Bit back the worst of it. “What business does a white man like him have hangin’ around here every day? Doing yard work? Building things for free? Doesn’t that sound off to you?”

She sighed, more tired than annoyed, but not without edge.

“You’re startin’ to sound like your auntie.”

You frowned. “I’m bein’ serious.”

“So am I,” she said, rinsing a plate with sharp swipes. “You think I don’t notice the way you watch him? The way you stiffen when he comes near?”

“He ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” she went on. “Not once. Been nothin’ but respectful to me. Doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t look me over. Doesn’t even take his eyes off the dirt when I’m speakin’. That’s rare, baby. I don’t care what color a man is—when you get kindness that steady, you don’t spit on it.”

You stared at the counter, jaw clenched. The hum of the faucet suddenly felt too loud.

“He feels wrong.” you whispered.

“Maybe you just ain’t used to good things.”

The words cracked through the quiet like a snapped branch. You looked up fast, but she wasn’t angry. Her eyes were soft, sad even, a little damp from the heat curling off the dishwater.

“It’s okay to be suspicious. I taught you that. Taught you to keep your guard up. This world doesn’t love girls like us.” Her voice shook the tiniest bit. “But if all we do is wait for things to go bad, we’re gonna miss when they’re actually good. And he’s been good.”

You almost told her then.

Almost grabbed her by the shoulders and said it plain—he touches me when you’re not looking. He says things with his eyes that I don’t like. He’s not here for you, Mama. He’s here for me.

But you didn’t.

Because you’d already tried convincing her, and all it did was make her dig in her heels.

At least now, he stayed outside. That much you’d managed. No matter how she fussed or insisted he ought to come in for supper or take a break from the sun, you always found a way to stop it. Quick lies. Fabricated errands.

“He said he’d rather eat out back.”

“He’s got somethin’ to finish before the light fades.”

You were always watching.

Because you had to be.

Now, your mother dried her hands and gave you a gentle look—the kind she used when you were little, when you scraped your knees and wouldn’t stop crying.

“We’re allowed to have good things, baby,” she said. “Even here. Even now.”

You didn’t answer.

Just turned to the window and watched him crouch again, hands in the soil, head tilted low. He wasn’t waving this time.

He was staring.

And this time, he didn’t stop when you caught him.

It was only a matter of time before Remmick got tired of waiting.

You felt it before you saw it. A stillness in the wind. A shift in the birdsong. The way the air hung heavy, too warm for the hour, too silent for how bright the sun was burning overhead. Even your mother felt it—her hands moved slower over the fabric she was folding, her eyes flicking to the window again and again.

He didn’t come that morning.

Not at dawn. Not by nine. Not by lunch.

He never missed a morning.

Not once in that long, crawling week. No matter the heat or the rain, he always found something to do. Always had dirt under his nails and a tool in his hand. Always checked in with your mother like he cared—“drinkin’ enough water today, miss? y’shouldn’t be out in this sun too long”—like he belonged there in her routine, like he had the right to speak to her soft and sweet like the son she never had.

His absence brought silence.

Sweet, golden peace.

You sat on the back steps with a cool drink in your hand, listening to the cicadas buzz in the trees. No shadow shifting behind the fence. No footstep just out of view. No eyes crawling up your spine.

It was the first time in days you’d been able to breathe.

Mama, though—she kept checking the window. Wringing her hands on the dishtowel. Muttering little nothings like “maybe he’s sick,” or “he said he’d be painting the tool shed today, didn’t he?” Her voice never rose, but the worry pressed itself into every syllable.

Then the scream came.

It was low at first. Hoarse. Animal. Like something dying slow just out of sight.

You were halfway up from your seat when it rose into a full, guttural shriek that made your skin crawl and your mother’s head snap toward the front door.

She didn’t even hesitate, already running before you could turn around.

You followed, legs stiff with dread, stumbling down the hallway behind her. By the time you reached the porch, she was already down the steps and into the yard. And there he was.

Remmick.

Writhing on the gravel like he was on fire.

Because he was.

The sun clung to him like acid, his pale skin bubbling and blackening in streaks, peeling back in sick, wet curls as he thrashed. His mouth was open wide, teeth clenched hard, and that scream—God, that sound—didn’t stop. You could hear the sizzle, the meat of him cooking under the light.

You froze.

Your heart leapt, not in fear, but—

Relief.

He wasn’t invincible.

“Help me!” your mother cried, dropping to her knees beside him, trying to shield his body with her arms like she could block out the sun with her shadow. “Get him inside, now!”

“Mama, no—”

“NOW!” she snapped, and that was it.

No room to argue.

No space to resist.

You clenched your jaw, grabbed him beneath the shoulders with shaking hands, and started dragging. His shirt came away in your grip, damp with blood and something worse. His whole body shook. The smell was awful—burnt skin and smoke and sweat and the iron-thick stink of his ruin. You gagged once, but kept pulling. Your mother had his legs. Together, you got him to the porch. Up the steps. Through the door.

And the moment you crossed the threshold—

He stopped screaming.

His back arched once, sharp and sudden, and then he slumped into your arms like a puppet with its strings cut. You almost dropped him right there.

Because he was smiling.

Not wide. Not obvious. Just a tiny tug at the corner of his mouth.

Like it had all been worth it.

Like you were the reward.

Your stomach flipped.

“Lay him down—careful, now, careful,” your mother barked, already dragging the cushions off the couch, already reaching for a towel to cover him with. “Get me the first aid kit. The big one. Under the bathroom sink.”

You hesitated.

“Go!”

You went.

But your hands trembled the whole time.

When you came back, she had a bowl of water ready, a stack of clean rags, bottles of aloe and burn salve and something else that smelled like alcohol. She worked like she’d done it a hundred times before, as though treating a man whose flesh melted under sunlight was no different than nursing a fever or bandaging a scraped knee.

You hovered by the doorway, clutching the kit like a lifeline.

“Don’t just stand there,” she snapped. “Hand me the salve.”

You moved toward them, each step heavier than the last. He was watching you. Of course he was. His eyes tracked you like a snake in the grass, lazy and slow and certain. One hand slipped from beneath the towel when you passed him the bottle.

Brushed your thigh.

Light. Deliberate.

You flinched so hard it nearly toppled the basin.

“Oh, stop bein’ dramatic,” your mother said, not even looking up. “He’s hurt. He ain’t thinkin’ straight.”

But he was.

You could feel it in your bones.

His fingers lingered every time you came near. When you handed her a rag, his knuckles brushed your wrist. When you brought over clean towels, his foot slid just close enough to touch yours. Always soft. Always gentle. Never enough to call out. Never enough to prove.

But you knew.

He was enjoying this.

Letting her see his ruin.

Letting you feel it.

You stood still, fists clenched at your sides, every part of you screaming to run—to scream yourself—but she looked so worried, so desperate to keep him breathing, and the only way to make sure she stayed safe was to play along.

So you passed the towels.

So you fetched the ice.

So you swallowed the bile rising in your throat every time he touched you.

And eventually, things calmed down.

The air settled. The heat broke. And the sun, as if it had seen what it had done and felt guilty for it, dipped below the trees earlier than you expected—leaving the house in the kind of dim amber that made everything feel quieter than it was.

Remmick sat upright now, stiff and still, perched in the worn armchair by the window like a doll someone had wrapped in gauze. His torso and arms were nearly mummified in clean white bandages, only his neck and the tops of his hands left bare. Every inch of him smelled like aloe and ash.

Your mother stood by his side, fretting with a teacup in her hands, eyes scanning him like she still couldn’t believe he was alive.

“Thank ya,” he said, voice low and hoarse but steady enough to carry. “Truly. For everything. I—I don’t know what I would’ve done if y’all hadn’t found me when ya did.”

He turned his gaze to you as he spoke.

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t look at him.

Didn’t trust yourself to.

Your mother, of course, just waved off his words with a hand to her chest, her voice tender with concern.

“Oh, hush. We weren’t just gonna leave you out there to burn. What kind of people do you think we are?”

“The good kind,” he said, smiling gently, even through the cracks of pain. “That’s rare.”

You almost scoffed.

But then she said it.

“Why don’t you stay the night?”

He blinked like it hadn’t occurred to him, like it wasn’t exactly what he wanted, like he hadn’t orchestrated the whole thing with timing so precise it turned your stomach.

“Oh—Miss, I couldn’t. That’s too much. I’ll be fine once the pain goes away—”

“Nonsense,” she interrupted, her hand already reaching to straighten the blanket tucked over his lap. “You need rest. Proper rest. Not curled up in somebody’s barn or huddled on a porch. You’re stayin’. No arguments.”

He gave a sheepish little smile.

“All right,” he murmured. “If y’sure.”

“I’m sure.” She turned to you then, unbothered, cheerful even. “Show him to the guest room, baby. Make sure the windows are shut.”

You froze.

Swallowed so hard it hurt.

Biting back what you wanted to say.

What you needed to say.

That he wasn’t helpless. That he was a liar. That she’d invited the devil straight into their home.

But you bit your tongue. Hard. Bit it until you tasted copper. Bit it because if you didn’t, she’d see it. She’d see the panic. She’d see you crack.

So you nodded.

Gestured with a tight jerk of your head.

“This way,” you muttered.

He stood slowly, stiff but sure-footed, bandages rustling with each step. He didn’t reach for you this time. Didn’t let his fingers drift or graze. Just followed behind you quietly, the floor creaking soft beneath his feet.

At the doorway, you turned the knob and opened the door, the guest room dim and still and far too welcoming.

He didn’t cross the threshold just yet.

He looked at you.

Not smiling. Not scheming.

Just looking.

And when he spoke, there was something strange in his voice. Something that sat too close to sincere.

“Thank ya,” he said again. “Really.”

It landed differently this time.

Less like a trick. More like… a confession.

It made your chest tight.

Made something flicker, weak and unwanted, at the back of your ribs.

But you didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t breathe.

You just stepped back, eyes flat, and shut the door.

And then you ran.

Not fast. Not loud. Just swift enough to let your hands tremble once you reached your room. Just quiet enough that your mother wouldn’t hear the way your breath hitched as you closed your door, leaned against it, and slid slowly down to the floor.

Heart pounding. Mouth dry. Skin crawling.

You stayed there for a long while, listening to the creak of the hallway floorboards, the distant clatter of dishes in the sink, and the whisper of wind against the windows.

Waiting for him.

Waiting for the next move.

But eventually, you felt safe enough to sleep.

You woke with the weight of it already on your chest.

That sick, bloated heaviness of being watched.

It clung to your skin like heat, like sweat that hadn’t come from any dream. Your eyes blinked open into the dark, and even before you could move, before you could think or breathe or cry out—

You knew.

It was him.

The clock hadn’t chimed. The sun hadn’t even thought about rising. It couldn’t have been past four, the whole world still deep in its hush, but he was awake. He was here. You kept your eyes trained on the window, on the soft, pale square of moonlight pressed against the pane like a prayer. You didn’t dare turn around. Didn’t even blink.

Your fingers curled into the sheets.

Your throat felt sealed shut.

There were no footsteps. No breath. Not even the creak of a floorboard to warn you. But something shifted. The air itself felt startled. As though the house knew it too—he’s here—and recoiled.

The door opened.

You didn’t hear it.

You felt it.

The space behind you changed. The air moved, warm and sour with something that didn’t belong, and even though your back was turned, you could picture it perfectly. The door swinging inward with unnatural grace. The shadows folding back to let him through.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t have to.

He just stood there, watching.

You couldn’t tell for how long. It could’ve been seconds. Minutes. Hours. Long enough for your arms to numb beneath the pillow. Long enough for your heart to slam itself to pieces inside your chest. Long enough to know he was enjoying it.

And then—

He moved.

Silently.

Not walking. Not stepping.

Gliding.

Like something unbound by the rules that governed the rest of the world. You didn’t hear his weight shift. You didn’t hear the floor sigh. Just the soundless, aching knowledge that he was getting closer.

And closer.

And closer still.

And then—nothing.

Until the bed dipped.

So slight at first you almost thought it was your breath catching wrong. Then deeper, firmer. The mattress giving under a body that didn’t sound like it had one. Your spine stiffened, fingers white-knuckled in the blankets. You kept your eyes on the window. Don’t turn around. Don’t give him that.

The heat of him soaked into the room. Not warmth like a person. Warmth like breath in a crypt. Damp. Dense. Lingering.

And then he breathed.

Right against your shoulder.

A long, slow exhale, like he was savoring the shape of you beneath the sheet. His nose might’ve been inches from your skin. You didn’t dare flinch, though your stomach twisted so violently you thought you might vomit.

You wondered if your mama was still asleep down the hall.

You wondered what he’d do if you screamed.

You wondered how loud you’d have to be for someone—anyone—to hear.

But all those thoughts—every one of them—snapped like twigs under a boot the moment his hands moved.

One of them was already slipping beneath your nightgown, slow and certain, like he had every right. Like it was just something he did every night and you were just late to remember. The other moved to your chest—slow, deliberate—and cupped your breasts with such a terrifying familiarity it made your blood turn to ice.

You inhaled sharp, a scream already rising, raw and ragged, but before you could get it out—

His hand snapped up.

Covered your mouth in a single, practiced motion, calloused fingers pressing firm against your cheeks, his palm sealing the sound inside you like he’d done it a thousand times before.

You froze.

He leaned in.

Close enough that you felt the smile before you saw it.

Close enough that his breath hit your ear, still thick with the smell of your mother’s tea and something far too close to blood.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Ain’t no need t’be carryin’ on like that.”

You bucked once—jerked hard—but he didn’t budge. Didn’t struggle. Didn’t even raise his voice. His grip didn’t waver. The hand under your gown simply kept climbing. Past your thigh. Your hip. Stopping at the soft of your stomach like he was praying over you.

“Been waitin’ on this,” he murmured, forehead pressing to your temple now, his voice pouring down your spine like molasses. “Waitin’ so damn long. Y’don’t even know, do ya?”

You tried to scream again, a muffled shriek choked back by his palm. He chuckled. God, he laughed—low and lazy like it thrilled him, like your panic was his favorite lullaby.

“Oh, darlin’,” he breathed. “Ya been mine.”

His nose dragged along your cheek, slow as sin. His thumb found your jaw, pried it down just enough to make you feel helpless, open.

“Was mine the minute you saw them flowers,” he went on, voice deepening, almost cutting. “Knew it then. Knew ya felt it. Y’ain’t never looked at nobody else the way you looked at me. Not once.”

His hand under your gown was moving again, lower this time, but not hurried. Not frenzied. Gentle. Reverent. Like he thought you ought to thank him for it.

“Y’don’t gotta act scared,” he said, and there was real pity in his voice now—something soft and condescending. “I know what ya been dreamin’ about. The way ya stare at me when y’think I ain’t lookin’. The way ya breathe when I walk past. Y’think I don’t smell that on ya?”

He pressed his face to your neck. Inhaled deep.

“I know ya,” he whispered. “Better than anybody.”

You whimpered—high, panicked—and he shushed you again, slower this time. Soothed his hand over your cheek like you were breakable and beloved all at once.

“No one else gets to touch ya like this,” he murmured, the words dragging wet against your skin. “Ain’t nobody else that deserves to.”

The hand between your legs slipped beneath your panties with a slow, sick grace—fingers sliding straight to your soaked folds, rubbing over them in lazy strokes.

“Ya feel that?” he asked, the growing smile present in his tone. “That’s how I know. Ya say y’don’t want it, but yer body don’t lie, sweetheart. Never has.”

You choked on a sob beneath his hand.

“I been patient,” he offered, like it meant something. “So, so patient. Sat out in the rain for ya. Burned for ya. Y’think I don’t deserve a little sweetness after all that?”

His mouth brushed your ear. Lips soft. Voice breaking open into something more desperate.

“Ya owe me.”

You bucked again. Harder.

Every fiber in you twisted toward the door, toward the window, toward anywhere that wasn’t here—beneath him, beside him. Your hips shifted with sharp panic, legs kicking, your whole body writhing like it could shake him off if only you could move fast enough.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Just let you squirm beneath him like it amused him.

“That’s enough of that now,” he said. “Y’can give it sweet, or I can take it rough. Don’t make me choose, sugar.”

His voice—so soft, so measured—broke you more than his grip. It was the way he said you can give, like this was still yours to offer. Like he hadn’t already peeled your control off in layers and folded it into his pocket.

You twisted again anyway, but this time, he caught your wrists. Pinned them easy. His strength didn’t show in his arms—it showed in his patience, in the lazy drag of his breath against your cheek, in the way he settled over you like weight, like heat, like ruin.

His head dipped lower, breath hot against your jaw. “Y’think ya can lie to me? Lie to yerself? Yer drippin’ want all over these sheets, darlin’.”

You sobbed. Quiet. Helpless.

He chuckled again, deep and fond.

“Bless yer heart,” he murmured. “Still thinkin’ thissus about choice.”

His hands dragged down—slow, so slow—settling at your hips like he could feel your heartbeat thudding through the bone. His fingers twitched. Adjusted. Pressed.

And you flinched again.

“Mm-mm,” he tutted. “Y’act like I’m doin’ ya harm, but you and I both know you opened the door a long time ago. Ain’t my fault ya didn’t know what walked through.”

He shifted behind you, breath dragging ragged across your neck now, his hand sliding higher—hovering just beneath your chin.

“Go on,” he murmured. “Open that mouth, darlin’. Y’know what I want.”

You clenched your jaw.

Hard.

His breath stilled.

Then cooled.

Then turned mean.

“Oh,” he said, soft with danger. “Yer playin’ coy now...”

His fingers pressed firmer against your chin.

“Y’know,” he went on, voice shifting to something quiet and thoughtful and casual. “I reckon if yer mama walked in right now, saw her baby girl laid out like this—pantin’, sweatin’, shakin’ under me—”

You made a choked, guttural noise.

“—well, I’d have to kill her.”

He said it like a shrug.

Like a truth.

“Not ‘cause I want to. Wouldn’t be personal. But can’t have her knowin’. Can’t have her ruinin’ what we got here.”

You sobbed, letting your mouth fall open.

Just enough.

Just barely.

“There’s my girl.”

Two fingers pressed against your lips.

He didn’t shove. He waited. Waited until you gave a little more. Until your lips parted around them like instinct, like defeat.

He pushed in. Slow. Deeper.

Further.

You gagged.

He cooed.

“Shhh, now. Relax that throat,” he whispered, voice dipping low again, syrup-thick. “Gonna be puttin’ that pretty mouth to good use real soon.”

The room swam.

Your pulse throbbed in your ears.

And still, he smiled.

That same awful, patient smile. The kind that didn’t need teeth to be cruel. The kind that knew you. That had waited for you. That had earned this.

“Ya make a mess of things, y’know that?” he murmured, slipping his fingers free from your mouth—slick and shining in the dark. He dragged them down slow, trailing your chin, your throat, your sternum—like you were something he built. Something he owned.

His hand found your hips again.

Then lower.

And lower.

You felt him part you with practiced ease—no hesitation, no tenderness—and the sound he made when his fingers met your folds again was nothing short of triumphant.

“Well now,” he breathed, almost laughing. “All this trouble ya give me, all that hollerin’—and look at ya.”

His fingers moved, just enough for you to feel it. Just enough to make you seize up from the inside out.

“Drippin’ like honey in July.”

You shuddered.

Not from pleasure.

From shame. From helplessness. From the way he moaned at the feel of you, low and giddy and proud like he’d won something sacred.

“All them nasty little things y’said. All that runnin’. All that fightin’ me.”

He curled his fingers inside you.

You choked on a gasp.

“And here ya are,” he whispered, dragging his tongue against your ear. “Soakin’ my fingers like a bitch in heat.”

“Yer mouth says no, but this sweet little thing here?”

He fucked his fingers harder.

You bit back a sob.

“This part knows. Knows what she wants. Knows who she belongs to.”

He set a rhythm, brutal and unrelenting, fucking you on his hand like you were something empty he meant to fill. Every drag of his fingers was followed by his voice against your cheek.

“Gonna make y’come on my fingers, sugar. Gonna make ya fall apart just right. You’ll love it. Ya will. I’ll tear that pride right outta ya, piece by piece, till all ya got left is me.”

Then he added a third.

No warning.

No gentleness.

Just the hot, sharp stretch of it forcing you wider, making your back arch and your breath stutter out of your lungs.

“There she is,” he said, voice gone breathless with awe. “Takin’ it like y’were made for me.”

And you couldn’t stop the tears now.

Couldn’t stop the way your body betrayed you, over and over again, no matter how hard your mind screamed.

He leaned in closer.

Kissed the corner of your wet, trembling eye.

“Don’t cry, baby girl,” he whispered. “You’ll be screamin’ for more soon enough.”

But it wasn’t the words that broke you.

It was the sound of them.

Because he wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t give you even a second to breathe, to blink, to vanish inside yourself. He didn’t let you have silence—not even that. Not the last fragile scrap of dignity you’d tried to keep folded between your ribs.

His mouth never left your ear.

If he wasn’t talking, he was kissing. If he wasn’t kissing, he was licking. And if he wasn’t doing that, he was just breathing—loud and wet and there, fogging up the shell of your ear until you couldn’t tell the difference between breath and spit and sweat and tears.

His voice was everywhere. His hands, his mouth—him—filling the room, filling you, dragging you to a peak you clawed to resist. But your body had already betrayed you, your muscles tightening around his fingers like they needed him, like you wanted this.

You didn’t.

You didn’t.

But that didn’t stop the sharp, harrowing bloom of pleasure as your climax hit, ripping through you like lightning in a bottle.

And though you clenched your teeth, though you bit your tongue till you tasted blood—

A sound escaped.

Just a whimper. A choked little moan. Barely a breath.

But Remmick caught it.

“Ohhh,” he purred, triumphant. “There she is. Knew ya’d sing for me eventually, darlin’.”

His fingers slid out slow, glistening in the half-light, and he moaned again, louder this time—for your benefit. His tongue flicked out, licking at his knuckles, then dragging between each digit like a starving man savoring a feast.

He slurped. Loud. Deliberate.

A wet, obscene sound that filled the air and made your stomach twist.

“Sweetest damn thing I ever tasted.” he murmured, licking the last of you from his fingers like a dog cleaning bone.

You barely had time to breathe before he was on you.

His chest pressed to yours, hips pinning your spent thighs apart, his breath gone ragged and too fast, too hot against your throat. You tried to scramble back, but there was nowhere to go.

Then you saw his face.

Your heart dropped.

His eyes were near colorless now—bleached out, drained of anything human. Only a single, glowing dot of red burned in the center of each pupil, pulsing like fire in the dark.

And his mouth—God.

His fangs bared wide, lips split in a snarl, froth at the corners. He was drooling, shameless and bestial, saliva falling in thick, stringy ropes onto your chest, your stomach. Pooling in your navel. Smearing down the curve of your belly with every panting breath.

“Look at ya,” he rasped, voice full of awe and hunger. “All soft and shakin’ for me.”

He ripped off your nightgown like it was paper, shredding it in one swift motion until it hung in tatters beneath your back. Cold air met bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating off of him. He pressed in closer, the head of him nudging against your entrance, greedy and pulsing and there.

“This is mine,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours, voice full of some manic, devotional tremor. “All this—you—it’s all for me. All this waitin’, all this work, all this cravin’—worth every second.”

He lined himself up, hand shaking, mouth slick and dripping.

“Gonna split ya open, sugar,” he breathed. “Gonna fill y’up ’til you forget who ya ever were without me.”

And he did.

He didn’t tease. Didn’t ease you in. Just thrust—hard, deep, to the hilt—without warning, without kindness, without a single goddamn thought for your whimpering body’s limits.

The air left your lungs in a ragged gasp, a cry caught on your tongue that would’ve broken every window in the house had he not slapped a hand over your mouth and held it there.

Too much.

Too deep.

Too fast.

You thrashed under him, body trying to squirm away from the stretch, the pain, the hot-sharp intrusion that burned through your gut like an inferno. He was bigger than you could bear, and he gave you no chance to adjust, no moment to breathe—just the deep, full pressure of him inside you, grinding bone against nerve until your legs spasmed and your head kicked back into the mattress.

And still he groaned.

Loved it.

“Fuck, yer tight,” he hissed, his breath shuddering out against your ear as his hips ground forward again, grinding at the very edge of cruel. “Like y’was built for me.”

He stilled a moment, just long enough for you to hope—just long enough for your body to start trembling toward that desperate reprieve.

He rocked into you slow. Once. Twice.

A lie.

Then he started to move in earnest—snapping his hips into you, one after another, hard and fast and mindless, losing himself in the wet clench of your cunt. His hand stayed locked over your mouth, muffling every sob, every scream, every choking little sound your body couldn’t stop from making.

He growled with every thrust.

Slick filled the air—his, yours, spit and sweat and drool all dripping down like rain. The wet slap of flesh-on-flesh echoed through the room, lewd and obscene, shaking the bedframe with every brutal stroke.

“Oh, listen to ya,” he rasped, pulling his hand away just long enough to let your broken voice slip through. “Cryin’ so pretty. Y’hear yerself, sugar?”

You did. That was the worst part. You could hear it—ragged and high-pitched and shameful. The kind of sound a body made when it was unraveling.

He leaned in.

Licked the tears off your cheek, lingering as if he was savoring the taste.

“Keep screamin’, baby girl,” he grinned against your skin, voice breaking with delight. “Wake the fuckin’ house.”

His hand slipped down again, caught your jaw, forced your mouth open as his tongue shoved its way inside—wet and invasive, tasting your throat like he meant to lay claim to your very breath. You choked against it, but he didn’t care. He devoured you like you were his last meal, grinding against you harder, faster, tearing groans from his own chest like he couldn’t help himself.

“Think yer mama can hear us?” he whispered when he finally pulled back, voice thick with spit and pride. “Think she’s sittin’ up in bed right now, wonderin’ what kinda sounds her little girl makes when she’s gettin’ her brains fucked out?”

You gagged.

He laughed.

“Wouldn’t mind an audience, if I’m honest,” he said, tone filthy with delight. “Wouldn’t mind lettin’ her see what a mess y’make on my cock. Wouldn’t mind lookin’ her in the eye while I make ya come.”

You nearly vomited.

The sound that tore out of your throat was nothing human—high, broken, wet with bile—and he shuddered, hips stuttering from the sheer joy of it.

He dragged his fangs down your shoulder, testing just how hard he could press before drawing blood. “Ya feel that? How yer clenchin’ on me now? Yer body’s greedy. Wants every inch. Don’t matter what that mouth says—this pussy knows who owns her.”

He snapped his hips again, harder this time—so hard your spine arched off the mattress, your heels dug into the sheets, your hands grasping for anything solid.

He gave you nothing.

Not reprieve.

Not mercy.

Only the low, maddened hum of his voice and the hot, relentless slam of him inside you.

“This is mine,” he whispered, low and ragged. “All of it. Every breath. Every sob. Every fuckin’ pulse of this sweet little hole. Say it. Say it’s mine.”

You couldn’t.

So he said it for you.

Again. And again. And again.

Fucking it into you like gospel. Breaking you open with every syllable.

Then his hand found your throat like it was always meant to be there.

No warning.

No question.

Just the sudden press of calloused fingers around the column of your neck, his palm hot and unforgiving. Not squeezing yet—just holding, like he was weighing something. Like he was testing the shape of you in his grip.

Then pressure.

Steady. Crushing.

Your mouth fell open on instinct, a gasp caught somewhere between shock and submission—and that made him grin.

“God, yer pretty like this,” he rasped, voice soaked in filth. “Eyes all wide. Mouth all quiet. S’like ya finally learned yer place.”

Stars burst behind your eyes. You clawed at his wrist without meaning to, hips twitching under his weight as he thrust deeper, harder, choking the sound from your throat like it thrilled him.

“Keep squeezin’,” he groaned. “God, ya feel divine when yer scared.”

And when your vision blurred, when your body went taut and fluttered around him—he loosened his grip just enough to let the air rush back in.

“Atta girl.”

He was close now.

You could feel it in the way his hips jerked, rhythm faltering—messier now, more desperate, like something inside him had broken loose and was tearing its way out.

“Fuck, fuck—darlin’—” he gasped, head falling to your shoulder as his thrusts grew frantic. “Y’feel that? Y’feel me throbbin’ in ya?”

You tried to answer, or maybe you tried to breathe, but neither came out right.

There was too much.

Too much of him, too much of this, of the thick, obscene drag of his cock in your aching cunt and the sound of it—slick and loud and soaking the sheets beneath you.

And he just kept talking.

“Gonna fill ya up,” he breathed, near mindless now. “Gonna knock ya up proper, sugar. Gonna watch ya swell with it—my baby. Keep y’like that. Forever.”

Your breath caught.

Your pulse spiked.

His words came like a punch to the chest, like a hand around your throat you hadn’t seen coming. Your legs tensed, body stiffening beneath him, but it only made him groan—low and guttural—like your panic excited him, like it drove him further off the edge.

“Don’t run,” he panted, licking at your throat, your cheek, your temple, leaving your skin sticky with spit. “Don’t fight me now, girl—y’already said yes. Ya begged for this. I’m just givin’ ya what ya asked for.”

You hadn’t.

Not this.

But he kept rutting into you like a man possessed, every thrust brutal with intention, like he could mold your insides to fit him. Brand you from within.

“Gonna keep ya all barefoot and full,” he growled, mouth dragging to your ear again. “Wanna see ya waddle through this house with my kid in your belly, cryin’ every night ’cause yer so fuckin’ needy for me. That sound good to ya?”

You shook your head, lips trembling.

But he only smiled and laughed, delighted.

“Y’don’t gotta answer,” he whispered, shoving his cock deeper, grunting when your body gave another helpless clench. “Yer pussy already did.”

You gasped, shuddering beneath him, helpless to stop the tears that slipped from your lashes. You were full—so full it felt like your ribs would crack from the pressure, your lungs too small to carry your fear. Your hands pushed weakly at his chest, but he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just grabbed your wrists and pinned them down beside your head, bearing his weight over you like a coffin lid.

He licked a tear from your jaw, shivering with something close to ecstasy.

“I’m gonna come, sweetheart. Y’feel that? Y’feel it buildin’?”

You did.

Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, trembling like he was on fire from the inside out, like he might burst.

And when he did—

God, when he did—

He didn’t stop.

Even after his body convulsed, even after that guttural groan tore from the depths of his chest and his cock pulsed violently inside you—he didn’t pull out. He only buried himself deeper, impossibly deep, like he could carve out your very soul with the head of it, like he could scrape you clean from the inside and replace it all with him.

Hot. Heavy. Endless.

You felt it.

Every twitch.

Every throb.

Every thick, molten spill of him pouring into your womb like it was where he’d always belonged. You could feel the warmth of it pooling, the unnatural weight of it, like your body already knew it wouldn’t be able to hold it all.

And still—he didn’t move.

Didn’t so much as flinch.

His cock stayed nestled deep, buried to the root, like he wanted to seal himself inside you.

You couldn’t breathe.

Not under his weight, not under his heat. Not under the reality of it.

Remmick’s chest heaved against yours, damp with sweat. His breath came out in ragged little pants, fanning hot across your throat as he shifted only to press deeper—like he thought there might still be some hollow pocket inside you that hadn’t been claimed yet.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke, broken by exhaustion and euphoria both.

“I know ya love me,” he murmured, words warm and wet against your jaw. “Even if y’don’t know it yet.”

You turned your face away.

But he only nuzzled closer, lips brushing your temple, sticky strands of his hair clinging to your skin like spiderwebs.

“S’okay,” he breathed. “You’ll see. Gonna be the perfect little family, you ’n me.”

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to shove him off, tear him limb from limb, claw your own skin off to erase the sensation of him still inside you. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t even move. He had you pinned—physically, yes, but worse than that, he had you trapped.

You were full of him now.

And you knew—somewhere, deep in your bones, in the trembling, ruined edges of your mind—you always would be.

Remmick tilted your chin back and kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t even hungry.

It was complete. The kind of kiss you’d give a corpse before closing the casket, sealing it with a promise that no one else would ever touch what was inside. It consumed you. Smothered you. Left no oxygen in your lungs, no room for thought.

And then—

He sighed.

Satisfied.

Collapsed right onto your chest, cheek nestled over your hammering heart like it soothed him to hear it fight.

His cock softened inside you slowly, twitching one last time before going still. The slick warmth of his come leaked out in slow pulses, smearing your thighs and soaking the sheets, a filthy halo beneath your hips.

He was asleep before you could say anything.

Before you could even process it.

Just—gone.

Heavy and warm and content, like he’d just had a long bath. Like he hadn’t just hollowed you out and crawled inside.

You stared up at the ceiling.

You didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe right.

Didn’t even try to move.

The tears came quietly—just a shimmer, at first. A sting. Then a drop. Then another. Until they streamed down the sides of your face into your hair, salt soaking the pillow beneath you while your body lay frozen, trembling beneath his deadweight.

And that ceiling…

You swore it tilted.

That old plaster warped like heat mirage, curling in on itself. Suffocating. Crooked.

This was your life now.

This room.

This bed.

This man.

You would never be alone again.

You would never be free again.

And all you could do was sob, soundless, eyes wide to that sagging, silent ceiling—while Remmick snored soft against your chest, dreaming of forever.

[spookyserenades]

#drabblerequest

Hii Dana, hope you're doing good, lovely ! Sanctity boys reactions to y/n crying (at like a sad movie or something idk - currently watching UP and that cartoon breaks me everytime I swear 😭)? Ik the boys sadist selves would eat that up/ judge her 💀

OOOOO good one!

Seokjin: Finds her crying extremely tiring. Tears are useless to him and will get her nowhere, same with pleading or begging. Would probably get in her head to convince her to stop crying, later on in the story, as it would exhaust him immensely. 

Yoongi: Often paints her crying, to be honest. Something about the way her face crumples fascinates him. If he caught her crying, he wouldn’t do or say anything, just save the mental image for later so he can recreate it on canvas. 

Hoseok: Definitely loves when she cries. Would actively go out of his way to make her cry, too. Finds it amusing, and would often exacerbate her pain/make whatever is causing her to cry worse so he could see her really sob. 

Namjoon: Oh boy. Dacryphilia all the way with Namjoon, so it would turn him on. Like Hoseok, would go out of his way to make her cry, but for more sexual reasons rather than amusement. Would absolutely hate when others would make her cry though; that’s his job.

Jimin: Well, he’s a theatrical fuck, so he’d really enjoy her crying like the latter two. Would make all kinds of skeevy comments about how gorgeous she was when she was crying. Jimin would probably purposefully take her to tragic plays or put on sad movies to make her cry. 

Taehyung: Unaffected as hell. As a cold businessman, he had experienced a lot of crocodile tears so he’d assume she was faking her sadness in order to accomplish some hidden agenda. Would probably watch, bored, until she wore herself off or stopped.

Jeongguk: A mix of Taehyung and Namjoon, he’d get off on the tears but also he wouldn’t acknowledge her pain at all. Used to torture from his mafia days (and learning to crave other’s suffering), he’d simply brush aside her cries and watch for his own pleasure.

[life-or-something-like-lt]

✨actual human ray of sunshine✨

[lovebugism]

THERE WILL BE BLOOD

summary: you're wed to ser gwayne hightower in one last desperate attempt to unite the realm; but when the war tears the two of you apart, you're taken prisoner by his cousin, lord ormund hightower, where the line between duty and desire begins to blur. (12k)

characters: gwayne hightower / fem!reader, ormund hightower / fem!reader, alicent hightower, daeron targaryen

contents: targ!reader (no physical descriptions), love triangle, enemies to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, forbidden love, infidelity, canon divergence, cw for brief mentions of attempted assault and smut 18+ (MDNI): fem receiving oral, unprotected sex, ormund has a scent kink

( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )

i. DUTY & HONOR

Your last name was, perhaps, your greatest burden. It was the very walls of your prison; the unseen chain cinched perpetually around your throat. You had inherited the dragon’s blood, it seems, but not the dragon’s freedom — and when Rhaenyra’s fleet sailed across the Narrow Sea to wage war over a throne of swords, it forgot to take you with it. The only home you’d ever known was soon filled with ghosts donned in Hightower green and whispers of your leaving.

You were going to die here. That is a truth you learned long ago. Your only wish was that they’d hurry up and get it over with. 

They gave you a husband instead.

Your marriage to Ser Gwayne Hightower was heralded as an act of wisdom, the proof that wounds carved by old grievances could yet be stitched together, with silk ribbons tied around the wrists and a few spoken vows declared before the Sept. It was to be the very bridge that united the green and black. But the bridge burned anyway, and left the two of you behind.

“They wed us to prevent a war that had already begun,” you’d scoffed, already deep into your cups at the feasting table, when Maester Orwyle called the fight to come inevitable.

“No…” Gwayne hummed from beside you, still perfectly temperate, though his blue eyes were heavy with a burden too old for a man of his years. “They wed us so that, when the histories of this moment are written, someone might say that they tried.”

You’d laughed then, loud enough to gain the attention of the rest of the courtiers at the long table — because Ser Gwayne was not entirely wrong, to be sure, but he was far too generous for his own good; generous enough to believe that the effort of your marriage actually meant something in the grand scheme of things.

Gwayne Hightower was a sensible man. He was not outwardly affectionate, maybe, but he was no less kind. There was no great love in your union — not like all the songs and fairytales insist, at least — but there was safety. Security. Stability. His presence often found you like the thick walls of an ancient keep, steadfast against the howling winds of a summer storm. You would find no certainty of your future in war, but being Gwayne’s wife meant, at the very least, that you were still alive today.

That unsaid assurance is perhaps a greater gift than any truly loving marriage could’ve been for you. And, perhaps, it was with that unsaid assurance that you came to admire him, without ever realizing you were doing so — always searching for his face in crowds, waiting every night for the familiar sound of his footsteps to walk outside your chamber doors, constantly watching him from a distance (which has become a most embarrassing habit of yours).

You find him now on the western balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay, where the moon climbs high over shimmering midnight waters. The salty breeze mixes with the scent of damp stone and dying fires from the lantern light glittering in the city below. Gwayne stands alone with his forearms propped on the pale stone balustrade, having exchanged his armor for a forest-green doublet embroidered with winding gold vines. The fading torchlights gild his silken auburn hair, stirred loose by the sea breeze.

You linger just beneath the archway, hidden in the place where the torchlight turns to shadow, studying the slope of his strong shoulders and how they rise and fall with each breath. He looks lonely; lonely enough for your chest to tighten with the want to close the distance between you and slip in beside him. But your feet refuse to move. And whatever affection was warming in your chest before pierces through you like a sword.

“You’re staring.” The suddenness of his voice startles you.

“…You’re supposed to be watching the sea,” you respond, half-shy. He doesn’t look back at you when you emerge finally from the shadows; slippers scuffing the cobblestones, black skirts fluttering at your feet.

“I was,” Gwayne nods.

“Then how could you possibly notice I was standing there?”

He turns to face you then, as you settle on the balcony just beside him, keeping a few feet of careful distance between you like you always did — as if, in your union, an invisible line had been wedged between you and could not be crossed. 

The corner of his mouth lifts slowly into a crooked smile. “Because I notice everything about you,” he answers like it’s simple, like he hadn’t just stolen the breath from your lungs.

Heat crawls up the low neckline of your dress, speckling across your cheeks and the very tip of your ears. You turn away, face screwed in a feigned disgust, and busy your hands with an imaginary wrinkle on your sleeve. 

“That,” you murmur. “Is a terrifying thought.”

“Well, it ought to terrify you,” Gwayne quips knowingly, bending softly at the waist to fold his arms along the stone railing. “I’ve seen the way you steal the candied slices off of all your lemon cakes just to leave the sponge untouched, you know? Like an utter madwoman.” 

“Well…” you huff, face flaring hot at the acknowledgment of being so openly seen by another. “It seems I made the dreadful mistake of marrying the observant man in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“And here I thought that distinction belonged to my cousin,” Gwayne jokes lowly, brows raised to his hairline. “I shall write to Lord Ormund at once and relieve him of the title.”

You laugh quietly through your nose and turn away again. Silence settles comfortably over you once more, filled only by the distant clanging of metal as guards change their shift and the far-off crowing of a caged raven. The night feels impossibly dark, emptier than usual. It feels like an omen of sorts.

“It grows worse, does it not?” you wonder aloud through the breath that catches in your chest, as if you were half scared to even ask.

Gwayne’s thin smile slowly fades. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Aye,” he nods. “I fear it does.”

“I keep… hoping that…” You swallow around the invisible hand tightening around your throat. “That they’ll remember I am your wife before they remember whose blood I carry. I feel it’s the only reason they’ve yet to take my head.”

“Of course, they remember,” he assures you.

“It feels less and less so these days.”

“They’re only frightened—”

“I’m frightened,” you remind him.

The admission lingers between you like the salt water scent hanging in the air. Gwayne studies you for a long moment — he sees the flicker of sincerity flashing across your face right before you turn away from him again, and the way your jaw clenches a second later in regret of saying the words aloud. 

He leans an elbow along the parapet to face you fully. And, as if to soothe you, he asks, “If there were no war… No thrones, no dragons—”

“No Hightowers?” you add.

“—If the Stranger himself appeared before you now and offered you another life,” the auburn-haired man continues with a hint of a smile gracing his lips. “What would you do?”

You ponder the question for a moment, eyes zeroed on the navy black horizon ahead as your fingers fidget on the stony barricade. “I should like a farm,” you answer, mouth twitching into an absentminded grin. “Somewhere far away from here. So I could raise chickens—”

“Chickens?” he scoffs a dry laugh, then softens a second later at the sincere look you give him. He swallows hard and nods supportively. “Most ladies would’ve said children, is all…”

“Well, I am not most ladies…” you tell him. “I would have a field of apple trees, and a hundred dogs to protect all my chickens and horses and fluffy cows— you know, the ones that live down in the Reach?”

“Well…” Gwayne croons. “You’ve certainly thought about this, haven’t you?”

“Every day,” you confess. The honesty in your answer strikes him down like a blade; the sorrowful look that heavies your face even more so. The reality of your situation returns to you then, settling over you like gravity’s inevitable weight. You swallow hard before you confess, “I fear they’ll kill me if matters grow worse at Dragonstone.”

“They won’t.”

“You cannot know that.”

“I do,” Gwayne assures you and takes a slow step closer, until the inherent warmth of his skin dulls the bite of the bitter sea wind. He ducks his chin to his chest to chase your gaze, peering down at you with glittering blue eyes. “I swore a vow before gods and men, did I not?”

“So do most men—”

“Well, I am not most men,” he lilts with an air of amusement hanging on the edge of his words. “I actually meant my vows.”

Your eyes soften as they search his face, looking for any hint of hesitation or doubt in his handsome features. You find no uncertainty there; just the maddening, immovable confidence that seems to be stitched into the very fiber of his making.

“If this castle should fall tomorrow…” you whisper to him, eyes narrowing in skepticism. “Or if your family decides that I have become too great a burden to keep here… What happens then?”

“Then I shall stand in the doorway,” he shrugs.

A shocked laugh sputters from your mouth at his boyish conviction. “And if they mean to come through it?”

“Then…” His lips jut softly. “They shall first have to make a corpse of me.”

“You are a valiant knight, Ser Gwayne, but you cannot fight an entire army.”

“Perhaps not,” he replies with a sad sort of smile. “But armies are made of men. And every man who wishes to reach you will first have to face me... As I said… I meant my vows.”

Something in his words strikes a deep sadness within you. No one had ever spoken of your being like it possessed any value worth defending, and now the words come from the very family you were meant to despise.

But even still, for the first time since the ravens brought the tidings of war and the dragons took wing against dragon, you believed him. You believed that, should the whole realm come crashing down around you, Ser Gwayne would likely be the only one left standing at your side when the last stone fell.

And, gods, how stupid you were to do so.

ii. OATHS & ASHES

The news of your husband’s leaving came not from your husband himself. 

It came, rather, in whispers at court, slithering through the Red Keep like snakes beneath rushes — passing from Gold Cloak to stable boy to serving girl to scullion. “They say Ser Criston and his knights are marching for Harrenhal on the morrow,” says a thick-accented handmaiden. “Lord Hand means to smoke Daemon from the castle. It’ll be Prince Aemond’s before the next moon, no doubt.”

Your stomach dropped so harshly at the whispers that you nearly retched upon the marble. It was not Gwayne’s leaving that frightened you so, but rather what his absence would represent — he might as well throw you to the hounds himself before he goes, because you were as good as dead with him gone.

Your slippers strike the ancient stone in a frantic rhythm as you turn on your heel to storm back the way you came. The harsh echo of the soles catches the attention of surrounding servants, who flatten themselves against the walls as you hurry suddenly past. Your heartbeat pounds like thunder in your ears, far louder than the bells of the Great Sept that toll the evening hour — the combination of both feels like an ominous funeral knell.

You rush up the winding stone staircase with your crimson skirts gathering in your fists. Gwayne’s chambers sit directly opposite yours, and you find the heavy wooden door is cracked ajar. The hinges screechbeneath your palm when you shove it the rest of the way open without warning. The sight you find on the other side hollows you from the inside out — a travel satchel, laid open along the emerald sheets. Inside, a whetstone, riding gloves, a leather-bound prayer book, a sword belt, a flask. 

The careful order of it all feels almost cruel. Chaos, at the very least, would suggest some air of hesitation from the man; a faint pause at leaving you behind. This, however, feels far too final.

Gwayne stands at the head of the bed with his back facing you. His pale hands work with a quiet precision to roll a Hightower-green cloak into his bag. He did not need to turn at the sudden intrusion. He learned the sound of your footsteps long ago.

“I wondered how long it might take,” the man croons distantly. The calmness of his voice, the indifference, sets you entirely aflame.

“Why would you not tell me?” you bite in response.

Gwayne glances over his shoulder at you then. The flickering candlelight turns his hair a more golden shade of Hightower-red, and carves the soft edges of his face out in shadow. He was still every inch the striking knight that the whispers purported him to be — broad as an oak tree, handsome as a saint carved into an altar — but there’s a foreign weariness etched into his features now. It darkens the skin beneath his eyes, turns his gaze a duller shade of icy blue.

“Well, I was going to, of course.”

“When?” The sharpness in your voice could draw blood. 

“…Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Your laugh splinters the otherwise silent room, sharper than broken glass. You shut the door behind you with an aggressive hand and close the distance between you, dress skirts billowing wildly at your ankles. “When you ride at dawn? And you meant to tell me when your horses were already saddled?”

“Yes,” Gwayne sighs, lowering the folded doublet into its place. “I thought I might spare you one night’s grief—”

“You’re abandoning me,” you tell him then, as if to translate the man’s words back to himself. You linger at his side, eyes darting wildly over his profile when he fails to meet your gaze. “Just like all the rest of them. You do realize that, right?”

“The king has given orders—”

“Well, it wasn’t the king who stood beside me at Blackwater Bay not even a week ago, was it?” Your voice lowers into a faux-masculine tone, trying and failing to mock him. “If anyone comes for you, I shall stand in the doorway—”

Gwayne scoffs. “Surely, I do not sound like that.”

“—They shall first have to make a corpse of me.”

“Yes… I remember,” he answers through a slow huff of annoyance, stepping back from his travel bag to drag a pair of weary hands down his face. “I was— well into my cups by then, as you well know—”

“Oh, do not cheapen those words now,” you spit, shoving hard at his shoulder. Gwayne’s features twist in offense as his wide eyes glance down at the hand you’d pushed him with, though he doesn’t move an inch. “Don’t dishonor yourself with a coward’s excuse just to make up for the fact that you lied.”

Gwayne’s composure fractures at that. He had spent too much of his life trying to be a good knight, a good man — one that maybe his callous father could be proud of — so he refuses to stomach accusations of otherwise from you. 

His icy blue eyes harden into a glacial sort of look, more hurt than truly angry. He lays his cloak into place to face you fully.

“Do you not see that I am leaving to keep the fight from coming here?”

“Do not you see that by leaving me here that I’m as good as dead?” you retort through a jaw clenched tight. “If you do not take me with you, then—”

“Of course I’m not taking you with me!” he scoffs with a crooked smile, like it’s funny to him. “You’d be dead before we made it to the God’s Eye—”

“And I will be dead before this war is won if you leave!” you shout, voice wet and fragile with the unshed tears burning the backs of your eyes. “The fight is already here! The people who wish me dead are in these walls! They pour my wine, they wash my hair, they cook my food, they bow when I walk by and whisper when my back is turned! And if you aren’t here, then…” 

You trail off with a ragged breath. Your corset feels suddenly tight against your ribs. You choke back the sob that strangles your throat and blink rapidly to clear the haze of tears blurring at your waterline. You peer up at the man with the sternest gaze you can muster.

“I am… frightened,” you tell him, though your voice cracks into a fragile whisper halfway through.

The anger disappears from Gwayne’s face as quickly as it arrived. His shoulders deflate with a slow huff through his nose as he takes a slow step towards you. His hands release their clenched fists to reach hesitantly for your face. His palms are warm and softly calloused when they cup your cheeks, caressing you with a tenderness he hasn’t shown since your bedding ceremony six or more moons ago.

The quiet half-smile he gives you, then, is weighed down by a palpable sadness.

“To tell you the truth… I have never been more afraid than I am right now,” he confesses in a low murmur, swiping his thumb over the warm apple of your cheek. The softness in his voice threatens to undo you entirely. 

“So then don’t go,” you plead in a small voice, grasping at the front of his emerald doublet until the golden vines wrinkle under your grip. “Please.”

“If Harrenhal remains in Rhaenyra’s hold, and if Daemon rallies the Riverland armies, then the war will come here,” Gwayne continues in a painfully steady voice. “I fear I don’t have a choice in the matter.”

“Everyone has a choice,” you tell him, filled with a girlish sort of rage once more. “But, I suppose you’ve already made yours.”

The man meets your scowl with a tired, slightly heartbroken smile. “Please do not make me spend my last night with my wife quarreling with her,” Gwayne jokes quietly, swiping an eyelash from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “At least leave me with something to hold onto until my return.”

Your tight chest deflates with a slow sigh from your nose. The rage ebbs evenly into grief. “And what shall I have, hm? Considering tonight is very likely my last one alive and all…”

Gwayne laughs. “You are being… catastrophically dramatic.”

Your chest burns with a mixture of rage and desire. He could never possibly understand you, but somehow, he is the only one with the walls of the Keep who ever has. The contrast is dizzying.

“I hate you,” you hear yourself say.

“Perhaps...” Gwayne hums, warm breath fanning across your cheek. “But not nearly as much as you love me.”

Your first instinct is to strike him for the sarcasm in his words; your second is to weep at the truth of them. He kisses you before you can do either.

He ducks down to press his lips to yours in a tender kiss, a mere brushing of your lips. The last time he had done so was beneath the glowing candles of the Sept, following the declaration of your wedding vows. But that was an obligation, a political victory of sorts.

This kiss is far sweeter in comparison. You feel the man heavying against you as he falls deeper into your touch. He opens your mouth with his and flicks the pad of his tongue against yours, like velvet brushing velvet. Your hands tremble as they leave the chest of his doublet to rake through his auburn locks, like silk between your fingers. You sigh against his open mouth at the taste of him — like wine and mint and oranges — sweet enough to get drunk on.

It takes you a long moment to realize his hands have snaked around your waist accordingly. You don’t realize his deft fingers are loosening the tie in your corset until the discomfort in your ribs disappears entirely. Your body acts before your mind, and your arms slither from their sleeves to curl once more around Gwayne’s broad shoulders.

The man folds the top of your dress down until your bare chest is revealed to him. A grumbled moan sounds in the back of his throat as he pulls you back into him with two wide palms along your bare back, pressing your breasts flush against his chest. He thinks, if he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the steady thundering of your heart like this.

“Gwayne—” you whisper against his mouth when you feel something hardening against your hip. Your hands drop from his hair to slide between your bodies, headed for the tie in his trousers to release the stiffness growing there. 

He twists you round in the meanwhile, shoes scuffing the cobbles, until the bend of your knees meets the edge of the mattress behind you. He lays you down without once taking his mouth off of yours, with one wide palm splayed along your ribcage and his other cradling the back of your neck.

He pulls off of you with a quiet smack to catch his breath. A small whimper sounds in the back of your throat when his warm body leaves yours, rising to reach down for your skirts. Your bare chest heaves as you sit up on your elbows to watch him fumble with your dress. “Gods above, how many skirts are you wearing?” you hear him complain under his breath. “I’ve faced hedge knights with fewer defenses than this.”

You giggle when he finally pushes the layers of your dress up to your hips. Your thighs spread on instinct, exposing yourself to him. Gwayne’s mouth waters at the sight of your silken folds, already glittering in anticipation. Your chest tightens when he falls to his knees before you. 

“What are you doing?” you ask on bated breath.

Gwayne flashes you a love-drunk grin and a pair of glassy blue eyes. His warm palms smooth along the velvety skin of your inner thighs to spread them further. “Call it a knight’s act of service, shall we?” he quips.

His auburn head disappears beneath your bunched-up skirts a second later. Your face twists momentarily in confusion before you feel his tongue slotting in the silk folds of your cunt. He licks a fat stripe up the length of it, until his tongue finds something that makes your hips twitch despite yourself. His mouth closes around the sensitive button, suckling at it with a grumbled moan in the back of his throat.

Your head tips back at the feeling. Your lips part as if to moan, but the electric shock in the pit of your stomach knocks all the available air from your lungs. You feel him laughing against you when your thighs clench suddenly around his head, tighter than you realize.

Gwayne pulls off of you with a quick smacking sound. He wears your slick down to his chin as he flashes you a teasing, glassy-eyed look. “I’d quite like to keep my head, dear wife—”

You say nothing in response to his quip. You just dart a head to the crown of his skull and shove his face back between your thighs.

 Gwayne complies without complaint, lapping at the honey you leak for him, until the wet sounds of his mouth fill the quiet chambers. You rock your hips against his face, bracing yourself with the auburn locks you clench in your fist.

His nose nudges the swollen bud that makes you keen, right before he takes it in his mouth again. Your skin buzzes at the foreign feeling.

“Gwayne—” you gasp. A tight feeling settles deep in your stomach, like a fraying knot about to snap. Your back arches off the mattress. Your hand tightens in his hair. Your features screw in a pain look, half-scared at the pleasure welling within you. “I can’t—”

“Mm…” he just keeps moaning against you, letting the vibrations deepen your pleasure. His wide hands smooth up and down your outer thighs when they tremble on either side of his head, clenching around him as your orgasm hits you with a pleasured whine. He laps up every ounce of honey you leak for him, and sighs hard through his nose at the salty-sweet taste of you.

Only when your legs grow finally lax around his jaw does he pull back from your thighs. A smile curls lazily at his rosier, more swollen mouth. The bottom half of his face glitters in the candlelight with a mixture of saliva and cum — you lift your head in time to watch him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

“If this truly is my final night alive…” you say through panted breaths, eyes still wide from the shock of your simmering pleasure. “I feel I could finally die a happy woman.”

“I’m glad I could be of service, princess…” Gwayne smiles lazily, grimacing slightly at the ache in his knees as he rises from the unforgiving cobbles. He leans down to lay his warmth back over you. You stop him with a firm hand on his chest.

“I want to be on top this time,” you confess in a breathless whisper, eyes darting back and forth between his.

Gwayne’s brows raise slowly in shock at your sudden display of dominance. The corner of his lip twitches into a smile the same way his cock twitches in his boxers. He nods until the words catch up to him. “As you wish…”

iii. CROWNS & CAGES

You did not weep when they came for you, scarcely a fortnight after your lord husband’s leaving.

Gwayne was gone by first light, perhaps already a league or more away before you stirred awake that morning to the chill of an empty bed. He parted with nothing but a folded scrap of parchment resting where his head had been the night before. In his scrawled handwriting, half-smudged from where his wrist had dragged the ink in haste, he wrote: “Write to me. Don’t die. I’ll build the form for you myself.”

You keep the note tucked safely inside the chest of your corset now, folded so many times that the edges have already begun to soften. You keep it close to your heart like a holy relic, or perhaps, a threat to whatever unlucky son of a bitch kills you first — something to discover on your corpse after they slit your throat, so they’ll know who to answer to upon your husband’s return.

Eventually, the servants ceased asking whether you needed anything, and all your meals came cold. Conversations ceased the moment you entered a room, and doors slammed shut before you could reach them. And then, when word spread that a wild dragon had taken wing not far from here, all eyes of suspicion turned to you — to whom a dragon had never belonged, though the blood in your veins wearied the courtiers all the same. Rhaenyra had already added three new riders to her fleet; she certainly did not need another.

You were no longer a bride, but a prisoner in pretty gowns — it was the Queen Dowager, and your sister by law, who confirmed as much to you.

“I had hoped…” Alicent started slowly, bathed half in sunshine and half in shadow from where she stood before the window in your quarters, watching the distant storm clouds blow in over Blackwater. “That I might never have to ask this of you.”

Her auburn curls swept over her pale shoulder when she turned to face you. Something heavy sat in her round green eyes, as if she wanted you to finish the rest of it for her. But you remained as stoic and silent as ever from where you sat at the small dining table just across from her. Your hands wrung into knots over your skirts, hidden beneath the surface, as you waited for the words of your fate to fall from her lips.

“The council believes that— Should the opportunity present itself, you would attempt to reach the wild beast. The Cannibal, I believe it’s called,” Alicent said. “And through him, Rhaenyra.”

“So…” You sighed, making no attempt to argue the subject. It did not matter whether or not it was true; the possibility was enough to make you a criminal. “The Black Cells, then?”

“No,” Alicent shook her head, half-offended by the suggestion. “Of course not. My cousin, Lord Ormund, he commands the Hightower host. He has agreed to keep you under his… protection for the time being.”

“Protection?” you echoed through a scoff. The word tasted foreign and bitter in your mouth. “What a pleasant name for captivity.”

Alicent’s face flickered with a mother’s sort of sympathy. Her hands wrang together beneath the draping sleeves of her emerald dress.“You will be treated with every courtesy your station deserves, I assure you.”

“If your council means to bargain with me, Your Grace…” you started with a sad smile. “They mistake me for something worth bartering for. Rhaenyra already abandoned e— keeping me hostage will not make her respond to your offered terms.”

“Even still… You would be far safer there than you would be here, whether or not you believe that’s true,” Alicent said. “I know what my brother would wish of me. And Gwayne would never forgive me if I didn’t do everything I could to keep you safe.”

The long journey south smells of wet earth and horse dung. By the time you reach the Hightower encampment — which sprawls across the rolling fields like a second city — your fine silk gown has long surrendered to the dust of the road, and your hands now bear the tenderness of a week spent in the saddle. 

Your broad-shouldered escort guides you through the avenue of canvas tents billowing wildly beneath snapping green banners. The air smells of woodsmoke, cooked venison, and salty sweat — the soft breeze carries with it the sound of laughter, barking hounds, clanking chainmail, and shouted commands.

A pair of guards draw back the heavy canvas of the biggest pavilion in the camp. “My lord,” one says to announce your arrival inside, right before the entrance flap closes heavily behind you.

Inside, candles burn despite the lingering daylight, filling the enclosed tent with the smell of beeswax and parchment from the large map covering the long oak table. Pieces carved from ivory and oak mark castles and armies across the whole of Westeros, waiting to be won or maybe burned. 

A strange man stands over them with his broad hands planted along the edge, visibly built beneath his ornately decorated armor, and standing several inches taller than the rest of the knights in the room.

Lord Ormund was not pretty like Gwayne, but he was his own kind of handsome, made of sharp edges and strong features. His Hightower-auburn curls are less vivid in color and sheared short. He has his family’s pair of striking blue eyes, too, which feel a little like they’re piercing you when he glances up from his map. 

“Leave us,” he commands his guards in a low, melodic voice, keeping his eyes on you as his knights filter out of the tent. Their armor clatters faintly as they go. The man doesn’t say another word until they’re gone. 

“So…” he hums, one corner of his mouth lifting upwards. “The infamous dragon bride.”

Your brows bounce at the title. It feels like another chain around your neck. “I suppose I’ve been called worse…” you sigh, studying him with the same curiosity. “You must be Lord Ormund.”

“I must,” the man nods as he rounds the war table at an unhurried pace. 

His boots sink into the woven rungs laid across the hard earth with each step. He towers several inches over your head when he plants himself in front of you. He smells of steel and sweat and strongly of incense.

“I expected someone… older.”

His brows raise in amusement. “And here I expected someone taller.”

“Well,” you deadpan, eyes narrowing up at him as your hands clasp behind your back. “I’m sorry for disappointing you, Ser.”

“Oh, I’ve endured far worse disappointments, my lady, I assure you.” A ghost of a smile graces his pink lips as his eyes soften slightly around the edges. “I give you my word. While you remain beneath my banners, no harm will come to you.”

You sigh hard through your nose. “Yes… People keep promising me that.”

“I’m sure they have… But I intend to honor it.” The certainty of the man’s words unsettles you. It’s strange, you find, to be looked at like you were something worth protecting. “And if you require anything— anything at all. You need only ask.”

You nod slowly with a deep exhale, considering the offer. “A quill,” you conclude firmly.

Ormund blinks. “A… A quill?”

“Yes,” you say. “And parchment.”

“For… What purpose?” he laughs.

You glance over your shoulder towards the tent’s fluttering entrance, where the last light of the early evening burns gold against a sea of green banners. You wonder, briefly, how many soldiers outside this pavilion would celebrate if they found you dead on the morrow — how many would mourn, how many would care enough to do anything at all. 

You think, perhaps, that in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, there is only one person who would weep for you. And he was a hundred leagues away.

“So that I may write to my lord husband,” you answer finally. “And tell him that I was right… And that he still owes me a farm.”

Lord Ormund allows you to write to Gwayne that night, and every seventh day after. It was the only thing you could look forward to, since there was little else to do at camp. He had been gracious enough to give you your own pavilion at the edge of the command encampment, close enough for the sentries to watch but far enough away to force you into solitude. 

It was clean and moderately comfortable — with a narrow cot draped in a single wool blanket, a traveling chest for the few dresses you were allowed to bring, a wash basin, and a small writing table tucked beneath the only slit in the canvas that permitted daylight. Inside smelled of candle wax, pressed linen, and lavender soap.

Outside smelled of war — of pressed metal from the blacksmiths, of men cursing over burnt porridge, of stableboys tending to horses who fouled the earth faster than they could shovel it. It was cruel, how the world went on while you could go scarcely a step without an escort. Eventually, you became accustomed to feeling a hundred eyes upon your back — most curious, others suspicious, some outright hateful.

The letters you wrote to Gwayne, at least, gave you the illusion of escape. You tended to each with careful precision — melting the wax, stamping it shut, then tying it off with a ribbon — and watched from afar as one of Ormund’s knights carried them toward the rookery. It was not until the twentieth day at camp, when you wandered further than you were typically allowed, that you noticed that none of your messages had been sent. You watched the knight toss the letter into the fire, flinching slightly when the flames sparked beneath the fresh kindling.

It had been four days since then. 

And you haven’t eaten once in protest.

It took roughly half that time for Lord Ormund’s patience to run thin. He’s suffered the endless whispers of your attempts to starve to death with an increasing displeasure. He commands thousands of knights beneath his banners, serves as the leader of his house with grace, and yet — he still cannot seem to manage to command one lady to supper. It was absurd. Humiliating. And worse, it invited doubt. What army will follow a man whom they believe incapable of governing his own household?

On the fifth evening, after your breakfast tray went untouched that morning, Ormund opts to bring you your supper himself. He marches through the crowded camp with his jaw clenched tight like a soldier headed into battle. His chainmail clanks with every step. Avoiding the stares he gets from surrounding knights feels borderline impossible.

He throws open the entrance of your tent without ceremony. The canvas snaps sharply beneath his aggressive hand as he ducks suddenly underneath it.  The light of the golden evening pours suddenly inside around his towering silhouette before the flap falls shut behind him once more, trapping the two of you inside.

There, he finds you lying on your cot, staring upward at the slit in the pavilion where one lonely shaft of sunlight spills through. Your fingers drift lazily through the rays, as if you were trying to catch it somehow. 

Your head snaps suddenly to the side at the sudden intrusion — your hair is loose and unkempt, because no one ever taught you how to do it yourself, and all of your dresses are now wrinkled and stained with dirt. The thin white nightgown you wear makes you look more sunken, more lifeless. 

Ormund grasps your tray with one hand and reaches for your small writing desk with the other. He lectures you through the distant pang of sympathy in his chest.

“I have commanded men twice your size—” His boots are heavy on the thin rug as he carries the desk over to you. “I have started sieges, I have broken sieges. And yet—” He slams the table in front of you with a dull thump. You try not to cower under the icy blue glare he gives you. “I cannot seem to persuade one prisoner— a lady, no less— to eat her supper. And I confess, it does very little for confidence in my command. So eat.”

Ormund slams the tray onto the desk. The broth steaming in a small wooden bowl sloshes over. Next to it, strips of leftover venison and a broken loaf of stale bread. Your empty stomach twists painfully with a mixture of nausea and hunger.

“So…” you start lowly, clearing your throat when your voice comes gravelly. You rise from your supine position on weak limbs. The fabric of your nightgown rides up your thighs as you turn to place your bare feet on the ground — eyes dull when you peer up at the man from beneath your lashes. “You admit it, then? That I am your prisoner here?”

His jaw clenches tight. His nostrils flare through a sharp breath. He no longer finds amusement in your banter. “Your status here depends entirely on your pliancy,” he spits, ripping off a piece of the stale loaf. “Now eat.”

You flinch when his fist rears suddenly towards your face, holding the broken bread just in front of your mouth. You blink wildly up at him, features screwed in offense. “…Excuse me?”

“Eat.”

You swat his hand away; it moves scarcely an inch. “I’m not a child—”

“Well, at present, you are behaving remarkably like one,” Ormund argues through a tight jaw. “Now open your mouth.”

You respond with only a glare.

Fury rages through the man’s chest. He wishes wordlessly for the strength of the Mother and the Warrior engraved upon his armor as he offers bitterly, “Or shall I make you?”

You spend a long moment staring up at him with eyes cold enough to freeze wine. You hold his gaze as your mouth parts slowly to accept the chunk of bread he pinches between his thumb and forefinger. He places it upon your tongue with a surprising gentleness, considering the wrath he’d had moments ago.

“Chew,” he commands, glaring down the bridge of his nose at you. Your jaw moves slowly. Ormund nods in approval. “Swallow.” 

Your heart lurches into your throat at his order. But you do as you’re told, throat bobbing as the piece of bread goes down. Another piece follows soon after; this time, your lips part before he asks you to do so. Relief crosses over his strong features as he places the food onto your tongue. His shoulders sag with the exhaled breath that it feels like he’s been holding for days.

He looks almost worried for you; relieved, almost, to have fed you. A warm, foreign feeling settles in your chest accordingly.

“I am trying… Very hard to be kind to you,” Ormund confesses, scarred hands twitching at his sides.  “So I cannot, for the life of me, understand why you insist on making this so difficult.”

“My letters,” you tell him. “Why aren’t they being sent?”

“The rookery master feared they could be intercepted,” he answers plainly. “I could not risk one falling into enemy hands. I… meant to tell you.”

“When?” you spit.

“When I found a safer way to deliver them.”

A bitter laugh sputters from your mouth. “What curious men you Hightowers are,” you quip with narrowed eyes. “So fond of deciding what sorrows I ought to be spared.”

His brows lower in confusion. “Is that not a kindness?” 

His answer lingers between you for several long moments. There was no cleverness in his words, only an honesty that strikes you like a fist to the stomach.

“Aye. I suppose it is,” you answer, clearing your throat when your voice catches. 

A strange emotion strangles you, and burns at the back of your eyes as you look down at your dress. Your dull nails pick at a smudge of mud on the fabric that will likely never come off. An embarrassed sort of laugh tumbles from your mouth. 

“Perhaps I… I spent so long waiting for someone to hurt me that I no longer remember what kindness is supposed to feel like.”

Ormund nods through a slow exhale from his nose. He glances to the side and walks the short distance to the stool that the table had knocked over in his rage. Your wet eyes follow his form as he walks away and then back to you, setting the chair on the other side of the table. You can feel the warmth radiating from his body, even in the scarce distance between you.

“I’ll admit— A man spends enough time at war, they start to forget that mornings are not meant to begin with fear,” he says, reaching again for the loaf of bread, but this time breaking it in half. “I forget myself, at times, but… if you’ll allow me… I’d very much like to prove to you that I can be kind.”

Your weary features soften around the edges. “Well, I don’t have much of a choice in the matter, do I?” you tell him, with a more sincere smile hinting at the corners of your lips. “I am your prisoner, after all.”

“So you keep insisting,” Ormund quips with his own quiet grin. “But I should rather you thought of yourself as my… responsibility.”

Your heart stumbles a beat. Responsibility felt much safer than hostage, or bargaining piece, or burden. It felt, you’ll admit, like a kindness.

iv. SILK & SWORDS

You fall into a steady routine at the Hightower encampment by the fifth moon of your captivity.

Each morning arrives with the same mournful groan of a warhorn that rolls across the grass green hills before the sun has even broken the horizon. You wake to the distant ringing of hammers against anvils, hounds barking for gristles off the cookfires, and knights shouting for their squires. The first hours were reserved for armorers; the afternoons for drilling knights whose swords cracked together until you could feel them ringing in your skull; and the evenings for songs, laughter, and ale.

Your days, however, remained painfully empty.

Lord Ormund had been kind enough to provide you with greater comforts as the weeks went by — cushioned pillows and heavier woolen blankets for when the nights got colder; sprigs of lavender for your bedside to keep out the stench of man; more parchment and colored ink to busy your hands when the days were especially long. And all of them were especially long. He’d given you his leather-bound prayer book, too, and even though you were not an entirely pious woman, you’d read through it enough times to recite each passage from memory.

The camp has since grown accustomed to your being there, ever since Ormund slackened his metaphorical leash on you — “You’ve had more than ample opportunity to run,” he’d said beneath the scratching of his quill. “Besides, where exactly would you go? No one else would take you.” No one bats an eye when you leave your tent, after three days of relentless rain had finally broken, to pick fresh berries from the brushes along the treeline.

Your crimson silk dress scrubs the dewy evening grass as you collect wild raspberries into a small wooden bowl. The juices stain your fingertips the color of red wine. The sweet scent mixes with the smell of wet earth and mint leaves crushed beneath your slippers. You bend at the waist to parse through tangled brambles, searching for the ripest berries. For the first time in months — years, maybe — you feel almost peaceful.

“Is that a love letter—?”

The voice cuts through the quiet like a blade. Your heart lurches into your throat as you jerk to full height again. The small bowl of berries slips from your grasp and rolls through the wet clover like so many drops of scattered blood. Behind you, you find a vaguely familiar hedgeknight, scarcely ten paces away — made of broad shoulders, broken teeth, and greasy hair that falls to his shoulders.

It takes you an embarrassingly long moment to catch your breath.

“I’m sorry,” you say through a tightening chest. “You… You startled me.”

“Did I?” he hums gruffly, in a voice that borders on amusement.

You cower into the hedgerow behind you as he approaches you, reaching you quickly on much longer limbs. He looms close enough for you to smell the sweat and ale and horse piss on his chainmail, close enough for you to lift your chin to meet his gaze.

His eyes never quite reach yours. They linger, instead, on your chest. “Letter from your lord husband, is it?” he asks, motioning with his head.

Your chin ducks to follow his eyes, where the rough edges of parchment nestled against your chest peek out from your corset. Your hands lift to cover it instinctively. “Yes. It’s a… a letter. From home.”

“Mind if I take a look at it?” he asks, taking another daring step closer. You wince at the sour smell of him. “What does Ser Gwayne write his pretty wife, hm?”

“Please, don’t—”

His hand shoots out. Thick, filthy fingers hook beneath the neckline of your gown, hard enough to stretch the fine silk with an audible crack. You react on pure instinct accordingly, lifting your own hand to strike him before your mind could forbid it.

The sound of your palm colliding with his bearded jaw cracks through the hedgerow like a whip.

His head turns slightly under the blow.

Your breath catches in surprise at yourself.

The back of his hand catches you across the cheek before you can blink. A red-hot pain explodes from your ear to your jaw as your world lurches suddenly sideways. You hit the unforgiving earth below with a huff when the air rushes from your lungs. Coppery blood pools thick on your tongue from where your teeth had cut the inside of your cheek.

“You little cunt—” you hear the man say, right before he catches a fistful of your skirts to pull you back towards him. The fabric screams beneath his hand. The cool evening air strikes your legs all at once when the silk rips up to your thighs.

You kick wildly at the man. Your slipper strikes uselessly against his shoulder. Your fingernails claw muddy furrows through the soaked earth.

“I am— Gwayne Hightower’s wife—” You tell him through panted, fearful breaths. He flips you onto your back by your ankle. Your foot burns beneath his grip. Your head strikes the soaked earth. Through the lack of air in your lungs, you heave, “He will have your head for this—”

“Oh, will he?” the hedge knight laughs with a brown-tooth grin. “‘Cause he ain’t here—”

The hand not holding your squirming ankle reaches for the tie in his trousers.

Then, in a blink, steel sings with a clean rasping sound. Warm blood splashes from your right jaw up to your left temple. For a flicker of a moment, you can’t quite comprehend why — not until the hedge knight kneels suddenly before you, with open eyes that have gone strangely distant. He topples suddenly sideways with his neck bent at an awkward angle, head half cut off and spouting bright red blood.

You blink wildly through the haze of death until you find Ormund standing just behind the corpse, chest rising and falling beneath his heavy armor. His longsword drips crimson onto the grass where your raspberries lie.

Sweat from the long day clings to his dark curls, wetting them against his temples and forehead. Flecks of blood dot his jaw like crimson stars. His blue eyes burn with something fierce, but his voice remains remarkably soft.

“My lady…”

You open your mouth to answer him, but nothing comes out.

Only then do you notice how violently your body is shaking, buzzing with a white-hot fear, as you scan the scene surrounding you — your torn skirts, the blood staining your chest, the dead body at your feet. You stare at the hedge knight’s gushing throat without fully understanding the sight of it.

Ormund reaches you in three long strides. He sheaths his sword without a word before dropping carefully to one knee. He slides one arm under your leg and his other behind your back, hoisting you upward with a pair of strong arms. The scent of blood and earth gives way to the smell of leather, incense, and bathing oils as he cradles you to the broad wall of his chest.

Your trembling hands clench a fistful of the green velvet cape draped along his shoulder.

“You’re safe, my lady,” Ormund murmurs as he carries you back to camp. “You’re safe.”

Your face finds the hollow space between his jaw and collarbone. You’re not entirely sure if you believe the words he speaks, but you know now that you do believe in the man who speaks them.

v. SANCTUARY & SIN

The weeks that followed could be divided into two — the days before the attack and all the days after.

For a time, you startled far too easily. A dropped shield sent you into a panic. A knight laughing too loudly made your pulse skyrocket. And if a pair of bootsteps walked too closely behind you, you lost all your breath before your mind had time to remind your body that no one meant you any harm. 

Nights proved harder still. You dreamt of nothing but rough hands and torn silk and crushed berries that smelled so sweet the thought alone made you sick. One moment you were suffocating beneath the sweaty body of a hedge knight, and the next, your canvas door was thrown open while you were choking on a scream.

Ormund stood silhouetted before you, barefoot, with a sword in his naked hand. He’d reached you with haste, after having your pavilion packed up and pitched again not quite twenty paces from his following the attack — “It’ll be easier that way,” he assured you. “If another fool decides to trouble you, I’d rather not have to cross half of Westeros to remove his head.” 

His curls were flattened from slumber, his linen shirt unlaced to reveal his broad chest heaving with panic. His sleep-swollen eyes swept every corner of the empty pavilion before they settled finally on you. His steel lowered as he crossed the tent to settle beside you, smoothing a hand up and down your back despite the way your nightgown clung uncomfortably to your sweaty skin.

“We’ll move your bed into my tent,” he’d said. “You’ll sleep there for the time being.” 

It was concern disguised as a command. One you could not refuse if you wanted to.

Ormund’s tent was large enough to pass for a modest hall — maps and banners occupied one half, while the other had become something half-resembling living quarters. Your smaller cot was placed opposite his beneath the same sloping canvas roof, separated by little more than a table crowded with candles and books. You would wake occasionally to find Ormund already seated beside the brazier in nothing but a linen shirt, reading dispatches by firelight while occasionally glancing over to see whether you were sleeping soundly.

You pretended that you were, if only to keep on watching him.

But then the late summer storms arrived; and the unforgiving deluge washed over the camp with enough violence to shake the pavilion you slept beneath. Thunder cracked like an explosion closely overhead, and you woke with another frightened gasp before remembering where you were.

Ormund was already awake, as if stirred in knowing that you were scared.

“If you’re frightened…” he murmured from across the darkness. A flash of lightning revealed his blanketed body, and his face half-smushed into his pillow. “I imagine my bed could accommodate two people without either touching the other."

You crossed the space between your cots and climbed beneath his blankets without another word.  

You haven’t left his bed since.

The days soon settle into something almost resembling normalcy. Ormund, you find, possesses an absurd fondness for taking care of you — always making sure that you’ve eaten breakfast before he’s started his mornings; delivering his wool blankets to you before you can complain that you’re cold, warming your hands between his calloused palms when he does so; and escorting you through camp with a protective hand splayed along the small of your back.

No one ever cared for you with such deliberate attention before — even Gwayne, as gentle as he was, could only love you from a respectful distance before the war had sent him off. Your husband washed away into memory, into the note left abandoned somewhere on the forest floor. 

You did not know whether he still rode beneath banners or if his corpse had been picked clean by crows. You did know, at the very least, that Ormund was here — he was there in the mornings when you woke and each night when old fears crept back into your skin. It was a dangerous thing, you soon realized, to mistake safety for love. Or more dangerous still, to suspect that the two were any different at all.

You watch from Ormund’s bed — freshly bathed beneath your thin ivory slip, with your legs kicking lazily from where you lie on your stomach — as his squire removes pieces of his armor. A sketchbook lies open before you, alongside a collection of colored inks.

“This is what you get for tightening the straps so much,” Ormund hums as Daeron struggles with the final buckle across the man’s broad shoulders. 

“Well, you’d like them to remain attached, wouldn’t you?” the boy quips back.

The man smiles despite himself. “You complain more than any squire I've ever met, do you know that?”

“I learned everything from you, did I not?”

When the final piece of armor comes finally free, Ormund dismisses the boy back to his tent. The entrance cover opens and shuts behind the boy, letting in a rush of cool evening air before it closes again. Silence returns to the expansive pavilion, filled only by the crackling of burning candles.

Ormund, left only in his loose dark breeches and a linen undertunic, walks to the round table to pour himself a goblet of wine. “What is occupying you so completely over there?”

“I’m hard at work,” you answer vaguely.

“So I see.” He eyes you carefully over the glugging of the flagon. A faint, unreadable flicker crosses his face. “Writing to Gwayne, are you?”

“No,” you sigh. “I’m drawing you.”

You set the quill into the inkpot and lift the sketchbook to face the man with a girlish grin, which seems to be becoming more and more frequent as the days go by. Ormund’s light eyes squint to study the page. It was unmistakably him drawn in the ink, though perhaps only if one was exceedingly charitable. The proportions are all wrong: his nose is too large, his mouth is too small, one eye sits higher than the other, and he’s missing his left brow.

His eyes flick to meet yours again. “…Is that intended to be me?” he asks, motioning with the goblet in his fist.

“Of course,” you shrug like it’s obvious.

“Well,” he sighs, raising the cup to his mouth. “I had no idea that I resembled that of a rotting turnip.”

You gasp in faux-offense that’s soon overcome by a fit of laughter. “It is not that bad!”

“My lady…” Ormund huffs sympathetically, abandoning his ale to saunter slowly towards the bed. “This could be considered treason— I should confiscate this immediately."

“You shall do no such thing,” you tease.

“Oh really?” he croons, brows raised in amusement.

He lunges for you in an instant. You jerk back onto your haunches with a squeal, cradling the sketchbook to your chest. You dodge each of his attempts to take it with a girlish gracelessness, laughing harder with each of his failed attempts. Ormund smiles at the sound without realizing it, dropping the table of ink to the rug below before clambering onto the bed to follow you. 

One final tug sends the book flying across the bed, and the two of you go to reach for it at the same time. The momentum carries you forward until you land clumsily against his chest, knocking the breath out of him as his back hits the mattress, with you squarely on top of him.

It takes you a long moment to realize your precarious position — your chest brushing his beneath your thin slip, noses nearly touching, breaths nearly entwining. Your laughter fades first, but you still do not move. Ormund’s smile flickers, but his hands lift to rest lightly along the arms you use to prop up your weight on top of him.

You can feel each of his warm breaths fan against your chin. You could get drunk on the ale stained on his mouth from the proximity between you alone. Closer by an inch or two and you would taste it on his lips.

“We ought not,” Ormund murmurs lowly, as if he can read your mind.

“Ought what?”

“This,” he answers. His blue eyes flick briefly in the space separating your mouths. “You are another man’s wife. My cousin’s wife.”

You swallow hard at the mention of Gwayne. It had been far easier to forget him, in truth. “I have not seen my husband in nearly a year,” you reply in a small voice. “I do not even know whether he yet lives…”

Pain etches in Ormund's strong features before disappearing behind his usual practiced restraint. His hands tremble with the urge to smooth away the frown between your brows, but he does not allow himself the satisfaction. 

“I swore on oath to protect you,” he says. “To serve you in my cousin’s absence.”

You, without possessing a similar self-control, lift a hand to brush a wild curl from his temple. “And do you intend to keep that promise, Lord Ormund?”

He nods against the mattress. “Of course I do.”

“Okay then…” you hum as a smile tugs slowly at one corner of your mouth. “Then serve me.”

You duck down to close the distance between you without a second thought. The tip of your nose grazes the strong bridge of his as you press your lips to his chapped ones, nothing more than an experimental brushing of your mouths. You go to pull away just as quickly as you came, and whatever restraint Ormund had had before vanishes in an instant.

He lifts his head from the tousled blankets to chase your mouth, cradling your neck with a wide hide to draw you back into him again. The second kiss lands with none of the careful uncertainty of the first. This one is slower, deeper, and far more languid. His tongue licks into your mouth, tasting of wine and the mint leaves he always chews after supper. You sigh through your nose to savor it, melting further into his chest.

Your mouths move together with an awkward sort of tenderness, learning one another by the second. Ormund kisses you far rougher than Gwayne ever did — it’s all tongue and teeth and spit, as if he were committing the taste of you to memory: the meat from your supper, the berry from your tea; the guilt from your broken vows, the relief of being found after believing yourself long abandoned.

Your breath catches in your throat when Ormund suddenly takes charge, urging you onto your back with his mouth still on yours. He pulls off you with a quiet smack, wearing your spit on his rosy mouth like gloss. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks with heavy eyes that dart back and forth between your glassy ones.

You shake your head against the cushions beneath you, features twisting with a pained look at the thought of stopping now.

“Do you understand what will follow? What… vows both of us will be breaking?”

Your eyes glisten as they dance between his blue ones. “The war broke those vows,” you tell him, half-breathless. “Not us.”

Ormund nods wordlessly for a moment, pleased with your answer. “Then open,” he says.

Your mouth parts for him on instinct. He lifts his middle and pointer finger to your lips, wetting them on your tongue, before sliding them in between your bodies. His hand disappears beneath the skirt of your slip. Your head tips back when you feel his fingertips sliding between your velvety folds, brushing your clit before sinking into your waiting cunt.

Your sigh fills the quiet tent, accompanied by the low groan in the back of Ormund’s throat.

“You’re softer than I imagined…” he confesses, almost to himself.

“Imagining me a lot, are you?” you tease on bated breath.

“Yes,” he answers without missing a beat. “I dreamt of how your cunt would wrap around me… of how you’d soak the sheets… of what noise you’d make when I moved my fingers like this—”

A whine catches in your throat when he crooks his fingers just so, nestling the fatty part of his palm flat against your clit. Your hips buck into his hand despite yourself. Your exhaled whine is half-drowned beneath his breathy chuckle.

“There it is…” he praises.

“Fuck me,” you plead, face crumpling under the weight of your need. One hand twists in his hair, while your other fists in his thin white tunic to keep him close. You only vaguely realize how little you sound like yourself as you plead: “I need it so bad, Ormund, please, fuck me—”

The man goes dizzy at the sound of your begging, as if he brought you into his camp, his tent, his bed, to do anything other than serve you. 

His fingers glitter with your slick when he drags them out of your cunt. He brings them to his nose, nostrils flaring slightly as he inhales the scent of your musk upon them. You whine at the sight of it — half-disgusted, half-intrigued. You watch with heavy eyes when he brings the same hand into his trousers to fist his half-hard cock fully stiff for you.

It’s a mess of tangled limbs for a moment, as you drag his shirt gracefully from his torso while he attempts to free himself from his breeches. He’s made of tanned skin, toned muscles, and a dusting of auburn hair from his sternum to his stomach. It grows more dense at the root of his cock — which is not quite as long as Gwayne’s, but thicker still and adorned with more prominent veins. 

Ormund works himself hard with his fist; the reddened head of his cock leaks pearly drops every time his hand moves upwards. Your mouth waters for a taste. You let him smear it along the folds of your cunt instead.

You curl your arms under his broad arms to splay your hands along his shoulder blades. They flex slightly under your touch as he leans down over you. You tense on instinct when he pierces you with the tip of his cock. “Shh, shh, shh,” he soothes lowly, fighting back his own grunt as you spread so perfectly around him.

He sinks slowly into you, slow enough for you to feel every vein and ridge of his cock as he mounts you until his hips are flush with yours. Your mouth parts. He ducks down to kiss you before a moan tumbles out, swallowing the pretty sound with his mouth. 

He stays still against you for several long, agonizing moments. Your hips buck against his in anticipation. “Please move,” you whine, digging crescent shapes into his shoulders with your nails. “I need you so much, please—”

Ormund’s jaw clenches tight. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve been inside another woman?”

Your face screws. “I’d rather not hear about your previous exploits at the moment—”

“Don’t,” Ormund spits, shuddering on top of you when you roll your hips into his once more. He grasps your thigh hard enough to dig bruises into the plush skin with the hand not holding himself up beside your head. His light eyes turn glacial in an instant, darting wildly between both of yours. “I won’t… I won’t last…” he confesses.

Your eyes soften around the edges with a faux innocence. “This isn’t going to be the last time you fuck me, is it?”

The crude word falls so effortlessly from your pristine mouth that it makes his cock jerk within your drooling confines. “I don’t want it to be. No,” he answers, half-shy.

“Then I don’t care how long you last,” you assure him with a lazy grin. “You have kept me hostage for nearly a year— Surely, I’m entitled to make some use of my captor while the realm delays the war, am I not?”

Ormund’s resolve crumbles under your permission. He rolls his hips forward and back again, never quite pulling all the way out of you. He groans quietly when you clench around the sensitive head of his cock; and you swallow down a whimper when the coarse hair below his stomach rubs mercilessly along your sensitive clit. 

Your head tips back. He falls to the hollow space between your neck and shoulder.

Ormund’s open-mouthed breaths fan warm along your burning skin as he stumbles into a graceless rhythm, thrusting hard enough to make the wooden frame of his bed squeak quietly beneath you. 

The pressure on your clit is relentless. You squirm underneath his sweat-slick body, chasing and running from the pleasure all at once. “I know. I know. It’s okay,” you hear him slur against your skin. “Just take it. Just fuckin’ take it— Fuck—” His voice breaks like splintered glass. 

He tenses suddenly above you, taut muscles trembling. You hear his breath catch for a moment, right before a foreign warmth pools in the very pit of your stomach. He groans in time with his release, heavying his weight further against you. 

You aren’t far behind.

He grinds his hips lazily to ride out his high, smothering your sensitive clit as the warm, wet, sticky feeling continues to bloom inside of you. “Ormund—” you gasp, tensing beneath him.

“There it is…”the man praises as you tremble underneath him, smearing his lips against your jaw until they reach your parted mouth. “There it is— Fuck, that’s it,look at me.”

Your eyes snap open at his command, bleary and heavy-lidded. You ride out the rest of your orgasm with your gaze locked with his glassy one. 

The honeyed moment doesn’t last nearly as long as either of you would’ve liked.

“My lord?”

The two of you sober in a flash as the spell between you shatters. Ormund stills suddenly above you, as if pierced by steel. The warmth flees from his features at once, replaced by the hard composure of the commander of House Hightower. You, too, freeze where you lay beneath him — pulse thrumming hard in your throat as the muffled voice drifts once more through the pavilion.

“My lord—”

“Yes, Daeron,” Ormund spits through gritted teeth, nostrils flaring as he breathes through the rage searing in his chest. “What is it?”

The squire hesitates at his uncle’s harsh tone. “Forgive me for the intrusion, my lord…” the boy says carefully, hidden behind the covered entrance. “But a messenger arrived from the river road. He bears urgent word from Ser Criston’s camp.”

You feel your stomach sink — or, perhaps, it’s only the mixture of cum seeping out of your still fluttering confines, soaking the sheets beneath you. You feel unspeakably dirty now, and the lack of regret only deepens the feeling.

Ormund remains motionless above you for a moment before sitting back on his haunches. You shiver at the absence of his warmth, and wince slightly when his softening cock slips out of you. “A letter?” he calls to the entrance, brows lowered. “What news?”

“It is sealed, my lord,” Daeron says. “The messenger said it was to be opened by our hand alone.”

Ormund’s confusion deepens. “And who sends it?”

After another brief hesitation, the voice answers solemnly: “Ser Gwayne, my lord.”

[spookyserenades]

Ok one other unholy thought for tipsy asks:

Most to least freaky?

(Is somebody gonna match my freak indeed)

-🐨👯‍♀️

This I can confidently answer bestie! Also that song has been in my head for days. Love Tinashe so fucking much

1. Hoseok. 10000000%

2. Namjoon and Jeongguk tied

3. Seokjin and Yoongi tied

4. Taehyung

5. Jimin

[spookyserenades]

I’m the naughty bitch who asks all the NSFW asks and apparently gets you tipsy on a Tuesday 😈

But I only love the smut because your plots are the best!

One more slightly spicy one-

MTL to start a fight just to get the makeup sex

Ooop!!! Thank you my dear hehe I love youuu!

Trouvaille MTL

Jeongguk

Yoongi

Hoseok

Namjoon

Taehyung

Jimin

Seokjin

Sanctity MTL

Jimin

Namjoon

Seokjin

Hoseok

Jeongguk

Taehyung

Yoongi

[spookyserenades]

mtl to say dirty unhinged stuff in public 🙃

Hehehehehe! I'll do this for Trouvaille

1. Yoongi (perv and instigator)

2. Namjoon (weirdly into public sex and risks)

3. Hoseok (fuckin freak. Been said)

4. Jeongguk (humiliation thing)

5. Taehyung (private in general)

6. Seokjin (would kill ANYONE who heard them being lewd together)

7. Jimin (his dirty talk is more encouraging and sweet, also very private)

[222col]

⋮ — CRUSH .ᐟ

[ STARLING!DODGE ] && fawn!reader

♱ — BASED ON 'THE STARLING GIRL' (2023). dodge is the pastor's son, and the object of envy for every girl who grew up in the church. but you seem to have captured his attention more than any.

♱ — cw .ᐟ 3k words. smut. 18+. angst. toxic relationship. religious themes. age gap (reader is 18, dodge is 24). vomit. hint/brief mention at dub-con (?). virgin!reader. creampie.

♱ — notes .ᐟ sorry if you didn't want to be tagged on this one, just tagging anyone on challengers taglist bc i never made a dodge one </3

can you read my mind? i've been watching you...

he'd always been there, just distant.

his ghost spoke for him, fathers words preceded him. a distant memory of someone the town once knew, yet the community carried on pretending he was still there. still apart of the family, not a distant memory begging to be remembered.

no one knew he was back, thought he was still coasting along the roads of the country. you often wondered if his father's stories of his missionaries were truth, or the lies told to keep up the image.

you dared question the truth of your pastor, though. never to another hearing soul, those questions stayed buried with the lust within your mind. the few thoughts not even god could hear from your lips. thoughts so shameful you couldn't even utter in prayer.

his father stood the head of the church, only lower to the lord. preaching words of forgiveness, of judgement, of fantasy. today's lesson specific to lust. refusing to give in, not allowing satan into your psyche—to never allow your perversions to grow outside your body.

you felt as though the feelings were coming up—physically—from his words. the guilt too strong to be held in, the words too pointed to allow you calmness.

your feet let you rush through the doors in time, the perversions coming from your body as your vomit hit the ground. the illness reflecting the true sickness within your mind. the lust you were allowing yourself to dream of.

knees to your chest, back dragging down the wall of the beaten church. looking down to the physical manifestation of your unwell, eyes welling up—yet unable to draw your vision away.

"quit lookin' at it."

your head spins, eyes darting up to the man speaking over you. him. the scent from his cigarette wafting into your nose, the smoke hitting your eyes.

"didn't know you were back," you murmur, as though you weren't hyper aware this to be the first words you'd ever uttered to him without company.

"no one does," he speaks, with his final drag—throwing the butt into the pile of sick, which only now embarrasses you to be sat next to.

"don't tell my dad 'bout the smokes."

he looks like he works with his hands, and smells like marlboro reds...

andrew dodge mason.

the first crush you ever had. probably the first crush of every girl at church. the crush went away, as he did, but seemingly came back with a vengeance—in the way he did.

he was working on his father's car as you arrived, skin slightly sweaty from the bike ride over to church. cheeks stained with rosacea, bottom lip chewed—almost to the point of blood.

but there he stood, the image of unholiness to your fascination. cap on backwards, pushing away the wetness of his hair. messy shirt, and old jeans, pack of marlboros sitting in his back pocket, oiled rag in the other.

"can i help you?" he mutters, closing the hood before reaching for his pack of cigarettes. your mouth hung open slightly, before placing your bike up against the wall. hands holding behind your back, as you tentatively walked closer to him.

"guess my secret's safe with you." dodge murmurs, cigarette already placed between his lips. "my name is—"

"i know what your name is," he half laughs, shaking his head as he blows the smoke out from his mouth. "hell, i've known you since you were born."

gulping down the frog in your throat, as you attempt to regain your train of thought. "i was just gonna ask," you start, swinging softly on your heels. "if you'd be willing to lead the youth club, now you're back 'nd all."

his eyebrow raises in response, a smirk ghosting his features.

"just—your dad, he's great 'nd all—" a scoff leaves his lips. "but all he makes us do is bible study, and—and it's not that i don't like that, but—"

"alright, alright." he mutters, the cigarette resting between his lips. his hand lifts up his cap, before running his fingers through his sweat soaked hair. the cigarette moves as he speaks without removing it. "but i ain't doing those camping trips."

something's been feeling weird lately...

it was harder than he thought—ignoring the way you looked at him. not paying attention to the shorter skirts, and bite of your lip. the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, how you always held his eye.

he was older, had power over you, plus his dad would kill him. you'd been promised to his little brother, conversations had started about your courtship. dodge was to focus on his work, his missions, his commitment to god. be ready to take over his father's position when the time did come.

"that was all the wood you got for the fire?" dodge shakes his head, looking to the pitiful excuse of a pile of firewood the group of teens had collected.

pushing up the sleeves of his shirt, as he heads back into the forest. collecting branches and twigs on his pursuit.

"need to pee." you quickly mutter to the girls on your picnic table, before heading in the direction dodge had just travelled. the sun was setting, light barely peeking through the trees.

the branch beneath your foot snaps as you approach, watching the jolt of his body as your presence is announced. "scared me." he speaks, turning to face you behind him.

"sorry," you murmur softly, feet padding closer toward him.

"it's okay." dodge mumbles, his chest rising and falling, mouth parted. his eyes growing darker the closer you get to him.

the air feels heavy, his nerves feel on fire. every bone in his body is telling him to walk away. not listen to whatever it is that you need, to take off running into the forest and be able to avoid you—and his sins—for the rest of his life.

"i just wanted—"

the sound of the twigs hitting the floor seem to echo against the trees, his calloused hands feel rough against your cheeks. lips painfully soft against your own. he takes your breath, swallowing it as his own.

you're sure he could take any part of you, and you'd let him.

"fuck, i shouldn't have done that." his chest heaves, oxygen feels a foreign concept. unable to breathe if he isn't taking the air from your lungs.

"you can do it again, if you like."

i only want him if he says it first to me...

you avoided him like the plague. two whole weeks. not one word. not even a look in his direction.

only left your house for church. the guilt of your sin too heavy upon your chest. no amount of prayers could allow you to forgive yourself. down on your knees, arms rested on your bed—every morning, every night. eyes to the sky, to him. to god.

dodge felt the villain, the perverted. the man who preyed on you. kissed you in the dark. stole your lips as his own. he felt the worst knowing he'd do it again, and again, and again until you begged him to stop.

you didn't notice the note placed in your bible, only as you laid in bed later than night. the piece of paper fell down to your chest as you began to read the holy words.

'midnight. car park behind the lake.'

you trusted him, still. despite the guilt, despite the how scared you were. you trusted him.

the pillows laid cold, the soft snoring of your siblings filled the empty space you'd left behind. the window partly cracked, wind blowing through your escape route.

your feet moved themselves, walked the route when you weren't sure you could. his car the only one there as you arrived.

you couldn't stop yourself from carrying on, too late now to turn around. your hands shook as you opened the passenger door.

"i'm so glad you came." dodge spoke, like a desperate man craving comfort. his arm around the back of your head rest. surprising himself at how unlike himself he'd become.

lusting after you, yearning for the attention you'd given him. driven himself mad with want.

you couldn't speak, not at first. too scared of the words that dared fall from your lips. overcome with perversions, for the man you should never dream of indulging them with.

"you haven't spoke to me," he starts, body leaning closer to your own. "since that night in the woods."

you wince. embarrassed by yourself. how you allowed yourself to satisfy your personal needs with him. let your lips touch his, and crave more.

"i know." you whisper, eyes downcast.

"do you not like me anymore?" he murmurs back, his fingers weaving through your hair. pushing the stray strands behind your ear, coaxing your eyes back to his.

you shake your head no. but even you don't know in which way you mean it.

your eyes finally meet his. the blue of his irises pouring into your own. the fingers caressing your neck slowly move, thumb dancing across your cheek. your mouth involuntarily parting as the pad of his thumb grazes your lower lip.

"you said i could kiss you again," he whispers, face so close only his own thumb separates your lips. "do you still mean it?"

your head has barely nodded before his thumb is moved, lips on yours again. harsher this time, less patient.

"you'd let me do anything, wouldn't you?" he whispers against your lips, before his tongue pushes into your mouth. you whimper at his words, at his movements—at him.

"get in the back."

his words are strong, telling, but still kind. like he could love you, if he tried.

you do. wide eyed and skirt falling so high he could see the cotton of your panties. you're sure you've never wanted anything in your years of existing more than andrew dodge mason.

his body lays above you after climbing over the console. soft, wet kisses placed over every exposed part of your skin. fingers hooking around the sides of your underwear, awaiting your nod before discarding them to the floor.

"you are so beautiful." he whispers, as he undoes the buckle of his belt. old denim jeans pushed down his legs, along with his boxers.

your head was empty, devoid of thought that didn't relate to him. wanting nothing more than him. tonight, tomorrow, forever—you'd be content, with just andrew dodge mason and the backseat of his chevy.

dodge pushes in, gently—his tip barely there, as your eyes widen. the stretch so foreign, so unfamiliar. "you're okay, you're okay." he coos, forehead rested against yours as he slowly slides in, inch by inch.

"shit—so fuckin' tight," he groans, and you hope that's a good thing.

your breaths come out in pants, clutching tight to the fabric of his shirt. he takes that as a sign, as he rips the fabric from his body. despite the comfort the t-shirt was providing you, the feel of his skin beneath your fingers was welcomed.

"dodge, oh—"

the car rocks with his thrusts, building up his pace. his palms against the windows as they begin to fog. "atta girl." he praises, eyes unmoving from your features.

your brows furrowed, jaw slack. his name falling from your lips—like prayer. hips beginning to move in rhythm with his, the volume of his own sounds increasing as you do.

"fuck, gonna come, baby—" dodge stutters, eyes squeezed shut. but your heart skips a beat from the pet name alone. "can i? fuck—can i?"

you're not sure what he's asking. to finish, or to finish within. you'd grant him anything he ever asked.

"please, please, please."

maybe i'll just be crazy, and piss him off 'til he hates me...

every single night. like clockwork.

read your siblings their bedtime stories. shower. wash your face. brush your teeth. say goodnight to your mom and dad. lay awake for two hours. sneak out of the window to meet dodge.

you were addicted. so was he. unable to run from the obsessions clouding your minds. unwilling to see what was happening in it's true light.

your lusts and perversions were repeating every night, and you weren't willing to stop them. would never admit or acknowledge satan had worked his way into your mind, distracted you from god's plan.

11:57 PM. you arrived at the lake. no sign of his chevy nova.

perched upon a rock separating the car park and the woods surrounding, waiting.

12:24 AM. still no sign of the chevy nova.

this happened three nights on the run. he'd become a ghost, no word.

the fourth night, you skipped the lake altogether.

rode your bike over to the church, to the house next door. to his father's house. pissed off, and pent up.

his curtains were open when you arrived, there he sat. feet crossed on his bed, bible in hand. as though that book had ever meant anymore more than his father's love to him.

the vein in his forehead popped when he heard you tap against the glass of his window, jaw clenched, arms crossed against your chest.

"you can't fucking be here."

"i've been waiting for you." you mutter, still quiet despite your anger. knowing you'd be in just as much trouble as he if you were to get caught by the pastor.

"i didn't ask you to do that." the brunette spit, arms tight as he leant through the opened window.

every word he spoke cut you deep. the look in his eyes, as though you were nothing more to him than any other girl at church.

"i thought you liked me."

i owe you a black eye and two kisses...

the annual fourth of july church barbeque. three weeks since you showed up at his house.

serving his mom's potato salad, with that fake smile on his face and cigarettes hidden in his back pocket. flipping burgers on the grill as though his whole being wasn't tearing you in half.

stood with his younger brother, even if you knew it wasn't doing anything. you wanted him jealous. angry. feeling anything about you. but he simply ignored you, kept that smile of his father's on his face.

"leaving in a couple weeks—yeah, back on the road," you overheard him with some friends of his parents. "dad thinks it's time for me to carry on with my missionaries."

your plate quickly shoved into the hands of his brother, wiping your face with the back of your hand as you head straight in his direction.

"you're leaving me?" you mutter, not caring which prying ears could hear.

"not here." he mutters, jaw clenched.

"you don't talk to me for weeks, and then what? leave me without a word?" you carry on, voice only increasing in volume. he's all too aware that people can hear the words falling from your lips.

"stop it, now."

the fireworks come as a welcome distraction, his hand tight on your arm has he drags you away. toward the lake that had become your sanctuary.

"don't fuckin' talk to me like that in front of all those people." his words are harsh, so is the grip he has on your arms.

"you don't fuckin' talk to me at all!"

he wants to shake you, hit you, kiss you, fuck you—all at once.

"i can't speak to you," dodge mutters, eyes almost black as they bore into yours. "i can't be near you, i can't look at you."

you want to cry, to run away from him and this town and never look back. "why?" you dare to ask.

"because i will never leave, never let you go, if i keep doing this."

but he's always had a problem saying no...

everyone found out. his father, your parents, the entirety of the church.

he blamed you. told his father how you seduced him. how satan has worked his way into your mind, taught you his ways of lust and deception.

it was you, or him. and he chose himself.

the church made a mockery of you. forced you to apologise, in front of the whole congregation. to accept your sins, and beg for forgiveness.

before your family, his family—him. you had to stand before them, and explain your lusts. tears fell from your eyes, like a stream of shame as you did.

"i forgive you."

"i forgive you."

"i forgive you."

they all stood before you, looked into your eyes—held your hands and forgave you.

"i forgive you." he stood before you, looked into your eyes, and forgave you. forgave you for sins you both committed. that he started. that he wanted.

that he wants.

your bags were packed. ready to be shipped off to wherever it was that your mother and the pastor had decided best. your ears still ringing since the truth was revealed, no words had processed properly since.

eyes bloodshot, shoulders slumped as you waved goodbye to your siblings through the window. turning around to the yard, your mother's car waiting, and—

his chevy nova.

your mother was closing the door, the key in the lock, as dodge remained unnoticed by her.

"i'm sorry—i'm so sorry, please, baby—" he begs, out of the car and walking toward you. "let's leave, you and me—let's just go, and never come back."

your mother quickly turns, anger across her face, as your heart pounds.

the two of you rush to him together, as she heads for him—you head for the passenger side door.

the blood drips from his nose, as your bag is tossed into the backseat. your mother doesn't have time to register, your siblings still watching from the window.

he's laughing—through the blood pouring into his mouth—as his arm rests behind your head rest, reversing out of the drive. with his girl in the front seat.

your life disappears from your view, as you drive at full speed down the road. the thanks for visiting! come back soon! sign is barely a spot in your vision as dodge doesn't slow.

you don't have time to regret it. can't process it. your ears are still ringing. but his hand is in yours, and that feels enough.

taglist .ᐟ @bluestrd @pittsick @ohyouluckysaint @challengers4ev @xoxo-martina @lexiiscorect @peachyparkerr @zweigscherrypie @lacelottie @patrickzweigsdefender @dumbbandpoetic @thecontrash @emdorie @stargral @iheartrosalia @goodluckbabyyyyy @kisses4kaia @nozhdyved @vila777 @w31rd3rg1rl @paulaiguess @gf4lwt @artstennisracket @coolgrl111 @sleepyrps @i-t0ld-ya @zweiism @yardofbrunettes @maximofftwinsbitch @vinecstasy @celestial-cestlavie @blaironair @ivetteg ( to be added )

[kamiflix]

Sugurucore

suguru & higuruma send texts like this. canon btw.

[oxalaia-quilombensis]

give it two me, baby

part one

wc: 8.5k

summary: getting pregnant is a lot harder than expected. so is trying to surprise your husband. but, thankfully, you get some good news just in time to catch him off guard. if only you'd paid a little more attention, then you might have seen his surprise coming.

warnings: age gap (r is mid 30s, jack is 50), established relationship, afab reader, reader is an attending, domestic bliss, arguing but it's basically foreplay, cursing, teasing (not the sexual kind), infertility and ivf mentions, anxiety, jack truly is the best husband in the world, pregnancy (DUH), ultrasounds, getting blood drawn but it's very vague, cockblocked by robby, my best attempt at humor, friendly competition, they're still trying to surprise each other, oral sex (f receiving), face sitting, jack abbot EATS, vaginal sex, unprotected sex (what's the point if she's already knocked up), prone bone, mentions of semi public sex, nearly having semi public sex, mentions of oral sex (m receiving), like really heavy on the breeding kink even though reader is already pregnant, he's lowkey a little mean but its hot

an: ok I love Shawn, but my biggest fear would be my kids coming out ginger. idrk why, but the idea of carrying a child for 9 months, only for it to come out with orange hair is a little horrifying. sorry to all the gingers out there

this is early, but I got too excited and couldn't keep it to myself

vaccinate your kids

Sitting at the dining room table with pancakes, eggs, and bacon piled on your plates for a 4pm breakfast, both of you still cozy in your pajamas, you’re starting to think it might have all been in your head. 

Your husband of 4 fucking years had no idea that you’d been scheming all this time, trying to surprise him.

Tickets to the AC/DC reunion tour 2 years ago? Nope, he’d seen the confirmation email pop up on your phone, not that you’d known that at the time, when you’d let him borrow it to call his own (he tended to lose his pretty often). He’d then casually remarked a few days later he couldn’t wait to go, leaving you sputtering over a chart, wondering how in the world he knew as he walked away.

Then there’d been the bronco. The old, broken down, sage green bronco, parked a few streets over that he kept casting longing glances at, followed by ‘what I wouldn’t give to fix that up.’

 Jack had never been one to splurge on himself, but you had been itching to find him a hobby that didn’t include being shot at, so you’d bought it, hurrying home to make sure there was space to park it in the driveway. The former owner would be dropping it off in an hour. 

But then, 30 minutes later, Jack walked through the door, dropping a kiss to your cheek, thanking you for the car. You’d wanted to scream. 

What you didn’t know was that Jack had finally given in, dropping by the neighbor’s to see how much he wanted for it, only to find out his darling wife had already gotten it for him.

But the absolute worst, by far, had been right before your wedding. Jack was sweet and rather sentimental, preferring memories and photos to material objects. So, you’d decided to start a scrap book. It was a little girly, and you’d worried he wouldn’t love it as much as you did, but you still went ahead with it. You’d filled it with all the pictures the two of you had taken over the first 3 years of your relationship, with the last decorated page dedicated to your engagement party. The book was barely a quarter full and you’d practiced a sappy speech in the mirror about filling the rest of the pages over the rest of your lives.

And everything had gone according to plan. You worked on it in secret for weeks, and as far as you knew, he was none the wiser. 

But then, as the two of you sat in bed the night before your wedding, just before you were going to show him the damn book, Jack had simply looked up from whatever western novel he was reading and very nonchalantly asked if you were ever going to let him see your scrapbook. When asked how he knew about that, he simply shrugged and said, “I pay attention.”

You still gave your sappy speech, watched his eyes shine with unshed tears, and let him lay you down and fuck you one last time as your fiance.

And as you laid out these examples, explaining the steps you’d gone to to keep the secrets, Jack simply sat there, slowly chewing his bacon while his eyes screamed ‘this woman needs help.’

“-but I finally did it,” you were smug, alternating between cutting your pancakes into smaller bits and gesturing wildly with your cutlery. “I finally managed to actually surprise you!”

Your eyes strayed to the box, still open on the table, your IUD shining in the late afternoon sunlight. You’d done it. He had been totally, 100% caught off guard. It was straight out of left field, he’d never seen it coming.

“I was suspicious.”

That was all he said, eyes still focused on you, lips quirking up as he took a bite of his eggs.  

All you could do was sit in wide eyed silence for a moment.

“Bullshit you knew,” you were starting to spiral, wondering where you’d slipped up. Maybe someone had snitched? But no, only Joan knew about your plan and she’d never have given you up.

The bastard shrugged. “You said you were cramping-”

“That is a totally reasonable comment from a woman in her 30s with a uterus.”

“Yeah,” he laughed under his breath, pointing at you with a strip of bacon. “But you brought up your IUD. You should have just said your stomach hurt, ‘cause then I asked Robby if you were doing ok.”

You hadn’t even told Robby about your plan and he still fucked it up.

You groaned, head dropping into your hands.

“And he said you disappeared for an hour to get a ‘pap smear’,” the grin on his face as he made the air quotes had you wanting to throttle him. “So I asked Tina from Obstetrics if you were ok. She said she had no idea. Apparently, you spent an hour in an exam room with Joan.”

“You called my fucking gynecologist to confirm my alibi?”

“I didn’t know it was an alibi,” Jack’s shoulders were shaking with the laughter he was holding in. It was starting to become infectious. You couldn’t stop the smile slowly creeping onto your face, despite the niggling irritation. “At the time, I was just checking on my wife, being the wonderful husband that I am. So imagine my surprise when there is not a single record of your little visit anywhere.”

“Oh, so you got Tina to break HIPAA for you?”

“Sweetheart,” his eyes rolled ever so slightly. “I am your emergency contact, your boss, your husband, and the only person you put down on your HIPAA release form.”

“Robby’s actually my boss,” was your only counterpoint, and even as you grumbled it out, you knew it was weak.

“Yeah, when he’s not having a nervous breakdown,” Jack snorted, picking up his coffee to take a sip. 

“But that doesn’t mean you knew,” you redirected. Robby’s mental state was the absolute last thing you wanted to discuss during your 4 day long  husband’s birthday/attempted conception weekend.

“Mmm no, I never said I knew,” Jack leaned back, legs spread and posture relaxed as he looked across the table at you.

“Ok, fine you didn’t explicitly say you knew what I was planning. You just heavily implied you did.”

“I did not imply anything. I said I knew you spent an hour alone in an exam room with your best friend who is a gynecologist and that you were keeping something from me,” his eyes darted down to the box, tracing over its contents. “I had some suspicions, some good, some bad, but I didn’t know. Not then.”

“What do you mean ‘not then’?” You sat up straighter in your chair. The oversized, decades old West Point t-shirt that had once been his slipped off your shoulder. You tugged it back into place, choosing to ignore how his eyes immediately snapped to the tiny bit of skin that had been exposed in favor of your interrogation.

Jack shrugged, his eyes avoiding yours. “I didn’t know then.”

Your brow furrowed into a glare. You very rarely had any success trying to intimidate your husband, but now it seemed like he was trying to hide something.

“Jack Abbot tell me what you knew and when you knew it. Now.”

He let out a breath, shaking his head as he grabbed his coffee mug again. You watched him drain the rest of the lukewarm liquid, eyes tracing the movement of his throat as he swallowed. He set the mug down gently, eyeing you like you might start swinging the butter knife still in your hand.

“Alright,” his arms folded over his chest, those obnoxious biceps of his straining against the plain black t-shirt he wore. “I knew you had some sort of-” He paused for a moment, clearly trying to choose his words carefully. “Gynecological… something going on.”

You snorted, shaking your head and gesturing for him to go on.

“I knew you were planning something last night because you insisted on making dinner, and we usually go out for birthdays.”

“Ok, but that’s not-” He leveled you with the look that made residents want to wet themselves in fear. After years of living with him, though, all it made you do was sigh in resignation and sit back in your seat, allowing him to continue.

“And then you wouldn’t let me touch you,” you had to agree, that was a little suspicious. The two of you weren’t exactly known for being able to keep your hands off each other for very long. “So I knew something was up.”

“I never would have guessed you were going to quite literally give me your IUD,” once again, his eyes found the box. “You got me there, but I figured whatever you were planning probably had something to do with that.”

“So I did surprise you,” you were immensely satisfied with yourself. After all these years. After all these attempts, both big and small, you'd finally succeeded with probably the biggest surprise.

“You surprised me, yes,” Jack’s smile was twisting into something wicked. “I definitely was not expecting you to hand me your contraception and beg me to knock you.”

Your cheeks flushed at the reminder of exactly how last night had gone. “I did not beg.”

“Oh you most certainly did,” his forearms rested on the table, body shifting forward as he pinned you beneath his hungry gaze. “It was only a matter of time. I’ve known you wanted a kid for a while. You haven’t been exactly subtle, sweetheart.”

“I haven't been subtle?” Your eyes were wide as you looked at him in disbelief. “You haven’t been subtle, Jack.”

“Yes I have,” he was frowning now, that smug smirk melting off his face. “I kept that shit to myself.”

“Ok, yes, you didn’t say anything, but you didn’t have to,” you placed the cutlery down on your forgotten plate, too engrossed in arguing to focus on your pancakes. “It was painfully obvious!”

He was shaking his head, mouth opening to counter, but you pressed on.

“You were practically salivating when we babysat my nephew! You literally have to be dragged away every time we get a peds case at work and you damn near get hearts in your eyes whenever I hold a baby,” there was no way he could deny any of this, and the look on his face was telling you he knew it, too. “When I told you my IUD was starting to act up, you were practically begging me with your eyes to get rid of it!”

“Begging you,” he was shaking his head. “With my eyes?”

“Yes, with your eyes.”

“Ok and what about you?” He was going on the offensive now, gaze sharpening.

“What about me?” You were leaning forward now, too. The both of you face to face across the table, meals completely forgotten.

“What about that one time we had the 6 month old with pertussis and the antivaxxer mom?” 

You vividly remembered that incident from about a year ago. You’d went off on the mom, yelling about how, if this beautiful child was yours, you’d have never put her in danger over something so selfish. Jack had to drag you away, locking you in the on-call room to cool down while Ellis talked the mom down from leaving AMA. 

You’d avoided any more punishment than a stern talking to from Gloria, but you’d been taken off the little girl’s care team. It had been an embarrassing outburst, but you didn’t regret it. Maybe you hadn’t gone about it in the right way, but everything you’d said had been correct and you still stood by that. Hopefully, your very loud attempt at shaming the woman had done the trick.

“I just wanted what was best for my patient,” you looked away. That wasn’t the sole reason for the incident, and you both knew it. The way your voice had broken as you’d yelled, ‘if she was mine’ was telling. And so were the tears in your eyes that night as you’d cried to Jack about the poor little girl, sobbing about how you could never put your own child in danger like that.

“Yeah, ok,” Jack didn’t push anymore, but his smirk was back, albeit softer at the edges. “And what about that time you got down on your knees for me in the on-call room after we had that kid with the broken leg?”

 That you did not have a good excuse for. In your defense, your birth control just meant you couldn’t get pregnant. It did not stop you from ovulating, or suffering through the related side effects, including the irresistible urge to climb your husband like a tree any time he did something remotely attractive.

And in this case, you were in the middle of that particular part of your cycle. Watching him put the cast on the 8 year old girl who’d fallen off her bike hadn’t been what got you going. No, instead, it was the way he talked to her, calming her down and getting her to chatter about her favorite things. He gave her his undivided attention, wholeheartedly and enthusiastically talking about ponies and unicorns and fairies.

All of that had your mind drifting, imagine that it was your little girl he was talking to. In your mind, you were home, watching your husband talking to a little girl with your eyes and his (formerly) ginger curls.

Imagining him, just how incredible of a father he would be, had that fire that had been simmering just beneath your skin all day exploding into an inferno. So, the first chance the two of you had, you’d yanked him away, pulling him into a private room and dropping to your knees.

“Yeah, I remember that,” your blush was back, gaze dropping to the plate still sitting in front of you.

“Do you remember what you said before you sucked the soul out of my body, 15 feet away from our coworkers?”

Your whole body was on fire, embarrassment and desire warring just beneath the surface. Maybe you could tempt him back into your bedroom, distracting him from whatever this conversation and degraded into.

“C’mon, baby,” there it was, that insufferable, cocky tone of voice that told you Jack knew exactly how you were feeling. You refused to look up. “Tell me. What did you say to me right before you begged me to cum down your throat?”

“I said-”

“Look at me.”

You swallowed hard, peaking up through the curtain of your hair to face your husband. He was relaxed, sitting back in his seat, legs spread wide beneath the table. He was smirking, looking every bit the flirtatious bastard you knew him to be.

But his eyes were dark and hungry, chest rising and falling suspiciously faster than simply sitting down to eat breakfast warranted.

“I said,” your eyes were locked on his, entranced by the way his pupils slowly expanded. “‘You’re so good with kids.’”

“What else did you say?” He cocked his head slightly.

“‘It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.’”

His smile grew even more salacious. “That’s how I knew you wanted me to knock you up.”

You shifted in your seat, your sleep shorts feeling much too damp for comfort. Jack knew, his eyes tracking the movement hungrily.

You stood, stepping away from the table and starting down the hallway towards your bedroom as you called over your shoulder, “Yeah, well, you haven’t gotten me pregnant yet.”

Jack was hot on your heels in an instant.

The next 7 months of your life were spent in a seemingly never ending cycle of frustration, pleasure, irritation, and competition.

You hadn’t gotten pregnant after Jack’s birthday weekend which, while expected, had still been a little disappointing. The two of you were doctors, you knew that your body needed time to reset after removing your contraception. 

For 7 months, you’d taken a test every Monday morning when the two of you arrived home, and every Monday morning that test was negative.

Jack, once again living up to his title as World’s Best Husband, gave you the control. When you’d broken down 4 months in without any sign of a baby any time soon, he’d held you close and told you he’d do whatever you wanted. He said it was your choice, if you wanted to go through testing, to give IVF a try, if you wanted to stop trying for a while.

You’d said no to all of them, apologizing for the tears. So many other couples tried for so much longer. It had only been 4 months. It was too early for the interventions or to give up. You were being dramatic.

“We’re not other couples,” Jack had said. “Don’t compare our journey with this to theirs. It’s not one size fits all, and there’s no time limit on this.”

He’d calmed you down and you’d resolved to not let it get to you. You’d agreed to stop taking a test once a week, too. You had time. If things were still stagnant around the 9 month mark, the two of you would do fertility testing and then, if necessary, try IVF. You’d agreed to stop taking a test once a week, too.

Jack had agreed, kissing your head and telling you that now that you had a gameplan, things would go smoothly. He also reminded you just how enjoyable the trying process could be, even if you hadn’t gotten the results you wanted yet.

During the time since his birthday, you’d been busy with more than just work and baby making. You’d made it your mission to try and surprise him again. He’d caught on quickly, and the two of you had entered a little war of sorts. 

There’d been no official rules of engagement established, no conversation about exactly what was going on, but there seemed to be a mutual agreement on what did and didn’t count. The diet coke you were craving that appeared on your station was too small and didn’t count. Neither did the sandwich you’d made in secret before work and left on the break room table with his name on it.

But the new set of woodworking tools you’d left on his workbench in the garage did. Except, he’d shown you the screenshot of the order confirmation email he’d taken days before when you’d gloated that he hadn’t expected that. 

“Shouldn’t have left your email logged in on my laptop, sweetheart.”

The dress you’d been eying last week when the two of you went out definitely counted, given the price tag in the hundreds. You were happy when it appeared in your closet, and even happier when you got to tell him you’d known since he’d bought it 3 days ago.

“Not really a surprise when you buy it from a boutique my friend owns, handsome.”

And so, here you were, 3 months post break down, 7 months post birthday, plotting the biggest surprise of them all.

You hadn’t taken a pregnancy test since, hoping that by ignoring it, you could subconsciously encourage it to happen. Maybe if you stopped putting the pressure of weekly tests on yourself, it’d be a little easier.

And by god, you were a genius.

You’d waited until you were at work, not trusting yourself to keep the fact that you’d taken a test a secret if you had to sit through your ride to work with Jack. No matter the result, you knew he’d be able to tell. And you had a pretty good feeling about this, given the fact that your period was just under 6 weeks late

But Jack still tracked your cycle. When your period hadn’t come, not long after you’d cried in his arms, you decided not to say anything. You felt a little shitty when you had to fake a period, but you had seen how the constant negatives were weighing on him. You wanted to be absolutely sure when you told him. And you’d truly planned to tell him earlier.

And then time had gotten away from you. And your desire to win whatever competition you had with him was too strong to ignore.

So, when you finally found a free minute, you retrieved the small plastic package from your locker, tucking it into your scrub pocket with a lie about it being that time of the month on the tip of your tongue. But no one stopped you or even batted an eye as you scurried from the lockers to the private restroom.

You did your business as fast as humanly possible, praying you’d be able to have the 5 minutes you needed for it to process before the usual ED chaos pulled you back in.

The two pink lines on the test were so dark they were almost black. You could barely contain yourself, fighting to keep the happy tears at bay as you pocketed the evidence.

When you slipped out of the restroom, you made a beeline for Lena.

“Hey, what’s open?”

She looked up at the board. “Uhh, South 7 should be empty by now.”

“Great,” the smile on your face was much too wide for 2am, even among your nocturnal coworkers. “Meet me there in 5 with a phlebotomy kit.”

Before Lena could ask questions, you were off. You’d been gone for a bit, so you needed to pop your head in on your patients before you could disappear again. 

As you made your rounds, quickly checking in on your (thankfully) light caseload, you could see Jack on the other end of the ED. He was surrounded by residents and med students, all of them listening intently. You couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying over the ever present din of beeping and coughing, but it seemed to be some kind of lesson instead of idle chitchat. Robby had been getting on him lately about actually teaching the students at the teaching hospital. 

You wanted to stop and stare, but you had an urgent appointment to attend to.

Lena was already in South 7 when you ducked in, shutting the door and sliding the curtain closed behind you.

“I thought you were putting a patient in here,” Lena’s arms were crossed. She looked thoroughly unimpressed.

“I am,” you stripped off your jacket, hiking up your long sleeved undershirt as you moved around her to take a seat on the edge of the bed. “Me.”

“You?”

“Yes, me,” she was still standing there, staring as you got yourself situated. “I need my blood drawn.”

“Oooookay,” slowly, she started setting up. “And why exactly is that?”

Your smile was still much too wide, perhaps a little manic. “I’m pregnant.”

Lena’s irritation morphed to shock and joy. Her smile matched yours as she picked up the pace, rapidly moving through the motions. 

“Am I correct in assuming we’re keeping this from Dr. Dad?” 

You laughed, nodding as the happy tears you’d held back in the bathroom started to make themselves known. Lena attached the tourniquet, quickly and masterfully finding a vein and beginning the draw. “I want to be absolutely sure before I tell him.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, sweetie,” she detached the vial, scribbling ‘Jane Doe’ along with the date and time on it. “I know this is about the surprises.”

So maybe the rest of the department had started to catch onto the war waging between you and Jack. In your defense, when you decided to vent to Ellis about your latest surprise attempts, how were you supposed to know she would immediately tell Shen, who would then tell everyone who’d give him the time of day?

“Ok yes, fine,” you pressed the bit of cotton she handed you onto the lightly bleeded puncture. “Maybe that’s a very small part of it.”

“Uh-huh,” Lena didn’t believe you, but that wasn’t important. “I’ll let you know when the results come back. I’ll even fast track it since I’m feeling generous.”

“Love you!” You called as she left the room.

Despite the rush, the results still didn’t come back until almost 5 am. Very positive. You were pregnant, about 9 weeks along.

But you were torn. How exactly were you going to tell Jack?

The longer you knew, the more likely he was to find out, either from you slipping up or from one of his many sources, and you couldn’t have that. You needed to do this fast. There was no time to plan out some grand reveal, so you settled on something simple.

After handoff, you pulled him away from the mingling shifts.

“Hey, before we go, can you come look at something with me?”

“Yeah,” Jack looked a little confused, but he followed you. “What’s up?”

“I just want you to take a look at these labs I got for a patient real quick,” you led him back into South 7, the room still open. Quickly, you flicked through tabs on your ipad to your results. “Here.”

Jack looked even more confused as his eyes tracked over the tablet. “Elevated hCG, probably 9-10 weeks.”

You didn’t say anything, keeping your face painfully neutral as you waited, even though you were practically vibrating on the inside. He was smart, you were sure you wouldn’t have to spell it out for him. Any second now he’d realize.

He looked between you and the tablet for a moment, before his lips parted in an ‘O.’

“I see,” you really didn’t think he did, given the lack of emotional response. “Have you told her yet?”

“I think she knows, Jack.”

“Ok…” He still looked perplexed, glancing around the empty room. “Then where is your patient?” 

“Jack…” you buried your face in your hands. This was not how you pictured this going.

“What am I missing, sweetheart?” He set the tablet down, closing the distance between you. “Pregnant patient, 9-10 weeks along, probably t-”

“They're my labs, Jack,” you dropped your hands, looking up to watch as his face froze. Tears started welling in your eyes. “I’m pregnant and I’m trying to surprise you.”

He stayed frozen for a moment, eyes scanning your face, before he was dragging you into a bone crushing hug. His hand slid into your hair as your arms wrapped around his waist and your face was buried in his shoulder.

“Holy fuck, baby.” 

Your laugh was wet. It didn’t go exactly how you imagined, but Jack’s shaky exhales told you he was just as affected as you.

“I can’t believe it,” his face was buried in your hair.

“We’re having a baby,” you couldn’t stop your voice from breaking, emotion too thick to keep it together. “We’re gonna have a kid.”

“Sweetheart, a ba-” Jack pulled back, something you didn’t catch washing over his face. His hands cupped your cheeks as he looked down at you. “Lie down.”

“What? Why?” You were confused about why he was so rudely interrupting your moment.

“I wanna see them.”

You don’t spend almost a decade with Jack Abbot without being able to tell when he’s up to something, and you can clearly tell he’s thinking something he’s not saying out loud. But both of you are emotional, evident by the shimmering of his eyes, so maybe he just really wanted to see the new life you were carrying.

“Ok,” you moved back, settling on your back on the gurney. As you pulled up your top, untying and lowering your pants ever so slightly, Jack pulled a stool and the ultrasound over. He waited until you were comfortable before he squirted a generous helping of the gel over your lower stomach.

“I know you looked at your results,” both of your eyes were glued to the screen as he used the wand to spread the gel around, moving too quickly for you to see anything yet. “But I don’t think you really looked.”

Your attention shifted, focusing on him. “Jack, what-”

“There,” he pointed at the screen.

You looked back, freezing for a moment as you took in the sight before you. 

There, blatantly displayed on the screen was a small shape that could only be described as a white bean, surrounded by black space. You could see what looked like tiny little limbs, branching out from the bean, alongside a clearly defined head.

Being a doctor had prepared you for this sight. You had seen many ultrasounds during your years through school and residency and now your tenure as an attending. You’d even seen this exact situation before, many times, in fact. But seeing it in your own womb was wiping every coherent thought from your mind.

Beside the first bean, tucked in its own protective black space, was a second bean.

“Surprsie, baby,” Jack’s smile was smug, but his eyes were still wet.

“What- how did you-” Your words failed, mind scrambling as you tried to process the reality of your situation.

“Your hCG was too high,” Jack pressed the capture button, moving the wand around to get multiple angles. “Before I realised you were showing me your labs, I thought you were trying to tell me your patient was having twins.”

Reluctantly, he removed the wand, wiping down your stomach as you blinked at him. Jack guided you to sit up, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. You felt like you were in shock, the whole world moving around you in slow motion as your mind struggled to process everything that had happened in the last few hours.

And then Jack popped the bubble, snapping you out of the fog that had come over your brain. 

“So, I guess I won your little surprise competition.”

“You absolutely did not,” you slapped weakly at his chest as he stepped between your spread legs to place his palm over your stomach.

“No?” The corners of his mouth were twitching up. “What’s more surprising than being pregnant? Being pregnant with twins.”

“I grew them,” your hand covered his, lacing your fingers together.

“Yeah, you did,” he pulled you closer to the edge of the bed. His hips were perfectly placed to brush your core over the slight bulge hidden by his scrubs. It wasn’t fully hard yet, but you could feel the heat of it leaking through the thin material keeping you apart. 

“So I won,” your breathing picked up as he gently ground against you.

“I’m pretty sure I’m the winner here,” his hand not on your stomach tangled in your hair, tilting your face up until your noses brushed. “I fucked you so good, I put two in there.”

“That’s the real surprise here,” Jack’s grip on your hair tightened causing a gasp to slip from your lips

“You saying I don’t usually fuck you good enough?” 

His voice was low and dangerous, almost a growl. His hips pushed forwards, pressing his length against the seat of your pants.

“Woah!”

The two of you jerked apart when the curtain rings and a shout shattered the tense atmosphere. Robby was standing there, half turned away with a hand over his eyes.

“Not in my hospital, please!”

“Robby, I-” You struggled to come up with a good excuse. Jack didn’t share your concern.

“Cockblock.”

You slapped his arm. Thankfully, he had muttered it under his breath and Robby had either not heard him or had chosen not to comment.

“I know you two live in a very nice house,” Robby peaked through his fingers, deeming it safe to remove his hands now that the two of you were a few feet apart. “Please, keep your marital activities there.”

“We were kind of having a moment, here,” Jack was turned away from him, likely hiding his rapidly shrinking hardon. While he was looking away, he printed the photos from the ultrasound machine.

“Have your moment at home, ok?”

“Sorry, Robby,” you stood, trying to fight the blush tinting your cheeks.

“At least your wife has a sense of decorum.”

“Truly my better half,” Jack laid a kiss on your temple after he collected the pictures, turning his attention solely to you. He handed you four strips of photos. “Here, I made one for you, one for me, one for the fridge, and one for the book.”

“Thank you, Jack,” you pulled him down into a kiss that was work safe, the barest brush of yours against his.

“Holy shit,” both of you remembered Robby was in the room when he noticed the photos. “Is that-”

“Yes,” Jack’s hand on your back pushed you forward, moving you around Robby. “Now, excuse us. I’m going to go have a few moments with my wife.”

“Jack!”

“Jesus Christ. Too much information, brother."

The car ride home had been silent. Jack was staring at the road, jaw tense and knuckles white, all while you couldn’t look away from the strip of photos in your hands. You’d probably committed all the details to memory by now, but your eyes were glued to the glossy black and white images.

You were mesmerized, transfixed. All you could do was look at your two little beans.

Aside from the lack of a period, you hadn’t had any of the stereotypical first trimester symptoms. It felt unreal, like there was some sort of disconnect. Logically, you knew that those two beans from the pictures were inside you, growing and developing. But physically, you didn’t feel it. There was no bump yet, no morning sickness, nothing visible or tangible besides these photos in your hands to mark you as pregnant.

So you clung to them, never once looking up at your surroundings until Jack was opening the passenger side door, helping you down and out of the cab of his truck.

“I’m really pregnant.”

You were the first to break the silence that had settled over the both of you.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Jack set both of your bags down on the kitchen counter while you stood, eyes flicking between the photos and him. “You really are.”

“We’re fucking having fucking twins.”

“You’ve got to work on that potty mouth before they get here,” he walked towards you, his hands settling on your hips as his chest pressed to your back. His chin hooked over your shoulder as he looked down to gaze at the print outs once again.

“Jack,” your hands fell to your sides as you spun in his grip. “What the fuck are we going to do with twins? I was already nervous about having one kid at a time, but 2? How the hell are we-”

“Hey,” calloused hands found your cheeks, stopping your panicking and squishing your lips shut. “I’ll tell you how we’re gonna do this.”

He was walking you backwards, into the hallway and across the threshold of your bedroom. 

“We’re gonna take it day by day. We’re gonna listen to our guts, follow our instincts,” he guided you to sit on the end of the bed before he was kneeling between your legs. Those big hands of his reached up, peeling your scrub top and undershirt over your head. “We’ll take some time off work, probably 6 months once they’re here, and then we can go part time.”

“But what about money-”

“You know as well as I do that we do not need to worry about money,” his fingers deftly unhooked your bra, sliding it from your shoulders. Those same fingers found the drawstring of your pants, undoing it and slipping them down along with your underwear. You lifted your hips to help him. “Between what we’ve saved so far and my pension and disability, we don’t ever have to go back if we don’t want to, sweetheart.”

“I’m not ready to quit yet,” your fingers ran through his hair as he spread your legs a little wider. Soft kisses were pressed to the skin of your inner thighs. 

“Then you won’t. Like I said, day by day,” he pulled you closer to the edge of the bed. “Now, can I eat you out or do you want to keep talking about our finances?”

“Eat me out, please Jack.”

You hadn’t noticed the growing heat between your legs, too focused on your nerves and anxiety. But when his tongue swept through your folds, a jolt of fire shot up your spine, quickly drawing your attention solely to your husband and his mouth.

“Fuck,” his arms wrapped around your thighs, yanking you even closer to him. You fell flat against the mattress. “You taste even better than usual, baby.”

Jack ate you out like a man starved. He was everywhere, dipping his tongue inside your entrance, closing his lips around your clit, his teeth dragging over your outer folds. There was little finesse. He knew the exact right buttons to push to get you right over the finish line. He’d timed it once or twice. The record was 5 minutes and 37 seconds.

But at this moment, it wasn’t about getting you there. He was savoring you, exploring every nook and cranny he could in a desperate attempt to get even more of the sweetness between your thighs on his tongue.

“Gonna have to keep you pregnant 24/7 if you taste this good when you’ve got my kids in there,” one of his hands came up to spread over your abdomen, right above your navel. He pressed down at the same time he slid two of his fingers inside of you, all the way down to the knuckle.

Your back arched, a pathetic whine of his name leaking into the air. 

“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” Jack’s voice was low and rough, the vibrations traveling through your body as he refused to lift his head. “I’ll give you what you need.”

The shift from him simply exploring and savoring your taste to a concentrated effort to make you cum is jarring. One moment he was languidly licking over you with the flat of his tongue and the next his lips were sealed over your clit, sucking while his fingers curled upwards to slide back and forwards against your g-spot.

“Jack! Fuck!” 

He didn’t respond, his focus solely on giving you the most pleasure he could, as fast as he could.

It was intense. Like he had poured gasoline onto the heat growing between your legs, turning that fuzzy, warm flame into an inferno. His movements threatened to drag you over into oblivion much faster than you had anticipated.

“Oh fuck, Jack,” your voice was high pitched and breathy while your body writhed, just barely held in place by his hand still flat over your stomach. “Fuck, I’m close!”

And then, right as you were about to tumble over the edge, he stopped. Jack pulled back, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“What the fuck?” You were panting, trying to school your desperate and flushed features into a glare.

“Oh I’m sorry,” Jack looked dangerous in the low light of the bedroom. He stood, towering over your almost limp body, the limited light seeping in from the blackout curtains and shining from the dim lamp on the bedside table outlined the sharp edges of him. His jaw dusted with slight silver stubble, the muscles in his chest and arms that tensed and shifted as he crawled over you.

His hand tapped at the outside of your thigh, urging you silently to scoot up until your head lay among the pillows and his body and settled between your legs. You realized he was still fully clothed while you lay beneath him, completely naked.

 “That was looking suspiciously like I was making you feel good.”

Your head dropped back with a groan. “You’re still on that? It was a dumb comment. You know you make me feel better than anyone I’ve ever been with, Jack.”

“I certainly know that,” his fingers spread wide over your breast, squeezing the flesh before shifting and rolling your nipple between two rough fingertips. You let out a high pitched sigh as your back arched, practically presenting your breasts to him. “I just think you might need a reminder.”

“Then take off your clothes and remind me,” your hands tangled in his curls, dragging his face to yours. When your lips met, it was desperate, both of you falling into a fast and needy rhythm. His tongue darted out, tangling with yours while his hands continued to squeeze at and caress your breasts. You could feel the hard length of him grinding against your inner thigh.

And then Jack was pulling back, pushing up to rest on his knees between your spread thighs. You couldn’t help but admire him as he stripped his shirt off, eyes glued to the freckles dusting his shoulders and pecs.

“Enjoying the view?” He cocked one eyebrow at you, throwing the shirt off the edge of the bed as he unfastened his watch. 

“Oh I most definitely am,” something fluttered in your stomach as he leant over you, reaching to place the watch on the nightstand. You knew he was doing it on purpose, but you couldn’t find it in you to complain as you watched his muscles stretch and flex.

“Mmm, me too.”

Jack settled back on his knees, those big hands sliding over your thighs. He looked ravenous, his eyes tracing over every inch of your bare skin, especially lingering on your chest as it rose and fell in time with your heavy breathing.

“I think you should sit on my face.”

Your breath hitched, core clenching at his words. As tempting as it was, you were aching for him. You needed to feel him deep inside of you.

“I think you should fuck me,” you countered. It was playing dirty, but you couldn’t help yourself as you stretched your arms above your head, arching your back and hooking your legs around his hips. “C’mon Jackie.”

As he dropped down over you, one of his hands caught your still outstretched wrists, pinning them to the blankets. With the other hand he dug his fingers into your hair, not pulling, just holding tight to the strands.

“I want,” his lips kissed the corner of your mouth before he was moving down to mouth at where your carotid hammered away. “You to sit on my face. Think of it as my reward for winning the surprise-off.”

“You didn’t win-” your protest ended in a bitten off moan when his hips ground against yours, your clit pressing right against his head through the thin fabric he still wore.

“Yes I did.”

Your world blurred and tilted as Jack flipped the two of you. He landed on his back, leaving you scrambling to catch your balance as he pulled you up his chest. His hands were insistent from where they held your ass, yanking you up and over his face before you could stop him.

And then he was pulling you down. The hands on your ass encouraged you to rock and grind against him while his tongue plunged inside of you.

You cried out his name, hands shooting out to grab the headboard as the heat from before returned full force. Jack didn’t let up, using every dirty little trick he’d learned over the years to get you close. He didn’t delay or try to keep you on edge, his sole focus was on making you cum.

His tongue shifted and he tilted your hips, drawing circles around the bud with his tongue while his fingers slipped back inside you.

“Holy shit!” You were rocking against him, panting with the force of the orgasm rising deep in your pelvis. “Fuck, please. Just like that!”

He groaned into you, and that pushed you over the edge.

Your legs shook and your head dropped back. You didn’t try to hide the moans and whimpers you released as you pulsed around his fingers. The sensation washed over you, sending sparks flashing behind your closed eyelids while you rode it out.

When he finally let you go, it was a miracle you didn’t kick him in the face. You collapsed into the sheets beside him, panting and twitching with aftershocks.

“Does that qualify as ‘good enough?’”

“Fuck you, Abbot.”

Your eyes were still closed but you heard him getting up. There was the rustling of his pants, followed by the telltale snapping of the fastenings on his leg. You listened to his sigh and the thunk as it was leant against the nightstand.

And then he was sliding over you again and your eyes opened.

He was smiling down at you, eyes full of so much love it floored you. To see his devotion to you sparkling in his blown pupils in the comfort of the home you shared was overwhelming.

“I love you,” your fingers carded through his messy curls before your palm settled over his cheekbone.

“I love you, too.”

He kissed you then, slowly and softly, simply letting the two of you get lost in it. As you did, your legs came up to wrap around him and his forearms settled on either side of your head.

It was only when the bare length of him was brushing through your folds that you broke the kiss.

“Wait,” your breathing was labored. “Flip me over.”

“No, I want to see you,” Jack was trying to pull you back into a kiss as his length continued to rut against you, but you dodged it.

“And I want to get fucked laying on my stomach before your kids make it so I can’t.”

He laughed, shaking his head as he sat back up again to give you room to twist around. When you got comfortable he grabbed a pillow.

“Up,” his hand pulled at your hip and you lifted, giving him room to slide the pillow underneath, just enough to prop you up slightly. Your hands folded underneath your chin, waiting for him to get himself situated.

“Your ass looks fucking incredible like this.” Jack straddled your thighs, pinning them together. His hands came up to grab and squeeze at your ass, pulling the cheeks apart to glide his length in between.

The first press of him against your dripping entrance had you biting your lip. He always felt so big in this position, like he was actually rearranging your guts when he bottomed out.

“Ah fuck,” he sounded breathless when he pushed the head in. “You’re so fucking tight, sweetheart.”

“Jack please,” you tried to push back against him but his hand landed on your upper back, keeping you pinned.

“Gotta give me a minute,” he was breathing hard, biting back a groan when you squeezed around him. “Gonna cum too fast if you do that.”

You gave him a minute. Well, you tried to. You just needed him, desperately.

“Jack Abbot if you don’t fuck me, I swear to god I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” He was finally - finally - sliding the rest of the way inside, pushing until his hips met your ass. “You’ll find someone else to fuck you? You won’t let me touch you for a week?”

You were too distracted by the full length of him sliding home to answer. Your hips were grinding back, as much as you could while he still held you still. The shifting movement had your clit grinding against the pillow as well.

“C’mon, don’t make empty threats.” Jack’s body lowered over yours. His chest pressed into your back, pinning you even more firmly into the mattress and stopping your movements. “Tell me what you’ll do if I don’t fuck you how you need.”

“I-” 

You were interrupted by his first thrust, a deep grinding motion that had his tip pressing against that space just below your cervix. One of his hands was slipping between you and the pillow, palming your mound. His fingers parted around where his length was beginning to slide in and out, never pulling more than halfway out before thrusting back in.

“F-fuck…”

“S’that what you needed, babygirl?”

He pulled back slightly until the pads of his fingers were brushing against your clit, rolling and stroking over the bud with every shift of his cock deep inside you.

“Yes, Jack, yes!”

Jack buried as deep into you as he could with every thrust. Your mind was going fuzzy with pleasure. Fully surrounded by him like you were, it was impossible to focus on anything except how he made you feel. His chest was pressed against your back, his forehead pressed against your shoulder, and his free arm was curled over your other shoulder, holding your breast.

“Shit, please tell me you’re close, baby,” his fingers sped up against your clit and his hips were losing their rhythm.

“Yeah, Jack, please!”

All you could do from where he held you was grind back and forth, alternating between chasing the pleasure from his hand and his cock. Both sensations were yanking you closer to your orgasm. You could feel it welling in your bones and pooling in your stomach.

“Fuck I want you to cum with me,” Jack was grunting as humped into you. “Please sweetheart. Wanna feel you.”

Who were you to deny your husband what he wanted?

The noise Jack made when your walls started to squeeze and pulse around him was obscene. It was long and drawn out, rough around the edges and broken as he thrust in and stayed. You could feel his length twitching, the wet hot heat of him unloading deep inside you.

All the while, your own hips were twitching and jerking, pinned in place by his body as your eyes rolled back. The orgasm ran you over, leaving you gasping and whimpering into the sheets as you fought to catch your breath. It felt electric, zapping up and down your spine in increasingly weaker pulses until you collapsed into the bed.

“Jesus,” Jack pushed himself off you, pulling out slowly. Both of you winced at the separation. 

You let yourself lay there, blissed out and half aware as Jack moved about around you. His crutches squeaked against the floor as he went into the bathroom, but he was back before you knew it with a wet wash cloth. His movements were gentle as he cleaned between your legs.

“That’s good enough. C’mere,” you pushed his hand away, scooting back to make room for him underneath the covers.

“Alright,” he chuckled. There was a rather gross sounding wet splat, presumably the wash cloth landing on the tile of the bathroom floor and then Jack was pulling your back against his chest, spooning you.

You made a mental note to pick that up tomorrow.

“You may have surprised me today, and maybe I lost the surprise-off,” Jack’s words were quiet, muffled slightly by his lips pressed to your hair as he held you tightly. One of his hands rested over your stomach. You were already starting to drift off, exhausted by the emotions and physical exertion of the day. “But I’m still the biggest winner because I have you, and these two little ones.”

[bloominflowers]

those funny erling haaland memes but with ilya rozanov because this type of humor is very ilya coded to me

[emziess]

Shane & his parents // Ilya & his parents Heated Rivalry, S01E01

[themoonandmyman]

Can we talk about how both David and Grigori are on the right side of the frame, Yuna is to the left of Shane- but to the left of Ilya is just a sharp drop.

[spookyserenades]

any deets on how the sanctity men are in bed.. 🫣 no spoilers ofc

Hmm yes. Can I say selfish? LMAO

But also that doesn't mean they neglect their partners (or later, MC). Let's use Seokjin as an example: 879 years old, he knows what he likes and what he excels at in bed. Vampires are notoriously hedonistic, so they have a lot of sex with many partners of all varieties. I'm actually excited to get fuckin' freaky with Sanctity with them all!

In Sanctity, I predict my resident Freak in bed will probably be Jimin.

Can I actually spill? I'm the most excited to write Trouvaille Hoseok smut. I've had a specific sexual profile for him for years LMAO

[spookyserenades]

Quick Sanctity question, would they act like this (depraved and perverted 😭 and everything else) with every acolyte they have? Or is there a difference in their behaviour because of the MC ? How would you rank each of their behaviours in comparison to how they usually treat acolytes, and if you have time what would be the differences? Hope this qn makes sense 😭🤣

So acolytes are supposed to be quite meek... in a nutshell, NPC behavior. Y/N is sort of an anomaly for the coven with her backbone! In the past, it was likely the acolytes the coven had let them do as they pleased without any protest. I'd like to mention that Y/N is the first acolyte they had since moving back to the States from Europe, and that they hadn't had an acolyte in call it ~5 years.

I'll rank their cruelty to acolytes from severe to tame:

Namjoon and Seokjin

Jimin

Yoongi

Hoseok

Taehyung

Jeongguk

[reignpage]

For Extra Credit You Can Hit!!

Synopsis: Toji, the TA, won't bump up your latest essay a couple marks, not with just some begging at least, so you try a different method:

good ol' pussy persuasion

Warnings: toji art by @/youKa.i on insta, smut, porn with a lil plot, nerd!toji, a couple years older than reader but both students, reader harasses him but don't save him he's right where he wants to be, some comedy aspect, college au, non curse au, f!reader, blowjob under the desk, unethical behaviour, fingering, cunnilingus, p in v, briefest choking, sex against the window, pússy inspection, belly bulging, overstimulation, spitting, a little fisting I guess or almost, Toji's poor so this is canon compliant jkjk, creampie and unprotected sex, brief pussyjob, size kink/difference, hidden sex, not proofread Word Count: 10.7k

“For the last time,” he drawls, “I’m not bumping you up a grade.”

You groan, pushing your legs to catch up to him faster.

“Come on, I need this. I’m not asking you to break the rules. All I want is for you to reread my essay and find extra marks, which you will!”

Toji Fushiguro is a tough nut to crack, though he doesn’t look it — one glance at him and one would think he’s a laidback TA. He’s the exact opposite; he takes his job a little too seriously. 

For days now, you’d been hounding him, pleading with him and degrading yourself all for him to ‘remark’ your last paper and ‘coincidentally’ find a few extra marks that would push you to the top performing spot you’d been eyeing since forever. Each time you rushed into his office, waited for him after his classes, and followed him to his apartment, he’d shrugged you off with the same ‘I don’t get paid enough for this’ look in his eyes. 

Rounding the corner, his long legs making no accommodations for your shorter ones, he says, “No. If you wanted better results, you should have put in a better performance. Surely you’re smart enough to work out that that’s how life works.”

Hands grab his arm, yanking back with all your strength only to be dragged along with him and his burly body. Your heels scrape along the floor. People stare. You don’t care. “Don’t be an asshole. You know my essay was good. It was really good. Just give it a read. A proper one, and not the rushed job you do because you’re overworked and underpaid.”

He stops.

Your face bumps into this back, forehead nearly bruised by the hardness. 

His brows rise above his glasses as he fixes you a look. “Kid, your essay was good — decent introduction, clear structure, sufficient evidence — but it’s not good enough for the extra marks to push you into the top band. Your closing argument fell flat ‘cause of your wishy-washy writing style, you didn’t adequately humour the counter arguments and undermine them to strengthen your thesis, and, worst of all, you misspelt ‘complement.’”

A frown graces your features. 

“No, I didn’t. C. O. M. P. L. I. M—”

“No. With an I, it’s to flatter someone. With an E, it’s to enhance, pair well, or complete another thing.” Toji explains rather robotically, eyes still dead and voice monotone. “For example, if I said you’re a pretty girl, that’s a compliment. And if I said, your essay goes well with the trashcan over there, that’s a statement that suggests the two complement each other. See the difference?”

He’s already stalking off again, hands in his pockets, huge stature unwilling to accommodate the people walking down the hallway. 

You break into a jog, panting embarrassingly by the time you reach him. “Dude, we’ve known each other for three years. We’ve gone through a lot together. We’re basically friends. Can’t you do your best pal a solid?”

Toji glances down at you. He pushes a door open, holding it a second longer than he needed to. You follow behind him. Somewhat amused, he replies, “We know each other because we’re on the same course, not by choice. And I don’t know what you mean by the whole ‘we’ve gone through a lot together’ thing — the most dramatic thing we’ve faced is when the projector didn’t work and we had to go into a different hall. And we’re definitely not friends.”

Well, fuck, you’re running out of rope. 

“Then, let’s officially be friends,” you offer, elbowing him gently. “If you ever need help, buddy, I’ll always have your back.” Then, in an act of complete desperation, you begin shakily singing, “You’ve got a friend in me. You’ve got a friend in me. When the road looks tough ahead—”

A heavy hand shoves you away by your head. You stumble into a bulletin board.

“Enough,” he gruffs. “My day’s already fucked because the prof lost his papers and wants to blame me. I don’t need to lose my hearing on top of that.”

Your head flits around. “Did you guys see that?” People give you weird looks. “He just shoved me. The TA just shoved me. We need to protest his violent behaviour by demanding he remarks our papers. Who’s with me?”

Everyone walks past without another look at you.

Toji, on the other hand, lifts his glasses and runs a hand down his face. Muttering something under his breath, he pushes a door open and holds out a hand before you can mindlessly follow. “It’s the men’s bathroom. Tell me you’re not shameless and stupid enough to come in here.”

“I’ll wait outside.”

His eye twitches. 

As though an idea comes to him, he straightens ever so slightly. “I’m gonna take a dump; you’ll be waiting a while.”

“That’s okay — I have no more classes so take your time but make sure you don’t stay sitting down longer than you need to,” you tell him, smiling innocently and standing aside to let a guy walk out, ignoring the freaked out face he makes at you. “You can get hemorrhoids."

He groans. “Jesus fucking Christ, woman.” 

That seems to be as much of you he can tolerate because he walks in without another word to you. Opposite the door, you lean against the wall, whistling and coming up with alternative lines you can pull on him. 

God, he’s so stubborn. 

It’s not like giving you the marks docks his pay or lowers the professor’s opinion of him. He’s clearly just being an ass. 

If he wasn’t such a good TA, a genuinely intelligent man, you would have gone above his head and asked for the prof’s personal assessment. But no, he has to be knowledgeable, a helpful source of information when you’re lost, someone who seems to know everything about any topic, who knows the exact pages of a textbook you should read to further your understanding, and who’s never declined a meeting for clarification on something you wrote. 

For years now, you two have had a friendship-like relationship, often sharing snacks and exchanging brief words before or after lectures and classes, despite what he says.

Everyone gets along with him, though you’ve never actually seen him hang out with friends or go to parties. Maybe he doesn’t have any. Word on the street is he works part time in a couple different places. Some say so he can afford drugs, some for tuition. 

The rumours never interested you, apart from any that mused about his love life, which seems to be nonexistent except for the many girls who hit on him. Not that you’re especially interested.

It’s just fun to be in the know.

Who knows how long has passed since he went in there. Your phone says fifteen minutes. Is that a normal amount of time for someone to be taking a dump?

Hesitantly, you push the door open and yell out, “Fushiguro? You doing okay? Is it stuck? For a couple extra marks, I’ll give you a hand.”

No one replies. 

Brows furrowing, you bend down, looking through the stalls. No feet. What the hell?

Ahead, a window is ajar. Big enough for a man to squeeze through. Well isn’t that convenient? The kind of convenient that exists only in fiction.

Aggrieved and feeling bamboozled, you stomp back to your dorm room, slamming the door, jumping face down on the bed and screaming into the pillows. You’d feel better if you knew he had a grudge on you, if you bumped into him the first day and spilled his coffee all over himself and he’d never forgotten it. Instead, he’s just like that: does things by the book, does his job well, and achieves the best grades with ease. 

Naturally, he’d become the professor’s assistant, a coveted position that seemed like it was made for him from the very beginning, and made your life a living hell because he won’t ever make concessions for you.

Sure, you shouldn’t ask him to, but it’s not like you’re asking for much. You’re generally a high performing student — punctual, hard working, ambitious — but you had one bad day which resulted in one bad essay and it lowered your average and now the internship you’d been eyeing could be snatched from your hands in a blink of an eye. 

“It’s just not fair,” you cry out to your teddy bear. “It’s three marks. Three! Would it kill him to reread my essay and find those three marks?”

Mr. Teddy stares back at you and says, “He’s a grumpy man. Don’t take it personally.”

You sit up, blinking and processing his reply.

“Teddy…you’re right. He is a grumpy man, a TA with broad shoulders, yummy arms, and thick thighs with a bubble butt, but a man nonetheless. If he won’t pull favours for me, student to student, maybe he’ll pull favours for me man to woman.”

The plushie falls to the bed as you stand, staring at yourself in the mirror and formulating a plan. 

With that you decide to seek him out the next day, sporting a new outfit and a different attitude.

.

.

.

“Hi.”

“Fuck off.”

The cafeteria’s busy. It always is. It’s loud enough that most people wouldn’t even hear the exchange — chairs banging on tile, trays clattering, someone laughing too loudly at a table nearby. 

Toji’s hunched slightly over a bowl of udon noodles, chopsticks moving lazily as he slurps them down. Some sports clip plays on his phone, propped against his dented metal water bottle. Commentators yell about something you don’t understand. His sleeves are pushed up over his forearms, revealing ropey muscle and the faint silvery line of an old scar running across his wrist.

An old hoodie hangs off his shoulders over a plain white T-shirt. Distressed jeans, worn sneakers. He’s too big for the plastic chair, long legs spread under the table. When he saw you approach, his feet had hooked onto the chair legs, forcing you to fight to remove it from his clutches so you could take a seat.

So damn rude.

His glasses have fogged slightly from the steam of the noodles.

He doesn’t look up. But he knows it’s you. You can tell by the way his mouth tightens for half a second before he goes back to eating.

You snatch his phone away. His green eyes flick up, annoyed. You smile, arms pushing your breasts together so they spill over your tight top. Toji’s gaze doesn’t waver. He continues to stare at you like you’re a pest. 

“You can’t take no for an answer?” he asks though it’s not a question at all. “Might want to retake the consent course.”

Manicured fingers walk up his bare forearm before scratching down from his elbow. His skin is warm. Light dusting of hair tickling your fingertips. “Oh, Toj, have I ever told you how handsome you are? Because you really are. You’re so damn hot I can hardly focus on the lectures.”

He snorts, still eating his noodles and still refusing to look at your cleavage. “That’ll explain why you’re missing marks.”

Jaw dropping, you force yourself to recover quickly. A heeled foot brushes against his calf, sliding his jeans up. You bat your lashes, sultrily saying, “The only thing I’m missing is your cock in me, big boy.”

Toji meets your eyes again. His scarred lips twitch. “I don’t need to tell you that was bad, do I?”

You cringe, foot dropping and whole body slumping back into the chair. “Yeah, I heard it as soon as I said it.” Then you sit up, handing him his phone, and asks, “Are the noodles good? I’ve never had them.”

Phone pocketed, he shrugs. “They’re just the cheapest deal on the menu. Growing girl like you should get something more filling.”

The menu’s extensive, and the only thing sticking out to you is the chicken burger and chicken tenders meal deal. It seems to be especially popular today but you’re not sure you can finish the whole thing. 

“Hey, if I get the Meal Super Cluck Blaster, will you share it with me? I’ve got dinner plans later so I don’t want to fill up.”

That finally gets a reaction. Toji leans back a little and gives you a slow once-over. Tight top. Lacy bra peeking up. Glossy lips. More jewellery than usual. His eyebrow lifts. “That why you’re dressed like a hooker?” he asks lazily. “Hot date?”

“Nah,” you reply, waving him off. “Wore this for yo— Wait.” You lean forward, staring at him wide eyed. “Are you jealous? Are you in love with me already? Because for extra marks, I’ll cancel my dinner plans and promise myself to you for all eternity.”

Toji rolls his eyes. “Go get something to eat; you sound insane.”

You hop up. “Okay, but stay there, alright? Take my burger because I only want the tenders. Oh, and will you share a pot of cheesecake with me? I’m lactose-intolerant but I really want cheesecake right now.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He’s still here when you come back. 

As soon as you hand him the wrapped up burger, he scarfs it down the way big men do, like they haven’t eaten in days. You push him the tenders too. You’d actually gotten a double serving of everything so you have your own portion of tenders and he gets to eat another burger. There’s no way a man his size could survive on udon noodles.

“Also, let’s not act like you didn’t leave me hanging outside the men’s bathroom yesterday,” you bring up after sipping your juice. “Can’t believe you left through the bathroom window just so you could get away from me.”

“I didn’t,” he says, mouth full and adjusting his glasses. 

You frown, dipping a piece of chicken in hot honey. “No, you definitely did. I peeked and there were no feet in any of the stalls. Unless you’re telling me you can grow invisible.”

“Just lifted my legs when I heard you come in, which I knew your crazy ass would do, so I could finally leave in peace. Didn’t think it’d take you fifteen minutes though.”

A laugh escapes you. “You were waiting me out? Does that sound like the mature thing to do? Jeez, you need to act your age.”

Toji’s eyes meet yours. Your smile falters for the briefest second. “I’m not that much older than you,” he reminds you. “Only by two years.”

“And yet you call me kid or kiddo,” you retort, clearing your throat. Have his eyes always been that green and deep? And is his voice usually that husky and masculine? Because you could have sworn guys your age don’t sound like that.

He shrugs again, second burger finished in a blink of an eye. “Never hurts to remind yourself.”

“Remind yourself what?”

The legs of his chair screech as he pushes it back. He stands, picking up his tray, and answers, “Forget about it. Enjoy your dinner plans. And I’m taking the cheesecake — no one wants a gassy date.”

“Wait,” you call out before he can turn away. “My marks?”

A pat on the head ruffles your hair. 

“Still a no, kid.”

.

.

.

“What if I suck your dick?”

Toji lifts his glasses to rub at his eyes. “I’ve got a ton of papers to grade for another class; I don’t have time for you.”

The door shuts behind you. His office is bare, not a single decoration littering the place, not a plant nor a picture. 

His office is exactly how you remember it — disappointingly, aggressively empty. The walls are a dull institutional beige that makes the overhead fluorescent light feel even harsher. No posters. No photos. Not even a sad little plant struggling for life in the corner.

Just a desk. A filing cabinet. Two chairs that look like they were stolen from a waiting room. It’s the kind of office someone occupies temporarily, like he expects to leave at any moment and doesn’t see the point in settling in.

Leaning against the desk anyway, your fingers drum lazily along the edge.

You’ve been here before: once to argue about a paper he’d shredded with red ink, once because you’d missed an exam and needed him to sign a form, and once because you’d sworn you heard him swearing loud enough to be heard halfway down the hallway.

You grip his shoulder, squeezing as you scan the fat stack of papers on his desk — the prof’s particular about handwritten essays. There’s so much to read through; you do not want to be him. 

“God,” you mutter, flipping through a few pages of the stack. “There’s like fifty here.”

“Seventy-two,” Toji corrects without looking up. His handwriting is sharp and aggressive, red ink slashing through entire paragraphs like he’s committing academic murder. You wince in sympathy for whoever wrote the paper currently being dismantled.

“Good thing you can multitask, can’t you? I’ll suck your dick under the desk, you grade papers, and you bump me up a grade. Easy.”

He shrugs you off, hulking body hunched over and pen scratching on the papers, leaving harsh circles and comments like, ‘what the hell does this mean?’ and ‘you can’t just say perchance.’ 

Toji gruffs, “I’m serious. Take your jokes elsewhere.”

Nah, you think to yourself. 

With a massive struggle against his weight, you yank his chair back, wheeling him a distance from the desk and clambering under before he can fill the space again. He makes some noise above you but you pay him no mind. Your hands rest on his meaty thighs through his sweatpants, marvelling at the density, at the strength you find in them. 

“You’re fucking ridiculous.” His foot nudges your knee. “Get the fuck out. I’ll cropdust you if I have to.”

You call his bluff by clutching his clothed cock. He jolts, grunting. Laughing softly, you muse, “You say all that but you have a semi already — did my proposition get you hard, Toji?”

You’re rubbing his hard on, trying not to get flustered by how big he feels, and how fat the girth is. Of course he’s big. In hindsight, you really shouldn’t have been so surprised; he’s a big man so naturally the proportions will match up. 

“Suck my dick, don’t suck my dick, it doesn’t matter,” he says, sighing and probably pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re not getting those marks.”

He thinks that’ll stave you off because he knows you’re whoring yourself out for a grade. What he doesn’t know is that your stupid little brain’s already forgotten about all of that the moment you felt his cock. Now all you can think about is how you’ll have to stretch your lips nice and wide to take him in, and even then, even when your throat is lax and loose, you won’t be able to take him to the base. 

Toji grunts again, peering down at you. “You mouthing at my dick? Did’ya not hear what I said?”

Like you’ve been possessed, you press kisses to where his tip is, humming around it. “I heard, but your dick’s saying other things to me, and I know which I prefer to listen to.”

“My dick’s not marking your paper, so get the fuck up,” he growls.

“Don’t wanna.”

“You’re fucking killing me here.”

A heavy hand bundles your hair up, pulling but you fight against it, hooking your fingers under the waistband and releasing him from the constraints. His boxers have a hole, and yet you only find it endearing. Freeing his cock so it bounces up and smacks your cheek, it leaves a wet mark on your skin. 

Tutting, he wipes away the wetness from your skin. 

Oh fuck, he really is big. 

With nothing between you and his dick, you can see him in all his glory in the partial shadow of under his desk — long, thick, flushed red, already shiny at the slit, veiny as hell, hairs at the base wild and unruly, with weighty balls to match. You’ve never seen anything better. 

Tongue out, you lick him from base to tip, prodding at his frenulum.

“Quit it,” he commands through gritted teeth. 

You moan wantonly, already addicted to the salt on his kin, to the texture of his veins, to the softness of his cockhead. “Toji, you’re so big. I don’t think this’ll fit inside me.”

The thing throbs, bobbing. A droplet oozes out and you quickly lick it up. The hand that was pulling your hair has grown slack, simply resting on the back of your head, keeping you from bumping the wood. 

Voice hoarse, he mutters, “If anyone can make it fit, it’ll be your stubborn ass.”

Your eyes meet his from under the desk, mischief sparkling in them you’re sure. His cock throbs again. “I thought you had papers to mark, Fushiguro. Maybe you should get on that, no?”

A calloused thumb presses down on your lips, shushing you. It slides down, bringing your bottom lip down with it, before releasing it so it’ll bounce back in place. That same thumb holds your jaw open, hand guiding your mouth to his tip. You know what he wants. You also know that he knows that you both know that you won this time. 

Wide as you can, you take as much of his length as possible. You don’t get much further than a third of the way, full beyond belief and overwhelmed by just how much of him there still is. Your nails dig into his thighs.

“If this is supposed to convince me to give you extra marks, then you’re failing real hard, doll,” he notes, gripping the base. “Can barely fit the head, can you?”

He’s acting like it’s your fault he’s so big. 

Challenged, you loosen your throat to take him an inch deeper. You gag around the length. Toji curses under his breath. “Careful,” he mutters. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

You ignore him in favour of shallowly bobbing, sucking and licking what you can, as though he’s a lollipop. It’s actually kinda fun.

The familiar sound of pen scratching on paper and paper rubbing on paper echoes in the relatively quiet office. Only the wet sounds of your mouth sucking his cockhead pierces the silence. 

Growing more and more used to his size, you flick your tongue around the head, letting your hands wrap around the rest of him, squeezing and tugging in time with your mouth. Occasionally, he makes a couple breathy noises — low grunts when your tongue laps up his tip, gravelly groans when you hollow your cheek to suck, and rough exhales through his nose when you grip his balls, massaging them, thumb rubbing the seam. 

It becomes easier to forget why you were here in the first place; you’re just blowing him for your own entertainment now, wanting something to occupy your throat. 

Then, he asks, as though he’s making casual conversation, “How was the date?”

“Hmm?”

Toji rolls his eyes. “The date,” he repeats. “How was it? He pay for the meal? Open doors, see you to your door, kiss you goodnight and shit?”

Your lips stretch into a smile. You release him with a pop! “I didn’t go on a date,” you tell him. “My friends hosted a housewarming party because they moved in together. I had a great time, thanks for asking.”

Is he pleased? Unaffected? Genuinely just making conversation? Hard to tell, except for the pushing of his hand, urging you back to his dick, and taking him further inside your throat, till his tip bumps the back of the gummy walls. 

“Good,” he exhales out, thighs flexing around your body. “That’s real good.”

“My blowjob skills or that I had a great time?” you ask, words muffled and barely understandable.

“Both,” he answers. “Both, doll.”

A knock on the door has you both stiffening. Toji glares down at you and whispers, “It’s the prof. Do not make a sound.”

He didn’t need to tell you that — you’re well aware that if you get caught, you’ll both face disciplinary action, and will likely be kicked out of the university. That’s worse than not getting the internship. 

The office falls quiet so suddenly you can hear the ticking of the wall clock. Toji’s hand tightens briefly against the desk as the knock comes again. “Come in,” he calls, voice steady.

The door opens before he even finishes the word.

“Ah, Fushiguro, there you are,” the professor says, stepping inside with a stack of papers tucked under one arm. “I wasn’t sure if you’d left already.”

From your position under the desk, you can only see shoes. Polished leather. Slow steps across the floor. You don’t slide his cock out of your throat, lest it makes a sloppy noise that’ll give you both away. So you breathe through your nose, being very, very quiet.

“No, I was just finishing up some grading,” Toji replies, cool as a cucumber.

His tone is annoyingly normal. Completely unbothered. He’s really convincing. Has he done this before? Is this a normal occurrence? Do a lot of girls offer to blow him for better marks, and does he take them up on it? Are you the one exception to his generosity? 

“Good, good.” Papers shuffle. A chair creaks as the professor sits across from the desk. “I actually wanted to ask about the research methods essays.”

Of course he did.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Toji shifts slightly above you — just enough that the movement brushes your shoulder — and then he leans back in his chair. “Yeah?” he says.

“I noticed something odd in the submissions this year,” the professor continues. “Half the class seems to misunderstand the section on sampling bias.”

He hums thoughtfully. “You mean where they’re supposed to explain the limitations of convenience sampling?”

“Exactly.”

A sheet of paper slides across the desk.

“You see this one here—”

From below, you hear Toji pick it up.

“—they describe the method correctly, but their conclusion contradicts their own analysis.”

There’s a pause whilst the TA reads. You stare at the underside of the desk and try not to shift your knees. God, this is like torture. Having a cock lodged in your throat and not being able to do anything with it is hell. Above the desk, they’re chatting away, talking about your fellow students, with the professor none the wiser that one such student’s under the desk. 

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “They’re treating correlation like it proves causation.”

“Precisely!” the professor says, sounding delighted. “It’s surprisingly common.” Another pause. You hear a pen tap the desk twice. “I was thinking next year we might restructure the lecture slightly,” the professor continues. “Maybe introduce a short case study before the assignment.”

“Could work,” Toji replies. “Give them something concrete, tangible, to analyse.”

Your legs are starting to cramp. Your lips tighten around his hot cock. Toji brushes your hair back from your face, a quiet act to show he hasn’t forgotten about you. The professor keeps talking, completely unaware.

“Also,” he says, shuffling more papers, “the literature review sections were stronger this year.”

“Mm.”

“I suspect the workshop helped.”

Toji lets out a quiet huff that might be agreement.

“You handled that well, by the way,” the professor adds. “The students seem to respond to your feedback.”

This is way too boring, you decide. In an act you might end up regretting for the rest of your life, your offended tongue prods his tip where he’s still leaking salty precum. 

He grunts, knee crashing up on the wood. 

The professor asks him if he’s alright, and Toji replies, “Fine. Sorry. Just had a cramp.”

A triumphant smile pulls at your lips, which is quickly wiped away by the sudden pinch at your cheek. You wince, unable to smack him in retaliation. 

A sigh fills the room. “I fear you work too hard, Fushiguro. You ought to take a break here and there. Do something fun and wild, or whatever it is people your age do nowadays.”

“I am having fun,” Toji says, hand coming back to rest on your head, growing heavier and heavier until you’re forced to take him inside your mouth, deeper and deeper. “In my own way.”

He’s filling you up more than he was before, now more insistent, no longer so passive. You’re struggling to take him but he’s not letting up. Fuck, you’re soaked between the legs. Who knew you had an oral fixation?

“Well, good,” the professor says. He pushes his chair back. Your heart jumps in joy. “I won’t keep you any longer, I know those papers won’t mark themselves. Boy do I not envy you.” He laughs. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“You too, Professor.”

Footsteps move toward the door. The handle turns. The door opens. Closes. Silence. Two seconds pass.

Then Toji peers down, licking his scarred lips, and mutters under his breath, “You needy fucking girl. Couldn’t wait, could you? Couldn’t resist not being a pain my fucking ass. If you want cock so badly, then here you go.”

His hips thrust up, hand keeping you in place. Your eyes fly open, throat stretching to take all of him in. Oh, he was as pent up, as frustrated, as you were. The force in which he’s rutting inside your throat displays that nice and clear. 

“You’ll do anything for a good grade, won’t you? Even debase yourself like this. God, you drive me crazy.”

You gag around his cock but he doesn’t pay any mind to that. No, Toji’s just rutting inside your mouth over and over again, grunting louder and louder now. 

Meanwhile, your hand seeks out the heat between your legs. You grind against the heel of your palm, moaning around his length. The vibration has his balls tightening up.

“Fuck!”

Hot cum bursts inside, coating the walls of your throat and your tongue. 

Toji leans back in his chair, which creaks. You pull him out, coughing at the salty burn. Damn, even his loads are big. It’s like a cream puff exploded inside your mouth. 

Hands carry you up, sitting you on his thigh. One rubs your back in circles, the other wipes away the tears at your eyes, licking at the wetness he’s collected on his thumb. “You good, kid?” he asks, brows furrowed. 

“Yeah,” you respond, voice hoarse and not fooling anyone. “I’m good.”

You take a sip of his water from his water bottle, not caring about the fact that you’re drinking from where he had been, and if he cared that your mouth which had been sucking on his dick and cum is on his cup, he didn’t say.

He sighs, tucking himself back in and says, “Come by my place tonight. Hand me your essay again and I’ll reread it. But I’m not making any promises about finding extra marks, alright? It’s just a second chance, and the only one you’ll get.”

Dopily, you smile at him. “Throat game that good, huh?”

His lips twitch. He shoves you away, smacking your ass as you walk away.

“I’ll text you the time and place. Don’t be late.”

Nodding, you head for the door, not leaving however till you ask, “Should I wear matching underwear, or is this a strictly keep your clothes on meeting?”

“Fuck off before I regret it.”

“Lacy thong it is!”

.

.

.

“Should I spread my legs now or do you want me to fluff you first?”

Toji’s deadpan face meets you when he opens the door. He sighs as though he’s regretting this already. Regardless, he lets you in. 

You can tell he showered recently — there’s the scent of cheap soap lingering on his skin and his hair is still a little damp. 

His apartment is nice and clean, which surprises you somewhat. Most guys your age tend to be messy. But you should have known the TA would be neat and organised. 

“I’m serious,” you begin, snuggling up to his side and batting your lashes up at him, “what position do you want me? I’m not the most flexible but I’m not too bad.”

Shaking you off, he pushes you in the direction of the living room where the coffee table is covered with carefully laid out papers he no doubt carried from campus to continue working on. “Go sit down, you horny gremlin. Make some room for your essay and let’s get this over with.”

You do as he says, folding your legs so you can sit by the coffee table on the rug. You take the essay out of your bag, shoving all the others to the side. With a frown, you ask, “So we’re really not fucking?”

He folds himself down too, sitting beside you, knee brushing yours. “I don’t solicit sex in exchange for academic favours. Dunno why you’re so surprised by that — can’t recall having done anything to make you think otherwise.”

“Well, you did give in after I blew you, so…”

“I was gonna offer before you did all that,” he informs you, snorting. “Just never promised to give you the marks.”

Toji adjusts his glasses, taking your papers and starting his reassessment of it. His lips purses, brows furrows, and he stares at the thing like it could tell him the answers to the universe. That or it’s so bad he just can’t fathom what you were thinking. 

“Second paragraph, third line, why the hell is it so convoluted?” he asks, voice returning to that grumpy tone you’re more than familiar with now.

It’s the latter, it would seem. He really meant business. You shaved and everything for nothing. What a shame. 

Leaning over, you rest your head on his big bicep, and, with a pout, reply, “I thought it sounded smart; I was pretty proud of that line actually.”

“No, doll,” Toji says, sighing. “The simpler the better. Don’t purposefully complicate your syntax. Only do what’s necessary to get the point across. If I, an expert in this topic, can barely understand what you mean, how is the ordinary person supposed to?”

“Yeah, okay. Simple is better, I get it.”

He continues reading, red pen in hand and making annotations as he goes. Meanwhile, you’re worming your way into his lap: one hand resting on his thigh at first, then a leg thrown over his. He notices what you’re doing — there’s no way he doesn’t know — but he doesn’t put up a fight. Eventually, you’re sitting in his lap, his chin resting on your head, and his arms caging you in. 

Toji’s warm. He’s comfy to rest on despite all the muscles. Closer now, his soapy scent envelops you. It goes straight to your head. You find yourself squirming. 

“Keep still,” he reprimands, underlining a phrase twice for emphasis. “You can’t just use jargon if you’re not going to explain it. It’s bad practice.”

“Got it.” Fiddling with his spare hand, running your fingers down his and over his palm, you ask, “Are academics supposed to have calluses?”

“They bother you or something?”

“No, not at all. I’m just curious.”

He hums. “I do odd jobs here and there, some more manual than others so yeah I built up some calluses.” Without missing a beat, he pivots the topic. “Tell me again what the difference is between compliment and complement.”

You bring that hand up to your breast, imploring him to grope your tits as you reply, “With an I is to praise someone or something, and with an e is to say something matches well with another.”

A moan escapes your lips when he squeezes in approval. Toji mutters, “Good girl. Guess you do listen to me.” Thumb brushing your hardened nipple through the thin material of your top, you squirm in his lap. His lips move against the top of your head. “No bra?”

“I figured you were going to take it off me anyway so I didn’t bother,” you say, still pressing his hand to your tit, riding the motions of every grope and flick of your nipple. 

Another hum. 

Slowly, you guide that hand down lower. He must know what you’re doing, where you want it to end up, but he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t reprimand or put up any resistance; he’s curious to see how far you’re willing to go. And you’re curious to see how much restraint he has, how long he can hold out before his façade of nonchalance breaks and he’s fucking up inside you.

You tease yourself, and him, first — his fingers, with your guidance, tease your bare thighs, following the hem of your tight skirt. Growing breathless, you ask, “What kind of odd jobs do you do?”

Toji’s calluses tickle the sensitive skin in your inner thighs just right. He’s still marking your paper, occasionally fact-checking your ideas and his theories in a textbook on the table. Amused, he retorts, “You curious about me, doll?”

“Hmm, I want to know exactly whose cock will be stretching me out in a minute.”

He snorts, patting your clothed pussy. You jolt with every impact. “I tutor on the side. Fix up some cars in the garage in town. I’m a physical trainer for three clients at the local gym too. And when I’m low on money, I sell risqué pictures of myself. That disgust you?”

All while he answers, Toji’s blunt nails scrape your slit through your panties. He’s not applying much pressure at all, if any, and yet every skim, every travel up and down has goosebumps rising on your skin.

“N-no,” you answer quickly. “I think that’s really cool. If I had a body like yours, I’d take pictures all the time too.”

His laughter rumbles in his chest. An odd sense of pride warms your own. He says, “Your body’s more than good enough to sell too, you know. Don’t act like you don’t know guys give you double takes all the time, or that your ass could stop traffic.”

Giggling, you lean back, gazing up at him with a smile. “Do you stare at my ass sometimes, Toji?”

God, you’re soaked. You can tell, though you’re not embarrassed whatsoever. If anything, you’re just itching for him to pull your panties to the side and touch you skin to skin, to plunge inside your pussy and make a mess out of you.

“Tell me where you can, and should, insert a semi-colon in paragraph six, and I’ll give you an honest answer.” 

He nudges you with his chin. “Go on. Quit thinking with your pussy and give me the right answer.” A little aggrieved, you sit up straight, holding his wrist to keep his hand between your legs. Your eyes scan the section. Tentatively, you point to a full stop on the second line. Toji shakes his head and smacks your clothed pussy again. “Try again, and don’t guess.”

“Here,” you snarl, feeling way past pent up. “Now give me my reward.”

Toji huffs. “Semi-colons help for varying sentence structures. It’s in the little ways you can convey your points compellingly. Don’t underutilise the right punctuations.”

“Yeah, yeah, smarty pants. Rub my clit and answer my question already.”

Cool air brushes against your swollen, glistening lips. You sigh when his warm hand covers the entire slit barely a second later. His middle fingers are instantly coated in your wetness. He groans. “Fuck, doll, you’re dripping.” Toji doesn’t give you a moment to respond to that; his fingers rub at your throbbing clit in tight circles, drawing it out of his hood. You moan, back arching. 

Finally, he answers, “I stare at your ass all the fucking time after I glare at the losers whose eyes wander from their laptop screens . I’m a big, fucking hypocrite — that what you wanna hear?”

“Fuck yes!”

Rustling of paper reaches your ears. Then two hands are on you: one furiously rubbing the bundle of nerves and the other gripping your throat. He squeezes threateningly. Your vision spots, jaw dropping. “Look at you, all desperate to have my cock inside you. And for what? For a couple marks? You’re not ashamed?”

Your ass is grinding back on his boner, sandwiching the hard thing between your cheeks as your own answer. How could you be ashamed when he wants you so bad too?

“I’m horny! Are you gonna fuck me or not?”

In a split second, you find your world spinning. Your back falls on something hard. You’re staring up at the ceiling, papers scattered beneath you. Rough hands tug you down by your thighs. When you peer down, Toji’s staring up at you from between your lips.

“Yeah, I’m fucking you. You already knew I was gonna. You gonna let me taste your pussy first?” A challenging brow quirks up, like he’s waiting for you to push him away. 

Instead, your legs hook over his shoulders, ankles crossed. You grin at him.

Panties pulled to the side, his fingers spread your pussy for him. Those eyes scan every inch. He releases a shaky breath, cheeks flushed and Adam’s apple bobbing. “Even your pussy’s pretty. Fucking gorgeous.” Running a hand through his hair, he says, “You’re always such a pain, aren’t you?”

“I can’t help that every part of me’s pretty,” you reply, twirling your hair.

“Shut up and play with your tits — I like a show with my dinner.” Toji spits a fat dollop right on your clit. It slides down your slit but before it can disappear in the crevice of your ass, his tongue is collecting it and shoving it inside your cunt. 

You gasp. “Fuck, Toji!”

In spite of his aggressive tone, you pull down your top, letting your tits bounce out. Those eyes follow every jiggle. “Good girl,” he rasps. “Squeeze them for me nice and hard. Good. Real fucking good.”

His glasses are foggy now with your own humidity, rattling with every movement. He’s eating your pussy out like he’s starved, like he’s never tasted anything better, like he’s going to make sure not a single trace of you can be found in his apartment after he’s done with you. 

Growling, he spread your thighs wider. “Course you’ve got a sweet pussy,” he says, brows furrowing in what appears to be anger. “Course it’s sweeter than that fucking cheesecake. Course I’ll be craving you till I die.”

Fingers tangle in his hair, tugging for purchase. “Ngh, Toji, my clit…suck my clit!”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Those scarred lips, the very ones you’ve stared at more times than you can count, wrap around your clit, sucking hard the way you did when you were blowing him under the desk. Electricity sparks inside, sending tremors up from your lower belly to your tits to the very tips of your fingers. “Oh fuck, that’s so good.”

Filthy squelches are being wrung out of you, and you know he’s doing it on purpose, addicted to how responsive your body is to him.

Two fingers worm their way through your pulsing hole, basking in the rough textures of your entrance, stretching your gummy walls on their way to curling against that spot that has you oozing more cum out. 

“You’re fucking tight,” he hisses. “You’re gonna struggle taking all of me later.” Then he barks a laugh, spare hand pressing down on your belly where the pressure builds up. Your toes curl. “A better man would take pity on you, go slow or wait another day, but I’ve already had my tongue inside your cunt so I’ll spare you the gentleman act.”

More fingers shove in, ignoring the screech that you let out. You’ve never had more than two and yet all four of his thicker, longer fingers are inside pushing your walls to their very limits. 

Despite that, he remarks, entertained by the shock on your face which he studies through his glasses, “Suck it up, buttercup — my cock’s thicker than this, you know that.”

You do. 

It’s all you’ve been thinking about all day. Hours after, your jaw’s still stretched out, sore and creaking after the workout you put it through. The thought of having something even thicker, longer than his four fingers has you growing dizzy, head handing over the coffee table.

“Yeah, my cock can’t wait to feel you too,” Toji says, not to you but to your pussy which is squelching lewdly and loudly. “Had to resist jerking my dick raw all day so you better make it good for me.”

Is it seconds later, or minutes, maybe hours, when you cum?

How ever long it is no one can deny it’s the strongest orgasm of your life. 

Your entire body trembles, spasming beyond control. Are you screaming or silently moaning? Are your eyes shut or have you gone blind? And is he still pistoning his fingers inside you, damn near pushing all of his hand in? 

“Stop,” you cry out. “No more, please!”

Mercifully, he yanks his hand out. Unfortunately, it leaves you feeling so empty you immediately crave the feeling of his hand gripping you from inside. 

Lips and chin glistening, he kisses both inner thighs, which tremble. 

Toji gathers you with one arm, showing off his strength as he carries you off the table and to the glass door which leads out to the balcony. It’s dark out and all you can see are the lights of people’s rooms in the apartment across. There are families lounging, dogs sleeping, TV’s blaring. 

Behind you, you hear the rustling of his shirt as he throws it off carelessly. Bare skin grazes your own soon after his hands make quick work of the clothes you’re still wearing. In a flash, you’re naked. He bends down to pick up your fallen panties, inhaling the gusset deeply. Your legs cross tightly at the deeply satisfied groan he lets out. 

“Next office hour,” he starts, lazily spreading your pussy lips and smearing your juices around so he can listen to the squelches and keep your squirming, “you better leave your panties with me. Consider it payment.”

You laugh. “Sure.”

Groggily, you try to keep your head up, wondering what you’re doing by the window, still a little out of it. A hand clutches your jaw, aiding you. 

“I’m gonna fuck you against this window,” he announces, leaving no room for arguments. “You want those extra marks? Then you’re gonna be a good girl and take my cock like a champ.”

Ass gyrating back against the hot, heavy thing still confined in sweatpants, you wonder, “Do you have an exhibitionism kink?”

He lets go of you. You have to catch yourself by pressing your palms to the cold glass. Toji drags your hips back, foot kicking your legs apart. His cock plops onto your ass, scalding. “No, I have a ‘get my time’s worth from shameless women who waste my time with demands for better grades by humiliating them’ kink.”

“Sounds long. We should get that shortened,” you drawl.

His cockhead slides through your pussy, coating itself in your wetness. The fat thing bumps against your clit. You shudder. 

Satisfied with your natural lubrication, he prods your entrance. “Yeah, we should. Let’s call it, Shut The Fuck Up And Take It.”

Then he enters you in one go.

You scream.

The window fogs up with your breath. Your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

You’re taking so much of his length so quickly that it should be painful. Despite that, there’s not an ounce of pain, not one you didn’t like at least — only the overwhelming pleasure of being filled up is resonating. 

Toji grunts. “Almost had to fist this cunt and you’re -hah fuck- still too tight.”

Pummelling his cock in, his hips don’t pause for a second. You gasp for breath, palms slipping and sliding on the condensation that’s built up on the glass. It’s like you can feel him in your lungs, so impossibly deep, so hot, so intimidating. 

“God, it should be a crime to have a body like this,” he says, hands groping every part of your flesh he can reach. He slaps your ass to watch it jiggle for him. He’s an ass man, that much is clear.

The force of his thrusting has you pushed closer to the glass, so close now that almost your entire front is flush with the surface. The coldness grazes your nipples. You moan. 

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

He tugs you back to him, body sliding down the glass till your ass is jutted out. Toji carries your hips up so you can reach him, but it means your toes are only brushing the floor. You cling to the glass door as much as you can. Through the glossy haze, you see the marks you left on the glass, from the oils and sweat on your skin. You see the outline of your tits, all round and fat, the handprints you left and the smearing of them all over the place because you couldn’t grapple with one position to have them in. 

Are people watching? Are you flashing a poor old man, are you reigniting a sexual appetite in a pitiful divorcee, making a housewife jealous, creating fantasies for some guy your age? Are people rubbing one out to the flashes of ecstasy on your face, to the swaying of your tits, to the rippling of your ass?

Toji’s fingers creep under you, furiously teasing your clit. You whine. “I think I’m gonna cum again.”

“Go on, gorgeous,” he rasps. “Lemme feel you cum around my cock. Make my dreams come true.”

Two fingers gather the cream that’s formed a ring at his base. He draws three letters on the glass for you to stare at. It spells out c u m.

God, he’s dirty.

Another orgasm ripples through you. Your thighs shake. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Toji!”

He growls out, hands tightening their grip on your hips, threatening to bruise, “Shit, you’re gonna make me cum early.”

Without waiting for you to come down from your high, he flips you around. Your back thuds against the door. His cock reenters you in a clean, easy slide, cunt beyond soaked and stretched out. Your arms and legs wrap around him. 

Those glasses of him have fogged up so thickly now that they fail to serve their purpose. Toji takes it off with one hand, sliding it onto your head, like a headband keeping your face clear of your hair. “Don’t let them fall,” he orders. “They break and you won’t be getting that internship.”

And his lips?

They smack against yours.

He kisses you, all tongue and teeth and drool dripping down chins, like he’s been waiting weeks, months, perhaps years to do that. And you kiss him back just the same. 

Inside you, his cock throbs. Toji’s hips swing back and forth, pelvis grinding on yours, rubbing your clit and wringing our more obscene squeeeelches. 

“Oh god, I’m so full, Toji. You’re so fucking big.”

“You’re -hngh- t-taking me so well,” he praises, littering sloppy kisses all over your face and neck all while he pinches and rolls your nipples. “Moaning so adorably, all pretty and finally keeping this mouth quiet of smartass comments. You should be like this all the time.”

The rocking of his cock inside you is even better like this. The closeness, the warmth, the taste of him — you wonder why you waited so long to do this. 

Tits squashed to his chest, your nipples scrape his skin, slipping and sliding with the sweat beading down your bodies. The hard planes of his chest feel magnificent. Nothing about his muscles are for vanity only, and the knowledge of the strength he’s holding back has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

“You’d miss my smartass comments,” you tell him, head thrown back and hips working their way down on his cock of their own volition.

Toji groans against your neck, licking droplets of sweat. “Yeah, maybe. I definitely wouldn’t miss your spelling errors though.”

Smiling, you tug his head up by his hair, and bite his bottom lip. You pull and let go so it’ll snap back into place like he’d done with your lip when you were under his desk. “Maybe if you taught me like this, I wouldn’t -hah- make so m-many mistakes— deeper, Toji! Fuck me deeper.”

His hips plough deeper inside, like you wanted, hitting that spot inside you till you’re sure it’ll be bruised in the morning. Moans after moans are fucked out of you; his neighbours will give him an earful tomorrow, you’re certain. 

“Book more office hours just to see me and not because you want something from me, then we can see if I can fuck your stupidity out of you,” he retorts. 

You peck his lips. “Aw, does poor, needy Toji want me to give him more attention? Does he miss me when I’m not there? What a cute little baby.”

“Yeah, he does, actually,” he says, smirking. “That a problem?”

“It will be if you don’t make me cum.”

Toji reminds you, “You’ve been cumming around my cock this entire time; you still want more? Greedy girl.”

He pulls away from the window, stalking over to the sofa instead. Each step burrows him deeper inside you, kissing your cervix and pushing out gasps from your lips, all of which he swallows. 

Carelessly, he throws you on the sofa. You bounce with an oomph!

Ankles held by one hand, he keeps your legs upright, hips lifted up to meet his. Toji presses a kiss to your ankle bone before he pushes his cock back inside. Your back arches with a mewl. Like this, his huge body becomes even more glaring — he’s casting a shadow over you, completely dwarfing you, reminding you how easily he could break you, how he could take whatever he wants from you. 

Every time he buries himself to the hilt, a bulge pops through your tummy, right under your belly button. 

“Look at that,” he mutters, brushing a thumb over it. You whine. “Feel me deep inside you? You’ll be feeling me inside for days, won’t you? Once it starts to fade, you can always come back for another fill, you know.”

“Promise?” you ask, grinning ear to ear. 

Toji pulls out, leaving just his tip before he slams back in, jostling you down on the sofa. His abs contract, cock throbbing at the sudden clenching of your walls around him. “Fuck, yes, doll. Promise. I fucking promise.”

His glasses have slid off, rattling somewhere on the sofa with the impact of every thrust. He doesn’t seem to care about them anymore. You’re nearing another orgasm, head whipping around at the intensity of the pressure building in your core. He’s bullying his cock relentlessly in your cunt, chasing after his own high and sending you to yours. 

When your eyes clash with his piercing, green ones, unobstructed by his glasses, you explode with a scream. 

“F-fuck,” he grunts, following soon after. 

Searing cum spurts inside you, cock pulsing, cum painting your walls. His thumb rubs your clit, aiding you through your orgasm. Your moans are vibrating against the walls, definitely disturbing his neighbours, but so are his groans. 

He slumps over, rolling the two of you on the sofa so you’re resting naked on his heated body, his heavy arm preventing you from falling off. Your pussy’s sore, a mix of your cum and his dribbling out and creating a sticky mess on your inner thighs. 

Absentmindedly, as you both catch your breath, he rubs your back. You draw shapes and letters on his chest. Toji combs his hair off of his forehead, chest rising up and down with his breathing. The dirty marks you two left are still on the glass, though it’s no longer foggy. 

Reaching up above him, he gracefully finds his glasses, sliding them on his face. You like him with and without them. 

“So,” you begin, “about those extra marks.”

Toji lifts his glasses up to rub a hand down his face. “Jesus, yes, you’ll get the marks.”

“Thanks!” you chirp. 

“God, you’re a pain in the ass.”

.

.

.

“Fuck, Toji,” you moan. “I already came three times. It’s too -hic- too much.”

Your TA ruts his cock inside you, face buried in the crook of your neck. His glasses are on your nose bridge, blurring your vision; he gets so frustrated when the thing gets in the way of kissing you or eating you out.

“Shut up,” he rasps, hand pressing down on your lower belly so you can feel him even more. “You’re the one who dragged me here. Take every orgasm I give you and be grateful.”

That’s true — you were supposed to have an office hour with him, which is really an excuse to see your boyfriend before you have to attend the internship induction session, but then you took one look at him and his amazing body and started soaking through your panties so here you two are.

Oh yes, you did say boyfriend.

After he blew your mind out, you’d been visiting his apartment after classes so often, you were practically living there, and he didn’t mind. It started out casual, but after realising you two would go grocery shopping, watch movies together, and text each other practically every day, you decided to just seal the deal and make it official. 

In short, he fucks good, and he can tolerate your personality, so you two stuck together. 

A month in, neither of you are really regretting it. At least, if his desperate thrusting and sloppy kisses to your neck’s anything to go by. 

“Missed you so much, Toji,” you whine, hips fucking back into him.

Toji groans, hand groping your tit from under your shit. “Yeah, baby?”

“Mmm.”

“Missed you too,” he confesses, licking a stripe up your neck and scraping his teeth down. Goosebumps rise on your arms. “Been wanting to see you all morning.”

You giggle, holding onto the stall for purchase and so his thrusting won’t make you smack face first onto the door. “You’re so cute w-when you’re needy.”

“Fuck off,” he says with no real heat to his words. 

In the near distance, the door to the men’s toilets opens with a dull metallic creak, the sound echoing faintly off the tiled walls. Feet pad in—slow, unhurried. The steady rhythm of someone who expects the place to be empty.

“Fushiguro?” a voice calls out. “You in here?”

The two of you go very, very still. Toji’s entire body stiffens behind you, muscles locking. His hand clamps firmly over your mouth for extra measure, warm palm pressing tight enough that you can feel the tension in his fingers.

Your heart slams against your ribs, loud enough that you’re half convinced it might echo under the stall. What the hell is the professor doing here?

“Susan told me she saw you walk in this direction. You got a minute?”

Toji releases a tense breath through his nose, annoyed at the interruption but left with no choice but to answer. He lifts you up so your feet hang over the floor and won’t be seen by the outsider. “Yeah, prof. But I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

The professor laughs. “Yes, yes, I’m sure. I do apologise for interrupting you. I was just locked out of my account and can’t send emails for the next hour. You know how terrible I am with technology.” He enters the stall next door. He unzips his pants. You cringe. “I only wanted to ask if you’re prepared to host the internship induction later.”

You go still, this time for a different reason. 

Your boyfriend releases your mouth. Fingers creep over to between your legs, where you’re still connected to him, where he’s still throbbing inside you. He slowly rubs your clit, keeping you from squirming in complaint with his strong arms. Toji responds, “Yeah, got all my notes ready.”

The bastard’s trying to distract you…

“Ah good, good,” the older man joyfully responds. His stream hits the water, and you fight the urge to face palm. “I had a look over the plans and the schedule. Very well organised, I must say. The competition was fierce, which is a testament to the success of the event, so props to you.”

Do men hold conversation so casually in the toilets?

Toji carefully begins moving in slow and shallow thrusts, prodding your g-spot over and over with his fat cockhead. You bite your lips to keep from moaning. Your nails dig into his thick arm. He ignores you. 

“Don’t mention it, Professor.”

The man zips himself back up and flushes, exiting the stall. Outside, the tap runs, and you’re both still as quiet as rocks, afraid that any sudden movement will out you both as sexual deviants. 

He adds, “Oh, and thank you for handling the applications for me; you know I hate all that paperwork nonsense.” 

Your jaw drops. 

Beyond tense, Toji replies like he’s aware of the weight every word exchange carries, “I do what I can do to help out.” 

“I couldn’t do what I do without you,” the professor continues, sincere and ignorant to the fact that you’re there. The rustling of paper towels echoes. “Well, I’ll see you later. Apologies again for interrupting.” 

The exit door swings open and you relax, but then his voice fills the space again. 

“Do say hello to your pretty, little girlfriend for me.” 

Your heart? 

Drops to the fucking floor.

Toji’s grip on you tightens just slightly, barely noticeable unless you’re pressed this close to him.

Your mind races. Did he see you come in? Did someone tell him? Did Susan, whoever the hell she is—

Toji speaks before you can spiral further, his tone sharper now, suspicion threading through it. “What do you mean, Professor?”

“Oh, you know, the girl you’ve been eyeing for a while now — she’s on the internship, yes?” Then he laughs the kind of laughter old men do, all paternal and wise. “Don’t worry, son, I’m not accusing you of pulling strings; I know she’s a very intelligent young woman. Ambitious too. Almost as ambitious as you. I hope you two work something out.”

Your heart slows its beating but you’re not any less tense. 

Sighing, Toji responds, “I’ll let you know if we do.”

“Yes, yes,” the professor says before he leaves for good. 

Finally, it’s just you two in the men’s toilets again. The silence and emptiness is maddeningly relieving. Although, you’re seething, practically vibrating with accusations and anger.  

Toji lets you down. Your feet touch the ground again. You pull him out, whirling on him with a disbelieving glare. You snatch his glasses off your face with one hand and smack his chest with the other. The man doesn’t budge.

“You sneaky piece of shit!”

He gathers both of your wrists with one hand, rolling his eyes. Toji takes his glasses from you and slides it on his face. Seeing you clearer now, he guides his cock back to your pussy, re-entering with ease. You moan, allowing him to hike your leg over his hip so he can press in deeper.

Kissing your lips, he mutters against your lips, “I did what I had to to get your attention. Sue me.”

“God, you’re the worst,” you breathe out, chest jutting out to his, nipples aching and clit throbbing. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, “I’m the big, bad wolf, and you’re creaming all over my dick right now. Let’s not act like you got the short end of the stick here.”

“Master manipulator,” you hiss, kissing him back, fingers tangling in his hair as soon he lets go of your wrists to grope your tit and ass.

“Whore,” he fires back.

Then the two of you smile, clutching each other tightly as you both rock into each other, nearing your mutual orgasm and riding the pleasure growing in your bodies. Fuck, he feels so good.

“We’re gonna be together forever and ever, aren’t we?” you ask.

Toji’s scar brushes your forehead with his kiss. 

“That’s the plan.”

[sugarverse]

“you have got to be quieter.” you hear your boyfriend groan behind you, covering a hand over your mouth.

he had you on all fours, eyes rolled back into your skull and he wanted you to shut up??

you whine, moving against him desperately. he always wanted to say something about your volume right before you finished. he rolled his eyes in faux annoyance, sliding a finger in your mouth for you to suck on, drooling against his hand. You try as hard as you can to shut up, hiding your face in your arms as you lean against the table. 

it was getting incredibly too stressful with exams coming up. the air was more chaotic and more negative, people grouped everywhere. Even the library was pretty packed.. except for the 7th floor. The elevator was much too slow for most students to wait past floor four. Finals week, of course, had to be an exception because the first few floors were packed. The 6th floor had a handful of people, the music rooms on the 7th floor is probably the best option for studying at this point. Especially when they have private music rooms to study in.

“We'll just have to work on it, yeah?” He asked, propping a leg up onto the chair next to him to hold the arch in your back with his arm. He rutted into you, grunting in your ear before slamming into you so hard the desk began to rattle. Talk about noise..

You can feel your eyes prick with tears of pleasure, biting onto your sleeve and trying to keep down like he asked. You whined and whimpered into your arms, gripping onto the desk so hard your knuckles turned white. It was genuinely getting to the point that your vision was getting blurry. You came against him with a shaking sigh, feeling him pull out slowly.

“Turn over, I wanna see that pretty face..” He helped you turn onto your back gently, laying against the cold table as he realigned himself with your desperate cunt. He lifted your legs up, pulling them to his chest and resting your ankles on his shoulders. You could feel your slick dripping onto the table, watching him kiss your calf gently before shoving into you once more.

Your hands fly to cover your mouth, feeling him hug your legs together around his head. You knew you were being bitchy earlier, but you didn’t think he was this mad. You whimper, legs beginning to shake as he leaned forward to shove you into a mating press. You really never knew when you pushed his buttons too far, but to keep riling him up all week without relief then moving when he wanted a kiss must have overloaded him.

“B-baaaabe!” you moan out, biting into his shoulder and shoving your hands under his shirt to tear his back apart. He grips the desk for support, laughing in your face about how quick he can make you a mess. He sucks a breath in, flinching at your nails and biting into your shoulder in return.

“Next time I’ll just stop wherever we are. Bend that ass over. And let everyone see you can’t go five seconds without. my. dick.” He slammed harder with each punctuation.

You whined and whimpered, drooling against his skin. You weren’t sure how much longer you could take him like this. You dig your nails into his back repeatedly, cumming against him as shaky moans left your mouth. He slammed into you a final time, pulling out and finishing on your bra. You sigh heavily, smiling up at him as you watched him scramble to find something to clean you off with.