summary: you've been in love with your best friend, miguel diaz, ever since he moved to queens. after spider-man saves you, you have your suspicions on who the masked hero might be.
note: so funny story, i found this edit on pinterest (i don't know who the original editor of this is im sorryyy) and it just gave me the idea to make this! i will also be writing for jaime reyes/blue beetle. i have an imagine in my drafts!
i will be basing miguel's spider-man on andrew garfield’s but apart from that it’ll be mostly similar to tom holland’s. will also be moving them from california to new york for obvious reasons.
miguel diaz was undoubtedly the most amazing person you ever met. so were your friends hawk and eli. although, there was something that set miguel aside from them.
maybe it was the way he always knew the right thing to say. or maybe that electricity that shocked you whenever you were walking next to each other and accidentally graze your hands together.
you looked up at miguel, his eyes fixed on samantha larusso. you knew he had a crush on her, even openly talking about it in the group during lunch.
it broke you. you weren't as rich as sam, you didn't consider yourself as beautiful as her, and you didn't think you were as smart as she was.
the bell loudly rang, snapping you out of your thoughts. you closed your books and shoved them inside your backpack, walking with miguel to the cafeteria where you both sat down and waited for hawk and demetri.
you took a sip from your chocolate milk, looking up to see miguel staring at you.
"don't tell me i have a milk moustache." you chuckle, raising your fingers to check your upper lip.
miguel chuckled and shook his head, "no, you look fine i was just uhh-" miguel looked past you, "just looking at those pigeons."
you looked back at the pigeons and furrowed your eyebrows, it was definitely strange. he wasn't looking at those pigeons, he was looking right at you.
"yeah, yeah... the pigeons." you nod.
hawk and demetri come at the moment, saving miguel from further embarassment.
hawk rambling about how he got into an argument with the history teacher, mr. arnold, over the assignment.
you weren't paying attention though, and by the looks of it neither was miguel, whose eyes you felt stare at you.
you look back at him and gave him a warm smile, pretending to listen to hawk, who by now was done with his rant. "anyways, i was thinking we could go to moon's party tonight?" hawk added.
"isn't it a school night?" you ask.
"well yeah, but that's how you know it's gonna be the cool people only. all the losers are gonna stay home studying." hawk replied.
demetri, miguel, and you looked at each other and then back at hawk.
"dude... we're all staying home and studying tonight, we have a math test tomorrow." demetri remarked.
"come on guys! we haven't done anything since like a month ago! demetri's always studying, (y/n)'s always working, and miguel is... well i don't know! what is it that you're always so busy with?" hawk asked.
miguel's shoulders went stiff as he looked around and stumbled for the right words, "i uhh- well i'm helping johnny out with his work."
you called bullshit. everytime one of you asked miguel to do something with him after school, he always used johnny as an excuse.
johnny was a nice guy tho. he and carmen had gone out on a disastrous date but by the end of it, she decided to give him another chance. ever since then, they had been absolutely inseparable.
"seriously, i think hawk's right. we need to hang out again! we always see each other in school and text but we should do something awesome together!"
the three boys agreed, "then it's settled, we'll do something this weekend."
miguel was gone before the final bell even rang. demetri, hawk, and you looked everywhere for him but like always he was nowhere to be found.
"screw it. let's just do study group at his house!" demetri exclaimed.
-
miguel's grandmother- or yaya, as he called her- answered the door, allowing the three of you in and offering a huge amount of food for all of you.
you sat down on miguel's bed, smelling strongly of him. you closed your eyes, a memory of the first time you met triggering you.
when miguel had just moved here, you were the first friend he made.
you lived in the building across to his and worked at the small coffee shop near those buildings.
miguel walked into the shop, quickly entranced by your beauty that he didn't notice you asking him what he wanted.
"sorry? oh yeah! i just wanted a donut please." he nervously smiled.
you nodded, "sure. what kind?"
"which do you recommend?" he inquired.
you leaned in closer, "between you and me. these are all stale and sort of disgusting. but the donut holes aren't so bad."
miguel laughed softly, "then i'll take some of those."
you nod, quickly ringing his order up. "alright, that'll be $6.29 please." you gave him a tight lipped smile.
miguel quickly took out a $10 dollar bill. while you handed him his change you looked up at him, "you're new here, aren't you?"
he nodded, his dark curls bouncing along. "yeah, how did you know?"
you shrugged, "it might be a very large city but we all know each other around this community." you retorted, "i'm (y/n), by the way." you offer your hand to shake his.
he looks at it before looking back at you and shaking it, "i'm miguel. nice to meet you, (y/n)."
you wrote down your number on a piece of paper, "i know it can get quite overwhelming around these parts. you know, being new here in such a big place. so if you ever wanna hang with me and my friends, you just give me a call."
a wide smile grew on miguel's lips, "that would be awesome! i'll definitely take you up on that offer. thanks a lot, (y/n)."
you nod, "it's no problem. see you around."
"(Y/N!)" demetri belted, “are you still with us?”
you cleared your throat, “yeah! i was just distracted, thinking about stuff.”
“they’re thinking about how they want to make out with miguel.” hawk butt in. you and demetri just groaned and shook your heads. you gently kicked him and went back to your work.
“oh look! spider-man just stopped a robbery at that convenience store we always go to.” demetri showed us his phone.
you and hawk leaned in, “he’s so cool.” you awed.
“dude, what’s your obsession with spider-man?” hawk asked.
“he saves the city, keeps all of us safe, and he’s got cool superpowers!” demetri replied defensively.
“seriously? anyone can do that. shit, i could do that!” hawk scoffed.
you shrugged, “i don’t know, dude. you’re really underestimating spider-man, he’s pretty cool.” you replied, “plus, i think it’s kind of heroic and hot what he does.”
“oooh, you’ve got it bad for spider-man, don’t you?” demetri teased.
you chuckled and shook your head, “no! well maybe yeah but it’s still super awesome!”
“you both are dorks.” hawk shook his head, going back on his phone to text whatever random person he was texting.
as you finished studying, hawk decided that he’d leave since he’s rather hang out with “hot babes” than two losers. demetri was next, his mom called him over for dinner.
that left you alone in miguel’s room. you stood up and yawned, stretching as you walked over to miguel’s mirror.
there was a picture of him hanging by the mirror. you sighed, “hey miguel. did you know i’m like probably deeply in love with you it’s pathetic? yeah, i know you like sam and you’ll probably never wanna see me again but… i just thought you should know that.”
it really was useless in your opinion. the way you were always pining over him when he was already pining for samantha larusso.
you sighed, packing up your stuff and saying goodbye to miguel’s yaya.
the thoughts of miguel still pestered your brain as you walked across the street, looking for your headphones. no matter how hard you tried, they wouldn’t go away. you didn’t even notice the reckless driver in front of you.
it wasn’t until you heard the horn only a few inches near you that you were absolutely paralyzed.
your thoughts quickly faded, chills ran through your body, and as much as you tried, you just couldn’t move out of the way.
was this really it? were you about to die without telling miguel how you felt? the butterflies he incinerated inside you?
a pair of arms swooped in, your legs left the ground and a small yell escaped your lips.
you landed on the sidewalk in front of your building. “holy shit! oh god, what the hell?” your breathing got faster and you felt like you could faint right here, right now.
your eyes darted in front of spider-man, who had his hamds around your waist. “(y/n)! are you alright? that was really close!”
your eyebrows furrowed and you nodded, feeling something extremely familiar about spider-man. “yeah! i think i’m alright- wait, how do you know my name?”
spider-man froze, “well uhh- oh! i know your friend, miguel! i’ve heard lots of good things about you.”
an idea clicked into your head, “oh, you know miguel? tan skin, dark curly hair, and extremely handsome?” you fought the smirk that threatened to form your lips.
“y-yeah! yeah, that’s him! you think he’s handsome?” he asked.
you nodded, “totally. he’s so handsome, intelligent, and charming. but don’t tell him i told you that!”
spider-man nodded in reply, “of course! your uh, your secret’s totally safe with me.” he chuckled.
you heard a gunshots and sirens coming down from the street. “i gotta go! just stay safe and look both ways before crossing, okay?” spider-man yelled as his hands ripped from your waist.
“bye spidey! thanks for saving me!” you waved, watching as the masked hero swung away.
maybe you were a bit woozy from almost getting splattered across the street but you were 100% sure of this.
SUMMARY: aerion, against all better judgment, has allowed himself to grow accustomed to you, so when you disappear without warning, he's flung into a blind (desperate) rage. when he learns that this is an annual occurrence in preparation for the anniversary of your exile, he becomes determined to learn the truth of what happened back then.
WARNINGS: fem!reader, reader comes from valyrian lineage but no physical traits are mentioned/described, tw aerion pov (unhinged as ever) brief mentions of slavery in Volantis, brief mention of child death, aphrodisiacs, reader slaps aerion, dubcon-ish (he makes her take more of the aphrodisiac because she doesn't seem as affected as he is, brief oral (f!receiving), the high valyrian is not properly translated because we don’t know the words for the words I needed so bear with me LOL, switch!reader, switch!aerion
AUTHOR'S NOTES: PART FOURRRR I actually had a lot of fun with this installment. It's a bit heavier, because reader is going through it during the anniversary of her exile, REST ASSURED the next part they get back to their regularly scheduled games and taunting, but I felt like two installments highlighting the emotional progression of their relationship was very necessary because the two of them are rapidly falling for one another in spite of Aerion's many insistences that he hates her, and I thought it would be neat to center it around reader and the reasons behind her exile. Anyway, comments and reblogs always appreciated! I hope you guys enjoy!
READ: SAUDADE
You are avoiding him again.
Aerion paces the length of his solar irritably, waiting for Magister Vyrano to arrive. He has worn a groove into the mosaic floor these past three days, stalking from balcony to hearth and back again like a caged beast. The torches along the wall gutter in the late afternoon light, their flames bending in the draft from the open arches.
One moon.
One entire moon of relative peace.
A month of wild laughter and biting kisses, of stolen afternoons on sun-warmed rocks and nights tangled in silk and sweat, of games that have begun to feel less like battles and more like something dangerously close to companionship. He had almost grown accustomed to it—your voice at his shoulder, arms around his waist, fingers threaded through his hair, the infuriating smile when you won whatever invisible contest you’d devised for the day and the softer one when you think he’s not looking.
He had almost grown accustomed to you.
And now, you are gone. Again.
You did not attend the feast at Magister Aeripharos Stassah’s manse two nights ago, despite the fact that you’ve been attending most all recent ones just to walk in on his arm, so he was left alone to make conversation about the seasonal spices and the troupe from Braavos that has recently arrived in Lys for a show. The First Magister claims you have taken ill, but refuses to let him visit you in his manse. Your whores claim not to have seen you, and he thinks they are being honest this time. The harbor brats flee whenever he approaches.
Aerion knows the truth: you are avoiding him. Again.
His knuckles whiten against the railing of the balcony, staring out at the pale domes of Lys, anger flaring hot and fast. He had done nothing wrong—not this time. He had not driven you off. He knows it. There were no beachside declarations of independence or grand speeches about how dragons belong to no one.
He has been tolerable. More than tolerable—more than you deserve, since you’re clearly ungrateful. He lets you curl against him in Vyrano’s gardens while musicians play softly and lanternlight paints gold across your skin. He indulges your games and chases and hunts, and your smug little smiles while you slip between tongues mid-sentence just to watch him react to your High Valyrian. He walks beside you through the central market like some common lord escorting his betrothed, ignoring the looks the two of you received. He wears the steel you gifted him openly at his throat, letting people look, and whisper, and make assumptions.
And now, you are gone. Again.
He had thought it another one of your hunts at first when he’d woken up to a cool bed and you nowhere to be found. He wandered down to the square like a fool with mild irritation and the faintest hint of anticipation, expecting to feel your eyes on him from some rooftop perch, expecting a harbor boy to scatter too quickly or a courtesan to smirk too knowingly. But he was met with nothing—no trails, no whispers, no glimpse of silk vanishing around the corner.
By midday, he was seriously irritated, and by evening, it had curdled into something darker, but he told himself still that it was just one of your games, even as he returned to Vyrano’s manse alone. He expected you in his chambers, lounging in his bed with a maddening smile, pleased with yourself for having outmaneuvered him.
But you were not there, and when the next morning came, you were still gone.
Now, on the third day, this game no longer feels clever, and no longer feels fun. The irritation and anticipation have shifted into something vile and churning, and he is aching with a need to release his frustration onto something.
If you think you can vanish at whim—if you think you can toy with him like one of your silk boys, he thinks furiously, then you seriously forget who you are dealing with.
The doors creak open at last. Aerion will not accept evasions and half-answers this time.
“My prince,” Magister Vyrano begins cautiously as he enters the solar, rings glinting in the torchlight. “You requested—”
“Where is she?” Aerion cuts in without turning.
Silence stretches.
“I am not certain to whom you refer,” Vyrano says smoothly.
Aerion pivots sharply, violet eyes burning. “Do not insult me.”
The magister inclines his head faintly. “I would never insult a prince of the blood.”
“You insult me every time you lie.”
The magister’s smile tightens. “My prince, Lys is full of women.”
“There is only one who concerns me.”
Vyrano studies him, calculating. He hates the way the man measures him—he is always measuring him—looking for cracks and leverage, wondering if there’s something between you and Aerion that he can use against him. He forces his shoulders to settle, temper leashed by sheer will. He hates this fucking island of snakes and hyenas; he almost forgot how agonizing it was dealing with these people during the past moon he’s spent with you. It’s all so much more bearable with you at his side.
“She has not been seen at courtly functions,” Vyrano says what Aerion already knows, and his eye twitches. “Her household claims she is indisposed.”
“Indisposed,” Aerion repeats mockingly.
“A seasonal fever, perhaps.”
Aerion hates Lys.
“If she is ill,” Aerion replies, voice cold, smile poisonous, “then the First Magister would have sent for the finest physicians. Yet no such summons has been issued.”
The magister does not reply, and Aerion’s skin itches as the silence draws on.
“Is she being sent away?” Aerion demands abruptly, and he hates that he feels as though there’s a lump in his throat, an ache in his chest just at the thought. Damn you, he should’ve just fucking killed you and been done with it. He doesn’t like whatever this is that has him feeling so bothered by your absence. He should not care—he should go find a whore to fuck and bide his time until you return, not pace his solar agitatedly for days on end. “Well?”
Vyrano frowns. “Sent away?”
“Back to Volantis?”
The words taste bitter in his mouth.
“I have heard no such arrangements,” Vyrano replies, only partially putting him at ease, because if you haven’t been brought back home, that means you really are avoiding him, and Aerion is at a loss as to why. “If the Old Blood intended her return, the harbor would not be quiet about it.”
His teeth grind together. Aerion turns his back on the magister, facing the balcony again, mind assembling all of the possibilities whether he wishes it to or not: Volantis recalled you and word has not spread yet, you’ve left for a new Free City to spend your exile in, you grew bored of him and you found a better dragon to toy with. The last thought sends heat surging through him so violently that he nearly laughs—impossible, there is no other dragon, only him, he’s the only one enough for you.
And yet, it is not enough to quell the uncertainty that suddenly spreads through him, mind tracking back to the last few days he spent with you before you disappeared. Searching for some careless word he might’ve said, or some shift in your expression that he might’ve missed. You had seemed more restless than usual, gaze tracking out toward the east whenever conversation lulled, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. You laughed at something trivial in Vyrano’s garden three nights ago as you lay between his legs, and you argued with him over nothing the day before that, insisting that ghost grass has begun to spread across the Dothraki Sea and is soon to consume the world, so it’s good that the two of you are confined to this island—so earnest that Aerion had started to believe you until you burst into laughter. Nothing out of the usual, nothing that might have indicated you were tiring of him.
“You may go,” he says abruptly, dismissing Vyrano in his own manse, but the man does not move, and Aerion gives him an irritated look over his shoulder.
“My prince,” Vyrano says after a moment, clearing his throat. “It is not… unusual for her to disappear this time of year. I am sure she will return soon.”
Aerion’s head snaps around. “What does that mean?” he demands, furious that the man didn’t lead with this.
Vyrano exhales through his nose, as though weighing how much to say, and Aerion has half a mind to put a blade against his throat just to show him the consequences of lying to and stringing along a prince of the blood. He refrains, if only barely.
“Five years ago, to the day, she arrived in Lys,” Vyrano says after a moment, and Aerion blinks once, “on a ship that did not fly Volantene colors, though every magister in this city knew precisely whose daughter stepped onto our docks.” His gaze flicks briefly to the Valyrian steel resting at Aerion’s throat before returning to his face. “She has never attended a feast during this week, but she always returns on the seventh day as though nothing occurred. You need not fret.”
“I am not fretting,” Aerion scoffs, teeth grinding together, ignoring the curious looks Vyrano directs toward him. He then prods, tone clipped, “She isolates herself?”
“She withdraws,” Vyrano corrects. “She dismisses her attendants. Refuses visitors. Even the First Magister does not intrude.” A pause. “It is… understood.”
As though it were a ritual. As though the entire city knew to let the Volantene dragonling lick her wounds in private. It does not suit you. It does not suit you at all, and it makes him furious.
Aerion bristles at the implication. “She does not seem so burdened as to need to withdraw.”
He thinks of you lounging on the sun-warmed rock. He thinks of you curled at his side. He thinks of your taunting smiles and antagonizing laughs, the way you provoke him like it’s sport, have him hunt you through the day and chase you through the night, and kiss him like you can’t decide if you want to fuck him or kill him. It does not suit you. The idea of you needing to withdraw, of the whole island being aware of this weakness. Aerion hates it. Aerion hates you.
“Appearances,” Vyrano says mildly, “are a specialty of hers.”
His eye twitches, and then he asks clipped, “Why was she exiled?”
Vyrano presses his lips together. “That, my prince, is not my story to tell.”
Aerion scoffs, turning away again, teeth grinding together as he tries to process what he’s just been told. He does the calculation without meaning to—five years ago, you would’ve been seven and ten, a year younger than he is now. Young and freshly furious, he imagines. Not yet polished into the languid creature who lounges on velvet cushions and laughs at princes.
He imagines you stepping onto the docks—alone, angry, proud enough not to show it. He imagines the whispers that must have followed you, the same way they do him. The calculation and the measuring and magisters trying to pawn off sons and brothers. He imagines you alone in a foreign manse, on the first night, with no one to mock and no one to spar with; the bored expression on your face as you let a magister’s son kiss you and courtesans paw at you just to pass the time.
He thinks of the day in the market when the merchant tried to slip him poison under the guise of flattery, and the way you diverted his lapse of temper on a holy day so he could avoid the consequences of it, and he wonders if you had someone to look after you in your early years of exile, or if you had to sharpen your own claws through trial and error.
“She was seven and ten when she arrived,” the magister adds, as though to appease his curiosity. “Whatever occurred in Volantis, it was not a trivial matter. Even we only know whispers and rumors, they have been careful to keep the story within their walls. The Old Blood does not cast out daughters lightly, especially ones of her standing.”
Aerion presses his tongue to the back of his teeth, curiosity eating him alive. What could you have done? Why is it so under wraps? Aerion is pretty sure the whole world must know why he was exiled—certainly all of Westeros, and certainly all of Lys—but Aerion hadn’t even heard whispers of a Volantene noble being exiled from the Black Walls. His first instinct would be to assume that it’s because you’re not a high-standing noble, but he knows very well that’s not the case.
Still, he fishes for more information with: “Her standing?”
For a second, Aerion thinks that Vyrano will only hit him with another evasive answer, but the man finally sighs and says, “Her father is one of the Triarchs.”
———————
The manse had not yielded easily.
The First Magister’s guards had attempted civility first—polite refusals and bowed heads as they told him that you were not receiving visitors. Aerion had dispensed with civility after the third repetition. Steel speaks more cleanly than Lysene riddles, and he learned, valuably, that the Lyseni have been instructed not to draw their weapons on him, which will be useful in the future.
Now, the doors to your chamber hang open behind him, one hinge cracked from the force of his irritation over this whole situation. Aerion stands in the threshold, chest rising and falling rapidly, the last of his temper still burning hot in his veins.
You know he’s there—he was not subtle in nearly bringing down your door—but you keep your back to him, looking out over the balcony to the east. To Volantis, he recognizes after a moment, lips thinned as he presses them together. He figures you’re not going to say something until he does, but he assumed that you would speak first, angry that he’d interrupted your isolation, that he’d fought past guards and servants to get to you when you do not want to be seen.
Instead, you are just silent, and he is left uncertain, words forming on his tongue and falling away because he isn’t quite sure what to say.
Look at me.
This is unbefitting of you.
Why didn’t you tell me?
The last one tastes sour, feels too desperate, so he shuts it down with a more vile: you look pathetic, on his tongue, but you speak before he can let it loose.
“Do you know how the Volantene execute traitors?” you suddenly ask from the balcony, back still facing him. Aerion stares at you once, blinking, but you continue before he’s even processed the question. “It is considered the most grievous crime in Volantis—to betray the old blood. Worse than murder. Worse than rape. Those crimes stain a single life. Treason stains a lineage.”
Aerion is not sure if he likes the direction of this. “No,” he answers after a moment, voice level and wary. “I do not make a habit of studying Volantene punishments.”
“The Triarchs do not soil themselves with the blade,” you continue as though he hadn’t spoken at all. “Execution by sword is too clean. Too quick. It leaves the traitor with dignity in death. Instead, they are brought to the Ivory Yard, before the assembled houses. The family stands present on the dais and does not intervene. The blood must witness its own correction.”
Aerion does not move. “And then?”
“They bind the traitor to the ground. Ankles and wrists shackled with chains thick as a man’s arm. Each limb is fastened to a separate elephant. The beasts are goaded,” you continue, voice steady in a way that unsettles him more than if it trembled. “Slowly at first. They strain. The chains pull taut. The body resists, until it can’t anymore.”
Aerion’s fingers curl at his sides.
“It is considered fitting,” you finish quietly. “The body is divided, as their loyalty was. I watched it happen for the first time when I was ten. The man—boy—was seventeen, from a rival house. He refused an arranged marriage because he fell in love with a slave girl. She was with child, and he wished to marry her.” There’s something wry in your voice as you continue. “Sullying the blood—a very grievous form of treason. They killed the girl in front of him before they forced him to his knees in the Ivory Yard. The elephants walked for so long that the boy’s blood and entrails stained the marble for a mile.”
You exhale, and then you turn to look at him. There’s a smile on your face, but it is much like the ones you cast toward courtesans and magisters’ sons when you are indulging their attention, when you wish to be anywhere but. His stomach inexplicably flips, tongue pressing to the back of his teeth.
He finds that he dislikes it when it is directed toward him.
“Magister Lorento is hosting a revel,” you say. “Let’s attend.”
Aerion blinks, half wondering if he misheard you. “What?” he asks flatly. “But—”
“Let’s attend,” you say again, making your way over to him. Aerion only stares at you as you grab his bicep, pulling him along with you out of your chambers. “It’ll be fun. I think this is the first one the island has had since you arrived. You ought not miss it.”
Aerion does not move, brows furrowing, because you must have some play right now, and he can’t figure out what it is. Why were you prattling about Volantene execution methods for traitors, and now you’re talking about going to a revel? Gods, you don’t ever make any sense, and Aerion is always struggling to keep up with you, but he has a feeling he’s made a mistake somehow; he just doesn’t know how or what.
“Aerion,” you say when he doesn’t seem keen on joining you, and he almost startles at the sound of his given name on your tongue—not a teasing prince or little dragon. He thinks this is the first time you’ve said it, and he would like the sound of it rolling off your tongue were it not for the severity behind it. “Let’s attend.”
His teeth grind together as his gaze meets yours, and he lets out a sharp breath through his nose.
“Fine,” he agrees. “Let’s attend.”
———————
He was separated from you soon after your arrival at the revel.
Bitterly, he realizes that must have been your plan—you were cornered in your chambers, had nowhere to go but to answer to him, so you manufactured a situation where you’d be able to escape him. He doubts you’re even still here; you probably slipped away from Lorento’s manse as soon as the two of you were separated.
He swats a hand off his bicep as he makes his way to the back of the manse, doing one final sweep to find you, just to make sure, before he storms back to the First Magister’s manse in a fit of righteous fury.
This whole place reeks, and Aerion can hardly push through the crowds of intoxicated nobles and courtesans to move around. Incense hangs thick enough in the air to make him dizzy, clinging to the back of his throat with every breath. Even when he steps out of the building into the night air, he cannot seem to find fresh air.
Where the fuck are you?
His gaze scans the back of his manse. Men lounge on low cushions strewn across mosaic floors, bracelets chiming as they reach for grapes and skin, and courtesans draped in gold and feathers drift between rooms like fucking peacocks, jewels glittering at their temples, their throats, between their breasts. He has half a mind to rip them off and shove them down their throats. They laugh loud as they press goblets to noble lips, fingers trailing deliberately over silk sleeves and rings heavy with gemstones, and it gives him a headache.
It is fucking suffocating, and Aerion feels eyes on him everywhere he turns, agitated and on the verge of losing his temper. The only thing that stops him is that they can all see him losing control.
The eyes on him feel like blades poking at his skin, cold water to his face, even as something hotter coiled in his chest—humiliation, maybe. He is hyperaware of the tightness in his jaw and the jittery feeling spreading through his body. Aerion does not lose control, but he can hear their whispers now, wondering how long it’ll take for him to snap, each one wishing to be the one to send word back to his father. They’re all waiting for the famed temper, waiting for the mad dragon to bare his teeth and give him a story to send back across the Narrow Sea. He will not give them the satisfaction.
He hates them, he hates Lys, he hates—
Paranoia flares hot and bright; his gaze sweeps around again, inexplicably seeking you out. It enrages him.
He hates you. He hates you. He hates you.
He desperately needs to settle down, but his thoughts are plagued with the thought of you. How dare you bring him here just to leave? How dare you make him grow accustomed to you and then disappear as though he were nothing more than another toy to be set aside when you tire of it? How dare you make him feel as though he isn’t alone on this perfumed prison, only to abandon him in a room full of enemies?
He hates himself most of all, because why did he ever allow himself to grow comfortable? Why did he let the edge dull? He knew what you were from the first day—quick and restless, a bird that refused to be caged. He should’ve kept you at arm’s length, should have treated you as he treats everything else, useless and amusing, but most of all, disposable.
Instead, knowing what you are, he still grabbed your face and told you that you were his.
Instead, somewhere between hunts and chases, nights tangled in silk sheets and bodies pressed together, he had let you close enough to matter.
Fuck, he thinks furiously. If it’s distance you want, he should give it to you—give you distance so vast it chokes, so vast that when you come crawling back at last, there’s nothing left.
His teeth grind so hard his jaw aches, and he has to force himself to stay still. A prince does not stalk like a jilted lover. A prince does not allow a woman to make him look foolish before a hall full of silk-clad vipers waiting to stick their venom into him. A prince is above it all—above you. A prince can bed a woman and walk away untouched. A prince can laugh and drink and indulge and never feel the weight of it after. He had done so before. He could do so again. He could.
If you think you can ruin him with a disappearance—if you think he will rage and roar and tear down half of Lys because you slipped through his fingers—you misjudge him.
But gods, he wants to, and he hates that most of all.
He swats another feathered hand from his arm, irritation simmering dangerously close to the surface. He lied—he hates the fucking feathers most of all. He wishes to pluck them and stick the quills into their eyes. He hates Lys. He hates you.
“I have no interest,” he says sharply when a woman with gold dust brushed across her cheek attempts to loop herself around his waist.
“Let me please you, my prince,” the woman insists, and Aerion’s eye twitches as her fingers slide down his abdomen. This would never happen in Westeros. No one touched him unless he gave his express permission. “You seem tense.”
For a heartbeat, he considers snapping the offending digits—just to remind this perfumed court that he is not one of their silk-draped ornaments, that he is a dragon and should not be pawed at as though he’s anything less, but he refrains and opts instead to grab her wrist hard enough that her laughter cuts off abruptly.
“I said I have no interest,” he says, voice low and edged with something that makes her smile falter at last. He releases her with a shove that sends her stumbling back into a cluster of giggling companions. They whisper as he turns away, but none reach for him again.
He pushes deeper into the rear of the manse, past the open archways and trailing silks, past the last ring of musicians whose drums thud heavy and slow. The incense thins the farther he goes, replaced by night air, and Aerion can finally breathe again, temper cooling at last. He rolls his shoulders once, jaw unclenching as the suffocating press of bodies finally loosens its grip.
Where the fuck are you?
Why is he still seeking you out?
He makes his way into the garden, following the paths between tall hedges, sandals crunching over fallen leaves and white petals that release a faint sweetness beneath his feet. The noise of the revel dies behind him, swallowed by the hedges' height, and the garden shifts as he moves deeper—the paths narrow, and the cypress grow taller, the lanterns cast long, distorted shadows that make the carved marble nymphs almost look alive.
He realizes once he comes to a split in the path that this is no open garden—it is a maze.
His eyes slide shut in irritation, and he bites back a heavy sigh. He will find you at the center of it. He knows that for certain. You and your fucking games. He should turn and leave, shouldn’t give you what you want, shouldn’t chase, but his feet move before he can turn in the opposite direction. He doesn’t hesitate long at the split, turning left and not giving himself the chance to second-guess his decision. The air is cooler here, at least, damp with watered earth and flowers from Yi Ti that only bloom in the night.
It doesn’t take long for him to find where the maze opens, and he considers whether it’s just a simple maze, sheer luck, or if he’d been drawn to where you were waiting. He doesn’t like the idea of relying on luck, but he knows Magister Lorento well enough to know that nothing about this man and his manse is simple, and he likes the idea of being instinctively drawn to you even less.
You are there at the center, as he expects.
Aerion pauses at the threshold, gaze trailing over where you’re lying against the marble, fingers tracing through the pool of water on your left. You look beautiful beneath the moonlight, and something catches in the back of Aerion’s throat the longer he stares at you, anger slipping away. Your head falls to the side when you hear his arrival, and your lips curl up as though you expected him.
Of course, you did, he thinks bitterly, half-inclined to storm back the way he came, knowing he won’t.
“Took you long enough, dragon prince,” you say after a moment, voice distinctly lacking the playful tease he’s become used to. “Come.”
“Do you think it’s amusing to leave me to suffer through that alone?” he asks, voice tight, making his way over to you. His temper should still be blazing, he thinks, furious at the betrayal—it had been, moments ago, hot and vicious and clean, but now it feels muddled, tangled up with something far more infuriating.
“I think,” you say, turning your head back up to look at the night sky, “that you look particularly murderous when surrounded by feathers. That amuses me. I have never seen a man with such a strong aversion to them.”
A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him before he can suppress it.
He hates you.
“This place is suffocating,” he mutters, coming to sit near you, back against one of the marble statues decorating the small pavilion, an arm draped over his knee, head tilted to the side as he looks down at you. “Why did you run off?”
You don’t answer right away. Then, instead of answering his question, you ask, “Why did you come to find me when everyone told you I wished to be alone?” He stares down at you for a moment. Your gaze finally shifts over to him. “To mock?”
He doesn’t like the way his stomach inexplicably twists at the accusation.
“You think I came to mock you for it?” he scoffs. He’s not sure why the idea of you thinking that bothers him so much, but he shoves it away.
“You enjoy provoking me,” you say at last. “I thought perhaps you wished to see what I look like without teeth.”
“You are the one who provokes. I did not come for games,” he mutters. “I came because you were gone.”
“And?” you prompt softly.
His pride rears, furious at the trap he’s walked into, but he does not retreat.
“And I did not like it,” he finishes, blunt and unpolished.
You exhale, as though considering his words, and you turn your gaze back up to the night sky. After a moment, you admit, “I do not like being seen when I am… less.”
Aerion scoffs again, harsher this time. “You are not less. You are as infuriating as you are any other day.”
You laugh at that, and Aerion hates most of all the way it makes the tension bleed from his shoulders. You’re looking at him again, an unreadable expression on your face, and then you hold your hand out to him. You say quietly, “Come closer.”
“I am already close,” he mutters, but he shifts anyway, drawn in despite himself until his legs are brushing yours.
A part of himself rears in disgust at the casual touch, at how easily his body answers to yours. He is accustomed to proximity only when it serves a purpose—when it ends in teeth and kisses and silk twisted in fists. This feels much like that night you brought him out to that cove in the storm, knee-to-knee beneath the moon, skin pressed for no purpose other than closeness, and it feels much more dangerous, like a blade pressed to his throat, but not quite breaking skin but threatening to.
“Closer,” you say again, and he hesitates, staring at you, trying to determine what it is you want from him, but he can’t figure out what you’re plotting. He exhales through his nose and shifts closer still, watching as you reach out to him once he’s close enough, fingers wrapping around his wrist to pull him nearer still.
“What is it that you want? Haven’t you put me through enough torment tonight already?” he asks, a bit on edge as your hand slides up his arm to the back of his neck, dragging him until he’s half hovering over you. His gaze instinctively slips down to your lips when he feels your breath on his, and he notices that you’re smiling slightly—it still does not reach your eyes.
Your free hand moves over to the marble ledge at your side. He watches, suspicion flickering back to life as your fingers find a small carved dish half-hidden in shadow. White-gold powder rests within it, fine as sifted flour, faintly shimmering in the lanternlight.
“What are you doing?” he asks suspiciously, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Something very Lysene,” you reply.
“That inspires no confidence.” His gaze sharpens as you gather some of the powder on your fingers. “If this is an attempt at poisoning me, it is a poor one. I would be disappointed.”
“It is not poison,” you say mildly. “It is indulgence.”
He squints at you, unconvinced.
“It will make you warmer,” you elaborate. “Looser. Less inclined to bite.”
His brow arches. “I do not require assistance in that regard.”
“I beg to differ,” you say dryly, “but I digress. I require it tonight, and I would prefer not to take it alone.”
He exhales through his nose, but when his gaze meets yours again, he nods, and you lean up, one hand still cradling the back of his head, lifting the other with the fine powder scooped onto the tips of your fingers. You lift it to his mouth, and Aerion’s lips part; two fingers brush his lower lip as you press the powder to his tongue, and he closes his mouth around your fingers, tongue dragging against your skin, swirling around the digits, tasting the sickly sweetness of it, pointedly holding eye contact with you.
Your breath catches, and Aerion likes the way your eyes widen slightly, likes the way that the dullness in your eyes finally slips away. His lips curl up smugly around your fingers before he releases them, licking up the length of them one last time as he sits up again, looking down at you.
Your pupils are larger than they usually are as you look up at him, eyes glittering prettily beneath the moonlight, and Aerion’s chest feels tight. He blames it on whatever you just made him take, not on the way you’re looking at him.
“You are playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs.
“You always say that.”
“And you never listen.”
It’s already working its way through him—he didn’t anticipate that it would hit him so quickly. He can feel his shoulders loosening, the slowness of his heartbeat, the way his gaze involuntarily slips down to your body and the sheer chiffon you wear, lingering on your chest, your hips, the way the silks shift as you move closer to him. He can feel the warmth of your body through the fabric, and his fingers reach out before he can stop himself, recognizing the shape of your body before he’s even realized he’s moved, tracing up your thigh, palming the curve of your hip. His throat bobs as he swallows, fingers tightening, heat fogging his head.
“Is it dangerous,” you ask lightly, “to ask questions tonight?”
His brow furrows faintly. “That depends on the question.”
His gaze flicks up to you, calculating, watching as you hum lightly. You shift closer to him, and Aerion stiffens as you rest your shoulders and head in his lap, eyes sliding shut as you nuzzle close to his hip. He inhales sharply, jaw tightening as he tries to steady himself. His hand is still curved around your waist, fingers flexing involuntarily when you shift. He is far too aware of the warmth of you through the thin chiffon, of the slow drag of your breath against his skin.
The powder you gave him burns hot in his veins, aching, and he’s hardly breathing as you slide his silks to the side, letting them slip off his shoulders, kissing slowly up his toned abdomen until you’ve shifted so that you’re sitting in his lap, legs loose around his hips, arms draped around his shoulders. He shudders when you drag your tongue against his clavicle, hips rolling languidly over his stiff cock.
Shit, he thinks, breath already too ragged for his liking. Your skin feels like flame on his, hands sliding up and down his abdomen; his head lolls back instinctively to give you better access, lips parting as you graze your teeth over his pulse.
“How long?” you finally ask, lips brushing the crook of his neck. His lashes flutter, barely processing the question, too consumed by the fire rapidly spreading through his body, how his cock twitches in his pants.
“For what?” he asks after pausing a moment, blinking hard to try to focus. Irritably, he notices that you look much more present than he feels, and he wonders if you even took the powder you gave him, or if your excuse of needing it was just a trick to get him to take it.
“For this,” you say. “Lys. Your exile.”
His jaw tightens, anger flaring hot, tangling messily with desire. He hadn’t even realized his hand drifted up to your hair, but he grips it hard, pulling your head back to force you to look at him. He does not want to think about that—not his father, not his exile, not the Trial of the Seven. You are a conniving whore, he thinks furiously, drugging him with that powder so you can pry into something he would ordinarily not want to discuss.
He hisses, “That is not your concern.”
“How long?” you ask again, more insistently this time. “Humor me.”
Aerion’s nostrils flare as he inhales. “I was not given a number,” he says through his teeth. “I will return when it suits my father, when my absence has proven its point, and I am more useful at his side than discarded across the sea. Why does this matter now?”
Something flashes across your face that he can’t quite catch, lips pressed tight, gaze sliding to the side—disappointment? Gods, he doesn’t even know how you’re thinking right now—his body feels so wound tight and lax at the same time that he feels as though he’s going crazy. His attention flicks to the bowl on your left, accusingly.
“I was only curious,” you finally tell him. “It doesn’t matter.”
His gaze cuts back to you, assessing. You are lying—he can tell—but he doesn’t know why you’re lying, why you’re asking. Paranoia briefly takes hold again, wondering if you’re some sort of spy of his father’s, or worse, one of the Blackfyres’. He knows the bastards are still out there biding their time—are you in league with them? Trying to get more information on what’s happening in the inner workings of House Targaryen to report back to them?
Aerion isn’t accustomed to being wanted without motive. He has been desired, yes—coveted, chosen for advantage, and spectacle, and proximity to the Iron Throne. He was raised in a court where affection is currency, and loyalty shifts with the wind. Women have smiled at him because of his name, and men have bowed because of his blood, but this is not that. And it would make sense, he tells himself—the way you latched onto him, the way you do not flee when he bares his teeth. No one stays simply because they enjoy the heat of him; no one likes being burned. There is always something to be gained from standing near a dragon.
His heart is racing in his chest, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the way you’re kissing his neck and rolling your hips or if it’s the dawning realization that all of his initial suspicions about you might have been correct.
He hates you. He hates you. He wants you—
His breath catches, teeth clamping down on his bottom lip to bite back a moan that nearly rips from his lips when one of your hands slips beneath the waistband of his silks, fingers wrapping around his cock. His eyes roll back slightly when you run your thumb over his tip, stroking him slowly as you kiss under his jaw.
“You do not seem half as affected as I do,” he spits out, accusatory, pride and embarrassment and anger rearing when his hips jerk and he lets out a choked noise. He reaches haphazardly for the bowl, dipping his fingers in and holding it to your lips. “Suck.”
You only look amused. “I cannot take more,” you say. “I will—”
You choke when he shoves his fingers into your mouth, deep into the back of your throat. Your eyes prick with tears as he presses down hard on your tongue, making you gag slightly. Your hand comes up to his wrist, trying to pull out his fingers, but he holds you in place, raising his eyebrows, waiting for you to swallow.
After a few long moments, you do, and he finally releases you, fingers sliding from your mouth. Instantly, you slap him so hard that his head snaps to the side. He stares at the hedges, so stunned by the taste of his own blood in his mouth that he can’t even muster anger.
“Idiot,” you spit furiously. “I already took it.”
He is still staring at the hedge when your words register.
Slowly, he turns his head back toward you. You’re blinking rapidly now through a wrathful glare, chest rising and falling at an erratic pace. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, throat spasming.
“I told you,” you hiss, “I required it. Not you.”
He sneers, still shocked. “You seemed perfectly clear-headed,” he bites back, pride still stinging more than his cheek. “Forgive me for assuming you meant to dull only me.”
“I have been taking it for five years,” you snarl. “I am more used to its effects than you. That does not mean I am less affected, only better in control of it.”
Aerion finds that there’s something fascinating in your anger. He should be indignant at the way you are speaking to him, furious at the fact that you dared to lay hands on a prince of the blood, but all he can manage is a slow, heated exhale.
Your chest is heaving, and your eyes are bright and full of rage, lips still slick with spit from how he’d shoved his fingers in. He has never seen you angry before—teasing, taunting, playful, bored, amused. You have been the bane of his existence wrapped in fine silks and dangerous smiles, but never angry. Aerion had almost thought you incapable of it, and yet, here you are.
His tongue presses to the inside of his cheek where you’d slapped him, and he finds himself almost—is he smiling?
He should remind you of who he is, who you just struck, but instead, he finally says slowly, “You struck me,” voice riddled with disbelief, tasting the truth of the words as though he still can’t believe it.
“Yes,” you snap, “and I would do it again.”
The heat in his blood surges, breath leaves his mouth in ragged pants. Aerion wants you—Aerion hates you. Aerion has never felt so strongly about anyone in his life; his fingers twitch for the dagger he keeps hidden on his forearm and for your body at the same time.
“You asked about my exile,” he forces out, defensively. “You drug me. You press. What would you have me think?”
“You are an idiot,” you spit again.
Before he can take insult, you press your lips to his, hands coming up to hold his cheeks, tilting his head back to deepen the kiss. Aerion lets out a low moan into your mouth, tasting the sweetness of the powder he forced you to consume before he bites down hard on your lower lip, drawing blood as you did to him. His hands find purchase on your hips as he drags you impossibly closer, until your chest is flush to his and your cunt slides against his cock.
Shit, he thinks, eyes snapping open when his tip slides between your soaked folds, thighs tensing, heat spreading through him so rapidly that he’s not sure if he’ll be able to stop himself from teetering over the edge.
One of his hands immediately flies to the base of his cock, squeezing hard. He breaks his lips from yours to look down, eyes wide and something too close to a whimper spilling from his lips before he can catch it when he sees that your cunt is dripping, slick leaking down your thighs, staining the silk of his pants.
“Fuck—” he breathes, gaze snapping up to meet yours, but you grab his wrist when he’s not expecting it, forcing his grip off his cock. A wave of panic hits him, “Stop, I’ll—”
Aerion’s voice breaks over a sob, abdomen spasming and shoulders curving inward. He presses his face into your chest, jaw agape as he finishes after barely having been touched. His cheeks burn with humiliation—he doesn’t even want to look up from where he’s hidden himself, but he feels your fingers knot in his hair, yanking his face from your chest.
He can’t hold your gaze. He doesn’t even want to know what he must look like—he can feel the blood and spit smeared on his lips, the heat in his cheeks, and they only burn hotter the longer you stare at him. Did he seriously just—
After a moment, you tilt his face down, forcing him to look down. He feels dizzy at the sight of his cum painted all over your cunt, dribbling down your thighs, and then—
Is he still hard?
His gaze flicks up to you, incomprehensive, and then slowly over to the bowl he spilt in his frantic attempt to force it down your throat. You grab his cheeks and make him look you in the eye.
“I had taken enough for it to wear off at the same time,” you say through gritted teeth. “I hope you are ready to put that vicious tongue of yours to work once it wears off for you, because I will not nearly be sated.”
Aerion doesn’t respond, still panting, still processing, and his mind goes blank when you press your lips to his again, not quite as violently this time. He sighs lightly into your mouth as you kiss him slowly, tongue dragging against his inner lip. His hands drag up your sides, fingers pressing into your skin as you finally sink down on his cock—you let out a breathy noise into his mouth, and Aerion’s jaw falls partially slack at the feeling of your tight heat wrapped around him.
You kiss him again, again, nipping at his bottom lip before kissing him deeper, you do it over and over and over again, until he’s dizzy from the taste of you, the feel of you, until that pleasant heat has him so fogged that he can’t even think. Your nails scratch lightly against his scalp, and he lets out a low moan against you as you start to roll your hips.
“Aōha orvorta iksin vēttan syt nyke,” he groans, eyes rolling back when he feels your walls flutter around him. “Sīr ȳrda—bāne—qrugh!”
Your cunt was made for me. So tight—warm—shit!
His hips jerk when you gasp abruptly into his mouth, back arching into him, thighs tensing, body trembling beneath his touch. Aerion is almost lightheaded at the feeling of you falling apart on his cock so quickly, grip tightening on your hips as he maneuvers you onto your back, forearms braced on the cool stone at either side of your head.
You stare up at him, whatever the powder is clearly in full effect now—sharp, playful eyes uncharacteristically hazy, unfocused as you trace along his face, chest rising and falling rapidly, saliva pooling at the corner of your lip. Aerion leans his weight on one arm so he can grab your cheeks, fingers biting into your skin, thumb pressing against your lower lip until your lips part for him. He slides it into your mouth, and Aerion thinks he might have finished a second time the moment your lips close around the digit, lashes fluttering and eyes rolling back as you swirl your tongue around his thumb.
He snaps his hips against you hard, breath ragged as he finally takes control of the pace. He can feel your thighs trembling around his waist, and the vibrations of the soft, helpless moans you let out around his thumb, and Aerion hates you—Aerion wants you, Aerion has you and it isn’t enough. It isn’t nearly enough. He needs this, needs you, needs it like he needs air to breathe, needs it like the fire in his veins and the steel around his throat.
“Emā pryjata nyke,” he accuses through hitched pants and moans. He means for it to come out sharp and angry, furious at how he reacted to your absence, furious at how you make him weak, furious at how he cannot be furious at you, but his voice is too pitched, too drawn, he’s drowning in the slaps of skin on skin, the sloppy sound of your cunt sucking him in deeper and deeper, the noises spilling from your lips. He says again, voice breaking over the words, “Emā pryjata nyke.”
You have ruined me.
He hates you, he thinks as he pulls his thumb from your mouth to kiss you, hips stuttering when he feels your cunt spasming around him again, wetness splattering against his thighs and pelvis.
He hates you, he thinks as he kisses you like he wants to consume you, as he fucks you like he can’t bury himself deep enough into you, as he hikes your leg up to his shoulder just so he can reach deeper inside of you.
He hates you, he thinks furiously as your back arches off the stone and his hand drops from your face to slide his arm beneath you, because he can’t get close enough to you, because his tongue in your mouth and his cock in your cunt isn’t enough, because he needs to feel you everywhere, your skin pressed to his, every part of him against every part of you, until he doesn't know where he ends and you begin.
He fucking hates you, he thinks as he lets a broken moan into your mouth, dizzy and hot and unable to think anything beyond want and need and your body and his, as he realizes that there’s no coming back from this, that if he had it his way, you would never leave his side again, because you are his—only his, always his, he will never be satisfied with anyone else, not as long as he lives, as long as his heart beats and his lungs breathe.
He hates you, he hates you, he hates—
Your hands cradle his face, and Aerion’s entire body feels numb and prickly, thighs aching with every thrust, dots spotting his vision. He kisses sloppily up your neck, breath ragged as he presses his lip against your ear, and his eyes roll back when he feels your nails drag from his scalp, down to the nape of his neck, across his shoulders, his back, and Aerion’s whole body gives out on him.
He chokes over something caught between a gasp and a moan, biceps trembling before he collapses, and his body weight drops onto yours. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, lips still parted into a silent moan, shuddering as he feels you writhing beneath him, clawing at his back, still trying to rock your hips, but Aerion only twitches, body heavy and lax, breathing hard against your skin, pulse still racing, sweat dripping from his temple. The powder settles from raging fire into a deep, molten warmth, spreading through his limbs, loosening every tense muscle. His thoughts blur at the edges, not with frenzy anymore, but with a dangerous, languid contentment.
The world beyond the maze feels impossibly far away—no revel, no politics, no feathered whores or jeweled vipers—just him and you, the warmth of your body and the sound of his heartbeat echoing in his ears.
His face remains buried at your throat, breath hot and uneven against your skin. He exhales long and slow, murmuring into your skin, “You are ruin.”
“And you are not done yet,” you spit at him, still worked up. Aerion groans into your skin, not wanting to move. His body still feels heavy and feverish, breath slowly starting to even out, the haze melting his thoughts and humming beneath his skin. You jerk your hips, and Aerion hisses, cock sensitive and twitching, softening inside of you. “Do not groan at me, dragon prince—this is of your own doing.”
He forces himself off of you, rolling onto his back, limbs heavy as he props himself up on one elbow. He lifts his hand to your face, fingers tracing over your cheek, and there’s something heavy in his chest as he watches your lashes flutter, seeking out his touch. Your skin is hot to the touch, lips swollen and slick with saliva and the blood he drew. He hates how his thoughts mellow, hates the way his chest physically tightens. He blames it on the powder, and he hates most of all that he knows he’s lying to himself.
“I do not like this,” he says quietly, fingers trailing down your chest and stomach, watching raptly as your body responds to his touch.
“This?” you echo, breath still shaky—he likes this at least, that he’s coming down from what you gave him while you’re still in the thick of it. Likes how responsive you are to his touch, likes that you can’t hide behind teasing grins and calculating eyes.
“This feeling,” he clarifies, “like I have been disarmed.”
“Hah—” you gasp, the back of your head pressing against the marble as Aerion’s fingers glide between your slick folds. His gaze slips down your body, nostrils flaring when he sees how much of his own cum he fucked deep into your cunt, enough that it dribbles out of you, pooling onto the white marble beneath you. His throat spasms as he gathers some with two of his fingers, smearing it as he slides his fingers through your cunt to your clit, circling the bud so slowly that you rock your hips against his hand to try to get him to move faster. “Iemnȳ!”
Inside!
Aerion has half a mind to deny you just to make a point, and he blames the way he immediately indulges you on the boneless feeling in his limbs and the pleasant warmth that makes his head dizzy and his chest fluttery. He keeps his thumb pressed to your clit as he sinks two fingers into you, hissing at the feeling of your heat wrapped tight around him, the stickiness of his cum stuffing your cunt. Your lips part into a silent moan, the whites of your eyes as your back arches off the marble, and Aerion watches raptly as one of your hands darts down to his wrist, nails digging into his skin, and the other fumbles for something to hold on to.
He blames the powder again for the way he immediately slides his fingers between yours, letting you cling to his hand as he slowly fucks his cum deeper into your cunt.
“Kesan dōrī jikagon lenton,” you gasp after a moment, and it takes a moment for the words to process. I will never go home. Aerion’s gaze drags back up to your face from where he’s watching his cum ring around the base of his fingers with each snap of his wrist, blinking away the haze when he sees the way you’re looking at him, gaze tracing his face with a type of desperation he’s never seen on you before. “Nyke jeldan naejot gīmigon skorkydoso bōsa eminna ao. Konir sagon skoro syt nyke eptan.”
I wanted to know how long I will have you. That is why I asked.
Aerion’s throat suddenly feels tight, pausing in the steady rolls of his wrist, only for you to hiss and tighten your grip on it, beckoning him to continue.
“Dōrī?” he echoes, voice hoarser than he intends.
Never?
“Dōrī,” you confirm, breath hitching, and Aerion’s mouth goes dry when you let out a low moan of his name and squeeze his fingers hard, a shiver running through his spine. “Lo jān lenton, kesan sagon ossēntan.”
Never. If I go home, I will be killed.
Aerion’s jaw tightens at your words, trying to focus on unraveling you again instead of the pit that forms in his stomach. He curls his fingers deep inside, lashes fluttering at the keening whine you let out as your hips stutter against his fingers. Your walls tighten and flutter around him, and he lets out a breath to steady himself when you stare up at the sky, chest heaving, gaze lidded, body limp on the stone.
“Skoro syt?” he finally asks.
Why?
Your gaze shifts to him, voice cutting despite the haziness in your eyes. “I thought I said I wanted your tongue.”
Aerion manages to bare his teeth at you through the pleasant haze. “You do not order me, wench,” he says coolly, but he shifts to kneel between your legs, pulling his hand free from yours and slipping his fingers out of you, gnawing at the inside of his cheek as he watches cum dribble from your hole and join the mess on the ground beneath you.
His gaze flicks up to the bench on your left, and he ignores the surprised yelp you let out when he hooks his arms under your knees and shoulders to move you onto it. Before you can kick out your leg to catch him in the shoulder, he presses his hands to your slick thighs to spread them, leaning in to drag his tongue between your folds.
He blames this on the powder, too, he decides—the fact that he’s on his knees, face buried in your cunt, your legs draped around his shoulders. Aerion would have to gouge out the eyes of anyone who saw him like this—might gouge out yours later just to make a point. He lets out a low groan into you as he sucks your clit lightly, toying with the bud with his tongue before lapping at the mess of his cum and yours between your legs.
“Did you know—” you start to say, voice pitched and breathy, fingers twisting in his silver hair as you rock your hips against his face. The sting at his scalp makes him hiss, offended, and he digs his nails into the skin of your thighs in response, but you don’t seem to care. His gaze flicks up to through pale lashes. You are not looking at him. Your chest rises and falls in quick breaths, your expression strangely distant as you stare past the hedges toward the slice of night sky above the maze. “—that from the top of the Black Walls, you can see Old Valyria?”
Aerion falters, eyes widening as he pulls back slightly to look up at you more directly, and you instantly glare down at him. He sneers at you out of sheer instinct, because he will not be cowed like some trembling Lyseni boy, but lowers his mouth again all the same, tongue dragging lazily through folds as though nothing has changed, teasing at your entrance as he waits for you to continue, listening far more intently now.
“On clear days, when the wind blows the smoke thin, you can see the black towers of the old city touching the sky,” you continue. Your hand begins to stroke through his hair now, absentminded, as if you have forgotten you are holding him there. Aerion should resent it. He should bare his teeth and remind you that he is not some pampered pet to be stroked while you speak of things that belong to his blood, but he’s too focused on your words to push away the pleasant feeling that rises in his chest—he blames that on the powder too. “I would spend hours sitting there staring at them, from dawn to dusk. It’s… a different type of cruelty to be so close and yet so far from everything that could’ve been. In that regard, I’m almost jealous of your house. At least you are not taunted by the ruins.”
Aerion doesn’t answer, though he thinks he would beg to differ.
He was raised on the stories all his life—the Doom, the Smoking Sea, the towers that once ruled the world. For most men, it is a myth, something distant, more legend than history. For him, it is an ancestry forever out of reach. For you, it had been something you could see from a wall.
He ignores the green feeling that curdles ugly in his chest, willingly leaning into the pleasant warmth still weighing him down instead. He relishes the way your breath hitches when his teeth graze your clit.
“When we were young, we would sail to the shores at the outskirts of Valyria,” you tell him after a moment. “It was a rite of passage, so to speak, for children of Tiger families. We would bribe a captain bold enough—or foolish enough—to take us out past the merchant routes, to the northern shores. Take a small rowing boat to the sand and wander along the shore, daring one another to go into the forest. None of us ever went very far. The trees there grow wrong—twisted, blackened things that creak even when there is no wind. They say there are creatures that live in the ruins that are neither human nor animal, scaled things that look like men but feast on flesh and bone.”
Aerion watches your face as you speak, the heat settling into something heavier as he rests his head on your inner thigh. This time, you don’t glare at him to put his mouth back on your cunt—he wonders if this is why you made him take the powder, to loosen yourself up enough to speak of this. His chest inexplicably tightens.
“I went farther than the others,” you say, giving him a smug smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I was always the one who went the farthest.”
Aerion snorts quietly. “Yes,” he says dryly. “You strike me as the sort who would.”
“Half a mile inland, there’s a ruined outpost off the shore, on one of the old dragonroads,” you tell him. “Half-collapsed, choked with vines, but I climbed through the stones because I wanted to see the carvings up close. That’s where I found this.”
Your hand lifts slightly, brushing the Valyrian steel you put around his throat a moon ago, fingers tracing the metal reverently. Aerion goes very still—this is not some relic passed through markets and merchants, hoarded in vaults like you led him to believe. You found it in the ruins of Valyria itself, amongst the broken stones of the old empire, pried from the bones of a city that once ruled the world. His fingers rise unconsciously to the metal at his throat, swallowing thickly as he looks up at you.
“I wasn’t allowed to bring any of the family heirlooms with me to Lys—my armor, sword, jewelry, they all went back into the vault. But since I found this, they couldn’t take it from me,” you say with a wry smile, lashes fluttering before you look away again. Why did you give him this? he wants to demand again, furious, indignant, a lump in his throat he can’t push away. You continue before he can spit out the words. “I wanted to go further. The forest beyond the tower was… it was strange. Too quiet. But my brother ruined the moment.”
“You have a brother?” Aerion asks, blinking, trying to remember if you ever mentioned it to him before, but he doesn’t think you have. He’s not sure why it catches him off guard so much.
“A twin,” you confirm. “When he realized how far I had gone, he started shouting from the beach—crying, screaming at me to come back before something in the forest came out to eat me. I laughed at him, but he sounded so scared that I turned back around. He wouldn’t stop crying until we were halfway back to Volantis.”
You exhale suddenly, looking away, a wistful expression on your face, but there’s a tightness in your jaw that wasn’t there before.
“It was a tradition,” you say after a moment, hands fisted in your lap. “Children of the Tiger families have done it for generations. It is known. Everyone in the East is aware; ask anyone here in Lys, and they will tell you. Before we come of age, we sail to the northern shores of Valyria and step onto the sand. It is meant to prove that the blood is still brave—that the blood remembers. Five years ago, nine of our children left to sail to the northern shores, and their heads were delivered to the Black Walls in sacks.”
Aerion stills. The warmth of the powder lingers in his limbs, heavy and slow, but the words cut clean through it. For a moment, he only watches you, waiting for the smirk that would turn it into one of your strange jokes, but it never comes.
“How would you respond if your enemies delivered the heads of Targaryen children to the Red Keep?” you ask him.
“I would burn their city,” he says without hesitation. “And when the fires died, I would find whoever thought to send such a gift and make certain the rest of the world understood what it cost them.”
Your lips curve up into another smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “The Elephant families called for inaction. They said the matter should not escalate. That the loss of nine children was tragic, but a war would be worse. Trade must continue, alliances must remain stable, Volantis must appear… reasonable.”
“Reasonable,” Aerion echoes, voice riddled with disbelief. He almost laughs, thinking that this is one strung-out joke, but the expression on your face makes it die in his throat.
“I doubt they would have been so lackadaisical if it were Elephant children killed, but I digress,” you say with a bitter scoff. “The Tiger families didn’t agree with them, of course, but the Elephants have held majority power since the Century of Blood, and they declared that no military action will be taken against the offenders—that they will settle the dispute through gold, as if any amount of gold can replace the lives of sons and daughters.”
You shake your head, rubbing at the lower half of your face as you look away, and then you look down at Aerion again.
“So, the Tiger families decided to go through with it anyway, knowing that whoever led it would be branded traitor and dragged to the Ivory Yard,” you say. “My father is the Tiger Triarch—our family controlsl the military, so it had to be one of us who led the unsanctioned attack.”
“So it was you,” Aerion realizes. “This is why you were exiled.”
“It was supposed to be my brother,” you say with a wry smile, “because he was the spare, so my father could afford for him to be killed. Volantis follows the old Valyrian tradition of power over gender. Whoever is most fitting to rule will rule. My brother is… soft. Sensitive. He hates fighting and politics—all he wants is to drink and play music and read books, whereas combat and strategy and politics came to me more naturally. By the time I was five and ten, my father was preparing me for elections; he was supposed to step down when I turned twenty, and I was supposed to take over the Tiger party. My brother barely knew how to properly swing a damn sword, much less command an army—how the fuck was I supposed to let him march off to war, knowing that if by some fluke he managed to survive, I would have to watch him be ripped apart in the Ivory Yard?”
You exhale heavily, looking away, and Aerion does not know how to respond, does not have a quick remark or a comment that would feel appropriate, so he presses his lips together, waiting for you to continue.
“He and I—people cannot tell us apart when we have our hair styled similarly. Same build, same face, same voice. So, I took his armor, and I went myself,” you say, and then you give him a sidelong smile. “I had a similar idea of retribution to you, dragon prince. I told you way back when—birds of a feather, you and I.”
Aerion lets out a breath through his nose, eyes sliding shut when you reach out to brush his hair from his face.
“I was taken to the Ivory Yard and chained, and my father and the other Tiger families said that if I were executed, there would be a civil war. They never would have done the same for my brother, but because it was me, the matter suddenly became… complicated. They could not afford to let the Elephants make an example of someone who was supposed to be the face of the future of the Tiger party.”
“And so you are here,” Aerion drawls, but there is a tightness in his chest that he cannot quite push away.
He presses his lips together, trying to reconcile the languid creature he has known with the past you just described. He half expects you to laugh loudly and tease him for falling for your elaborate tale, but he knows in his gut that this is the truth, and he thinks that he has seen it all along.
You have longed for blood and steel on this island of pillows and silk just as he has—the boredom in your face when you are surrounded by whores and vipers is not the careful calculation of someone who enjoys decadence and gorge, it is the look of someone who is starving. The laughter, the flirting, the games you play across rooftops and through markets—the endless teasing smiles and practiced languor. It is distraction, because you are restless—violently, dangerously restless. The same as he is, just more skilled at hiding it.
“And now I am here,” you agree dryly, drawing him from his thoughts. “From future Triarch to a prince’s whore. How the mighty fall.”
You say the words carelessly, as you always do, but they land somewhere in his chest with a weight he does not expect. You’ve said this countless times before, deliberately to provoke him into one of his usual quick retorts, but this time, he cannot muster the energy for it, fingers brushing the steel on his neck, and the image of the wistful expression on your face as you told him of your past flashes through his mind.
He swiftly pushes it away and exhales, forcing his mouth into a sharp smile. “If that is what you are, then you chose your prince very poorly,” he says wryly. “I have no court, no favor, and no patience for the sort of arrangements Lys seems to enjoy.”
“Poorly?” you ask with an amused smile. You shift off the bench so that you can sit with him on the ground, and this time, when you kick his legs apart, he doesn’t protest as you settle between them, resting your back against his chest. “I believe that means we are quite perfect for one another.”
Aerion snorts, though the sound lacks its usual bite.
He tells himself the tightness in his chest is the powder.
The warmth spreading through his limbs is also the powder.
The way his arm slips around your waist, drawing you closer without thought—that is certainly the powder.
He rests his head back against the marble pillar behind him, looking up at the sky. The stars are bright here, and the music and laughter from the revel sounds far away. He breathes out through his nose and says after a moment, “Your city is full of fools.”
He feels your shoulders shake as you laugh lightly. You agree wryly, “That, it is.”
“Why do you remain here if you hate it so much?” he asks after a moment. “Surely, you are not confined to this singular city—”
“I do not hate it,” you interrupt. “I was quite content before you arrived.”
Aerion does not like the way his stomach flips at your words—he blames this on the powder, too, even if the warmth and boneless feeling have finally started to subside.
He forces a scoff. “You were bored.”
You scoff right back. “Boredom is survivable.”
“And I am not?”
You do not respond for a long while. Long enough for him to understand what your answer is without you having to say anything at all. For a fleeting moment, he tries to imagine the raven he will receive when his father inevitably summons him back home. One of Vyrano’s servants will send for him to return to the manse, and there will be a letter waiting on the table in his solar, sealed with the three-headed dragon in red wax. He pictures the ship waiting in the harbor, the sails unfurling as Lys fades into a smear of pale domes behind him. The revels, the markets, the coves and sea wind—gone, as though they had never been real at all.
And you.
You would be gone with it.
Unless—
“Tomorrow, we will pretend as though this conversation never happened,” you say after a moment, tilting your head back and to the side so that you can look at him directly, halting his train of thought before he can even properly consider it. You lift your hand to turn his face so that he’s looking at you—Aerion does not find himself protesting, even though he should. This is the powder’s fault as well. “We’ll return to your chambers once the revel begins to die down, and I will be gone by morning, and you will find me by midday, or I’ll have won the day’s game.”
He sneers. It feels forced. “You do not order me, wench.”
“I do as I please,” you reply a sharp curve of your lips, shifting around so that you’re facing him, leaning in to ghost your lips against his. If he shivers, he blames that on the powder too. Everything tonight is that wretched powder’s fault—your fault. Perhaps it is best to forget it happened at all. “And you have yet to satisfy me since you forced me to take double what you did. So what I please to do is you.”
Aerion grimaces slightly, still sensitive, but that only seems to delight you from the way you burst into laughter.
It was a foolish thought anyway—the fault of the powder, surely.
Thick Thighs Save Lives - Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Reader x Jake 'Hangman' Seresin
Summary: Being the only aviator with meat on your bones is tough. It's even more tough when you're stuck showering with two of your teammates.
Contents/Warnings: smut (minors dni), double penetration, fingering (vaginal and anal, f receiving), oral (m receiving), dirty talk, shower sex, protected sex, spit kink, body insecurities, mid/plus!sized reader, self-deprecation, arguing, angst with a fluffy/smutty ending
WC: 5.5K / navi
feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!
If there’s anything you don’t want to hear during a not-so-friendly game of beach football, it’s ‘shit!’. The exclamation comes from Coyote who’s branched off to your towels on the sand, fingers curled around his watch, “We’re late.”
“How late?” Phoenix is already adjusting her ponytail, as it’s frazzled from the action. She’s squinting in the sun and remedies it by knocking her sunglasses down off of her head and onto her nose. It’s smooth, and she knows it by the soft smirk that curls at her lips.
“We have twenty minutes to get on the road.”
“Shit,” Rooster parrots, dropping the ball where he stands, which is how you know he’s panicked too, “We all need showers. Penny’s gonna kill us if we stink up the restaurant.”
“We can go in teams,” Fanboy decides, already sprinting over to his towel, “We don’t have time for individual ones.”
Before you can get a word in edgewise Coyote and Phoenix are rushing to join him, Bob hot on their trail. The showers are spacious, sure, but you wouldn’t exactly volunteer to share them with anyone.
With a terrible sinking feeling in your stomach you realize that the only three left are you, Rooster, and Hangman. That means the only way you’ll get to Penny and Maverick’s engagement party is if you shower together.
They’re already at their towels, scrubbing sand out of their hair and strapping their watches back on. Hangman’s is a thick, black leather band, and you can see flecks of sand marring the sleek strap from where it laid on the towel. Rooster’s is thinner, brown in color and gold around the rim. His is clean, but he puts it on his sweaty, sandy wrist. It won’t be for long.
Both men are shirtless, too-tight jean shorts squeezing their waists. You make a point not to stare as you trek back to your towel, already picking up on their competitive banter before you’ve even stood beside them.
“-probably use all my shampoo,” Hangman scoffs, clenching his towel tight in his fist, “You always steal my shit, Bradshaw.”
“I think it’s only fair seeing as you steal my gel!” Rooster quips back, gesturing to Hangman’s stiff, shiny hair, untouched even after your game, “Isn’t it fucking weird, Y/L/N? How much he uses?”
Rooster looks back at you for confirmation, someone on his side. But you’re too disheartened to respond, dreading your impending doom. All you offer is a meager, “Yeah.”, that curls a frown under Rooster’s mustache.
“You hurt yourself or something?” Hangman raises an eyebrow, stunned by your lack of teasing, “I think we need to call the doctor, you didn’t just insult me.”
“I’m fine.” You grumble, towel held around your waist despite the presence of your rash guard, “Just tired from football.”
“Well get ready,” Rooster warns you, “Mav’s gonna have to tell us all about how he and Penny met, and I’m really hoping he withholds the details on the little rendezvous that got him in trouble with her dad, but I know he won’t.”
You shudder for a moment, if only to please him, to throw him off your scent. You’re tired, there’s not any other reason you’re in a funk. You’re tired.
You are tired. You’re tired of caring, of constantly thinking about it. You’re tired of wearing a rash guard to the beach instead of a swimsuit, because everyone else is smaller than you. You’re tired of watching people’s eyes, tracking them to make sure that if they ever dip below your chest there’s something in front of your stomach to block it from their view. You’re tired of adjusting your uniform to make it looser, you’re tired of leaning against the bar instead of sitting at it, you’re just tired.
You are tired. You’re tired of caring, of constantly thinking about it. You’re tired of wearing a rash guard to the beach instead of a swimsuit, because everyone else is smaller than you. You’re tired of watching people’s eyes, tracking them to make sure that if they ever dip below your chest there’s something in front of your stomach to block it from their view. You’re tired of adjusting your uniform to make it looser, you’re tired of leaning against the bar instead of sitting at it, you’re just tired.
“Hey,” Hangman’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts, admittedly less grating and irritating than it normally is “You sure you’re okay?”
You blink and they’re staring at you, brows furrowed and limbs frozen in place. You wish that the waves lapping gently at the sand would crash onto shore and swallow you whole, sweep you up in a tidal wave of salt water and seaweed so that you wouldn’t have to answer.
“I’m fine,” You grit, slipping your feet into your shoes and rushing to stand outside the showers, “C’mon, we’ll be late.”
--
You had hoped that they’d get too busy bickering with each other to ever find you. But here they come, not five minutes later, just as Phoenix steps out of the steamy bathroom. A towel is wrapped around her torso and Hangman exaggerates his ogling of her, only turning your stomach further.
“Perfect timing,” He drawls, and she rolls her eyes.
Bob steps out next, taking one look at her face and stepping in front of her, “Your turn, Bagman. Try not to use all the gel.”
“See?” Rooster nudges you, his elbow against your arm as Bob and Phoenix walk away, “I told you! It’s absurd, he slathers it on like cement.”
“He’s gotta,” Coyote drawls, reaching over to knock on Jake’s head, “Otherwise his head’d sound as empty as it is.”
The two engage in a good-natured shoving match, but it’s one that nearly sends Coyote’s towel cascading to the ground, and you keep your eyes firmly on the tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner that you’d brought. You read over the ingredients, as if sodium laureth sulfate and glycol distearate will keep your mind off of your humiliation.
“You said you’re fine,” Bradley murmurs from beside you, “But if it’s something you just don’t wanna say around Hangman, he’s not listening.”
Part of you is less embarrassed to be honest and exposed to Rooster than Hangman. But he’s still a man, an incredibly fit one at that, and you’re not sure you’d ever want to reveal it to either of them.
“I’m just nervous,” You tell him the only part of the truth you’re willing to admit. I’ve never... showered with a- a boy before. A man.”
You cringe at your misstep, but if Bradley’s amused by it, he doesn’t show it. Instead he hums, sympathetically so, “We’ll turn around, honey. Don’t worry about it, okay?”
“You’ll turn around,” You mutter, “I think it’ll just egg Jake on further.”
“What’s this I hear about eggin’ me on?” A familiar southern twang makes you tense as the man it’s coming from appears by your side, bumping his hip into yours, “You ready for our steam session, sweets?”
“Leave her alone, Hangman,” Rooster groans, feet slapping against the tiles as he goes to adjust the water. He shoves at Hangman’s back as he passes, and you stifle a giggle as the man nearly falls over.
“Hey, she’s the one that chose to shower with us,” Jake insists, and Bradley’s scoff is enough for you not to fight back, “And I would, too, if I were you, darlin’. Do you know how many ladies are lined up to see how hung Hangman is?”
You force a gag, “The only lady I see here is myself, and I’d rather smear wet sand in my eyes.”
“That’s what I’m gonna do to you if you don’t turn around and shut up,” Bradley speaks through the roar of the shower water, steam already rising from its fall, “Just drop your pants and wash your ass, so Y/L/N can shower to herself.”
“Well, well, well,” Jake smirks, towel cinched around his waist in only one hand as he stalks for the showers, “Looks like one of the ladies lined up is Bradshaw himself. Wanna see it, Rooster? Here it is.”
Jake drops his towel ceremoniously, and Bradley’s face morphs into a grimace as he turns away hastily.
“My fucking eyes,” He laments, and you pause in gathering your toilettries to laugh, while also trying very hard not to stare at Jake, “Oh my god, Y/N, you won’t have to worry about me seeing you. I’m going to pour shampoo into my eyes until I go blind.”
Jake realizes you’re taking a little too long getting ready, cocking a hip as he leans his head back to stare down his nose at you, “So what, you gonna ditch dinner, Y/L/N? Whatcha waitin’ for?”
“She’s waiting for you to stop being a perv and turn around,” Bradley comes to your rescue once again, and thankfully, Jake seems to realize it’s a real issue, pivoting until he’s facing the shower wall.
“I think she just wants a nice view of our asses,” Jake theorizes, standing with his clear on display, “Which is better, Y/N? Mine or Chicken’s?”
“Chicken,” Rooster grumbles under his breath, and if you were brave enough to actually declare a winner, you’d give it to him just for that. But, Hangman’s form is rather impressive, all tight curves and tan skin and-
And you shouldn’t be looking. You clear your throat awkwardly, peeling off your rash guard as Jake sponges his side down. There’s sand running thick down the drain and you hope it doesn’t back up, something you’d feel terrible for Penny to have to clean up.
“Uh,” Bradley stills in his place, “Shit, I think I left my shampoo over there. Y/N, could you…?”
“I got it,” You hum, reaching over for the blue bottle and tucking it in his carefully, blindly outstretched hand, “Thanks for, um- here.”
“Yep,” He nods, smearing a dot of the substance on his palm and lathering it through his hair.
“Oh no,” Jake mimics Bradley’s previous predicament, dropping the bottle in his hand so that it rests between his legs, “Y/N, could you-”
“Ass,” You drawl, reaching forwards to butt your palm against his back. He stumbles forward with a laugh, catching himself on the railing. He bends down to reach for it and you’re nervous he’ll peek at your body from between his legs, but he stays respectful, something you know he is at his core even if he pretends differently.
You find yourself relaxing against the tiled floor of the shower, feet firmly planted instead of poised to run. As much as you know neither of the men in front of you would make any rude comments about your body or your weight, there’s still the nauseating fear that they might think differently of you having seen you completely unobscured. So you’re thankful for the privacy, that lasts… well, until it doesn’t.
The snap of your conditioner cap catches the skin of your pointed finger in its jaws and a gasp clutches tight at your lungs.
“Son of a bitch!” You cry, waves of pain flowing through your finger and out towards the rest of them. On cue each man turns, eyes wide and fear-stricken, without thinking.
You know they didn’t do it on purpose. You know they instinctively thought you were hurt, and wanted to help. You know they didn’t mean to look at you. But the withering feeling in your guts knows no logic, only fear.
They’re looking, it hisses, They’re looking at everything. The way your stomach pudges into a roll at the base. The way your breasts sag. The way your thighs stretch, marks littering their stems, and present no gap.
“You’re bleeding.” Bradley observes, eyes trained faithfully on your finger, “I’ll get a bandaid.”
He rushes for the cabinets outside the shower, dripping water over the floor. Jake stands, staring, but you’re too humiliated to glance at his face and notice the soft pinky blush on his cheeks that’s spreading to his ears.
“Here,” Bradley speaks from behind you, though he molds himself to your side when you’re still frozen in fear. He brushes a towel over your cut, the turquoise material staining red. He then undoes the waxy paper wrapping from the bandaid, sticking it tight to your skin.
“It’ll get wet,” He reminds you, “But it’ll stop soap from stinging it.”
You don’t even thank him. At your prolonged silence he glances up at Hangman, intent on giving him a concerned glance, but he sees the man’s eyes rove over your form and snaps.
“Dude,” Bradley utters gruffly, “Don’t be a perv. Come on, turn around.”
When Jake stays just as still as you, he reaches for him, shoving hard, “I said turn around!:
“Please, Jake,” You whimper, tears brimming in your eyes, “Turn around.”
“You’re crying.” Jake snaps out of his trance to frown up at you, and Bradley keeps pushing, an insistent thorn in his side, “Why are you crying?”
“Because you’re-!” You gush, lip wobbling, “You’re looking at me, and- and judging me, and-”
“Judging you,” He scoffs, eyes nearly bugging out of his head, “Best body I’ve ever seen. Case closed. Court dismissed.”
“Shut up,” You seethe, tears finally dripping down your cheeks, “Just shut up! You think this is fucking funny? You don’t think there’s a reason I didn’t want to shower with you?”
“You’re private, I get that.” He scoffs. “But if you think I’m judgin’ any part’a that, then you’re stupid, too.”
“Not the compliment you think it is,” Bradley mutters, hands still prying at Jake’s shoulder, “She told you to turn around, just do it.”
“No,” Jake doubles down, pushing Bradley away and stalking towards you, “I wanna know why you think so goddamn low of me. You really think I’d rope a woman into a shower and then pick apart what she looks like? You think that low of me?”
“It’s not about you,” You gush, hands at your sides in frustration, “It's about me! And my fucking body, okay? I’m not calling you a dick for judging me, I’m calling myself-”
“What?” Jake’s head tilts to the side, eyes glinting dangerously, “What are you calling yourself?”
“....Gross.” You finish lamely, the fire in your chest extinguishing with the poof of a sigh that escapes your lips.
He’s grabbing your hand without thinking about it, gentle but firm. You stare at him, anxiety-riddled.
“Listen here, girly. I’ve let you get away with sayin’ a lotta things about yourself. Dumbass I agree with, especially considering these circumstances. I’ve heard clumsy and stubborn, those I don’t have an issue with either. But don’t look me in my fuckin’ face and tell me you’re gross, ‘cause it’s an insult to me and my tastes.”
He squeezes your hand once before releasing it, and it feels more now like a heartfelt gesture than a threatening one. You’re breathing heavy, lungs cut short from the adrenaline of the moment, Even though Bradley isn’t pushing him anymore, standing on the sidelines waiting, watching, Hangman turns around without another word. He scrubs aggressively through his scalp and you’re almost surprised nothing bleeds, your mouth hung slightly open and your tongue leaden over your teeth.
“I’m not your type.” You finally manage to mutter, voice taut.
“Yes you are,” Jake scoffs, “How would you know?”
“I saw you eyeing up Phoenix earlier.” You roll your eyes, and if Bradley hadn’t turned around again you’d have flashed him an exasperated look.
“So? A man can like several shapes,” Jake boasts, voice losing venom, “Plus I ogle Phoenix just to piss her off.”
“It works.” Bradley cuts in, and you snort.
“Point is,” Jake drawls, and you’re sure if Bradley was in his line of sight he’d have been the victim of a very withering stare, “Don’t discredit yourself. You’ve got sexy ass thighs, woman.”
“Jesus, Jake,” Bradley sighs, “Can you just hurry up, already? I’m sure there’s nothing more Y/L/N wants than to get rid of you.”
“Oh, shut up, lapdog,” Jake deadpans, “You can’t tell me you don’t agree.”
Bradley’s silent for a moment, and your gut churns.
“Whether I do or don’t is irrelevant,” He chooses his words carefully, “Let’s just leave Y/N alone.”
“Like you weren’t blushing!” Bradley scoffs, “I looked up at you and thought you’d been temporarily replaced with a baboon’s ass.”
“Oh, that’s funny,” Jake drawls, “That’s what I think every time I see you, porn stache. Then I remember it’s just your natural charm.”
The crisis has been averted enough for you to let out a shaky laugh at their insults, and the sound catches both men’s attention.
“Listen, Y/L/N,” Jake starts, voice much kinder and softer now, “The point of this isn’t me telling Bradshaw he’s got the face of an ass. The point is to get it through your thick fuckin’ skull; you’re pretty damn sexy, y’hear?”
You snort at his callous nature, “No one’s ever told me anything like that before.”
“Yeah?’ He pauses,towel in hand that he nimbly swings over his shoulder, “Well, pardon me for lookin’, and even more for touchin’, but everyone else is fuckin’ insane.”
Before you can process his words he reaches down to palm at your thigh, a hefty squeeze that sends your flesh spilling against his palm. You stiffen, even though he stays politely away from your ass, encroaching only on territory he could also grab while you’re clothed. The feeling of his touch, no matter how chaste, elicits a noise from your throat that you wish you could pass off for a scream.
It’s not.
It’s a moan.
He stops where he’d begun pulling away, eyes sharpening slightly. You don’t dare look at Bradley, but if you did, you’d see his cock twitch.
“Did I hurt you?” Jake asks, voice low.
All you can do is shake your head, teeth digging into your lower lip helplessly.
“Did you like it?” He tries again, but this time he doesn’t accept body language as an answer/ Still hunched, he ignores your nodding and reaches up with his free hand to tug your bottom lip out from under your teeth.
“I asked you a question,” Jake croons, voice smooth and soft, “Did you like it?”
All you can whimper is a meager ‘Yes’.
Do you want me to do it again?”
“Yes.” Stronger, this time.
His hand plants itself firmly back over your thigh, thumb stretching towards the curve of your ass this time. It’s a little more suggestive, and a lot more alluring.
“Jesus,” Jake groans, kneading the soft flesh of your doughy thigh between his fingers, “Bradshaw, c’mere for a second.”
He hesitates, “Do you want me there, Y/N?”
“Yes,” You nod once more, legs stiffening and thigh tensing against Jake’s palm, “I- I do.”
“You take front,” Jake instructs, falling into place behind you with his hands now greedily prying at your ass, “And I’ll take back.”
The smile that Bradley offers you when he steps in front of you is nothing short of dreamy. It’s enough to make you blush, and he lets out a soft, breathy laugh at how forward Hangman is being while he stands giddily in front of you.
“If you say hi,” Jake drawls, hooking his chin over your shoulder and reaching around your front to grip at the seams of your inner thighs while glaring at Bradley suspiciously, “I’m going to slap you.”
“I wasn’t going to say hi,” Bradley scoffs, and you can tell by his blush that he totally was.
“Jesus, enough yammering,” Jake scoffs, turning his head to press his dewy lips into your neck, “We’re gonna be late for dinner.”
You worry, for a moment, that he’ll let go. That he’ll walk away, get dressed for the restaurant, and pretend nothing ever happened. But that’s not what he does, of course. Instead, you feel the hard press of his cock against your ass.
“I’ll be gentle,” Jake croons, feeling you tense as his hands smooth over the dip of your ass, “We’ll go slow, okay?”
“Real slow,” Bradley murmurs, and it catches your attention, reeling it back to him. You realize he’s standing much closer to you now than he had been before, lips nearly brushing yours.
The second your lips meet his in a kiss, Hangman smooths his hand between the globes of your ass. You squirm at the sensitive feeling, foreign as his fingertip brushes against your hole. But he doesn’t let up, and neither does Bradley.
Rooster’s tongue slides against your bottom lip, warm and wet. At the same time Hangman’s hands squeeze your ass, pulling apart each side and smoothing down the skin between. It sends a shiver up your spine that escapes in a puff of air between your lips, one that Bradley eagerly swallows.
Bradley’s hands grab your cheeks, thumbs brushing near your eyes and yanking you closer. You can feel Jake’s fingers carefully prodding and pressing at the tight ring of your asshole, a hitch in your breath causing you to bite down on Bradley’s lip.
“Fuck,” He hisses, coming away with a red lip and a guttural groan, “Jake, just- let up. Me first, she’s obviously sensitive.”
“She’s just tight,” Jake murmurs, lips pressing to the expanse of your shoulder, “Nothin’ I can’t fix.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to fix it,” Bradley grumbles, tearing a condom open with his teeth that he’d snagged from his wallet, “‘Cause I’m going in first, and you- shit!”
His fingers, slippery from the water and probably excess soap, drop the condom. The way that you’re arched into Hangman’s touch means that your thighs are squeezed together and bent slightly, and there’s no better way to catch a condom than between your thighs.
The foil wrapper sticks between your legs, making it easy for Bradley to pluck it out and toss the wrapper aside. Penny will find it tomorrow, because you’re sure as hell not gonna remember to get it.
“Well, whaddya know,” Jake drawls, grinning against the skin of your neck so hard you can feel it, “What they say is true. Thick thighs save lives.”
You face-plant into the water-dropped skin of Bradley’s neck, ignoring the way Hangman snickers.
“Actually, I think they just stopped a life from being conceived,” Bradley reasons, only a few sloppy strokes of his cock needed to easily slip the condom on, “But that probably saved my life, ‘cause if I got you pregnant in Penny’s bathroom, she’d slit my throat.”
The tip of Bradley’s hardened dick presses to your inner thigh, skin seldom touched and sensitive. You lean into it, but Hangman’s fingers follow, gently stroking over the rim of your ass. It’s starting to feel less foreign and more pleasurable, a twinge of something sweet licking at the underside of your belly like a rogue flame.
Bradley gently presses two fingers against your slit, ever-considerate in making sure you’re sufficiently prepped, but his eyes widen at how much slick he’s greeted with just past your folds.
“Holy shit,” He breathes, nose nudging yours as his lips brush with your own, “You’re wet.”
“Duh,” Hangman scoffs, and one of his hands abandons your ass to slip between your folds, collecting slick on their tips and dragging it back to your ass, “I’ve been touchin’ up on her for a while now.”
“Pardon me for thinking that’d work like an umbrella on a rainy day,” Bradley bitches, but you cut him off with a kiss before he can spout any other mildly insulting metaphors for how bad he thinks Hangman is in bed. You’ll vouch if you have to, he knows what he’s doing.
With each slow circle that his fingers trace around your rim, you bend back into him. Until you can feel his cock pressed stiff to your backside,just as Bradley presses his tip flush with your clit.
“Oh-,” You gasp, clit sending a shockwave of electric lust reverberating throughout your body, “Bradley, I- Inside, please, now!”
“I’m coming, sweetheart,” He croons, speaking in a velvety soft hum against your lips, “Don’t worry.”
He holds to his promise, sliding his dick down from where it’s pressed to your clit and easing it between your folds. You heave a blissful sigh at the feeling of being full, and it makes you rock backwards into Hangman’s fingers.
One breaches your hole, slipping inside with an agonizingly pleasurable burn. The stretch feels heavenly, especially because your cunt is already stretched to accommodate Bradley’s cock that slowly bottoms out inside of you.
“Good,” Jake praises, kissing beneath your ear, “I knew you could do it.”
Rooster lets out a groan at the feeling of your involuntary clench around him, eyes screwed shut. His forehead is braced against yours and you take the liberty of engaging him in another kiss, letting the pleasure of Jake’s fingers at your hole compel you to lick into Bradley’s mouth.
Being pleasured from both sides is too overwhelming. You feel yourself already rising to a climax, pressed on by both Bradley’s thick cock grating against your insides and Jake’s fingers.
You smooth your tongue over Bradley’s, gripping his shoulder when he increases his pace to be steadily fast. He’s not speeding through anything, but he’s not slow either, and it makes your insides burn.
The feeling of his cock ramming over and over and over against that spongy spot deep within you is too much, especially when Hangman slides a single, thick finger into your ass. You can’t help it, your orgasm hits you like a freight train (or perhaps a fighter jet), and you clench sporadically around Bradley’s thick, hard cock.
You whine relentlessly into his mouth, fingers clawing and prying at his damp skin as your knees go weak. You’re surprised you stay standing at all, but you funnel all of your orgasmic vigor into the kiss that Bradley eagerly licks out of you, and clutching his shoulders is enough.
Coming down from your high is jarring, especially when you realize that the steady pressure against your clit had been Bradley’s thumb the entire time. The pleasurable sensation is starting to sour with the unpleasant sting of overstimulation, and you tear his hand away eagerly, “Too much.”
“Sorry,” Bradley grunts into the kiss, the bristles of his mustache grating at your lip.
Bradley pulls out of you, still hard and red-tipped.
Jake takes one look down, his free hand sliding up your back while his other stays firm at your ass, “Those were pretty sounds. Look’t what they did to Bradshaw. See that, honey?”
You nod, breathless as you stare at Bradley’s impressive length.
“I think you should return the favor,” Jake muses, putting pressure against your back so that you bend in half, “Suck him off, darlin’.”
You land at eye-level with Bradley’s covered cock, and you can’t get the condom off fast enough. You drag your tongue along the underside of Bradley’s hard dick, taking the heated length into your hands and squeezing fondly at his balls. He swears low and gruff under his breath, watching your tongue snake against his slit.
Your lips curl around the head of Bradley’s cock, and the way that Jake adds a second finger to your ass makes you suck hard. You feel Bradley’s cock twitch on your tongue, and you scrape your teeth feather-light along him as you take more of him into your mouth.
He tries to keep himself still, tries not to face-fuck you, but he’s hopeless. His hips jolt forwards and you gag at the feeling of his dick hitting the back of your throat. It makes him groan, fists clenched at his side.
You bob and suckle along every inch of Bradley’s dick, licking up the vein that runs along the side and hollowing your cheeks while Jake fingers you open. When there are suddenly no fingers in your ass anymore at all, you whimper, taking Bradley’s cockhead into your fist while you try craning your neck to look back at Hangman.
“Keep going,” Jake directs you, nodding his head towards your fist, “He’s not done, and neither am I.”
You slip the hand that’s curled around Rooster’s dick and slide it up his length, rubbing gently at the base while you kitten lick the head. He pants and groans, bucking into your fist and subsequently your throat. The feeling of Jake’s dick pressed tight to your stretched hole makes you jolt forwards, and you face-fuck yourself on Bradley’s dick.
“Jesus,” He hisses, “You’re- you’re good at this, baby. C’mon, a- a little more, now.”
You let out a scream muffled by Bradley’s cock as Jake slides himself into your ass, dick grating delightfully tight against your rim. Once he bottoms out he sets a merciless pace, giving you no time to adjust before you’re being hammered into like he’s a feral animal.
“See that, Bradshaw?” Jake boasts, sending a hefty slap to your ass, “Told you she could do it. Perfect ass.”
“I see,” Bradley pants, hands tangled in your hair while you bob on his cock, “I- I’m gonna cum, honey.”
There’s barely any warning before the sight of Jake’s cock ramming into your ass gets to be too much for Bradley, but you don’t need it. You’re perfectly content to welcome his warm seed down your throat, letting it paint the inside of your mouth as you tongue him dry.
You don’t realize you’re using Bradley’s cock as a pacifier until he pushes at your forehead, hissing in oversensitivity, “Okay, okay! It’s too much,” He soothes you by sticking two of his slick-stained, thick fingers between your lips instead, “Here, honey. There y’go.”
Drool gathers at the seam of your lips and Bradley smears it away from your mouth, gathering it on his palm and licking it away. He groans at the taste, his own seed permeating your saliva, “Messy girl.”
Jake isn’t satisfied with his lack of action. Apparently, jackhammering into your ass isn’t quite enough for the guy, and he fists a hand in your hair to yank you upright with a grunt.
Bradley’s fingers slip from your lips with a pop and you cry out as Hangman manhandles you, pleasurable pain flooding your senses from the hair-pulling that start waves of a second orgasm swelling below your belly.
“Open,” Jake commands, keeping your neck bent backwards so that his face hovers over yours. You open your mouth without hesitation, and he spits inside.
Warm saliva, cooling quickly the more you stick your tongue out, pools by your throat. You eagerly swallow without being told,drool now seeping backwards down your face and towards your eyes. Jake licks it off with a broad, wet swipe of his tongue, and smears it against your lips.
The kiss is messy, upside-down and drooly, but it’s hot. Jake’s tongue licks against yours and his teeth nip at your bottom lip, a real spider-man style porno.
Your spine aches from being bent like a curly-q, but the ecstasy bleeding into your core is enough to push it to the back of your mind. You reach down to finger your clit, a whimper bleeding into Jake’s mouth at the action.
His southern drawl is stronger when he’s fucking, you note. It’s attractive.
“Not nothing,” Bradley volunteers, sticking his spit-soaked fingers up into your gaping cunt, “Cum, baby.”
You’re very good at following orders.
Your second orgasm hurts, in the best way. It tears you apart from the inside out, cunt clenching tight at Bradley’s fingers as he curls them inside of you. Jake bites hard at your lip as you ride out your second orgasm, and his dick twitches inside of you once, twice, three times before he’s letting himself go in tandem.
He fills you with warm cum, the substance gushing out of your gaped hole and oozing out around his own cock.
“Jesus fuck,” He snaps, the words an unintelligible grunt against your lips, “So tight, and so sexy.”
Bradley’s free hand braces itself on your stomach, and the touch doesn’t make you recoil like it normally would. It’s lewd, but being splattered with their cum really makes you believe that they’re not going to judge your body.
Instead you lean into the touch, letting Bradley embrace you as you come down from your high a moaning pile of mush.
“Slow,” You warn Jake, who’s never heard the word a day in his life. He follows directions, though, easing his dick out of you and making sure it doesn’t burn.
“We need another shower,” Bradley pants after a moment of fucked-out silence.
You nod, brain foggy, “Yeah. We- we can’t show up to the restaurant smelling like sex. They’ll know.”
--
As it turns out, you don’t need to smell like sex for everyone to know you’ve just had it. You show up forty-five minutes late, sweaty-faced and rosy-lipped, all slightly out of breath. Your dress is rumpled, and Bradley’s tie is haphazardly secured.
“Oh,” Phoenix grimaces, nose scrunching in disgust, “Gross, guys.”
“In my bathroom?” Penny looks aghast, “You better not have clogged the shower drain.”
“Easy,” Maverick throws a hand out over her own, “We’ve done it in there one too many times to judge.”
“Gross!” Payback rears away from the older pilot sitting next to him, “Everybody needs to stop getting laid, but if you do, don’t tell me about it!”
Summary: Immediately after the attack on the Glen Tai bottling plant, Task Force X sets up camp overnight to rest before the road trip home. Vigilante offers to help you, an MI6 agent working under Amanda Waller, find creative ways to navigate drawbacks of your new superpowers.
A/N: Not a fan of Y/N so there's an original character with powers sort of similar to the DC comics Black Canary
Chapter 1: For Your Ears Only
Chapter Text
“Pretty please do it again?”
Vigilante is crossed legged opposite you on the other side of the bonfire. He eagerly lines up empty beer bottles and looks at you expectantly. You don’t hate him exactly but you do find literally every single aspect about his personality annoying. He is so irritatingly enthusiastic and let's face it, a psychopath. Your poor eyes have never rolled so much or so often when you spend time with Vigilante.
He’s like a golden retriever puppy personified- if puppies were armed to the hilt and trained to kill with zero regard for human life. And despite your alias, you’re more like a black cat than a Blackbird. Cautious, quiet, sometimes deadly- you possess a distinct lack of tolerance for dogs like Vigilante.
Tonight though… tonight you have a little more patience for him than usual. Perhaps it’s the fact that he saved your life just hours earlier. Or maybe it’s just the beer you’ve been sinking since your very close brush with death. Normally you’d turn your nose up at American beer, but you definitely needed a drink after today’s mission.
He is waiting expectantly and even though you’ve never seen his face before, you can tell that he has a goofy grin under his mask.
“Will you leave her alone for five minutes?” Harcourt finishes the bottle she’s been sipping and tosses it into the rubbish pile. But she’s less stern than usual, the massacre today brought your team closer together and the mood is still light.
“Yeah, Blackbird, if you need me to kick his ass just yell.” says Adebayo
You smile and raise your eyebrows.
“Uhhh, right. The supersonic scream thing. Well, come bang on the side of my tent if you need me.”
She strains as she tries to stand up with difficulty. Adebayo had had a narrow escape inside Glen Tai - a giant gorilla had knocked her aside and she severely sprained her ankle.
“You won’t be kicking any ass tonight Adebayo, not with that injury.” says Economos, pulling her up. She wraps one arm around Economos’ shoulders and her other around Harcourt’s. “G’night you three” he says. You lift your hand to give them a short wave in return. They help her limp to her tent before retiring to their own respective ones.
You hope she’s okay. Out of this team of Americans that Waller has ordered you to team up with, you find Adebayo to be the least grating.
You, Vigilante and Chris remain by the campfire. Vigilante rests his face on his cupped hands and looks at you. Like a psychopathic masked cherub.
“C’mon Birdie, just these three bottles? Please?”
You roll your eyes again- you’re going to pull an eye muscle if you spend any more time around Vigilante- his incessant chatting makes you grind your teeth. Mostly because it’s extremely irritating but also because you’re a little bit jealous. Your fellow MI6 agents used to complain that you talked too much and gave each other significant looks whenever you went on and on.
But of course that was before your accident. Who would have guessed that stealing a prototype supersonic jet on behalf of Her Majesty’s Secret Service would end up with you being royally fucked? You woke up weeks later with the worlds’ most deadly sonic vocal chords. The icing on the cake was MI6 ordering you to join Amanda Waller’s investigation into the butterflies, probably as punishment for failing your previous mission.
You take a deep breath and quietly murmur a gentle, low note. The ground vibrates and the first empty bottle of Budweiser shatters. You concentrate hard and hum a second note and the next bottle cracks in a perfect straight line down the middle, the two halves fall apart. Another inhale and you let out a soft whisper- the third beer bottle is blasted backwards into the air by a sonic wave.
Vigilante leans back to rest on his elbows and looks at you appreciatively. “Never gets old.”
There is a moment’s pause as the three of you stare into the fire. “I never asked anyone at Corto Maltese but what does it feel like, having… abilities?” asks Chris “My sonic boom helmet is pretty cool but it must be scary as fuck having it inside your head.”
You shrug. You preferred life before your powers. Before MI6 had sent you here as punishment for failing to retrieve that jet and nearly getting yourself killed. You miss when you could sing Natasha Bedingfield on karaoke and laugh ‘til you cried without shattering every window in your flat.
“She misses not being able to talk. I get it Birdie, it feels good to open up and get your feelings out.”
“Vij, stop making shit up. You don’t know that she misses talking.”
“Uh- I think I know how my second best friend forever is feeling. I can read her body language.”
Second best friend forever? Is that sarcasm? As far as you could tell, Vigilante doesn’t really understand sarcasm, nevermind make sarcastic quips himself. So does he actually think you’re friends?
He may be a borderline stalker that follows you around like a little puppy but the fact that he is super observant comes in handy. It’s probably why you work so well together- even if you don’t like to admit it. In combat he watches your every move and responds and adapts so quickly that it feels like you’re in sync.
“Tell me he’s talking out his ass.” says Chris
You give a small shake of your head and Chris still looks confused. You pull out your phone and open the notes app.
‘He’s right.’ You type and hold up your screen reluctantly.
“See!” Vigilante points at you enthusiastically. “I can but she hates to admit it! I’m a mind-reader baby. No wait, better than a mind-reader, a body-reader! And damn, I love to read that body.”
You exhale through your nose, scoffing silently but you take a much longer swig of beer. You really do hate admitting that he’s right. What does it say about you that the only person in the team who can’t pick up on most normal social cues can read you like a book? You remind yourself that his body-reading really did save your backside when you were fighting the butterflies earlier.
One of them had snuck up on you from behind and clamped his hand over your mouth, stopping you from emitting your sonic scream. He had a blade against your throat, ready to sever your vocal chords to stop you from killing any more of his comrades. But Vigilante threw a knife at his head with precision, the blade inches from your face, leaving you soaked in blood, breathless and lying on your back staring up at him, blinking in disbelief, adrenaline coursing through your veins. His towering figure hoisted you back up to your feet with such ease… it actually looked kind of hot. Not that you could ever tell him that.
“Hey Birdie” you look up at Vigilante and can tell by his sing-song voice that he’s still smirking under his mask “Have you ever been fucked so hard that you brought down an apartment building?”
“Jesus Chris Vij!” scolds Chris
This time you don’t make a sour face or give him an eye roll. You flush involuntarily and end up looking down at your crossed legs, praying that neither Vigilante nor Chris can read your expression. Your domino mask only covers part of your face so you hope the bonfire makes the heat rising in your cheeks less noticeable.
He’s touched a nerve. Yes, you miss laughing and singing but there’s something you miss even more. You haven’t even touched yourself in over a year, nevermind had sex, just in case you make any noise. You’ve had sex dreams that turn into nightmares, always ending the same way- a moan of pleasure that becomes a horrified scream as your sonic waves blow the brains out of the faceless lover in your dreams.
You look up and they’re still staring at you expectantly. You shake your head.
“Shit” exhales Chris “I thought I had it bad in prison but a vow of silence and abstinence? You’re for sure getting into heaven.”
You smirk. You’ve killed way too many people to get into heaven.
“Say the word and I’ll help you out Birdie” says Vigilante.
“Come on Vij, I said cut it out.” Chris intejects.
Your eyes don’t leave Vigilante, your heart dropping into the pit of your stomach. But you wait for him to finish.
“I saw how that butterfly left you defenceless earlier when he had his hand over your mouth. Just blink twice and I’ll do the same thing babe. One hand over your mouth and the other deep in your-”
“Okay - that’s enough!” Chris gets up and hoists Vigilante to his feet by the scruff of his suit. “Blackbird is just trying to fuckin’ have a beer and you think you can harrass her?”
You sit in stunned silence, momentarily distracted by Chris’ profound moment of self growth. It was only last week that he was sexually harassing your waitress in Fennel Fields, and according to Harcourt, harassing her in a bar just days ago. You bite your lip, your gaze returning to Vigilante and you can feel the flush on your face spreading down your neck and to your chest. You’re grateful that your leather suit doesn’t leave any skin below your neck exposed.
“I’ll take first shift. I’m supposed to be watching for butterflies.” says Chris and he roughly lets go of Vigilante. He points two fingers at his eyes and points them at Vigilante. “But I’ll be watching you too.”
“Aww come on! I’m not a creep.” Vigilante holds up his hands in protest and you find yourself noticing how large his hands actually are. “But I do have duct tape.” he adds, glancing over at you. You’re glad when he turns 180 degrees and positively skips off towards his tent so he doesn’t notice your chest heaving as you try to steady your breath. Calm down.
You continue to watch him on his way to the far side of the camp as you finish your drink. You throw the empty bottle in with the others in the bin. You nod to Chris and point your thumb at your tent.
“Sleep tight Birdie. I’ll keep an eye on Vij for you.”
You smile and wave your hand away, It’s fine don’t worry about me, but Chris totally misreads your body language.
“Yeah I’ll push him away like that-“ he mimics your hand wave “Read you loud and clear.”
You thought your signing and expressions were obvious but Chris reminds you again that Vigilante is the only person you’ve met who can read your movements like he’s reading your mind.
In your tent you begin to peel off your skintight black leather suit. The dried blood from earlier cracks and flakes as you peel it off. You’re thankfully uninjured. Just a few aches and bruises, and a small scratch where the butterfly held his blade against your neck but you’re grateful you got off lightly. You strip to your plain black cotton underwear and sports bra and use a bottle of water and washcloth to get rid of the remaining blood and sweat from your body, trying your best to get it out of your hair. You need a real shower but this will do for now.
You crawl into your sleeping bag and as you had expected, you can’t get comfortable. Almost immediately you start to toss and turn. It’s unreasonably hot in here, despite the cool night air outside. Your skin feels like it’s on fire and when you lie still you can hear your heartbeat.
You unzip your sleeping back, exposing your skin to the cool air and lie on your back, hands resting on your tummy. You trace your hand upwards, imagining Vigilante’s much bigger hand moving up past your throat to cover your mouth. You press your knees shut, trying to ignore the low hum of frequency buzzing between them. Your other hand seems to have a mind of its own and reaches down to lightly graze your swollen clit over the fabric of your underwear. You accidentally let out a single agonising groan. The hard ground vibrates and the fabric of the tent whooshes. Pausing, you hold your breath to see if anyone is stirring.
Nope.
You sit bolt upright. Fuck, it is so fucking frustrating being worked up with no release- ever.
Breathe.
Come on , you think, you can do this . You’ve gone over a year without this. Self preservation. World preservation. You’ve taken down a group of five butterflies with a single, ear splitting scream- who knows what sonic shockwaves would occur if you orgasmed?
And yet.
Could Vigilante be right? The butterfly had rendered you helpless with one hand. Could the solution to your frustration be as simple as a strong hand over your mouth?
“I do have duct tape.”
Heat sears between your legs. You kneel in front of the canvas entrance of your tent. You reach out tentatively to unzip your tent. Your hand hesitates. What if Chris or one of the others sees you?
On second thoughts, you sit back onto your heels, acutely aware of the way your underwear has felt increasingly hot and sticky since Vigilante skipped off to his tent. You place one hand over your mouth and slide the other one into your underwear.
When you close your eyes, the memory of Vigilante standing over you to retrieve his knife from the butterfly's skull enters your mind. The way his strong arms practically scooped you up and out of your stupor. How he firmly placed his hands on each of your shoulders and looked you over to make sure you were uninjured.
“’I’ll do the same thing babe. One hand over your mouth and the other deep in your-”
Oh for God’s sake. You’re furious with your own lack of self-control as you decide you need to find out how that sentence ends. You unzip the door slowly, quietly and poke your head out into the dark night air. To your left, Chris is still beside the fire, looking out towards the horizon, his back facing the small group of tents. You look towards the right- at Vigilante’s tent. It’s the furthest away from the rest of the group- about thirty or so metres away from yours.
You’ve never moved so quickly and so cat-like in your life. You tiptoe barefoot and half-naked out of your tent and creep silently towards Vigilante’s. You unzip his tent door and hastily climb in.
“Fuck!” Vigilante scrambles around and sits up in his sleeping bag, he shines both a torch and a gun in your face, blinding you. You furiously press a finger to your lips to try and get him to shush. “What the-?” He blurts. Looking at the torch, you make a barely audible “Shh” and the bulb cracks. Everything in the tent goes dark.
“Birdie?” he whispers “I nearly shot you- I thought you were a butterfly.” You both look at the tent opening with bated breath, waiting to see if anyone has noticed the commotion. They don’t. The only sound is the canvas door moving gently in the cool night breeze.
With each blink, bright spots appear in front of your eyelids as your sight adjusts after being hit with the torch light. The dim moonlight barely penetrates the green canvas of the tent. You turn and see that Vigilante is only wearing a pair of teal boxer briefs- he is unsuited and unmasked. He’s no longer faceless and your eyes widen with realisation that he is the busboy from Fennel Fields. Chris’ friend's brother- Adrian Chase. Adrian’s mouth opens in realisation as he brings a hand to feel his face, reading the recognition crossing yours.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck” he whispers and tries to jam the mask back over his head but it gets caught on his glasses. “I can’t sleep with my mask on. I knew it would come back to bite me in the ass.” You reach out and grasp his arms firmly to stop his panicked movements. You let go and hold up your arms in an exaggerated shrug. He stops. “You’re right B bird. You were the only one left in the group who didn’t know my secret identity and you’ve seen me now.” And he tosses the mask aside.
Your stomach does a little flip as your still-adjusting eyes take him in. Wow- he’s handsome. Thank God. Thick wavy black hair, green eyes, glasses and a muscular, lean body littered with scars.
His glasses are askew and he adjusts them- you can’t help but look at the veins on his muscular forearms as he does it. He halts and looks back at you, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion “What are you doing here? Shit- did Chris spot something on his watch?”
Fuck.
You pause. He doesn’t know why you’re here. He was joking . Of course he was- he never stops joking. He was probably just making fun of you.
You try to make your expression blank and unreadable and all sorts of wild excuses flash through your mind. You hold up a finger, signalling for him to wait and bring up the notes app on your phone.
‘I heard a wolf’ you type and show him the phone screen.
“And you came in here rather than deal with it yourself? Alright-” he cocks his gun and starts crawling towards the open tent door. You wave your hands, telling him to stop and you zip the tent door blocking his exit. You quickly type on your phone again
‘Gone now. Can I sleep here in case it comes back?’
He looks up from your phone screen. “Birdie? Scared of a wolf? Damn, I thought you weren’t scared of anything!” He laughs quietly and you scowl. “Okay, okay- I won’t tell the rest of them you’re scared of wolves. Pinky swear.” He extends his pinky and you grasp it with your own. You wonder if he knows that there aren’t any wolves in these woods.
“Make yourself at home- Casa de Vigilante.” He waves across the surprisingly tidy tent and you’re secretly pleased that he’s scrubbed himself clean of (most of) the blood and dirt from earlier. He looks round the tent and his eyes land back on you and for the first time he realises you’re wearing underwear and a sports bra. It’s not your sexiest lingerie but you feel a jolt of satisfaction as his gaze lingers a fraction too long.
“Jeez, you must be freezing,” he says. Oh . Were his eyes just looking over your goosebump covered skin? “You take the sleeping bag”
You can’t believe that after his comments earlier he is actually being a gentleman. This is not going to plan at all. He has no idea that his throwaway flirtatious remark momentarily shattered your world view.
Maybe this is why you find him so maddening. He is everything you aren’t. Everything you can’t be. He’s loud, he’s openly flirtatious and he’s unserious. The quieter you are, the more you recede into your shell. You can’t flirt anymore because you need to suppress all your sexual desires. You can’t even let out a sigh of laughter without causing a serious injury so you feel like you’re gradually losing your sense of humour.
“Hey Birdie? Are you okay?” He looks into your face, concerned.
That motherfucker. Of course he’s caring too. You can’t stand it. You grasp his worried face and wrestle him into a kiss.
Take that , you think as you bite his bottom lip.
It takes him a beat to realise what is happening but when he does he surges forward hungrily, his hand curls a fistful of your hair. He smells like the 5th of November. The bonfire smoke lingers on his skin and underneath the burnt gunpowder scent there’s something fresh and cirtrusy- like bergamot.
You taste his warm tongue as it enters your mouth and you trace your hand down his chest. He makes a noise low in his throat in response, and using his hand to hold your jaw open he kisses you deeply, exploring your mouth with his tongue. You pull apart to get some air. Your masked eyes meet his bright green ones. His glasses are askew again and his cheeks are flushed.
“Holy fuck- I’ve thought about kissing you every day since the moment I first saw you Birdie but I thought you hated me?”
You shrug and he laughs.
“Aw, I get it. Poor B bird, you’re just mean to me because you’re all frustrated. But I know deep down you like me. ”
You scrunch your nose, mockingly and your fingers continue downwards to graze his cock. But- wait a minute . Your eyes widen as you get a better feel for what you’re dealing with. Your hand grips round his thick cock through the fabric of his underwear. It’s long too. You rip your gaze away from his green eyes to look down and almost do a double take. You thought they called him ‘ Thimble ’.
“Oh” he says “Chris gives everyone a dick- based nickname. He gave me mine when I was 12.”
You continue to look at him incredulously.
“It was in a locker room, it’s a lot less weird that it sounds. Alright… maybe it is as weird as it sounds.” He pauses “Fuck is it also weird that your surprised reaction to my dick is making me even harder? The ol’ bait and switch.”
You’re trying very, very hard to keep your eyes unrolled. You hands travel back up to his pecs and he lets you push him back so that he’s lying on his sleeping bag. You swing your leg over his body to straddle his hips and pull your sports bra off in one swift movement.
“Holy fuck.” He groans like he can’t believe his eyes, grabbing your tits lecherously. “Your boobs look even better than they do in that little black suit.” Perv.
The scars on his body practically beg you to kiss them and so you start working your way down, slowly planting kisses on a healed shrapnel wound on his neck, a small scar on his sternum, following a trail of scratches down his abdomen and your lips meet the trail of dark hair below his belly button. You tug his boxers down, revealing his cock. You feel a rush of heat between your legs as you see it’s hard, leaking and desperate to be sucked.
He adjusts his glasses and looks down in anticipation. You slowly lick the underside of his huge cock and he lets out a quiet whimper as you circle your tongue over his head. You open your mouth ready to take him in when he sits up on his elbows. “Wait-”
You pause and look at him, eyes wide and mouth open, your tongue resting on his frenulum.
“Is it safe?” he asks. There’s a glint of something in his eye. Fear? Is Vigilante actually afraid of something- you? You nod reassuringly in answer to his question. “You’re sure you can do it without making any noise?” You nod again, your tongue still on his frenulum and his cock bobs with your head movement. “Okay” he acquiesces but he remains on his elbows, looking down at you as you open your jaw as wide as you can and try to take all of him in.
It’s been at least 18 months since you did this but you don’t remember it being this difficult. Your lips feel stretched as you take in as much of his length as you can. Your tongue slides up and down the underside of his penis and you feel his head hit the back of your throat but your lips aren’t even close to the base.
“Fuck, you were so mean before. And now you’re being such a good girl for me- what happened to you Birdie?”
Good girl . Ugh, why does that make you melt? You concentrate hard and you desperately want to moan but you can’t make any noise with your vocal chords. The only sound is the obscenely wet slurping of your saliva as you swirl your tongue around his length. You look up at him again and see he has the same glint in his eyes before. And you realise it isn’t just fear, it’s excitement. Sick fuck . He’s excited at the danger - that you might accidentally blow him to smithereens while, well, blowing him.
“Wait… wait…” he groans and cups your chin. Oh no- maybe he’s realised the life threatening position he’s in? “I’m gonna blow my load if you keep doing that.” Yes ! You think with satisfaction. “Just looking at your pretty mouth- oh fuck- that dangerous little mouth that just killed an entire swarm of butterflies. Fuck- it makes me wanna cum.”
He’s deranged . But you’re desperate to please him, give him that release he deserves for saving your life earlier. You nod with your mouth still full, giving him permission to cum down your throat.
“I can’t,” he genuinely looks anguished “Because I still wanna fuck you. And I really wanna taste your pussy… will you let me?”
You reluctantly remove his cock from your mouth and purse your lips with worry. You shake your head.
“You don’t want me to go down on you? Isn’t that why you came in here B?” You crawl up towards him and lie on your side, facing him. Adrian turns on his side and looks into your eyes. Your eyes are wide, pleading that he understands.
“You think it’s too dangerous for me to go down on you?” You give a small embarrassed nod.
“Hey, what did I promise you?” He tilts your head up. “I promised you I’d put one hand over your mouth…” He covers your mouth with his left hand and you’re forced by the sudden weight of him onto your back “... and the other…” His right hand pulls your underwear off and he gently glides over your wet folds with his fingers. The pads of his fingers lightly graze your throbbing clit and you fight not to buck your hips greedily. He leans in to whisper, his lips touching your ear and his breath hot “...deep in your cunt.” Adrian sucks two of his fingers and then sinks them deep into your aching pussy, curling up and hitting the spot you crave, his palm rubbing your clit. You arch your back as he presses his fingers inside you.
“Oh man, you are so fucking wet already. Is that just from sucking my cock? Or is it from when you were in your tent coming up with that wolf story?”
Fuck - he did know.
“Just look at you- squirming and totally fucking defenceless. I could do whatever I wanted to you and you couldn’t even stop me because my hand is stopping your one power.” Your eyes roll back in your head- for once not in exasperation but in pleasure. Please Adrian, do whatever you want with me. You feel your pussy getting wetter thinking about how he’ll split you in half with his fat cock after this. Your head is already spinning and he’s only using two fingers.
“I never thought you’d be like this. I never thought you’d be a little slut that creeps into my tent in the middle of the night. I thought you were stuck up but here you are, getting off on being held down and finger fucked by the guy you hate.”
Fuck, he really can talk . Adrian’s theory is put to the test as you feel a soft moan try to escape your throat. You’re worried that your own head might explode. But nothing happens. The sound is dampened against the palm of his hand. He feels the vibrations against his palm and realises that he was right. It spurs him on to go faster and he lowers his head to your pussy. You feel his hot tongue lick between your folds. He finds your clit and starts moving his tongue in quick firm circles. His fingers continue to curl and press upwards, tapping a beautiful rhythm as your muscles squeeze round his thick digits.
“Oh Birdie I’m gonna make you cum all over my fingers then I’m going to fuck this tight, wet little pussy.” His mouth returns to your clit but you’re already past the point of no return. His words, God damn his words, sneak up on you and push you over the edge, your first orgasm in over a year and it arrives quicker than it ever has before. Blinding, searing heat rips you apart from inside out as you’re hurled headfirst into your release. The walls of your pussy flare and contract around his fingers, you see stars as your chest heaves and you give another muffled desperate moan into Adrian’s hand. Fuck, you can’t believe you’re cumming for Vigilante.
He gives a few slow licks up the entire length of your slit, releases his hand from your mouth and crawls up towards you. His arms either side of your head he gives you another slow, deep kiss.
“Did you like that B?” Even if you could use your vocal chords, you’re not sure you’d be able to speak. He laughs as you gaze at him through heavy lids. “You are so adorable when you’re satisfied” he gently pinches your cheek “But I’m not done with you yet.”
He clambers off you and rummages around in his duffel bag and your abdomen clenches with delight when you see he’s holding duct tape. “I need to warn you that this might hurt when you take it off.” He regularly kills people for doing graffiti but looks genuinely concerned at the idea of duct tape causing you discomfort. Maniac. You nod and point to your mouth, encouraging him to seal your lips.
He straddles you, peels a short length of duct tape and rips it off the roll with his teeth. “Ready?” Using his large, gentle hands he firmly presses the duct tape over your lips. Fuck, you feel constricted but it’s turning you on even more. A wicked idea flashes across your mind. You put your wrists together and eagerly extend your arms towards him.
He gasps in mock dismay, a wild smile crosses his face. “You are such a little slut for me, pretty Birdie. Are you normally this kinky?”
You flush bright pink. You’re not. But tonight you want to give Adrian total control, so you wait with your arms out, eyes pleading, and he obliges. He wraps the duct tape around your wrists and once again uses his teeth to detach the length from the roll of tape.
“Holy fucking shit” he tosses the roll back into his bag and looks at you hungrily. He takes your tied arms and moves them above your head to give him a better view of your tits. “All those times I’ve dreamed about you naked in my bed, I never thought you’d be gift-wrapped.”
You look up at him and feel truly helpless. Adrian’s head drops down to give the contour of your neck a long drag of his tongue, slow and hot and gentle. He trails kisses along your jaw and stops when his lips are almost touching your ear. “If there’s anything you don’t like, baby, just let me know. Hit me or something.” He whispers. This brief shift in tenderness and his consideration for your enthusiastic consent simply leaves you in a puddle. You nod and hold your breath waiting for his next move.
He starts to work down, kissing your neck, your collarbone and then you feel your blood burning fire through your veins as his lips envelope your left nipple. He squeezes your breasts, cupping them with both hands and his teeth gently graze your sensitive skin. Your back arches and he lifts his head up, watching you writhe. His calloused fingers pinch both of your nipples and he plants sloppy, wet kisses on both of your breasts. Adrian’s kisses then land on your ribs and trail down your stomach. You’re already soaking fucking wet again. You try to move your legs apart, eager to let him see how ready you are but his knees on either side of yours block the way. Your pussy is slick, swollen and desperate for him to fill you up again.
“Patience, Birdie.” He kisses just below your bellybutton and when his eyes close and he moves back up to suck your other nipple you let out a muffled whine.
“Fuck, your skin is so soft,” He buries his face into the nape of your neck, inhaling your scent “And how do you smell so good after kicking ass all day? Like leather…and lavender..”
You wriggle out from underneath him impatiently, pulling your legs up to your chest and wrapping your ankles behind his waist. He pulls his head away from your neck and looks at you with impish delight. You bring your tied wrists over his head and behind his neck so you can better leverage your body into his. He kisses the duct tape across your lips.
“So demanding” his whisper chastises you with a cocky smile.
He moves back, untangling himself from you so he can get a better look at you lying flushed and naked on his sleeping bag. You draw your knees up to your chest so he can see how desperate and soaking your pussy is and he holds your legs above you by the calves. Adrian surveys the sight before him appraisingly and slaps the meat of your thigh with an open palm.
You whine into the sticky covering on your mouth and in response he traces his fingers gently up and down your soaking wet entrance.
“God, you have a beautiful pussy. It’s like it was fucking made for me to be in it.”
He puts two fingers inside your leaking cunt and slowly draws them back out. You look down and blush at how wet you are as he takes himself in his now wet hand and strokes his length with your slick.
Adrian let’s go of your calves and catches the backs of your knees and spreads your legs, pulling you towards him. He kneels in front of you and runs the blunt head of his cock through your folds. A jolt of panic sears through you when you feel his thick head at your entrance. You grab a fistful of Adrian’s wavy hair, and force him to look in your eyes. Be gentle , your eyes plead. It’s been a long time since you’ve had sex and you hope he has the sense not to fucking destroy you with his cock.
“I’ll go slow” Adrian presses his forehead against your head and stares deeply into your eyes, as if reading your mind. He pulls back and tenderly brushes your hair away from your masked face then he returns his hand to guide himself into your pussy.
And then- pressure . Blunt and thick as he breaks you open over his cock.
Your hand grabs his hair as if by instinct and Adrian watches your face intently as you squeeze your eyes shut. Come on, you think to yourself, you’ve literally been stabbed multiple times- you can take a fucking cock .
“This okay B?” You nod determinedly as he pushes deeper. “Fuck, you’re so warm. And so… fucking…tight.” His words are as slow as the incredibly controlled way he pushes himself into you and you feel like your insides are being rearranged. Fuck, you’re know you’re going to ache for days after this.
You let out a deep exhale and at the same time he groans as he fully sheathes himself into you. You’re grateful for this respite as he pauses and you can tell from his furrowed brow and shaking arms that he’s struggling not to cum already.
He’s only paused for seconds but his self restraint sends waves of arousal washing over you. You wriggle again, this time moving your hips in tiny circles, feeling him throb as you squeeze around him as hard as you can.
“Such an impatient little Birdie,” he says, gritting his teeth as you squirm underneath him “Trying to make me cum first.” Your wriggling has given him new found determination to make you cum again- before he does.
He starts to ramp up his pace so in return you squeeze your muscles tightly and move your hips, attempting to fuck yourself back into him, even though the stretch of him feels searing.
“Is this what you needed? Needed the fucking you’ve dreamed of since even before you got your powers.”
His words do something to you. You let out an involuntary whine into the duct tape and he laughs. “ Yeah this is what you needed baby.”
How does he switch like this? So sweet and then just so, so filthy , so degrading . You remind yourself again that Vigilante is probably a psychopath. But you can’t deny that the way he talks is really, really turning you on - and he knows it.
Adrian’s hands thread through your hair and his biceps are at either side of your face. For the first time you wish your mouth wasn’t covered with duct tape so you could kiss his arms and feel his tongue in your mouth again. You plant your tape covered mouth into his neck anyway, inhaling the scent of smoke and his bergamot fragrance.
“I’ve wanted to fuck you since I met you Birdie. The way you roll those pretty eyes at me. I knew I could make you like me. And I know you really, really like how my cock is filling you up. The others would never believe how much you fucking like me now.”
The sound of his thrusts become shamefully wetter in response to his words.
“Fuck, I felt that. Who knew you’d get so wet hearing me talk. You. Pretty. Little. Slut.”
Your toes curl as he punctuates the last four words with brutal thrusts. He takes your tied wrists and pins them above your head, they brush the zips on the tent door. The silhouette of his broad shoulders and outstretched arm makes you notice the size difference between you. His head drops down to your throat and he sucks on your neck as his fingers dig bruises into your forearms.
“Thank God your mouth is covered or the whole team would know that you’ll be spending tonight cumming all over my cock.”
He moves his other hand down between your bodies and you exhale pitifully at the canvas ceiling when the tip of his finger starts rubbing small firm circles on your clit. Oh fuck, this is it. The same flicker of warning from earlier as he continues to thrust inside you.
“Y’know I’d gladly let you fucking decimate my entire apartment building if it meant I could hear you cumming for me.”
From anyone else this would be a joke but Vigilante is a fucking lunatic and you know he’s being sincere. Is there anyone you could be with who would honestly let you do that? You feel tears swimming in your eyes and you start to see stars. You’d be audibly sobbing with lust and relief if you could.
“Fuck yeah, come on, fucking cum on my cock,” He whispers in your ear, his tone becomes gentle “Come on pretty Birdie, do it again for me.”
Everything surges hot and molten while he keeps pounding himself into you. You cum and the moan that escapes you is so fierce that the masking tape on your face vibrates. Your fingers search wildly behind your head and grab onto the nearest thing- the tent zipper - as your walls convulse and squeeze around his cock in pleasure.
Adrians hips stutter “Holy shit you get so tight when you cum.” You give him another squeeze “Oh fuck, I’m gonna— I’m- wh-where? Do you want me to cum on your stomach?”
You don’t have time to grab your phone and tell him on your notes app about how your super sonic accident was permanent birth control. So instead you shake your head, wrap your legs even more tightly around his waist and lift your hips off the ground pressing yourself to him tightly. Inside . Please cum inside me Adrian.
He understands, like you knew he would, and the desperate pull of your legs makes him plow his hips deep into yours. His whispered moans jump up to a fortissimo as he buries his face into the juncture of your neck and shoulder and he empties his load inside you. “Fuckfuckfuck” his curses turn into an incomprehensible stream of consciousness. His hips shudder, he gives a final loud groan and you feel his cock throbbing as the hot ropes of his release coat your insides.
He’s heavy on top of you but comfortable. Like a muscular weighted blanket. You could lie here forever, he breathes heavily into the crook of your neck and his warm cum leaks out of you, making a mess of his sleeping bag.
Your masked face is damp and notice that tears have been streaming down your cheeks. A build up of emotions passes over you like a wave. You’re satisfied and just honestly grateful that you met someone as reckless as Vigilante. How many people could say they had someone willing to risk their life just to please them?
Suddenly- footsteps. Fuck, Adrian had been loud.
“Blackbird? Fuck! Her tent is open and she’s not here!” Shit- that’s Chris’ voice.
“Peacemaker, over here!” yells Harcourt and you can hear her voice only feet from your head. Damn she was stealthy.
You and Adrian barely have time to look at each other before the tent door is wrenched open and Agent Harcourt is pointing a gun inside.
Chris and Harcourt stare open mouthed in shock. Adrian on top of you, flushed, sweating, glasses askew. You with tears in your eyes, masking tape over your mouth and your hands bound and stretching for the tent door. You and Adrian come to the same realisation as you lock eyes.
You wave your hands at Chris and Harcourt wildly, in a ‘Stop!” motion. Chris, as usual, misreads your meaning entirely and seems to think your waving means ‘Help!’ .
“God damnit Vij!”
Adrian looks up, horrified “No, no no no. This is so not what it looks like!”
“I’m not gonna enjoy kicking your ass,” says Chris, putting his helmet on “But someone has to do it.”
Fuck.
“ Chris, stop!” you whisper urgently and Chris is hit by the sonic wave, sending him flying into the air and landing on his back over ten feet away. You all watch as he sits up slowly, dazed but uninjured.
“Holy shit,” laughs Adrian in amazement “I didn’t know you had a British accent.”
