Arabella

I write a concerning amount of smut AdrenalineJunkiee on AO3

[xalicitie]

DELICATE THING // Ormund Hightower

Chapter 1 — Midnight Visit

As Alicent Hightower’s second daughter, you were raised in Oldtown alongside your twin, Daeron Targaryen. Ormund Hightower controls every aspect of your life, and you are his most subservient subject; you obey his every whim, serving as the perfect image of duty and elegance. But when Ormund finally grooms you to accept a man’s hand in marriage, his attitude changes towards you.

Gif by @notgaybuckybarnes

Ormund Hightower, you controlling conniving fine ass man. UGH. It’s so funny because, of the two Hightower men, I’ve decided to obsess over the crazy evil one (mind you, the other choice is a majestic, good-intentioned knight in shining armor).

Warnings: Distant incest, religious themes, age gap, underage MC (SORRY, there was no way around it), NSFW, power imbalance

Upon Ormund and Daeron’s arrival at Tumbletown, an opulent feast of roast lamb and exotic fruit assortments had been laid out to greet them in their decisive victory. You were there, waiting for their arrival, and you’d taken it upon yourself to wear one of your most splendid silk gowns—the one which would shine an iridescent shade of emerald green in the daylight. The sun ceaselessly shone upon Tumbleton, so when your sire and brother walked into the dining table, your copper hair seemed afire in the sun, and your dress all but gleamed in its signature Hightower tones of green and gold.

You bowed reverently as the doors croaked open to receive them.

“Sire.” You addressed Ormund Hightower. “Brother.” You addressed Daeron. They bowed their heads upon seeing you.

“Y/N.” Ormund addressed you. Daeron glanced warily over towards the older man, and it was only when Ormund gave him silent leave to do so that Daeron approached you, thrusting you into a heartfelt hug.

“Daeron could hardly bear to be apart from you.” Ormund remarked as he watched the two of you embrace one another. Daeron kept the hug short, but his eyes continued to glisten warmly as he pulled away from you.

“But we did what we set out to do.” Ormund continued, and when he slid his chair back, you and Daeron quickly rushed to follow his lead. “And now, we sow our victory seed by seed.”

You weren’t privy to Ormund Hightower’s schemes—your older relative was a sly and cunning man, and you, his young heir, all but flocked to the demands of his ambitions. With you and Daeron as his wards, he had the both of you in the palms of his hands—Daeron, whom he would thrust unto the Seven Kingdoms as the heir apparent, and you, a pretty maiden who could be used to secure an alliance with one of the great Houses.

Although Ormund recognized that the two of you were budding youths, he also recognized that the two of you required much molding. There was a meekness that you two shared that seemed unbefitting of the blood of the dragon, and Ormund liked that. He used that, often treating you two as his two pawns in the ever-shifting and dangerous realm of Westeros.

While Daeron’s place was to blend into the role of the virile, daring new heir, your job was to flaunt your beauty for all of the realm to witness. You needed to be the picture of Hightower pulchritude, the vision of purity and elegance. Every hair had to be brushed in its right place, every mannerism both gentle and graceful. It is what he wanted of you, and whatever Ormund Hightower wanted, he got.

“This place reeks of dung and cowardice.” Ormund had been strenuously cutting up his lamb; he grunted in vexation as his dull knife finally cleaved the meat.

“I can smell it on them.” He said disdainfully. “Their allegiance is with that cunt Rhaenyra Targaryen, yet we have seized their grounds, and they will bend to the will of the Hightowers. We will treat with them, we will consider them because we have need of them.” He stuffed a piece of meat in his mouth and worked through it before clearing his throat. “See, you two must understand what it is that you need in this world, and you must seize such things carefully. Be sycophantic in your pursuit if you must, but if you play your hand right, your small efforts just may eventually lead leagues and armies against the enemy. Then, you can snatch-“ he took an apple in his hand, snatching it out of the fruit bowl, “-the power right out of the dragon’s claws.”

You and Daeron’s eyes met. This was the game that you two so often played at the dinner table—who would offer to speak first? Who would put themselves forward to say the first word, to stroke Ormund’s insatiable ego? Of course, it almost always ended up being you, as you notably had a way with your sweet words and courteous manners. It only took a fleeting gaze with Daeron for you to understand that it was your move now.

“A thoughtful and concise musing, sire.” You pronounced gently, and your voice chirped softly, as though a birdsong, amidst the quietness of the room. “The pretender Rhaenyra could not dream to match such a cunning mind.”

Ormund nodded at that. “Mm. No, she could not, Y/N.” He murmured as he chewed, his eyes set upon you. “With flattery like that, you could win over all of the Great Houses with but a word.”

His dark brown eyes suddenly slid over the sight of you; you gulped down a bite of lamb, feeling the way his cold and appraising eyes scanned the image of you.

“You have been growing in all of the right places, I see.” The compliment made your heart flutter, but with what, you were unsure. It was certainly an unfamiliar sort of flattery, and you sat with it for a moment until Ormund abruptly slapped his hand against the table—suddenly, you remembered yourself.

“I think it’s just about the right time to put you on the market. Give the lords of Westeros a sight for their sore eyes.”

Daeron’s eyes had grown frightened. “..Now? Already?”

Ormund turned to the boy, chuckling incredulously. “Did I stutter? Yes. Rather, I think we should begin the preparations soon. I shall write to the Great Houses and propose marriage alliances. How might a lord resist such a pretty and pliant girl like Y/N?”

Daeron was not happy with the news. First, his uncle Gwayne had gone off to fight in the war; now, his twin sister would soon be married off to some lord far across the lands of Westeros. You were, of course, unhappy with Ormund’s sudden change of mind, as well. You’d known your fate since early on, from the time that you were a young girl, being raised in the ways of motherhood and domesticity. Yet, you were only 16–you’d heard of other girls being married off much earlier, no doubt, but you’d never envisioned yourself being given away so soon.

Alicent Hightower was your mother by blood, but she had deserted her post long ago. It was Daeron who had been by your side through thick and thin. You had shared your womb with him, and though it’d been only mere seconds which officially declared you the older sibling, you took those precious seconds to heart. You sought to protect him, to be by his side no matter what. But what would happen now, if you two were forced apart?

You did not want to know, but you were also not keen on turning your back on Ormund’s wishes. Ormund’s temper was easily kindled, and it was hardly a pretty sight when your older relative snapped. He hated when things didn’t go his way—he was a control-freak, meticulous, obsessive, and you knew what might happen if you tried to work your way around his wishes. Throughout the years, You and Daeron had grown to fear him, and so, when your handmaidens announced Ormund Hightower’s presence at your door, you tensed in your bed.

The breeze of the shifting midnight winds was subtle but sharp against your bare skin. You were donned in a silken nightgown and nothing else; your hair was down, your skin delicate from the bath that you’d just been given. It was the dead of night—why was Ormund waiting at your door?

Getting onto your feet and draping your tresses against one shoulder, you hesitantly told your handmaidens to let him in.

“Sire?”

The image of Ormund Hightower was a dimly lit one—he wore a green leather tunic, his signature outfit of choice (minus his sheathed sword at the hip), and though his face was cloaked in darkness in this light, you could feel the way that his presence seemed to change the gravity of the room.

“Y/N.” You searched for his eyes in the shadows; he stepped forward, and his features came into the distant candlelight. He was inscrutable.

“Leave us.” He ordered your handmaidens, who casted a wary look towards you before doing as they were told.

It was the shuffling of feet, the faint whispering of your servants, then it was just silence. You heard your own, successive breaths in your ears, the pitter-patter of your heart pumping blood, but otherwise, there was nothing but the night and its stillness—a delicate thing, which you were hesitant to shatter. When you did speak, your voice faltered for a moment.

“Sire, it’s..it’s late.” You then said gently, disoriented by the circumstances of his visit.

You thought that he might explain himself, that he might fill in the blanks of his sudden presence. Yet, Ormund only began to step towards you silently, his footsteps leaving soft patters against the cobblestone.

“Some of the lords may arrive as early as three days’ time, if they are to answer the requests of my letters. It is now, more than ever, a dire time for house Hightower.” Before you could hardly blink, Ormund had covered the distance between you two, leaving but a few feet to separate yourselves. As he now stood in front of you, you couldn’t help but feel terror beneath the weight of his gaze—how quick might he snap? How suddenly might his temper flare? You had not a clue what to expect from your older relative, and though you found yourself mentally bracing for a reason to flinch away, Ormund did nothing of the sort. Instead, he took one other meager step towards you, quietly beckoning you to face him fully.

“You must understand that, hm? My dove?”

He was tall, his voice gentle and coaxing amidst the silent hum around you.

With fright thinly concealed in your voice, you spoke. “Yes, sire.” You told him.

Then, he picked up his foot and took a step just to the right; slowly, you realized that he’d begun to map out the space around you, now circling you with enclosing steps.

“Your twin brother, the chink of light in a dark and desolate time.” His voice trailed to your right side, and his eyes remained intent on you as he sauntered silently about your unmoving figure. “Rhaenyra reigns in King’s Landing by conquest, yet soon enough, the people will turn from her and set their eyes upon Daeron. A budding young boy raised in the comfort of Oldtown—a vision of a true leader, a king who shall rule with both piety and promise. Daeron, with copper hair rather than silver; Daeron, who was raised in the faith of the Seven. Daeron, a boy in no way akin to his inbred and ungodly Targaryen father. His blood runs thick with the strength and the holinesss of the Hightowers, but there is a taint in his blood, as there is in yours.”

When he circled back to his place in front of you, his words chilled you down to your bones, as did his eyes. You were aware of Ormund’s visceral hatred for the Targaryens, and though you and Daeron were of his blood and raised in his likeness, Ormund still looked at you in this way—the wary, speculative way with which he picked you apart, as if trying to drain the very Targaryen blood from your body.

“You are the vision of a Hightower woman. Your hair is spun red velvet,” You almost flinched when his hand outreached towards you, but a breath released thinly from your lungs when you realized that Ormund had started to run his fingers through your hair. “even more so than your brother’s is. You are more receptive of your religious teachings than he is, I’m sure. I see you visit the sept day by day, night by night. You have proven yourself to be the most obedient pupil.”

Then, he put his finger just under your chin, and you hiccuped as he tilted your face up to his.

“And you will continue to be such. Do you understand me?”

Your lips parted, a soft sigh blooming between them; Ormund’s eyes flickered towards your opened mouth fleetingly.

“Yes, sire. I will.” You said quietly.

Ormund Hightower’s eyes were of a warm almond color, but in this light, they were as dark as onyx as they gazed upon you. Ormund had most often looked upon you with cold appraisal—always looking for something to improve, to fix, to correct. But tonight, in their cloak of darkness, his eyes seemed different; they still flickered across you observantly, however, they lingered now, seemingly indulging the sight of you in a way that they never had done before.

His hand came forward, and your gaze followed it as his fingers found the string of your nightgown; just at the middle of your chest, your gown was held together by a bowknot, yet in silence, Ormund began to unravel it.

“The men that attend us, the men whom you must enchant, they may be old or young, rough or gentle, honorable or heinous.” The bow undid itself quickly; your chest was heaving beneath the silken fabric. “What matters is their title, what they may provide us in our time of need.” He slipped two fingers beneath one strap of the gown and pulled it off of your shoulder. “Whomever presents himself as our most convenient ally, that is the man whom you must entice. With those blue eyes of yours, your sweet words-“ With the other strap now dragged from your shoulder, your gown fell to the floor. “-and your body.”

The breeze left you frigid; Ormund’s scrutiny of your naked body left you even colder. His gaze slid down your flesh, halting every once in a while to linger upon a certain part of you. As his eyes fell lower and lower, your body tensed, nearly shuddering beneath the heat of his gaze.

“..You have been bleeding, yes?”

In your nonplussed state, you stuttered. “Y-Yes, sire. Monthly.”

He shifted on his heel, slowly resuming his path, leading him to circle about you again.

“I trust you have not bedded another?” He asked, disappearing behind you.

“Of course not.” You answered, stunned to hear him ask such a thing. “..S-Sire.”

The lids of your eyes seemed to be wrenched open, as the fright and the uneasiness kept them permanently widened. He had bared you fully before him, and now he was circling around you like a predator stalking its vulnerable prey.

“Such alabaster skin; it shines in the moonlight. Your breasts have grown supple.” Some strange, wet feeling roused between your thighs, and you reddened; for all of your piety, you feared that this moment might make a sinner of you. “Your adolescence has gifted you such pleasant curves, though you must be shaved and groomed before you are visited.”

Just as the fear and shame began to subside, Ormund had returned to the front of you, and he now started to examine your face. There was such calculation in his eyes; it was almost as though was inspecting some exotic creature or perhaps some marble sculpture with intrigue. Instead, he was inspecting you—every curve, every bit of your flesh, perhaps looking for a flaw in your very body, too. But why did he linger so?

With a tenderness unbefitting of him, Ormund grasped your face, his hand nearly large against the small expanse of your cheek.

“An innocent face, as well. Men like that; they like purity, so that they may defile it.” He held you there for a moment, bared in the moonlight, anchored only by the hand upon your face. If not for it, perhaps you’d crumble right there, shrink in fright. But he wanted you like this—looking up at him, shaking in your nakedness, completely pliant to the whims of his control. He seemed to want it, because the moment was already stretching on too long, and there was a tenseness in the air which indicated that this was leading into perilous territory.

Just before he let go of you, his dipped his head, and for a fleeting instance, you realized that he was smelling you. The scent of your recent bath lingered upon your skin, and he seemed to delight himself with it for a second before he finally released you from his touch.

“Put your nightclothes on.” He ordered you, waving a hand at your nightgown, which had bunched around your feet. “Have your handmaidens trim your hair, shave every inch of your body. I expect perfect behavior from you, this week. Soon, you will be married, and I will have earned myself a powerful ally.”

Ormund Hightower’s receding footsteps left the remaining aftertastes of uneasiness and shock echoing through you. The door opened for him, and in the dim lightness that spilled out of it, his silhouette slipped away; your eyes remained there for a while, the shock and crypticness of his visit rendering you entirely motionless.

[xalicitie]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Instead of posting my Max Hastings fanfiction onto here, I’ve decided to just paste the link onto this page! If this is really a hassle and someone would prefer me to actually post it chapter by chapter onto Tumblr, then let me know. However, I personally don’t want to copy+paste every chapter on here when it’s already available to read on AO3.

Read at your own discretion! The story features many dark themes.

[xalicitie]

Eyes of a Rapist — Max Hastings (Fanfic/smut)

Max Hastings is on trial for the sexual assault of two girls. His actions are deplorable, and many deem them beyond forgiveness. Yet, as he stands atop a podium to testify his innocence, he faces Lexi Harroway, the girl that he once dated in high school.

Lexi Harroway once loved Max Hastings, but she can hardly look at him now. During school, she once believed that he had been the love of her life, yet now, he’s become everything that she had once feared was. Lexi’s ex-boyfriend has been charged with raping two girls, and she knows undoubtedly that he did it.

Gif from @the-ravening

Sooo I have this fanfic posted on AO3 (my user being AdrenalineJunkiee). I had originally refrained from posting it on Tumblr because this fanfic contains really sensitive content. I’ve also been trying to see how far I could actually go with this fic, and I’ve written eight out of ten chapters!! (That is a huge accomplishment for me LMAO).

This fanfic is sort of dark romance, but at its core, it’s a sort of character study/analysis of Max Hastings. I think rather psychologically interesting, and the narrative is made with the intention to understand why he does things and possibly narrate his evolution of becoming a sort of remorseless rapist.

There’s smut in the story, but in no way is the fic intended to romanticize rape/non-can. When that happens, it’s stated as it is. Like I said, the themes are extremely sensitive—either I’ll continue posting the story here on Tumblr or I’ll just leave it for the AO3 girlies. .

This is a Dead Dove: Do Not Eat story. Read at your own discretion.

LEXI HARROWAY

His eyes were on her.

His blue eyes were on her, and as she sat, poised in fright behind her oakwood bench, her fingers curled around the seat beneath her. The material was worn away, and it scratched at her skin as she clenched it in her wrath. Lexi was so angry that she could taste copper in her mouth, the blood of her bitten gums fresh on her tongue. For Max Hastings, the boy she’d once loved, was on trial for rape, and she knew undoubtedly that he was guilty.

Beginning of senior year, 5 years before

Lexi Harroway had once thought herself above the Calamity parties. To spend her Saturday here meant that she’d be wasting a lot of time which, instead, could’ve been spent studying for her upcoming Chemistry exam. Or she could’ve been earning money off of her inventory of part-time jobs; perhaps she could even have been indulging A Storm of Swords, her relentless reading project. But, no—Naomi’s constant, doe-eyed pleading had finally won her over, and she had been dragged to her first ever Calamity party.

The smell of sweat and sex clung to the walls. Lexi could barely make out Naomi’s head from the others, and as they navigated the thronged space, slipping past several others and moving beneath the glaring lights that bathed the area in blue and purple, Lexi found herself craving the feeling of her mattress beneath her. Nonetheless, she followed the lead of Naomi, and when they finally made their stop, Lexi faced Naomi’s partners in crime: Jake Lawrence, Sal Singh, and Max Hastings.

“Look who I finally convinced to come!” Naomi exclaimed with a grin.

There was an eruption of cheers. Lexi smiled sheepishly at the sight.

“Lexi!” Sal instantly swept Lexi up in a friendly hug, prompting a squeal from her lips. Jake joined in immediately after, and Lexi was soon smothered in the heat of their pressing bodies. Her grin grew wide on her face—it was then, however, that she found Max’s gaze intent on hers in the distance.

This experiment that Naomi had conducted—the one where she attempted to mix Lexi into her infamously troublemaking friend group—had worked better than Lexi had previously imagined. In all her studiousness and reserved nature, most of Lexi’s attempts at friendships throughout high school had never stuck. Yet, that was until Naomi came around.

Naomi was about the sweetest and gentlest girl that Lexi had ever met; though Lexi had a cold exterior that deterred most people, Naomi was impressively good at chipping away at it. Over time, Lexi learned to cherish her friendship with Naomi Ward above all others.

Lexi thought that Sal Singh was the most pleasant among Naomi’s friends. He shared Lexi’s geeky inclinations, and his kindness seemed to have no limit. Jake Lawrence accepted her into the Naomi’s friend circle with little to no heed or complaint—a friend of Naomi’s is a friend of mine, he’d said. But Max Hastings..

Lexi had expressed her feelings about Max Hastings to Naomi several times before, yet her friend proved insistent. And though her effort was begrudging, Lexi slowly opened herself up to the idea—a friend of Naomi’s is a friend of mine as well, she told herself. But as Max met her gaze, his own unflinching, unreadable, and cold, she couldn’t be sure that her efforts were truly reciprocated.

“…you’ll warm up to it, Lexi.” Sal droned on. His smile warm and welcoming, a contrast to Lexi’s persisting wariness. “All you need is a bit of alcohol in your system..”

“Oh, absolutely not.” Lexi objected.

“..No alcohol, then. Bummer.” Sal replied. “Then we should..”

“Get back to what we were doing?” Max butted in, having lowered his drink from his lips. “Come on, seven minutes in heaven awaits us!” He called out, the smile on his lips almost devilish.

“Isn’t that that..raunchy game where people make out for seven minutes? Guys-“ It was helpless; she was already being pulled by the arms of both Naomi and Sal now, and her smile of mirth had become one of dread. “Naomi, I really don’t think that I’d enjoy this-“

She didn’t. Not one bit. She actually loathed it—being shoved into a circle and forced to await the doom of being chosen by the empty vodka bottle of despair. Naomi was teeming with excitement, as she’d already been loosened up by a couple of shots of vodka herself. But beside her, Lexi appeared rather morose; as the game progressed, her shoes patted against the floor beneath her restlessly.

Turn by turn, people were ushered into a closed room to do God knows what. Time had slipped by; the party raged on around Lexi, and soon enough, Max had become the bottle’s most recent victim. Good luck to his partner, Lexi thought to herself, and as her eyes followed the spinning glass, Lexi began to shift tensely. It couldn’t be, surely..the bottle would stop soon, before it got to her. But, then, it was on Naomi, and when Lexi blinked once more, the end of it was pointing straight at her.

She looked at Max, and he seemed to huff at the sight. When slowly he got onto his feet, Lexi stood up after him, already irritated, already indignant—he was huffing and puffing? As if she wanted to be in this situation, as if she wanted to be at this terrible party!

So they both walked over to the fated room with the red sofa. Max went ahead of her, and he was the one who opened the door. It was dark, but for a lampshade that glimmered lowly within the space. Lexi was noticeably cold; her hands hugged her arms as she entered the space, quickly surveying it.

Max Hastings approached the sofa; languidly, he sat himself down upon it. His long legs slowly spread, sraping carelessly across the beer-stained cushions—when he looked at her, his blue eyes glinted, flashing with something like pride.

He patted his thigh, then. “Come on.”

Lexi gasped; her brows pressed together, flickering in complete incredulity. “Wh-what?” She stuttered. “Max-“

“What?” He asked, throwing up a casual brow. “This is the point of the game.”

“Yeah, theoretically.” Lexi said, ignoring Max’s souring expression. “In the context that those chosen…want to, or decide to, or..”

“I don’t bite.” He taunted, a smirk tugging at his lips.

It was such an impossible situation, and Lexi couldn’t wrap her head around it. She almost wanted to slap him for acting so prideful, for being so cocky in his assumption that she wanted this..and at the same time, she wanted to slap herself, as she could hear her very own heart racing like a vice within her chest.

“You won’t tell Naomi.”

“Naomi won’t care.” He said. “Everyone knows happens in this room. Usually it’s more of a question of..what came off, how far it went, what went where-“

“Oh, shush.”

Without any alcohol to buoy her, Lexi stepped forward clumsily, quite unsure of herself, her tennis shoes somehow proving inconvenient. Her cropped top, though, had proven to be more than inconvenient, as she had to tug it down to prevent more skin from being shown. She stopped just in front of him, the coffee table behind her jabbing at her ankles, as she’d put herself as far away from Max Hastings as she could.

“Good girl.” He said in amusement and equal surprise. Her racing heart hammered in her ears.

“No further than kissing.” She said. He nodded, and while he silently awaited her next words, she paused. “I’m trying..to be a good friend to Naomi. I want to be friends with her friends, and that means..tolerating you.”

He laughed at that. God, he’s cocky, she thought to herself.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Max asked. Lexi kept her gaze on him, and then she lowered it..to his legs, spread, just waiting for her straddle them. “Or are you stalling?” He chuckled.

She stepped forward. Closer, between the space of his two legs. Then, she breathed, and did what she didn’t think herself capable of.

If only he knew that she’d only been kissed once. By an old childhood friend, at that, when they were stupid, curious tween girls..to reveal that to him would be humiliating, as it was to even give Max her first, real kiss. So she straddled him without saying anything. He had begun to take her by the waist, to steal from the distance between their lips, but it was Lexi that took it upon herself to close the gap entirely.

The first that she noticed was how warm he was against her. His lips shifted beneath hers, something rehearsed and learned, she was sure. Hers were awkward, amateur movements as she tried to keep up, but as the rhythm fell into place, she soon found her own footing.

The noise of the party outside of the door had somehow died down. It was a cave, and the clamor of the party and the music—turned up to an excruciating volume—was deafening. But in her focus on him, on kissing him, on making sure it was right, everything else had seemed to dissipate around her.

He was clearly of tall stature, so he had no trouble with meeting her lips, even as she sat atop him. They were rocking back and forth, she realized; she also realized that his hand at her waist had slipped beneath fabric, quick and sly. Her fingers had begun to dig through the strands of his golden blonde hair; they grasped for purchase, working quickly to deepen the kiss.

She was surprised by it. Of course, with it being her first time and all, but she was also surprised at how natural it somehow felt. It was wet and heated, and the sounds that consumed the small space were piercingly erotic. His tongue came pouncing first, and then his other hand was at her neck, directing her upwards, towards him at the command of his deft fingers. A few moans slipped out, and then suddenly, Max was moving to pin her against the couch.

His hands were of their own volition—they moved along her body, venturing the shape of her breasts, then dipping below the fabric of her shirt. While one slipped beneath her bra and began groping the skin, the other grasped her thigh and pried her legs apart, allowing his groin to press against her. She was caught in the kiss, nearly unable to process it all—this was going too far, and she could feel it, but his mouth was smothering the words, and moans were slipping off her tongue like honey, and-

All of a sudden, there was a knock at the door. Then, two others in succession—with Max now taken by surprise, Lexi quickly slid out from underneath him. He grabbed for her arm, but she evaded him quick enough.

She stood there, catching her breath. “Fuck..” Groaning, Lexi pulled her cropped shirt down, her heart still triple its normal pace. She could still feel his heat on her—she was completely frazzled, and as she started to walk over to the door, she tried to even her own breaths out.

When she pushed the door open, she was immediately greeted with a crowd of people.

“Well, how was it, lovebirds?” A boy asked. Immediately, a series of taunts and questions rose from the mass of figures, all of which Lexi denied swiftly.

Sal and Naomi were there, in the crowd. Naomi’s eyes were unreadable as she looked at Lexi; in an instant, the girl’s eyes darted over to the couch, and as she noticed, Lexi followed the path of Naomi’s gaze.

The lampshade illuminated him ever so softly, yet his cerulean eyes were alive in the light. Max’s blonde hair fell in streaks across his face, and his lips were parted; he seemed to sort of hunch over, and Lexi could see that he’d moved his arm over his groin. Her eyes went wide.

There was hunger in his gaze. They were supposed to share a quick kiss, nothing more. Yet, something about his gaze was unmistakably insatiate, grasping, greedy.

Though Lexi had never even thought that Max Hastings would ever so much as spare a look towards her direction, now, he’d kissed her, now he’d touched her. She would never forget that look that he had on his face; it lingered, imprinted upon in her mind for years. It was evidence of what Max Hastings was truly capable of—the lust that burned inside of him and the lust that would ruin him in the end.

[missglaskin]

just saw someone complain about writing for problematic characters “why do people write about Daemon Targaryen” “why are there fics of max Hastings” “How does naoya get written about” and it’s like if you don’t like it then either scroll or block why must you go out of you way to let everyone know you are uncomfortable with this. It won’t stop the writers, you can simply put a dni and people will (should) respect it

matter of fact I love when my characters have canonically done terrible things makes me writing about them so much easier

[donner-maysilee]

HENRY ASHTON as LORD STAN DUDLEY My Lady Jane (2024)  | 1.07 — Another Girl, Another Planet

[veil-fires]

henry ashton, you have bewitched me

[xalicitie]

Dragontamer — Daemon Targaryen (smut)

Layla Targaryen, formerly Layla Tully, embarks on a long journey to Pentos, seeking out her husband, who has fled from his responsibilities and left her childless. When met with his fury, she matches Daemon’s with her own, and amidst the heat of their shared ire, Layla finds herself demanding that he does as she wishes.

Ok new episode of House of the Dragon and I am IN HEAT..Daemon is a real man if I’ve ever motherfucking seen one. He just gets shit DONE.

This is the second of chapter of my fanfiction “Dragontamer”, which I have posted on my ao3 (my user being AdrenalineJunkiee). This goes down the enemies to lovers that I somehow always end up on in my fanfictions..what a coincidence, I know! Specifically, it reflects the forced marriage trope.

The journey to Pentos had left Layla weary and jaded.

To have to chase her estranged husband like a dog was a humiliating feat in itself, but both the journey's longevity and its drabness had thoroughly embittered her. Pentos was the closest free city to Westeros, as it took a single ship ride from King's Landing and across the narrow sea to reach it, but getting there meant traveling across the sprawling territory of the Riverlands, staying at sea for more than a week, and navigating the twists and turns of the labyrinthine city of Pentos altogether.

Layla had never stepped foot in any one of the free cities before now. The very moment that she had been dropped off at one of Pentos' multitudinous ports, she'd understood that she was absolutely not suited to such an environment. Riverrun was a wet, temperate, and fertile land; Pentos was so hot that it was offensive, and its dryness made Layla long for the smells that the rivers would leave hovering over her homeland. The city was walled off from the rest of the world, and its red-orange borders hung high above Layla as she walked through the city gates.

Why Daemon had chosen to ensconce himself in such a place, Layla had no clue. It made her even more angry all over again, just to think about how he'd just gone off on a whim and never came back, how he'd never responded to any of her ravens or bothered to acknowledge her title as his lady wife. Daemon does whatever he wants, yeah, he sure fucking does, Layla thought to herself as she roamed the streets. He paid no heed to duty or customs, and he was a detestable, selfish cunt whose only seemed to be commit himself to the demands of his own impulsivity. What was it that he wanted? Did he scurry off to Pentos and isolate himself from the world in want of freedom, peace, whores? Whatever it was, Layla scorned it viciously; she would remind of his duty, and she would secure her bloodline before she left.

Daemon was beyond reason, and he clearly thought himself above familial responsibilities--over the past five years, he had deigned to visit her twice, once because he happened to be passing by and had decided to dine on the cuisine of Riverrun, and another time because Layla had sought him out. Neither time had they finally consummated their marriage.

Layla had once thought that Daemon's refusal to perform the marital act had been a kindness; in the moment, it sure felt like such, and though the girl of Riverrun had been gracious for a time, her duties had eventually caught up to her. More specfically, her father had noticed. It was rather obvious now--the five years of their marriage had yielded zero children, and Layla and Daemon seldom ever even stood in the same room, nonetheless shared a bed. Her father was furious, and his ire was never something easy to suffer. In the wake of his anger, she'd sent dozens of ravens, inquired about her husband's whereabouts to anyone that she could, all of it fruitless. It was only when she'd personally traveled to King's Landing and located the very place in which he'd been staying that she could finally take any action. So now, here she was, army-marching her way down the Pentos sidewalks, fury pulsing in her temples and a mission set in her mind.

The sand building looked almost regal--befitting of a prince, Layla thought, even if the Prince belonged in Westeros instead of some sweltering maze of a city. She was surprised to see not one knight standing on guard at its doorstep, which immediately led her to doubt her source of information. Nonetheless, she rapped the door, and sure enough, it opened moments later to reveal a woman, bare-skinned but for two meager, skimpy pieces of fabric.

"Who are you?" Her accent was of the free cities, and her dark brown eyes were lined with sable ink. Her skin was burnished bronze. "The master Daemon is occupied at the moment."

"Let me in." Layla found herself demanding, her patience already wearing thin. "Or I'll have my knight cut you down."

She hadn't meant to threaten the woman--if she hadn't been so angry, she would've considered herself and the sharp tone of her words, but her temper was afire, and she finally stood, mere steps away from the man who had made her life a living hell. The woman hesitated upon the threat, yet she eventually stepped aside, opening the door for Layla and her knight, whose armor bore the colors of house Tully.

The bronze-skinned woman led Layla through several winding corridors, decorated opulently, and up a coiling flight of stairs. The lady's knight walked a step ahead of her at all times, and as they scaled the stairwell, Layla could see his hand settle upon the handle of his sword, strapped to his hip. If he would be forced to unsheathe his sword today, Layla couldn't say with assurance that either of them would be coming out of this alive. This was Daemon, and he didn't take well to being ordered around.

They finally made their stop in front of a large double door made from birch wood. Layla could already hear faint voices from behind the door--whines, female tones that were crying out shamelessly in pleasure.

"Open it." She told the bronze-skinned whore. Her teeth were grinding against one another. Taking a few wary steps towards the door, the woman's hand hovered over its golden handle and paused before clasping it in defeat.

The door creaked open unceremoniously, and from behind it, a display of utter debauchery was unveiled. The scene was wanton. A cluster of naked women were draped across the large mattress ahead in a tangle of brown-skinned limbs. Daemon himself was facing away from Layla, as he was driving himself into one of the many whores, his bare ass being the very first thing that Layla witnessed within the sunlit room. For a string of moments, the lady of the Riverlands stood completely nonplussed as she slowly took it all in, utterly incredulous at the sight.

"Daemon!" She shouted at last. Her voice cleaved through the haze of intermingling moans and the wanton sounds of pleasure. Daemon, in his daze of blind ecstasy, turned his head towards her in lazy surprise. The women who laid about him on the mattress took notice of her one by one, and though their eyes met hers in stunned perturbation, Daemon's sweat-lined face only seemed to blend into vague irritation.

"We're busy!" He called out lazily, laying a hand on the ass of the women that he'd been fucking and stopping his pace. Layla counted three different heads besides his. She took in a shaky breath, and her fingers clenched into a fist.

"Get them out, or I swear, I will have Ser Preston cut through them."

"And if I cut him down first?" Daemon challenged, now turning himself towards her.

"Are you armed? Or will you, perhaps, cut down my sworn sword with your cock?" Layla spat bitterly.

Layla was confounded to see Daemon chuckle, after hearing her provoking words. Her conviction wavered for a moment; she still feared him immensely, and her fright threatened to overtake her indignity any moment. Yet, before it could, Layla steeled herself, glowering at him unflaggingly.

"I will speak with the prince alone." Demanded Layla. "Get out, all of you."

The whores remained idle for a moment before Layla's knight took a meager step forward; then, they began to rustle, their bare bodies swaying as they silently exited the room one after another.

"You are a fucking cockblock." Daemon gritted out as his eyes followed the whores through the doorway. Then, he looked at her.

With no one other than Layla's knight alongside them, Daemon's eyes were unyielding, fixated and intent upon her. She breathed weakly, feeling the air wither in her mouth.

"I will speak with you." She said, her voice tremulous.

"About what possible business?"

"The business.." She paused, watching as he began to move towards the edge of the mattress. His shoulders appeared hard and sinewy, and the sunlight had cast a ring of light upon his pale white hair, now cut short at the length of his neck. He looks like some fallen angel, she thought--her fear was pounding in her ears, but in tandem with it, her anger continued to course through her veins.

"The business of our unborn children, Daemon-"

"You've got some nerve." His voice cut through the room, and suddenly he was rushing towards her, without clothes yet with total abandon. "-storming in my fucking house, ordering my fucking whores out of my fucking room-"

"You!" She shouted, surprised by herself. "Have nerve!"

Daemon's hand balled in a fist and flashed towards her, daring to connect the punch yet having been drawn back in the same instant. She flinched, and as she matched her gaze to Daemon's, whose irises seemed to burn in their pale green wrath, she saw her knight nearly grasp his handle in hand. No, no, don't unsheathe your sword, she implored in her mind. This cannot become a blood bath. We both know who will prevail.

Her lips were parted, trembling with fright. Yet, suddenly, a chuckle seemed to impossibly befall her lips--she giggled softly then, stricken with some sort of madness. "What? You're going to hit me?"

Daemon's jaw clenched. "I'll choke the life out of you, like how I should've done before." He paused, and threw a glance at the knight at their side. "And don't bother. I can kill you and take out your cunt of a knight without blinking."

"If death means being rid of this sick fate of being married to you, the worst shit in the seven kingdoms, go ahead, Daemon!" Layla cried out in the midst of her laughter. Though it was a soft, nearly unnoticeable shift, Layla saw that Daemon's countenance had given way to surprise.

"I don't want to be here. Do you think that I traveled across Westeros, across the Narrow Sea, to see you burying yourself in Pentoshi cunt?! Do you think that I wanted any of this!"

Her shouts filled the room, almost echoing within the chambers. Her fingertips twitched as her anger flooded her, consuming until every inch of her flesh pulsated with the force of her fury. Her chest heaved with her sighing breaths. It was then that she took heed of herself. Swiftly, she grappled to take control of her mind again--she was forced to break their eye contact and shut her eyes, so that she could somewhat calm herself down.

The silence was tangible. Her anger had spiked, and in its gradual retreat, shame and desperation rushed forth within her. She could feel Daemon's eyes boring into her; she could feel his presence, his heat press upon her body. She felt rushed to say more, to try and compensate for all of the vitriol that had just come tumbling from her mouth. So, she cleared her throat; with sobriety, Layla looked up at her husband.

"My father will not rest until I bear a male child." She spoke with defeat. "It's all that he can ever fucking speak to me about, and I fear that he'll soon banish me from his very halls in his fury."

She paused, withdrawing her gaze momentarily before taking him in fully with her eyes.

"I don't want to beg you for a child. I don't want to say that I've traveled for more than a fortnight to ask you for one, but that is the truth, and I'm either going to leave this hellhole of a city having done my one duty, or I won't, and I'll live out my life estranged from my own family. Or you'll kill me yourself."

His eyes were unbudging. Though his lips had parted softly, his gaze was as unreadable as it had always been since she'd first met him. Layla sought out his reaction, but she couldn't find anger nor pity nor annoyance, nothing. She bit her lips in both irritation and fear.

"I know you don't care that my fate is in your hands because you're a sick, selfish...f-fucking whore who wants to spend his life out here, away from your duties and your responsibilities. But I'm here now, and you can do whatever it is you fucking want with me. So go ahead." She spat, her boldness completely worn away and used for all of its worth. Now, she trembled before Daemon, incapable of hiding her fear. "Go a-ahead-"

He choked her then. Just as he did on their wedding night; he choked her, his hand having moved faster than light, faster than Layla thought possible. Her blood immediately rushed to her head, and her hands clawed instinctively at his wrists, carving a few trails of blood as her nails scraped at his pale flesh. She heard her knight unsheathe his sword in the distance, and it was then that she knew that she had met her demise. Yet, before blood could be spilled or before she could feel her soul drain out of her body, she felt Daemon's lips on hers.

The warmth was overwhelming at first. There were his fingers, still clenching her neck, but now there were his lips, connected to hers, moving against hers curiously. His fingers unclenched slowly, bit by bit; Layla then felt the air rush into lungs again, and the blood flow back from her head. Yet, now, it wasn't his hands choking her that hindered her breaths; it was their kiss, the breathlessness of feeling him press his lips hungrily against hers and invade her opened mouth with his tongue that left her without air.

He picked her up suddenly and led her away, towards the wall that the bed was propped against, and pushed her against it, his hands applying a lighter kind of pressure around her neck. His lips parted from hers and returned to find her chest, where he hovered over the little skin that the neckline of her dress allowed and suddenly bit into the flesh, eliciting a cry from Layla. Her brows joined in pleasure and pain--as her fingers fled to find a handle between the strands of Daemon's hair, Layla glimpsed her sworn knight and his stunned face, which was bordering on horror. Immediately, she shooed him off, assuring her safety with an earnest nod of the head.

In truth, she didn't actually know if she was safe. With their consummation having remained unexecuted throughout the years, Layla had troubled herself over and over again with trying to understand why it was that Daemon so firmly stayed away. He'd spared her on their wedding night, but he'd also never offered her a hungry glance any of the other nights after. Yet, now, being the very object of his desire, Layla felt as though she were prey, with the way that he indulged her voraciously, savagely--he was so violent that Layla thought that she might be torn to shreds by the end of it. However, she could hardly form a thought enough to fear the prospect...fear or pleasure or pain, she couldn't even discern what it was that burned within her as he did what he wanted with her, as he suddenly forced her on her knees and fitted his cock between her lips.

It was passion, she decided. Violent, intense, and overwhelming passion--she felt it course through her as she choked on the length of his dick. His shaft disappeared in and out of her mouth as he forced himself into her. Tears had blurred her vision; the sounds of pained gags and straining breaths filled the space, and Layla lost herself to the helplessness of his control. And she remained that way--subservient and willing--until, eventually, he took himself out of her.

Once he did, he then forced her on her feet. Her straight brown hair was a frizzy mess, her face ravaged by the branching paths of her tears. When she looked up at Daemon, she saw how his eyes digested the sight of her. He'd made a whore of her--an undignified, disarrayed fucking whore of the daughter of the house of Tully. His face appeared to take pride in his work--to take pleasure in the absolutely unrecognizable look of her.

His hands came forth, and his fingers gingerly grasped the neckline of her dress. Layla's brows shifted in inquiry, yet they quickly raised in horror as Daemon ripped through the fabric, tearing the dress down to the waistline and working to force it off of her.

"Came all of this way, said all of that shit, just to ask me to fuck you." He grasped one her breasts, twisting a nipple before shoving the torn remains of Layla's dress to the floor. She sucked in a breath as he stepped closer, approaching her so that mere inches now separated their faces from one another.

"You want me to fuck you? That's it?" He whispered beneath his breath, his voice a startlingly gentle wind. Goosebumps crept along Layla's skin, and her heart began to raise, her cunt pulsing between her pressed thighs. "To put a child in you?"

His fingers found her chin, and in harsh, earnest inquiry, he moved her face towards him so that he could witness her fully. Layla's lips fell apart, her teary blue eyes widening as they shared an instance of unflagging eye contact.

She hesitated for a fleeting moment, before pressing her lips together in surety. "Yes." She said with unmistakable clarity.

His gaze fixed onto her own, darkening in their desire. His eyes then lowered to her lips, slick with spit, and then down to her breasts. Once he had soaked in the image of her, his gaze flitted back up to find hers.

"Turn around."

Her heart quickened at the command; tremulously, she turned on her heel and faced the other side of he room, strenuously breathing through her nostrils as if she had never known how. She could feel him further approach her, and when his hands grasped her by the waist, her voice made a squeaky sound that brought a sheepish crimson color to her cheeks. With force, Daemon shoved her against the bed; his palms then took her by her hips, pulling her ass up against him. The groan that rumbled in his throat was guttural, and Layla began to think about how it'd sounded like the growling of a dragon before her thought was suddenly interrupted by the sensation of his cock entering her.

"Gods-" Layla whimpered through the stretch, her back immediately forming a pained arch.

It was a lingering thought to her, over the years, giving herself to another man--with the cold absence of Daemon in her life eating away at her like a growing sinkhole, she found herself desperate for the company of a man. It had happened so sparsely to her before, and even then, she had harbored guilt over not saving herself for her marriage. Yet, the dearth of Daemon's love and affection had brought her close to baring herself for another. In fucking other men, she might've carried a child--not Daemon's, evidently, but perhaps their appearance might've been close enough to hers, and she'd get away with it. But she hadn't, not once throughout the years. Because of her fear or her desire to maintain her dignity, it was unclear, but it didn't matter now. Because she finally felt him in her--something maybe she had not known she'd craved so innately before, but a feeling that filled her so full now that, for a moment, she forgot what exactly had made Daemon Targaryen so detestable in the first place.

He was riding Layla like he'd never once buried himself inside a cunt before her. Was this part of Daemon's unexplainable magnetism, the unparalleled sort of dangerous charm of his that seemed to stick with whomever he encountered? She pondered it; his intensity, his limitless passion and his perilous audacity shaped him as a danger, but they made him irresistible as well. She hated him--she hated him for what he'd done, for how little respect he had for her, but as his hand gripped her by her hair and yanked her closer, allowing him the perfect angle to hit her just where it drove her mad, she found herself begging him to keep going.

"Seven hells, your cunt is so fucking tight around me." He jerked her towards him then, bringing her ear to his lips, so that her body was drawn up against his, taut like a string. "Such a fucking whore. My lady wife traveled all the way to Pentos just to beg me to fuck her?"

She whined her agreement, and he slapped her hard on her ass.

"She wants me to breed her like the fucking slut that she is?"

She whined again and nodded, and another slap sounded within the room.

"Beg me for it." She whimpered, her fingers finding the expanse of his back behind her and clawing into it. A moan fled her as he pounded her harder, as if trying to force the words out of her.

"Please, please.."

"Who is it that you belong to?"

"Daemon, you, seven hells, please--" A whimpering moan ripped through her throat, and as her orgasm took her with crushing force, she heard Daemon groan through his own from behind her. When he took himself out of her, the products of his seed were draining out from her cunt. Layla shook as her body succumbed to the force of her climax, her legs still trembling and her cheeks still red from his abuse.

They stood like that, entangled for a long moment, recovering from their highs. The silence went on, their breaths fluttering together in a sort of rhythm, until Daemon eventually turned Layla around. When she faced him, she looked upon in curiosity for once, and not complete terror--his bare chest rose and fell, pale, almost glittering in the sun with sweat.

"You'll stay here. For a couple of days." Layla, in the blindness of her ecstasy, managed a look of surprise. "So we know that you're carrying a child."

She stuttered, her wits gone from her. "..Okay." She said simply.

His hand came to the back of her neck, and he pulled her towards him harshly.

"And I'll fuck you another hundred times, just to ensure it."

[miakwat]

Still refuse to believe they walked down that entire road and didn't recognize each other

[xalicitie]

A Lady and Her Hound

The unfulfilled Stark girl unleashes her anger out onto her traveling companion Sandor Clegane.

I posted this first on my ao3 (Adrenalinejunkiee) but I decided that I lowk need to post on here again! I’ve recently really been into ASOIAF, and I wanted to make a quick lil character for this smutty one shot. Sandor Clegane is such a fine man, and I just needed to write smut abt him

The garb that Sandor Clegane had bought me in town was threaded in cheap, scratchy material that lacked the colors of my once splendid dresses and the shine of my bygone silken gowns that I'd once donned every day in Winterfell. When I hurled the shirt at his face, The Hound's fierce eyes immediately grew wide in swelling disbelief.

"What kind of garment is this?" I asked loudly, my tongue clashing against my teeth indignantly as I spoke. "I am a lady, and I will be treated like a lady."

"You're the bone between my teeth, m'lady, the bone I fetched and the bone that I'll be rid of, whether you're sold or your dropped off in an alleyway to be raped and skinned. You will wear the damn thing, or you'll find your clothes gone in the morning."

I breathed hard, my anger an animal hardly contained. As my nostrils flared and my gaze grew sour, I stared at The Hound spitefully, wondering how his head would look on a spike.

The journey that I'd made alongside The Hound had been long and tedious. A fortnight ago, I'd left with Clegane during the Battle of the Blackwater, and out from the chaos of King's Landing, I came to a quieter, yet no less favorable predicament. He meant to sell me off to my aunt in the Eyrie. As ferocious as he was, The Hound was equally simple; he worked in favor of himself--solely himself--and that was all that you could truly rely on him for. For his selfishness and his caustic tongue, for his scolding temperament and his distaste of company. Why had I ever come with him? Why had he ever offered?

Wherever I went, I was a means for an alliance through marriage or a ward and a hostage, and now a goddamn package for ransom. By the way he hauled me around or denied any conversation, I might as well have been a sack of goods flung over his shoulder. It was beyond frustrating, beyond lividity--it was the vexation that had lingered like an unsavory aftertaste on my tongue all of my life. I was always at the mercy of another; I'd never tasted the sweetness of autonomy, and now of all people to hold my pride captive, I had landed in the palm of Sandor Clegane--a detestable man who did not even take pleasure in my captivity. He just wanted me gone and done with.

"I bought you this damn shirt with my precious coin." He picked it up while a scowl threaded into his features, his burned skin drooping with his frown. I blinked, and suddenly he'd launched the ugly thing right back to me. "I bought a room with two beds when I could've paid less to cram against you on a single fucking mattress, and yet you're whinging on like a brat. A brat!"

"You offered me refuge back in King's Landing, but this is no safety. This is captivity, and I'm less than a goddamn whore! I've been stripped of my identity and my house-" I paced a step to my right, throwing up a finger, "-I've been dragged around like a sack of wheat-" I flung another finger up, pacing now to my left "-and I've been forced to spend my days with the blandest, most discourteous man in the Seven Kingdoms."

"Would you like it better if you were still being beaten bloody by that blonde cunt sitting on the Iron Throne?"

"It's him, then it's you, then who fucking knows?" I yelled, stopping in my steps and turning my heel to face him angrily. "I'll sooner hang myself than be sold off to the next arsehole, the next man to be married off to, the next man to steal my own life from me."

"Poor little dove, despairing over a fucking marriage." He spat, grim laughter in his eyes as he distantly watched me step towards him. "What silks should she bear for the matrimony? Which fat, spoiled lord should she marry-"

As he blabbered on and as I fumed, I quickly snatched the pouch from his very hands, taking advantage of his surprise and marching off towards the door of our room. Sandor stuttered and called after me, and when I didn't bother to turn around, my hand already closing around the door knob, he snatched me by shoulder and pressed me against the oaken wall at the doorway's flank, blocking the way out.

"Get your hands off of me!" I screamed, slamming two hands against his chest. I fought him out of anger, though I knew it would be fruitless. I fought him out of the plain yet irrational incentive that my fury had instilled in me--a stifling hatred for him and Joffrey and everything that had been taken from me--as it was this incentive that had given me the balls to hit a man twice my size.

"Get ahold of yourself, Stark!" He then yelled at me so loudly that his voice rattled in my eardrums long after he'd spoken. Suddenly, he had my wrists together, collected between his rough fingers as he forced them against the wall above my head. My arms were raised and pinned against splintered wood; the pouch laid discarded against the floor.

"You may be unhappy with me, but you are not going anywhere. You may think it captivity, but I give you meat and mead and sheets. You are no prisoner. You will stay with me until I've gotten my money, and you will obey." His face was so close that droplets of spit had been flung against my cheeks, and I felt his breath as it closed in around my face. 

Our aggravation had blinded us both, and in our moments of fury, we'd positioned ourselves in a way that we were practically pressed against one another. Well, that was primarily his doing, but nonetheless, we'd found ourselves staring at each other with mere inches worth of separation, wide-eyed and troubled and nonplussed. Sandor scoured my face with a gaze far above mine, as his height put him directly above me and forced me to jut my chin up, towards him. The light of the afternoon pooled into the creases of his twisted scars, and as I stared at his disfigured face, I could feel his own gaze drink in the sunlight that bathed my chest, largely uncovered, thanks to the low neckline of my tattered shirt. 

I breathed in slowly. His eyes had ventured down there, too obviously now, and the tension that had polluted the air was thick enough to choke a grown man.

I couldn't describe how I felt about The Hound if asked with a sword at my throat. He was a disfigured, bitter, and selfish man, and it was impossible to sympathize with him. Though he must have been through terrible things in his youth, I'd surmised. I still hadn't found out how he'd earned those burned scars that coiled along the left side of his face, but even those seemed like physical manifestations of his spiteful person, not something that had been inflicted on him. 

And how could he have ever been hurt? He was well over six feet tall, and he made for a mean sight. Yet, despite everything that he stood for--him being a rogue knight whose hatred he wielded against everything living, against the entirety of the world around him, and him being a man who should've hurt me and raped me by now--he had still saved me. Or at least he’d delivered me from that hellhole of King's Landing. 

When I looked at him now, parts of him that seemed to want me dead, that seemed to want to strip me then and there, and that wanted to walk away and never breath the same air as me again glittered in his eyes like a kaleidoscope of flickering personas. I could not decipher him; I couldn't make out whether he was a danger or not, and that uncertainty scared me. But in equal part, it thrilled me--at least, somewhere deep within me. 

My brows furrowed in some blend of defiance and shock as I faced him. I observed his expression--one moment, his teeth were bared in something akin to hunger, and the next, he had blinked and expelled the thought, now gingerly letting go of my hands and letting them fall back to my sides.

"I provide you your necessities." He grounded out, his eyes burning into mine. "You are a lady, far away from home. You'll be with your aunt soon, but you're going to have to accept this treatment, like the quiet dove you are. I won't be having you acting the brat around me." 

"I'm no brat." I said, though my firm voice was quiet.

"You're a lady who wants her castle back and her silken gowns."

"And you're a dog, ordering a princess around." I said with muted anger. I didn't take kindly to being named a spoiled lady.

"Aye." He agreed, his eyes never betraying, never yielding anything for me to make out. "And the princess will follow. My fucking orders."

He grasped my chin then, as he rasped the words. I could've been terrified--I'm sure a part of me was--but instead, it mostly seemed that it was adrenaline which flooded me in that moment. Adrenaline, or whatever sick feeling had me reeling in perverse frisson, had shot straight through me and sent my breath rattling in my throat. Though my heart pounded as if I'd been cornered by a true, bloodthirsty hound, I nonetheless wrinkled my nose demeaningly and glanced Sandor Clegane up and down with flickering boldness.

"You wouldn't hurt me." I said with faux certainty. "You may be a dog, but you've got no bite. Not with me."

"Do you want to see?" He rushed forward. "Me bite?" The question--the threat--came whistling between his teeth like a sword against whetstone, his voice vicious and jarring. Any closer, and his nose would brush against mine.

I could see the contempt in his eyes, the challenge that roared and sneered in the face of my ire. I couldn't touch him. As much as I wanted to hit him and unleash my rage upon him, in a mere moment, he'd have me pinned against the floor or he'd knock a black eye into me for good measure. I was toeing a thin, precarious line--if I pushed him too far, what might happen to me? What might he do?

I breathed in sharply, feeling my anger pump my heart faster and louder, so that it thumped in my own ears. Anger--it was overriding my sense and my rationale alike to the point that if acting the brat in front of him meant that I could express my fury, then I found no problem with it. Thus, I stole more of the space of between us, wielding an audacity I hardly even knew that I'd possessed, and I firmly pressed my lips together as I stared him dead in the eyes.

"If you've got the guts."

When he moved, half of me had been prepared for the sting of the hit, but my gut instinct had been proven right--once his rough lips captured mine, I could hardly help the boastful smirk that immediately burned onto on my face.

His hand had moved beneath my jaw, and suddenly, the unyielding strength of The Hound was closed around my skin like a vice. The height difference between us was stark, but he made do with what he had. I did, too, despite what I should've done, what my septa would have cursed me for acting upon. Shoving down the shame, I kissed him back ferociously, the anger burning in my throat and exploding in the sweet burn that had kindled between our lips, which now fought and battled and made noises more lewd and sordid than I'd ever heard in my life. 

His other hand lurked behind my torso and grabbed at me violently, molding my body so that it arched beneath his. My own fingers clutched at the rough cloth of his brown leather tunic. A moan whorishly escaped my lips, soft in its breathy release, leaking into Sandor's voracious mouth.

Fingers made for handling a sword tore at the flesh of my stomach, bruising indentions into my alabaster skin and venturing up, beneath my shirt. I took a fearful breath in when Sandor's hand fisted around a tit.

"Brat. Goddamn brat." He grounded out when our lips finally parted. I peered up at him now, through blue, vulnerable eyes, stripped of the courage that I had before. The eyes that looked back at me were glossy with lust and hunger. All men have it, I thought, and yet somehow I hadn't deemed him capable of it. Not with me, not this unmistakable, not so goddamn ruthless and merciless. 

"S-Sandor.." I whispered, lips parted and glossed over with his spit.

"Look at you. A lady, defiled by a dog." His spoke demeaningly; the words struck me in my chest, in my pride, right where it hurt. The oldest daughter to Ned Stark and Catelyn Stark, soon to be devoured by The Hound. 

"You thought I'd hit you? No, dove, I could not hurt you. But I could fuck you. I could fuck you now--a pretty fucking thing with these feisty, soft lips."

His palm reached for my cheek, a gesture that was almost too soft to be his. His thumb pulled at my bottom lip. The fear that I felt wasn't how it normally felt; when Joffrey would have Ser Meryn Trant strike me or when he arrived at my bed, commanding me to undress for His Grace, the fear had spread and engulfed me so terribly that my whole body fell captive to it. Now, my body yielded to my terror, but not in the same way. Fear was now a stuttering hearbeat, a pulse between my legs, a sinister desire to have him devour and destroy and tear me apart, feats I'm sure he was capable of--a fact that sent thrill and terror bolting down my spine, indistinguishable from one another.

"I'd sooner hit you than do what my cock bids me to do to you. When I'm done with you, what would be left of you? I'd fuck the dignity out of you--the shame would ruin you. What lady is taken by a hound?"

I took heed of his words as they spilled treacherously from his mouth. What had I gotten myself into? Suddenly, in ululating tones of scorn and regret, shame was clamoring for attention and rationale was begging for second thought. What might Sansa think of you? Father, killed in front of your eyes? Your septa would forsake you, I thought glumly. Your family would think you mad, shameful. 

His palm was gone from my face. I glanced away, pondering it, fearing what I'd incited. Now, he'd rape me bloody. Or he might even walk away, and I'd sleep with the bitter regret of my foolishness and audacity still on my tongue. Whatever he wanted, I was to do. That's how it was to be.

No. No, I demanded all of a sudden. I just couldn't accept it. Slipping back into the past, I then thought back to when I was Joffrey's by right and by law. I thought of the powerlessness of it all; the powerlessness of my life, the trajectory of it and how my circumstances had reigned over me for so long.

"Joffrey always took me from behind." I spoke then, not even having bidden the words to come out of my mouth. When I looked up at Sandor, he held a steel look, yet his eyebrows had flickered in a soft instance of surprise. "He stole my maidenhood. He took no care in the way he treated me--he had..horrifying habits in the bedroom. I have the scars to prove it."

I looked down at Sandor's manhood as it peaked through his pants. His print was large, unmistakable, a great deal terrifying and imposing. But without thought, I reached and slowly ran a curious hand over it, feeling at the shaft and taking pleasure in the shocked sound that came from his throat.

"What lady is denied her pleasure?" I asked, stepping forward and allowing him to back up, towards the bed as I groped him with the will of my digits. "What lady is denied her desire? What lady is not treated as a queen when she'd bedded?" When he had stopped at the foot of the bed, I took my other hand and guided him to sit atop the sheets, so that he looked up at me--as little as he had to. 

"I will not be denied any longer. I won't be treated like some common whore or some delicate dove. I will be pleasured, because I am owed it, even if it's from a man like you."

As I looked down on him, I kept my chin high. In that moment, I looked at him--truly took him in, like I never had before. His vulnerability was a startling thing to behold, but still, I was sure I had it there, in his gaze and in his lips as they parted wordlessly. His brown eyes glittered in their almond hue; in the sunlight, they'd shone a burnished oakwood color. His beard trailed down to his Adam's apple, and his hair was a dark umber color, coated in a sheen of mellow sunlight.

I knew I wanted him then. I didn't have to fear him--I would not allow him to scare me into submission or impose himself upon me. I would take him how I wanted to. As I slipped a finger beneath the fabric of my pants and underwear, I held his eye contact while I pulled the garments down, discarding them with a shove of my feet. 

"You're a dog. Yet, here I am, a lady of Winterfell, stripping herself for The Hound." His manhood was a painful bulge in his pants now, and I could hardly keep composure as I thought of how he might feel inside of me. "Can you pleasure me, Clegane? Or not?"

Then, he began working to strip himself of his pants. Before I could blink, he had thrown it to the floor, and his cock laid exposed before me, demanding and angry and huge. Disproportionately huge, I thought to myself--Joffrey couldn't have been half of his size. It made my pride swell.

Without words, he took my waist between two hands and guided me gently onto his lap. I breathed hotly onto him, biting my lip as he devoured me hungrily with his gaze. His hand groped across my body, reaching beneath my shirt and helping it off of my body as I lined myself up with him and, eventually, took him inside of me. 

We both groaned at the sensation. For me, it was painful to stomach--I'd bled helplessly when Joffrey took me before, so I could not imagine what this might lead to. But it was my pace that led the pleasure first, for now, and I used that to at least get familiar to the sheer feel of him.

He took my breast in his mouth, circling his tongue around my pebbled nipple while I led a tantalizing pace. My nails scratched as his back, and my mouth produced soft, sighing moans as I bounced up and down atop of him.

"Should've killed him." Sandor mumbled as he took my other breast in his mouth, biting the supple skin around my teat. "Blonde cunt, never would've let him have his way with you..gods, now I'm fucking you, fucking your pretty cunt..so fucking deep inside of you.."

Slow fucking turned into desperate riding, and soon, I learned to take him steadfastly and proudly. I could feel him in my stomach, gods, it was titillating, wrong beyond definition and yet so carnally pleasurable. When I got tired, he held me in place and began to fuck himself into me, sending moans rushing out of my mouth, one after the other until my voice had weaved one, unending string of cries and needy implorations. And after that, with a single, fluid motion, Sandor's burly body moved me onto the bed and beneath him, so that he could drive himself into me endlessly.

He'd already come onto my stomach by then, and we'd gone a second time; I could feel the tingling beginnings of a climax in my stomach. Having switched positions, I now stood, ass up against his groin as he slammed into me from behind. The whole inn might have heard my pleasured cries by now, but it was of no concern to me. Let the whole town hear us--I was blind with ecstasy and beyond reason.

Sandor grasped me by the neck and pulled me in, towards him, snaking fingers between my brown locks to grab hold of me by my hair. "Such an obedient lady, taking my cock so good, hm? Should've fucked you a long time ago, if only I knew you'd feel so fucking good.."

I cried out as he plunged himself into me. "You're so-" my ass clapped against him, "-s-so big-" my legs shook, quivering as his body banged against my cheeks and left them red, "-I'm close-" wet sounds purged the air. My cunt was slick with my own fluids, destroyed and burning from his delectable abuse. 

"Here." He took ahold of my hand--letting him guide it, I found that he'd pressed my fingers against my cunt, where my folds glittered. "Touch yourself there. Press your fingers against it, see?"

A gasp of surprise fled my lips at the newfound sensation. Pleasure pooled in my stomach, and as I began to touch myself more deftly, my cunt grew more and more sensitive to the point that each thrust was a precarious step closer to the edge.

"Sandor, I'm going to c-cum, gods-" I chased the high relentlessly. My back was arched painfully, and my fingers worked ceaselessly at my clit. His cock was so far in me that I could see stars, and my stomach was a haze of dizzying, burgeoning pleasure--my climax came like a flood, and I nearly fell onto the bed in the overwhelming bodily sensation of it all. Sandor held me forcefully as he fucked me through to the very end of my orgasm, up until he himself rode through his own high. 

I fell asleep in Sandor Clegane's arms that night, heedless of the extra bed that our room had to offer. Beyond what physical pleasure he had fucked into my cunt, it was that day--the first time in a long time--that I had taken back ownership over myself.

[mischiefmaker615]

[turnerandcasablancas-blog]

“…In fact I began to think that Alex (Turner) might be in touch with them (aliens) in some way, the way he works on his lyrics. If there was a line to hone or edit he’d step outside without paper or a pen, stare at the horizon for a few seconds, then walk right back in and deliver some majestic new couplet. Seeing him conjure these lines from nothing I wonder if he’s not at least part extraterrestrial himself.”

— Josh Homme on Alex Turner

[xalicitie]

Take Care of Me — Paul Maud’dib Atreides (smut)

Leila is Chani’s trusted crony. While Chani and Paul share a passionate and intimate love for one another, as Paul embraces his role as Lisan Al-Gaib, Chani encounters detrimental trouble in dealing with his new persona and thus turns to Leila as a channel for her frustration. Leila has been Paul’s own medic for a day, and returning to his chambers to treat an opened wound, she takes her frustration out on him. And yet, she finds out he’s frustrated, too.

The full story will be posted on AO3–HAHA. Just kidding. I have no fucking motivation anymore and it’s killing me. If I manage to fill in a few scenes on this story, then it will make it onto AO3. The full story starts a few scenes ahead of this.

Also, this is based on the movies. I’m reading book 1 now, but I wrote this pretty early on. A lot of the stuff probably won’t make sense in the Dune world. If u have a problem suck my cokkk

Isn’t it obvious I like medic smut scenarios

Also if u want the ending of this tell me! idk if the Dune fandom will welcome me here🙏

I enter Paul Maud’Dib Atreides’ chambers for my second round—and yet within my circumstance, and the unfortunate display of events that have fallen into place, instead of knocking, I barge through.

I find Usul confined to his bed, blood gushing through his white garment.

“Leave.” I pronounce with an impatient tongue. The nurses at Usul’s side take a look at me, and with silent agreement, rush off and through his grand doors.

Usul dons a blank countenance, slightly embellished with the graze of concern. More prominently, however, I can see physical pain in his eyes. I try not to let him uncover that this deeply perturbs me.

“Now why in the fucking world would you do this to yourself?” I demand. My footsteps boom through the lifeless room, my lips stiff with inhibition.

He sits there for a second, gaping up at me slightly, plainly confused.

“Excuse me?”

I know this is the Messiah. And I understand that he could have me thrown off the planet for speaking to him in such a wretched way. But with this, I uncover in myself boiling rebellion.

“Damnit, don’t gape at me.” I snarl a bit. I can feel my indignation running wild, through a pounding chest and through my mindless mouth.

“Sit up.”

He does, silently. I’m grateful.

“Take this off.”

I gesture to his shirt. He does this, too.

I come around with a cloth. Staring down at him, I survey the image—he’s bleeding out. Quickly, at that. He messed up his stomach wound considerably. His toned stomach is scaled with blood, a red, filthy gash on his left side. My heartbeat chases a pounding rhythm. Holy shit: he might fucking die.

My inhibition snaps.

“Nevermind. Screw it. Lay against the headrest. Be careful, you damned fool.”

Usul groans as he backs into his bed. “I was told I was getting nursed, not chastised.” He seethes through a set of clamped teeth.

“Yes, well, you managed to ruin your binding. I can see it took an incredible amount of effort, too.” I climb into the bed. Barring off any uncomfortable undertones, I crawl towards him.

“Yet I also don’t need a fucking coach right now, Leila. I need a medic.” I feel his hot breath lingering in the air near; I snap my face towards his. His gaze is unwavering, and I can see his studying gaze, his brow twitching calculatingly.

I’m a frazzled mess—I can tell as my eyes twitch that’s it’s painfully obvious.

I flinch suddenly. My gaze wanders, and I find warm, masculine digits consuming mine.

“You need to stop shaking, damnit.”

His quiet yet pregnant words resonate with me and into my weak, distressed body. I fall still. With his palm against my aching fingers, I find the quickest respite.

“Focus. I will not die.”

“Did you prophesize that, hm?”

“No. I trust you.”

My eyes flutter shut. I inhale a tremulous breath. He’s right—I can’t work in my state right now. But if I want to do as much as merely stopping the bleeding, I’ll have to shift my attitude. Swiftly.

My mind doesn’t dare wander towards Chani. It would be custom for me to turn to her for strength, but the mental image of her mainly brings about animosity. Instead, I focus here, now—on Usul’s palpable heat, in his hands and in the heavy scent of his presence.

I take a moment. A moment, quietly finding my peace and my lost, inner instinct.

After many prolonged breaths, I sit up.

And I get to work.

“This is going to hurt. You might want to lay down.”

Silently, he obeys me.

My skills succumb to my mind. I work intensely—I dab the cloth into his thick blood, which stains his alabaster skin. As I work, a few meager thoughts roam my mind: I doubt no Fremen wouldn’t pay their wage for a touch of his blood, I ponder. Being so intimate with his mortality brings everything into scope; Usul has a power only rivaled by Emperors, Kings, and Queens, however any hit can be fatal. Without Paul, the Fremen lose their symbol and their incentive. But, well, no pressure.

On the other hand, I’m notably grateful for his compliance. And I’m even further impressed with his determination too, in refusing to speak a single word nor a mere sound. As I uncover my own tenets, and I come out of Chani’s shadow, I’m starting to realize.. my favor isn’t entirely for Chani.

A bowl of water arrives with a nurse. Thanking her and sending her off, I near Usul again.

“Does this have to do with Chani?”

As I begin to clean his wound, I talk pointedly, inquiry woven into my tone.

His voice comes eventually, but he groans when I pour the sacred water directly onto his gash. His bony fingers twitch and attach onto the mattress, grasping lightly.

“-Did she tell you anything?” He utters begrudgingly.

“Mhm.” I answer.

“Is that why you’re in a mood?”

Water pools onto his stomach, which is hard with muscles, rising and falling with his trained breaths. It slips onto the bed, wetting it gradually by the second.

“I questioned you first.” I demand.

I can smell his eyes rolling a mile away.

“Yes. I attempted .. reaching her. She’s more stubborn now than I recall.”

I nod involuntarily. Stubborn was a nice word.

“So, you’re not her minion anymore?”

My focused brows shoot up. I drive my mien into his.

“Do you want me to screw up your wound?”

“Leila.”

Trickles and little indications of nerves meander through my body. I realize I’ve paused my work, and with a surge of purpose, I return.

“I don’t dislike the change. You’re finding yourself.”

I bite my gum. “So I have been a nobody until now?”

“No.”

I draw a cloth, lathered with soap around the borders of his wound. He mumbles something, maybe a curse, before speaking again.

“It’s gratifying to see you.. not so impressionable.”

I really do hate being timid and gullible sometimes. Thus, the reason Chani’s been such a magnetic force of my life. She has stiff, ardent opinions, and a defensive stance. Her caution keeps her ready to strike.

But I know this persona is who I am. Even now, with a callous expression discoloring my soft features, I understand—this isn’t me.

“Well, I can’t take care of you forever.” I speak with disdain, brushing away my probing thoughts. “Whatever you do in your pastime isn’t my business, but if you manage to break through this dressing a second time, for whatever reason, I’m getting another nurse to manage your carelessness.”

I hear a smile. “Yes ma’am.”

“Do you know what it is to be a nurse?” I begin. “No. You fight, and you thrust your blade at any living thing. We clean up. We witness the rubble of war, and we tend to the malignant products of violence.” I set the now empty bowl aside, my eyes cast far into the monochrome walls.

“You can’t afford to be careless. You’re the Messiah, Usul. And I surely cannot, either. I mess up, and you’re blood’s on my hands.” I pause. “In this very moment, we’re linked—so I just want you to do your part, as I do mine.”

“So I’m the source of your ire.”

My face scrunches into a frazzled frustration. “Did you hear anything I just said?

“I won’t mess up again. You can trust me.” I rest there, sitting above his body as my fingers dress his wound with ointment, a stone-cold countenance on my face. “What bothers you?”

I bite my gum grimly. “Don’t provoke me.”

“But if you keep your anger confined, what else might invoke it?”

“This isn’t the time for this, Usul.”

“-Paul.”

My fingers halt, propped against his warm skin as I meet eyes with Usul.

“What?”

“I would rather you call me Paul.”

I search my mind. Does anyone other than Chani call him Paul? His mother, of course. And Gurney, obviously. But the list drags to a stop there.

Is he marking the enhancement of our friendship? Maybe he’s egging me into transferring information. Altogether, it puzzles me.

Alas, I disregard my selfish thoughts. It’s foolish of me to pleasure myself with the thought that I might mean something special to the Lisan Al-Gaib. Sighing, I rise from my position.

“Okay, Paul.”

I turn to the table at my flank, taking up a pristine, fresh sheet of dressing into my hands. “Sit up against the headrest. ..Please.”

He does so without complaint once again. I approach him apprehensively. The silence is disarming. I can feel his gaze on me like a cool, unshakeable breeze.

As I begin my work, I succumb to his request.

“Counsel-Member Sarat has been my patient for the past week.” I swallow my shame while my fingers press into Paul’s stomach, attaching the covering gingerly. “He died today. Of infection. And .. and the counsel thought it fit for me to be demoted from my position as head nurse since, inherently, the war has ‘dulled my senses and muted my skills’. They’re rather unyielding in their blame, which they’ve..” I laugh dully. “..brutally pinned on me.”

“They’ve stripped you of your title as head nurse?”

“Mhm.” I confirm gently. It feels that, if I speak a decibel louder, I might crackle and fall apart.

“Give me an hour; I’ll give you your title back.”

“..Paul, it is not your place.” I tell him with warning eyes.

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“I-“ I grunt out an intermittent groan. “Do you really care if I’m head nurse or not?”

“You’re the best in your field. I’ve seen it, I witness it this very moment. Ignorance runs through the council, it’s rather obvious.”

If my complexion warrants it, I blush. I haven’t heard kudos of such high acclaim of late, or.. ever, perhaps. Hardness and disdain may have encrusted my heart, but his words seem to chip at the layers with ease.

“Just, don’t act yet.” I say carefully. “Today has been enough for me. A prolonged night of sleep might just be enough to relieve me of this stress.”

I apply one last morsel of pressure into his side with my palm, scrutinizing the dressing. Immediately, the strings of responsibility lay off of my shoulders. He’s alive, breathing, and his stomach is marked by white linen rather than the thick, maroon tints of his precious blood.

“And you. Our deal?”

I look for understanding in his face, yet I’m met with gentle confusion. I roll my eyes.

“Take care of yourself. Don’t fuck your wounds up, and I don’t have to stress about you.”

“Mmm, because you care so much about me?”

He says this blandly and with a husky tone. I chuckle, falling cocky. “You know what I mean-“

Something warming creeps up my waist. My eyes drawn to the sensation, I look down to see Paul’s hand at my side.

I lift my head. I’m met with his eyes—blue and slitted, brushed by the shadow of the dim light at the end of the spacious room. The cold throb of the air suddenly becomes terribly tangible.

Suddenly, I know. As he holds my gaze, as he holds me, I know. Every stalking thought of my intuition was valid—the prickles of tension were never figments of my wild imagination. That look, that look of his is polluted with infatuation.

I press myself away from him. “What is—what are you-”

“Just stop, Leila.”

His fingers dig a little into my skin. Suddenly, my walls are up. My shoulders surrender to stiffness; my breath refuses to release.

He leans in closer, stealing meager inches of the mattress.

“Isn’t it easier this way? We’re both stressed out of our minds, it hurts, I know. I can relieve you of your pressure, Leila-“

“You jest!”

I push him away with incredulous palms. This shocks me just as much as it does him.

“Chani. We both care for her—is this what you imply?! For two of her loved ones to betray her in one night?-”

“What is there to betray?!”

With a quickness I’m unable to fathom, we are then a mess of limbs; his legs have crawled forth and are propped onto mine, his arm bridging the distance, deft fingers bordering the brink of my neck and shoulder.

Not a wisp of breath sprouts from inside of me.

“She is frustrating. I know you’re angry with her, with how you so unabashedly project. You’re awfully transparent.”

“You are a cocky bastard.”

“Mm.”

Paul tilts his head, as if saying ‘see?’. I stifle a curse from spilling out, off my flaring tongue.

Warmth spreads like wildfire at my hip, as his left hand claims its spot. The thumb of his right ventures over my jaw and to my cheek, while his remaining digits curl around my neck. I repress a shudder, as well as a susurration at my mouth—one that would surely betray me.

“Don’t you see?” He says it so low, his voice crackles in its sudden baritone as he speaks. “Let me take care of you.”

My eyes flutter shut. My mouth gapes slightly; he leans closer and closer.

“You are Chani’s. Chani is yours.”

“You know that's not true.”

My breath trembles audibly. I can hear it in the thick air.

“Why don’t you act on your own desires?”

“How arrogant do you have to be? I do not desire one morsel of you-“

“Ah, I’ve yet to see you pull back.”

My lashes flutter, opening my eyes so that I can witness a peek of the image in front of me: he breathes me in like oxygen, as if he might suffocate any moment. I can see two slits of blue, their light dawning on me and onto the amalgamation of our intimate shadows.

“I'm afraid I know you better than you know yourself, Leila..”

I breathe in, desperately attempting to sort out my visceral thoughts. Maybe a mere moment of preparation, maybe just a little time ..

Yet he denies it. I breathe in, and Paul Atreides has ensnared me with his lips.

The power he has over me is, in itself, terrifying. I mold underneath his touch, every contiguity setting my skin aflame. Paul kisses like a savage—as we sway, his tongue slithering hungrily between my lips, our mouths a battle of uncertainty and voracity, I see him in a different light. The stiff, self-controlled, solemn boy stripped of his armor is revealed to be an animal, just like any other man.

He must be stressed out of his mind. His movement is desperate, his lips feral. His body snakes over me as my hands brush against his skin—each finger passing a rib one by one, drinking in his warmth. Skin of the Messiah.

Even if I refuse to merge with the Fremens’ united belief, I understand well, with awe and terror, Paul’s title and his power. It chills me, through flesh and into the cavern of my soul: I contact the armor of a royally begotten warrior, and I am all the same groped by the hands of a mighty killer.

Chani. Chani. Chani.

I miserably try to redirect my focus. It shocks me how insanely hungry I am for him—it never occurred to me that I had affection for Paul, but my desire flows copiously. I think back on Chani. I attempt to meditate and recall their love and what strife I’m paving.

And yet my body betrays me, These thoughts, even further, backfire.

I am angry. I am tired, and worn from Chani’s groping. The circumstance is rousing something in me—a beast of a feeling, a pit of animosity. Without caution, I shove Paul into the headrest.

“Stay still.”

I climb onto him. I look down, and find his glimmering blue eyes consumed with startled shock.

“Don’t you care about your wounds at all?”

I kiss him. I trap him against the head of the mattress, letting my hands run wild. With his waist bearing my weight, I begin to steadily ride his crotch.

Paul isn’t mine. In a perverse way, this motivates me further—he could be using me as a channel of relief or as a source for his irate, and he might even be infatuated with me. Yet once I’m immersed in my drive, and I’ve established a tantalizing pace to bounce over and over on his hard-on, I realize: I don’t really care. I want this, and I’ll take my goddamn share.

[xalicitie]

Whispers — Spencer Reid (smut/fluff)

Scarlett is a young member of the BAU—contemplative, decisive and quietly cunning. Spencer Reid is a young agent as well, with a running mouth clogged with data and facts, and a clumsy charm. Over what starts as a little rumor, and a shameful dream, two agents realize there’s not as much keeping them from each other than it seems.

— This is an excerpt from a short story/fanfic I’ve been putting together for awhile. First of all: I’m alive! Yes, if anyone cares 🤩. I’m coming back with yet another fandom to write about, and it’s Criminal Minds. Tell me if u want part 2 of this (smut), or if I should release the first parts. Or maybe whatever else I should write abt😻

As soon as the marble tiles hit Spencer's feet, he knows something is up.

A moment of eye contact doesn't say anything near what it used to. Even just an hour ago, when their gazes would come together, Scarlett's warm eyes would fall curious, maybe lost. But when he's locked eyes with her, fifty feet away, her body sunken in the couch, he realizes something changed. By the way she isn't watching him, digging for answers yet quick to avert her gaze elsewhere, he can just tell. Someone said something.

It kills him. They're standing in the same room, but they're thoughts have roamed to a distance Spencer can't calculate anymore. He has no idea what's been told to her, to what degree she knows, what she thinks of him anymore?

More than anything, Spencer frankly just wants to talk to her again. He's come to the revelation, slowly, that this has come too far. It should've been their own thing, but by the heaviness of the eyes on him, he senses more people know than he'd ever warranted.

When they're waiting for hotel keys, Spencer watches the three women head upstairs to their own rooms. The team's rooms will be adjacent to each other, as they always are. Derek's on the couch, eyes shut with his headphones on, when Spencer decides he'll interrupt his leisure time.

"Derek."

Spencer comes over, shaking him to his wake.

Derek doesn't take it lightly. He jolts awake, even with as light as he was sleeping, and peers at Spencer through slitted eyes.

"What is it?" He asks, grumbling.

Spencer sits besides him, and Derek sees his panic. His hands are gesturing hastily before he can ever get a word out.

"Scarlett knows something. Did you tell someone, Derek?"

Spencer watches, wide-eyed.

He actually wasn't expecting that Derek had told anyone—he took it that maybe Emily had figured out. But, judging by the way Derek goes dead silent, still as a dead fly, he realizes he overestimated Derek's loud mouth.

"..You told Emily?!"

"Reid, I'm sorry, I-" He faces Spencer, flushed red in anger. "I'm sorry, kid."

"You had one thing to do!"

Rather boiling with hysteria and panic than anger, Spencer puts his hands to the sides of his face. He sinks into the seat beside Derek's.

Spencer's plunged in contemplation. He doesn't know exactly what she knows, but there's a chance Scarlett knows that Spencer had a sex dream of her. He, as involuntarily as he did, pictured her, bare and nude. She, his coworker. She, his best friend.

"Spencer, I shouldn't have done it."

Spencer holds his eyes back from rolling into their sockets. Of course he shouldn't have.

"She's probably disgusted."

Spencer sighs. Derek watches him, bummed to see Reid like this. Stressed and almost wretched.

"..Reid, I told you. She likes you for you, she understands."

"No, she thinks I'm a weirdo who pictured her naked—wait."

Spencer stops. Coming to a pensive pause, he faces Derek.

"Did Emily say anything about how she feels?"

Derek's brows come up, and he smirks a little, lips parting. "That's the part I didn't tell you."

Spencer comes up. His limbs animate and his brown eyes burnish, staring at Derek for an answer.

"Emily's convinced Scarlett has the exact same feelings for you."

Derek watches as Spencer comes to an amalgamation of hope and, at the same time, the exact doubt that's been plaguing him the whole day.

"Emily's convinced. But Scarlett didn't say so."

"Reid, you have to find out for yourself."

Pressing his lips, Spencer meets Derek's eyes.

"..Tonight?"

Silence permeates the space with them, and Derek wordlessly nods deliberately.

Despite everything, every instinct upraised and alert in wariness inside Spencer, he knows tonight can only work.

Yet, as soon as Spencer gets his keys, he's darting to his room and closing it shut, through the doorframe without a peek towards Scarlett's door.

He can do it another day, right? He couldn't physically bring himself to her door—there couldn't be a magnet on Earth that could pull him away from his hotel bed.

Spencer feels pathetic. But the idea of the look on her face, her soft features all ruined with disgust and judgement—he doesn't want to fathom it. He doesn't want to think, doesn't want to take any steps now. He's pacing the rug, biting his lips nervously when he quickly grabs his book from his bag. Hitting the mattress and burying his face into the words, a poor yet sufficient antidote for his raucous mind. For now.

Word after word, he forgets. Tonight, he reads slow. Sucking every word in and shielding himself from his embarrassment.

It feels like he can do this all night. He decides he’ll read, and read—move onto the next book if he has to—until he sleeps, without the worry of the decision plaguing him.

But someone has something else in mind.

Spencer had no idea how much time has passed when someone knocks on his door.

The cool, night air is ghosting, and Spencer's staring at his door.

It could be Morgan. He might be standing with a waiting expression before Spencer's door, waiting to drag him towards Scarlett's door.

Or it could be Scarlett herself.

Spencer keeps sitting on his bed dumbly, up until another knock comes.

He's tempted to stay rooted to his bed. He feels like he is. But he feels whoever's outside waiting, and with a volition he doesn't understand, he's standing. Walking over to the door, and after a few moments, he's turning the knob slowly.

Opening the door, Spencer finds his heart pounding when he sees Scarlett in front of him.

Brown hair caressing her shoulders, brown eyes staring up at him. She came over.

"Spencer."

She announces. Greets. Nothing can describe the air between them right now.

Spencer gazes down at her. She hasn't been this close since the coffee incident earlier the morning. It startles him, but having her near reminds him of the ease she used to bring him.

If it were under any other circumstances right now, he might just be able to be comfortable with her again.

He dismisses his thoughts, and decides to actually reply. ..After several moments, that is.

"Scarlett."

He barely utters out.

He can't read her. She looks like she's here for something, but it's taking her awhile to get to the point. Her gaze is wandering and quick—it almost seems she's .. about as nervous as he is?

"-Can I come in?"

Spencer's lips part ever so slightly—the smallest tell that he's relieved.

No repulsed retort, no glower. She wants to come in?

Spencer's mouth hangs open before he realizes how stupid he probably looks, shutting his lips and nodding.

Eyes hesitant, but warm, she smiles at him. Spencer watches wordlessly as her lithe body slips past him, into his hotel room.

He closes his door silently. He's staring at her back. Her hair looks weightless. He hasn't liked having to keep his eyes off of her—every chance that came around, he took to sneak a little glance. She's always been so effortlessly beautiful.

So why is she in his room? If she knows absolutely anything, why is she not hiding from him, at several doors' distance?

"You're reading Stephen King?"

She turns and Spencer gulps in his nerves, licking his lips and shuffling towards her.

"Um, yeah." He offers. "Garcia recommended the book."

Scarlett flips through the pages of The Shining. Her caramel eyes graze over the words lightly.

"It's good?"

Spencer's watching her, and his heart pounds when she meets his gaze.

"Y—Yeah." Spencer kneads a hand through his hair. "It's interesting. I tried reading it slower, to enjoy it more, but .. I only have maybe 40 pages left."

Scarlett nods silently, turning the pages and leaving the room wordless.

Spencer's eyes are furrowed. She comes into his room and takes it upon herself to read his book? While he could watch her fifty million times, eyes sucked in and file through her features that were so pleasant to the eyes—her softly pink lips, her alabaster skin—he can't. Cause he's about to bubble over with curiosity, the curiosity of why she ended up with him despite the odd circumstances.

"Scarlett-"

He gulps when her gaze comes to his. "Um. Don't take this wrong, I just want to know. ..Why are you here?"

Her lips sit in silence. Spencer's fidgety, yet he can't keep his eyes off hers. He's searching the burnished color of her eyes for answers. While she's prone to go silent like this sometimes, there is just so much more tension in her quietness.

She diverts her eyes somewhere near the floor, and comes forward a bit. Spencer can feel himself struggling to keep up with the pace of his breathing.

"I'm here for a reason." She starts. She's not meeting his eyes fully, but there's a shift in her tone that makes her sound candid. She approaches, and Spencer finds the silence alarmingly deafening.

Then she locks their eyes.

"Spencer..did you have a sex dream about me?"

SHIT.

Spencer's immediately red. He opens his mouth for words to come out, but it turns out there's a void between his lips.

He feels like killing Derek. As he stutters and spits and glances around, mumbles coming out jumbled from his tongue, curses are spilling in his mind.

Nothing coherent comes out of his mouth. He doesn't bare to see the look on her face—he's so caught up trying to make a response that somehow suits his needs, he doesn't recognize the apparent calm in her countenance.

"Spencer, look I'm not mad about it."

Then Spencer stops.

All his attention is on Scarlett. It's her turn to halt into silence.

Maybe he's wrapped up in a delusion. But she looks rosy, put in a daze, as he does, too. It's an odd moment—they're both flustered. Staring at each other, Spencer has the feeling they're both, individually, trying to put together whether they want the same thing.

He's not sure at all. But she's come close, and he's praying she rejects him, before the urge to end this burdensome situation by bringing their lips together ends up becoming too much to bear.

"Scarlett, tell me what you want."

Her gaze is suddenly glued on Spencer's.

He's staring at her with an unfeigned curiosity. He leaves room for the possibility that he's got this completely wrong. But what he said is completely candid—he wants exactly what she wants.

If Scarlett wants to rush out the door in disgust, she can and will. If she wants to forget about all of this, sure. If her eyes are telling the truth, and the crave lacing her pupils isn't a daydream, he'll give her everything she needs.

Without a word, Scarlett brings her body to his, nearing his head with a hand and ending it with a kiss.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Decoy [S. R.]

Spencer Reid x fem!reader

word count: 6.9k

summary: when you go after an unsub who catches students making out, the unit is called upon to resort to desperate measures. Or in other words, where you and Spencer become the decoy to catch a voyeur.

warnings: +16. Making out, mentions of alcohol, mentions of violence, insinuation of smut, sexual tension

Do yourself a favor and imagine Spencer in these clothes during the case

You sighed, completely frustrated, while you looked for the thousandth time at the blackboard with some information from the profile that you had made for the criminal in this case.

You believed that the unsub was a Caucasian man between 30 and 35 years old, whose motive was to spy on and photograph university students who were escaping in their cars to make out at night, then force them to have sex in front of him and finally kill them cold-blooded. You imagined that he was a person with a mediocre job, that he felt insufficient, and that his voyeuristic behavior probably came from sexual frustration, something that could be corroborated by the violence that he inflicted on the genital area of the students whom he stalked using a knife, his mark on all homicides. You also believed that perhaps the rejection or abandonment of his last partner (preceded by a bad streak from his youth) due to his impotence had been the triggering event for all his repressed impulses to come to light.

All the psychological analysis was fine, it wasn't something you hadn't seen before, but the hard part of all this? Because he only threatened and killed people, he didn't rape them, at first it was almost impossible to tell who it was. He already had 20 victims in total and you weren't even close to catching him. In the last scene he had made the mistake of leaving a fingerprint and Garcia had been able to trace his true identity: Oliver Davis, a guy who fits the description perfectly. Unfortunately, this turned out to be useless because beyond the accusations of being a pervert, the man didn’t have much information that would give a clue to his whereabouts, you had even called the job that he had registered and all you had obtained was that he had several months without working there, which coincided with the beginning of the murders. After that Rossi suggested that he probably lived in a trailer (old, due to his lack of employment) where he developed the photographs and kept his trophies. That only made more sense when you thought that it would make it easier to transport or escape in case things got messy.

But words on paper and intelligent conclusions were of absolutely no use to you. You needed a plan to catch him.

"Do you have something, Reid?" Hotch had asked. You had already interviewed some students, you had set up guard duty to look for any suspicious behavior and you had even shared the photograph of the suspect in the media, but nothing had worked; The only thing left was to carry out the geographical profile to know the area in which he was attacking and thus be able to search for possible targets.

“I triangulated the locations we have of his previous homicides and I'm guessing he hits in this specific area,” he muttered, pointing to a space on the map he had on his blackboard with his middle finger. “Considering it's an area frequented by the age group due to its proximity to the universities and that it has several parks that the students told us they use to drink or go out as a couple”

"So what?" Morgan said from his spot. "We just wait until he kills someone else and hopefully we're near the scene to hear the screams?"

“Maybe we can ask the cops to patrol the area for the unsub's car,” JJ suggested.

“He's smart, there's a trailer park right here. It wouldn't be strange to find one on the streets as well.” Reid was visibly frustrated like everyone else and he ran a hand through his hair with some despair.

Your options were running out and frankly you couldn't think of anything else.

“And if we give him a target?” Emily murmured. Noticing that none of you said anything, she went on to explain her plan, “We ask police officers to send any young people they see around to home so we force our unsub to get close to who we want”

"And what are we going to do? Hire a couple of college kids to stalk them?”

“We can use our own team”

"Not to offend you, Prentiss, but we are no longer in the prime of youth"

"We don't, but Y/L/N and Reid do" when you heard your last name you were surprised, but when you heard your friend's you practically froze. First you looked at her and then at the doctor, whose gaze reflected the same stupefaction as you "You two are young, you might look like students"

"Are you saying you want to send us straight into the hands of a sexual predator?" you couldn't be offended, after all, those risks were part of the job, but you did feel somewhat reluctant about the idea.

“Do you have a better suggestion?”

“It doesn't sound so bad” Rossi murmured “It's a smart move”

“Besides, we would be watching around and we would intervene before that madman got close to you. Once we catch him, the photographs and personal items that he probably has in his trailer will be enough evidence, in addition to the fingerprint from the last crime scene” to your surprise, Derek was also pretty convinced of the plan that Emily had just devised.

"Reid, Y/L/N, would you guys be up for it?" Hotch exclaimed with his usual serious tone, looking at you and then at your partner.

Thinking objectively, the suggestion was very good. But thinking about it personally, you felt worried about the danger you two would be running into… oh, God. It wasn't until then that you realized that the plan to catch the suspect involved the two of you making out like a couple of hormonal college kids. 

You knew that the options that remained wouldn’t be as opportune as that and taking into account the temporary nature with which Oliver operated, in addition to the fact that he was already deteriorating as a murderer, it was most likely that he was already looking for new victims, so if you did that same night the chances of success were quite high. You were between a rock and a hard place and all you could do was look at him while the gazes of the rest of the room were divided between the two of you.

“I… I'll only do it if you say yes” you exclaimed in his direction, with a cautious voice and a fearful look. You knew your friend and you didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable in any way, even though you knew that both you and he knew that your personal interests would take precedence against the possibility that another couple of victims would lose their lives if you refused. It was your job, you had to do it. 

"Are you sure you guys are going to catch him before something happens?" Spencer asked your boss. You thought that with his background the last thing he wanted was to end up kidnapped or seriously injured again, even though the truth was that he was caring just as much about himself as he was about you. He had seen the photographs and knew that women were the most affected by the murder weapon… he didn't even want to imagine something like this happening to you.

"Of course. You will have communication with us and if something goes wrong we will get you out of there immediately" Aaron answered and your friend sighed nervously and then looked for your approval. You nodded slightly and he delivered the verdict, to which everyone agreed.

He was still standing, but after that he slumped into the nearest chair as he listened to everyone brainstorming ideas for setting up the scene, distributing the crew, and what they would tell the local police to do to make the decoy effective.

At some point you lost the whole point of the conversation, to start thinking about what was implied by what you were about to do.

The feeling of attraction for your co-worker had been latent in you for a couple of years, but you had never confessed it to anyone to avoid creating tension in the team or suffering the humiliation of certain rejection. Also, you knew that a crush meant distractions from what was truly important and you had tried, in vain, to eliminate it completely. But even if it hadn't completely gone, you had known how to control it, only allowing yourself to look at him with loving eyes from time to time and avoiding being too confident with him during group drinking outings. You even limited physical contact, not because you didn't like it but because you knew your greed would demand more and more of you until it became inevitable to beg for his touch. But now all that good work holding you back was screwed because in a few hours you would have to be passionately making out with him.

Still with the internal crisis, you raised your head to look at him and realized that he too had been submerged in his own tide of thoughts, which you hoped would be more positive than yours. At some point Spencer felt you watching him and when his eyes met yours he gave you that tight-lipped smile that was strangely comforting, to which you responded with the same gesture. After that it didn't take long for everyone to leave the room to fulfill their respective tasks, but you stayed seated because you honestly didn't feel enough energy to move. Besides, you had nothing entrusted to you, you were the bait.

"Hey, are you sure you're okay with this?" Spencer asked you, once everyone else had left. He looked so tired of everything, but at the same time there was a kind tone in his voice about him that made you smile.

“It's just kissing, Spence. I think we'll be fine" you assured him, trying to swallow all your embarrassment and nerves "And you?"

"I agree. I just hope we get lucky today or we'll just have to keep trying” 

"Reid, I need you to tell the cops what area we'll be in," Hotch interrupted you from the door. "You still have time to regret it," he added, looking at the two of you.

You immediately denied and after that Spencer withdrew from there in the company of Aaron. When you were about to drop you exhaled, completely concerned about the last thing your partner had said.

We will just have to keep trying. You didn't know if the idea excited you, or terrified you.

As night fell, Spencer drove the old pickup truck the unit had managed to rent for the two of you to drive into the park, with you in the passenger seat and a six-pack of beer in the backseat.

Although you were sure that it would be cold, you had decided to wear shorts and a button-down shirt that you normally wore for work, but that you had adjusted to make it look more youthful. Spencer was wearing an outfit that Morgan had gotten for him from a department store, simple jeans with a rather baggy cotton shirt and some nice boots that you didn't know where he got from, since in Quantico you had never seen him wear anything like that.

Both of you had showered at the hotel (separately of course) and you had made sure to brush your teeth and put on a good amount of deodorant and perfume before getting in the car. You had paid special attention to your appearance, not because it was necessary, but because you wanted to look perfect for him. Even with all this, you were a nervous wreck next to him, not saying a word along the way and only soft music from the radio filling the air.

When you stopped, the two of you put your headphones on to the channel the team was supposed to be on, and Morgan answered in the affirmative.

"Remember, he doesn't have to see the communicator or your weapon," Rossi spoke, who was also in the van, along with Prentiss and Hotch. "García will be watching with the security cameras and he will warn us if the trailer is coming"

"And meanwhile what do we do?"

"Pretend to be a couple, sit on the tailgate and drink beer, laugh, I don't know"

“Did you ever run away like that in college?” you asked, directly at Reid.

“Do you remember that I was like 16 when I studied at the university, right? I wasn't even old enough to drive, much less a car" he muttered and you gave a short laugh "I guess you did"

“I was too busy being the best in the institution to even think about going out and making out with idiots,” you replied, proud of yourself for that. “I mean, it's not like you're an idiot, but they were. You're very smart," you rambled, still twiddling your fingers, "Hotch, you guys will tell us when we're going to start kissing, will you?"

“When the suspect approaches, yes”

"Okay, well... then we have to go out, huh?" you muttered to him as you reached for the beers and tried to open the door to get out. You turned, expecting to see Spencer do the same as you, but noticed that he had lingered in the car for a moment, checking himself in the mirror and dabbing at his lips with chapstick.

My God, could that man make you more nervous?

When he finally caught up with you, you went to the back of the pickup, where you opened the tailgate to sit down with a little hop. Spencer was tall enough to keep up with you just by leaning over the edge, where you watched him cross his arms. You were silent for a few moments, listening to the sound of crickets and cars in the distance.

"Do you think it's a good idea to drink?"

"Only a little. I'm having a hard time thinking while sober, I don't want to ruin the little reasoning I have left” you exclaimed as a joke. Or maybe you weren't joking so much "Just empty a couple of cans and leave them on the floor so he'll think we're really drunk." Spencer was about to do what you said when you noticed an important detail and called him over to look at you "Come here, let me fix your hair."

"What's wrong with my hair?"

"You're very well combed, it's not the image we expect" you carefully took his hand until it was close enough to pass the other through all his golden locks, messing them up enough to give him that relaxed touch that he should have. He looked so handsome, but not in the style of a fancy FBI agent but just like a young intellectual who went to parties and smoked weed “Like this. Perfect"

“Do you think we have to think of some backstory?” he asked and you looked at him with a frown. “You know, something about us. What degree are we studying, what are our names…”

"This is not a play"

"It's rude to eavesdrop on conversations, Prentiss," you said visibly annoyed, although looking at your partner that expression softened "As you wish, Spencer. Although being honest, I would say that you study… literature”

"Really?" he exclaimed with slight enthusiasm. You knew that his mother had been a teacher in the subject and you wondered if he had ever considered it.

“Morgan wasn’t wrong to choose those clothes for you. It suits you” you complimented him and Morgan whistled from the other end of the line. You felt like you were having too much fun for the situation you were in, but you needed to talk about something else to put off the reminder of what you had come to do for as long as possible. “I think you would have that hopeless philosopher/romantic vibe who flirts by whispering memorized poetry in your ear.”

“I actually know some good ones”

"Sure you do" you smiled gently, suppressing the thought of him sighing close to your neck at Bécquer "I'd probably study science or something."

"The unattainable scientist with whom the captain of the soccer team has a secret crush, but she is completely unaware"

"Where did you get that? From a 90s movie?

Spencer's laugh was one of your favorite sounds and today that was precisely not helping your situation. You felt intoxicated by how handsome he looked, like you'd discovered a side to him that no one else had, and the thought of kissing him made you tremble a little with anticipation.

“Do you want to share a beer?” he murmured, carefully opening the can and offering it to you first. You knew your partner wasn't the most enthusiastic about doing anything that involved germs, so it made you feel good that he took the lead. You took a big gulp of the drink to gather something of value and when it was his turn to drink he kept looking at you intently, you would even say that he seemed entranced.

You had made sure you were in a strategic position, with enough light for the unsub to see you and quite lonely, except for the patrol cars and the van that had been positioned at a safe distance.

“How does voyeurism develop?” you asked quietly, with genuine interest, as you shifted a bit to get closer to him.

“Voyeurism usually begins in adolescence and since during that age it is usually seen with greater tolerance, there are people who continue with these behaviors until adulthood. When voyeurism is pathological, they spend considerable time looking for opportunities to watch, often at the expense of not fulfilling important responsibilities in their lives, and people reach orgasm by masturbating during or after watching. Although if you think about it a bit, everyone is a bit of a voyeur."

"Why you said so?"

“Many men and women enjoy viewing pornography, which can be classified as voyeuristic behavior. It's not a worrying thing, but it's interesting to think about it” he explained, with those expressions on his face that he had every time he shared knowledge with you. He liked that about you, that you were always willing to listen to his data and statistics even at the most inopportune moments.

"I'm still a little scared that Oliver is trying to do something to us."

“I have my gun. If he tries to do something to you, I'll use it" you knew that killing the unsub was always the last option Reid considered, so you widened your eyes a little to show your surprise "All lives are worth, but when that life has already taken so many and it puts you at risk, I would not doubt it. You have nothing to worry about” he assured you and your heart warmed a little at feeling so protected.

"Do you know if Oliver attacks at a specific time?"

"No, he doesn’t. Just as we can be here for ten minutes, we can also be here all night."

You exhaled loudly, before taking another gulp of beer.

“Drink some, boy. I feel kind of selfish around here."

"I am nervous"

"And why do you think I'm drinking?" you exclaimed wryly, still holding out the can to him, and when he finally agreed he drank a little more than you expected “Have you ever…” you started to say, but suddenly remembered that literally the whole team was listening to you. If the answer was embarrassing, you didn't want to hear Morgan and Emily taunting you all week, so you covered your microphone for a moment and spoke again, but so quietly that only he could hear you. "I suppose you kissed someone, did you?"

"Yes," he said quickly and you sighed with relief. It comforted you a little to know that it wasn't his first kiss, because you didn't want him to have such a bad memory “Do I look so inexperienced?"

"No, that's not what I meant" you smiled "You're handsome, I know you've probably kissed a couple of girls"

"You don't need to tell lies, you know I'll kiss you anyway"

"But it's not a lie. I really think you're handsome" you confessed, gathering all the courage in you, while you smiled at him in the most serene way possible "And if we weren't literally waiting for a murderer, you know I'd be happy to do this with you"

"Smooch me?"

"Having this bad date attempt, Reid," you hissed, flushing red, as you slammed your palm into his forehead with just a little bit of force. Spencer seemed quite pleased that he made you nervous, rather than the other way around, so he grinned, “Though I think we should have brought food. I'm starving,” you pouted, swinging your dangling legs back and forth.

"That's not a picnic, Y/N"

You hated for a second that everyone was so intent on the conversation. A part of you wanted a moment alone with the brunette, even if it was in the midst of such a strange situation.

You began to talk pleasantly about things completely unrelated to the case for a couple of minutes, staying where you were, until Hotch's interruption made you jump a bit in place.

"Garcia intercepted an approaching trailer, get ready” your heart immediately sped up and you noticed him tense beside you, too, probably with the same thought flooding his head.

"Okay, come closer," you exclaimed, trying not to panic, as you spread your legs a little to allow the man to step into the space between. He wasted no time and just as you wrapped your hands around his shoulders you heard the sound of another car pulling up.

"Is that our unsub?"

"It is"

You were about to turn your head to peek when Reid grabbed your cheek and stopped you.

"He's smart. If you look at him, he'll realize it” he reminded you with a serious voice. You were so worried about everything that you were forgetting about your training “Okay, so I… Is it okay if I put my hands here?” he asked with a different tone, nervously placing both hands on your waist. You had always admired the size and anatomy of those hands, but until now you had not had the pleasure of feeling them on your body in this way.

“Tonight everything you do is fine. I promise"

"It would be a good time to start, he'll see you" Emily reminded you and you could only sigh shakily.

You two were adults, why were you so scared about kissing?

"Close your eyes" Spencer whispered to you, masking his nerves better than you "I'll kiss you, just close them," he asked you and you did.

You felt his body lean against you a little until his chest almost touched yours and then his lips shakily pressed against yours. You would always remember your first kiss, which in essence was such a brief caress that you didn't even know if it could be counted as one, the one where he wordlessly asked your permission to explore your mouth. Still with your eyes closed, you pulled him by the neck towards you and started a new kiss, a little more confident and deep this time, allowing you to savor the beer mixed with strawberries and that strange flavor that each person has.

“We…” you started to say, once you separated “you have to do it slowly, what he wants is a show” you exclaimed. Spencer felt unable to say any words and your hands caressing him so deliciously wasn't helping at all “Slow,” you repeated.

You arched your back a little to get even closer and when you finally looked up you met his caramel eyes. You needed a moment to recover and you unconsciously licked your lips, as if you needed to pick up and savor his presence in your mouth again, something that didn’t go unnoticed by his attentive look at your movements. 

It didn't take long for you to give up, as beginning the third kiss you felt that you no longer had any control over your body, your heart, or your mind. And while it was true that neither of you were experts on the subject, you guys managed pretty well as the seconds ticked by. Spencer gasped as he simultaneously felt you pull the hair from his neck and caress his lips with the tip of your tongue, while you were taken by surprise when his hands left your waist and lowered to the height of your hip, where his thumbs gripped firmly on the clip of your shorts.

There was a kiss, then another and another; they became too many to count. You didn't want to touch him anywhere and at the same time you wanted to touch him completely, in the grip of the fantasy that this was real and not just a performance. And even if you were aware that it was all fake, that would probably only have encouraged you to enjoy something to the fullest that you knew would never come back. Amid everything you didn’t know which of the two situations would be worse.

The sound of your lips colliding became so obscene that you were embarrassed, but you had no plan to stop. Your hands slid gently down the length of his neck until you reached his chest and cupped the soft cotton of his garment in your fists to make sure he didn't move away from you. The heat of the moment just went up and up, but a voice on the intercom brought you back with a jolt.

“He started the trailer. He's going to go"

Spencer closed his eyes in frustration, and you sighed. From the position he was in it wasn’t possible to get around him without being seen, so keeping all his attention was on you and him.

Maybe you weren't doing it right? You wondered what the hell this man wanted to see if you were practically eating each other, but suddenly you remembered that his motivation was even more sexual than a couple of wet kisses. Maybe he was getting bored because he needed to see that you were about to… well, do it.

"Take off my shirt," you said immediately, still too close to his swollen lips and looking right into eyes that seemed to be pitch black.

"Take... what?"

"Take off my shirt" you repeated, with a tone that made the man shudder completely. With the hands that were still holding his shirt you pulled him to you and he held his breath “And kiss me better. Like you really want me"

But Spencer didn't need to pretend that he wanted you. 

He made you completely dizzy when he began to kiss you so hungrily and you managed to keep enough composure when you felt one of his warm hands travel under your blouse, limiting yourself to letting out sighs that were drowned against his lips. But what finally caused you to let out an indiscreet and unwelcome moan was when he pulled you by the hip until you were on the edge of the tailgate and you could feel the growing bulge in his pants pressing against you. Spencer had almost managed to suppress hers, but in the end, you having your own situation down there didn't help one bit. 

His trembling fingers fussed with the buttons on your shirt until it ended up somewhere on the floor at incredible speed, leaving you half-naked before him and the collection of FBI agents standing around. You might have been embarrassed if your brain could connect two coherent thoughts, but you'd lost that from the moment Dr. Reid first dared to kiss you.

You carefully guided his hands to the beginning of the curve of your breasts and now you both sighed in unison, feeling goosebumps on every inch of your skin. You pushed yourself forward just for the satisfaction of hearing that guttural sound again and your prayers were immediately answered, for it was enough for him to feel the slightest friction and he would go crazy. It was inappropriate to need him like that, but you couldn't help it.

Holding your lower back, he leaned over you and at the same time pulled you towards him until your breasts collided with his chest. In that position, your neck was exposed and your partner’s hot lips didn't hesitate to go down there, while you sighed agitated just at the height of his ear. Spencer asked you, between each kiss, to look in the direction of the trailer to see if he was still there and as you could you answered yes, which was victory enough for both of you.

As he could, he maneuvered to lay you down carefully on the cold metal of the truck without stopping kissing your neck, and by inertia you wrapped both legs over his hip. When you were hidden by the panels of the pickup he finally looked at you.

"I hope it's enough to get his attention," he said, sounding as agitated as expected, and although the circumstances meant that you two would be taking a break you flatly refused, pulling him back to kiss him.

That kiss did take Spencer by surprise and it was perhaps the sincerest of the night. It wasn’t as passionate as the previous ones, but rather it was loaded with softness and you would even say that a hint of supplication. You were begging for him not to stop, for the night to get stuck in an infinite loop where the two of you could kiss for eternity. And suddenly you felt how he, who had been so tense the whole time, completely relaxed against you, as if he understood exactly what you wanted to say. His hands came to rest on the sides of your head to be able to kiss you more comfortably and you dared to take him by the waist with the same care that you were kissing him, feeling even above the cloth the softness of his skin. 

And then he broke up with you. You feared you had done something wrong due to the suddenness of the movement and your frightened eyes searched his gaze for a sign of the reason, without finding anything. He just looked at you with something you couldn't describe, but that made you feel butterflies fluttering all over your stomach... and he stayed like that for a few seconds: just looking at you, as if he wanted to memorize all your features.

You opened your mouth to say something, but your words were drowned in a new kiss, totally different from the previous ones. Spencer was taking time with him, trapping your lower lip between hers and sucking on it gently, pressing himself a little more against your body, sighing heavily into your mouth.

Your hand was already running up his side to make its way to his cheek just as screams filled the silence and you hugged him reflexively. The screams had come from Morgan, who had already moved across the park to take down the unsub and was now wrestling with him to get the knife out of his hand. Spencer hesitated for a moment if he should come over to help, but he preferred to hold you better against his body to protect you and wait for Emily to place the handcuffs on the man under her partner's knee.

From a distance you saw that he only brought with him, in addition to the knife, his camera, and a small backpack with some other murderous instruments that they managed to confiscate without any problem.

"All clear, we've got him," Hotch spoke over the radio. As you exhaled in relief too many emotions washed over you, combined with the adrenaline coursing through your body and the arousal still flowing into your crotch.

"Are you okay?" Reid's gentle voice called to you, as he pulled away to check with his eyes that everything was in order. His hair was messy and his lips were so swollen that it was almost painful to look at the image without launching yourself to kiss him again "My God, your shirt..." he said, completely embarrassed, as he bent down to pick up the garment. You looked him up and down and blushed when you noticed how tight his pants were, feeling your stomach turn a little. When he got up, he took the opportunity to look at your chest covered only by the black lace bra and a big gulp of saliva went down his throat.

You thanked him quietly and put your shirt back on, feeling the sneaky glances Spencer was giving you, just before Hotch walked up to you.

"How are you?"

"Very good, excellent" you stammered.

You could perfectly feel your swollen lips, the light sheen of sweat on your face, the heat flowing from all the places Reid's fingers had been, and the abundant moisture between your crossed legs.

After Hotch congratulated you on your performance, the two of you walked as best you could toward the rest of the agents, who were already placing Oliver on patrol. Another group was analyzing the trailer and they managed to pull out enough evidence about the murders that would be very useful in prosecuting the man.

"All good?" Emily asked in your direction, once things had settled down and the rest of the team had gathered in a circle by the van. You and Spencer just nodded at the question.

“I honestly think I'm going to need therapy after what I heard,” Dave murmured, so serious that you couldn't help but burst out laughing.

"Don't you even dare make fun of this"

“No, we won't. I'm just saying you guys seemed to be enjoying it there."

"That's supposed to be the plan, right?" Spencer said nervously, finally daring to look at you and looking away almost immediately as he smoothed his hair back.

Once your boss said you could retire you escaped in a patrol car as fast as you could, wanting to get home so you could take a cold shower and soothe what wasn’t satisfied by the man. You could hardly sleep that night, still haunted by the ghost of the kisses you received from your gorgeous coworker, and the next morning you hoped that double coffee would do the trick. But apparently you weren't the only one who thought so, because at the same time that you arrived Spencer Reid crossed your path.

"Hey," he said, in that high-pitched voice that came out when someone caught him off guard, "How are you?" 

"Fine, and you?"

"Fine too"

You knew that the two of you wanted to talk about what happened, but it only took one of you to have the courage to speak first. At the same time your phones rang indicating a message and you mistakenly assumed that it was JJ contacting you to announce a case. What was your surprise when you opened the file and found a collection of photos from the night before. You knew from Spencer's face that he had received the same thing.

"Garcia did you… did she send you the same evidence?"

"That's right," he said nervously. You had to admit that if Oliver had one quality it was that of a photographer: you were sensual and perfectly captured the desire that had existed between you. Well, the one you had pretended to feel… right?

Spencer held his breath as he came to a picture of you topless in which his hand was practically on your breast, immediately remembering how that had felt. He just hoped his memories didn't affect him too much or it would be embarrassing enough to walk into the boardroom with a boner.

"They're good," you said to the air and he suppressed a laugh "But I can delete them if that makes you feel uncomfortable"

“No, no, I… I think I want to keep them too. After all, the bureau will have them in the files as evidence of the case, I prefer to have access too”

"I just hope she doesn't send them to anyone else, I wouldn't want to see my bra photos going around."

“I'll tell Garcia, don't worry,” Spencer murmured, rushing to type something on his phone.

While you waited for him to type you took another look, feeling your whole body heating up again at the memories. A part of you was grateful to have such material in your custody.

"I never thought of being the protagonist of an erotic photo session and here we are," you said ironically.

“Speaking of which…” Spencer started to say, “Not the erotic sessions by any means, don't think I'm planning on inviting you to one or that, because it would be super weird and inappropriate, but I was thinking if… huh…”

“Sell them online? I thought so too, but it depends on how much profit there is. Garcia can help us find the highest bidder and not get charged for tampering with evidence."

"What? No!" he said, completely shocked, and you laughed because you got the reaction you expected with your joke "Why would we do that?"

“Just kidding, Reid. Those photos are something I prefer to keep to myself" you clarified and your smile made him feel shy "Seriously, sorry for interrupting you. What did you want to tell me?"

"What…? huh, yes, right. It's just that this morning I was thinking about what you said yesterday, about how under normal circumstances you would have liked to have a bad date with me, right? and it just kept spinning in my head, so I was asking if you wanted to go for a drink sometime. Not like a date, of course, I'm not saying it is if you don't want to. I can just be like… well, go get a drink. As friends"

Yesterday Spencer had practically eaten your mouth and now he was nervous about asking you out. So adorable.

“You're not doing this just as compensation, are you? because you know that it is not necessary…”

“I do it because I want to. And I want to believe that… that I didn't misunderstand what happened yesterday."

You no longer even cared that it was unethical to date team members, or that if things went wrong, you would probably go into the worst of depressions. What mattered to you was that Spencer was interested in you, even if he had implied it, and that he was asking you out alone with him. Just the two of you, with fun and alcohol involved, without gossipy colleagues or mortal danger.

"Then I'd love to, Reid."

“Wow, excellent then” he smiled, feeling lucky that you agreed “I know a great bar near here, the atmosphere is generally calm, I like it because they don't play loud music. What day is right for you?"

“I'm available any day you want” you responded genuinely, grinning from ear to ear just being around him. That was the effect Reid had on you.

It was stupid to try to deny that you were still attracted to him, especially since now you had a taste of what he could do with you. You wanted to kiss him again, of course, but you were also anxious to earn that completely adoring look you'd received the night before.

“Today?”

"Yeah, why wait?" you responded, more excited than you wanted.

“Hey, I didn't ask you, but I wanted to know if I didn't go overboard with you last night. I mean… did something bother you?”

It was a smart move, you could see it clearly. It was obvious that Spencer cared about you, but you also picked up on his intentions to find out if you were interested in him too. Well, that's how it was from your perspective, because that probably would have been your motivation being in his place.

Even if it wasn't the case, you weren't going to miss the opportunity to take a little advantage of the situation.

"The kisses on the neck were something he definitely didn't expect, but they weren't unpleasant at all," you assured him, feeling your cheeks heat up again. "Did it feel good to you?"

"It did"

"So everything's perfect," you murmured, shrugging off the matter. But you both knew you couldn't see each other in the office and acted as if nothing had happened.

Something had happened. Those kisses had only fueled the tension that had always existed between you but that you wanted to ignore.

"Do you want to go after work, then?"

“Sounds good to me”

Spencer gave you one last smile and then went to prepare his usual cup of sugar with a dash of coffee. All day you were thinking about him and more than once he caught you looking at him, but you didn't even care.

So, at nightfall, with a few drinks on you and more courage in your body, you finally confessed that kissing was something you had wanted to do for a long time. You almost didn't believe it at first, coming from him, but when you finally accepted it, it wasn't hard at all to rush at him and kiss him feverishly. And this time there did not impede for you to give free rein to your desires, which led you to the soft mattress in your friend's house and kept you awake until a few hours before dawn.

[xalicitie]

Aftermath — Wylan Van Eck (Angst)

Following Crooked Kingdom events, Wylan and Jesper are living together peacefully at the Van Eck mansion. Wylan’s father is behind bars, but after everything, Wylan finds himself more scarred than ever. After the pain gets unbearable, Wylan decided to reveal to Jesper why he really found himself in the slums of the Barrel.

I saw a fanfic like this on ao3, same plot with the whole Jesper finding out that Wylan’s father sent guards to kill his own son but I swear this is original I don’t even remember reading it. This is also like my first time writing angst and shit it’s so bittersweet to write it

I think I’m also gonna post this on ao3 I just made an acc so u might see it on there

Wylan didn’t think his life was real.

Living as a Van Eck had proved Wylan used to a chaotic lifestyle: intermittent abuse, most of the days being completely ignored by the people in his own house. Despite his newfound life as a rich man with the lover of his dreams, the years of Jan’s constant malicious words had caved a wound deep inside him, possibly beyond healing.

:readmore:

On the latter, Jesper was unshakeable. With all the money in the world, his debt paid off and able to roam a mansion of his own as much as he reckoned would satisfy him—the lack of gambling, however, had made him a little too jittery—Jesper didn’t really have a worry in life. At least, if he did, he feigned It’s nonexistence.

Jesper thought everything was over. For him it was, but for Wylan..it was terribly frustrating, but he couldn’t seem to move on from the past.

Wylan didn’t want to admit it to himself but, there in the dregs of his heart, he still cared about his father. He always had, despite every single cruel thing he’d deliberately done to his own son. Sending him to a prison didn’t sit well with him, not when he shared the same blood. Not when Wylan found himself still lingering to the time when Jan Van Eck was a father—truly too long ago that Wylan couldn’t cherish the scattered memories of the time, but there was an innate remembrance of the period. All Wylan really wanted, was his father to be accepting of his son again.

Hell, he should’ve moved on by now. For moments at a time, with Jesper—when they were sucked in a kiss, when Jesper would make a funny joke and everything in the past vanished for an impeccable moment. In music—his Kerch fingers running along the keys of the grand piano he never realized he missed so much, the sweet sound of his flute echoing in the garden. For moments at a time the past was cured.

Moments.

Wylan had read the newspaper one day and witnessed a large article with his father’s face front and center, describing the imprisonment of the once prestigious Van Eck. He went to the bathroom and cried like a child.

The ache got unbearable enough that eventually Wylan got the courage to have a talk with Jesper. He didn’t necessarily know the exact things he was going to tell him—which was quite odd, since Wylan usually planned things beforehand in case things went awry, but, as far as he knew, he was going to fill in Jesper with what he didn’t know.

“So.” Jesper placed his tea cup on the table side and climbed their queen sized bed, watching Wylan with anticipating eyes. “What is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Wylan’s fingers were fidgeting fervently. He licked his top lip and inhaled a breath.

It’s going to be okay.

“I didn’t tell you everything.” He started, taking small steps toward the bed. “About my father.”

“I didn’t think he could do a lot worse than he’s already done.” Jesper said with a short chuckle, then cut his mirth off like the twig of a tree. He saw Wylan’s blue eyes gloss, and every bit of happiness, every exaggeration of it inside of him, vanished like the coin of a magic trick.

“Come here.” He offered, gesturing to the bed. Wylan nodded, a bare budge of his head, and climbed into the space beside his boyfriend.

Jesper cradled Wylan into a warm hug, watching him attentively. Wylan resisted every urge to dismiss all that was happening here.

“I..I didn’t run away.” His words were tentative and pithy. He could barely maintain eye contact with Jesper, but he tried. “One day, my father told me he was going to send me to a music school in Belendt. It was convincing enough; he put two chaperones on the boat with me. We were out on the shore, a distance away from the harbor of Ketterdam, when..”

Something caught his throat. His father’s guard, Prior’s, hands were suddenly tight against his neck. The distance from the harbor and the panic of that day were tangibly there, like he were living through it once again.

Then there was a warmth at his fingers. Jesper was taking his hand in his.

“Go on, Wy.” He urged with a soft tone. The memory was farther, less real now that Jesper was there, fingers intertwining with Wylan’s.

Wylan took in a breath. “I was never meant to get to Belendt. My father, he..wanted me dead before the ship could ever reach land.”

There was silence. Wylan had gone over such things too much for his own good, but it still hurt to relive it. Especially say it to someone.

“Saints, Wylan, I’m so sorry.”

Wylan was never really fond of sentiment, but something in the tone of Jesper’s voice made his throat taut, struck his face with a squirmy sensation. He knew tears were coming.

“I didn’t think I could hate your father more.” Wylan faced Jesper fully, allowing himself to be vulnerable. “I don’t think even prison deserves him.”

There was little humor there. Jesper’s voice had turned bitter.

He wanted to believe that. Wylan desired with every swell of his heart that he could hate his father. Thinking about it made the tears come quicker, and Wylan found himself swiping bitterly at the first tear that streamed down his face.

As his chest heaved in heavy waves, Wylan found his face cupped by Jesper’s hand, his lovely fingers thumbing his lightly damp cheek. The next tear came at the other cheek, and Wylan was suddenly fighting an avalanche from falling.

“I still love him.” Wylan said, and a little cry followed. “I want to hate him. After everything, why can’t I hate him?”

Wylan reeled at the weakness in his voice. He hated how pitiful he sounded. But Jesper’s loving, caring gaze made that feel irrelevant.

“He’s your father.”

It was, after everything, so simple. He would always love him, he would always long for what they once shared so long ago—a father-son bond, nothing more, nothing less.

Wylan curled into Jesper, weeping. Slowly, he unfurled the years of abuse he’d undergone, the words of his father’s that stung the most, the days he felt most alone and didn’t think he’d surmount to anything at all. And Jesper was there, the prize after all the hurt and the pain, the priceless sunset falling against the hills at the end of a long, tedious day.

Wylan had found his real home.

[xalicitie]

Unwarranted Thoughts — Kaz Brekker (smut) PART 2

You’re a new member of Kaz’s gang of crows. You and your boss share a cryptic relationship which neither of you seem to understand how to approach, but within one night in which you attend to a dire wound Kaz receives in battle, the two of you discover your true feelings for each other.

I didn’t think this was actually gonna be seen so I never finished it .. I just checked to see how it was doing and I screamed 😭, so I like rushed the ending part — and DISCLAIMER: I’ve heard some controversy about how smut about Kaz should be written since his trauma unfortunately hinders him from physical touch. I haven’t been necessarily finished the SOC storyline, when I started this I hadn’t even begun the books so let’s just say my writing is very likely inaccurate but I tried my best to be realistic. I read thru this again and I realize I made a lot of mistakes having to with this but I didn’t mean any harm 👌

Like a rabid animal that had been held back, Kaz lunged forward, finally connecting your lips with unhindered force, his fingers molding into your neck, supporting you as he dove into your lips. Passion teemed between the connection of your lips, his tongue dominating and entering your welcoming mouth. You moaned into his, softening under his touch.

His hand at your neck rushed to your back to force you closer to him, your breasts now hitting his clothes. He further deepened the kiss, exploring the depths of your sultry mouth until you two were breathless, throbbing.

In that last moment he pulled back, a sigh escaping his lips, and you doing the same as you two parted from the vigorous, ungovernable passion.

:readmore:

You and Kaz looked at each other. Really, looked at each other—not like the faint glances you'd once given, unsure of your feelings for one another. You looked right into each other, you gazing into his once cold blue eyes, now incandescent in their softness.

This was Kaz Brekker. Beneath his cynical skin, here he was. Dying to fuck you.

And like that, Kaz was shirtless again. With a bandaged waist, nonetheless, but finally you were allowed to explore his chest as you had yearned to do so badly moments ago. Feel the strength of his muscles, run your fingers over the surface of his pale skin.

But you wanted to allow him such pleasure, too. So momentarily, you hurriedly peeled your shirt off from yourself, cold air hitting your shoulders. With coy eyes, you gazed at Kaz as you slowly reached at your back, releasing your bra, letting it fall to your legs and to the floor.

His eyes were free and vulnerable—a sight to behold. They disarmed immediately under your gaze, then wandered greedily as they meandered the softness of your skin and the pertness of your breasts. Before long his fingertips and the sensation of his lips were all over you.

His gloved fingers brushed against your breast, his tongue delicately roaming your sensitive nipple. You mewled, throbbing, yearning and needing all at once at his touch, fingers crawling at his back, grabbing at what they could.

"Kaz.." you whispered, edged with something harsh like sin. Greed. Desire. He groaned against your skin with his lips exploring your breast.

"Such a good girl.." he hissed. Your brows tightened in pleasure, your restless fingers bringing themselves to dig into Kaz's hair.

Lower and lower, Kaz moved, towards your aching cunt. You were just so sensitive; every brisk touch sent shivers down your spine, engendering greatly your growing need for Kaz deep inside of you.

His clothed fingers slipped into the sides of your pants, and steadily, pulled them down your thighs and down to your legs, allowing you to squirm out of the garment and push it aside. And he did this all while maintaining a lustful gaze—silent, but intimate and personal. The intent of his gaze pulsated in the blue of his eyes.

The intensity in the air was so sharp, it could have been sliced by a dagger. As the tension continued burned, your hand reached for Kaz's.

He scrutinized you intently as you placed his gloved hand in yours. You'd heard tales from the crows about the truth of Brekker's gloves as well as from the whispered rumors of the Barrel; he had never allowed anything to brush his bare fingers, at least for as long as he'd owned his gloves. You knew this was something to do with his past—the tales of his digits being stained with blood made you scoff. Although you wanted to unveil all the layers of Kaz, explore his past and understand the core of who he was, you understood that it would take time.

"..Is this.." you began, holding his hand in yours, as you snuck two of your fingers just barely into his glove. He looked afraid—you knew this was novel to him as his eyes gaped. "Is this okay?"

Kaz's blue eyes then averted from your hand to you and your comforting, lovely gaze. Even if this was difficult for him, he knew he was safe with you. Something about you soothed him, made him want to open up, and there weren't many with the same ability as you.

"Slowly." He eventually whispered, and his voice, his voice was no longer strict. It was wanting, heartfelt.

With an assuring nod of your head, you peeled his glove from off his hand. His hand was beautiful—his skin was soft and his fingers were slim and worked. You guided his fingers between yours, massaging his sleek skin, slowly welcoming his touch.

"I wish you wouldn't hide this." Your voice was low, husky, matching the quiet and amorous atmosphere of the room. "You've got beautiful hands."

"What makes you think that?" He inquired. He was staring at you so intently, eyes so sharp and cunning. He couldn't get enough of you.

You ran your fingertip along the side of his finger, stroking it back and forth. "You have strong skin. Strong fingers; it shows how far you've come."

His brow raised softly. He loved how you worded things; he never thought he'd hear such a thing about him in his life.

Desire sprouting inside of him, Kaz cupped your jaw with his vulnerable hand so quickly you didn't process it until you realized his lips were back on yours. He kissed you fervently, gliding his other hand along your side and onto your breast.

You went like that for awhile until he was back down at your waist. You stood, back against the seat, your cunt begging for touch as Kaz fiddled with the cotton of your underwear, teasing you, loving seeing you so bare.

"You're so perfect." He said as he scrutinized your body. Every scar from the battles before, he loved every inch of you. A tender smile grew on your face.

Patience withered, he slipped the panties from under you. His bare fingers traveled, and he slipped one into your entrance, breaking the earlier anticipation. Your breath hitched, lips split as you watched in front of you, Kaz Brekker fingering you. Like each one of your dreams went.

His left hand followed to press against your clit, rubbing circles into your cunt. The feeling of his fingers was more pleasurable than you could’ve ever imagined—you grasped the edges of the seat, breathing heavily. You were already so wet.

You were mewling and struggling to contain your composure as Kaz entered his ring finger in, pumping his two digits slowly in, allowing you to get accustomed to the tense feeling. He continued to play your pussy with his fingers, eyes reaching your dazed ones.

“There you go. All mine.” He crooned, hovering forward, as he was on his knees, to unleash hot breaths onto your lower stomach and waist, staining your skin with his saliva.

“Kaz…Kaz, don’t stop..” you begged, going on to dig your fingers into his brunette strands of hair, grasping his scalp and tightening your already taut hold as he quickened his pace.

At this point you were a mess. You bucked against his hands as his fingers kept hitting that sweet spot inside of you. Moans fled your mouth, your body stuttered and buckling. Sweat trailed at your temples, the beginning fluids of your climax coating Kaz’s fingers and trailing down your shivering thighs.

“Kaz, I’m gonna..” you bit you lip as his pace became quick and restless. You felt your climax approach, and your body could just barely handle it as your fingers gripped the edge of the seat and roam Kaz’s hair desperately.

“You gonna cum for me?” You nodded fervently with tightened brows. He loved seeing you like this, all he wanted to see was you come undone for him, split in front of him and climax onto his working fingers. “Come on, darling. Cum for me.”

That tipped you over the edge. Your pupils dug into the back your head as your back arched simultaneously. “Fuck!” You cried with collapsed breaths, and you came undone right there. Fluids dripped and coated your pussy, leaving Kaz’s fingers soaked. You shook intermittently, breaths dissolving into the air like mist with your eyes shut, processing all the pleasure that you’d felt all at once.

“Perfect.” Kaz said as he came back up to you, watching as you shook in your strained breaths.

And once more, he connected his lips to yours.

[xalicitie]

Unwarranted Thoughts — Kaz Brekker (smut)

You’re a new member of Kaz’s gang of crows. You and your boss share a cryptic relationship which neither of you seem to understand how to approach, but within one night in which you attend to a dire wound Kaz receives in battle, the two of you discover your true feelings for each other.

This is only the first half of the story, I’m posting this to see if it actually gets any attention and whether I really want to post it cause I’ve never actually posted smut in my life. If it gets enough response I’ll post part 2

"Sit down here."

Kaz had a hand pressed tautly against the detrimental wound pulsating at his ribcage; blood was melting through his clothes as he stumbled into the seat. You were beginning to hurriedly gather the loosely placed medical supplies along the countertops—scrambling, to say the least. It was rare for Kaz to get injured in battle like this in battle, it sparked a panic hotter than Hell in your chest.

"You're bleeding badly." You said as you placed your hands under the running water of the sink. "Take your shirt off."

Kaz, without a word, followed your orders. Although the command did catch him off guard, he followed through without a thought.

Fleetingly, you rinsed your hands and dried them, then sped to Kaz's side, spilling all kinds of tools onto the table adjacent.

Upon facing back to your boss, It took you quite the moment to realize that he was already shirtless. The shame at your involuntarily wandering eyes set in quickly as you turned your focus to his wound.

It was nasty. A successful sword strike—any further into his core and you might've not been able to fix him up in time.

"How the hell did you get this?" You asked, splitting the silence as you grabbed a large cloth.

"I was caught off guard. Stupid bandits pulled an ambush." You quirked a brow, hoping to distract him as you readied the cloth before the wound. His chest heaved, and you just couldn't seem to decipher whether your thundering heartbeat was due to the direness of the situation or the picture of Kaz Brekker shirtless.

You scolded yourself for even considering such a thing at such a moment.

"Ready yourself. I'm going to apply pressure to the wound." You warned.

"Hurry up and get it over with." He said with a low voice.

You did just that. The moment you enforced pressure onto his side, he breathed a pained groan, eyebrows furrowed as his hands clasped the side of the chair. You tried not to think at all as you continued to try and stop the bleeding.

After such treacherous few minutes, you pulled the cloth, dripping with Kaz's blood—a grotesque sight—to see his wound had just barely stopped producing blood.

"Okay, stay with me." You looked up to your boss to see a tired, pained expression. You could see his unwillingness to completely show you that he was suffering just threading his mien, but the pain seemed to be just enough to tear through most of his armor. "Are you okay?" You asked.

"Yes. Fine." He spat quickly, harshly. "Just, keep on going."

Throughout the whole process of healing his wound, all during it you never seemed to get habituated to the sight of his bare chest. You never thought you'd live to see him so vulnerable, it was certainly novel, to say the least.

Still, you completely forced denial unto your filthy thoughts. Even if they lingered there, watching his muscles heave and move with his breaths, the twitch of his face at the pain, you told yourself they did not exist. You scolded to yourself that it was shameful to conjure up such nasty thoughts at a time like this.

"Okay." You concluded after such tense silence. The wound was cleaned and ready to be covered, and Kaz was still alive. Thank the Saints.

"Can you sit up?" You asked, and Kaz nodded. You were just about to lend a hand before he starting grudgingly lifting himself up on his own. You knew he wouldn't accept your help.

Every rise of his chest, the more your thoughts roused and resisted being denied. The more your heartbeat gained acclimation again, your lips parting, watching as his brunette hair fell before his face, eyes hidden in a shadow, only the lightest of his blue eyes apparent. You knew the look of him right now would be stuck in your mind for the coming weeks.

If Kaz saw you right now, oh you didn't dare let him get a peak of your disorientation right now. You spoke quickly to hide your adoring face. "Hold still. This is going to take a second."

With a muttered "mhm", you kneeled down before him to get closer to his wound.

You were so utterly sinful. As you wrapped the linen bandage around his waist, each little contiguity, each little brush of the skin brought you filthier thoughts. You grasped for control, and just barely—after a torturously long moment—you fixed the bandage around his wound.

"Okay, you're good." You said with finality. Kaz nodded at you, and the moment you thought it was over you began putting the supplies away. You wanted get as far away from this little crush on your newly appointed boss as possible.

"Y/n." You froze and turned back to Kaz at the sound of your name, now finally donned in his vest again. "You've been hurt, too."

His eyes led you to the cut that had been bothering you for awhile. It was just at you lower side, sitting just below your breast.

"Oh, it's..nothing." You brushed off, hoping to settle for some good rest. You began to walk back over to the supplies when Kaz called for you once more.

"Don't think you're leaving here without that being properly bandaged." Oh, Saints. "It could get infected."

There was no way out of this. You sighed audibly, relenting at his wish, more so command.

You sauntered slowly over to the chair as Kaz leisurely climbed out of it, allowing you to sit atop, as he just had done before. Kaz began again gathering the supplies while you sat, wary of what was to come. The cut was placed at a certainly tricky place.

Moments passed and he had the supplies together. His gaze fell upon your apprehensive one. You felt yourself tense at his undivided attention. "Lift up your shirt."

Your lips fell agape at the sudden words. Breathing pattern hectic once again, you followed through with his command just somehow.

Kaz slowly walked over to you. He held a wet cloth in his gloved hand, and as he approached, the air between the two of you thickened so much you felt it, each inch, as it sat between you and your boss. You were absolutely disheveled, eyes not knowing where to look.

The sensation of the cloth hitting your cut made you cringe and seethe out a strained breath. You heard his breaths, each one, one after the other, as he scrutinized you.

..You were so close.

The silence was grating and horribly tense.

You and Kaz looked at each other, and for a moment it seemed he were having the same thoughts.

Then, as each one of your filthy dreams went, you watched in utter disbelief as Kaz Brekker leaned his head in towards yours. As his unoccupied, right, gloved hand traveled towards the nave of your neck, you melting below him, moving towards him meekly. Still with no idea what was happening.

Yours and Kaz's lips hovered not even an inch before each other, both your eyes closed, relishing in the moment. Your chest fell and rose, cheeks burning, everything ablaze.

Is this a dream?

Part 2 is up!