mdni. mooties who've already seen this, feel free 2 ignore pope being a basement-dwelling nerd that smurf keeps under lock and key because he's a pervert pyromaniac. he's chubby, and he wears square glasses, and he's so, so, so horny. 'mom, why can't I ever go outside?' then when he does sneak out, he sees you at the beach in your itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny-yellow-polka-dot-bikini and sits in the sand twenty feet away, rubbing his achy cock through his pants, humming, rocking, and vibrating, so excited that he cums.
your friend tells you there's some guy staring, being creepy, but you think he looks nice, kinda cute, with his flushed face and gnarly little teeth, so you invite him to hangout. he follows you around the pier, and he's awkward, but he's funny, and sweet, and he buys you all snacks and drinks at the snack-bar, carries all your purses and shopping bags, all while smelling your hair when you're not looking and peeking through the changing curtain at the boutique for a glimpse at the wild bush suffocating in your bottoms.
you invite him back to your house for a pool party and you realize the depth of his shyness when he won't get in the water, won't take off his shirt. you sit in his lap and stroke his cheeks, tell him kind things he's never heard while you wiggle his top and jeans off, rub on his pudgy, freckled little belly. you see his thick imprint, now in his boxers, his monstrous thighs and it's the cherry on top, you know that you have to have him.
an hour later he's in your bedroom, glasses knocked half-way off while you push back into his big fat dick, and he's whining, scared, he can’t believe it’s happening, that you’re soo sloppy, your pussy is so creamy, it’s all over his thighs and his balls, and he’s cum three times already, and he can’t hold himself up. he puts all his weight on you, biting you, smelling you, savoring you, humping, humping, humping until he can’t anymore.
also him setting your car on fire when you try to kick him out afterwards, he wants to be your bf now, why can’t be have more pussy?
Can’t stop thinking about Trucker!Simon who’s been rolling for four straight days without a real shower, big frame crammed behind the wheel of his rig, the sleeper cab behind him smelling like diesel, old sweat, stale cigarette smoke, and faint grease of last week’s truck stop burgers.
Trucker!Simon who’s got you- the pretty little bird he picked up on the side of the interstate at 2am, thumb stuck out in your pretty little sundress, soft tits spilling heavier over the neckline every time you breathe, panicked, after you’d quietly explained through the open window that someone had ditched you out there, hundreds of miles from home with nothing but your bag and you just needed a ride to the next town, anywhere, please- in his sleeper, curled up on sheets stiff with old sweat and cum, stained more than clean.
Soft thighs pressed together, pretty mouth parted, eyes wide and already glassy in the low light from the dash. He’s too big for the space, has to duck his head, shoulders brushing the sides, and he fills it completely when he crawls in after you.
Shirt half unbuttoned and stuck to his chest with sweat, jeans open and shoved down, freeing that heavy cock that you’ve seen the outline of under his oil stained pants when he’d palm at it, bulging against his thigh when he drove under street lamps to this trucker stop.
It hangs thick and flushed between his thighs now, heavy balls drawn up tight, the skin at the base dark with dried sweat and the pre he’s been leaking into his boxers since he got a whiff of your sweet floral perfume as you climbed into his rig.
Kneels on the mattress, one big hand braced on the low ceiling, the other reaching down to fist his cock slow and lazy, eyes dragging over you, your soft curves, the way your pretty clothes are already rumpled from being in his rig, the little tremble in your thighs that only gets worse when he leans in closer.
Mattress dipping under his weight, until his chest is right in front of your face, heat rolling off him intense. You wrinkle your nose hard, trying to turn your face away, shoulders curling in like you can escape the stench.
He shifts his weight anyway, knees forcing between your thighs, spreading them wider, one nicotine stained hand wrapping around yours, yanking it down to wrap around his cock. It’s hot, heavy, the skin at the base tacky. Your fingers don’t quite meet around it.
You flinch violently, trying to yank your hand back with a soft disgusted sound, but he just wraps his bigger one over yours and makes you stroke him once, twice, slow, firm drags that smear fresh precum down the shaft while your lower lip wobbles and your breath comes in tiny, hiccuping gasps. He groans at the skin of your hand around his cock which is all too used to the feeling of his calloused hands and scratchy sheets and not at all used to soft and warm.
His fingers thread into your hair, digging into the base of your skull, and he forces your face down the trail of coarse hair on his stomach until your pretty mouth is pressed right against the root of his cock.
The smell is strongest here, musky and sharp, the faint bitter trace of old piss where he’s been too lazy to stop properly. You squeeze your eyes shut and try harder to twist away, soft disgusted whimpers catching in your throat, hands pushing weakly at his stomach, nose wrinkling as you gag at the smell of him. He holds you there until your lips brush the tacky skin.
Rocks his hips forward, the fat head of his cock smearing across your soft cheek, leaving a shiny streak. “Open up.”
When your lips part and you take him in, he grunts low, the wet heat of your mouth making his balls draw up tighter. He pushes the taste of road and sweat across your tongue, then deeper.
You choke immediately, a wet, panicked sound bubbling up as your hands fly to his hips, pushing hard. Tears bead in your lashes and spill down your temples, nose wrinkling hard at the stench, but he doesn’t let you pull back. Both big hands sink into your hair, fingers twisting tight at the roots, dragging you down, groaning when he pushes into your throat, feels it convulse around the fat head of his cock.
“Fuck,” he rasps, barely a word, more a punched out sound of satisfaction.
Then he shoves you down the rest of the way, using his grip on your hair to force your pretty mouth lower, inch by inch, until your nose is pressed flush against the sweaty, crusty hair at the base of his cock.
Your throat spasms hard around him, fluttering and squeezing, and he groans again, deeper this time, hips twitching forward. Saliva floods your mouth instantly, thick and messy, spilling out around your stretched lips and dripping down his balls in shiny strings.
He holds you there, nose buried in the damp, crusted pubes that smell like days of sweat and road grime, cock buried to the hilt in your spasming throat.
One thumb slides forward, pressing against the outside of your neck, feeling the obscene bulge of his cock stretching your throat. He rubs it slowly, while your eyes water and more tears track down your face.
Then he starts to rut, grinding his cock deeper into your throat while saliva pours out of you. Every time he pulls back just enough for you to gasp a wet, choked breath, thick strings of spit stretch between your lips and his cock before he shoves you back down again.
Your hands keep pushing at his thighs, manicured nails scraping over sweat slick skin, but he just tightens his grip in your hair and fucks your throat harder, deeper.
The wet, gurgling sounds are obscene in the cramped sleeper. Your mascara is running, pretty face a mess of tears and spit, nose still wrinkled in disgust even as your throat keeps fluttering and milking him. He groans every time you gag, the sound low and satisfied, hips rolling in steady, filthy ruts that smear more of your saliva into his pubes and down his balls until they’re shiny and dripping with it.
He doesn’t let up until your vision starts to blur at the edges and your hands go slack against his thighs. Only then does he pull you off with a wet, obscene pop, cock shiny and flushed dark, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to the head. You cough and gasp, chest heaving, tears and saliva dripping from your chin onto the stained sheets while he fists his cock once, twice, smearing the mess you made all over himself.
Then his hands fall to your hips, manhandles you between his highs, one big hand under your soft legs. The sundress gets shoved higher, bunched under your tits, grips your panties and pulls, ripping them off, forcing your legs wide even as your thighs tremble and try to close.
You’re crying harder now, soft hiccuping sobs, hands pushing frantically at his stomach and chest as he lines up, eyes wide and pleading up at him.
“Please- wait” your voice cracks, small and teary, “- condom? Do you have a condom?”
He pauses for half a second, the thick head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. Then he answers, low and rough, “Ain’t got one.”
The stretch of his cock is immediate and overwhelming, feels like he’s splitting you in half. Your back arches hard, a broken whimper slipping out as your hands beat harder at his chest, trying to push him off, soft thighs shaking uncontrollably.
He’s too big for the cab and he’s too big for you, hips grinding forward, heavy balls pressing tight against your ass, coarse hair at his base rubbing against your soft skin while fresh tears spill down your temples.
You keep pushing at him, palms flat against his sweaty chest, trying to create space, soft disgusted sounds mixing with the first helpless little moans that start slipping out every time he bottoms out.
The mattress creaks. The sheets stick to your back, stiff and filthy. Every thrust makes the cab rock slightly on its suspension. Sweat rolls off his chest in fat drops, splattering onto your soft belly and the swell of your tits while he fucks you in deep, heavy strokes that grind right up against your cervix. The wet slap of his heavy, pendulous balls is loud in the cramped space, scent getting thicker the harder he works, mixing with the new smell of sex and your own unwanted arousal until the whole sleeper reeks of it.
He breathes heavy, low grunts punched out of him every time your cunt flutters and squeezes around the thick drag of his cock. One hand stays braced on the ceiling, the other gripping the back of your soft thigh hard enough to leave bruises, holding you open while he uses you.
Your hands are still on his chest, pushing weakly, fingers slipping through the thick sweat coating his skin, but the resistance is turning sloppy. Your pretty face is scrunched, eyes going glassy, mouth falling open on broken little moans.
He fucks you through an orgasm like that, grinding rolls that drag the fat head of his cock inside you until your soft body locks up and you sob out a high, whiny sound, cunt pulsing and gushing around him.
He doesn’t stop. Just keeps using you, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your collarbone, the wet slap of his balls getting filthier as your slick and his precum mix into a messy froth at the base of his cock.
You’re babbling now, soft and fucked stupid, little “ah- ah- plea- ” sounds that don’t quite form real words. Your thighs are shaking so hard they can’t stay wrapped around him. He catches one and folds it higher, nearly bending you in half on the narrow mattress, and the new angle makes you wail, eyes rolling back as he grinds right up against your cervix with every thrust.
When he gets close he drops forward heavier, chest crushing your soft tits, the full weight of him pinning you down into the stiff sheets.
You panic the second you realize what’s about to happen, hands shoving harder at his sweaty chest, legs kicking weakly, soft sobs turning frantic. “Nono, pull out, I’m not on birth control- please-”
He doesn’t even grunt in response, just wraps his arms around your body, shoves you down on his cock throbing deep inside you, and then he’s cumming thick, hot spurts pumping straight into your womb, flooding your uterus with days’ worth of heavy, pungent load. It’s so much it forces its way out around his cock in messy rivulets, smearing down your ass onto the already ruined mattress.
Empties every last drop deep inside you, flooding you until your lower belly feels warm and full. Only when the last spurt finishes does he pull out, thick strings of cum stretching between his cock and your messy cunt.
Before you can scramble away he grabs tou, big hands flipping your soft, trembling body onto your stomach, then hauling your hips up so your face is shoved down into the filthy mattress. One heavy palm plants between your shoulder blades and stays there, pinning your face into the stiff, sweat-and-cum-stained sheets. Your sundress is rucked up around your waist, soft ass presented, and he’s already lining up again, the fat head of his cock nudging through the mess leaking out of you.
You try to twist, try to push up on your arms, panicked little sounds muffled into the mattress. “Wait- wait, you can’t- ”
He pushes in anyway.
“Haven’ fucked anyone in months,” he mutters, hips snapping forward hard enough to jolt your whole body and your mouth opens on a moan, drool pooling onto the mattress beneath your head. “Balls been so heavy they ache. Ain’t wastin’ it on these fuckin’ sheets again when I got a pretty little hole right here to fill over and over.”
Maybe you should have just walked to the next town.
Brendon Park x Reader. 18+ MDNI. Power imbalance. corruption kink. bully kink. degradation. manipulation. biting. enemies to no-other-choice-but-him
The engine isn't turning over.
You sit with your hands on the wheel and your foot on the brake and you listen to the sound of nothing happening. The key is in the ignition. You turned it and... nothing. Not even a click or a stutter; nothing your brain can latch onto and diagnose. Just the key, turned, and the absolute refusal of two thousand pounds of metal and combustion engineering to do the one thing it exists to do.
You try again.
Nothing.
Your hands are still on the wheel. You knuckles have gone pale across the ridges, tendons standing out beneath skin that's been washed so many times today the texture has gone papery and tight.
You're gripping the wheel the way you'd grip the edge of a stretcher, the way you grip things when the alternative is letting your hands shake where people can see them, and you can feel the vibrations traveling up through your forearms into your shoulders where it meets the tension that's been living in your trapezius since approximately six forty five this morning when Dr. Park looked at your patient pre-op notes and said "Did you write this with your eyes closed?"
You breathe.
The parking garage is nearly empty. The late night shadows and overhead fluorescents are doing their usual thing- that sickly amber wash that makes everything look darker and more jaundiced, turns concrete pillars and painted lines into something out of a liminal space photograph. Your shift ended nine minutes ago. You've been sitting in this car for three of those minutes and you're no closer to leaving than you were when you got in.
You try the ignition a third time because you are a person who went to medical school, which means you are clinically incapable of accepting a result without attempting to replicate it, and the result is the same.
Silence.
The dashboard stays dark. The engine stays dead. Your car, the one last reliable thing you have left in your life has chosen today- today- of all days, to stop working.
Something behind your sternum cracks, a seam letting go, a thread that's been holding two pieces of fabric together finally giving up under the accumulated weight of seventeen hours of Park's voice in your ear, Park's corrections on your chart, Park's particular way of standing just inside your peripheral vision so that you could never fully forget he's watching. The sound he makes when you do something wrong, a small exhalation through his nose that somehow communicates more disappointment than a full sentence. The way clicks his tongue when you fumbled the angle of the retractors, not loud enough for the scrub nurse to hear, pitched just for you, intimate in its cruelty.
You get out of the car.
The concrete is gritty under your sneakers. The garage has that particular underground acoustics thing where every sound arrives twice, once directly and once as an echo off the low ceiling, so the slam of your door comes back to you a half second later, duller, like the garage is mocking you. You walk to the front of the car. You pull the hood release. You prop the hood up with the little metal arm and you stare at the engine.
You have no idea what you’re looking at.
You know this. You are aware, in a detached and increasingly unhinged way, that you possess exactly zero mechanical knowledge, that the greasy labyrinth of hoses and reservoirs and metal components in front of you might as well be quantum mechanics for all the good looking at it is going to do. But you’re looking anyway, because the alternative is standing in an empty parking garage at eleven pm and crying, and you are not going to cry. You are not. You’ve made it through seventeen hours without crying and you are not going to let a dead battery or a seized alternator or whatever the fuck is wrong be the thing that-
Your eyes are wet.
You blink. Hard. Twice. You sniff, once, sharp, and press the back of your wrist against your nose and stare at the engine and try to convince yourself that you are absolutely, categorically not falling apart in a parking garage. The fluorescent light catches the moisture on your lashes and turns it amber. A tear escapes down the side of your nose and you swipe it away with your knuckle so hard the skin stings.
Headlights bloom across the concrete behind you.
The light stretches your shadow forward, elongates it across the front of your car, and for a second you’re just annoyed; someone pulling through on their way out, someone who got to have a normal end to their shift and get in their functioning car and leave. The engine behind you is idling, smooth and low, and it doesn’t pass. It slows. It stops.
A door opens.
You don’t turn around because some self preserving corner of your brain already knows. Before the footsteps, before the particular rhythm of that walk- unhurried, deliberate, the gait of a man who has never once rushed to be anywhere because everywhere he goes adjusts to accommodate his arrival- you know who it is.
You know the way you know a headache is about to become a migraine. The way you know a patient is about to code before the monitors catch up. A full body premonition, cellular and certain.
Park’s footsteps stop somewhere behind your left shoulder.
You keep staring at the engine. Your vision has gone blurry, half tears, half exhaustion, half the flat refusal of your eyes to focus on anything that isn’t a pillow. You can feel him behind, the shift in pressure and temperature that changes the quality of the air against the back of your neck.
He doesn’t say anything for five seconds. You count them.
Then he leans past you.
His arm enters your field of vision from the left and he reaches into the engine compartment with the casualness of a man who reaches into open body cavities for a living and finds a car engine charmingly simple by comparison. His shoulder is close enough to yours that you can feel the warmth radiating off him through his clothes.
You catch it then, his cologne, or whatever it is, something clean and warm and slightly woody that cuts through the garage smell of concrete and motor oil and settles into the space between your throat and your chest with an specificity that makes you want to bite down on something.
He smells good. Offensively, inappropriately good. And you hate him for it with a purity that borders on religious, that causes you to jerk back, take several steps away with your arms crossed over your chest and your teeth clenched so tight your jaw is clicking.
He doesn’t let you get very far before. “Come here.”
He says it without looking up from the engine compartment, one hand braced on the frame, the other buried somewhere in the tangle of hoses and cables, and he says come here like he’s calling a dog that pissed on the carpet.
You don’t move.
“I said come here. I’m not going to say it again.”
You move and he grabs your wrist, fingers closing around delicate bones, and pulls you forward until you’re standing beside him with your hip against the bumper and your face approximately eighteen inches from an engine block you couldn’t identify at gunpoint.
“Look.” He positions your hand over a cable terminal crusted with greenish white buildup. Presses your fingers down onto the corroded metal and holds them there. “Feel that?”
You feel it. Gritty. Calcified. Wrong.
“That’s neglect.” He says it close to your ear. Not whispering. Just close. “Months of it.”
He lets that sit for a second. His thumb shifts against the inside of your wrist, a small, almost idle adjustment that drags across your pulse point and there’s absolutely no way he doesn’t feel how fast it’s going.
“When did you buy this car?”
“Two years ago.”
“Two years.” He drops your wrist like he lost interest in holding it, and straightens up. Pulls a cloth from somewhere- his back pocket, his jacket, the fucking ether- and wipes his hands with slow, methodical attention, finger by finger, knuckle by knuckle, while you stand there with engine grease on your palm and the residual ghost pressure of his grip still pulsing around your wrist bones. “And you’ve never once popped the hood. Not once. You’re telling me you’ll spend six hours memorizing the branches of the brachial plexus but you can’t spend five minutes making sure the thing that keeps you alive on the highway actually works.”
He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at his own hands as he cleans them, like they’re the only thing worth his tim, has all the time in the world and you are not a factor in how he spends it.
“I mean, it’s almost impressive.” He glances at you. Just a flick of his eyes, there and gone. “The commitment to not giving a shit. You’re consistent, I’ll give you that.”
“That’s not- ”
“Your positive cable’s loose. Terminals are shot.” He’s still cleaning his hands. Still not looking at you. “The whole system’s been dying for weeks and you just- what? Turned the key every morning and assumed it would keep working because it always had?” He folds the cloth. Tucks it in his pocket. “That’s not optimism. That’s not even denial. That’s just being stupid about the things you depend on.”
The word stupid lands different coming from him. Not like an insult. A fact. Like a lab value being read off the chart, something they can’t be interpreted in any other way, just is, and always will be.
“You’re smart in the OR. I’ve seen it.” He says flatly, without investment, a concession that costs him nothing. “You’ve got good hands when they’re not shaking. Good instincts when you’re not choking on them. But then you do this- ” He nods at the engine. “And I have to wonder if the OR version of you is the anomaly and this is the baseline.”
He lets that hang.
“Get in the car.”
“What?”
“My car.” He says, an instruction, not an offer, delivered with the expectation of immediate compliance.
“I can call a- “
“It’s eleven at night, you’re not calling a tow from a parking garage, and you’re not sleeping in your car. Get in.”
“But-”
He’s already walking away. He doesn’t wait, doesn’t look back. Just walks to his car- a dark Lexus that looks like it costs more than your annual salary- and gets into the driver’s side and sits there with the engine running and the passenger door unlocked and the absolute unshakeable certainty that you will follow.
You follow.
The inside of his car smells like him. That’s the first thing you register as you pull the door shut, the contained, ambient version of whatever you caught leaning over the engine, multiplied and warmed by the closed space.
You put on your seatbelt. You stare straight ahead. You give him your address in a voice that comes out smaller than you intended and you feel him register that, feel the quality of his silence change as he files it away.
He pulls out of the garage.
He doesn’t speak.
You wait for it- braced- shoulders locked, breath held, every nerve ending oriented toward him. You’ve spent enough time in his proximity to know how he operates: silence first, then the observation, then the correction, delivered with the flat, unhurried precision of a man who learned a long time ago that volume is unnecessary when accuracy will do. You know it’s coming. You sit in the passenger seat with your hands in your lap and your spine so straight your lower back is already aching and you wait.
A minute passes.
Two.
The streetlights strobe across the windshield in rhythmic amber intervals. The road noise fills the car, a low, constant hiss of tires on asphalt, the faint vibration of the chassis transmitting through the seat into your femurs, your pelvis, the base of your spine. The heater is on. You can feel it against your shins, a warm current that smells like clean filters and leather conditioner.
Three minutes.
He’s not going to say anything.
The realization doesn’t bring relief. It brings something worse, a vacuum. The silence that Park deploys in the OR when a resident has made an error significant enough that commentary would be redundant. The silence that says I’m not going to dignify this with a response. The silence that forces you to sit inside your own failure without the scaffolding of his criticism to push against, without even the dignity of being yelled at, because yelling would mean he cared enough to raise his voice and Park does not care enough to raise his voice. Park has never cared enough to raise his voice. He saves his volume for the things that matter and you, apparently, do not meet the threshold.
Your throat is doing something. Tightening. The muscles along the anterior triangle contracting in a slow, involuntary squeeze that you recognize as the precursor to crying and you clench your jaw against it so hard you feel your masseter pop. You are not going to cry in this car. You are not going to give him the satisfaction of watching you cry in his car with his cologne in your lungs and his silence pressing against you from every direction like something with weight.
You stare at the dashboard. The blue numbers of the clock. The GPS display showing your route- a clean, illuminated line from the hospital to your house, nineteen minutes, no traffic, as though the journey is simple, as though the distance between where you are and where you’re going can be measured in miles.
“The tibial plateau.”
His voice enters the silence without disturbing it. No change in his posture, no preliminary breath. Just the words, arriving with the same flat, unremarkable cadence he uses to call out hardware sizes mid-procedure.
“You hesitated.”
That’s it. That’s all he says. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t explain which moment, which hesitation, which specific fraction of a second he’s referring to. He doesn’t need to. You know. He knows you know. The sentence is a key inserted into a lock you’ve been trying not to look at all day, and it turns with a click you can feel in your back teeth.
The silence returns.
It’s worse now. It has a shape. The two words gave it a frame and now the quiet is no longer empty, it’s full- full of every specific thing he could have said and chose not to, every elaboration he’s withholding, every detail of your performance that he catalogued and filed and is currently letting you imagine instead of stating outright. Your brain fills the silence the way fluid fills an enclosed space, expanding into every available cavity until the pressure builds against the walls.
You think about the tibial plateau. You think about the oscillating saw in your hand and the way your fingers tightened on the grip a half second before you made the cut and that half second is what he’s talking about. That imperceptible pause. That flicker of uncertainty between intention and execution. Anyone else would have missed it. The scrub nurse didn’t see it. The anesthesiologist didn’t see it. But Park was standing across the table with his hands resting on the sterile drape and his eyes on your hands and he saw it, he felt the hesitation, stored it, and now he’s taken it out of storage and placed it between you in the car like an exhibit.
Your eyes are burning.
“And the hardware count.”
Four more words. Still no elaboration.
Flat, observational, a statement of fact that requires no emotional emphasis because the gravity is inherent. He keeps his eyes on the road.
You know what he’s referring to. The post-op notes. Six screws documented instead of eight. A discrepancy in the record that could follow the patient to every subsequent surgery, every future scan. He caught it. He corrected it. He didn’t report it.
He’s telling you now, in this car, in the dark, with nineteen minutes of road between you and your house, and the telling is worse than a formal write up because a formal write up would have structure. A formal write up would have a process: documentation, a meeting, a remediation plan, something to do with the failure. This has nothing. This is Park dropping two facts into the silence and letting you drown in the space around them.
Your left hand is trembling. You flatten it against your thigh and hold it there, pressing the tremor into the muscle, willing the vibration to disperse through the fascia and the quadricep and the femur beneath it. Your dominant hand. Your operating hand. The one that held the saw. The one that miscounted the screws. The one that’s been shaking on and off since hour six of a seventeen hour day and you’ve been hiding it by keeping it busy, keeping it occupied with tasks and tools and the physical business of the job so that nobody- so that he- wouldn’t see.
“You should have asked for a break during the reconstruction.”
You close your eyes.
“Your hand was fatiguing by hour four. You compensated by overtightening your grip on the retractor, which changed the angle.” A pause. “You knew the tremor was developing and you chose to hide it rather than ask for relief because you were more concerned with how it would look than with how it would affect the surgical field.”
That’s the most he’s said at once. Three sentences. They land in your chest like hardware being placed in sequence- tap, tap, tap- each one seated precisely, each one load bearing, the cumulative construct designed to hold a specific weight.
Silence again.
The thing that’s happening in your chest is not something you can name with language. It’s too large and too formless and it keeps changing shape, contracting into something hot and dense behind your sternum and then expanding outward into your ribs, your clavicles, the soft tissue of your throat where the tightness has progressed from uncomfortable to actively painful. You swallow against it. Your throat clicks. The sound is audible in the quiet car and you hate it, hate the way your body keeps betraying you in small acoustic ways, producing evidence of its own distress for him to collect.
You think: say something back.
You think: defend yourself.
You think: tell him he’s wrong, tell him the hesitation was clinical judgment not fear, tell him the hardware count was a transcription error not negligence, tell him the tremor was fatigue not incompetence, tell him he doesn’t get to sit there in his seventy-two-thousand-dollar car smelling like that and sounding like that and dismantling you with seven sentences spread across ten minutes of silence-
You don’t say any of it.
You don’t say any of it because your throat is closed and your eyes are wet and your hands are shaking and everything he said is true. Not approximately true. Not partially true. Not true-with-caveats-you-could-argue-if-you-had-the-energy. True. Completely, specifically, documentably true, and the fact of its truth is sitting on your chest like a sternum retractor, cranking you open one inch at a time.
A tear escapes. It tracks down the side of your nose and catches at the corner of your mouth and you taste salt and you don’t wipe it away because wiping it away would require moving your hand and moving your hand would require admitting that you’re crying and you are not admitting that you’re crying. You are sitting in this car looking straight ahead and the moisture on your face is condensation, it’s a physiological response to dry air, it’s anything other than what it is.
Park doesn’t look at you.
He knows. You know he knows. The quality of his silence has shifted again- it’s softer now, or not softer, that’s not the right word, it’s attentive. The silence of a man who is aware that something is happening beside him and has decided to let it happen. To let you sit in it. To not offer a tissue or a word or even the small mercy of turning up the radio. He just drives, steady and unhurried, and the road unspools, and you cry without sound in the passenger seat of his car while he navigates the route to your house.
You wait for the rest. The elaboration. The lecture.
It doesn’t come. Instead, after a long moment, he says something worse.
“You know what’s funny?”
You don’t answer.
“You’re actually not bad.”
The sentence lands wrong. It lands wrong because it sounds, for one disorienting half second, like a compliment, and your starved, exhausted brain almost reaches for it before the rest of him catches up- the tone, the timing, the particular way he says not bad. A minimum. A floor. The lowest possible bar of acceptability, offered with the cadence of praise so your body responds to it like praise while your brain is still trying to decode that it isn’t.
“You’ve got a feel for the work. I’ve seen you read a fracture pattern faster than most of my third years. Your spatial reasoning’s above average. Your hands- ” He pauses. You feel the pause in your sternum. “When your hands are right, they’re right.”
He’s building something. You can feel it assembling in real time, each sentence another load bearing element, and you don’t know what the structure is yet but you know it has a weight it hasn’t distributed.
“That’s what makes it hard to watch, actually.”
There it is.
“Watching someone who could be good just… ” He makes a sound. Not a sigh. Something smaller. Something almost like amusement, which is so much worse than disappointment that your vision blurs. “It’s like watching someone with perfect pitch sing off key on purpose. You want to fix it. But you can’t want it more than they do.”
He turns onto your street.
“And I’m starting to think you don’t want it at all. I think you want to want it. I think you like the idea of being good. But when it actually costs you something, when it means admitting the tremor, asking for the break, counting the fucking screws, you’d rather protect your ego than protect your patient. And that’s- ”
He pulls into your driveway.
The engine idles. The blue dashboard light hums. Your house is dark. The porch light is off because you forgot to set the timer this morning, because this morning happened to a different person in a different version of your life.
“That’s not a skill problem. I can fix a skill problem.” He’s looking straight ahead. Blue lit profile. One hand on the wheel. “That’s a you problem. And I can’t fix you.”
I can’t fix you.
Four words that shouldn’t feel like anything. Four words that are, technically, a statement of professional boundaries, an acknowledgment that his role has limits, that your development is ultimately your own responsibility. That’s what they are on paper. That is not what they are in this car at eleven pm with salt drying on your face and his cologne in your lungs.
I can’t fix you means you’re broken. It means I looked, and what I found isn’t worth the effort. It means he assessed you the way he did with the engine and the prognosis is: not salvageable. Not worth the parts.
You should get out. You should open the door and walk inside and lock it behind you and shower and sleep and come back tomorrow and be better, be sharper, be the version of yourself that doesn’t hesitate on the approach and doesn’t miscount hardware and doesn’t sit in a man’s car at eleven pm leaking tears onto her own scrub top.
Your hand is on the seatbelt release.
“The hesitation,” Park says.
You stop.
He’s looking straight ahead. His profile is blue lit, jaw set, one hand resting on the steering wheel at twelve o’clock. His index finger taps the leather once, a single, idle percussion that might mean nothing and might mean everything.
“It’s going to get someone killed.”
Six words. Delivered without emphasis, without cruelty, without any of the sharp edges that have characterized everything else he’s said today. That’s what makes them worse. The previous comments were barbed, they were designed to cut and they cut and the cutting was something you could be angry about, something you could push against, something that gave the pain a direction.
This is different. Neutral. Factual. Almost gentle in its certainty.
It’s going to get someone killed.
Not it might. Not it could. Going to. Future tense. Inevitable. A definitive, not a warning.
You sit there with your hand on the seatbelt and the salt drying on your upper lip and you feel the sentence settle into the shape of your self concept like a fracture propagating, a slow, branching failure that spreads outward from the point of impact into every adjacent structure until the whole system is compromised.
He doesn’t say anything else.
He just sits there. Engine idling. Blue light. One hand on the wheel. And the silence after the sentence is the worst silence of the night because there’s nothing left to wait for. He’s said the thing. The final thing. The thing that all the other things were building toward- the corroded terminals, the loose cable, the tremor, the miscount- all of it was scaffolding for this, the load bearing statement at the center of the construct, and now that it’s in place the scaffolding falls away and you’re left sitting in the bare, terrible clarity of what he actually thinks.
He thinks you’re going to kill someone.
He thinks it with the same certainty that he had when he looked at your engine and found the problem in four seconds. He looked at you the same way. He looked at your hands the same way. He’s been looking at you for months, confirming what he already suspected, and tonight- the car, the drive, the prognosis- tonight was the consultation where he tells you the findings.
Your seatbelt is still buckled. Your hand is still on the release. Your body is doing something that doesn’t align with the plan your brain is trying to execute, which is: unbuckle, open door, leave. Simple.
Three steps. Motor planning so basic a first year anatomy student could diagram the neural pathway. But the signal is getting lost somewhere between your prefrontal cortex and your extremities, scrambled by the interference of everything else your body is processing- the smell of his cologne in the warm car, the blue light on his hands, the tear track tightening on your cheek, the ache in your trapezius, the tremor in your dominant hand, the sound of his breathing.
His breathing.
You’re listening to him breathe. You’ve been listening to him breathe for the entire drive, you realize, a low, even rhythm that hasn’t changed once, that maintained the same rate and depth through every cruel observation and every silence and every tear you failed to hide. His respiratory rate is probably twelve. Maybe fourteen. Resting. Resting. He’s been resting this entire time. His nervous system has been in parasympathetic mode for the entirety of this drive, calm and regulated, while yours has been in full sympathetic cascade- tachycardic, diaphoretic, pupils dilated, hands trembling- and the asymmetry of it, the sheer physiological unfairness of it, lights something in the back of your skull that isn’t sadness and isn’t defeat.
It’s rage.
Not the sharp, vocal, defensible kind. Not the kind that generates arguments and rebuttals and righteous indignation.
Something lower. Something that lives in the body, not the mind. Something that has nothing to do with what he said and everything to do with the way he’s sitting there, breathing his twelve fucking breaths a minute, resting his hand on his thigh, occupying his leather seat with the boneless ease of a man who has never once lost sleep over the things he’s said to someone while you sit fourteen inches away vibrating at a frequency that might actually be damaging your soft tissue.
You want to hit him.
The thought arrives without preamble. You want to hit him in his calm, blue lit face. You want to put your fist into the hinge of his jaw and feel the impact travel back up your metacarpals and into your wrist and you want him to feel something, anything, any disruption at all in the flat, metronomic equilibrium of his goddamn resting heart rate.
You don’t hit him.
You look at him.
You turn your head and you look at him and he must feel the weight of it because he turns too, slow, unhurried, and his eyes find yours in the blue dark of the car and they’re steady. Completely steady. No tension in his eyes, no furrow in his corrugator, nothing in his expression that suggests he’s experiencing any version of the catastrophic internal event currently leveling every structure in your chest. He’s just looking at you. The way he looks at the surgical field. The way he looks at a fracture pattern on a film. Assessing. Reading. Processing the data without any visible emotional response to the findings.
But there’s something else. Something you almost miss because it’s buried so deep in his face that you’d need to be exactly this close, exactly this wrecked, exactly this far past the boundary of professional distance to catch it.
His gaze drops.
To your mouth.
It’s fast. A quarter second. Maybe less. And then it’s back, steady and clinical and blank, but you saw it and the seeing rewires something in your brain so fast you feel it as a physical lurch, a tilt in the axis of the car, the sudden sickening recalibration of a system that just received information it doesn’t know how to process.
He looked at your mouth.
He has spent the last twenty minutes telling you that you’re negligent and broken and dangerous and going to kill someone and he just looked at your mouth.
And the thing that breaks you isn’t the cruelty. It isn’t the silence, or the criticism, or I can’t fix you, or it’s going to get someone killed. It’s the quarter second glance. It’s the knowledge that somewhere inside of this man who has spent seventeen hours making you feel like the smallest, most incompetent person in the building, there is a circuit that looked at your mouth. That the same eyes that catalogued your hesitation and your tremor and your miscounted screws also, in the same sitting, looked at your mouth. And he thought you wouldn’t catch it. And you did. And now you’re both sitting in the knowledge of it and the air in the car has changed entirely.
And something about the way he can sit here in the aftermath of everything he’s said and look at you with the same detached focus, cracks the last load bearing wall in whatever structure was keeping you upright.
Your body, which has been running on cortisol and adrenaline and seventeen hours of accumulated fight-or-flight with no outlet, moves without conscious thought. Your hand comes off the seatbelt release and goes to the back of his neck and your fingers close in the short hair above his collar and you pull, and your mouth finds his in the dark, and it’s not a kiss so much as a loss of structural integrity. Catastrophic failure at the point of highest stress. The break you saw coming but couldn’t prevent because the forces were already in motion before you understood what they were.
He doesn’t flinch.
That’s the last thing you register before everything goes: he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, doesn’t stiffen. His mouth is warm and the sound he makes against your mouth is quiet and short and so unsurprised it makes your blood run sideways.
He was waiting for this.
The knowledge doesn’t stop you. It should. It should be the thing that makes you pull back, that trips the wire between mistake and trap, but his mouth is already moving against yours and your brain has been demoted to a purely observational role, a bystander taking notes while your body runs the operation.
You kiss him like you’re trying to hurt him. Teeth and pressure and the graceless, artless force of someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing and doesn’t care, and for a second- a long, terrible second- he lets you. He sits there and he takes it, your mouth on his, your hand fisted in his collar, your breath coming in sharp little pulls through your nose, and he doesn’t move. Doesn’t reciprocate. Doesn’t push you away. Just absorbs it, and the passivity of it is so much worse than rejection that you feel your eyes sting behind your closed lids.
Then his hand moves.
It goes to the back of your neck, fingers closing around the nape and gripping, thumb pressing into the tendon beside your spine, the rest of his hand spanning the width of your neck, and he holds you there. Holds you mid kiss, mid breath, mid everything, and the grip says stop. Not stop kissing him. Just… stop. Stop thrashing. Stop fighting. Stop moving.
You stop.
He pulls you back. Just enough to break the contact. An inch of cold air between your mouth and his, and you can feel the heat of his breath against your wet lower lip and you can see his eyes, close enough to make out the individual fibers of his iris contracting in the low light, and he’s looking at you with something that makes your animal brain go very, very still.
He doesn’t say anything.
He just looks. And the quality of the looking is- you don’t have language for it. Something pre-verbal, pre-civilized, something that belongs in a context where the lighting is firelight instead of dashboard glow and the power dynamic is measured in muscle mass and jaw strength rather than titles and institutional hierarchy.
He looks at you like he’s deciding where to bite down.
His grip on your neck tightens. Fractionally. A compression you feel in your molars.
Then he kisses you.
And it’s different. Everything about it is different. Where yours was frantic and desperate and searching, his is slow. His mouth moves against yours with a patience that feels predatory, that feels like the unhurried gait of something that doesn’t need to chase because it already has what it was after, and his hand on your neck isn’t holding you still anymore, it’s steering.
Tilting your head where he wants it, adjusting the angle, his thumb pressing under your jaw until your chin lifts and your throat is exposed and the sound that comes out of you is something you’ll hear in your own head for weeks.
Your fingers scramble against his shoulders. Your nails catch the fabric of his scrub top and drag and you feel the muscle underneath shift in response, a twitch, a contraction, involuntary and brief, and that one small proof that his body is responding makes you desperate in a way you don’t recognize.
You need to be closer. The thought is incoherent and absolute. There’s a center console between you and fourteen inches of dead space and it’s intolerable, physically intolerable, your body rejecting the distance, urgently, violently, without higher input.
You pull back. Fumble the seatbelt. The buckle snaps free. You get one knee on the console and your hand on the headrest behind him and you’re climbing, graceless, desperate, your shin banging the gear shift, your elbow catching the rearview mirror, and the logistics are terrible and you don’t care. You don’t care because his hands have dropped to his sides and he’s not helping you, he’s just watching, his head tipped back against the headrest, his eyes half lidded, tracking your clumsy, frantic movements in the space with something that isn’t amusement and isn’t patience.
It’s hunger.
Controlled, banked, hunger behind glass.
Your knee finds the seat beside his thigh. Then the other one. You settle into his lap and the steering wheel cuts into your lower back and his thighs are solid beneath yours and you’re breathing too hard, chest heaving, hands shaking where they grip his shoulders, and he’s… still.
Completely still.
Looking up at you. His hands at his sides. His jaw set. The only thing moving is his chest, rising and falling with breaths that are marginally faster than they were ten minutes ago, and you fixate on that the way a drowning person fixates on a piece of floating debris.
You wait for him to touch you.
He doesn’t.
The seconds stretch. Three. Five. Seven. You’re sitting in his lap and his hands are resting on the seat on either side of his thighs and he’s looking up at you with that banked, glass walled hunger and he is not touching you.
He is making you sit in it, in the wanting, in the desperation, in the raw, humiliating fact that you just climbed into your attending’s lap in a driveway and he’s giving you nothing back.
Your hips shift. You can’t help it. A restless, involuntary roll that presses your cunt into his cock, and you feel his abdomen tighten beneath you, a hard, sudden contraction that he controls almost immediately but not before you feel it, not before you register the proof that his body is doing things his face won’t admit to.
His jaw tightens. You see it. The masseter flexing, the tendon standing out below his ear.
Then finally- finally- his hands move.
They don’t go where you expect. They go to your hips. Both of them. Settling over the bones with a grip that is immediately, unambiguously possessive, not exploratory, not tentative, not the careful hands of a man testing boundaries. He grips you like you’re his. Like you’ve always been his. Like the last four months of corrections and cruelty and silence were just the long, patient process of wearing you down to this, to the moment where you’d put yourself in his hands because you had nowhere else to go.
His thumbs dig into the hollows inside your hip bones. The pressure is just on the edge of pain, right at the threshold where sensation tips from one thing into another, and you gasp and his hands tighten in response and you realize with a full body lurch that the sound you made didn’t concern him. It fed him.
He pulls you forward. Down. A controlled, forceful drag that seats you flush against his him, and the contact makes your vision white out at the edges and one of his hands goes from your hip to your hair and he's gripping it, pulling it, fingers twisted strands at the crown of your head, yanking, exposing your throat, and the sound he makes rewires something fundamental in your nervous system.
His mouth finds your neck, teeth grazing the tendon that runs from your ear to your clavicle, a slow, dragging pressure that leaves a trail of heat in its wake, and then he bites down, hard enough to make you jolt, to make your fingers tighten on his shoulders, to make your hips roll forward again in a motion that is completely involuntary and that he responds to by pulling you into his clothed cock harder, fingers digging into the meat of your hips with a strength that’s going to leave marks.
You know it’s going to leave marks. You know because his hands are surgeon’s hands, hands that crack bones into alignment and drive hardware through cortical shell, and they are currently clamped onto your body like he’s setting a fracture and the thing he’s reducing is you.
He doesn’t let go of the bite. He holds it. His jaw flexing against your throat, his breath hot against your pulse point, and you can feel your own heartbeat hammering against his teeth and he can feel it too; you know he can feel it, your pulse trapped between his mouth and your skin, and he stays there. Counting it, maybe. Tasting it.
Your hands are moving without thought. Down his chest, pulling at the fabric, trying to find skin and not finding it fast enough. You’re making sounds- small, fractured, desperate things that you’ve lost the ability to be embarrassed about because embarrassment requires a functioning prefrontal cortex and yours left the building sometime around the moment you smelled the cologne on him in the parking garage.
He releases the bite. His tongue passes over the indentation once, flat and slow and then his mouth is at your ear and his breathing is different now. Ragged at the edges. Fraying. The composure that he’s worn like a second skin all day is coming apart in increments you can measure by the roughness of each exhale and the tightening of his grip.
“You should eat more,” he says and his hands slide under your scrub top, palms flat against your bare skin and the heat of them is obscene, radiating a constant steady warmth that seeps into your tissue, spreading outwards from the points of contact and into the muscles beneath. His hands slide up your sides, palms dragging over abdominal muscles, calluses catching against your skin, and his thumbs find the ridges of bone, thumbs tracing your ribs, counting them. “I can feel every one of these.”
It’s not tender. It’s not concern. It’s inventory. He’s cataloguing what’s his and finding it insufficient and the disapproval is so tangled up with the want that you can’t separate them, can’t tell where the criticism ends and the desire begins because in him they’re the same thing. The same impulse. He wants you and he’s angry about the state of what he wants, angry when something he’s claimed isn’t being maintained to his standard.
His hands stop. Bracketing your ribcage, fingers splayed across your back, thumbs resting in the shallow valley between bones. The heat of his palms is sinking through your intercostal now, settling into the spaces between your ribs like something poured, and you can feel your own lungs expanding against his hand with every breath, pushing into the warmth, your body leaning into him without your permission because its been so long since anyone touched you with this much sustained focused heat.
His hands drop to the hem of your scrub top. He pulls it up, bunching the fabric at your ribs, exposing your waist, your stomach, the line of your hip bones above the drawstring of your scrub pants until your shirt is pulled above your head and dropped somewhere to the side. The air in the car hits your bare skin and you shiver and he flattens his palms against your stomach.
“Someone needs to feed you,” he mutters. His thumbs press into the soft tissue below your navel. “Make sure you actually sleep.” His hands drag down, hooking into the waistband pads of his fingers against your lower abdomen, the weight of his grip tilting your pelvis toward him. “You’re a goddamn mess.”
You are. You are a goddamn mess. You are shaking and crying and half undressed in your attending’s lap in a parked car and his hands are on your bare skin and his teeth marks are throbbing on your neck and every word out of his mouth is an insult wrapped in something that sounds, horribly, like a promise.
A promise that he’s going to fix what you can’t fix. That he’s already decided. That this- the car, the drive, the cruelty, the bite, his hands inside your waistband- this is just the intake assessment. The preliminary exam. The first step in a treatment plan that he’s been designing for months, one that ends with you exactly where he wants you, which is right here. Underneath his hands. Dependent on his attention. Unable to function without the particular combination of damage and repair that only he provides.
You should be terrified.
His hands tighten. He pulls you into him again, harder, and your breath leaves your body in a rush and your forehead drops to his shoulder and your teeth find the muscle where his neck meets his trapezius and you bite down because it’s the only language your body has left.
He groans. The sound travels through his chest cavity into yours, a vibration you feel in your sternum, and his hand slides up your spine and fists in your hair again and pulls, arching your neck back, exposing your throat, and he looks at you, looks up at you from below, his lips parted, his breathing finally, irrevocably wrecked, and the expression on his face is the most honest thing you’ve ever seen from him.
It’s not the mask. It’s not the bored superiority. It’s not the carefully metered cruelty he portions out across an operating day.
It’s greed.
Simple, uncut, undisguised. The face of a man who found something he wants and is currently in the process of closing his hand around it and he does not intend to open that hand again.
“Come here,” he says, for the second time tonight, and this time it means something completely different and exactly the same.
You come, your body answering the order the way it answers every order he’s ever given- before thought, before shame, before the part of your brain that still pretends it has dignity can raise an objection, and you lean in, mouth crashing against his.
You hate yourself for it. You hate the speed of it, the automaticity, the way your knees dig harder into the leather on either side of his thighs and your mouth finds his again. You hate that you’re shaking and he’s not. You hate that your hands are fisted into his collar and pulling and desperate and his are still, idle, unbothered, a man being kissed by someone while he decides whether or not to kiss back.
He tracks you. Every tremor of your lower lip, every frantic slide of your tongue against his, every wet graceless sound you make when his teeth catch your bottom lip and tug. Controlled. Proprietary. Taking this in like he takes in everything, filing it, noting it, adding it to whatever mental inventory he maintains of all the ways you embarrass yourself in front of him.
You pull back. Your chest is heaving. His isn’t.
“Fuck you,” you say.
It comes out wrecked. Shaking. Nothing close to the strength you want it to be. He looks at you flatly, unimpressed.
He hooks two fingers into the drawstring of your scrub pants and pulls. One motion. The knot gives. The pants slide down your thighs and you should stop this. You should stop this right now. You should climb off his lap and open the door and walk into your house and lock it behind him and never look at him again. You know this. The knowledge is clean and certain and completely irrelevant to what your body is actually doing, which is lifting one knee, then the other, kicking cotton of your ankles, while your hand stays fisted in his collar like letting go would kill you.
His hand goes behind your back. One flick of his thumb and the bra releases and the straps slide down your shoulders and you feel the air hit your skin and the humiliation is so acute it tastes metallic, like biting down on foil, like blood from a split lip.
He doesn’t even look.
He lets the fabric fall and his palms settle over your breasts and his thumbs brush across nipples already tight from the cold and the adrenaline and he does it with absent focus, like this is a step in a sequence, like your body is a series of tasks to be completed on the way to something else.
“You’re an asshole,” you whisper. Your voice cracks. “You know that? You’re a completely fucking-”
His hand slides down your stomach. Hooks into the waistband of your underwear. Drags. The fabric catches on your thighs, resists, then gives away with a tear.
“- asshole.”
“Yeah,” he says. That’s it. Yeah. One syllable. Bored. His eyes haven’t changed. His breathing hasn’t changed. You are sitting in his lap in nothing but the blue dashboard light, stripped and shaking, every flaw and rib and tremor illuminated, and his pulse is resting.
You want to claw his face off.
You want to rake your nails down his cheeks until he bleeds, until something in his expression breaks, until he shows you one single shred of evidence that this is affecting him even a fraction as much as it’s affecting you. But he’s still dressed beneath you- scrub top, scrub pants- and the obscene imbalance of naked and clothed, wrecked and composed, is doing something to the power dynamic that you feel in the base of your skull like a boot on your neck.
One hand leaves your hip. You hear the shift of fabric, the elastic drag of a waistband, and then he’s there, cock pressing against the inside of your thigh, hard and hot. He wraps his hand around himself and strokes once, slow, lazy, and you watch the muscle in his jaw flex and that’s it. That’s all he gives you. One flex of one muscle while you’re sitting naked in his lap with tears drying on your face and your whole body vibrating like a plucked string.
Then he lines the head of his cock up, blunt insistent pressure of him against the entrance to your cunt, and your body- your traitorous, mutinous, shame soaked body- is already wet. Has been wet. Has been wet since the you smelled his cologne in the parking garage, maybe earlier, maybe since the OR, maybe since the moment you were first introduced to him as your attending and the knowledge of that is so humiliating you actually close your eyes against it, squeeze them shut like a child who thinks not seeing makes them invisible.
“Sit.” A command. Like he’s speaking to a dog, like you’re a dog, like you’re a misbehaving mutt caught doing something you shouldn’t and he’s issuing a command to correct. Sit, heel, lay down, roll over-
Don’t, you think.
You sink.
The stretch is immediate. Obscene. A slow, relentless parting that you feel in your cunt, your thighs, your abdomen, your teeth, and you hate every inch of it and the contradiction is going to break you in half. He fills your cunt the way he takes up any space around him- completely, unapologetically, without any interest in whether you were ready to accommodate him or not.
Your hands fly to his biceps. Nails through fabric into muscle. And for one heartbeat you sit there, trembling, adjusting, feeling the way you body has to restructure around him, and your eyes are open now and burning and you’re looking directly at his face and his expression is…
Calm.
He looks calm. His dick is buried inside of you to the hilt and his face is the face of a man sitting in traffic. Waiting for the light to change. Reading a notification on his phone. And you want to scream, wrap your hands around his throat and squeeze until something in those steady, half lidded eyes shows you that he’s here, that he’s present, that this is costing him anything at all.
His hands find your hips again. Thumbs pressing bruises into bone. And then he moves you.
Up. Down. Controlled. Like you’re nothing more than a doll, an instrument, something he can use and play until he’s had his fill, and that pisses you off.
You start to move on your own and the first roll of your hips without his guidance is yours, angry and hard, grinding down onto him with a force that’s closer to violence than fucking, and you watch his face for the flinch, for the flutter of his eyes, for his lips to part open, for any crack, any goddamn indication that you’re getting to him.
His eyes lower. Barely. The faintest contraction around the corner of his eyes.
That’s it. That’s all you get.
His hands tighten and he takes back control of the rhythm, pulling you down on his cock hard, forcing the depth, and the sound that rips out of you is something between a sob and a moan and you hate it, hate the wet broken sound, hate that he heard it, hate that his expression doesn’t change when he hears it.
“This is what you’re good at.”
The words are like a slap and you feel them behind your eyes, in your lungs, in the slick slide where your body is betraying you again, again, again.
“Fuck you- “
“Not the tibial plateau.” His hips drive up. “Not the hardware count.” Again. “Not even remembering to get your fucking car serviced.” His hands drag you down so hard onto his cock that your clit grinds against the base of him and your vision whites out and your mouth falls open with a sound you can’t control, high pitched and needy. “This. This is the only thing I’ve never seen you hesitate on.”
“I hate you- “ Your voice splinters with another thrust, that grinds his cock against the spot that has your nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to break skin through fabric. “I hate you, you fucking-”
“I know,” he says. Quiet. Unbothered. Like you just told him the weather. And then he rolls his hips up into you with a hard grind that makes your spine arch and your head fall back and the I hate you dissolves into a whimper you’ll never forgive yourself for.
“Look at you,” His breathing hasn't changed. Twelve per minute. Resting. While yours comes ragged and sobbing, chest heaving, your whole body shaking on top of his. “Seventeen hours of your hands shaking. Seventeen hours of being unable to hold a retractor steady. But you can ride cock like this. Perfect rhythm. No tremor. No hesitation.” He pulls you into another downstroke, meets you with his hips, punches the breath from your lungs. “Maybe this is what I should have had you doing all along instead of letting you pretend you’re a surgeon.”
You hit him.
Your palm connects with his face, an open handed strike that lands hard enough to make a sound in the car, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t tense, just absorbs it the way he absorbs everything, and his hands on your hips don’t even stutter.
He smiles.
Not wide. Not warm. A thin, asymmetric thing, one corner of his mouth pulling up in the blue dark, and it’s the first genuine expression you’ve seen on his face and it’s the worst thing you’ve ever looked at. Because the smile says he liked that. The smile says do it again. The smile says he has been waiting, patiently, methodically, for the entire duration of the encounter, for you to hit him, and now that you have he can file it alongside every other piece of evidence that you are exactly as out of control as he’s always suspected.
“There she is.” His thumb slides between your bodies. Finds your clit. Circles it in a way that makes your spine lock and your teeth clench. “There’s the good girl I knew was buried under all that incompetence.”
“Don’t call me- “ Your voice breaks, hips moving faster not, frantic, beyond your control. “Don’t you dare-”
“Come on.” His thumb presses harder. His other hand drags you down into the next thrust. “Show me the one thing you’re actually competent at.”
“I fucking hate you- “
“You keep saying that.” His mouth is close to your ear. His breathing is finally, finally different- rougher, a fraction faster, the composure fraying at the thinnest edges- but his voice is still steady. Still controlled. Still the voice of a man who is winning and knows it. “And yet here you are.”
And yet here you are.
The truth of those words- the bare, unarguable, catastrophic truth of them- hits harder than anything else he’s said all day. Here you are. In his lap. In his car. In his hands. Naked and shaking and full of him and crying and still moving, still rolling your hips into his, still chasing the orgasm that’s building in your lower abdomen, because he told you to and because you want to and because the wanting and the hate have fused into something singular and molten that you couldn’t separate even if you had the higher brain function to try.
The car is rocking on its suspension. The windows are opaque. Sweat slides down the valley of your spine. Your breasts move with every thrust and his eyes track them and the shame of being watched makes something tighten in your lower belly and you hate that too, hate the wiring of your own body, hate that humiliation and arousal are using the same neural pathways and you can’t tell where one stops and the other starts.
“This is what you’re good at,” he says again. Quieter now. Almost fond. And the fondness is worse than the cruelty because the cruelty you can fight but the fondness seeps in and finds the soft tissue and stays. “Not saving lives. Not pretending to be a doctor. Just this. Just taking what I give you until you forget you ever had anything else to fuck up.”
“Shut up.” You’re crying openly now. Tears and sweat and the sounds coming out of your mouth are wet and broken and you can’t stop them and you can’t stop moving. “Shut the fuck up-”
“Make me.”
Two words. And they’re not said like a challenge. They’re said like a dare, and underneath the dare is something that sounds terrifyingly like affection, the way someone would talk to a small animal that keeps trying to bite them, amused and patient and completely unthreatened.
Your orgasm is building. You feel it in every trembling muscle, the quiver in your inner thighs, the tightening low in your abdomen, the involuntary clenching of your body around his cock that makes his breath hitch for one unguarded second before he smooths it over.
You’re close. You’re so close it’s blurring the edges of your rage, softening the anger into something needier, something that wants to collapse forward against his chest and be held and the wanting of that- the wanting to be held by the man who’s been destroying you- is the most humiliating thing that’s happened all night and that is a competitive field.
His grip adjusts. His thumb digs in deeper. His pace doesn’t falter.
His mouth finds your ear.
“Don’t you dare come until I tell you you’ve earned it.” His thumb circles your clit and the contradiction- don’t come while his hands do everything to guarantee you will- is so perfectly, characteristically cruel that a laugh rips out of you, unhinged and wet and bordering on hysterical. “You don’t get to be good at anything unless I say so.”
And you keep bouncing, because he told you to.
Because somewhere between the parking garage and the engine and the drive and the months of him taking you apart and breaking you down like you were a failed construct, you stopped being a person who makes her own decisions and became a person who waits for his.
You hate him.
You don’t stop.
***
The hospital smells the same.
That’s what gets you. The absolute, insulting sameness. You walk through the door at six thirty and the air hits your face with its standard cocktail of antiseptic and recycled ventilation and floor wax and the distant, perpetual ghost of coffee, and it is exactly, precisely, atomically the same as it was yesterday morning when you walked in as a person who had not yet detonated her entire life ion the front seat of a Lexus.
Your neck hurts.
Not the muscular ache of a bad night’s sleep, though there’s that too- you slept maybe ninety minutes, in twenty three minute increments, each one interrupted by the sensation of waking up inside a body that still smelled like him despite the shower. The shower that was too hot. The shower where you stood with your forehead against the tile and your hands flat on the wall and mentally assessed the damage- bruise on your left knee, bruises on your hips in the shape of his fingerprints, raw patch on your lower back from the steering wheel, and the bite. The bite on your neck, which you examined in the bathroom mirror, reddish purple, visible above the collar of a scrub top. Visible above the collar of anything you own.
You’re wearing a turtleneck under your scrubs. In September.
You keep your head down. Badge clipped. Hair pulled back so tight your scalp aches. You walk with a posture that says normal day, regular morning, nothing to report, and you’re almost to the locker room when another resident steps into the hallway and says, “Admin wants you.”
Every drop of blood in your body goes cold. You stare at him.
“Underwood’s office.” He says. “Now.”
You don’t ask why. You don’t ask why because your body already knows. Your body already knows before he opened his mouth, maybe before, maybe the moment you walked through the doors and the air tasted the same and the hallway looked the same and nothing was different except everything was different.
The walk takes ninety seconds. You count your footsteps because counting is something your brain can do while the rest of it shuts down.
You see him through the open door.
Park is in the left chair. One ankle crossed over the opposite knee. He’s holding a coffee, steam curling from the lip, which means its fresh, which means he stopped on his way here, which means he budgeted time into his morning for this.
He doesn’t look up when you walk in.
Gloria Underwood is standing beside her desk. She’s holding a manilla folder. It’s thick. Too thick for something assembled this morning. Too thick for a single incident. The thickness of it does something to the air in your lungs, displaces it, compresses it, makes the next breath feel like trying to inflate against a weight.
Gloria’s face is arranged in the express you’ve seen administrators use when they’re about to change the trajectory of a person’s life. Controlled. A mask of professional compassion that has been practiced in mirrors and refined in meetings and has nothing to do with whether the person wearing it actually feels anything at all.
“Please sit down.”
You sit. The chair is identical to his. Your elbow is inches from his elbow and you can smell him, smell the coffee, and the soap, and the cologne, and your body responds with a full system lurch of sense memory so violent you have to press your fingernails into your palms to stay in the chair.
“A formal complaint has been filed,” Gloria says, opening the folder. Turns to a page that’s already been flagged with a colored tab, pre-marked, pre-organized, the administrative infrastructure of a process that was set in motion before you arrived. “Regarding conduct of sexual nature directed at Dr. Brendon Park by a subordinate member of the surgical team.”
Directed at.
The preposition enters your ear and detonates.
Directed at Dr. Park. Not by Dr. Park. Not between you and Dr. Park. At him. By you.
“Dr. Park has reported that over the course of several months, he has been subjected to escalating patterns of inappropriate attention from an intern under his direct supervision.” Gloria’s eyes move across the page but she’s not reading. She memorized this. “Including persistent attempts to initiate physical proximity, repeated instances of unprofessional fixation during surgical procedures, and recently, an incident of unsolicited sexual contact initiated in his vehicle after he offered professional assistance with a mechanical issue in the hospital parking garage.”
Persistent attempts to initiate physical proximity.
That’s- standing near him. In the OR. Where he assigned you to stand.
Unprofessional fixation during surgical procedures.
That’s- watching him operate. When you were assisting.
Unsolicited sexual contact.
That’s-
The room is doing something. The walls aren’t moving but the space between them is contracting, the air thickening, the fluorescent light taking on a quality that feels granular, particulate, like you’re trying to see through something that’s settling between you and the rest of the room.
“The complaint has been supported by documented observations,” Gloria continues. She turns another page. Another colored tab. “Dr. Park has provided a written timeline of concerning behavior, including specific dates and incidents.”
A timeline.
He kept a timeline. He’s been keeping a timeline. Every shift, every surgery, every moment you stood too close or looked too long or held your breath- he was writing it down. Dating it. Building a file. Constructing a narrative in which every single thing your body did in his presence was evidence of you pursuing him, and the evidence is in Gloria Underwood’s hands right now, and it’s thick, and it has colored tabs, and it’s been here since before you walked in the door.
“Given the nature of the supervisory relationship and the severity of the allegations, you are being placed on immediate administrative suspension pending investigation, effective as of this meeting.”
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
You try again and what emerges is a sound that isn’t a word, is a breath, a fragment, the beginning of that’s not what happened that stalls in your larynx before your larynx has done the math that your brain hasn’t finished yet.
The math is:
He is a senior attending. Board certified orthopedic surgeon. Ten years at this hospital. Published. Respected. The kind of name that appears on department letterheads and in the acknowledgment section of textbook chapters. He has a reputation. He has colleagues. He has a record, spotless and long and documented in the same filing system that is currently absorbing this complaint.
You are an intern. Four months in. No publications, no tenure, no institutional weight. You have a shaking hand and miscounted screws and a performance record that he has been personally authoring for your entire rotation.
Who is Gloria going to believe?
Who is anyone going to believe?
The intern who can’t hold a retractor steady? The one who freezes on approaches and forgets to count hardware and cries in parking garages? The one who ended up naked in her attending’s car at midnight?
Or the attending who has spent months carefully, meticulously, documentably expressing concern about a subordinate’s fixation.
“During the suspension period,” Gloria is saying. “You are not to enter clinical areas, access patient records, or make contact with Dr. Park directly or through intermediaries.”
You turn your head.
Park is looking at Gloria. He’s been looking at Gloria the entire time. Sitting in the chair with his coffee and his crossed ankle, and his face arranged in an expression of restrained concern; brows drawn, mouth set, carefully composed like a man navigating a difficult situation with professionalism and grace. He looks like someone this is being done to. He looks like a man who tried his best with a troubled intern and is now dealing with the unfortunate consequences of his own generosity.
He is sitting in this chair, hours after his teeth were in your neck and his cock inside you and his hands on your hips dragging you down onto him while he told you that riding him was the only thing you were competent at and he looks troubled.
Something happens behind your face. Not tears. Something past tears, something drier and more dangerous. A sensation like the moment before something snaps, the last frame of structural integrity, the instant where the material is still holding its shape but the forces have already exceeded its capacity and the failure is inevitable, just not yet visible.
“Do you have anything to add,” Gloria asks you.
You're still looking at Park.
He turns his head. Finally. Slowly. Meets your eyes for the first time since you walked in.
His face is still wearing the mask. The concern, the gravity, the restrained compassion of the Wronged-Mentor. It’s flawless. Every muscle recruited, every micro expression calibrated, the kind of performance that could only be produced by someone who’s been rehearsing it for a very long time.
But his eyes.
In the space behind the performance, in the deep architecture of his gaze, where the mask doesn’t quite reach, there’s something looking back at you that makes your blood crystallize in your veins.
It’s not guilt. It’s not satisfaction. It’s not even cruelty.
It’s patience.
The bottomless, immovable patience of a man who built something and is now watching it work.
He holds your gaze for two seconds. Then he turns back to Gloria and picks up his coffee and drinks and the meeting continues, and the folder stays open, and your badge is collected, and you walk out of the hospital at seven forty one am wearing a turtleneck in September and it’s sunny outside and the sky is very blue and you don’t remember driving home.
(And Park watches you leave, coffee in hand. You look very small. Smaller than you looked in scrubs, which is saying a lot, because you already looked like a stiff breeze would snap you in half-
(And the first part is done. Solved. He doesn’t have to watch you bite your lip when you concentrate anymore, doesn’t have to correct the angle of your hands and pretend the contact is clinical. Doesn’t have to stand behind you during a procedure and smell your shampoo and keep his hands professional while he vividly imagines what he’d do to you if the room was empty-
(Four months of that. Four months of keeping his hands on the instruments instead of on your waist, of watching your throat move when you swallow and thinking about his teeth there, of memorizing the exact pitch of your voice when you’re nervous because he wanted to know what it would sound like under him, or fucking his fist to the memory of the little punched out breath you made when you startled coming out of the supply closet, imagining you making that sound with his fist in your hair and his cock grinding against your cervix-
(And you’ll spiral. That’s fine. That’s the design. You’ll go home and fall apart and burn through the anger hot and fast the way you burn through everything, and then the anger will run out and what’s left will be the silence. No OR. No corrections. No one watching. No one who knows you hold your breath when you’re nervous or that your left hand shakes first or that you haven’t been eating enough or sleeping enough or taking care of yourself the way someone should be taking care of you. The way he would, if you’d stop being so fucking difficult about it-
(Give it three weeks. Maybe four. You’ll reach for your phone. You won’t call, not yet. But the intervals between looking at his name and putting the phone down will shrink every time until eventually you just stop putting it down. And he’ll answer when he’s ready, and you’ll be crying, and he’ll listen the way he always listens to you you- completely- because that’s the drug and he’s the only supply you’ve got left.
(Pavlov’s dog with a prettier face. He spent four months ringing the bell- every correction a tap, every silence a withhold, every rare scrape of approval timed to land when you were most desperate for it- and now that the bell is gone and you’re salivating into nothing, confused and aching and reaching for the only hand that ever fed you even though it’s the same hand that kept you starving-
(He’ll feed you. Get your weight back up. Move you into his place once you can’t make rent. He’ll frame it as practical. You’ll be grateful. And in six months you’ll be standing in his kitchen in his T-shirt and you’ll look up when he walks in with that open, searching expression- the same one you used to give him across the operating table- checking his face for what he wants you to do next, his pretty obedient wife, trained so fucking well-
𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: dark, dubcon, misogynistic rhetoric, classist rhetoric (in the context of kooks, pogues etc), daddy kink, innocence kink, loss of virginity, smut (oral + p in v), condescension, babying, dirty talk, swearing, very unbalanced power dynamic, college au, reader is a freshman and rafe is a senior, more warnings to come. 18+ only, mdni.
𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Rafe bets his friends he can fuck you in one week.
𝘼/𝙉: This is just a sneak peak of a new Rafe fic I’m working on— I just want to see if anyone would be interested if I was to post it! Do let me know if it’s any good and tag any Rafe blogs you think might enjoy this! (as I suspect I don’t have many Rafe fans following me haha)
“Her.”
Rafe looks over to the Pogue girl Topper’s nodding at and smirks. “Been there, done that. Pick a different one.”
Topper scoffs, “She literally moved here last week.”
“And?”
“OK… What about her?” He brazenly points at a leggy blonde that stands out in her group of Pogues.
“Last weekend at the beach party you threw. She gives good head.”
“Jesus Christ dude, is there anyone left??”
Rafe chuckles, leaning back and stretching his legs out while his friends gape at him in disbelief like a bunch of gormless losers. He often wonders if they know how stupid they look. Like followers. His followers. Hanging on to his every word, oohing and aahing at whatever he did. Making him feel like he was a God among men. Which he may as well be, considering that’s how most people at this college looked at him.
That’s why he loved fucking the Pogue girls. Almost exclusively. There was something about the power imbalance. Most of them came from poor families, looked at Rafe like he was a God. It didn’t take much for them to spread their legs for him, impressed by his power, turned on by his wealth. Hell, even the Kook girls were the same. But Rafe hardly ever took them home. They were spoiled sluts who hung around the country club wasting their lives and spending their daddies’ money. Yeah, they didn’t peak his interest at all. Not as much as the Pogue girls who worked at the country club. In their little housekeeping outfits, deliberately teasing him in the hopes he’d take one of them home.
Yeah. It was safe to say Rafe Cameron had a type.
“Well, what about that one?”
Rafe rolls his eyes, about to say that yes, he had indeed fucked whatever girl Topper was pointing at this time. Because he’d fucked all of them. Because of who he was. Because of what he was capable of. Because of the family he came from. Because of what being a mere notch on Rafe Cameron’s bedpost meant to every single sorry slut he’d ran through.
Except he doesn’t. Because Topper is pointing at you. And he’s never seen you before in his life.
You look so out of place, despite the fact you’re with a group of Pogues. And he knows you’re a Pogue. Like a shark with blood and a predator with its prey, he can always tell. And yet you stand awkwardly on the outskirts of the group, smiling yet not quite participating in whatever conversation is going on. You push your glasses up, straighten your skirt, pretend to look for something in your book bag. You’re shy. Self conscious. Insecure. Rafe smiles.
“Who is she?”
“Aha! You haven’t slept with her!” Topper cheers like he’s won the fucking lottery. Sometimes Rafe wonders why he’s friends with him.
“Who is she?” He repeats like he hasn’t even heard him.
“She’s the new chick,” Kelce says, “except she’s not exactly new in town.”
“I heard she was homeschooled,” Topper snickers, “That’s why she’s fucking weird and has no friends. Even the Pogues don’t want her.”
Rafe observes you some more. Watches the bright smile on your face, how you try to chime in to whatever conversation the girls around you are having. They nod at you politely yet dismissively. They’re not your friends. As Topper said, you don’t have any.
Insecure. Weak. Vulnerable.
He licks his lips.
“How long?”
“Huh?”
He runs a hand through his hair impatiently, “How long do you wanna bet it takes me to get her into bed?”
Topper raises an eyebrow.
“You can’t be serious, man. She looks like she doesn’t even know what sex means.”
Kelce laughs, “She looks like she can’t even say it. Like she spells it out every time, s-e-x.”
They’re right. You look very innocent, but all that does is incense him. Rafe’s used to easy sluts who spread their legs after one drink or a ride on his motorbike. But you. He can tell you’d be harder to crack. But there’s something so fucking hot about how naive you look. How shy and sweet he can tell you are. How ruined he could leave you. Splayed out on his bike, legs quivering, all sweaty limbs and shy pants after he’s done having his way with you—
“How long?” He repeats, not in the mood to waste time and already getting hard picturing innocent little you with your tiny skirt flipped up and his head buried between those soft thighs, your sweet little confused cries because no one’s ever touched you like that, and—
“A week.”
“Mm?”
“A week to fuck her. With proof.”
Rafe stands up and stretches, licking his lips as he watches you retreat to a small bench, getting your little book out and burying your nose in it.
“That’s too easy. What do I get when I do it?”
“If you do it, you can decide what you get then. But as I said before, we’d need proof.” Kelce says.
“Yeah, proof,” Topper echoes, a glint in his eye as he looks over at you, “Pictures.”
Rafe shrugs, already kind of bored, “Sure.” He’d taken plenty of pictures of his conquests in the past. Him and his boys had a group chat where they shared that kind of shit. And the idea of taking pictures of you in such a vulnerable position gets him harder than anything. Sweet little college freshman baby fucked dumb by the big bad senior, posing for pictures afterwards all teary-eyed but submissive. They all got submissive for him, even after he was done using them.
You flip a page, completely engrossed in your book and looking every bit the naive baby he’s imagining you as. A little lamb who has no idea she was in the presence of a fucking lion. And he bets you’re a virgin. Homeschooled with no friends? Forget virgin, you probably haven’t even had your first kiss yet. And that gets him so fucking horny, right there in the middle of the campus courtyard. The idea that you’re so pure, so untouched. So happy, so unassuming. A little fucking baby.
He’d have fun ruining you.
AGAIN, this is just a sneak peak! let me know what you think!! i’m not quite sure if i want to post a rafe fic since my followers/blog are not really rafe centric but i thought i’d give it a try if there’s enough interest!!!
Summary: After hours of being held up in celebrations, Quinn found his way to you.
TW/CW: 18+ MDNI, Thoughts, Fluff and a dash of Smut, Drunk Quinn, Inebriated (drunk or slightly because he swore he became so much sober) kissing.
It is so hard to finish this, lovelies. I will now bury myself. Fic Quinn will never hurt me. Don't leave anything mean or I shall block.
Thoughts List | Taglist
Quinn was so drunk. He could barely keep himself upright in the hotel elevator. His heart was thundering so loudly in his ears. his head was spinning. His vision was doubling. His hand mindlessly scrolling through Instagram, pressing whatever posts to put in his story, then when his vision quadrupled, he went back to your contact, barely being able to read your new messages.
However, he persisted. He knocked his head back as an attempt to jolt his braincells alive from the grip of all alcohol he consumed, forcing himself to read your messages out loud, stumbling and drawing out syllable. He kept reading from new then old. He kept staring at the glimpses of you or your hand or your legs in the photos you sent. He kept on scrolling until he momentarily passed out.
He got jolted awake when the elevator dinged and someone walked through the door, their light brown and curly hair bouncing as he turned away from Quinn. Then he glanced back, asking with a thick Russian accent, "You okay?"
Quinn could barely nod, pressing harder against the wall, his feet digging into the floor. He needed to get a fucking grip.
You were waiting for him.
And he was here dozing in the fucking elevator.
After a few more seconds, Quinn finally left the elevator, barely keeping upright, barely acknowledging the stranger's congratulations with a mumbled thanks, barely hanging on. Fuck. He should've let Jack accompany him up to your room. How many beers did he drink again? His head wouldn't stop spinning. He—
Where was his medal? He wanted to show it to you. His hand snapped to his chest, feeling the cold medal, feeling its weight. It was here. It was real. This was real. So real. He wanted to give it to you. So many people wanted to hold it, to put it on, to bite it like it was theirs. He disliked that to the core that he sacrificed Jack's medal instead. He wanted to see you. You were there with his parents in the stands, but you were so high up. He couldn't reach you beyond touching your hand. He wanted to kiss you.
He wanted to hold you because this win was for you.
He was tugged and pushed into a haze of interviews, locker room celebrations where he was barely moving in his stall because he could barely breath from the rush of the win and the need to go to you, to the long press conference where Jack basically keep nudging him so he could remember to speak and where he had downed bottle after bottle of Corona, thinking....just thinking if he could slip out.
However, you texted him mid-conference that you'd head back to your hotel, that you'd wait for him there with a surprise that he'd only be given if he enjoyed the celebrations, that you wanted to wash up because you've been out and about before his game. It would be a lie if Quinn said that he wasn't disappointed, but he couldn't get away no matter how hard he tried.
He should've found you. Maybe he should've find a way to climb over the stands. He could do his pull ups. Maybe...maybe he could've done that and possibly just run away from all the interviews. That would be so nice and he wouldn't be this drunk. You wouldn't need to tell him to find you because he would’ve already been with you. He wouldn't be struggling to go to you—
"Look like you had tons of fun, Mr. Gold Medalist." Your voice came extremely close.
Quinn only had to open his eyes, and he saw you crouching in front of him with a gentle smile on your lips.
"You're just one step away from my door, silly."
He blinked, realizing that he was sitting on the floor and grasping his medal like it would disappear. He looked behind you and there was your room, but he was on the fucking floor. His lips parted, losing the words he couldn't formulate in his frazzled mind. All he could do was lean forward without reason, catching you off guard, causing you to fall on your ass. His face planted on your chest, hugging you right there on the hotel floor.
"I did it," were the only thing he could say, his eyes burning with happy tears, as he gazed up to you.
"You did," you giggled, rubbing his shoulders. You swiped his hair away from his face and grasped his face by his cheeks, your thumbs caressing him so delicately that he melted more onto you. "I'm so proud and happy for you, my Love."
His face heated up more than it did when he was drinking. His heart pounded harder as his chest squeezed as he got filled with so much love and adoration beyond, he had already felt from the fans and his family. His breaths turned into pants. His ears twitched.
Somehow you knew he wanted more compliments; you gave it to him. You praised his skating ability and his plays. You mentioned his assist streak and how amazing it was for him to get seven in all six Olympic games. You expressed how excited you were about the medal and about his goal from quarterfinals. You told him how good he looked with the medal and with all the photos you've seen of him with the flag. You giggled about his bloody teeth spotted in one of his photos and laughed that he was trying to match his brother's teeth, even lifting his lip slightly to inspect if he still had all his teeth. You told him that he was so hot with his medal.
You told him everything that made him overflow with so much happiness that his tears wouldn't stop, that his lips were so spread into a massive grin that he felt like a puddle of nothing but warmth and victory.
It was so different to hear those words from you. It was more special. He wanted to etch in his soul because you, his Love, said them. They were real. So fucking real.
"I am so proud of you, Quinny." You peppered him with kisses, brushing away his tears.
"Thank you, my Love. Thank you," he muttered over and over again. Then as his hands shook to take off his medal, he blurted, "I did my best for you."
You smiled, holding his hand instead of the medal, giving him a soft kiss on his cheek. "I know, my Love. You always do."
Quinn felt so comfortable that he almost fell asleep until you nudged him to move. He did without any protest, following your instructions, wobbling on his feet. Every time he stumbled, you were there to keep him up. Every time he almost sagged to sleep right then and there, he would apologize. Every time the he complained about the bottles that were being handed to him so fast that he had to drink it, you let out a giggle, laughing and rambling about how it was so typical of him—not being able to stop like how he was in your occasional drinking nights, how he was a lightweight yet he still went on and on—and handing him at least two glasses of water. He blushed, not knowing how to defend himself from that fact.
He was trying his best to think of a response as he tugged on his shirt so harshly that the fabric groaned, as he pressed a kiss on your lips, wincing when you scrunch your nose, as he forced himself to sit down on the tub that was already filled and ready, as he closed his eyes because you sprayed him with lukewarm water, as he sighed at the feel of you shampooing his hair that he couldn't bother washing properly before.
"I don't drink this much," he muttered weakly, almost turning into putty as the suds run down his wet chest. He was getting sober. Slightly. Barely. "Sorry."
"I never say sorry when I get drunk." You turned on the shower again, blasting away the shampoo from his head.
"Hmm..." Quinn hummed. His blurry brain cleared to show him memories of you being sad drunk, muttering your apologies basically everything including picking up the wrong type of pasta, so perhaps you didn't say sorry about drinking but you had for other things. With a smile, he peeked up at you. "Maybe..."
"What does that mean, Quinny?" You squinted, pausing.
He chuckled, shaking his head, taking the bottle of conditioner to messily rub it on his hair. That was when you started to nag him about what he meant to which he refused to respond. He listened as he used his time to clean up and your rambles to shake away the heavy effects of intoxication.
˚｡⋆ ❀ ˖ Your POV ˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚
The medal was heavier than you thought. It was cold yet it was also warm as it pressed just beneath your sternum. It was a comforting weight as Quinn pressed kiss after kiss down your skin—from your lips, to your jaw, and now on your tits. You could only grip his shoulder, moaning and sighing at his soft kisses and at how firm his hand was on your hip while his other flexed to keep him from crushing you.
You really tried to get him to sleep especially after seeing his itinerary in the morning and because he might still be drunk despite being more sober now, but you couldn't stop yourself from caving in when he asked for a kiss, when he promised that it was all he needed, when he begged for this one simple reward for getting the gold. You obliged him and the next thing you knew was him pushing up your shirt, slotting between your thighs, peppering you with kisses that had you panting.
When his tongue grazed the underside of your tit, you were basically burning, heat streaking to your aching pussy, the logical parts of your dispersing, needing more and more.
"You're so pretty with gold, my Love." He peeked at you, brushing his lips on your pert nipple, making you all needy for him. "Can we...do more?"
You really shouldn't.
"Please?" he whined, destroying your resolve. "Just a quick one, my Love. I promise I want this—" he moved further down, his hand slipping under the band of your panties at your hip, "—You want me. I want you. Please?"
When he kissed your skin below his medal, you broke.
You nodded, biting your lower lip.
"Just a quick one," you agreed all while knowing that it wouldn't just be a quick one.
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I have a real problem. A real. Real problem. His name is Kirill Kaprizov and he won't leave my libido alone. This was not planned. A horny ghost took over my body.
TW: 18+ MDNI, PinV
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Writing Masterlist
You're not listening to him, not really.
Of course you're not. How can you listen to Kirill talk about his latest adventures on Dota when he's pulling you down on his cock and thrusting up into you while you sit on his lap?
You've got no hope.
"Listen, maliya, da?" Sweetheart, yes? He's so mean about it too, grinning and asking you to listen while rolling his hips up into you just right. Just so the head of his cock nudges that spongy spot inside you and has you whimpering, moaning out low in your throat. He's slow about it, but deep, you can feel him in your tummy and he's so wide at the hips, so thick in the thighs that you're spread out, falling down each time to take him to the hilt, clit pressing into his pelvis deliciously. He fills you so good, the stretch so much that you can barely breathe.
Your head falls forward, forehead pressed into his shoulder as you clench around him but Kirill doesn't let you rest there for long. His hand...God, his hands are so fucking large...his hand wraps around your throat and guides your head back up, like it's the only thing keeping you from toppling over again. Fingers tightening around your throat, not mean, not painful or restrictive, but a presence that makes your blood rush in your ears in the most delicious way possible.
"Don't you want to hear about my game?"
You can barely reply, a moan, a whimper, a gasped out 'yes,' that has his grin widening, canines on display like some sort of vampire. Kirill's eyes are heavy lidded, dark, but he's more composed than you, chest heaving but mouth still working as he talks, as he rants about Dota and tells you everything that goes in one ear and out the other. You wouldn't be able to answer a single question on what he's said if he asked. He knows this. He doesn't care. Not when your skin is glowing with sweat, your lips slick with spit parted for every gasp, your cunt tight and slick around him, squelching with each grind of his hips.
You clench down on him, walls of your cunt trying to milk him as he rocks into you deeper, free hand sliding down to press on your tummy until you're gasping, voice shutting off entirely, eyes rolling into the back of your head.
All it takes is his hand tightening just a little as his other thumb slides over your clit and you're gone, white vision, cunt milking him, forcing him to cum inside you with a groan that stops all talk of Dota.
You feel like heaven, heaven that lets him fuck you raw while he rants about his nerdy ass games, the best sort of heaven that whines into his neck and mouths at his skin, seeking comfort as your hips give aborted thrusts. The sort of heaven that mumbles out 'I love yous' as he pulses inside you. The sort of heaven that whines when he takes his hand from your throat. The sort of heaven that bites into his throat like that's the only thing grounding you. The sort of bite that he knows will leave a mark. That will get jeers in the locker room tomorrow.
Can I request a lil hurt/comfort #14 where player for the other team chirps to Quinn about gf!reader and Quinn goes feral, gf!reader is worried & panicked afterwards, Quinn reassuring 💕
i’m literally a sucker for a good “touch her, i’ll end you” trope so i absolutely love this request! thank you lovey💗
after a hard push, the canucks finally win in shootout with a 5-4 win, hence why the team decided it would be nice to go out and celebrate the win and wind down for the night.
by the time you all ended up at the bar, the adrenaline still hadn’t worn off. brock was halfway through telling a dramatic retelling of the overtime shift while elias was nodding along amused as if he didn’t just play alongside with him on the same line. nils and conor were arguing about who owed who a drink while thatcher somehow managed to keep up with every conversation at once, chiming in here and there.
quinn kept you tucked under his arm, fingers tracing small circles along your waist. every so often he’d lean down and press a kiss to your temple. you were mid laugh at something brock said when loud voices and laughter bursts through the front doors of the bar.
a few guys from the other team walked in, still in their suits from the game like the loss hadn’t bothered them at all. quinn felt you tense before he even saw them. “don’t,” you murmur quietly. “just ignore it.”
he nods once, “yeah, yeah okay.”
for a while, it’s fine. they keep to their side of the bar and your table keeps celebrating and you convinced yourself it would end there.
until one of them, the same forward who’d been chirping quinn all night makes a beeline for your group. he’s got that smirk again. the one that makes your skin crawl.
“hughes,” he says, clapping quinn a little too hard on the shoulder. “hell of a game.”
quinn doesn’t react, he just tilts his head nodding slightly. “yeah.”
“didn’t expect to see you out, figured you’d be too busy watching your highlight reel on repeat.”
quinn gives him an annoyed look, “what do you want?”
the guy’s eyes flicker to you, slowly looking you up and down. you instinctively leaned closer to quinn
“this your girl?” he asks, even though he clearly knows. quinn’s arm tightens around you.
“didn’t know you needed a good luck charm. guess it worked”
you tried to ignore it, you’d dealt with attention being on you before. it came with dating someone like quinn but there was something in his tone that made your blood run cold.
“don’t,” quinn warned, his jaw tense.
he only grinned wider. “relax hughes, i’m just saying. didn’t know you had a thing for pretty distractions.”
before you could react, he reaches out and tucks a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.
everything happened fast after that.
quinn is on his feet so fast the table rattles. the booth screeches against the floor as he steps between you and him, shoving the guy’s hand off you before slamming him against the side of the booth.
“touch her again, and i’ll fucking end you.”
brock and conor were there instantly, hauling quinn back before he could swing as nils steps between them. elias was suddenly at your side, steadying you because you hadn’t realized you’d stumbled.
“quinn bro, fuck this guy. he’s not worth it.” elias says from beside you but he doesn’t budge, he doesn’t look away.
“you don’t fucking talk to her, you don’t look at her. you got something to say, you say it to me.”
the other team started shouting, backing up their teammate. the bouncer rushed over with security, but it was already too much. your heart was pounding so hard your vision started to blur.
“quinn!” your voice shakey but loud enough to cut through to him and it was like someone flipped a switch in his brain. his head snaps toward you and all the anger drained from his face, replaced by worry once he sees how distraught and scared you look.
“hey,” he said immediately, pulling out of brock’s grip. “hey, i’m done. i’m done.” security forced the other team back, walking them out the doors as quinn walks towards you, holding your shaking hands in his tightly.
“hey baby, i’m sorry are you okay?”
“that was too much q.”
“i know. i know.”
you step out of the booth because you suddenly need space and some air. something that isn’t everyone staring. he follows you outside without hesitation. the cold night air hits your face and you suck in a sharp breath. the whole thing had happened so fast, the shouting, the way he’d looked.
“i didn’t like that,” you admit, voice breaking.
“him touching you?”
“no- well, yes but you looked like you were going to kill him.”
quinn exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. “i know, when he touched you i just saw red. i didn’t think.”
“i know,” you whisper.
he finally reached for you cupping your face softly, thumbs brushing away the few tears that escaped.
“i would never hurt you or scare you on purpose. i swear.”
“i know you wouldn’t hurt me, i just got overwhelmed. it was loud and you were so angry.”
his expression softens.
“i don’t ever want you scared of me.”
“i’m not scared of you, i was scared for you.”
that made him pull back, eyebrows slightly raising in confusion.
“for me?”
“you could’ve gotten suspended or worse over something stupid.”
“nothing’s stupid if it’s about you, but you’re right. i should’ve handled it better.”
behind him, thatcher gave him a subtle nod. brock was watching carefully but not interfering.
“next time, i’ll walk away okay? i promise.”
you let out a small, shakey laugh. “there better not be a next time.”
“yeah,” a faint smile tugging at his lips. “good point.”
Pretty sure the nerves are because a beautiful woman is texting me back
ynrozanova
Ah, there we go
You remembered you were trying to flirt with me
Was not great first line, I can say
quinnhughes
Yeah I don’t think the thumbs up was the move
I’m sure you get a lot of demeaning lines from frat bros and hockey players
Didn’t want to be one of them
ynrozanova
I looked up that word
Demeaning
I’m glad you don’t want to demean me, Quinn Hughes
You are nicer than most hockey players that have crushes on me
quinnhughes
I’m a gentleman
ynrozanova
You are
Are you going to ask me out now?
quinnhughes
What?
ynrozanova
We live in same city, no?
You call me beautiful
quinnhughes
I wasn’t sure you would want to go out with me
ynrozanova
I call you pretty, Quinn Hughes
I only call pretty men pretty
And I like pretty men
quinnhughes
Okay then
Yn Rozanova
Will you get dinner with me this Thursday?
ynrozanova
I will, Quinn Hughes
Pick me up at 7
And save seat for me at game on Friday
quinnhughes
Yes, ma’am
——
ynrozanova
🎵 mangetout - Wet Leg
liked by shanehollander24 roselandry and 567,111 others
ynrozanova you think I’m pretty cool?
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roselandry the prettiest girl ❤️❤️❤️
liked by author ♥️
ynrozanova spasibo tebe moya roza
user16 now who is getting the honor of having dinner with queen Yn
ilyarozanov81 Yn Rozanova who is that man
ilyarozanova81 Yn I see him and I know you post him on purpose who is he
ilyarozanova81 Yn
user17 I know Ilya “no one is good enough for my sister” Rozanov is crashing out right now
cliffmarleau Yn can you text him back? He’s started angrily texting me instead
ynrozanova you know I can not do that, Kliffi, I am sorry 💔
ilyarozanov81 you think you have found nice man in Vancouver? I will be judge of that
ilyarozanov81 if he is athlete I will kill him ynushka you know this
liked by author ♥️
shanehollander24 hope you’re having a great time in Vancouver, Yn!!!
liked by author ♥️
ynrozanova spasibo Shane Hollander. I respect you as business partner of my brother.
shanehollander24 thanks Yn!
user18 there is so much happening in these comments
user19 there is Yn, her brother, her brothers best friend and former teammate, her brothers rival turned business partner, and her brothers rivals ex girlfriend in the comment section right now and I’ve never been so entertained yet confused
user20 ooh mystery Vancouver man
user21 unrelated but I love this song
user22 food looks BOMB
ilyarozanov81 Yn Rozanov I know all your friends I will make them text you
ynrozanova I have your location, tell your girlfriend I say hello
ilyarozanov81 delete this
user23 Ilya has a girlfriend confirmed???
——
ynrozanova added to their story!
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ilyarozanov replied to your story!
ilyarozanov
are you at game with mystery boyfriend
quinnhughes replied to your story!
quinnhughes
A Canuck is just a term for a Canadian person
ynrozanova
You are in locker room right now, no?
And why is your logo orca then
quinnhughes
Yeah, but I wanted to text you before the game
For good luck
And the logo is a whale
ynrozanova
You do not need luck you are too good a player
quinnhughes liked your message
And I remember the whale now
The mascot
quinnhughes
Yeah our mascot is fin, the whale
ynrozanova
Yes I am scared of him
And his teeth
quinnhughes
I thought Russians were scared of nothing
I remember you telling me you only fear bears
ynrozanova
I think even strongest Russian would be scared of killer whale
Is bigger than bear, no?
Scarier teeth
quinnhughes loved your message
quinnhughes
he’s not scary when you get to know him
But I’ll keep an eye out tonight to make sure he doesn’t try anything
ynrozanova
Thank you moya lyubov
So grateful to have man who will defend me from whale mascots with weird teeth
quinnhughes
I’d protect you from anything you ask
wish me luck, they’re making us go out now
ynrozanova
you do not need luck but I wish it to you anyway since you ask for it
Udachi, moya dorogoy 💋
quinnhughes loved your message
——
——
ynrozanova
🎵 Fire & Desire - Drake
liked by jackhughes quinnhughes and 612,811 others
ynrozanova I fell in love with boy with bear nickname, how Russian of me
tagged: quinnhughes, jackhughes
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user24 Quinn Hughes???
user25 huggy bear!!!
user26 oh this is an insane crossover to me
user27 I fear for Ilya’s reaction to this
jackhughes oh my god I’m in a Yn Rozanova post this is my claim to fame
liked by author ♥️
cliffmarleau fair warning, he knows but is being quiet. I’m scared.
liked by author ♥️
ilyarozanov81 oh so you tell me I know him because you know I punched him in face and gave him nosebleed
ilyarozanov81 I very much remember beating him this season
ilyarozanov81 he is hockey player, I have to kill him
ilyarozanov81 @|quinnhughes you have to hope I will not be playing when you are on ice
ynrozanova you are dramatic
ilyarozanov81 you know I do not trust hockey players to date you Yn
ynrozanova I trust him ilyushka
user28 Ilya is crashing out right now
vancouvercanucks does this mean you’re a fan now?
ynrozanova maybe a little
ottawacentaurs we’re only a little hurt 😢 ❤️
liked by author ♥️
quinnhughes I love you ❤️
ynrozanova ya tebya lyublyu, moy kasatka 💙
quinnhughes killer whale?
ynrozanova da 💋
——
——
ynrozanova added to their story!
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ilyarozanov81
🎵 passionfruit - Drake
liked by ynrozanova shanehollander24 and 551,011 others
ilyarozanov81 I guess he is not so bad
tagged: ynrozanova quinnhughes vancouvercanucks
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user28 this is crazy
user29 Ilya tagging the canucks on the 3-6 loss did make me giggle
user30 he’s such a troll lol
user31 wait this is nice 😊
quinnhughes oh…that picture of me
ilyarozanov81 is good picture, da? Captures your spirit
ilyarozanov81 you will never stop hearing from me, kliffi
user32 Ilya being nice to a hockey player not on his team, everyone be surprised
jackhughes wait this is crazy
jackhughes Ilya, Quinn literally had a poster of you on his wall growing up
quinnhughes you had one of Shane Hollander I don’t want to hear it
jackhughes I’m not dating his sister!!!
ilyarozanov81 this is true? I must see evidence
quinnhughes fml
user33 Quinn “my favorite player is Shane Hollander” Hughes being exposed by his brother for having an Ilya Rozanov poster in his room is taking me out
user34 where’s ynnnnnn
user35 my Roman Empire is the Rozanov siblings being consistent drake listeners
ynrozanova I am glad you now understand how perfect my boyfriend is
ilyarozanov81 eh, he is okay
quinnhughes I love you ❤️
ynrozanova ya tebya lyublyu Kvinnusha
ilyarozanov blegh get out of my comments and keep your PDA at home please
Yandere Aerion Targaryen x kind and soft reader? The entire kingdom dislikes him but loves his wife, and he's lowkey jealous because he doesn't like the thought of having to share his wife with the kingdom
now THIS is the kind of goodness we need hello, this is so real too because i love him but he’s a jealous bitch, not only by his own ego but because what’s his, is his. 💗
i’m your man
aerion targaryen x wife!reader
word count: 1.5k +
warnings: canon typical violence, almost death, aerion, smuttiness and teasing,
The realm loves you the way it fears Aerion.
They bring you flowers and prayers and whispered thanks. Children of both court and the streets hide behind your skirts instead of acknowledging him. Lords and ladies soften in your presence, smiling where they would sneer at him. You are mercy made flesh, and everyone knows it.
Aerion knows it too.
His hand presses firm at your lower back in the court, his lips pressed into a thin line as yet another petitioner bows a little too deeply in your direction. He listens as they praise your kindness, your patience, your gentleness— he doesn’t disagree, but all this? As if you are not his.
Rocking on his heel, amongst his father and brothers, Court drags, as it always does in its usual pageantry of praise and petition. Aerion stands among his father and brothers, weight shifting subtly from heel to heel, jaw tight as another voice lifts in praise— this time for you. He doesn’t bother hiding the yawn that threatens; it slips past him in a slow exhale, more irritation than fatigue. The court notices everything except what matters.
Except you.
You sit a little apart, radiant without effort, listening with that soft attentiveness that makes people believe they are seen, in ways he wouldn’t care to give. Aerion watches the way the light catches in your hair, and the way you incline your head when spoken to, generous with your warmth in a way he has never learned to be. And the kingdom only drinks it in greedily.
He takes you in, in that longing, unwavering stare, remembering the first time he saw you. The shock of recognition and the way something ancient and territorial had settled in his chest before desire ever followed. He had known, then— known in the bone-deep way dragons know their hoards.
Then once more it was maritally official, under the weirwood, sap-red and silent witness, bathed in his house colours, he had spoken it aloud at last. Not as a request, as a declaration. You would be his, and he yours. The court had murmured, startled by the certainty of it, as if those words hadn’t already been said, quietly, between the two of you, long before anyone else was permitted to hear them.
Now, the court leans toward you again, looming over you and your marriage, hungry for your kindness. Aerion’s gaze tracks the room with lazy precision as another lord laughs too loudly, and another lady lingers too long at your side. You smile, kind and open, unguarded in a way that makes something sharp curl in his chest. They love you. They love you loudly. As if love were not a thing to be rationed, as if it were not dangerous in exces
The thought alone makes Aerion step closer, the movement instinctive. His arm brushing yours, but you do not look up, do not flinch— only lean into him slightly, a subtle shift of weight that settles the restless heat under his skin, the possession that needs not a spectacle.
By the time the feasts of the banquet had been devoured and wine emptied and refilled once again, the court adjourns, the air outside is already thick with dust and anticipation. The tourney grounds buzz like a living thing, the need for it no one could say, the kingdom relying on its steel gleams and banners, instead of what lies beneath. A house under a history soon becoming lost, and a society burning to grab hands at its heart.
As you wander through the halls of the court, heated cheeks warm from the wine and gossip Aerion finds himself the opposite, sharpening as the hours pass, boredom burning away into something cleaner, more dangerous.
In the pavilion, squires move around him, tightening the straps of his blackened and albeit extravagant armour. He lets them work, gaze distant, thoughts fixed not on the lists but on where you’ll sit, how the crowd will look at you once the spectacle begins. He rolls his shoulders once, testing the weight, the familiar pull of steel against muscle. His eyes follow you as you find him, skirts hanging across the dried dirt, “Fight well my Dragon,” you say softly, stepping close enough that only he can hear, hands bracing at his chest plate.
He looks down at you then, head straight but his eyes wander to the calm in your eyes, at the faith there. “I always do,” he replies, and there is no arrogance in it. Just fact. A soft smirk and gentile in his eyes, reserved only for you is all the strength he can need before it disappears behind his helmet.
When he mounts, the crowd roars, trotting slowly into the line of fire where he waits. He finds you immediately in the stands, and you are exactly where you should be, composed and luminous, the people around you already half in love. Seated beside his father and brothers and the lords and ladies of higher power. His jaw tightens, but his focus sharpens. Let them watch. He can only think, there are only one set of eyes on him he cares about.
The first matches pass quickly. Joust pointed heavy at the row of young knights like a predator picking its prey, one by one as he stalks by. And one by one they fall, lances shattered and bodies hitting the dust with injuries much to the amusement and applause of the spectators.
Until but one remains.
A young knight of House Fell, the black helm crested with a pale wing— stormlander stock, old blood, but not enough renown to soften ambition. He sits his horse well, chin tipped upward beneath the visor, posture poised immaculate in that practiced way that suggests he has been praised for too long. Even through the armor, arrogance clings to him and Aerion twitches, he hates it. This one does not fear the dragon. Worse— he thinks himself worthy of standing before it.
And he feels it then, the way the sound does not rise for him, the way the attention drifts, just slightly, away. The hope that the dragon might finally be unseated by something new and shining and bis mouth curves, slow and thin. Dismissal has always been a far better spur than praise. And to make matters worse, the knight does not look at Aerion so much as glance through him, nodding ever so slightly out of politeness. But his gaze already sliding toward the stands, toward where the light is brightest. He turns his horse deliberately, letting the moment stretch, letting the crowd settle into its curiosity.
Toward you.
Aerion’s grip tightens on the reins, leather creaking soft and low under the daggered hands. The noise of the crowd dims at the edges, replaced by a clean, familiar heat in his chest so clear his heart thrums in his ears.
The knight removes his helm with a flourish practiced enough to draw murmurs of approval. He kneels properly, one knee in the dust, head bowed.
“My lady,” he says, voice clear. “It would honor me beyond measure to ride with your favor.” The wreath rests in your hands, woven light and careful, summer caught in green and white. A young lady offered many a young man’s favour at such an event but this time was different, and you hesitate.
Because you feel him before you see him.
Across the lists, Aerion sits tall in the saddle, reins loose in one hand, the other resting idle against his thigh. He has gone utterly still beyond the sway from his horse, but he is not restless, only focused. His eyes are on you alone, the same way they get just before fire breaks loose. The world has narrowed to this distance between you, and your gaze meets his.
For a heartbeat, nothing else exists.
His expression does not change— but something passes between you all the same. Under every piece of steel you see it. A question, unspoken. a warning, a promise. You know him well enough to read it. Choose.
The knight waits, unaware of the storm coiling a dozen paces away. You rise then, calm and composed, every inch the princess that they adore, as you bend and place the wreath onto his outstretched lance. “Ride well,” you say softly, publicly. The knight beams, triumphant, lifting the favor high for the crowd to see and the murmured cheers ripple through the stands.
Aerion watches the entire exchange, but it does not warm him like the others, instead something dark and pleased curls low in his chest. Not because you gave it, but because you looked at him first. And this time when the horn sounds and Aerion urges his horse forward, there is no mistaking the shift in him. He rides like a man who has been answered, like someone who knows exactly where his wife stands— and intends to remind everyone else.
The lists narrow to a single line of intent. The young knight of House Fell rides hard, eager, lance angled true but he rides to impress, Aerion rides to end it. And after too long of a back and forth, at the last instant, he shifts, just enough to turn precision into punishment. Wood explodes. The impact lands wrong— violently wrong— and the knight is wrenched sideways, body folding with a sickening crack as he hits the ground.
The crowd gasps, some leaning over there seats to get a better look, sympathy spreading for the young man who had gone against the dragon, and now lost. But he does not look back. Only when the dust settles does the severity reveal itself, the knight not rising, his helm torn free, breath coming shallow and ragged. And this time the applause dies in the throat of the stands, replaced by a stunned, uneasy quiet. Your hands scrape at the corners of your chair, paint and wood sharpening at your fingernails in distress. Perhaps for the knight himself, or perhaps of your husbands capabilities.
And it is only solidified, when his state finds you. It is sated, unapologetic.
“He— “you begin, voice low, fingers curling into his dress shirt. “He’ll live?”
Aerion hums against your skin, a slow sound disguised as a grumble. “The maesters think so,” he says, and kisses at your neck again, “But he will remember today.” Your breath stutters with the closeness of him, the heat still coiled beneath his restraint. “Perhaps we all will.”
His hands are already at your waist, thumbs warm and grounding, but something in him sharpens, attention narrowing until there is nothing but you and the space between breaths. The light flickers, catching in his eyes, turning them molten violet.
“Then let it be,” he breathes out, lips hot at your jawline down to your collarbone before pulling back to look down at you , “for the right reasons, my love.”
He reaches for you then. The fastening at your shoulder gives way beneath his fingers, fabric loosening inch by inch as if he’s unwrapping a vow rather than clothing. Slipping his own tunic over his head carelessly and tossing it to reveal his pale body, abs flexing in the dimmed candlelight. The room darkens around you, limbs casting long shadows across stone and skin. He presses your bare back not against the bed, but into the space of him, chest to chest, foreheads touching. His mouth finds yours, slower, deeper, tasting like restraint finally loosening.
His fingers pause, then press closer, dipping just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to promise more without claiming it yet, teasing you softly downward. Breasts pressing against his side as he wraps his arm around you, keeping you against him.
“Look at me,” he murmurs. And when you do, his gaze is dark and intent, devotion threaded through the danger. His thumb brushes slowly, deliberately to your sex, drawing a quiet sound from you that he answers with an exhale. He leans in, kissing you again, tongue sleeping dominant around your own. His fingers curling around your cunt, toying with your wetness as his body slides over you, fingertips pressing into you enough to make you gasp. Your mouth falling into a delicate ‘o’ as your hips raise, arching into his hand with every thrust. Your breath breaks, mouth falling open as your body arches instinctively into his touch, chasing it without shame, each movement draws you closer, closer still, until you’re no longer sure where your body ends and his begins. From the teasing, the the tension he creates he lets it fall against you.
Aerion lets out a low, dark sound against your throat, half a laugh, half a warning— clearly pleased by the way you unravel for him. He anchors you to him, while the other slides up to cradle the back of your neck, holding you just where he wants you, eyes bearing into you like a lifeline, studying. His own arousal growing stronger by the second, the mere look of you hardening his cock. In your shared space, his wife and him. That’s all.
“Aerion—“
“Easy now, wife.” he rasps, though there’s nothing gentle about the way his voice roughens. He stays there, relentless and patient as you break, rubbing your clit harshly through your own heat and slick, cum dripping down his fingers as he presses harder. His hand coming down to press over your stomach as you throw your head back, silk sheets twisting under the pressure, and he pushes, the heat of your arousal pounding against his heated, calloused hand, coil threatening to break. The pleasure tugging at you as you grasp at his wrist where it pulses at your cunt, moaning as you arch against his hand, “There you go.”
He hums in approval, rocking you through your high as you pump yourself against him, eyes watering as your hair tousles at the pillow. He drags his hand away much to your dismay, before leaning back over you, slotting between your legs, bringing his fingers up to his lips and sucking. The firmness in his brow only growing as he shuts his eyes, taking in your taste before bringing them to yours, his saliva mixed with your arousal coating your tongue. “Taste yourself.. all of that, for me, and yet I’ve hardly began to devour you yet.” Salt and sweetness.
Your cheeks heat up, obvious enough in the dying light, and Aerion chuckles low as he nudges your cheek. Another promise of what’s to come.
note- it's 2am as I write this with my fixation being back. PLEASE READ THE TAGS & SCROLL IF UNCOMFORTABLE
Aerion Targaryen is to suffer a political marriage that was made to humble him aka a forced marriage trope with Aerion
Tags: female reader, forced marriage trope, dubcon/noncon, Aerion is a warning, YANDERE, abuse, power dynamics, brief smut, lovesick!Aerion, messy timeline and inconsistent canon
Whoever catches the prince's sight would be pitied even by the devil himself. Aerion lives up to the name that was given to him. For he is so arrogant, he believes he is a dragon in a man’s body. His love, if one can even call it that, is all consuming as the fire that engulfs all.
You didn’t have the dragon’s blood, the silver hair, or the violet eyes. At least you’re not ugly. You came from a respectable house, still Aerion thought this whole match was beneath him. He was furious, livid even. Who was he to be commanded to wed some dull girl against his wishes? Aerion surely thought his father was jesting, but he has always known his father isn’t one to humor. His father’s glare was enough to silence his complaints, yet the castle was well aware of the contempt he had for you days on end, even though you have yet to utter a word to the prince.
As soon as you stepped into the red keep, you yourself could sense the prince’s displeasement. Before you were wed, the two of you were supposed forced to spend some time with one another. His mind seemed elsewhere while he showed you around. It felt as if every word, step, and breath you took irritated him further. The closest he seemed interested in you was when he spoke of the history of his house, and while you were curious, you feared inquiring may irritate him further.
The wedding was a punishment in and of itself. Aerion couldn’t wipe off that sneer in his face. He seemed somewhat satisfied with how beautiful you looked at that moment. But everyone from his family to the court can tell this whole match - this wedding - you - have slighted him and there is nothing you can do to not feel so small against him. Even as you share a dance, there is no warmth, just duty.
The bedding was extremely painful. Made you almost wish you weren’t a maiden; there was no time for you to undress with the prince laying you on the soft mattress. Climbing on top of you, his breath reeking of wine. He tugged down his pants, lifting your gown; there was no gentleness as he thrusted in and out of you. You couldn’t muffle your sobs, hand reaching to grab his arm to anchor yourself. And when the deed was done, you just stared up at the ceiling, unable to hear the words he spoke to you before leaving.
The night was a haze with all the days blurring together. Aerion had kept his distance since, it’s not long before you felt like a ghost wandering the halls. Newlyweds were the talk of the court, whispers were exchanged of the sad bride you were becoming; gossip you pretend doesn't bother you. It didn’t help that your husband would just walk in front of you, taking quick steps, and at first you tried to keep up with him, but your sore legs served as a reminder, so you remained far behind. Breakfast and supper were spent by yourself in silence, unless his family took pity on you and invited you to sit with them.
You have learned to put up with your husband, a fate you didn’t anticipate, but what else were you to do but tolerate it. Even when Aerion wasn’t angry, it always seems as if he’s mocking you. Lessons didn’t elude you, as your septa taught you; you were polite, courteous, laughing when it called for it, even tried to ask of his family’s history, anything to make the marriage more bearable.
Your husband still visited your chamber and you knew exactly what he wanted. Who were you to deny him? You could only cling to his shoulders as he thrusts into you. Times he would push your nightwear up, exposing your nips to the cold air, whimpering when his fingers touched and squeezed your breasts. His pace all the brutal, but with each visit, the pain eases and your sobs slowly turn into moans as you learn to enjoy it.
Aerion has good days, they are rare, but you learned to cherish them when they came. One could swear he enjoys hearing himself talk. You learned not to contradict him, for your husband is a man built with pride that when you gently corrected him; a misplaced name or he confused a minor house. The prince will snap at you and you’ll be given the cold shoulder for the rest of the day. If there is a crowd, he’ll even make a joke at your expense.
Every word felt like walking across glass. He is not a fool; Aerion knows every second that passes is you trying so desperately to please him. How your sweet words feed a little more and more into his vanity and when you call him my prince, something in him twitches. It all pleases him in ways he doesn’t fully understand, even in a twisted sense, arouses him. He knows you have no family nearby to protect you, no allies to speak for you, only the Targaryen prince who no one dares to defy.
Your husband who once looked at you as if you were nothing more than the air he breathed has begun to be seen more often. The quiet hours you had grown accustomed to are now shadowed by his presence. He would ask of the book you're reading that seems to preoccupy you so much, only to hum dully in response. And when you are allowed at court, able to finally exchange pleasantries with the other ladies. Your husband can’t help to corner you as soon as you take your leave, asking what has you in such good spirits. There is tiny amusement in seeing his brows furrow when you say it’s just idle talk.
Visits to your bedchambers have become so frequent, you grew to expect it. Acting gullible to his gaze while you arrange your hair in front of the mirror, pretending not to know what he’s here for either. You’ve grown shameful in how you seem to look forward to it.
It was all for duty, your only worth was to give him heir. But surely duty isn’t running through his head as you feel so good, your tight cunt squeezing his cock. It’s like it was made for him and only him. He says. And as you wrapped in the sheets, covered in sweat; you hum as he speaks on the weather, some foolish gossip he heard or an upcoming tourney. He stays the night, snoring softly beside you.
There are other nights where your husband visits because he’s restless, complaining of his family or whichever lord happened to offend him that day. He lets you pour his wine as he rambles on. He would dare not say he simply came seeking your company. His eyes follow as you light the candles, he comments on it, of course, asking why don’t you leave it to your servants instead, not long before you feel the familiar tug at the laces of your night dress. Demanding you undress and you know better than to refuse.
Sometimes he asks if you miss your family. When you admit you do, confusion flicks across his face. You have risen in station, married to a Targaryen prince; a maiden’s every dream. Aerion finds himself more annoyed than he should whenever you mention how you miss your home.
You belong to him now, your place remains by his. It doesn’t matter how tedious or late such events are. You remember all too well how furious he was when he asked where you were and he was informed you had returned to your chambers, too tired to stay. Aerion bursted into your place later in the night, blaming you for his foul mood, he had to entertain some drunk old fool all alone. As long as he is there, you must accompany him, is that not what wives do for their husbands.
Just like his love, Aerion must be the most jealous man you have ever crossed paths with. There can be no reasonings; it’s like wildfire, it spreads and there’s nothing you can do but wait for it to die down. You are stuck in its path, having to just endure it.
When tournaments are held, you are seated among the royal family watching your husband. There is no definitive proof but you feel his gaze flicker at you through the steel of his helm. And there is the semblance of proof, when he lifts his visor and you’re met with a smug smile meant only for you.
Before the tournament begins or after it, he demands you to be in his tent. He acts like he doesn’t need your praise or sweet words of encouragement. When it’s all over, he comes to you still in armor, the smell of blood, sweat and dirt clinging to him. The dirt of the field stains your gown when he pulls you close, insisting you should celebrate his victory, his mouth clashing into yours.
You’ll never forget the day when one simply asked for your favor. He was a boy from some minor house. And even if your husband was in denial of any feeling of attachment he had towards you. The mere act was seen as an insult, you pitied the boy long before and the gods must have been cruel to make him face your husband next. When Aerion struck, he didn’t target the shield but rather the legs of the horse. The boy was flinged from his horse landing face first into the ground, you gasped along with the crowd. Even from a distance, you can see the boy’s face all bloody and mangled as they dragged him away.
Aerion’s jealousy has become the talk across king’s landing, yet no one dares to say it out loud. A glance from another man across supper will have him feel a sick rage of jealousy. Tightening his hold on the goblet and you feign as you can’t feel his other hand gripping your thigh beneath the table. He’ll even squeeze your fingers a little too tightly when he thinks you’ve spoken to some other lady-in-waiting for far too long. The only reason his wrath is so restrained is due to his father.
Aerion pretends he is above it all, acting indifferent but it burns in his eyes. His jealousy sometimes can seem ridiculous even childish yet you are always there to reassure him. Yes, Lord Tyrell made you laugh, but no one can ever be as charming as him. Yes, you spoke with lady Royce for a while, but no one is more of a pleasant company than him. You’re even careful not to clap too eagerly to another during tourneys, according to your husband, none of them could perform as well as he does.
Your servants have gotten used to lowering their eyes when entering your chambers. The prince has become a common sight, laying beside you, chest bare, an arm draped around you and hair tangled. If you shift, he stirs as well. An unfortunate lesson was taught when you left your husband waking up alone, for you were informed your maid ran out in tears; met with a foul mood Aerion during breakfast time.
Aerion also being drunk is another common sight. He is far more affectionate, clinging to you. Yet you are still careful, his temper is still unpredictable, his jealousy if even possible is more intense, and his words are much harsh. Sometimes he looks at you, almost like he is bewitched, brushing your hair aside so he can take a better look.
Aerion cannot not touch you now. A hand will trail up your arm or toy with a strand of your hair yet in the same breath, Aerion insists he has no care for you. He’ll not hold your hand even when he wants you to follow, gripping your wrist instead. Do not try pushing his hand away unless you want a furious Aerion. His affection is, in many cases, rough. Gripping your face when he wants your attention or when he’s kissing you. The servants try not to stare when they are dressing you and see the hickies and bites laid across your skin.
Aerion would rather face a terrible death than admit he seeks your approval. He’ll tell stories or a jest and his head turns you, waiting for your laugh or nod. Aerion also surprisingly knows when something is wrong, it can’t be because he watches you so often. He knows how you twist your ring when you’re anxious or how you seem more lost in thought when nervous. He’ll ask, sounding more irritated than concerned. Aerion wishes to fix it, but his version of doing so is finding someone to blame for it then taking it out on them.
Silence treatment is a death wish. It didn’t matter what Aerion did. Using silence as your weapon will drive this man mad. You remember all too well when he threw a cup at the wall right beside your head when you refused to answer him. Aerion didn’t apologize, he never does. He simply moved on with the day, as if nothing had happened.
Aerion loves to spoil you. Dressed in his house colors, your dresses sewed with silks, hair pinned with adorned clasps. The first gift was a necklace with a dragon pendant, his sigil. He jests the gifts made you less plain beside him, yet his eyes linger with hunger whenever you wore them. But heaven forbid you wear anything from your own house or worse, do the offense of wearing someone else’s gift. No he doesn’t care if it was a family gift, he’ll throw it out the window or in the open sea without you knowing.
And yet, with all of this. Aerion swears it’s not love. He is too proud for that. Love is a weakness. Love is for fools and singers. He can easily replace you. Find another lady from wherever who can do the simplest task of warming his bed and bearing him heirs. Yet Aerion finds himself noticing how your eyes twinkle in the moonlight, what rings you like to fiddle with when you are nervous, and your soft scent of lavender that lingers even when you leave.
There was a time when fever struck. It seemed simple at first. Aeron didn’t even seem all that concerned, but when you became bedridden, and there was a slim chance of you not making it out – Aerion began to panic. He was truly unruly, the maesters were threatened while they worked, the servants were accused of poisoning you. There was such a scene, Maekar himself was forced to intervene, forcing his son from your bedside so the maesters could actually do their work. Dragons do not die of weakness, he kept telling himself. You must not. You will not. And when the fever finally broke, the realm seemed to let out a sigh of relief. Maekar was even unsure if you had tamed his son or drawn him deeper into madness.
There is no separating you and Aerion. What began as a cold, loveless marriage had turned into something you are unsure what to call. For now, the man, the prince you married will never claim he loves you, and he’ll always remain cruel. But you know he would kill for you. He will force a lord into his knees if he was to make a joke of your expense. He not only wants you, desires you, but he needs you, like the flower needs the rain. You must only say the word and he’ll fulfill it and maybe that is all what a person wants. And with nothing else to do, you have grown to also care and love this cruel man.
Then come the days when you feel unwell. Unable to stand the food that was once your comfort. Even the very scent of King’s landing upsets your stomach. Your body most particularly your breasts feel sore and your mood has proven to be very irritable. The maesters confirm what you have begun to suspect. You are with child.
Clarice cleared her throat. “I can’t reach my feet,” she said simply.
Aerion stared at her. He looked at her feet, then at her face. His expression flickered between irritation, disgust, and then something else. Something swift and sharp and much too vulnerable that he buried before it could settle into his features.
Aerion let out a short, humorless breath. “Pathetic,”
He dropped to one knee.
a/n: just a small drabble of something that's been on my mind for a while
read Chapter II here
read Chapter III here
The heat in the Reach wasn’t anything like the heat of King’s Landing. In the capital, the summer air smelled of shit and old fish; it was a dry, baking oven that trapped the city against the Blackwater. Here at Ashford, the heat was contrastingly green. It rose from the meadow damp and heavy —distinctively too heavy— smelling of crushed grass, horse sweat, and the river. It clung to the skin like a second layer of silk, inescapable and suffocating.
Clarice Arryn sat on the edge of the camp bed, her blonde hair crimping at the ends, her hands resting on the swell of her stomach. The child was kicking again; a frantic, rhythmic drumming against her ribs that felt less like a baby and more like a trapped bird throwing itself against the bars of a cage in an idle attempt to escape.
A dragon, she thought, the notion tired and familiar.
She was six months pregnant, heavy enough that her balance had shifted, and that daily activities had become nothing short of grueling exercise. She stared defeated at the leather straps lying limp on the rug, then at her swollen ankles. The once simple act of fastening her sandals felt impossible now.
The tent flap swept open.
It didn’t flutter; it was shoved aside with the sharp snap of brute force. Aerion entered. He brought the day’s violence in with him; the metallic tang of fresh oil on armor, the smell of a cheap wine and ale, and that peculiar, electric tension that seemed to crackle around him whenever he was bored.
And Aerion Targaryen was currently very, very bored.
He stopped in the center of the pavilion. He was wearing a doublet of red velvet that looked far too heavy for such suffocating weather, slashed with black satin, the three-headed dragon embroidered in golden thread upon his chest. His silver hair sat short, glaringly too short, over his skull, and his violet eyes were bright, restless, and cruel. He was undeniably magnificent to look upon, in the way wildfire or a venomous viper are magnificent.
He looked at her. He didn’t smile. He never smiled when he looked at her; he merely assessed, his gaze traveling from her face to the mound of her belly, then back up to her eyes. He curled his nose.
“You look ghastly,” he said. His voice was melodic and clear, cultured in a way that made every sentence sound like it was carved in judgment.
“And you, husband,” Clarice replied, her voice dry and cool, “look like a summer mummer who has raided a brothel’s wardrobe. Did you steal from a street juggler?”
Aerion’s lips quirked into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was a smile that usually promised violence to everyone else, but for her, it was simply the opening move in their daily game. He crossed the room, stripping off his riding gloves in a gesture of uncalled exasperation. “The humidity is a plague. I should have the river dammed. Or boiled.”
“I’m sure the river is trembling at the threat, dearest.”
“It should.” He tossed the gloves onto a table cluttered with wine cups and maps. He began to pace, a prowling back and forth that made the large tent feel impossibly smaller. “The commons are already swarming. Hedge knights. Squalid little men riding dying horses, thinking they can joust against princes. It smells of unwashed bodies and desperation out there.”
“You invited yourself to their tourney, Aerion,” Clarice reminded him. “If you dislike the smell of hedge knights, you could have stayed in Summerhall.”
“And miss the chance to remind them what a true knight looks like?” He stopped in front of her, his shadow falling over her lap. He tilted his head. “Why are you half dressed? Baelor, may he choke on his own name, expects us at the evening meal. If you are late, he will look at me with that disappointed heavy lidded stare, and I shall be forced to set the table on fire.”
Clarice cleared her throat. “I can’t reach my feet,” she said simply.
Aerion stared at her. He looked at her feet, then at her face. His expression flickered between irritation, disgust, and then something else. Something swift and sharp and much too vulnerable that he buried before it could settle into his features.
Aerion let out a short, humorless breath. “Pathetic,”
He dropped to one knee.
Clarice didn’t move. She didn’t flinch, and she certainly didn’t thank him. She watched the top of his head as he took her left foot with his hand. His fingers were long and pale, yet surprisingly strong. He didn’t do it gently, Aerion didn’t do gently. He jerked the strap tight, winding the leather around her ankle with a precision that bordered on aggressive.
“You are an Arryn,” he said to her foot, his voice dropping to a scornful murmur. “Mountain stock. Supposed to be hardy. And yet, one half-formed dragon whelp and you are rendered invalid.”
“The dragon takes up a lot of room,” Clarice said, watching his hands. “It has your ego.”
Aerion pulled the knot tight —too tight, just for a second, a spiteful and vicious pinch of warning— before loosening it to a perfect fit. He switched to the other foot.
“Does it hurt?” he asked. He didn’t look up.
“The strap?”
“The child.”
Clarice thought about it. “Yes.”
He paused, his thumb tracing the bone of her ankle. It was a touch that lasted a fraction of a second too long to be accidental, but he withdrew his hand instantly, as if the contact burned him. “Good. Pain clarifies the mind. You’ve been too quiet lately.”
“I am conserving my energy. One of us has to have the temperament of an adult.”
He finished the second sandal and stood up in a single, fluid motion, towering over her again. He dusted his knees, though the rug was clean. “Get up. Wear the blue silk. The dark one that matches your eyes. I won’t have you looking pale and sickly next to Valarr’s wife. Kiera always looks like she’s just eaten a basket of plums.”
Clarice reached out a hand.
It was a test, it was always a test with them. They were common currency in their marriage.
Aerion looked at her hand. He sneered, a bitter curling of the lip that showed his teeth. “Can you do nothing yourself, you feckless woman?”
But he took her hand. His grip was hard, pulling her up with a force that was almost rough, but the moment she was on her feet and slightly swayed, his other hand snapped out, seizing her waist to steady her.
He held her there for a heartbeat. His palm was hot against her side, burning through the thin linen of her shift. He was close enough that she could smell the cloves he had chewed on to sweeten his breath, and the faint, blazing scent of his skin.
He looked into her eyes, searching for fear. He always searched for fear.
Clarice gave him none. She looked back, her dark blue eyes, the colour of the moonlit sea, calm and unblinking.
He released her abruptly and turned away, pouring himself a cup of wine. “My father is in a foul mood,” Aerion muttered. “Daeron has lost Aegon. The drunkard can’t even keep track of a child.”
Clarice remained quiet, placing her hands over her stomach. “Aegon is resourceful,” She then said, after taking a long breath. “He probably went to find a cooler place to sleep. Or to look at the knights.”
Aerion brought the cup towards his lips, not taking a sip, as if weighing her words. He then walked to the entrance of the tent. “Dress yourself. And hide the blade you like to hide in your sleeve. This is a tourney, not a back alley brawl.”
“It’s a small knife, Aerion. For fruit.”
“It’s an Essosi stiletto, Clarice. And you use it to clean your nails when you think I’m not looking.” He took a long drink, and dropped the goblet into the rug. “Hurry up.”
He vanished into the heat.
Clarice was left alone in the tent, but the air still felt charged with his presence. It was exhausting, being Aerion Targaryen’s wife. It was a constant dance on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if he would push her or pull her back.
*********
The pavilion of House Targaryen was a sprawling construct of black and red fabric, a temporary palace erected on the trampled, suffering grass of the meadow.
Dinner was an exercise in theatre.
Prince Baelor Breakspear sat at the head of the table, dark haired and broken nosed, looking most handsome in a simple, black doublet; radiating the kind of effortless authority that made Aerion grind his teeth. Next to him sat his son, Valarr, small and slim and brown haired, lacking the Targaryen look but possessing a quiet decency that Clarice had always found soothing.
Aerion hated them both. He hated them for their dark hair, and for the way the realm looked at them with hope, while they looked at him with wary, panicked caution.
Clarice sat at Aerion’s right hand. She wore the blue silk, as he had commanded. She usually wouldn’t do as such, as she enjoyed the confrontation, but today she chose caution.
Aerion was restless. She knew the signs well enough. He was yearning for conflict, for a reason to unleash the fire that so viciously burned under his skin. He felt slighted by his father, annoyed by his brothers, and bored by the peace.
Clarice ate small bites of roasted duck, acutely aware of Aerion’s leg pressing against hers under the table.
“The lists are in acceptable condition,” Baelor was saying, his voice a low, steady rumble. “Though the ground is soft near the river end. I’ve warned the master of games to lay down more straw.”
“Straw,” Aerion scoffed, stabbing a fig with his knife. “We are putting knights on horses, Uncle, not bedding down pigs. If a man cannot ride through a bit of mud, he has no business holding a lance.”
“A horse slipping can break a man’s neck, cousin,” Valarr said sharply. “Even a good rider.”
“Then the horse was weak, or the man was clumsy,” Aerion retorted. He sliced the fig in half, its purple flesh tearing open. “Natural selection. We coddle them too much. This is meant to be combat, not a dance.”
“It is a celebration,” Baelor said, his eyes now resting heavily on his nephew. “Not a war.”
“Is there a difference?” Aerion asked, smiling that bright, terrible smile.
Clarice felt the tension spike in the air, sharp as a needle. She reached for her goblet, her movement slow and deliberate.
“The difference,” Clarice interjected, her voice cutting through the silence, “is that in a war, the enemy is trying to kill you. In a tourney, they are only trying to knock you down. It bruises the pride more than the body. Perhaps that is what worries you so terribly, husband?”
The table went still. Valarr looked down at his plate, hiding a grin. Baelor watched them, his expression unreadable.
Aerion turned his head slowly to look at her. His eyes were wide, violet irises that seemed too large swimming in white.
“My pride,” he said softly, “is not so easily bruised as a peach, sweet wife.”
“No,” she agreed, meeting his gaze over the rim of her cup. “It is more like glass. Hard, sharp, and spectacular when it shatters.”
Aerion stared at her. For a second, she saw the violence rise in him, a dark tide behind his eyes. He wanted to strike her. She knew it, and he knew she knew it. The air between them buzzed with the electric desire for conflict.
Then, the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Eat your duck, Clarice,” he said, his attention back to his plate. “Before you faint, and I have to drag you out by your hair.”
Baelor cleared his throat, unimpressed by his nephew’s threats. “Clarice, how is the heat treating you? You look flushed.”
Clarice smiled. “I am well, Your Grace,” she lied politely. “Aerion ensures I am... comfortable.”
“I ensure she is kept in the shade,” Aerion corrected, his hand dropping under the table to grip her knee. His fingers dug in, marking her skin. “Like a mushroom.”
The meal continued, a strained affair of pleasantries stretched thin over the rocky road that was Aerion’s temperament. Clarice played her part: the dutiful wife, the Arryn beauty. She smiled at Valarr’s jokes and nodded at Baelor’s wisdom.
But she was tethered to the storm beside her. Every time she laughed at something Valarr said, Aerion’s grip on her knee tightened. Every time she looked away, he shifted so his shoulder bumped hers. He was constantly checking, constantly verifying that she was there, that she was his, that she was paying attention to him and him alone.
When the meal ended, Aerion stood abruptly.
“Come,” he said to Clarice. “The air in here is stale. I want to walk the grounds.”
“Aerion,” Baelor warned, his eyes serious. “Do not antagonize the people tonight.”
“I only wish to see the stars, Uncle,” Aerion said, his voice dripping with false innocence. “Clarice is fond of astronomy. Aren’t you, my love?”
Clarice pursed her lips. “Immensely,” she said dryly.
Outside, the night had brought little relief from the heat. The air was thick with the smoke of a thousand campfires, the smell of roasting meat, and the raucous laughter of people.
Aerion walked with a swagger, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his eyes scanning the crowd with open, flaring contempt. He was looking for a fight, she knew. He always was.
He walked fast, his stride eating up the ground, forcing Clarice to keep pace. He didn’t offer her his arm. He walked slightly ahead of her, cutting a path through the crowds, expecting them to part for him. And they did. The sight of the silver-gold hair and the arrogant set of his shoulders was enough to make the smallfolk scramble into the mud.
“Look at them,” he sneered, gesturing vaguely at a group of squires gambling with dice near a crinkling fire. “Insects. They breed and they die and they leave nothing behind but dirt.”
“They grow the food you eat,” Clarice argued, keeping her hand on her stomach to dampen the jostling of her stride. “And they sew the velvet you wear.”
“And worms aerate the soil” he scoffed, “I don’t invite them to dinner.”
He stopped suddenly near the edge of the merchant’s row. A troupe of puppeteers were painting a wooden booth. There were bright dragons painted on the side, in an attempt to be crude and comical.
Aerion stared at the booth. His body went rigid.
“Mockery,” he whispered.
Clarice stepped up beside him. “It’s a puppet show, Aerion. It’s for children.”
“It’s a caricature,” he hissed, in a viperous gesture. “Look at the dragon. It looks like a lizard with the pox. Is that how they see us? Is that what they think we are?”
“They think you are powerful,” Clarice said, her voice firm. She stepped closer, invading his personal space, forcing him to look at her instead of the painted wood. “They fear you. And because they fear you, they make small jokes to make the fear manageable. If you burn down their booth, you only prove that you are exactly the monster they tell stories about.”
Aerion looked down at her. His face was pale in the torchlight, his eyes gleaminng. “I am the monster, Clarice. Haven’t you learned that yet?”
“You are a prince who is currently throwing a tantrum over some plywood,” she argued. “It is beneath you.”
He stared at her, his chest heaving slightly. The violence was right there, bubbling under the skin, searching for a release. He wanted to hurt something.
“You have a sharp tongue,” he murmured, stepping in close. He reached out and took her chin in his hand, tilting her face up. His fingers were cold now. “One day I will have to cut it out.”
“Then who would tell you when you’re being an idiot?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed. For a long, terrifying moment, he didn’t move. She glared at him, her hand instinctively drifting to the small, concealed pocket in the folds of her sleeve where her dagger rested.
Aerion saw the movement. His eyes flashed with delight, with almost manic amusement. “Go on,” he whispered. “Draw it. Let the commons see the Lady of the Vale try to gut the blood of the dragon.”
“I don’t need a blade to gut you, Aerion,” she said softly. “I need only wait for your ego to swell large enough to burst your skull.”
For a moment, they just stared at each other amidst the dust and the noise of the camp. To an outsider, the tension between them might have looked like hatred ; like pure, unadulterated loathing. And it was, in a way. But it was also the only language they knew. It was the intimacy of knives, sharpening each other.
Then, he let out a short, barking laugh. It wasn’t a happy sound, but it broke the spell. “I should have had you poisoned at our wedding feast. It would have saved me a great deal of headache.”
“I recall you tried,” Clarice countered, forcing her tone light, conversational. “Or was that just the Arbor Gold? It tasted vile enough to be hemlock.”
“Next time I shall use the Strangler,” Aerion promised, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “I’ll watch the light go out of those big, judgment filled, delectable eyes.”
“Do try not to botch it,” she said. “Incompetence is so unbecoming in a prince.”
His thumb brushed over her skin, surprisingly gentle. It was this exact dichotomy that maddened her. He could flay a man’s skin off with a smile, but with her, his touch was often reverent, as if he were handling a rare, dangerous artifact that he didn’t want to break.
Suddenly, the baby kicked. Aerion’s hand flinched on her chin, his eyes darting to her stomach. He hesitated, then reached down, placing his palm flat against the curve of her belly.
The child moved under his hand, a rolling wave of pressure. Aerion’s brow furrowed, in a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his face, as if he couldn’t quite reconcile the biology with the concept.
“He is restless,” Aerion murmured, his voice losing its edge for a fraction of a second. “He senses the tourney. He smells the blood in the air.”
“She,” Clarice was quick to correct him, “and she smells the roast pork from the kitchens, nothing more.”
Aerion’s hand stiffened over her belly. He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “A son. It must be a son. A dragon, Clarice.”
“It will be a girl,” she said, offering him a sweet, venomous smile. “Just to spite you. She will have my nose and she will hate velvet.”
“Do not jest about legacy,” he hissed, though he didn’t remove his hand. He pressed slightly harder, as if he could command her womb to obey him through sheer force of will. “If it is indeed a girl, we will simply have to try again immediately. Until you get it right.”
“I’ll be sure to tell her she was a disappointment before she’s even born,” Clarice said dryly. “It will save you the trouble later.”
He withdrew his hand as if stung, standing up in a single, fluid motion. “Come,” he said, stepping away. “I saw a Dornish merchant selling Myrish lenses earlier. I want to see if they are flawed.”
Aerion turned and walked away.
*********
Clarice lay in bed, clad in a loose shift of ivory cotton. She was reading a tome she had brought from the Eyrie, a history of the Andals, by the light of a single oil lamp.
The tent flap opened, and Aerion entered.
He brought the smell of the night with him, smoke, roasted meat, and wine. He had been drinking, she could tell, but he wasn’t drunk. Aerion didn’t get drunk like Daeron did; the wine only sharpened his edges, making him more vivid.
Aerion stripped off his doublet and threw it onto the floor. He paced the length of the rug, shirtless, his skin pale and smooth; his back all lean muscle moving like water over bone. He was beautiful, in that marble, statue way that Targaryens often were.
Clarice didn’t look up from her book, though she tracked his movements by sound. The rustle of fabric. The thud of boots. The splash of water as he washed his face in the basin.
The mattress dipped as he climbed into the bed beside her.
Clarice started counting the seconds before her peace were broken.
“Still awake,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
She hadn't made it to ten.
“The noise,” she replied absentmindendly, turning a page. “It’s quite loud tonight.”
“They celebrate their own filth,” Aerion said, lying back against the pillows, placing his hands behind his head. He stared up at the red silk ceiling. “I saw a giant today, Clarice. A hedge knight. Huge brute. Thick as a castle wall.”
“Truly?” Clarice asked, feigning disinterest. “Did you insult him?"
“Not yet,” Aerion grinned at the ceiling, in a boyish manner. “But I will. He offended me.”
“How? By existing?”
“Precisely. He looked... presumpuous.” Aerion turned his head on the pillow to look at her. The lamplight cast deep shadows across his face, making his eyes look black, dangerous. He frowned. “Put the book away.”
“I’m reading.”
“You’re ignoring me.”
“I can do both.”
Aerion reached out and snatched the book from her hands. Clarice didn’t fight him; she just sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. He tossed the heavy volume onto the floor with a loud thump.
“Talk to me,” he commanded.
“About what? Your imaginary grievances? The color of your doublet for tomorrow?”
“About us.”
Clarice laughed; it was a short, dry sound. “There is no ‘us’, Aerion. There is you, and there is the person you are currently tormenting.”
He moved fast, shifting so he was hovering over her, bracing his weight on his elbows, careful not to crush her. His head fell forward, breath tickling her face. He smelled of wine and cloves.
“You challenged me tonight,” Aerion said, lowering his face until their noses almost touched. “In front of Baelor.”
“I spoke but the truth.”
“You undermined me.” He countered, “you made me look... managed.”
“You need managing, Aerion. You were ready to draw steel on a puppeteer.”
“He insulted the blood of the dragon!”
“He painted a lizard!” Clarice snapped, her own temper finally giving in. “Not everything is about you. Not every shadow is an assassin, and not every laugh is mockery.”
Aerion suddenly seized her arms over her head, slamming her hands against the mattress; small wrists caught in between his burning fingers.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he whispered, his face inches from hers. His voice had lost its mocking edge, replaced by strange, almost feverish wonder. “To hear the buzzing. To feel the heat under your skin. I am a dragon in human skin, Clarice. I am not like them. And I am not like you.”
“No,” she said, holding his gaze, refusing to lean back. “You are worse. You are a child who thinks the world owes him its obedience.”
His face twisted. “I could kill you,” he breathed. “Right now. I could crush your throat. No one would stop me. I am a Prince of the Blood.”
“Do it, then,” she challenged him. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, but she kept her voice steady. “Stop talking about it and do it. Make yourself a widower.”
“You push too far,” he whispered. His eyes were wide, dilated, dancing with that familiar, manic heat. “You forget what I am.”
“I never forget,” Clarice said, holding his gaze, refusing to lean back. “You take great pains to remind me every hour.”
His face twisted into a sneer, a beautiful, cruel expression that he wore like armor. He lowered his head until his lips were brushing her ear.
“I should have had you killed months ago, woman,” he murmured, the threat dripping with dark, twisted affection. “Smothered in your sleep. Or pushed down a very long flight of stairs.”
“And yet, here I am,” Clarice replied, turning her head in the slightest so she could look him in the eye. She didn’t flinch; she offered him a small, challenging smile. “Why is that, do you think? Were you too busy staring into your own reflection?”
Aerion stared at her. He made a sound in his throat that was half growl, half laugh. “Because you are entertaining. And because watching you try to waddle in those sandals is the only amusement I have in this miserable bog.”
“Liar,” she whispered. Clarice knew him. He viewed her as a prize, a piece of himself that he allowed no one else to touch, but in the quiet, dark hours of the night, she knew it was more than that. He was a man who saw enemies in every shadow, yet he slept with his back to her, certain she would never strike while he was vulnerable.
Clarice stared into his eyes. They were burning with a twist of emotions he would not dare name. She kissed him then. It was hard, demanding, a collision of teeth and lips. He kissed her back like he wanted to consume her breath, to own the air in her lungs.
Aerion licked his lips, tongue whirling around in an all too majestic reptilian gesture, his breathing ragged and hot. “Perhaps.”
The cruelty drained out of his face, replaced by a sudden, stark vulnerability that was painful to witness. He looked young, and he looked lost.
He didn’t hit her, he never hit her. He simply lost the strength to hold himself up. He slumped forward, burying his face in the crook of her neck. His weight pressed her back against the pillows.
Clarice didn’t push him away, she never pushed him away.
She lay there, staring up at the silk roof of the tent. She could feel his breathing against her collarbone, ragged and fast, slowly, but surely, evening out. His hand reached up to rest on her stomach, fingers splayed wide over their unborn child. Their unborn, whelp of a dragon.
“You are unbearable,” he mumbled into her skin.
“I know,” she whispered.
She reached up, her hand hovering for a moment before settling on the back of his head. She ran her fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at the scalp. It was the way one calmed a nervous dog, she had learnt.
He sighed, a long, tension, releasing sound, and pressed closer to her.
“You had a knife in your sleeve tonight,” he recalled, his voice muffled by her skin.
“Yes.”
“Were you planning to use it on me?”
Clarice paused. “No.”
He shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to look at her. His eyes were heavy now, the madness condensing into a dull simmer. A strange, twisted amusement curled his lips.
“I liked you better on our wedding night,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the curve of her belly. “When you were plotting to kill me.”
Clarice let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I wasn’t plotting, Aerion. I was deciding.”
“And?”
“And I decided that you were too loud to kill quietly.”
He smirked. It was a real smile, fleeting and uneven. “You’re a wicked creature.”
He laid his head back down on her shoulder. The fight had gone out of him, leaving only the exhaustion.
“Don’t leave,” he whispered. It was so quiet she almost didn’t hear it. It wasn’t a command. It was a plea, wrung out of him against his will.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Clarice reassured him, her hand still in his hair. “I can’t reach my sandals, remember?”
Aerion let out a soft huff. Within moments, his breathing deepened. He fell asleep like that, draped over her like a shield, or a shackle.
Clarice lay awake in the green scented darkness. She felt the weight of the dragon prince on her chest and the kick of the dragon child in her womb. She reached toward the bedside table, her fingers brushing the cold hilt of the fruit knife. She didn’t pick it up. She just touched it, confirming it was there.
Then she moved her hand back to her husband’s hair, and held him while he slept.
Lesson Learned | cw: 18+ mdni, country!simon, cursing, excessive spänkíng, angry sêx, sèx against the wall, dâcryphília, dégrègàtíon, (slight) edging, pet names (lil girl, Lucky, darlin, baby).
Truthfully, he wouldn’tve been so angry if you’d didn’t show up so nonchalant. Gave him that pout you do when you’re upset, and explained why you’d disappeared off the face of the earth for two days without telling him.
Well not disappeared, you’d gone to your side of the family two days ago, it was just supposed to be lunch. But you didn’t do much as call to tell him what was going on, he knew you were a “free spirit.” You needed space to do as you wanted, but this wasn’t fucking city anymore, and Simon was gonna be your husband soon.
You’d showed up to the house in a car, a different outfit on and a couple shopping bags in hand, waved a ‘hi’ like nothing was wrong. He’s waited all fucking day for your ass, was gonna call the police if he hadn’t heard from one of the farm hands hadn’t seen you in town. Simon lazily took a sip of his beer from the rocking chair he sat in.
“The hell ‘ve you been [+]?” His voice barks out, voice booming over the open land.
Your eyebrows furrow at the tone, shrugging, “Was out Riley, I told you.” The other day. In your head.
Wrong fucking answer.
Simon clenched his jaw, another swing of beer down his throat. He stands from the chair, “Have you lost your god damn mind [+]?!”
“I don’t hear from you for whole a day Lucky, a full 24 hours! Not a call, not text, a god damn letter from the sky— do you not know where you’re gonna fucking live in the near future!? We’re in the fuckin back country where anything can happen! ‘Nd then another 24 rolls by and I think you’ve gone ‘nd died! And you show up with not a care in the world?! Use your fuckin brain and communicate where the hell you are!” He yells.
Your mouth opens once, processing everything, then closing, then opening again, looking at him like he’s the god damn idiot. You do a take a look around the nearly empty property, flabbergasted—
“Who the fuck are you talkin to?!”
“[+]—“
“I’m not a little fuckin bitch, I’m my own woman! I do what the fuck I want when the fuck I want! I don’t need your stamp ‘f approval for what the hell I wanna do! Shit, maybe I should get back in the car and go have fun, again!”
“[+],” he drawls deathly low, eyes glaring down at you, “Get on the fuckin porch. Now.”
And suddenly, it’s like your feet are rooted deep in the dirt road, throwing your shopping bags back in the car. You fold your arms over your chest. “No!”
Stubborn little city broad, Simon was gonna sort you all out.
Boots heavy with every step down the porch, he’s quite as a mouse and swift as ever getting over to you and throwing you over his shoulder. You gasp, hitting his back, “Put me down you ass hole! Put me down right now or I swear to God!”
Sure, he puts you down. right in his lap once he got to the top step of the porch, ass up. He used one hands behind your back as you try to wiggle out his grasp, the other yanking your jeans down.
“Count em.” He grumbles.
Before you can even get another word out, there’s a heavy smack! to your ass.
“Riley—“ SMACK!
“Mr. Riley!—“ SMACK!
And you let out a yelp in pain when another ache from his heavy hand lands on you.
“Told ya t’count. That’s three, or should we start from the beginnin?”
You didn’t even bother saying a word, just putting your head down and letting out cry of, ‘four’ when you felt his hand come down once more.
“Such a god damn brat [+], all you had t’do was apologize, but youre a fuckin hardheaded brat.” His teeth clenched, adjusting you after the tenth are so spanking.
“I-“ you hiccup, tears blurring your vision as you grip onto his legs, “I’m not a brat.”
“Bitchin at me when you’re dead fuckin wrong is bein a brat Lucky.” SMACK, SMACK, SMACK!
“Ya want respect? then use that brain ‘f yers and show me mine. What I say goes, I’m not doin this back ‘nd forth shit over you runnin off when ya want to. I’m your husband. And I don’t mind straighten you out over and over till you fuckin get it, ya hear?”
You let out a sob, nodding your head and clawing at his jeans.
Simon huffs. “Use your fuckin words.”
“Yes sir, mmph- I understand.” You wipe your nose, looking back at the blonde to see if he was done. But his eyes were low, flickering between your tears stained face and yout the wet spot in your underwear. His calloused hand grabs the back of your neck, guiding you off his lap and having you stumbling up the steps to meet his strides like a stray kitten gripped at the neck.
“Come on, ain’t done with you yet.”
The screen door slams behind you once you get inside the house, Simon pushing you into the nearest wall face first. You can feel him panting in your ear, hands sliding down your body after yanking down your pants along with those blue panties he likes to your ankles. Your hands lay flat against the wall trembling all from the burn coming from below.
“Spread ‘em.”
And you do, widening your legs as you tremble.
He cursed, dipping his thumb in your drenched hole, “Shit baby, ya don’t change. Spanked ya fuckin raw ‘nd ya still yearnin’ for it. A little slut for it yeah?”
You get so god damn mouthy, your pussy does too, soaking his fingers as he slots two inside you, working them in and out roughly. You claw at the wall, hips bucking for more movement then he’s giving you. You’re delirious, from the stark difference of Simon giving you the second whooping he’s ever given you to him finger fucking you right in the houses entryway. You don’t even realize your chanting a ‘please, please, please’ as he thrusts fingering inside you.
“Heh- Almost fuckin pathetic how fuckin needy you are right now. Should be greatful your husband is willin t’ help you, take care ‘f ya like ‘m ‘posed to.” He hisses once you clench down on his fingers, pulling his fingers out just as you felt your stomach tightening.
“M-Mr. Riley-“
He lays an Another smack to your ass, laughing at you, “Aht- aht- ahh darlin, that’s where you go it wrong. Why would ya even think ‘f cummin first when this is a punishment?”
You let out another whine, pushing your pump ass against him as he strokes his hardening length. You feel the cockhead push into the globe, Simon smearing his pre-cum. You groan, so desperate, “Please Mr. Riley!”
“Keep it up ‘nd you won’t get shit lil girl.” He grumbles, circling the strawberry tip on your hole. This was already hard enough trying to keep you in check, but edging you was just edging himself— all to have you dumb on his cock.
And that you were, as soon as he slid into your gummy walls. He perfectly stretched you out and filled you to the brim, you could every ridge and bein of his pulsing dick.
“Jesus baby, fuckin chokin me here.” He hisses, his hips pounding into you mercilessly. You trembling in his hold, head thrown back as you moan so loudly you’ll spook the chickens that are just across the yard.
Simon hikes your leg up higher, strokes getting faster, meaner, the loud ‘fwop, fwop’ fwop’ filling your ears everytime he slams back into your oozing hole. His jaw is clenched, seething at how good you feel, “Fuckin pissed me clean off Lucky, was- shit- was worried ‘boutcha ‘nd then you just had to act all big ‘nd bad. Like you run shit.”
Simon tilts your head up, scuffing at your fucked out face, your eyes glazed over as you while you keen his name.
“I bet you ain’t even thinkin, poor thang, been drunk since I been in ‘er.”
“Shit- uugh! Mr. Riley you’re just- it’s so biiiig!” You croon so sweetly. He can’t help the smirk on his pink lips, kissing your shoulder blade.
He lets out a snicker, finding your lips and sloppily kissing you, spitting in your mouth and making sure you swallow it. “ ‘Posed to be a punishment, hckk- but you always get what you want, huh Lucky?” He teases.
You finally catch his ocean blue eyes, your lips purse, looking up at him with those pretty puppy dog eyes, slurring, “No- I- hmm- hngh fu- I’m sorry Mr. Riley. Was wrong. I really am sorrry.”
God damn it, you really are the cutest person on the planet. Simon kisses you again, hitting your g-spot with a thwack that makes you sob.
“Yeah baby, I know. ‘S okay, such a good girl for ‘pologizin.” He coos, kissing you all over.
You can feel it, your orgasm building as he ruts into you wild as ever. You gasp, pushing at his thighs and inching closer to the wall, hardened nipples brushing agasint it, “Wait- wait- it’s- I’ll cum-“
“Nooo, don’t run, fuck darlin, ya can’t run. You g-gotta cum on it.” Simon rasps. He can only push deeper inside you, your face flesh against the wall as you have to take every down right nasty stroke of his cock inside your velvety walls.
“O-oh shit!”
Your orgasm knocks into like a harsh wave, hard and unforgiving. Walls tightening as Simons milky cum paints the inside of you.
“That’s my girl.”
a/n: atp call me “can’t-write-a-simple-Drabble-teddy.” I love plot too much. This request *chefs kiss*
Summary: It is said, that the brothers had learned to hunt side by side before they had even learned to speak. Together, they were an unstoppable force. A dangerous duo. And right now, their entire focus was on their most recent prey: You.
Warnings: explicit smut, clan swap au, non-con, kidnapping, mmf threesome, body modifications, sex slaves, p in v, oral (f&m receiving), praise kink, possessiveness, abuse of power, power imbalance, teasing, sexual tension, frenum ladder piercing, tongue piercing, prinz albert piercing, consumption of bodily fluids (blood, cum, spit), creampie, pet play, dom/sub, biting, marking
All na‘vi know their story. Of the time when the Omatikaya’s song was silenced.
When the fire came from the mountains and burned what was left of their forest, burned even their last tree of souls and left them with nothing but the ash of grief and the fire of hatred, the Omatikaya had chosen to leave the life they’ve known behind.
They say, the great mother did not hear their crying when the sky-people came to destroy their home. And she closed her eyes when rivers of fire poured through the valleys, burned down their last sanctuary and with it, all the hope that was left. And most importantly, their faith.
The Omatikaya were once proud people, respecting the balance of life and Eywas will. But that was many songs ago.
Now, all na‘vi know their story. They know of their suffering, their pain and their loss. And they know what this had made them become. That Toruk Makto had lead them through these difficult times, whilst their tsahìk spoke words no one had sung before.
She taught the people that Eywa had turned her back on them. That the Great Mother’s silence was not a trial, but a judgment. She would not come to help. She would not come to provide. Not anymore.
But the Omatikaya were not weak. Much like wood to an open flame, their hatred only made them grow stronger.
Soon, the old laws were reshaped, the balance bent until it cracked. They learned to live where nothing else grew. They took from the land of others, took from the people, took more than they could hold in their greedy hands and feed their never ending hunger. Hatred, once a warning emotion, quickly became a weapon. So the Omatikaya endured, but they were no longer what they had been.
They were feared where they had once been welcomed. Remembered where they had once been loved.
And what had once been a peaceful clan, had now become a warning to all.
You remember the stories as they were told to you, quietly, at the edge of the fire, always after the children had been sent away. These were stories meant to teach caution, to strengthen your own faith, like a reminder of what could happen if one were to disrupt the balance and violate eywas rules.
The air reeks of smoke, blood and old ash. The ground beneath you is hard and lifeless, as if even the earth has learned not to come here.
Your mother, the tsahìk, and your father, olo’eyktan of your clan, had been dragged away into Neytiris tent many hours ago and had not returned since then. Worry was gnawing at your very existence as you continue to tug and writhe against the rope binding your hands and feet together, pinning you to a charred down tree. But it’s useless. Aside from the horrible pain of your wrists and ankles being scrubbed raw by the rope, these knots did not budge.
Further away, the people of the Omatikaya moved in hectic, rhythmic circles around a towering fire. Its flames are fed too well, burning bright and hungry, casting warped shadows across their painted bodies. This is not a dance of thanks or mourning. It is a dance of ownership, of victory.
Neytiri, the tsahìk, stands closest to the fire, her silhouette sharp against the flames. Around her neck and wrists hang severed kurus, their tendrils dried and darkened, strung together like trophies.
Your throat tightens and you force yourself to look away. Among your people, to sever a kuru is unthinkable. It is worse than death. And yet they celebrate her, dance around the fire, around the blades she circles in the air. It’s hypnotizing.
Toruk Makto sits apart from the rest, close enough to the fire that its light glints off the metal weapon resting across his knees. You were taught never to touch such things, never to let their poison seep into your hands, your thoughts or your spirit. Metal was forbidden, it was one of Eywas rules. The first and most important one.
And yet, Jakesuli holds them as if they are part of him.
His posture is calm, assured. This is not a leader burdened by duty, but one who has long accepted what he has become. The great shadow of Toruk’s wings loom behind him, his skin scarred from battle.
Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you let your head fall forward until your chin rests against your chest and your braids slip forward to hide your face.
"Eywa ngahu, kìyevame srak nì’aw, slä oe tsun tivìran san oe lu… [Eywa be with me, even if you are silent, for my song still knows your name…]," Your voice trembles when you begin to sing, thin and hoarse from smoke and fear, but it does not break.
You sing on, letting the words trail into one another, softer now, the prayer dissolving into breath as tears swell behind your closed eyes. They spill anyway, tracking down your cheeks and dripping from your chin onto the hard ground below.
You’re so lost in your prayer, that you don’t even realize that you are not alone anymore, until a low, dark chuckle cuts through your voice, silencing you.
"Ah, look brother. A little birdy is singing a song for us."
Your breath catches sharply and you gasp and jerk your head up, braids falling back to reveal your face. Two figures stand before you, one of them tilts his head, studying you with open curiosity. The other smiles, slow and sharp.
"What is it?" the first asks, his voice smooth with amusement as he steps closer. "Are we not the ones you expected to answer your call?"
"Is your song not ours?" The other one continues, mockingly gentle as he crouches until his eyes are level with yours, tilting your head up with his thumb and finger pinching your chin. "You sang it so sweetly. We thought perhaps it was meant for us."
Anger boils hot beneath your skin at his touch. Before fear can stop you, you bare your teeth and snap at his fingers, jaws closing on empty air as he jerks his hand back just in time.
For a heartbeat, there is only the crackle of the fire and loud drums in the distance that sound so far away.
Then he blinks slowly, before he laughs loud enough to make you flinch.
"Oh, look at that!" He says, grinning sharply and his eyes bright with delight. "This one has fire." His laughter is genuine, almost pleased.
"Fire indeed," The other one behind him chuckles, low and approving.
Your heart hammers against your ribs. You draw back as far as the bindings allow, bark pressing painfully into your shoulders, and swallow hard.
"W-Who are you?" you demand, forcing the words past the tightness in your throat. "What do you want?"
The taller one straightens, folding his arms over his chest with an unsettling calm. In the firelight, you can see the markings of an Omatikaya warrior etched into his skin, newer scars layered over old ones, pieces of sharpened bone pieced through his skin, worn like decorations under red paint and black coal.
"Our mother has allowed us to look at our latest prisoners," he explains evenly, as if this was something casual to them. "Before they are sacrificed."
Your stomach drops.
"The others were…" He pauses, searching for the right word, then shrugs. "Less interesting. Nothing worth our attention."
The crouched warrior’s grin widens as his gaze drags over you, lingering far too long. "But you…," he says softly, voice lowering.
He’s purposefully not finishing that sentence, trying to make you uncomfortable, but to you it matters little anyways. You’re too occupied with thinking about what the other one had said earlier.
Mother? But that means…
Your eyes widened as you realized that these two weren’t just anyone. These were not just any warriors of the Omatikaya. They are the sons of Toruk Makto and their gruesome tsahìk. Feared warriors among their clan, brutal and cruel.
You’ve heard of them before.
The elder one is Neteyam. It’s been told, he is as skilled with the bow as his mother. He builds his arrows himself. The heads are carved to break bone and split muscle, dipped into poison to make survival impossible. He knows exactly where to place them so the most damage can be done with a single, precise release. And he could hit a target from any distance, moving through the forest without a sound. Neteyam does not waste shots, he does not miss and he does not need to watch the body fall. You are dead, the moment he aims at you.
The people say, the Sullys eldest hunts palulukan for fun, not for food or glory, but because he can. They say that the great apex predator of the forest, the one even seasoned hunters avoid, knows his scent and turns away from it.
Lo’ak, the younger brother, is another thing entirely.
You’ve heard that he dips his knife in poison too, not ultimately to kill, but to paralyze you. Everyone knew, that Lo’ak took enjoyment from playing with his prey.
But even from a distance, he was just as deadly as his brother. He had been trained by his father in wielding sky people’s weapons from a very young age, metal pressed into his hands as if it were just another toy for a child.
Apparently, he could name a gun without ever seeing it, just from the sound it made when it’s fired. They say he could take one apart blind, fingers moving from memory alone, and then put it back together again without ever opening his eyes.
It’s said, the brothers have learned to hunt side by side before they had even learned to speak.
Where Neteyam ended things with scary precision, Lo’ak made the pain last. One controls, the other destroys. And they don’t need to look at each other to know what the other is about to do.
Together, they were an unstoppable force. A dangerous duo.
And right now, their entire focus was on you.
"Look at her," Lo’ak calls to his brother. He grins, sharp and pleased, and reaches out again to cup your face and trail a thumb along your cheek. His touch is warm and possessive. "She’s so pretty, isn’t she?"
Your breath stutters at his words. Your entire body goes rigid, every instinct screaming at you to pull away, but there is nowhere to go.
"She is," Neteyam agrees softly.
That, somehow, is worse. His voice carries no hunger, no excitement, only quiet certainty, as though he is merely stating a fact.
"I want to play with her first." Lo‘ak whispers, licking his lips. He talks about you as if you aren’t even really here.
Play? Your eyes widen before you can stop them. Horror flashes across your face as you make up all possible scenarios of what his words could indicate in your head, which the brothers notice immediately.
They chuckle, low, amused sounds shared between them like a private joke. Lo’ak’s grin deepens, clearly delighted by your reaction, while Neteyam watches you with an unreadable expression, head tilted slightly, as if committing the moment to memory.
Then Neteyam steps forward. He places a hand on his brother’s shoulder and when Lo’ak glances up at him, he nods once toward the fire. No words. None needed.
Lo’ak clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes like a sulking child denied a toy, but there’s no real resistance in him. He pulls his hand back from your face at last and straightens to his full height.
Before turning away and following Neteyam, he looks at you one more time and winks.
Then, their silhouettes melt back into the firelight, swallowed by shadows, and you’re left staring at the empty space in front of you, heart still pounding hard enough to hurt.
For a brief, fragile moment, you let yourself believe that this was it. That they were just trying to scare you.
Later, when the fire outside has burned down to something lower and steadier, exhaustion finally begins to win.
Your head dips forward once, twice. But each time you jolt awake, forcing your eyes open again. You do not trust sleep here. Still, your body betrays you, muscles trembling from the long strain of fear. You are just slipping again, just for a breath, until you hear footsteps approach.
Immediately, you snap awake.
Two warriors stand in front of you, but not the same brothers from earlier. These ones are much older, their limbs thinner due to the lack of human genes in their blood, heads shaved bare and marked with thick scars that run over scalp and jaw alike. Their faces are hard and unreadable, eyes dull in a way that tells you they did not come to you on their own. Someone had send them.
Your pulse spikes.
Before you can speak, one of them reaches for the bindings at your wrists. Your breath comes fast and shallow as rough fingers work the knots loose. Hands roughly close around your upper arms and haul you to your feet.
You stumble, legs weak, barely able to keep pace as they pull you forward.
No one speaks and you do not dare ask what is happening.
They lead you through the camp, past dying fires and smaller tents. The night is silent, safe for the sound of feet on the dry ground. At the far edge of the clearing stands a tent larger than the rest, looming in the dark.
Your steps slow despite yourself.
Skulls hang from its entrance, some small, some far too large to belong to any Na’vi. Giant teeth are lashed together with sinew, forming crude arches above the doorway. Feathers, bones, bits of metal, decorations pulled straight from a nightmare sway softly in the night breeze, clicking faintly against one another.
The warriors at your side do not hesitate. They roughly shove you inside, past the animal hide that marks the entrance.
You stumble forward, barely catching yourself before falling, and then the flap drops shut behind you.
The first thing you notice is that the tent is warm. Outside, goosebumps had raised on your arms from the cold night air.
But inside, a small fire burns low at its center, casting a soft, flickering glow over furs spread thick across the ground. They’re dyed deep red and black, layered carefully. For a moment, the contrast is disorienting. It almost looks… cozy.
Then you notice the rest.
Skulls arranged along the walls, staring with empty eyes. Bones carved and painted, strung together in careful patterns. Metal chains hang from the high ceiling, catching the firelight when they sway, heavy and cold looking. There is no part of the space untouched by something taken from death.
Your stomach twists.
You take a hesitant step further inside, bare feet sinking into the furs. The tent is silent except for the crackle of the fire and you come to realize that you are alone.
Not for long, though.
The animal hides at the entrance rustle softly, then part, and two figures step inside.
Neteyam enters first.
Firelight rolls over him, catching on the broad plane of his chest, painted deep red. Streaks of grey ash follow the hard lines of his body. His loincloth hangs low on his hips, woven with painstaking precision, the patterns tight and symmetrical to match those of his cummerbund. Everything about him looks intentional and controlled.
His ears twitch and his tail flicks the moment he sees you.
Your eyes immediately catch on the marks littered across his body, bone and carved ornaments lining his torso and arms, heavy but balanced. From one earlobe hangs a thin metal chain, dark feathers threaded through it. It sways gently as he moves, brushing against his braids that are adorned with bones too. His gaze settles on you without surprise, as if he had been expecting this moment.
Lo’ak slips in behind him and the contrast is immediate.
The sides of his head are shaved clean, the rest of his braids pulled back into a low ponytail that is decorated with spines. Two loose braids frame his face, beads carved from bone and bullets clicking softly as he walks. His skin is painted much like his brother’s, red and ash, but where Neteyam’s markings feel ceremonial, Lo’ak’s look careless, almost playful, as if he smeared them on without patience.
Your eyes begin to wander despite yourself.
One of his ears is chipped, but both are lined with piercings too. But they’re are not bone. His are made of steel. You could tell by the way they reflect the firelight. Across his chest hangs a belt of bullets, resting against painted skin, and you wonder if these are part of his decorations too or if these are there to be used.
Your gaze flicks back to Neteyam, who walks with his chin lifted, shoulders squared. He looks like a man meant to be honored and feared.
Lo’ak sways as he follows, grin already pulling at his mouth, eyes bright with amusement, as if this is all just a joke, and a good one at that.
Fear claws its way up your spine.
You retreat instinctively, backing up as far as the tent allows until your calves hit the furs piled near the wall. Your heart hammers, breath coming quick and shallow, eyes darting between them as they move farther inside.
"Welcome, txeptsyip [little flame]," Neteyam says, as though this is a meeting long overdue.
His voice is calm. Pleasant, even. He folds his arms across his chest, rolls his shoulders once as if settling into himself and then looks at you with open interest. You can’t help but shiver as his eyes roll over you body before he holds your stare with warm intensity.
Lo’ak, on the other hand, moves immediately.
He takes two long, quick step toward you, too fast and too close. You flinch, but Neteyam’s hand comes out just as quickly, pressing flat against his brother’s chest. It stops him cold.
Lo’ak clicks his tongue, irritation flashing across his face as he stares back up at Neteyam. He leans back a fraction, shoulders loose, posture anything but obedient, but ultimately stays where he is. When your eyes finally meet his, the scowl melts into a slow, knowing smirk.
"What do you want from me?" you ask immediately, forcing the words out before your courage could fail you.
Neteyam’s gaze sharpens, just slightly. "We’ve come to propose a deal, txeptsyip. [little flame]"
Your brows furrow. "A… deal?"
Lo’ak laughs under his breath, rocking back on his heels like he’s enjoying this far too much, while Neteyam continues, "You have two paths ahead of you."
He lifts one finger.
"You will be sacrificed, like the rest of your clan. No one will mourn or even remember you, and your kuru will adorn my mothers necklace like all the others before you."
You swallow thickly. Then, he lifts a second finger.
"Or," he says evenly, "you can live."
Lo’ak’s grin widens as he adds, "with us."
Your chest tightens as understanding sinks in, and it’s almost nauseating.
"You mean like a prisoner or… a slave," you say quietly, already shaking your head.
Fear trembles through you, yet your hands curl into fists at your sides.
"I’d rather die," you whisper, then louder you say, "I’d rather join the great mother than live like this!"
The brothers laugh at your answer. Not cruelly. It is the kind of laughter that carries disbelief, as though you have said something naïve rather than brave. Embarrassed, your ears fold flatly against your head.
Lo’ak lets out a short breath through his nose then, shaking his head and Neteyam’s mouth curves into a smile as their laughter dies down.
"Slave," he repeats with a chuckle. "That might be the wrong word for it."
Lo’ak moves then, but this time, his brother doesn’t stop him. You suck in a sharp breath as he begins to circle you, feet soundless on the furs, his presence pressing in from behind, from the side. You track him with your eyes until he slips out of view, until you feel him more than see him.
"You think in extremes," he murmurs. "You forget there are other ways to belong."
Lo‘aks hand reaches out and a finger gently traces the curve of your spine, making you jump.
"You would have everything you could dream of," Neteyam continues, eyes sharp as they watch your face for any kind of reaction. "No more hunger. No more running from the vrrteps [demons]."
He steps in closer, voice lowering, almost intimate. "You would be protected. No one would touch you without our say. No one would take from you ever again."
Truthfully, he made it sound like safety. As if this was an act of kindness.
And for a brief, dangerous moment, your body betrays you, because it remembers what it is like to be cold, to be hungry, to sleep with fear curled tight in your chest. It remembers empty days and long nights and prayers whispered to eywa for protection.
The brothers see the hesitation flicker in your eyes.
Lo’ak smiles immediately. "See?" he says from behind you, his voice much closer than before. "You’re thinking about it."
You do. But deep down you know, everything they offer comes with an unspoken price. May that be obedience, gratitude or something else. A life wrapped in comfort, yes, but lived on your knees. Fed by the very poison Eywa forbade.
Before you could pull back, Lo’ak reaches for your hand.
His grip closes tight around your wrist, firm enough that you know fighting it would be useless. Your breath stutters, but you do not give him the satisfaction of struggling. He tugs once, guiding you toward the center of the tent.
The furs beneath your feet are impossibly soft, thick and warm. You’re so tired, only kept awake by adrenaline and fear, you knew you’d melt into them the moment you were allowed to rest on them.
Lo’ak releases your hand only once you are where they want you, fingers lingering just a moment too long. He grins at your tension, at the way your shoulders are drawn tight, your jaw clenched like it is the only thing holding you together.
"You would be no slave, txeptsyip, [little flame]" Neteyam says quietly.
He steps closer now, finally closing the distance he had allowed you. He stops at your other side, not touching, but near enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him.
"You would just be…," he brushes a stray strand of hair behind your ear, "ours."
There’s warmth on your backside too, and you gasp softly when you turn your head and find Lo‘ak this close to you. He leans down, until his lips nearly touch the lobe of your ear.
"Ours to kiss. Ours to touch…", something warm and wet touches your ear, before you realize that’s his tongue teasing your lobe, "and ours to fuck."
Goosebumps raise all over your skin at his words.
Their bodies radiate heat, caging you in, and for the first time since they‘ve entered the tent, you understand something with sick clarity.
They are not trying to frighten you. They are trying to persuade you.
"No," you say, breath shallow but voice firm. "I can’t— I won’t!"
Neteyam’s expression doesn’t harden. If anything, it softens.
Lo’ak’s fingers brush your hip— barely there, a featherlight touch meant more to distract than to claim. It’s infuriating how gentle it is. He’s not brutally grabbing you, how you expected them to. Not forcing. Just enough to make you aware of where you are. Of who stands behind you.
Neteyam steps closer then, close enough that you could feel his breath on your skin. He lifts his hands and carefully cups your face in them, thumbs resting beneath your cheekbones.
"We’d take good care of you," Neteyam tells you, voice calm, almost reasonable. "We protect what is ours."
"And we never let it go," Lo‘ak adds, his smile sinister.
Your heart hammers painfully against your ribs. Every instinct screams at you to pull away, to bite and fight them. But another part of you, traitorous and tired, feels the pull of their attention. The certainty with which they speak, as though the world outside this tent no longer exists and it’s just the three of you.
"If you need proof of this," Neteyam says, tongue flicking over his bottom lip, "then we can show you."
The words are barely spoken before the space between you disappears. He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away— time you do not take. His forehead brushes yours first, breath warm against your lips, and then his mouth meets yours in a way that steals the very air from your lungs.
The kiss is firm, claiming and unyielding, but also controlled. Like everything else about him. The world narrows to the press of his mouth, the heat of his hands still cradling your face and his tongue as his slips between your lips. A small, helpless sound escapes you before you can stop it, but Neteyam greedily swallows it down.
Behind you, Lo’ak inhales sharply, a sound that borders on a groan. As if he were the one kissing you, sucking on your tongue, tasting your salvia.
"We’re gonna show you just how good you would have it with us," he murmured into your ear. "Belonging to us is a privilege not many have been allowed to."
Your pulse is racing. Your thoughts are tangled.
Lo’aks hands are still at your hips, squeezing soft flesh before they wander up higher, cupping your breasts. They’re so big and warm, and you feel each little scar on his skin as they impatiently rip away your top. Your too busy meeting Neteyam eager lips to do something against this, so you just gasp into the kiss when Lo‘ak begins to tease your nipples, rolls them between his fingers until they turn into hard pebbles.
"Mmmh, these would look so good pierced," he purrs lowly, kissing your shoulder and letting his canine rake over the nape of your neck. "I will put my mark on them soon, txeptsyip [little flame]."
As Lo‘ak kneads your breasts in his hands, Neteyam’s slowly move from cupping your face to squeezing your hips, gliding over your backside.
You don’t know who’s doing what or where anymore, but your limbs are becoming unstable and weak as both pair of hands explore your body. Heat was quickly spreading through your core, slithering deep in a place where you suddenly began to crave them.
Their low hums vibrated against your skin, surrounding you like a subtle lullaby. They were slowly caging you in between their bodies, more and more, until you began to squirm.
Sucked into an abyss of sensations, your head began to swim, until you were unable to focus on anything else besides their lips and hands all over you. All you could see, hear and smell was them. You were swallowed between them like a trapped bird.
Finally breaking the kiss with a gasp, your head falls back against Lo’aks broad chest as Neteyams hand sneaks it’s way lower and between your thighs. He cups your sex, feeling for how wet you are and then slides his fingers between your folds.
"You are very wet here," he groans, his finger rolling your clit easily with how slippery it was. Then he slides it lower, before he slips his finger into you in one, harsh thrust that makes you gasp. "But you are soaking here."
Your inner walls are clenching down around the single digit Neteyam thrusts into you, curling it slightly until you can’t hold back a long, drawn out moan.
"I want a taste," Lo‘ak says to his brother, his voice urgent and commanding. For a moment you fear they will start fighting over you, but then the older one slips his hand free from your loincloth and you pant heavily at the sudden loss.
It’s not for long, though, because he then spins you around so you’re facing Lo‘ak.
They work as one, starting to undress you by pulling down your loincloth and coverings. Neteyam settles himself down onto the furs first, maneuvering you so your head rests comfortably on his lap and spreading your thighs wide enough for his brother to settle himself between them.
His hands and lips are everywhere, kissing your cheek, nibbling at your earlobe, hands stroking your hair, as you watch Lo‘ak sink down to his knees.
The grin on his face is sharp and dangerous and you swallow to wet your dry throat. Raw nerves make your limbs shake, and you want to close your legs to hide yourself from them, but Lo‘ak does not allow it.
His hands glide along the inside of your thighs, keeping them apart. He kisses you there, kisses your navel and mound too. Kisses the inside of your knee as he drapes your legs over his wide shoulders. His teeth tease your skin, and when he bites into the softness of your inner thigh, you yelp in pain.
Neteyam keeps you pinned when you try to wriggle free, as if the pain had somehow managed to bring back the rational thinking part of you, the one that made you realize that this was wrong, so very wrong.
Your hands claw at Neteyam’s arms, but he coos softly into your ear, "shh, you will be fine. My brother is just teasing. We would never hurt you."
"That is, if you’re being a good girl," Lo‘ak adds from between your legs, licking the bite marks that are slowly turning purplish on your blue skin. Your tail thrashes against the furs, your chest rapidly raising and falling.
Behind you, Neteyam’s chest vibrates with a dark chuckle. You want to protest, want to tell them that you are neither their slave nor their pet, and that you would never be good for them. But then Lo‘ak grins and sticks out his tongue, ready to lick you there, yet is stopped short by the sound of your sharp gasp.
There, in the middle of his tongue, sits a small bead of steel. It reflects the light of the fire nearby, shiny and wet with spit, and your whole body goes rigid at the thought of it touching you.
"Kehe [no]— wait," you nearly choke on your own words with how hastily your force them out, "you— you can’t, it is forbidden to touch metal!"
Both brothers laugh softly at your words, neither of them giving you the impression that they were taking your pleas seriously. Instead, Lo‘ak just grins at you, his face continuing to lower until you feel his warm breath on your cunt.
"Oh baby, trust me. You want that metal to touch you," he murmurs.
"But…t-the great mother will—"
"There’s no great mother here, no eywa. Just us," Neteyam silenced you. "But you will learn to worship us all the same."
And before you could say another word, that metal is pressed harshly against your clit. The sensation of it is like no other.
"O-Oh!"
Truthfully, you expected it to be cold at first, but the steel is warmed up from sitting snugly against his tongue. It glides against your clit, rolls over and around it as Lo’ak expertly moves his tongue, and your back arches off the furs with how good it feels.
"See?" Neteyam chuckles. "We knew you would like it."
You’re so lost in the moment, you don’t even realize how hard your pressing your nails into Neteyam’s forearms, but he doesn’t seem to mind one bit. He’s just holding you, rubbing his nose along your temple, breathing in your moans and whimpers as his brother feasts on you.
Puckering his lips, Lo‘ak sucks your clit into his mouth until your thighs begin to shake from how quick you were approaching your orgasm.
"I can feel you shaking, txeptsyip [little flame]," Neteyam whispers in your ear. "You’re being such a good girl for him. Yes, keep spreading those pretty legs."
More moans where spilling free as Lo‘ak circled your clit with his piercing, before sliding it down and fucking you with his tongue. Between your thighs he was moaning, slurping up your arousal without care for how filthy he sounded. The more you spread your legs, the more he was pushing his face against your cunt, hungry for more.
It was mind blowing how skilled he was with his tongue. You had never experienced anything like this, and it almost made you forget about the circumstances that lead you here.
"If you want to come, you can just let it go," the brother behind you murmured with a soft chuckle. He was rolling one of your nipples between his thumb and a finger, lightly pinching and tugging to egg you on.
"When you are ours, we will make you come as many times as you want to," he explains, almost casually. "As many times as you deserve, txeptsyip [little flame]."
His words made you feel dizzy.
They were planning to keep you for their pleasure, but that did not mean your own would come short. They made that much clear.
Aware of every new twitch and shudder, Lo’ak was adjusting the patterns of his tongue accordingly, until you couldn’t take it anymore.
"I- I think I’m gonna come," you managed to force the words out between quick breaths.
A low, throaty groan that nearly sounded like a growl broke free from Lo’aks mouth at the sound of that.
"Do it," he growled, barely lifting his lips enough to detach from your clit. "Come for me, c‘mon. Let me taste it."
It was heat against heat, hot mouth against hotter skin. His sharp tongue flicks over your clit a final time, metal hard and hot against it, and then you break into a thousand pieces.
Neteyam holds you as you come, sucking marks into your throat and shoulder, while you claw at his arms hard enough to draw blood. He groans with you, enjoying the pain that your pleasure inflicts on him.
You breath in shallow pants as you come down from your high, suddenly feeling entirely too hot under your skin. But there is barely time for you to process what had just happened.
Quickly, too quick for your liking, Lo‘ak grabs your wrists and pulls you away from his brothers lap.
The grin on his face is a mean one, with the lower half of his face still glistening in your arousal, ash and paint smeared so the pretty blue color of his skin was now shining through.
Your brain isn’t even functioning properly yet again, when the younger brother pulls you into a dirty kiss, making you taste yourself on his tongue, swirling the tiny metal ball around your mouth and teasing your lips with it. He releases you only when you think you might suffocate because he leaves you no air to breath, and you gasp when he finally does.
"If you already enjoyed this small piece of metal," Lo‘ak says lowly, grabs your shoulders and slowly turns you over so your head was now resting on his lap while Neteyam settled between your thighs. "Just wait until you find out what my brother will do to do."
Blinking a few times, you stare up at the other brother with wide eyes. Your first instinct is to close your legs and sit up, but Lo‘ak has you secured against him, his wide biceps caging you in. His skin is almost hot to the touch, muscles like steel as you wrap your hands around his arms, much like you did to Neteyam before.
Your thighs are spread further the closer he shuffles between them, his hands holding them up by the underside of your knees. But he’s not looking at you at all.
Neteyam’s entire focus is on your pussy.
His head is tilted slightly, the look on his face almost fond as he admires you. One of his hands comes to lay on your mound, his thumb gently circling around your clit, before he carefully slides the little hood up so he could get a better view at it.
Your breathing comes out heavier then before, and your entire body twitches every time he comes to close to that little bundle of nerves.
His thumb slides lower then, teasing you entrance and carefully pulling your lips apart as if he was examining you. It’s almost too much for you, and you try to hide your face in Lo‘aks arms.
"Still so wet," he finally breaths. "Such a tiny, tight looking body that you have. I will enjoy breaking you in."
The chest that you’re leaning against rumbles with a dark chuckle, then Lo‘ak leans down to whisper into your ear, "he‘s been talking about nothing else ever since we caught you."
His words make you shiver as realization dawns in on you. This was never a moment of impulse or a whim born tonight. You were always meant to end up here, with them.
When they took your people, they didn’t spare you because you begged well enough. You were chosen. Selected by spoiled sons of a broken clan, raised knowing that nothing was ever denied to them.
The fire crackles next to you, and then Neteyam’s hands leave your skin in favor of untying his loincloth.
When the dark piece of fabric finally falls away, you suck in a breath. The sound is loud and impolite, and you immediately want to clasp a hand over your mouth.
The warrior in front of you may be adorned with bones, leather and other natural materials that are not so different from those of any other na‘vi, honoring his heritage. But there, along the base of his cock, sits something foreign and wrong.
"H-How many…" the words come out as a hushed whisper of disbelief, your eyes wide as you try and fail not to stare at him like this.
On the underside of his length, Neteyam’s cock is pierced with four rows of small, neatly placed, shiny metal balls.
"Eight," he says proudly, letting his hand glide over each one of them.
Without thinking, you ask, "did… didn’t they hurt?"
"They did," he smiles. "That’s why I got them."
You swallow thickly. Neteyam makes a show of letting his fingers slip over the piercings, squeezing the tip and huffing out a breath. His eyes are half lidded, pupils blown as he watches you for any kind of reaction, seemingly getting off at the way you nervously bite your lip. Your own breath hitches when he moves closer, your eyes fixed on the forbidden metal that dares to touch your skin.
The soft head of his cock touches you first, making the fine hair on your neck raise as he lets it part your folds and smear your slick arousal over your clit. You hate how good it feels, until warm steel touches you too, and you don’t know whether to cry or moan because that, too, feels incredible.
Neteyam slides his cock against you in lazy strokes, letting you feel each piercing, and your imagination runs wild with how these little bumps might feel inside you.
"I want to watch you take every single one of them," he murmurs then, and your eyes widen slightly at the realization that you are supposed to take him to the last row of them.
"N-No, I can’t!" You begin to struggle, but Lo‘aks arms remind you that it’s no use. One of his hands pinches a nipple hard, like a reminder to stay put and you cry out softly. "Don’t," the younger brother says, his canine crazing your ear. "I like a woman with fire, but we’re trying to play nice because you’ve been good so far. Don’t make us regret that. I’d hate to break my new toy so early."
You bite your tongue in order not to spit venom at him, but your face must’ve given your thoughts away.
Neteyam chuckles softly, "If you want to be bad, save that for next time, txeptsyip [little flame]. But we will not hold back then."
The glare you give them wavers, and it disappears fully when he begins to push the tip of his cock against your entrance.
The stretch that follows makes you suck in a breath. He’s thick and long, and the first inch feels like you’re being split apart. But it’s a good kind of pain, you’re wet and pliant after your first orgasm, so when he pushes himself inside, warmth begins to spread in your core as your body gives way.
But then you feel that first touch of metal, and your thighs instinctively want to jerk close around his hips.
"Shh, relax, you were doing so good taking me," Neteyam coos, his hands spreading your legs wider as he sinks further into you. The first row of piercings slips into you and your mouth falls open with a surprised "oh!".
Those tiny beads feel so foreign against you, so warm to the touch. And eywa forgive you, they felt incredible. The sensation was like no other as he continued to push, making them roll along your inner walls.
"That’s one… and two," Neteyam says lowly, licking his lips to wet them. "Come on, count them for me."
Your head spins. You wouldn’t have been able to even tell them your name if one of them asked you right now, but then he slides in a few more inches and you manage to breath out quietly, "three…f-four."
Behind you, Lo‘ak was whispering sweet nothings into your ear, words you couldn’t really focus on but they made you so much wetter and then, "five, s..ix."
Sweat was slicking your forehead as more and more of his length was pushing past your tight entrance. It felt never ending, filling you constantly until you thought there was no room left inside you anymore. You felt so full of him, until finally the last row of piercings slid inside you.
"S-Seven…" You whimpered and Neteyam let out a deep groan, "eight."
"Smart girl," Lo‘ak teased from behind, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face as if he worried you weren’t able to see just how deep Neteyam was inside of you. But even with your eyes closed you could feel him, could feel the heat as he breached you, the weight of his cock, the smooth tip again your cervix and the eight little beads of steel massaging your body from the inside.
You tried to swallow a soft, needy sound, that would give away how bad you wanted him to move, hating how good he made you feel, but unable to hide it any longer.
"Don’t forget to breathe," he grins, and you release the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. The moment you exhale, Neteyam withdraws from your tight heat, only to slam himself right back in.
Now you know why he’s told you to breathe.
The moan he practically fucks out of you is loud and embarrassing. You’re sure the entire village had just heard you.
And then, Neteyam begins to move. His strokes are hard, deep and on point, his pace only increasing as time passes. Every time he enters you, you feel his piercings so clearly and your moans turn more desperate with every thrust of his hips. His eyes roam over you, starting from where you were connected— in and out, his cock glistening with your slickness. Then your breasts, bouncing every time your hips meet, only supported by Lo‘aks hands squeezing and toying with them. And finally your face, lips swollen red from occasional dirty kisses, cheeks flushed and eyes half lidded.
Neteyam let out a grunt whenever he pulled back, before burying himself deep again, his cock knocking on your cervix as if he was made of steel too. There are words coming out your mouth, but you don’t recognize them as anything coherent. You think they’re curses, prayers, maybe even both.
You’re so lost in your pleasure, you don’t even realize that your eyes are falling closed, until Lo‘ak gives your cheek a few surprisingly gentle taps with his hand, jolting you back into reality.
"Hey, we‘re not done with you yet, txeptsyip [little flame]." He grins. "Can’t have you passing out on us now."
Lo‘aks hand then cups your face and squeezes your cheeks, forcing your jaw to drop, "yeah, that’s right. Open up for me."
You don’t know what possesses you in this moment to obey them so willingly, but when his face leans over yours, you eagerly stick your tongue out and let him lick over yours, before he let’s a thick droplet of spit land into your mouth.
It’s filthy and humiliating, and both men groan in perfect sync when you swallow down his spit.
"Fuck, you’re making me so hard," Lo‘ak sighs. The cock that’s buried deep inside you throbs in agreement and you mewl sickening sweet at that. Whatever it is that they’re doing to you, you don’t feel like yourself anymore.
This isn’t really you, missing your usual bite, your instinct to survive. This is a woman reduced to pleasure and nothing more. Just a hole for them to fuck. And worst of all, you were enjoying it.
Your head felt empty of all doubts and worries as you watched Lo‘ak move to kneel besides your head and then push down his loincloth to free his own cock. Your vision was slightly blurred from how hard Neteyam was thrusting into you, but you could still see the thin, polished ring of steel that was piercing through the head and the small slit of his tip.
Shuffling closer, Lo‘ak caressed your jaw with his hand, while he used the other to eagerly press his length against your lips, pushing until you opened up for him.
"C‘mon, suck my cock. Get it wet for me, baby."
So you did. Your tongue was stretched out as far as it could reach, and Lo‘ak immediately began sliding his length against the wet muscle. He tasted like ash and salty musk, heavy against your tongue and you moaned from deep within your throat before you slowly took him in your mouth.
"Fuuuck, there you go. That’s a good fucking girl," Lo‘ak groans at the sight, thrusting his hips forward to push himself deeper into your mouth. Your tongue begins to swirl around his head, tasting the metal of his piercing, teasing it, before you hallow your cheeks and suck.
Simultaneously, Neteyam was thrusting into you harder, pushing you further against Lo‘ak’s cock until you were beginning to gag on it.
Everything was too much —too good, too deep, too fast, too rough. All you could do was lay there take it.
Soon, the brothers had found a rhythm both of them were benefiting from, and you were moved back and forth only by the thrusts of both of them.
"Look at her. She is perfect for us," Neteyam chuckled from above you, your inner walls clenching down hard on his cock at his words. "Such a good, obedient pet."
Every now and then your jaw was hanging slack, letting moans fall freely when hands you didn’t know belonged to which one of them started rubbing your clit in viciously fast circles. Sometimes it felt as if they were both fighting for their place to make your feel good, and it was two hands rubbing against that oversensitive little nub.
Lo‘ak gave a loud groan whenever that happened, seemingly enjoying being able to just thrust himself into you until he hit the back of your throat, using your mouth in such a filthy, dirty way that it made your eyes roll into the back of your head.
"So eager to please and so easy to use," he agreed with a grin. "I don’t care what path she chooses, I want to keep her."
It was embarrassing how fast Lo‘ak and Neteyam could turn you into a trembling, whimpering mess. The squelching sounds they expertly worked out of you only added further to your humiliation, but also your pleasure. At this pace, it was impossible not to come. And both brothers knew that.
Soon, you could feel that familiar, addicting, tension building up in your core, stealing the very air from your lungs as you moaned around the cock in your mouth.
Higher and higher you felt that tension building, felt it crawl under your skin, a warmth spreading through your core. You wanted— no, you needed to come. There was no way around it. You found yourself having no control over this, just letting yourself go because it felt too good to care about consequences, or what was right or wrong anymore.
Metal and steel was beginning to poison you from the inside out, corrupting you slowly, turning you into this mess.
It was a buildup of tension that arched your back and curled your toes and just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, something in you snapped.
When you come, it’s like a wave of release and you scream.
It pulses throughout your body, making you moan, loud and lewd and you should probably feel a little embarrassed too, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Not when Neteyam was fucking you through it so good, his head falling back against his neck in pure bliss. And not when Lo‘ak was using the vibrations of your moans to get himself off of them, a fist in your hair to push you down his length.
You felt each of them pulse, and then there was nothing but heat. The heat of your own orgasm as it came crashing down on you, and then the warmth of cum flooding your insides from both ends as the brothers cursed under their breath, holding you down with greedy hands and making you take, take, take and then swallow, until you couldn’t take much more.
Lo‘ak was first to pull himself out of you, and immediately you were gasping for air. The salty taste of cum still lingered on your tongue as he bend down and shoved his own between your lips, leaving you breathless once more as he tastes himself on your tongue. There’s a brief moment of pain on your bottom lip, before he finally pulls back. You catch the glimpse of blood on the tip of his tongue, and when you mirror the way he was licking his lips, you taste copper of where he had bitten you.
"Sorry," he was grinning down at you, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip. "Couldn’t help myself."
Brows drawn together in a frown, a tiny part in the back of your head wanted you to sit up and finally do something— hiss, fight, scratch him, anything. But your limbs feel like molten wax, sticking to the furs like warm honey.
Still grinning sharply, Lo‘ak must’ve noticed, because he bend down to cradle your head in one of his strange, four fingered hands. But instead of helping you sit up, he was merely directing your gaze to what was happening between your thighs.
The older brother was still kneeling there, and only when the sight of his sweat slicked abs and his heaving chest caught your eyes, your core clenched around what you noticed was his cock still nestled inside of you.
As if he had been waiting for your attention, Neteyam then pulled out of you. He was doing it slow enough, you felt each row of metal graze along your oversensitive walls and a whimper broke free from you at the sensation. It was followed by the warm feeling of his cum oozing out of you after his cock had finally made way.
You feel wet, sticky and empty, and a fresh wave of shame washes over you as you watch Neteyam‘s mesmerized gaze, entirely hypnotized by the sight. Too tired to move, you’re forced to lay there and watch as he then raises a hand, collecting the cum that had dripped out of you, before shoving it back inside your cunt with two of his long fingers.
You nearly choke on a gasp as you feel them breach you in one fluid thrust.
"Ah-ah, I want you to keep it in there," Neteyam says, giving his fingers a twist that made you keen. "Until I have marked you properly, you will carry my seed so everyone can smell myself on you."
Once he had withdrawn his fingers, he brings them to his lips and licks them clean of you, his tail curling behind him as if pleased by the taste.
It’s the last thing you see before Lo’ak finally lets your weight sink back, your head resting against the thick furs beneath you again.
Before you know what’s happening next, they move with unsettling ease, one on either side of you, bodies closing in not to trap but to hold.
Neteyam lies down first, an arm sliding beneath your shoulders, steady and sure. Lo’ak follows a moment later, lazily stretching out behind you, his presence warm and close, like a living wall at your back.
Their hands are everywhere at once.
Cradling, stroking. Slow, absent motions meant to soothe you. Fingers trace idle patterns along your arms, your side, the curve of your waist, even your breasts. You hate how careful they are. Hate how your body responds to the warmth, the closeness, the simple fact of being held after all that had happened.
The fire crackles softly from somewhere behind you, and exhaustion presses down on you like a tide you can no longer fight. Your eyelids flutter despite your efforts, growing heavier with every slow breath you take.
"Sleep," Lo’ak murmurs. He nuzzles briefly into the crook of your neck, spreading his scent onto your skin. "You’re going to need it."
You feel a hand find your tail, fingers brushing along its length, teasing the soft hairs at the tip in a way that makes you shiver despite yourself. Neteyam leans in, his lips brushing your temple. The hand on your tail glides to its base, squeezing gently and your eyes finally fall shut.
The last thing you register, before sleep finally takes you out, is Neteyam’s voice in your ear, whispering softly,
"You belong to us now, txeptsyip [little flame]."
Honorable mentions of artworks that inspired this fic:
Credit: @xyla1181
Credit: @porpunta
Credit: @fisheyea16
Credit: @liam_nae2
(If you want your art removed from this post please let me know!!)
Some chances are taken too late. You only realise what you've lost when you're starting to lose them. Goodbyes are hard, especially when you've just started.
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Joseph Descamps x Reader
Warnings: ANGST ANGST ANGST, turn back now I'm warning you, goodbyes, intimate scenes, MAJOR heartbreak, swearing
References to Call Me By Your Name
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Chapter eight: Joseph, Joseph, Joseph
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It was hot that morning. I woke up in a layer of sweat, windows exuding heat, hair clinging on my neck, my blanket on the hardwood floor.
George sits on the window frame, taking the heat opposite of how I was.
I get up, groaning with a slight headache. I place my feet on the floor, keeping my eyes closed for the time being, trying to relax and gain back my senses.
There'd been a feeling in me this whole time, but as I woke up, it felt so much more evident. A clench in my chest.
I don't know where it came from or when it started, but I felt it there. It never really took my attention. Maybe it was from whatever position I was in. Or if I hadn't eaten or drank enough.
Summer is just around the corner, but I don't want it to start. It was always something I looked forward to.
Dipping into cold waters under the heat of the afternoon sun, eating fruits with their juices spilling over countertops and silverware. Tanning, sunburns, dry mouths from salt water. Then winter comes and you wait for summer again.
It's probably because I'm expecting something I know won't be there. But what is it? I have a summer job now, and I'm headed to Paris. What else could I possibly want?
I know exactly what. It's not that I'm afraid of it. It's because I can't change it. And it hurts.
Summer is when I'm supposed to be happy. He's ruined all of that now. I've got to get a grip, too. He won't care, so I shouldn't. But I care. I care a lot.
This isn't something I should think about. I'll forget him as soon as I get to Paris. I'll forget anything that's happened between us, even if nothing really did. I'll forget, and I'll forever have that feeling that I felt now. That something's there, and I'm not giving it attention.
Because deep down, I know what it is. And, it hurts.
××《☆》××
The walk to school was short-lived and ordinary. Nothing special happened. It was just brighter; which didn't really match my mood.
I was also a bit late. Most of the students were already heading in, and the bell rang as soon as I stepped through the gate.
I make my way up the staircase, keeping my head downcast and not paying anyone any mind.
All throught class it wasn't special. We did assignments, lectures, and all common school things. But the sound of pages being flipped, ink on paper, pattering of floorboards, it comforted me. I knew those sounds would stay with me throughout my life. People don't.
When class was dismissed, I took my time. I might not see this school again. I might move back to Paris. I might not see Michèle or Simone as much. And I won't, more so refuse to see Joseph ever.
It was afternoon now, so everything's brighter than this morning. And everything's hotter, too. I shade my face with my hands, squinting to see Callum's well-known car on the side of the road.
He's outside leaning on the door, smoking. I'm guessing his third cigarette today. He still has his wide smile on, and I wonder if his cheeks ever hurt.
"Good afternoon, pretty girl." He says as he patches his cigarette out. "How are you?"
"Hot." I shrug, going around the car with Callum as he opens the passenger door for me. I get inside, him as well after doing another roundabout the car.
"Well, love how you state what I already know." I think about that sentence for a while, sensing it was off. I realise what he meant, and I smack his arm.
"Oh, what now? Let me be funny!" I roll my eyes as he starts the car, a faint smile on my face. One thing I know for sure is that Callum is one of the people who would stay with me throughout my life. He was the reason I'm going back to Paris, the reason I have somewhat of a career. And I'm glad I met him, even with the circumstances of difficult feelings.
Whilst I talked about my day to him, I had realised nothing special happened because I didn't interact with Joseph. The day felt gloomy. It felt so underwhelming, so boring, because he wasn't involved.
"And it's so weird because we hadn't talked since that dinner." I tell Callum, who's been listening to me this whole time. We decided to go to a lake to cool off. It was a bit well known, but not too crowded since the school season isn’t off yet.
I made a quick pick up in my house, including a goodbye to George.
Going back, Callum nods. His hand flexes on the steering wheel.
"So, let me round this up. Joseph's mother invited you to dinner, then teased both you and him, then when he walks you out to their place, some girl-"
"The girl from the alley."
"The girl from the alley pops up from nowhere, fully dressed up."
"Exactly."
"But, why?"
"What do you mean why?"
"I mean, sure, I've never met her, but who could compete against you?"
"Okay, Callum, whatever-"
"No, I mean, how stupid can Joseph be to pick anyone but you?" This makes my breath catch on my throat.
"Don't call him stupid, Callum. He's fucking brilliant."
He quiets down, smile fading just a bit from my serious tone.
"Sorry." I had apologised.
"No need. It's fine. I just... you know what I meant."
"Yeah, I knew what you meant. Just... instict, you know?"
"I get that. You're in love, so you're defensive." He shrugs and starts to smile again. He's holding in a laugh.
"Shut up." I glare.
"Not gonna happen." I don't want it to happen.
××《☆》××
The next morning was the same. It was hot, I took a longer shower, got dressed, said goodbye to George, and headed to school.
This time, I met with Simone. I ask her about Michèle, getting worried that she hasn't come to school for two days straight. Before she could respond, she stopped in her tracks, seeing Jean Pierre across the hall.
"I- I'm sorry, Y/N, but I really need to talk to Jean Pierre. Stay here, please?" She scrunches up her face in guilt, but I simply shrug it off, knowing that if she wants to talk to someone, I shouldn't stop her. Especially if that someone is her boyfriend. Or whatever he is.
They go ahead to talk, me staying at the same place she left me, keeping a close eye on them. I lean against the wall, the hallway now a lot more quiet than when the bell rang a few minutes ago.
Their conversation lasted for only a bit because I saw Jean Pierre walking away. I head to Simone's side.
"So, what did you talk about?" She's still, and there's no emotion on her face. I worry.
"He just broke up with me." Oh. I pull her into a side hug, not knowing whether she was devastated with the news or if she was okay with it. She looked like both but neither at the same time.
I nod towards the stairwell, deciding for the both of us we should head to the courtyard to have our break. Or the bathroom for a quick cry.
We pass by a group of boys, and one of them keeps his eyes on me. Then, when I turned to glance at who it was, I realised it was just an eye.
In that moment, everything in me faded away. All the hate towards him, all the sadness, all the misunderstanding. I just wanted to talk to him again. For one last time. So I did.
"Joseph," I stop in my tracks. I tell Simone to keep going, that I'm fine left alone. She nods in acknowledgement and walks down the staircase.
I turn around to meet his stare. My breath catches in my throat, not having this kind of interaction in a while.
I walk towards him, a bit slow. "Can I talk to you?" I pause. "Alone?"
His friends tease him and push him around lightly, but his eyes are still as well as his whole body. I fear his heart might be, too.
He simply nods and silently eyes his friends to go. We're left alone near the window and take a seat in the space.
"You must be wondering why I'm talking to you again so suddenly." He stays quiet, looking down.
"Joseph..." I scoot closer. I bring both my hands up to his cheeks, only hovering above them.
He stays silent. I bring my hands back until he leans forward and into them, gently grabbing my wrists and holding them still. I feel the air come out of his nose as he exhales, body slumping down.
"I'm sorry. For everything. Ignoring you was one of the most stupid things I've done. Being angry was second." I tilt my head to see if he's opened his eye, but he keeps them closed. His thumb rubs one of my wrists.
"You should be with anyone you want to be with. It shouldn't matter to me. But, it did." He lifts his head, peering an eye. His mouth opens, then closes again. I keep going.
"I missed you. I've been missing you. I miss all the times we weren't mad at each other." I caress his cheeks, and he leans into my touch.
"I was never mad at you." Joseph says, but I shake my head.
"You were. And that's fine. It's okay to be mad at me. I get it." He furrows his brows at me.
"Don't say that. I was never mad at you. I've never been mad at you."
"But what about all those times you shouted at me? Those times in the streets?" He sighs deeply, not as relaxed as before.
"I was mad at myself, but I was letting it out on you. And I'm sorry about that. But trust me, I could never be mad at you."
We just stare at each other after. The silence fills the air, and it's the first time it was like this in a while. I had to tell him.
"I'm leaving." I feel his breath stop, and it's so nauseating.
"What?" He mumbles out.
"I'm leaving." I repeat.
"For the summer?" He squints, the gears turning in his head. I wish it was only for the summer.
"No," I look down. "For good."
He pulls away from my hands, sitting straight again.
"No..." He shakes his head. "Don't lie to me."
"I would never." I look him dead in the eye, not wanting him to think that I would ever do.
"Exactly. I know you'd never. So why are you lying to me now? This is some joke, right? Like a cliffhanger for next year. Right?" I simply stare at him.
"Y/N, please tell me you're lying. I'll let it slide. Tell me you're lying." He begs, grabbing a hold of my dropped hands.
I don't move. I don't look at him. I don't say anything. That was enough of an answer.
"No..." He whispers. He does it all over again as he gets up and paces. He rubs at his eye, and I get up and say "Stop."
He stills. I see the tear stains reflect off his cheeks from the sunlight outside coming in. His head is down as it was before. I sigh deeply, placing my hands on his shoulders.
"Come here." I pull him in, and he immediately engulfs me in an embrace. He sobs desperately, and I try my hardest not to join him.
A series of "please don't go"s spill out of his quivering mouth, and my brain goes numb. He's shaking. His heart is pounding. His mind's all over the place.
I hush him, rubbing his back like I do with a baby, whispering nothings into his ear. When he stops, his body is still slumped down to hold mine.
"We wasted so many days. Why didn't you tell me sooner?" He asks once we're sat back down the window.
"I tried. I promise. We were still mad." He laughs, and it's been such a long time that my brain got nostalgia.
"Fuck. I'm gonna miss you all over again." He bites his lip as he looks down, fiddling with the inseam of his pants. I purse my lips together.
"We'll keep in touch." He shakes his head.
"You'd be everywhere."
"I'll call your home phone."
"I'm not gonna be home in the summer."
"I'll call wherever you are."
"Thank god you thought of something for that because I was ready to start sobbing again." He laughs again, and the suns back in his eyes. Like it left and came back.
I grab a hold of his hands, stopping him from fidgeting. I make him look back up at me.
"I promise I'll phone you every day. I'll send you letters, postcards, and pictures. I'll even send you some magazines I'm in." I shrug, and he smiles.
"I don't think you have to do that last one. I'm keeping my eye on every magazine booth here on out." We chuckle together. We stay quiet again, then Joseph tucks my hair behind my ear.
"You're beautiful, Y/N Pardine. You'll do great out there. I'm only a phone call or a pen away." I flush at his bluntness and smile sweetly. He does, too.
××《☆》××
The party happened. We spent almost the whole time together. We had even danced.
An American song called "At Last" plays in the background as Joseph holds me, dancing slowly.
His hands cup my waist, my arms wrapped around his neck, his forehead against mine. I play with the ends of his hair as he caresses my body.
We laugh, we drink, we talk, and we glance. We do what we missed. We held each other. We absorbed one another.
There was a time in that party that happened between Simone and Jean Pierre. Thank god he finally said something of the truth, because that breakup was a straight lie.
Anyways, the night ended, but nothing happened. I don't know what I was expecting, but there was a feeling something special could've happened to me. Like a string tugging on my insides.
Something to do with pretty pink lips.
××《☆》××
The next morning, I woke up with his arms around me.
He smelt of fading whiskey, cigarette smoke, and expensive cologne. Just as he always did.
His eye patch was off, his hair a mess, and his jacket's on the floor. His shirt is wrinkled, he's breathing evenly as one does in their sleep, and there's a small snore coming from him. It's adorable.
When I get up, or at least try to, his grip on me tightens. Not in a way that hurts, but it's strong enough for me to come collapsing on his chest. He's warm again.
"Five more minutes." He groans, and I sigh deeply. Five more minutes will be alright.
Ten minutes pass, and only then do we get up. I hand him a towel and some clothes, my father's again, then one of my own, then usher him to the bathroom. I fix our bed, pick his jacket up off the floor, and fold it neatly.
Once I hear the shower turn off and the door creak, I try my best not to turn and just... stare. It's creepy, I know. But, who could blame me? I mean, I was leaving for good.
Right. Leaving for good.
I feel his arms wrap around my waist, his head tucking into my neck, his nose poking at some sensitive spots. I squeal silently, and he chuckles to himself, the vibration of his chest spreading around my back.
"Want some breakfast?" He whispers. George lies by the windowsill, watching the both of us in embrace. His tail moves around, eyes blinking slowly. He's glowing from the sunlight hitting him.
"If you don't mind. Please, and thank you." I turn my head a bit towards him. He nods, pressing a kiss to my hair. I smile to myself whilst I check things off my list last minute.
He's done with breakfast by the time I finish my quick shower. I'm fully dressed now. The only things missing are my coat and my suitcases.
Joseph sits across from me. We were in this position before.
"So, how's Callum? Still a prick?" He says as he stabs on some of the eggs he made. I finish my bite before answering.
"Callum's doing fine. I don't know why you've always been so off about him. He's a good guy." I shrug, tilting my head for an answer. "What's got you like that?"
He sighs, dropping his utensils gently on the table top. I place a hand over his, and he turns it to hold mine.
"Felt like he stole you from me." He mumbles, but it was clear enough for me to hear.
I purse my lips at this remark. "No one's gonna keep me away from you. Except that girl that actually did." I laugh as Joseph groans.
"I already told you, I didn't even know her." From this, I kept going.
"Well, then why did you basically call me a slut?" I raise my eyebrows in amusement, as to show that I moved on from it. Still, I was curious.
He pauses. For a long time. I begin to worry, thinking he actually meant it. I try to pull my hand away, but his grip turns firm.
"No." Joseph whispers out of desperation. He's taking deep breaths. I can tell he's overthinking. But I need to know the truth.
"You've got to tell me, Joseph. Otherwise, we'll shrug each other off again. Do you want that?" I push on him. He needs to tell me. I need to know.
"No. I don't want that. Just..." He closes his eyes, readying himself.
"The boys wanted to talk to you. I couldn't let them. I knew how they meant. And I'll just put it simply that they meant badly. So I had to tell them things about you that weren't true so they could get pushed away from the idea of you." He cups my cheeks from across the table. I lean into his touch.
"I don't want anyone to take advantage of you. Thank whatever god is up there that I found out because if I hadn't..." He breathes in deeply, caressing my face with his thumb. "I don't even want to think about that. Okay?"
I nod. I get up from my seat to give him a hug. He remains seated, his face pressed up on my stomach. I rub his back and comb fingers through his hair.
He stands up slowly, hands still attached to my hips. They roam up to my wait as he hovers over me, and I feel my breath hitch in my throat. He's so close. His nose just bumps into mine. He's looking down at me. At my eyes. At my lips. His breath is haggard.
"Callum's probably waiting." I whisper, my breath fanning over both our lips. Our lips only an inch away from eachother.
"Let him wait." His voice is low. He's starting to make my knees buckle.
A loud crash is heard throughout the flat. I yelp away from him. Now we're feet away from each other, cheeks flushed and hair tousled. As if we did something. And we didn't even.
George meows on the kitchen counter, staring at us innocently with the keys now on the floor. I sigh deeply, walking towards him and picking him up.
"Oh, I hope you don't mind, but," I hand George to Joseph. "My baby's yours."
His eye widens in surprise, then he switches his gaze from me to the cat, then back to me, then back to the cat.
"I can't..." I shake my head, smiling.
"He's yours, Joseph. That's final. He already loves you more than me. It's alright. Plus everytime you see him, you think of me."
He flushes, demeanour relaxing. "I already think of you too much."
It's my turn to flush now. But I respond. "Good."
××《☆》××
We arrive at the train station. I bid a thank you and goodbye to Joseph's mother, hugging her for a short while. Joseph carries all my belongings.
I spot Callum at a bench.
"Callum, you remember Joseph." I nod to Joseph. He drops my things next to Callum's.
"Of course I do. The infamous lover boy. It was nice meeting you, man." Callum shakes Joseph's hand. Joseph purses his lips tightly, gripping on Callum's hand.
"I'm still not sure about you... but she trusts you, so I should, too." Callum nods firmly. They let go of their handshake.
"Well, I better get our things in. Say your final goodbyes." He moves to go in the train. Me and Joseph are alone again.
"Got your pretty things intact?" Joseph teases, and I simply laugh.
"Yes, I do." I look up at him. He moves closer, hands on his hips.
"One day, I'll hear those words again." There's a feeling in me. Like dejavu, but a feeling from the future. I couldn't explain it, but what he said made sense. Like I knew, I would say those words again, too.
We stand in silence. I walked closer, embracing him for one last time. He leans down, his hands tight around me, his head over mine. I feel a lump in my throat.
We held each other for one last time. We smelt each other for one last time. We absorbed each other one last time.
I try to pull away, but he pulls me back in. The lump grows bigger.
When we finally pull away, my eyes start to sting. I palm my throat, trying to push that growing lump down. His hands are on my shoulders. He lets go.
"Goodbye, Y/N Pardine." He mutters, his voice breaking.
"Goodbye, Joseph Descamps." I mock him with a smile on my face.
I turn around and walk on the train. Joseph follows me, guiding me up the steps. His hand holds onto mine. I hang on the pole.
The train blares its horns, and it starts to move very slowly. The tears escape my eyes. He wipes it away.
"Y/N," he says. "I love you."
I sob. I laugh. It's a bit ugly.
"I love you, too. So much."
He stands on his toes and kisses me. His pretty pink lips are finally on mine. I grip the trains pole harder.
The trains blares again, and my kisses become more desperate. The train moves faster and faster, and Joseph starts to run. His lips start parting from mine, tears dropping even more.
"Come back to me, Y/N!" He shouts. He's still running. He's laughing now. And he's crying. He's beautiful. He gets farther, farther, and farther.
Then he's gone.
××《☆》××
End- Chapter eight: Joseph, Joseph, Joseph
Next- Chapter nine: ______
××《☆》××
I'm actually crying omfg. This hits so diff w the song in the background. Its short but omfg the angst. Help me. Hahhahahahaha.
Sometimes Clark goes a little feral in the middle of blowing your back out
Sometimes — so rare you almost think you've imagined in memory — when Clark gets really into it in the middle of fucking you; with his balls pressed up against your sopping folds and his weight smothering you into the bed, the plush of your ass pressed into his hips and his chest to your back, he slinks a hand up to hold your jaw.
And its not at all aggressive but its not soft either. An element of gentle retrieve noticeable in the understanding that he could be much rougher if he wanted to.
Its still enough to make you sob and your cunt to suck him in to the point that he's pulsing against your flexing walls and grunting into your hair.
Him claiming ownership over you as he turns your head to make you watch him behind you — black curls stuck to his forehead and corded veins trailing up his vanilla biceps like pretty baby blue and red lace.
And he looks fucking feral as he pounds into you. Brows furrowed and eyes dark with lust and love and the heat of it.
You could cum just looking at him — just at the idea that he's holding back for you. That he's allowing you to have a semblance of control in the way you reach back and wrap a shaky hand around his wrist; clammy fingers thumbing the "friendship" bracelet you made him how many years ago that he still wears.
Patience weaning thin, practically unraveling in front of you as he moves his wrist from your hand only to press your hand into the dip of your back, holding you still as he pounds into you.
Your moans are broken and shattered, deep and filled watery cries.
Clark whispers a restrained "yeah," behind you, his large hand squeezing and pulling at the globe of your asscheek. Like you're something to played with. You love it. Love the dynamic when he gets like this — throwing all resolve and restraint through the windows. Ironically, hes never been reminded you more of Superman in your whole life when he gets feral while balls deep inside of you.
There's something so inherently primitive and alien to his nature. It sends chills up your spine, reminding you how he's all that more powerful, strong, and bigger than you are.
You try to bait him, attempting to wiggle somewhat out of his grasp but he only tightens his grip on your wrist and spreads your asscheek wider.
"No," he grunts, pushing your hand harder against the hot skin of your back, "m'keepin' the hand." But he slows a bit. Pumping long and torturous thrusts that have your walls begging to hold onto him and your hands flexing to for him to steady you.
You watch him with lidded eyes as he drops a glob of spit right onto your asshole, inhaling sharply when you shiver and try to buck back against him.
Clark holds you there and circles the pad of this thumb over your tight ringed hole before slipping it past the muscle and hooking it into you.
Its so vulgar as he thrusts into you. So obscene to know he's watching the way your tight hole pulses around his digit and the way your walls grip and flutter around his girthy length.
You keen and he fucking chuckles.
Leaning over you, he drops your wrist from his hand rather roughly, reminding you to hold yourself there. You obey.
What he does next you hadn't expected in a million years.
Clark takes ahold of your jaw in one hand, so sultry you moan, his hand squeezing your cheeks so that your plush lips pout.
"Just need someone to fuck some sense into you, huh?" He coos, cock still pumping into your heat deliciously slow, "S'that it, y'just need someone to pay attention t'you?"
You sob tearfully, tear-strewn lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks.
Clark licks a fat and wet stripe up the side of your cheek and you gasp, pulling your hand around from behind your back to hold his bicep.
You appreciate that he lets you off the hook for that one.
When he pulls back to look at your fucked-out and shocked expression he just fucking laughs at you, hand still squeezing your cheeks and puckering your lips for him.
"Didn't expect that, huh?"
You cant even think when he drops his hand from your face and presses kisses down the spine of your back before pumping into you again.
"Silly girl," he coos, thumb still hooked past your tight ring of muscle, "just needed to ask if she wanted to get fucked. Isn't that right, sweetie?"
You're nodding and moaning and incomprehensible, mumbling his name brokenly into his pillow.
The smell, stretch, touch, heat, sound of him is overwhelming in the best possible way. You let yourself cry.
"Thaaaats it," Clark wraps a hand around your hair, pressing your face a little rougher into the bed only so that you stay still, "juussst like that, huh?"
Neither of you last long. With you cumming around his girth and his hips sputtering and his voice hitching as he spills into you.
Clark's hand is soft on your hair, stroking the back of your head and pulling strands back from your clammy face.
He lets a moment of quiet pass where its just the two of you panting in the warm air of his room before he coos: "hi there, pretty thing."
Youre wiggling beneath him and he rises a bit so that you can slip out from under him. You try to coddle yourself, but he catches you before you can reach the headboard.
He pulls you against his chest, wrapping your legs around his waist and moving to rest against the headboard.
"Was that scary?" He asks softly, a hand massaging the base of your neck.
You shake your head, hiding yourself under his chin.
"No? Then can you look at me?"
Another head shake.
"Y'okay?"
You nod, "m'okay." Your voice is slurred and heavy.
"Y'just a little shy?"
Another nod.
Clark chuckles a bit and presses a kiss to the top of your head with a hum, "hmm, okay. I'll wait here until you're not shy then." He tries to dip down to catch a glimpse of you but you hide away deeper into his chest "How's that sound?"
You dont say anything for a moment. Fiddling with your fingers.
"D,'okay."
"Okay." Clark hums, stroking his hand over your hair.
cw, just pōrn no plot — clark kent and size kink + headlock + tummy bulġing | also anon… you’re smart RAHHH
clark kent who gets hard just from picking you up. doesn’t matter if it’s to move you from the couch to the bed, or out of the way in the kitchen. his hands span your whole waist, your feet leave the ground, and he’s imagining how you’d look hanging off his cock instead.
clark kent who uses his size difference like it’s a game. holding your wrists with one hand above your head while the other grips your hip, keeping you exactly where he wants you. “stay like that, hm?” you’re struggling just enough to make him smirk, knowing you couldn’t get free even if you tried.
clark kent who fucks you slow just to make you feel every stretch, whispering in your ear about how small you are, how deep he is, how you’re “barely taking me, sweetheart” and “look at you, all stuffed full.”
clark kent who keeps you in his lap, bouncing you lazily on his cock, one huge palm pressing against your belly so you can feel him inside. “that’s me, baby—right there. you feel how far i am? you’re so tiny i can see it.”
clark kent who loves the headlock position—your back against his chest, one massive arm hooked loosely around your neck, keeping you still while he pounds into you. his other hand is cupped over your lower stomach, feeling the bulge each time he bottoms out.
clark kent who won’t stop until you’re shaking. overstimulating you just because he can hold you in place, murmuring in your ear, “you can take more, can’t you? so small, but you keep opening up for me…” until you’re gasping and tapping at his wrist.
clark kent who gets so wrecked when you tap out that he buries his face in your neck, whispering, “i know baby, i know.” but still pushing in shallowly because he needs to feel you around him. he’ll guide your hand to his curly hair, urging you to hold onto him, voice breaking when he says, “i’m so far in you, baby.”
clark kent who uses his body to cage you in—pressing you into the mattress, crowding you against the shower wall, pinning you to the kitchen counter with his hips. everywhere you go, you’re surrounded by him.
clark kent who ends every rough session with something unbearably tender, pulling you onto his chest, kissing your hair, tracing the marks he’s left on your skin, and whispering how much he loves you for letting him lose control like that.
amandla
