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burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 2 years ago

Text

GUINEA PIG ───

jonathan crane ✧𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “I think we most fully understood each other when once I tried to kill him with a kitchen knife.” — ‘South and West’, Joan Didion

pairing. switch!jonathan crane x professor!reader

summary. you and your dear friend, jonathan crane, have an odd relationship: he experiments on you, you experiment on him. one day, you experiment your aphrodisiac on him.

warnings. swearing, use of aphrodisiac & fear toxin, oral sex (m), unprotected sex, creampie, p in v, mention of death, murder, drugs, multiple orgasms, slight breeding kink, face fucking, dubcon(?) SMUT UNDER THE CUT!

word count. 6.1k

a/n. the enemies to friends to fucking pipeline is sooo real and i love it. BTW! this is really self indulgent and again, i’m a beginner to writing smut so pls don’t judge😭 the beginning is also oddly plotty, so i apologize for that.

You and your colleague, Jonathan Crane, have a harmonious, albeit slightly sick and twisted, relationship.

Your repertoires, opposite in every way, complete one another like you were made to match. You are messy, frenzied, intimate; he is neat, calculated, distant. He is impatient, histrionic, stubborn. You are tolerant, deadpan, submissive.

This is an odd, good-cop bad-cop dynamic you’ve built, but it works. Your traits uphold the order you’ve built around yourselves; you allow each other to function.

Who ever said something so codependent, so parasitic, would fall apart? That it was dangerous, destructive? Everyone, but in your case, it has been anything but.

These are the simple rules of your relationship: he experiments on you, you experiment on him. This partnership came to bloom when, after years of competing to be the “better” psychology professor at Gotham University, he sent you a gift that sprayed with you with fear toxin, and you baked him a cake that knocked him out for 24 hours following, heart rate so low he could’ve been mistaken as dead.

“Fucking - hell,” You murmured under your breath, stumbling halfway across Gotham City to locate Crane’s absurdly lavish condo in the Diamond District, barely able to keep yourself upright.

You were being visually assaulted by dozens of images, all your phobias no matter big or small, dancing across your senses. Spiders crawled all over your body, you saw yourself about to step off a steep, snowy cliff, you felt yourself suffocate as you were buried to death in a casket. It was utter torture, and you would have to endure it until you found Crane.

You must’ve looked like one of those tweaking drug addicts from down in the Narrows, shivering, sweating, and rubbing all over your body to remove some of the “spiders” taking over your body. The terror was settling into you, into your spine like a terribly malignant disease.

At last, you found the apartment building, blearily snuck in behind a drunk couple, and scanned the mail boxes until you found J. CRANE: 525.

You headed up the elevator, grasping at the walls for dear life, feeling that growing, unmistakable sense of dread start to take over your mind. You felt like you were going mad, now, not just afflicted with something that made you look like it.

When you finally got to his door, it was left open a crack, and you welcomed the small mercy of Crane’s overarching narcissism: he didn’t lock his door, often, because most days he felt more invincible than fucking god.

“Crane!” You shouted, clutching at your head and staggering into his large apartment. “Crane!” you repeated, this time more desperate, more fearful than anything.

However, your deepest fear, at the moment, had come true. You stepped into his kitchen, and found the man laying on the floor unresponsive.

“Fuck me,” you cursed. You’d sent the man home with the cake twelve hours ago, when he took the half-day off from GSU, and you came home from your after-class tutoring hours just moments ago.

You’d opened the mystery package on your front porch promptly, and you found yourself having been gassed with a compound that made you see every little thing you were afraid of. Immediately, you’d known it was Crane; the man’s pet specialty was fear.

As for you, you wanted your… gift, to serve a reminder to him that he should not overstep your boundaries, your territory, as the psychology professor who was there first. If knocking him out was a little bit mad, he was bordering insanity for the toxin he poisoned you with.

Even so, your threat was an empty one. You weren’t counting on the man to even eat the cake - hell, you’d never seen the man consume anything but straight black coffee.

You couldn’t judge a book by its cover, you know now, and laid there on the couch of his apartment, waiting for the twelve hours to be over. Waiting for Crane, the fucking madman, to wake the hell up, blaming him for the predicament despite your very obvious involvement in it.

You breathed in and out, harried and rapid fire as you tried to focus, tried to block out the horrific things you were seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting.

(Your eyes are swarmed, viscerally, by a grotesque hallucination of your family burning to death; you hear them cry out, voices interrupted when they’re fire gets to their lungs; you smell their death, the smell of flesh burning, how the smoke chokes you — you taste their blood on your tongue, how tender a raging fire makes charred flesh.

Tender, you think on your choice of words again, and almost throw up.

What have you done, you think, and what is going through that fucked up head of yours, Crane?)

You tried to ground yourself, tether your lost mind back to Earth. You’re sitting in a field in Northwestern Ireland, you said to yourself, inhaling. Up ahead is the beach; water is crashing on the rocks. You exhaled, the wind tastes like salt, and it is just you and I, here together. It is only I and you, here, together.

Like so, 12 hours passed. Not so much passed — that word gave the connotation the hours slipped past you, the way a peaceful stream of water does; no, more accurately, it dragged by, like when an arm slips out of the ambulance cot on its way to the emergency vehicle, and drags on the concrete. The EMT’s don’t notice what’s making their trip so hard, so slow, until the hand is rubbed raw and bloody.

You repeated that mantra so many times you were starting to get queasy when you thought the words “you’re sitting in a field..” but nonetheless, the string of words kept you sane.

Sane enough, at least - you weren’t sure you’d be the same blissful person you were yesterday. Sure, you were always a little bit… unorthodox? Petty? Competitive enough to bake so many drugs into a cake your opposing professor knocks out?

But, with this — this being drugged by Crane — made you feel a piece of yourself break away. There would be no more of your life lived without knowing how fearful, well, fear, is. It's like discovering the Boogeyman and never being able to stop checking under your bed; the paranoia moves into your head and never leaves.

Crane began stirring, and your eyes opened as soon as you heard the noise. Surprisingly enough, however, you were no longer being hammered with the hallucinations that had been distressing you just half a day ago.

Had it been the mantra? The near-prayer you now swore was etched on your heart?

“Fucking…” Crane said, getting up off the floor. He was clutching his head, eyes squinted, body hunched and tense. Looks like spending half a day on the floor wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but you didn’t give a fuck — atleast he was sleeping. If you had to be mentally destroyed by his toxin, you’d best believe you were taking the couch.

“Why - why are you here? What the hell did you do to me?” He said after noticing you, voice raspy. He hadn’t had anything to drink or eat in a while, after all.

“I could say the fucking same for you,” You muttered, giving him a pointed look. “You - what the fuck did you spray me with?”

Immediately, a twisted grin was bared on Crane’s lips, despite his fatigued demeanor. “Did you like it? My fear-toxin,” he preened, like the winning kid at a school science fair.

You rolled your eyes, and before you could control your tendencies, you’d swung back and then socked him straight in the face.

Crane double-backed, looking terribly affronted, as if he hadn’t sent you the gas knowing how it would affect you. “Ow,” is all he said, face contorting oddly around the pain.

“Yeah, “ow”. Fuck you, Crane.”

Crane raised a brow. “You’re acting like you didn’t feed me a poisoned cake!” He said incredulously.

“It wasn’t that poisoned,” you bit out, teeth gritted. “Not so poisoned I was hallucinating my family dying for twelve hours straight.”

“Ah, thanatophobia, not really one of my favourites—“ Crane started, like he was losing himself in a romantic daydream, before snapping back to reality. “Did you just say twelve hours?”

“Twelve hours for me. Twenty-four for you.” You said, reveling in how panicked he looked.

“I — that’s long enough for me to be killed a hundred times over,” he mumbled under his breath. “What the fuck did you put in that cake?”

“I never expected you to eat it, Crane. You’re fucking skin and bones, I thought you’d just throw it out.”

“What did you put in the cake?” he repeated.

“Ugh,” you sunk into the couch, “some amytal, zolpidem. Some melatonin. I didn’t measure, okay, and again, I wasn’t counting on you eating it.” You didn’t know why you had this urging feeling to respond to him, to humor his jabs, his dumb fucking theatrics, but you did anyway.

“Some amytal? Some zolpidem? Some melatonin? Jesus fucking christ - is that what you wanted? To kill me?” He was leaning down, face inches away from yours now.

You pushed him away, disgust on your features clear as day. “Shut the fuck up. I’m not some sociopathic fear-freak like you, Crane. I don’t mix compounds in my creepy little office with the thought of drugging out my fellow professor in mind. It was just an empty threat.”

He let out a disbelieving laugh, “Mixing barbiturates and medications into a cake sounds like an empty threat to you?”

“You know what?” You said brightly, getting up off the couch, “I don’t have to argue with you. I came to get my cure, woke up having cured myself.” Then, you burst out the door, fury rolling off you in waves, and you left.

There was something about the incident, however, that seemed to intrigue Crane to no end. Soon enough, he began entering your office during your breaks, asking to have a chat. Or, he’d walk in during your lessons, forcing you two in the hall alone. Sometimes, he’d even wait for you after school, dozing off in front of your classroom and waiting for you to exit your office.

You couldn’t tell what was making Crane so interested, but he was hanging off you and your every word like some lovesick puppy.

You, on the other hand, also couldn’t get Crane out of your head. Certainly not for some weird, fucked up reason like his, but because of what he had created. A lot of people doubted his intelligence, mostly because of his obsession on things nobody really cared about, but that obsession made way to the destructive fear-toxin you’d inhaled, and it was seriously unlike anything you’d ever experienced, hell, even read about. It was a brand new creation, and downright deadly.

Your interest in the man was more so on… keeping him in check. As rivals did. But his was on how you’d breezed past the effects of his toxin in just twelve hours. He’s expected you to go half mad, honestly. Your threat was empty… his was, decidedly, not.

By the end of the next week following the incident, you two began eating lunch together, asking for joint classes, and spending nights over at each other's places. Not in that way, of course — your way was like a group of scientists having a forever eureka, because your minds fit like perfect puzzle pieces.

Your intrigue had met his intrigue, and it felt natural, coming to a united front like that. You found you had more in common than you thought, something you should’ve found out about a long time ago, 3 ½ years kind of long time ago. Apart, you two were volatile; angry, spewing threats, attempting murder on the other. Together, however, you were absolute perfection: productive, well-mannered, motivated.

Now, fast-forward coming on two years since the incident. You and Crane - now, Jonathan, have been inseparable since that time. You two were close, closer than siblings or children and parents or couples; you felt like the same person that had been split into two. Being together was the only thing that felt right, being back at the origin, like being at home.

Fuck’s sakes, you did have the same home — you’d moved in together. Not to his, nor yours, but to a big house you bought on the outskirts of Gotham, with a big yard and an even bigger lab in the basement. It was like a scientist's amusement park.

Maybe it - this relationship of yours - was codependency. But maybe it was utter genius: your careers had both never seen so many accomplishments until you and Jonathan came together. Partly because you had a greater inspiration when coupled with the other, but, mostly because you had a body to test on during preliminary trials.

Creating things, like the fear-toxin, required human testing, and finding a way to get that done always slowed Jonathan down. Since finding you, however, it’d been a breeze.

You offered yourself up readily, given Jonathan would do the same. And, besides, Jonathan had never been worried about you and his toxin very much — after that first time you took the toxin, you could easily find yourself out of its effects. You were the only person he’d ever encountered who could do this, and it was downright fascinating. He wanted to keep you, see how that strong little mind of yours worked overtime to fight his toxin off.

You, on the other hand, rarely tested anything like that on Jonathan. Your interests lied elsewhere: what smells activate the human mind to recall memories, what are ways to accurately fight off drugs like GHB — all mental stimulation.

That, however, changed one evening, when you had been brewing up a serum for the past few weeks. You’d gotten to the point in creation where you needed to test on someone, and observe the effects.

“Jonathan,” you called out, looking down at your notes. The man in question was grading assignments for the psychology class you taught — now, in joint lessons more often than not — sitting at a desk a few metres away from you in the lab.

“Jonathan!” you repeated louder this time, looking up from your notes.

“What?” He shouted back, still hunched over on the ungodly amount of assignments he needed to mark.

“Come here. I need to test something on you.” You said, nonchalant.

That, however, piqued Jonathan’s interest to no end: you hadn’t tested anything on him in nearly a year. It hurt, a little, to test you endlessly and have nothing to give in return - so this, no matter what it was, Jonathan would take in stride.

Jonathan nodded vehemently, “Okay.” He then dropped all he’d been doing on the desk and made his way over, before sitting in the chair next to you. You made quick work, tying his arms and legs to the chair like he’d done to you so many times before. He watched you work, completely enraptured in how you looked while experimenting.

“So,” He said, tearing his sticky gaze off of you, “what’re you pumping me full of?”

You sat back in your desk chair and scratched your cheek, a little unsure how to say this. “Well, I created a serum that, once injected, would lower or lose all inhibitions of the victim. They’d be completely malleable, agreeable, if you just, um,” you fanned yourself, feeling a little too close to the man in front of you, room feeling incredibly warm.

“Just what?” He pried, leaning back in his chair.

You exhaled shakily, “if you just promise to - to provide relief to them. Sexual - relief.”

Jonathan let out an incredulous laugh. “You made a working aphrodisiac?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t exactly — I don’t even know if it works, for sure. If you don’t want to- take it, then you don’t have to.” You offered up weakly.

“How d’you get it out of the system?” He said instead, ignoring your words and picking up the needle you had ready for him on your worktable, which was filled with a thick, pink liquid.

You flushed. “You, um, help the victim relieve themselves, until the feeling is gone.”

Jonathan looked up at you, a sly smirk on his lips. “And you were going to give this to me?”

You turned away, face red, exasperated. “I told you, you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.”

“And let you pleasure some random guy you snatched off the street? No way,” he said, before you heard a familiar prick, small whine leaving Jonathan’s mouth.

You spun back around so fast you thought you got whiplash. “Jonathan, wait—“ you said, alarmed. You were really, seriously, considering not giving the aphrodisiac to him — it would disrupt the careful balance you and he had built over the past years.

You were afraid that if he took the serum, and let you, for lack of a better word, get him off, you wouldn’t be able to look at him without remembering him needy, hot and bothered, calling your name out like it was the only word he knew.

He’d done it anyway, though. And now, you both just had to get through this… experiment.

Quickly, you grabbed your pen and notebook, ready to approach this scenario as detached and clinically as possible, ignoring the pulsing need in your insides as you saw Jonathan’s face slowly contort into a warm, heavy-lidded lustful one.

“How do you feel, Jonathan?” You said, standing further away from him so he couldn’t so much as feel your body heat on him.

“I…” Jonathan blinked rapidly, licking his lips, looking you up and down. “Warm. I just feel… warm.” He readjusted in the seat, unable to sit still. “And - kind of, tingly? Like I - well, I don’t know…”

You noted his words, as well as some of your own observations: his pupils were dilated, so much so the crystalline blue of his eyes were merely slivers, his lips were pursed, plump, and he was pink all over; pink cheeks, pink ears, pink neck. He was talkative, loose-lipped and a little out of it.

You inhaled, then exhaled, before starting the next phase of the experiment. “Jonathan, how do you feel when I touch you here?” You said, raising the back of your hand to caress his cheek.

Jonathan was affected almost immediately, eyes shutting tight. “It feels,” he said breathily, leaning into your touch, “ah… nice. Good.”

You nodded, promptly pulling away as soon as he’d finished his sentence. Subject enjoys physical touch. Jonathan then peered up at you, looking slightly… disappointed?

You shook yourself, getting back on task. “How do you feel now?” You pried, noticing he looked far more affected than before.

Beads of sweat were dripping from his forehead, making his wavy brown hair stick to his skin. He was breathing heavily, and, when you had touched him, he was extremely warm, like he had a fever.

“I’m, I…” Jonathan trailed off, eyes shutting, shaking his head. “Mmm… my head feels — fuzzy,” he bit out raspily.

“Okay. Good. It's exactly as I thought,” you murmured, continuing to scratch down notes.

You ignored him for a few minutes, writing up a list of side effects and observed results of the aphrodisiac. Then, your gaze drew back to him, who had been focussing intently on you the whole time.

“Jonathan?” you called out quietly, seeing his dazed expression. “Talk to me.”

Jonathan shuddered, leaning forward in the chair, head hanging low, “My - my body’s, hnngh… it feels— feels weird.” He bit his lip, face screwed up and tense. “I’m warm all over…”

His shoulders were hunched in, and he was trembling. You lifted a hand up to his head, petting him softly, carding your fingers through his hair.

“Ah…” Jonathan squeaked out at your touch, face going slack, “I feel like I need you to - to…” he sighed exasperatedly, “I need you.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek conflictedly. On one hand, you needed to finish up a few more tests, meaning Jonathan would be teased - or tortured, depending on how fast the aphrodisiac was affecting him - a little longer. On the other hand, he was already a breathy mess, begging for your touch. For you.

“Fuck,” you murmured, turning away from the man who’s eyes were practically rolling into the back of his head at the way you tugged at his locks. “No, no,” you fought your internal struggle. You would not give in to his pleas - you would finish this experiment.

“Okay. Okay.” you said to no-one but yourself, extracting your hand from his velvet soft hair. “Let’s be professional about this. Jonathan, I’m going to take your clothes off, but you can’t move, and you can’t touch me, okay?”

Jonathan’s breathing became more labored as you spoke, and you swore you could see desperate tears filling his eyes. “I can’t- I can’t touch you? But… but why not?” He was practically whining for you.

“Because, Jonathan, it wouldn’t be beneficial to the experiment.” You didn’t look your partner in the eye, because his complete and total change in behavior had you feeling, quite frankly, as warm as him.

You continued by undoing the restraints on his arms and legs, and his sharp intakes of breath as your fingers brushed past his skin didn’t slip past you. Not at all.

Firstly, you undid the man’s white button-up shirt slipping it past his flushed torso. Jonathan’s skin was actually pink and warm all over, and he was breathing heavily now, gripping the chair so tight his knuckles were white.

“Are you okay, Jonathan?” you asked absently, as you began unbuckling his belt and slipping down his fly.

Jonathan’s breath hitched in his throat, and he didn’t answer you, biting down on his lower lip to stop any desperate moans from escaping him.

You finally finished undressing your partner, then redid his restraints, before you stepped back to see him fully. Jonathan was shivering, faint tear tracks on his pink cheeks, head cocked back.

“It’s just - one, or two more tests, Jonathan.” You murmured quietly, kneeling down in front of him.

Your hands pressed flat on his thighs, rubbing him up and down, grazing your fingers lightly on his feverish skin. You had to regularly ground yourself, stop yourself from inching up to the poor, untouched tent in his boxer shorts.

Above you, you could hear Jonathan let out a low groan, “Ah, hnng— please,” he called out to no-one in particular.

“Does that - feel good, Jonathan?” You ask, getting back up on your feet. His desperate groans were getting to you now, how needy his little keens were.

“So - good,” he panted. “Your— you, I want— need, I need…” he trailed off, babbling, lost to the pleasure of your touch.

“Jonathan, if I… touched you more, would you do anything for me?” You said finally. The invention of the aphrodisiac was intended to sway someone's motivations, make them bend to your will. Sure, there was that added sexual aspect, but it was created with less… pleasurable intentions.

“Anything, anything at all,” he said deliriously, rolling his head around. “Jus’… just need you to- touch me.”

“Would you give yourself fear-toxin, Jonathan?”

“Yes! Yes, just — please… please! Stop asking me— questions… I need you so fucking bad, ah…”

“Jesus,” you said. Your aphrodisiac was stronger than you thought. You were satisfied, however, with the results of it. The first trial was a success, and you saw how you could use this on anyone - even people in particular positions of power, and get them to do your bidding. Quite helpful, indeed.

Now, you needed to… get Jonathan out of this state. By, ah, relieving him.

You had decided to do this, to test him, so you had to be responsible and help ease him out of this experiment. Quickly, you stripped your own clothing, even your underwear, before undoing the restraints on his arms and legs.

Jonathan’s eyes widened as he watched you undress. “Are you - are you… gonna t—touch me? Now? Please?” He practically begged, almost drooling at the sight of your naked body.

“Mhm,” you said, a tremble in your voice. “Gon’ help you get out of this.”

Then, you climbed onto Jonathan’s lap, shutting your eyes as you felt his hard cock within his boxer shorts slide between your legs deliciously.

He let out a guttural groan as your weight pressed down on him, feeling your wetness soak his shorts. That measly piece of fabric was all that was keeping him from entering your plush, velvet folds, and he was going practically insane at the feeling.

“M’god,” Jonathan whined out, leaning his sweaty head on your shoulder. “Y’feel so, a—ah, good…”

You couldn’t help the breezy laugh that made its way out of you. “I haven’t even touched you yet, Jonathan, and you’re already so worked up,” you whispered in his ear, hot breath fanning on his warm skin.

“P-pleeeease,” He begged, slowly grinding into you. Jonathan was barely coherent, mind just focussed on chasing the release he so desperately needed.

You raised a brow, but complied, slipping your warm hands down his boxer shorts and pulling his thick length out. You pumped him lazy, feeling how he writhed under you, tasteful whimpers slipping out of his mouth.

After another second of you stroking him lightly, your thumb grazing past the tip and collected a decent amount of precum, he actually did come, wet hot load spurting upwards on his chest and your face. “Ah - hnngh, oh my — oh my god,” he drooled, jutting into your hand.

It dripped down from your cheek onto your lips, and Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut, losing himself in the pleasure. You swiped a handful of his cream off your face, before covering his still hard, curved cock with it.

“You’re not done, aren’t you?” You said to him quietly, his hips stuttering as you artfully smeared his come on himself. Jonathan was arching into your touch, completely putty in your hands.

“Nuh- no, m’still— still need you, need you so bad.” he whimpered shamefully, hands stuck to your waist.

“Look at you go,” you found yourself cooing, dragging a creamy hand down his equally as creamy chest, your fingernails grazing him. “Let me take care of you.”

Then, you lifted yourself up off his lap, and carefully situated your slit on the tip of his head. “Christ,” you called out as you slid down, “you’re fucking big,”

Inch by inch, you took him, and Jonathan’s eyes were rolling into the back of his head, a string of senseless groans and whines leaving his mouth. “Feels so warm, so so warm,” he choked out at last, looking at you adoringly.

You started to lift out of him, your cunt stinging slightly at the sheer size of his cock, when you felt a heated liquid shoot through you, Jonathan’s knees buckling under your ass.

He’d come, again, even before you could get started. You shook your head incredulously at the terribly horny man beneath you, eyes glazed over in the pure ecstasy he was feeling.

“Stop, fucking — coming,” you scolded, bottoming his cock into you once more, “you’re gonna get me so — ah— fucking - pregnant if you keep coming.”

“Sorry,” Jonathan said sheepishly, burying his head into the crook of your neck. “Can’t help it— you feel so — hnngh — feel so good.”

You rolled your eyes at his words, then focussed on getting a good pace of sliding in and out, your hips rolling deeper and deeper into his own. You were bouncing quickly on his cock, dick-riding him like you’d never done before.

With all other sexual partners you had, they wanted to be all vanilla, always just missionary, going slow until they were close, no sense of creativity or any other wishes that just feeling you. With Jonathan - especially in the state he was in now - you could do whatever you wanted, as long as his cock was in your cunt.

“Good — god,” you screamed out, when Jonathan suddenly gained control over himself and snapped into you, rough hands pinching the flesh of your hips. He rutted into you, hard and fast, for a moment like that continually, before his control melted once more into nothingness, and all he could do was let you take the reins.

“Please— how’re you so — ah, how does your pussy feel so good…” he murmured, trailing off into a high-pitched moan when you pulled out, then just as fast sunk down on him.

Jonathan’s fingers trailed up your body, rubbing at your soft flesh, before they found your breasts, kneading you tenderly. He chanced several licks on both your erect nipples, and you shuddered, tightening around him. Your cunt was sucking him in, devouring his length no matter how big he was, and he could feel how his length was stretching your walls wide open.

“So fucking big.” You panted, arms wrapping around his neck, “fat fucking cock all needy, just me.”

“Jus’… just for you! All - ah, all for you,” Jonathan repeated with a squeak, lips bitten delicately between his teeth.

Your hands trailed all over his body, and as the pleasure was getting to you, making your head dizzy and your thoughts foggy, you bounced down on him and your nails scratched up his back, surely leaving small wounds.

This miniscule amount of pain seemed to amplify Jonathan’s endless pleasure, and you could feel him pumping you full of his come once again, the tip of his dick pressed flush against your cervix. His come made you feel so full, fuller than you already did with his monstrous cock nestled into you, continually rubbing up on the toe-curlingly spongy spot in your cunt every time you pushed him back in.

“Mmf,” Jonathan groaned, pleasure muffling whatever he was was going to say, “m’gonna… gonna get you pregnant,”

“Yeah?” You breathed out, squeezing your eyes shut, “Is that what this needy cock wants? To get my wet cunt full and me pregnant?”

“Yes, yes, hnngh, please, wanna come - wanna come more,” Jonathan cried out.

“‘kay, okay,” you nodded vehemently, “then make this pussy feel good.”

Then, you slid out with a whimper, two loads worth of come spilling out of your worn-out cunt, turning around so your ass would face him, before you sunk back down on him. You were chasing your own pleasure now, the unmistakable feeling rumbling within your lower stomach.

Jonathan was completely fucked out, just a shaking, hot and bothered mess on the sticky wooden chair you’d both occupied, but he still welcomed your warm pussy back on him with open arms. Your folds beat any other cunt he’d ever been in, and he knew nothing, not even his own hand, could match up to how addicting you were, how delectably you took him.

The new angle had you reeling, your hands gripping Jonathan’s thighs for some much-needed support. You were buckling, getting weaker with every bounce, but were still desperate for release. It affected Jonathan too, and he was pressing his face up against your hair, biting down lightly on your shoulder to collect himself despite the earth-shattering pleasure you were inflicting on him.

Your fleshy cunt met his rock-solid cock every moment perfectly, and soon enough your back was arching, head leaning back on Jonathan’s shoulder. That knot in your stomach was tightening, a fire burning within you and begging you not to stop.

Jonathan’s needy hands were coursing all over your body, rubbing on you in all the right places, and when his calloused fingers began pinching and twisting at your sensitive nipples, you saw white. That burning feeling dragged across your entire body, your jaw tensing, and you felt positively fuzzy, pure pleasure destroying all coherent thoughts you’d been having, your mind now focussed on the insane way he made you orgasm.

There was nothing that could compare to how you felt now, this being the hardest you’d orgasmed in your entire life. There was just something about Jonathan — be it how unbelievably big he was, or perhaps the odd tension that surrounded you two for the past few years — that made this experience ten times, no, a hundred times, better.

It was like his dick had been artfully crafted to stretch you out and stuff you full; that thick cock, made just for you.

In place of your weakening strength, Jonathan kept his hand tweaking your breast, and his other hand gripped your hip tightly, helping you bounce up and down on his cock. Thus, the pleasure was maximized by his touch, and you rode out your high like that for a few more long moments.

You stayed there, on his lap panting and drooling, for a few more seconds, before you climbed off of him, grimacing at the loss of his sweet cock in you.

You stood shakily, feeling his come ooze out of your sticky hole, and you were surprised to see that Jonathan was still hard. He was panting, head leaning against the chair, hands and legs trembling, but his dick could probably still pump out another round of come.

You did always wondering how he’d taste, and after seeing how long and thick he was, you wanted to know if his dick could make you cry, too. So, you kneeled down on the cold floor, pulling him by the ankles a little further off the chair, so you could get better access to him, and buried your pretty little head between his shaking thighs.

“What’re you— doing?” Jonathan said blearily, but before he could continue, your soft lips wrapped around him, and your tongue began artfully swiveling his sensitive head.

The loudest moan you’d heard so far was drawn out of Jonathan, and more, similar noises came out of him. It was nonsensical, and unintelligible, but you could tell he was having the time of his life — as if he hadn’t just orgasmed three times prior.

You started slowly, mouth taking his cock until you felt like you couldn’t anymore, before forcing past that point and making yourself take him to the back of your throat. Tears lined the rims of your eyes, your head swimming from lack of oxygen, but you couldn’t help how badly you wanted to hear him whimper and whine out from how good you were servicing him, his pretty groans reaching your ears like music.

You pulled his cock out of your mouth when you felt like you were going to pass out, and then you began lapping up at his cock, sucking and curving your tongue around his long length. You sucked him hard and fast, and then, his hands grappled at your hair.

At this point, you believed the aphrodisiac was wearing off, and Jonathan, now a little more clearheaded, began face fucking you, filling your sweet mouth full with his filthy cock. He couldn’t resist doing so, especially with you looking up at him through your tear-stained lashes, hollowing out your cheeks and gripping his thighs like your life depended on it.

You gagged on him, several times, but he didn’t care, and with a jolted thrust past your swollen lips, he came, squirting all he had left down your throat. You sucked and swallowed every drop of him into your mouth, loving the taste of his salty liquid.

Now, you were both fucked out, beyond tired, the strain on your muscles settling in. Your core had been properly exercised, what with how many times you rutted into Jonathan, and he, similarly, had a strained back with how much he arched into your touch, his aphrodisiac-clouded mind wanting nothing more but to be touched by you.

“Good god, woman,” Jonathan said, collapsing into the wooden chair, which was sticky with sweat, come and your cunt’s soaking wetness. “You could’ve just said you wanted to fuck,”

You panted, dropping down onto the cold floor beneath you and wincing. “We’re — we were, just friends.”

He waved away your words, “We live together, darling. Not quite sure if that's “just” friends.”

You looked up at him, before laughing agreeably. “Felt good though, didn’t it?” A smug grin made its way on your lips, remembering how submissive Jonathan had been, how desperate he’d been just for the slightest bit of touch.

“Amazing,” he said exasperatedly. “But next time, you’re not topping.”

“Next time, huh?” You said brightly, shakily getting up. Jonathan helped you, both of you limping exhaustedly up the stairs to your actual house, where you really should’ve been fucking, instead of the clinical environment of your large basement lab.

Jonathan’s hands found your ass, pulling you flush against him and kneading the flesh roughly. “Why not? Don’t you wanna know how I fuck?” he whispered suggestively into your ear, nibbling at the lobe.

“I think, you’ve still got some aphrodisiac in you, Jon.” you said, laughing breezily.

#jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane smut #jonathan crane #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy #batman #sub!jonathan crane #sub!jonathan crane x reader

6K notes · View notes

hcneymooners · 29 days ago

Text

౨ৎ i am humiliated on your behalf.

a one-act ballet of desire, discipline, and dissolution.

ballet instructor!paige x ballerina!azzi. men & minors dni.

synopsis: in the ruthless crucible of an elite ballet academy, former prodigy paige bueckers is undone by newcomer azzi fudd—a maddeningly brilliant dancer whose every plié feels like a condemnation. what begins as an attempt at friendship spirals into obsession and a bruising, unforeseen intimacy.

cw: psychological manipulation, emotional sadomasochism, obsession, humiliation (verbal + emotional + erotic), self-destructive behavior, toxic/unhealthy relationship dynamics, implied masturbation, obsessive!paige, calculating!azzi, implied age gap (21/24), performance as control, power imbalances, domination/submission, sub!paige, dom!azzi, very explicit sexual content, twisted intimacy, desire as degradation, intense eye contact as warfare, slight codependence, the eroticism of someone being better than you at the sport you were once the best at.

wc: 10.8k

notes: i worked so hard on this, i feel like i spent all ten thousand words bleeding. i hope you enjoy and as always, feel free to let me know your thoughts in my inbox. i love you.

𝄞 FIRST POSITION: THE BODY IS THE SITE OF DESTRUCTION.

paige knew almost immediately that emma’s ankle would fold before the hour was out. she watched it telegraph through the tendons, the strain written in her fifth position like a premonition. she caught the signal in the torque of her knee, the half-second hesitation in her turn.

when it happened, when emma’s foot buckled mid-line and took her down with a gasp, paige didn’t move. she didn’t even flinch.

she was looking at azzi.

azzi, who caught the girl’s weight without staggering, shoulder hitching, jaw clenched, balance unbothered. azzi, whose leotard rode so high it made paige’s teeth itch.

paige should’ve given her up long ago. but frankly, azzi fudd was as dazzling as she was infuriating, and paige felt that she had found something she recognized in azzi’s spine—that tight line of refusal.

azzi fudd had blown into pavane house in the middle of switch week and moved like a scalpel through the company. this wasn’t necessarily new. many of their best dancers seemed to be summoned by the season’s need for carnage.

switch week came twice a year, and it scoured the company clean each time. it was the final window in which casting could shift, the last gasp before roles were locked for the season. on paper, it was democratic. in practice, it was a blood sport.

for seven days, dancers were encouraged to challenge one another, to perform variations for instructors with the silent, ravenous hope of replacing a peer. it wasn’t enough to be perfect. you had to be better than the girl next to you and prove it. again. again. again.

pavane house taught artistry, but it sharpened ambition first. it did not care for you to be modest. if you hid during rehearsal, you would hide on stage, which meant that you were undeserving of having all eyes on you. it was, unfortunately, a very effective practice. it acted as an incubator for a mass hatching; there was something perversely satisfying about seeing the skin these girls shed by the end.

winter brought the most brutal switches, especially in years where swan lake or the nutcracker claimed the season. even at twenty-three, paige understood: no one outgrew the hunger to be cast as a princess.

she hadn’t been prepared for her first. three years ago, a girl named sienna had been ousted from clara midway through a friday rehearsal. instructors had known since wednesday that she would be a switch-out.

sienna hadn’t wept. she’d walked off-stage, past the front mirror, and straight into the studio bathroom. her face had been hard as she passed the glass, her cheekbones rippling with how hard she clenched her jaw.

paige found her three minutes later, an ancient instinct urging her to go check. the leg had sat limply, shattered clean through, white bone pressed to the black-and-tile. blood so bright against that art deco flooring.

sienna had said nothing, even when the ambulance had been called. paige never did ask whether it was on purpose. she’d bitten the question back.

pavan house had only asked after the girl to inquire if any lawsuits were bobbing in the water.

however, azzi had come in the spring. and she took to it instantly. there were no nerves, no reverence. azzi danced like she’d been bred for blood.

they’d cast giselle that spring, a rare seasonal shift, chosen for its difficulty. paige remembered her entrance clear as crystal, pointe shoes milky, scuffed at the tops, and broken-in within an inch of their lives. her hair had been slicked into a perfect planet, the circle tight and dragging her face back with such severity that paige couldn’t help but wonder if it wounded her to smile.

her leotard had been a deceptively sweet, mint green that grew cruel with her movements once she began, spined tightly along her thighs, pressing hard enough to make the small veins there pucker and press forward as if aching to crawl free.

she didn’t want the score from giselle. she danced to a remix of vivaldi’s summer ii that crawled down paige’s spine and stayed there. there was nothing modest about her. nothing cautious.

“she has no room for any other feeling,” an instructor had said after, and with that, the initial giselle had been erased, and azzi fudd had become the newest piece of flesh the other girls strived to tear apart.

technically, paige was supposed to supervise these classes. not choreograph, not critique. only assist. her job was to offer open, pale hands when ankles rolled, count measures, and remind the newer ones how to breathe when their lungs felt crushed.

but pavane house didn't care about the lines between things. instructor. rival. witness. paige had been all of it since she'd aged out of the main company last year.

paige couldn’t help but recall the way the light had caught on the sweat at azzi’s collarbone. how she’d watched and told herself she was only noting form.

paige told herself a lot of things.

the studio offered no refuge from whatever feeling azzi fudd called from her inner recess. its walls, white as milk and just as silent, seemed to watch. lights buzzed cold and clinical from above, casting shadows sharp as a blade point. the floor, obsidian-polished, reflective, and pitiless, mirrored every fumble and fracture. you could never escape your mistake, singular or plural.

there was no softness here. no room for weakness. only the slow, aching scrape of tendon against time. the house had been designed to feel militant. dance, a co-founder had reminded them, is war. ballet is the front line, what it is known for. in some ways, you will die twice.

she thought perhaps, with only two years between them, that they could form a camaraderie no matter how brittle it may be. she foolishly thought of them twisted together, separate from the teenagers and younger girls who watched them, twenty-three and twenty-one, and thought of them here long beyond their time. she was misguided, as she often was in the face of her desire.

azzi had long hair when she arrived. paige told her it suited her when she once saw it down, hands trembling in the large pockets of the pale lavender hoodie she always wore. azzi had looked at her, long and hard, before extending her gratitude for the compliment.

three weeks later, that length of curls was nowhere to be found. her hair sat shorn and curling at her shoulders, just long enough for a bun.

it was then, with a leaden sickness, that paige understood how they would be.

every giselle season twisted into its shape, sculpted by the particular self-mutilation of the dancers in that year’s cast. however, it always arrived with the thick scent of rose and iris swaddled in the dense embrace of baby powder.

the first practice post-switch started as it always did: with the sharp crack of pointe shoes being broken in. the studios were flooded with them, the floors rendered partially invisible underneath a sea of pink ribbon. paige shifted through them to help locate proper sizes and thought of how most of this pink would soon be speckled red.

the first week set her body abuzz, the girls more settled with the outcome of casting now that they understood they could only outperform in the roles that they were given. this meant that paige was being accosted with questions when the main instructors weren’t available, which left her no time to search among the willow bodies for azzi’s stark one. still, she found time and opportunity.

despite azzi’s clear rejection of paige’s offered alliance, she found that they still ended up aligned in some ways. one of them was their penchant for coming into the house to slip into whatever studio was abandoned for a solo warm-up.

stretching the body, coaxing it into malleability, begging it to be agreeable—this all was a private conversation between skin and bone. it was wildly uncomfortable to try to do it in front of the other girls, so full of silent criticism.

paige didn’t know why she still warmed up, why she still pushed and strung her body along the path of that dilapted dream of who she used to be. she managed to delude herself into interpreting her body’s screams as singing, managed to warm her pain into pleasure as her tendons strained and her knee shuddered weakly under her weight.

she wasn’t stupid enough to jump, but she spun as long as she could until she tripped and tumbled. she did this every morning, unfolded herself into mechanism after mechanism until the sun watered her skin with weak light and her sweat was indistinguishable from her tears.

it was here that azzi first found her. they were dressed in complementary colors.

paige had slid all six feet of her body into a tight, black leotard and slicked her blonde hair into a bun full enough to bite into. azzi was draped in a deep navy blue, the pelvic bend of her leotard as high as ever. her inner thighs called to paige, golden-brown and corded with proof of her dedication to her craft.

she had worn leg warmers, the morning still swinging like a pendulum between the frigid touch of winter and the softer breath of summer. it was unsure of itself, as it always was during spring, which meant the girls infested the house in an odd mixture of insulating clothing that was shed by the day’s end.

paige felt something like shame crawl along her back, and it slit her open to climb inside the more she glanced up at azzi from where she lay on the ground. azzi didn’t seem the type to strive to make the world sweeter and probably only saw paige’s body twitching with tension and pathetically forgiving under the lightest of pressure.

paige finally looked away, rolling to her side and curling her legs inward until the muscles relaxed enough to let her rise to shaky feet like a lamb.

azzi said nothing, only stepped around her to lower her bag, navy like her leotard, to sit against the seam where the mirror met the floor. paige caught the edge of her reflection there, warped slightly by the scuffed glass, and realized she was panting like a dog.

she turned her head. bit her tongue. felt it throb.

azzi began her warmup. it was so much more controlled, every motion tighter than paige’s had been and unmarred by violence. every shift deliberate, measured, and entirely internal. her back didn’t waver in its arc; her legs unrolled delicately like a chain uncoiling. she bent at the waist and let her hands dangle toward the floor, not touching it, hovering with all the grace of something dead then resurrected.

paige didn’t mean to watch. she just couldn’t help it.

azzi was stunning in motion, and maybe even more so in stillness. her expression stayed fixed—composed, cool, unreadable—as her body ran through its familiar paces. paige’s limbs felt full of splinters in comparison. she imagined the cracked gears of a clock trying desperately to keep time with a well-oiled metronome.

analog against digital.

the silence hung like a rope around them, rigid and oppressive.

paige’s mouth grew perverted, opening and closing helplessly as if she wanted to speak but then lost all she was meant to say. it was five minutes of this cycle, then azzi was the one to break it. she didn’t look at paige as she did, at least not directly. she lowered her body to the floor, legs split at a perfect angle, twisting her torso with ease as she glanced into the mirror to address paige’s reflection.

“you warm up like you’re performing for pity,” she said flatly.

paige blinked. “excuse me?”

azzi shrugged, rolling one shoulder. “just an observation. it can be easily…misconstrued by the other girls. you don’t want to give them ammunition.”

“i—,” paige began, and azzi’s face slipped briefly into amusement. “i don’t remember asking you about any of this.”

“no?”

“no. you’re just trying to be a bitch, but politely.”

that earned her a glance, a proper twist over the shoulder. azzi’s mouth ticked, not quite a smirk, but something in that lineage.

“no,” she said. “i’m only acknowledging you like you’ve been wanting.”

paige didn’t have anything to say to that. nothing appropriate. only a hot spike of something in her chest. she was unable to identify it as rage or mortification. maybe it was all webbed together.

her throat felt full of glass, so she stood, brushed herself off, and crossed the room as if she had a destination in mind. she didn’t. just wanted to put space between them. she felt azzi’s gaze against her spine like a palm, steady and cold.

“i meant what i said,” she heard azzi say behind her.

paige stopped walking. “what part?”

“that the girls will tear you apart if you give them something to bite. they already disrespect you during classes.”

paige turned then, slowly. “i don’t give them anything.”

azzi was back on her feet now. standing with her arms crossed, head tilted slightly, like she was trying to decipher paige’s body. she wasn’t nearly as heavily coded as she aimed to be.

“yes, you do.” azzi sighed, arms dropping. “you reek of jealousy whenever you watch them dance. it’s understandable, but still, you must get it under control.”

paige’s hands curled, balling into fists. she felt her skin split under the half moons of her nails.

azzi began to walk away, seemingly satisfied.

“what have i done to you?” the words shot out of her, expelled by her humiliation.

“what?” azzi’s voice was low. she stilled, spinning in an elegant half circle so that she could better see paige.

“since you—since you’ve gotten here, you’ve treated me like i’ve done something to you. you’re always talking to the other girls, but you never talk to me. i complemented you and you told me to ‘fuck off’ in your own way. i mean, do we—have i messed up? whatever it is, i—”

azzi cut her off, her voice thin and soft. “i didn’t cut my hair because of you.”

“yes, you did,” paige snapped. “you did it almost immediately after i told you i liked it, even though the other girls said the same thing.”

azzi smiled without warmth. “that wasn’t the reason, despite what you’d like to think.”

paige scoffed. “i think that you don’t like me. that you hate me for some asinine, irrational reason that you made up in your head.”

“ooo, asinine. such big words,” azzi cooed, her voice threaded with sarcasm.

they were toe-to-toe now, close enough that paige could smell the faintest trace of sweat and violets on her skin. azzi’s eyes were impossibly dark, their abyss of brown framed by long lashes that spidered out with an odd grace. they were thick with mascara, but unclumped. paige watched her blink once, slow and decisive.

“i don’t hate you, paige,” she said, voice incredibly even as if every cell in her body was committed to the cause. “i’d have to think about you to do that.”

paige’s cunt began to leak. once again, with an inert nausea, she understood how they would be.

she didn’t move. didn’t speak. just stood there in that terrible, shimmering stillness, shame blooming hot and sudden behind her knees.

azzi tilted her head again. “did i say something wrong?”

paige’s jaw worked, but no sound came out. guilt began to bleed into her. out of her, too, mixing with her sticky-slippery arousal.

azzi leaned in a fraction, her tone suddenly sick and soft. her lips stretched tight against her white teeth, rose pink, the bottom one threatening to burst.

“oh,” she said, “you liked that.”

𝄞 SECOND POSITION: THE EXCHANGE OF POWER IS NOT ALWAYS SEXUAL, BUT IT IS NEVER NOT INTIMATE.

paige flinched. it was slight, only a blink, only a half-step back, but azzi saw it. of course, she saw it. she saw everything.

“i didn’t,” paige said, too fast, too rough. her voice cracked on the second syllable. “don’t flatter yourself.”

azzi’s lashes swept upward, slowly. “i’m not flattering myself. i’m observing.”

she stepped back fully now, leaving the moment behind like a peeled-off skin. the morning had tilted toward gold through the stained studio windows, and paige could see the flecks of dust catching in azzi’s silhouette.

she looked unreal. unburdened by the light, but no less hardened beneath it.

“you always this cruel?” paige asked, her voice hoarse.

azzi considered that. “only when i’m provoked.”

“i didn’t provoke you.”

azzi smiled finally, fully, and viciously. “you exist, paige.”

that shut her up. for only a second.

suddenly swallowed by strength, paige stepped forward, her fists still clenched, arms held a little too stiff at her sides. “you don’t know anything about me,” she said, low and shaking. “you think you’ve figured it all out, but you haven’t. you didn’t even see me until you walked in here this morning.”

azzi’s face didn’t change. but something behind her gaze shifted. less cruelty now, more scrutiny. like she was slicing paige open just to see what color her insides were, to see if her blood flowed with the same shakiness she danced with.

“i see you,” she murmured. “i see right through you. that’s why you’re so upset.”

paige opened her mouth. closed it again.

azzi took another step forward, so close now that the tips of their toes nearly touched. pointe against pointe. her voice, when she spoke, was quieter than ever.

“you want to be pitied,” she said. “you want to be friends, so that you have someone to lament to. you want to be like you were before. because no one has given you that yet. so you flailed in front of me, in front of all of them, hoping someone would notice how close you are to drowning. you were putting yourself on display, paige, and then you got upset when i didn’t look at you the way you wanted.”

“i am not putting myself on display,” paige said, but the words barely made it out of her mouth.

“i said you were. you stopped once i began to look at you, really look at you.”

“bullshit.”

azzi didn’t respond. she didn’t have to.

she only looked at paige, and it was enough.

the air between them was ruinous. paige felt like she might cry or collapse, maybe even claw her skin off until she was shredded to pieces along the floor. anything to make azzi look kinder than she did, just once.

but azzi wasn’t being kind. not to paige. and she didn’t plan to be.

she clearly prided herself on strength, both personal and the kind that belonged to other people. and paige wasn’t strong. at least, not anymore.

so she did what she should’ve done. she stepped back. she turned her face, revealing her side. she didn’t run, but it felt like it.

“i have to teach the second-years in ten,” she said, her voice brittle.

azzi said nothing. she bent again, reaching for her toes, unbothered.

just as paige reached the door, she heard a final offering tossed in the barest tone of amusement:

“next time, warm up like you mean it.”

the memory lingered like heat, drawing paige’s mind to its very edges. she stared at her ceiling, naked chest heaving, her nipples pink and pebbled and bordering on red from the way she had twisted them. her legs were spread, the space between them soaked with the rush of paige’s best attempts—and total failures.

she’d gotten just close enough to cry and then fell into crying completely, forgetting the rest. her pleasure became confetti, but her body was not the party it fell on.

she pressed the heel of her palm to her eyes until she saw color and suffocated the sobs, until her breath felt less likely to stutter out into something ugly. the ceiling above her was cracked with veins of ancient water damage, a bruised map of places she'd never go.

the room was cold now. her body, limp and shivering in the after-storm of its own refusal, looked foreign to her. shiny with sweat. pale like beached wood. spread and gutted open, and still not enough. she curled her fingers, vaguely ashamed of their familiarity with her skin, the way they knew where to press and still couldn't deliver. still couldn't make her feel anything like what azzi made her feel just by looking. just by knowing.

that was what she couldn’t let go: the way azzi so easily established how much she knew, how much she suspected about her that paige herself hadn't even dared to name. never out loud; not even in her head, really.

the problem was that paige had not known how to fill herself after her energy, after she had spun out and off the stage for the foreseeable future. the hole in her had remained empty, unfilled. her blood circulated throughout her veins with no way out. she pushed girls into position, ironed their errors out, then bit back the burn of grief as they perfected it before her, moving forward as she stayed stagnant.

it was a plague; it was the closest she felt to being possessed by the blackest evil the world could offer.

paige bit down on the inside of her cheek until the taste bloomed bitter and metallic. her thighs slid against one another, and she flinched, chafing not from pain, but from the humiliation of her slick cooling in the air.

her failure still clung to her like dust under her breasts.

she hadn’t known she could ache like this. not from absence, but from confrontation. azzi hadn’t touched her, hadn’t kissed her, hadn’t even raised her voice, and still, paige had unraveled with all the grace of thread pulled from a hem.

she rolled onto her side and curled inward, knuckles to mouth. the breath that escaped her came out small and stunned. not a sob. not quite anything.

tomorrow, she’d have to face azzi again. she’d walk into the studio, posture just a little too straight, and pretend she hadn’t tried to get herself off to the memory of someone scolding her. she’d act like she was fine. she’d pretend she didn’t still feel azzi’s verbal lashing under her skin like rising welts.

the thing about a performance, though, was that one always knew when it was fake. especially when becoming someone else was your livelihood.

paige had never been good at being someone else.

the morning after came with no apology. pavane house was bleached within an inch of its life in the sunlight.

light crawled across the floor like it was hunting her, and paige hated how her body flinched at it, still sore, still sore about—. she dressed quickly, hands shaking as she yanked her leotard over damp skin. it was as gray and worn as she felt. her bun came out too tight, punishing.

in the mirror, her reflection looked haunted. her eyes were glassy, collarbones jutting out from under her skin. her thighs were bruised on the surface, and she hoped her self-afflictions wouldn’t seep through her tights. she pressed her palms to the barre, flexed and pointed until her tendons whined, anything to burn the memory out.

azzi arrived late. she slipped in after paige had ample time to stew, time to build scaffolding around herself just for it to be knocked clean through.

“fuck,” she muttered under her breath, her throat growing tight as she almost fell.

no one noticed, though the room was steadfastly becoming crowded as more girls filed in. then she pushed off the barre, gathered herself into some semblance of focus, only to find azzi gazing at her with that full mouth pursed over the plastic ridge of her coffee cup.

she was quiet, bundled in a sleepy lilac sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder, curls damp and gathered at the nape of her neck. no swagger, not today. just softness, almost like an apology. her eyes flickered away and swept the room, then returned to catch paige.

she held. for too long.

paige blinked, eyes burning, and looked away. her stomach flipped.

azzi didn’t say anything at first, only set her bag down and began stretching near the mirror, close, but not too close. respecting paige’s unspoken perimeter. but when the class began, she moved with deliberate lightness, her technique still devastating but her presence muted. there was no heat. no provocation.

paige began to loosen, turning her attention to the younger students who were stumbling through the choreography, including the dancer who, despite his youth, had been selected to play the gamekeeper. the class passed through the hands of time. too slow, too sticky, as if trekking through syrup.

paige’s cues were uneven; some came too softly or too fast. she counted out loud even when no one needed her to. she convinced herself that someone silently found her useful. her throat dried out, but she kept going, like she could pace herself into dignity. her neck burned.

azzi didn’t misstep once. every plié was a dare. every extension of her limbs was a fucking threat.

then the pas de deux segment began.

“fudd, with me,” paige barked, voice hoarse.

azzi’s brows lifted at the use of her surname, amused, but she stepped forward, as obedient as she never truly was. their hands touched briefly in demonstration, and paige hated how her breath snagged. hated the way her ribs contracted underneath the shear of azzi’s fingertips, shaking when azzi’s arm slid behind her waist for support.

her voice was gentle, barely above the ambient breath of the studio.

“are you okay?”

paige flinched.

it was small. a twitch of her jaw. but azzi saw it. of course, she did.

“i’m fine,” paige snapped, too loud, too fast. she distanced herself from azzi as much as she good, left a perfect slice of space.“why wouldn’t i be?”

azzi paused and pressed closer, tilting her head like she was studying something under a microscope. something skittish that threatened to break from the dish. paige was that something.

“you just look…” she hesitated. “not like yourself.”

paige turned fully toward her, halting the exercise. her mouth was twisted, eyebrows drawn so tightly they could’ve snapped.

“and you know this how? despite your arrogance, you have no idea what i typically look like,” she said, venom-soft. “you talked to me once, and now you think you’ve got me mapped?”

azzi’s face didn’t change, but paige swore she saw it: some small tenderness, pulled back like a tide.

“i was just checking in on you, paige.”

“well, don’t.”

a beat.

azzi nodded, slowly. her mouth twitched as if she’d just been handed proof of something she already suspected. she stepped away without a word, back into her space by the mirror, but her reflection wouldn’t stop looking at paige.

paige’s hands shook as she adjusted her top, lacing it into tighter form so that it would better hold her. her throat was so dry, it could’ve burst into flame.

as soon as they were allowed a break, azzi slipped out of the studio.

she walked down the empty hall, smiling falsely at some blushing ingenue, the floorboards sighing under her steps, before she ducked into the stairwell. cool air. brick walls. no mirrors.

finally, she could think without watching herself do it. well, rethink.

paige bueckers was proving to be a collection of missteps so far. azzi may have pushed too soon. she thought of the blonde, how blue her eyes grew when she was degraded by azzi’s mouth.

she’d spent the entire class looking as though she might cry. she hadn’t, which azzi was grateful for. she would’ve been disappointed by that. no, she’d stood stockstill and trembling, nerves too raw to name. her lips had parted, breath inflated with panic. her hands, usually precise despite her obvious desperation to be one of them, were clumsy. her limbs seemed too long for her body all of a sudden.

like a deer that hadn’t realized it was bleeding. or a child just come into its skin.

azzi pressed her forehead against the wall and exhaled. she wasn’t upset.

this was, more or less, what she’d anticipated. paige had always struck her as the type who prized control because she had so little of it inside. the lashing out? inevitable. the defensiveness? childish. but familiar.

the truth of the matter was, paige wasn’t ready to be seen, not the way azzi saw people. she certainly hadn’t asked for it, though her actions seemed to, and maybe azzi had been unnecessarily candid in how she had exposed her: the hollowing. the spectacle of competence with no soul behind it. the ache for recognition was hidden under all that snide little bravado.

azzi swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. she truly hadn’t meant to be cruel.

no, that wasn’t right.

she hadn’t thought she was being cruel. it had felt like truth-telling. a gift. but paige had flinched from it like one would do from a raised hand.

azzi closed her eyes.

she would have to be gentler. not weaker; she didn’t know how to do that. but softer at the edges, more inviting.

that was the thing about dominance. it wasn’t about control, not at the core. it was about knowing when to loosen the reins so your subject reached for them on her own. so that they would turn and hand them to you, assuming that you knew what was best.

paige was toeing the line, testing the waters. azzi had to let her.

azzi smiled, a touch too sharply. she felt her face contort, and she redrew it, settling it into something less sinister. she pushed off the wall, smoothed her sweatshirt, and left the stairwell.

she’d herd paige, leaving her with fewer, better options than to run toward her.

next time, she’d choose her words more carefully.

because there would be a next time.

𝄞 THIRD POSITION: VIOLENCE IS A FORM OF ATTENTION.

paige began to stay late to avoid her. it did nothing. it never was going to.

azzi pushed at every border she had, whether it be physical, mental, or emotional. even at times, spiritual. she was like an invading country, her army of thought stronger than the traditionalist holdings of paige’s own. she knew nothing of how to become one with her, of how to align themselves so that the mess of whatever was beginning to spiral did not spoil the house’s bridge to another world.

though azzi would be the only one on stage during the show’s lineup, any distrust and discord between the cast and staff would stain it. it was inevitable. dance, especially ballet, was easily affected by even the smallest tremor of emotional turbulence.

tell me what you are, paige wanted to scream. she didn’t.

instead, she loitered behind the other girls until she was left alone and then stumbled gracelessly back up the stairs to her favorite studio. it was the oldest, the flooring a bit cracked, but not in a way that warranted true concern. the mirrors were streaked and abandoned after endless attempts to clean them, but paige didn’t mind. she liked that the obstruction made her unknowable, that she couldn’t see herself clearly.

she dumped her backpack on the ground and boxed herself into a dark corner as she stripped herself of her hoodie, the oversized fabric pooling into a smear of cream and camo print. she shrugged off her tights, causing a run through them. she had to pull her leotard down to get them off, and she tried her hardest to ignore the way the cool air against her chest made the guava-pink peaks of her nipples rise to attention.

finally, she was unclothed enough. just her bare body against the white, nylon blend of her dancewear and the matching leg warmers stretched haggardly over the heels of her scuffed shoes. it was an unhealthy form of practice, but she didn’t care. she felt unmoored, so deeply outside of herself that maybe only the threat of pain would bring her back.

still facing the wall, she shoved a pocket of her bag open, scrambling for her phone and hurriedly opening it to her warm-up playlist. she urged the volume to go as high as it could go, shoulders relaxing slightly when the low wail of a cello began to flow out of the speaker. she set it on the floor and turned to walk to the center of the room, eager to begin even without stretching.

the urge died as quickly as it had risen. she stopped.

azzi was on the floor. azzi was here. again.

she glanced idly at paige, legs bent into a butterfly shape with her hands clasped around the front of her toes. paige felt herself go bloodless, remembering her messy disassembling of her clothes in that corner. she’d been turned around; she hadn’t checked for anyone else.

her mistake.

they hadn’t talked in two weeks. the last time they had spoken was when paige had tried to do her job.

azzi had fallen wrong. her partner didn’t catch her center, and her hip hit the sprung wood with a sound that made even the janitor outside the room pause his sweeping.

“you need to hold yourself.” paige’s voice had sliced the silence like a razor. “you’re relying on him too much.”

azzi had refused to look at her. to anyone else, it would read as embarrassment, but paige could see the way she forced herself not to do it. with her breath sharp and her jaw clenched, azzi sat crumpled still on the floor, chest rising like a sail filled with an angry breeze.

“i did hold myself,” she’d snapped. “he just—he fucking missed it.”

paige had stepped closer. she had been able to see the bruise blooming already, purple like ink spilled from a shattered pen.

“that's not the point. you should’ve compensated.”

azzi had finally looked at her then, lashes stuck together with sweat and cheeks bright from exertion, or maybe rage. there had been a slip for a moment, a look of what paige suspected was satisfaction before it was dispelled.

“you don’t even dance anymore,” azzi said quietly. flat. deadly. “you just stand there and watch. you don’t get to talk about what it feels like.”

paige had gone cold, and the other girls in the room had hushed almost immediately. her hand was out before she could stop it.

crack.

azzi’s face had whipped to the side, lolling lazily as she moved it back over. paige felt her jawbone creak, the clench of it so close to becoming an injury. she had fled, ducking out of pavane house and onto the main road, where she sobbed into her hands.

she hadn’t seen azzi watching her from the window, her mouth performing a contortionist act of regret.

now, here they were, and paige still found herself unprepared. azzi extended her legs and bent forward, grabbing the soles of her feet and pulling herself until there was an uncomfortable pop of her spine. she settled backward and then said,

“you have a lovely back.”

paige’s eye twitched.

“what?”

azzi gestured at her body, hand lazily sweeping over its line. “when you took your tights off, it peeked out. you’re stronger than you look.”

there was a cold break behind paige's ribs, a splintering like an egg against the rim of a bowl. a bone-fracture silence. then:

“you don’t get to tell me what i look like. not after what you said to me.”

azzi went still, turned her head to better canvas paige’s expression. “paige.”

“you told me that i don’t know what it feels like to dance anymore. as if i don’t know what it costs.” her voice cracked on the last word, and she felt its vibration along the tissue of her knee.

azzi stood, slow and shaking, toe taped, left ankle weak. it’s then that paige finally registered that azzi’s leotard was half undone at the back, gaping like an open wound.

“i shouldn’t have spoken to you like you didn’t.”

the admittance made paige shudder, and she pressed a hand to her face, her thumb and ring finger making deep indents into her skin. they went pale with the force of her grip.

“why are you being nice to me?” she muttered.

azzi sighed. “because i went about you the wrong way. you’re a lot more delicate than i initially thought.”

something in paige whited out, and then it was heat. it wasn’t a proper fight or even a simple scrap, but a collision. hands at arms, forearms pressed together, azzi shoving, paige grabbing, twisting, rolling. they hit the marble floor hard, breathless, limbs locked.

paige ended up on top, elbows braced, face inches from azzi’s. her hand was rooted far into her curls, nails scratching at the scalp. streaks of dust dirtied her leotard, and the air was thick now. nothing moved. she could hear azzi’s heartbeat, a low, primal tremble between them.

and then—

paige's mouth was at azzi's thigh. her lips, her teeth, brushed the yellowing bruises, and azzi jolted like someone pulled her out of her own body.

but it wasn’t a pain response. it was something else, a version of the same jerking paige had done fruitlessly just nights before.

paige understood she had hurt her, but her body had not moved in a way that begged for mercy. it was similar to the moment right before you start crying. not the tear, the heat behind the eyes.

paige breathed out raggedly as she slid her hand down to confirm. she cupped her hand slightly, as if to hold water. she could feel the moist heat.

azzi was wet.

her spine went taut, her fingers dug into paige's shoulder, and for a second, they were both frozen. paige pulled back as if she’d been burned.

azzi didn’t turn her face away, unashamed. she said nothing.

paige scrambled off of her, chest heaving.

“s—sorry. ‘m sorry.”

azzi stayed splayed out for a moment longer, the edges of her lips arcing in pale amusement. then she sat up, reached over, and dragged a fresh pair of blood-red pointe shoes from behind her.

“i wish you weren’t,” she said, voice rasping with its honesty.

then she began to break the shoes in.

once paige was home, she stumbled through her apartment until she stubbed her toe and fell onto the edge of her bed. the hit speared through her, made her body a prostitute of agony for what felt like years.

as she lay there, she felt her stomach grow warm.

she thought of the sound azzi’s shoes made when she broke them in earlier that evening.

the whip-like crack. the bone-like snap.

the flesh of them giving in, reshaping around her.

paige bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. it was dark; there was no lamp on. her hand found its way between her thighs, slipping between her swollen folds.

she thought again of the breaking, of how each pop and split echoed like cartilage cracking. how the shoe had surrendered to her foot like skin to a blade. pain never seemed to make azzi falter, only bloom.

her fingers pressed into her faster. paige ground down to better reach herself.

when she came, it was with a sob, high and sharp and broken. the kind she used to make when she was smaller and still thought crying fixed something.

paige clutched her stomach, face buried in her pillow. the shame was imminent. she couldn’t think, mind blurred by the onset of an orgasm three weeks delayed.

somehow, through it all, she heard when her phone buzzed.

paige startled like she’d been slapped, face rising from the wet cotton skin of her pillow with a low gasp. she got up, uncaring of her cum dripping down her inner thigh and stumbled around trying to find that goddamn backpack.

when she did, she shouldered her way through the mess of it, hand closing around the sleek, cool metal of her phone.

one new message. no words. just a video. the number was unsaved, but paige knew who it was. had seen it deliver messages in the company group chat.

paige opened it on instinct, her heart vibrating so hard that she fell to one side. the moment it began to play, she went still.

it was grainy, low light. shot from below.

azzi’s hand worked between her thighs, the camera angled to capture the brown arch of her stomach, her mouth slack and eyes lazy with pleasure.

she was moaning wantonly, breath skipping in her chest.

“paige,” azzi said in the video, breathless.

the video cut off.

paige folded over herself, hugged herself so that her fingernails dug into her back. she closed her eyes, bending forward until her forehead was against the tile of her kitchen. the video replayed in her memory.

paige.

she screamed, but kept most of the noise behind the white wall of her gritted teeth.

the world’s plot to dismantle paige bueckers was a relentless one, because not even two days after the video’s delivery, pavane house held a cast dinner to celebrate the first objectively good run-through of giselle.

the table stretched long and dark, its wooden face draped with at least three layers of lace. there were so many candles that paige felt almost like a house on fire, the heat oppressive against her steadily pinkening face.

across from her sat another instructor and, by design, she was sure, the immovable azzi fudd.

azzi had worn a mini dress, her long legs slightly shielded by its sequined hem. the whole thing was a viscose dream, an olive green that darkened toward the end. the sequins bled into a beautiful charcoal sketch of what paige thought to be historical, domed buildings with fronds of palms drawn in between.

old columbia, azzi had said when another dancer had asked.

paige felt shabby in her sleeveless navy blue, pleated issey miyake mockneck and the chicly baggy black slacks she’d tugged on beneath it. she hoped her insecurity wasn’t wafting off of her despite the constant stream of compliments from the other girls, many loosened by the quality alcohol.

your arms, one had gasped, and paige had smiled thinly. god, i’d kill.

thank you.

now, she swung the base of her ponytail over her other shoulder, thumbed at one of the small braids plaited in the front before tugging subconsciously the swarovski diamond hanging from her helix.

“you have good taste.”

paige froze minutely, then slid an olive into her mouth. it was only after she spat out the seed that she made eye contact with azzi.

“i didn’t plan the dinner.”

azzi laughed. paige hated that it was beautiful.

“no, i meant your outfit.” azzi nodded her head, then pointed delicately to paige’s piercings. “and your diamonds. i always wanted a piercing, but i’m terrified of needles. i know it's better to do it that way than with a gun.”

paige nodded in agreement. ate another olive.

“i got a belly piercing, then called it quits.”

paige almost choked, the video reappearing in her mind's eye, before she swallowed down the pit with a healthy swig of white wine.

“that’s…nice,” paige finally settled on, and azzi’s smile grew wider.

paige resisted the urge to place her head in her hands.

instead, she stared down the table and fixed her eyes upon a girl eating voraciously, practically shoveling forkfuls of smoked salmon into her mouth. paige had heard the other dancers whispering, their cutting remarks about their envy over how she refused to deny herself the pleasure of a good meal and still maintained her weight.

paige had once heard the same girl retching from the hallway of the house, on her way out after a rare early end.

her fork scraped porcelain. her appetite had vanished. she felt the lining of her throat burn as more salmon was swallowed.

by the time the table began to dissolve, first in laughter, then in movement, paige’s face was warm enough to sizzle. she was probably red. her skin prickled beneath the wine, the flames, the way azzi had stopped speaking but kept an eye on her as if threatening to expose her.

someone else reached for the bottle beside her. paige barely registered the clink of glass until it was refilled again by a set of unringed fingers.

after a while, she noticed the number of bodies thinning. she turned and saw that azzi was saying goodnight to the others: hugging the senior ballerina beside her, kissing someone’s cheek. the sequins on her dress caught every flicker of candlelight, making her look like a small empire walking.

paige went to leave, too. this would be a good opportunity to disappear without azzi attempting to follow. she didn’t need to linger. she stood, ignoring the call of her name and the note that she hadn’t finished her glass.

“you walking?” azzi’s voice caught her at the coat rack, gentle. lighter than it had been all evening.

“yeah,” paige muttered. she reached for her jacket. her hand was trembling.

azzi didn’t wait for permission. she stepped up to paige’s side like she’d been invited. paige didn’t stop her. she didn’t know if she could.

they walked in silence at first. the wind had teeth tonight, nipping at the space between paige’s blazer and her shoulder blades. she kept her hands in her pockets. azzi didn’t.

for a while, paige tried not to notice the shift, the way azzi steered them gently left when they should’ve gone right. the familiar landmarks of her walk home were missing. or rather, replaced. something in her gut clenched, but not hard enough to make her stop. not yet.

they kept walking, paige testing azzi’s countenance by opposing her natural direction. when azzi pulled left, paige chose the next right ahead. she tried to veer them back along the path to her apartment, but azzi kept pace easily. paige’s throat began to tighten, and she raised a hand to tug anxiously at the ends of her ponytail.

it was only when they turned onto a narrower street, one squeezed with tall brick sides and no street lamps, that paige finally stopped walking. her voice felt like a thing she had to wrench up from her chest, some body she was unearthing from the grave.

“you shouldn’t have sent that.”

azzi didn’t pretend not to know what she meant, though her hands flexed almost imperceptibly. she just tilted her head, eyes vast and endless in the dark. “i wanted you to see it.”

paige almost laughed. her throat was too tight for it. “you wanted me to watch it. to be humiliated.”

“yes,” azzi said. “but you didn’t have to finish it, or rewatch it.”

it was a vague guess, but the shame flooded in like a returning tide. paige wanted to sink her teeth into the vein at azzi’s neck. instead, she looked away.

“you’re not taking me home,” she said after a moment, quietly. less accusation than confession. “this isn’t my street.”

azzi didn’t respond right away. her heels clicked softly against the pavement. she stopped walking when they reached a building paige didn’t recognize by name, but one she must have passed a dozen times before. the light over the entryway was gold and low. a warm bruise against the cold.

“no,” azzi said at last. “it isn’t.”

she stood along the top step, mouth parting. paige thought of a lotus blooming.

“i don’t think you really wanted to go.”

paige didn’t move. azzi didn’t touch her.

she just turned, keyed in the door, and slipped inside.

a beat passed.

then paige followed.

𝄞 FOURTH POSITION: THE BODY KNOWS WHAT THE MIND CANNOT SAY.

the door clicked shut behind her, and paige stepped into warmth.

dark wood gleamed beneath her sneakers, and the further she moved inside, the more rugs softened every footfall. the walls were painted something nearly black, maybe green or oxblood or plum, impossible to pin down in the bleeding light from shaded sconces and candles already lit.

azzi’s home was decadent, something paige knew to be intentional. she closed her eyes, toeing off her shoes and pulling her hair loose as violet and a mature vanilla seeped into her. her head felt heavy, her mind dizzy, and she found that she was much more tired than she realized.

she crawled forward, taking azzi’s world in.

a velvet settee was crouched beneath the window like a sleeping animal. a tray sat on the ottoman with figs and some half-melted chocolate truffles, abandoned like someone had simply forgotten to care that they’d been indulging.

the apartment was unapologetically lush. highly lived in. it made paige feel like a plastic bead in a high-end jewelry box. out of place and not built to last.

azzi moved with easy ownership, pulling her heels off by the door and padding barefoot toward the kitchen. she poured herself a glass of water but didn’t offer one. paige wasn’t sure if that made her feel dismissed or desired.

she still hadn’t spoken. she was watching. waiting.

paige was halfway to saying something brittle, something stupid like “nice place”, when azzi broke the silence.

“you always act like we have more time,” she said, voice low. “we don’t.”

paige furrowed her brow and opened her mouth. closed it.

“you’re wasting this,” azzi continued, stepping forward. she abstained from touching paige, but came close enough that paige could feel the warmth of her body. “all this shame. all this pretending you don’t want me.”

paige’s jaw tightened. she blinked. her chest rose sharply. “you think i—”

“i understand you,” azzi said.

and that—that was worse.

because it wasn’t a guess. it wasn’t a reach. it was soft. it was true.

paige looked at her. another tense twenty seconds fell away, and then paige’s face crumpled and her body shattered like glass.

“i need you to touch me,” she cried, and azzi’s face almost mutilated itself with satisfaction.

“i know.”

azzi kissed her.

her mouth was soft but assured, coaxing rather than claiming. paige let her. then paige gave.

her jaw slackened, and the rest of her followed like a marionette whose strings had been loosened. she stumbled forward into azzi’s heat, catching herself on azzi’s waist with both hands as though some part of her had forgotten how to stand.

azzi made a small sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, low in her throat, and it broke paige open further. because the sound was grateful.

azzi kissed her again, deeper this time, her teeth catching purposefully on paige’s bottom lip. paige whimpered, giving azzi just enough space to slip her tongue in and lap around the cavern of her mouth. her hands slid to azzi’s hips, her grip tightening as if she needed to anchor herself there or drown.

she wasn’t even sure when she’d begun to cry.

azzi noticed. of course, she noticed. she broke the kiss, a string of saliva stretching and splitting between them, and pressed her forehead to paige’s.

“look at you,” azzi whispered, stroking her fingers just beneath paige’s jaw. “all that hardness. gone.”

paige shook her head. her lips were red, parted, wet. “i don’t know how to do this.”

“i do,” azzi said.

she leaned back in, kissed the corner of paige’s mouth, her cheek, the salt trail on her skin. her hands moved downward, worked at the button on paige’s slacks. she was so methodical, as if she were redrawing paige from the outside in.

her hand found paige’s cunt, stroking it through the cotton of her boyshorts until she could practically feel a heartbeat. paige kept gasping, her voice giving out the closer it came to revealing the truth of how she felt. azzi paid her no mind, grinding the heel of her palm against her until she felt paige’s pussy drool through the fabric and onto her hand.

she pulled back with a hum of pleasure, recanted her touch, and tugged paige forward. her touch was harder now, more difficult. paige moaned wetly as azzi grasped the base of her neck, then slid a hand up and experimentally tugged a handful of white-gold hair.

azzi watched her, catalogued her every reaction as if she were a scientist collecting data. there was a moment where paige stood painting, pupils blown wide, before azzi moved. she dragged paige, tender but unyielding, until she could arrange her on the couch.

she forced paige down, tugged her blouse over her head to reveal the strapless, navy lace bra that was a touch too small. her tits threatened to spill, pale and smooth like the moon caught by human hands. azzi reached behind her, flooded her lungs with that dark violet spray, and snapped the clasp open.

paige’s chest expanded as she let out a breath, her tits heaving right into azzi’s open hand. azzi thumbed at the nipple, rolling it until paige twitched and tried to spread her legs. her cunt was hot, pink and drizzling and winking and azzi did nothing to quench its thirst.

instead, her mouth parted, and her teeth peeked out as she watched paige writhe. then she dropped her hand, standing overly still before raising it and bringing it down experimentally. the slap caught across her full chest like a lit match, making paige squeal.

she keened, eager for more.

azzi smiled crookedly and didn’t slap her again.

“look at you,” she murmured. “you acted like you were so above this. but your legs are shaking.”

paige didn’t respond. couldn't. her breath caught in her throat.

she wasn’t even fully undressed, her pants shoved halfway down, the fabric twisted tight under the curve of her ass. her spine was pressed against the back of azzi’s couch, knees parted because she made her, and azzi was standing above her with a hand in her hair, and paige’s want by its neck.

the hand came loose, and then paige was watching as azzi knelt.

“you rewatched that video. i know you did. did you finish?”

“i, um,” paige swallowed, blinking to try to clear the haze from her mind. “i couldn’t, but i—but i kept trying.”

“mmm,” azzi said. she took two fingers and slid them underneath the seam of paige’s underwear, tucked them inside the hot pink of paige’s weeping cunt. “i think that you’re so disconnected from how your body is now that you keep hoping it will be something else when you do touch it. probably why you couldn’t get yourself to cum.”

paige clutched the edge of the sofa, nails dragging harshly across its material as azzi began to fuck her. she tried to spread herself further, but her pants prevented her from doing it successfully. “azzi, please.”

“girls like you always think they know everything. even about their own bodies.” azzi said. her fingers are soaking wet already, paige’s arousal spinning down her wrist like cream-colored rain. the duo moved slowly, dragging out shame. “you can never just enjoy it. there’s always a problem somewhere.”

paige gasped, tried to close her legs now, but azzi wouldn’t let her. the girl didn’t even tense. just braced one hand against paige’s inner thigh, gentle, firm, unmovable. she was terrifyingly strong. still in her dress, hair pinned back. she fucked and fucked and fucked paige, breath quickening the more paige struggled in place.

finally, paige came for the first time and azzi abused her clit as the blonde arched backward with a small scream. the bend of her neck was so pale, so open and unprotected. azzi thought of digging in her teeth.

she leaned back, sliding her fingers out with an obscene 'schleck.' it was then that she looked at paige, her brown eyes almost black with greed. carefully, she moved her fingers upward until they were dangling above her mouth. then, she parted them so that paige’s cum could spin frothy and sticky between them, like spider’s silk.

azzi dipped them into her mouth, practically scraping the back of her throat with her nails as she sucked every inch of cum off of them. she gagged, eyes watering and then overflowing, but didn’t stop until she felt her fingers were clean. she pulled them out with a soft ‘pop’ and then reached forward again to tug at one of paige’s nipples.

then she slid downward and fucked her fingers back in again.

“please,” paige choked out.

“please, what?” azzi didn’t stop moving, kept her eyes on the hungry suck of paige’s gummy pussy. she continued to work her fingers with calculated cruelty, curling just right, pressing that awful, perfect spot.

paige was weeping now. there wasn’t a single shred of sadness in her body, only heat. she had never been one for overstimulation, but she found that she felt different now. maybe she was one for azzi.

she could’ve cum alone from the unbearable humiliation of how her hips are bucking into it, how her body was clawing toward something she’d swore she didn’t want.

“naked, weeping, and covered in your own cum and you can’t even tell me what you want. your problem,” azzi said, soft and final, “is that you don’t know yourself, paige.”

and then it happened.

a strike like lightning. a candle wax spill of shame. paige screamed. the sound ripped out of her throat, raw and panicked, and then her body surged, gushed; everything wet, wrecked, and helpless.

her vision blacked out. she clawed at the armrest, at herself. her legs snapped shut around azzi’s hand, but azzi didn't flinch. she barely moved.

when it was over, paige was sobbing. quiet, hiccuping pulses of emotion.

azzi leaned back on her heels; wiped her hand on paige’s stomach. said nothing.

she didn’t need to. she continued to be proven right.

paige was still twitching when azzi finally moved again. not away, but closer. her fingers were still slick and dripping, her breath easy and irritatingly composed. and then, without question or warning, she leaned in.

paige flinched, her realization too late. azzi’s mouth was on her, tongue soft and focused, lapping up what was left of her like a wolf finishing a kill. still so methodical.

it sent paige reeling.

“oh, unh, fuck—” her voice cracked, went high. “no, no, no—fuck—”

she tried to twist away, kicking her way out of both her slacks and underwear, heel catching on the back of the couch, one arm scrambling for leverage like she might climb out of her skin. her hair stuck to her cheeks, sweat streaking down like tears.

but azzi only grabbed her, sighing as if struck with immeasurable disappointment.

her grip wasn't brutal, but it was sure. two hands clutched, one on paige’s hip and the other wrapped firmly around the back of her thigh, and pulled her back down like she weighed nothing.

paige cried out, hand gripping her own throat as she shook.

“fuuuuck. oh, god, please. please,” her voice was dissolving. her legs were trembling. her fingers were grasping now, trying to hold onto something.

and azzi. well, azzi adjusted. mouth still suckling, but slower now, tender in a way that felt just on the border of cruel. then above it all: a name.

whispered. almost sweet.

“i know, baby.”

just that.

it leveled paige.

she whined, hips rocking uncontrollably, a low, ugly moan bubbling out of her chest as her nails dug into the armrest, into her thigh, into anything. she slumped, uninterested in fighting any longer. she only wanted to beg, to plead, and she didn’t even know for what.

azzi continued. this was the lesson.

not the fingering, not the overstimulation, not the squirting. not even the avid sobbing.

it had been this the entire time: paige bueckers could be held down by none other than herself. she needed to be.

so, azzi didn’t stop. she didn’t even pause. she only spread paige apart, drew her wide enough to embarrass her before leaning in and licking a hot strip up the hill of her pussy, slow now, so slow, like she was coaxing something out of the dirt. her hands stroked up and down paige’s thighs, never soothing. claiming.

“can’t believe you’re still so sensitive,” she murmured, almost amused. “you liked that too much, huh?”

paige couldn’t answer. she was soundless. her eyes were wild, wet and wide and unfocused, mouth open in some half-formed word—maybe please, fuck, maybe something new and undiscovered.

her hands flailed, then clutched at azzi’s shoulders, her hair, the edge of the couch, anything to keep her grounded. but she was already falling again, spiraling back into that helpless ache.

“i can’t,” she moaned, but her hips betrayed her, rocking up into azzi’s mouth like she needed it, like she'd die without it. “i can’t, i can’t, i—”

“shh,” azzi breathed against her, flicking the point of her tongue around paige’s swollen clit. “yes, you can, baby. you want to.”

she leaned in more, properly smothering her face into paige’s tight cunt. with one hand she held down her stomach, and with the other she spread the folds of paige’s pussy until that ball of nerves was isolated.

azzi put her teeth around it. she bit down, quick and cautious. the pain was sweet.

that was what did it.

something snapped. paige screamed again, not sharply this time, but hoarse, her whole body tensing so hard it bowed off the couch. her legs kicked, twitched, her hands fisting behind azzi’s neck, and she came.

it was harder than before, wetter, louder, her voice a ragged, desperate sob.

“fuck. fuck, shit—” her throat went raw with it.

she couldn’t stop shaking. she was making only noises now, small, broken ones as if she’d forgotten what language was. her whole body was flushed and red, stretched past its limit, her chest heaving like she’d run miles.

and azzi?

azzi looked beatific.

her face was slick with paige’s pleasure, her hands still holding her open, steady. her eyes were still so dark, but her smile was soft. pleased. she looked high as paige felt, high off control and victory. off the confirmation of who paige really was.

she leaned up, finally, finally, and kissed paige’s thigh. a little reverent, a lot smug. then her cheek, near the bone. then her lips.

it wasn’t demanding, only an intimate deposit of affection. as if to say: this is what you are now.

paige whimpered and reached out.

azzi came to her.

“atta girl,” she whispered.

the words hit her like a needle to the blood. paige pressed her thighs together and let herself drift out.

𝄞 FIFTH POSITION: WE LOVE ONLY THE PERSON WE CAN EAT.

backstage was stained dim and golden, oppressed by light that smudged its edges, softening the world into interchangeable silhouettes. everyone here was about to become someone else.

paige closed her eyes and listened to the rustle of tulle, the distant tuning of strings. the faint chemical sweetness of hairspray and powdered resin floated in the air like incense.

she sat on the chaise near the mirror, blazer unbuttoned, sleeves pushed to her elbows. she looked strange in her body, leaning to the side woozily as if unburdened. it was as if something had been scraped from her ribs in the past few months, and now this was her aftermath to carry as a secret. her hair was pulled back clean, stolen away from the sharp peaks of her face, her lips still bitten pink from where azzi had kissed her in the stairwell minutes before.

her thigh grazed azzi’s when she crossed her legs. she was too close to the vanity, but azzi didn’t move away.

“i think about you constantly,” paige said. her voice was quiet, dry, but not dishonest.

azzi didn’t look at her right away. she was adjusting her bodice in the mirror, slow and sure, the glittering edge of her costume catching the light with each shift. her mouth curved. not surprised.

she raised her gaze, met her eyes through the mirror.

“i know,” she said simply.

she rose and stepped closer—not to paige, but toward the stage.

silence settled across it. paige’s knee twitched, and for a moment, she thought she could hear it calling her name.

the hush beyond the wings coaxed every girl onto their feet, a firing squad of white tulle and pink.

the overture was beginning.

#mine ; 🐎.#pazzi fics #pazzi #paige x azzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #dallas wings #pazzi ballet au.

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iluvylalevu · 1 year ago

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A (Hopefully Coherent) Ramble About What Mal Du Pays Represents

So this might be a little over the place cuz I don’t really do analysis, but the battle with Mal Du Pays has really stuck with me, hear me out (and take this doodle)

So as we know, Mal Du Pays is essentially the embodiment of Siffrin’s self-hatred and intrusive thoughts, but what I find interesting is that it also represents the part of Siffrin that suffers because of it. Mal Du Pays is basically the embodiment of self-destructing thoughts; It spends the battle emotionally torturing Siffrin, but it also spends the battle silently screaming and crying.

And the name meaning “homesickness” is also a detail I find fascinating because most of the things Mal Du Pays says have little to do with the forgotten country, with the exception being Odile’s remarks about the lack of a home equating to a lack of identity. Homesickness is characterized by longing; yearning for the warmth and familiarity of home while being away from it, yet most of what Mal Du Pays says has to do with the party. To Siffrin, his party is home. While it pains them greatly that their country and entire childhood are gone, the thought of losing his new family terrifies and pains him more. He spent so long belonging nowhere, they’re terrified of losing the one place he feels like he belongs to now. He wants to be with them really badly, to the point he was subconsciously willing to hold them hostage.

Siffrin is a person made for loving. He loves strongly and wants to be loved back, but paradoxically this is also the reason he hates himself. They think it’s selfish to want that love back, they think their happiness shouldn’t come first or even come second, it shouldn’t be important at all; it’s their family who is lovable, it’s them who deserve happiness, not him, because he isn't like them, he's a nobody who belongs nowhere. Siffrin is a person who loves strongly but doesn’t lend that love to himself.

Unfortunately, this self-hatred also manifests in paranoia. Because they think themself unworthy of love they also project this onto their friends, thinking they’ll hate him if he reveals the “real” him, that they’ll turn heel as soon as they can because he’s so deplorable.

The party, in reality, loves Siffrin, but that love gets filtered through Siffrin’s self-hatred and comes back out as a mess of self-imposed conditions, “they’ll hate me if I do this” “They’ll hate me if I say that”, none of which is true, but they wholeheartedly believe it is, and it hurts him

Mal Du Pays also being unable to be harmed by Siffrin is something I feel is so important. Beating this part of himself into submission is essentially what he’s been trying to do the whole game and it doesn’t work, you can’t beat yourself up and expect that to make you feel better. Mal Du Pays, as aggressive as it is, isn’t a battle that needs to be won it’s a wound that needs to be healed

#isat #in stars and time #isat siffrin #isat mal du pays #isat spoilers #in stars and time spoilers #isat act 5 spoilers #WRITING THOUGHTS IS HARD WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME #H O W DO PEOPLE ESSAY.

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secretmellowblog · 2 years ago

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Another reason I dislike Les Mis adaptations that make Jean Valjean constantly openly angry/violent is because they miss that Jean Valjean is not allowed to be angry. The fact he is forbidden from expressing anger is, I argue, actually a very important part of his character in the novel!

One of the subtler political messages of the story is that some people are given freedom to express anger, while others are forced to be excessively meek and conciliatory in order to survive.

Wealthy conservatives like Monsieur Gillenormand can “fly into rages” every five minutes and have it treated as an endearing quirk. Poor characters like Fantine or Jean Valjean must be constantly polite and ingratiating to “their superiors” at all times, even in the face of mockery and violence, or else they will be subjected to punishment. If Gillenormand beats his child with a stick, it’s a silly quirk; if Fantine beats a man harassing her, she is sentenced to months in prison.

(Thenardier and Javert are interesting examples of this too. Thenardier acts superficially polite and ingratiating to his wealthy “superiors” while insulting them behind their backs. Javert, meanwhile, is completely earnest in his mindless bootlicking. But I could write an entire other post on this.)

The point is that….Jean Valjean has to be submissive and self-effacing, or he puts himself in danger. He can’t afford to be angry and make scenes, or he will be punished. The only barrier between himself and prison is his ability to be so “courteous” that no one bothers to pry into his past.

Jean Valjean is excessively polite to people, in the way that you’re excessively polite to an armed cop who pulls you over for speeding when you secretly have a few illegal grams of marijuana in the your car trunk. XD It’s politeness built on fear, is what I mean. It’s politeness built on a desperation to make a powerful person avoid looking too closely at you.

It’s politeness at gunpoint.

Jean Valjean has also spent nineteen years living in an environment where any expression of anger could be punished with severe violence. That trauma is reflected in the overly cautious reserved way he often speaks with people (even people who are kind and would never actually hurt him.)

So adaptations that have Jean Valjean boldly having shouting matches with people in public and beating cops half to death without worrying about the repercussions just make go like “???”

Because that’s part of what’s fascinating about Jean Valjean to me? On one hand, he is a genuinely kind compassionate person, who cares deeply about other people and behaves kindly out of altruism. But on the other hand, he was also “beaten into submission” by prison, and forced into adopting conciliatory bootlicking behaviors in order to survive. And it can sometimes be hard to tell when he is being kind vs. when he is being “polite” — when he is speaking and acting out of earnest compassion vs. when he is speaking and acting out of fear.

The TL;DR is that I think it’s important that even though Jean Valjean is very (justifiably) angry about the injustice that was inflicted on him, his anger is harshly policed at all times— by other people, and by himself. He has been told his anger is wrong/selfish so often that he believes it. His anger takes weirder more unhealthy forms because he has no safe outlet for it. His rage at society becomes a possessiveness towards Cosette and silent hatred of Marius, but primarily it becomes useless self-destructive constant hatred of himself. And while I might be phrasing this wrong, I think that’s what’s interesting about Jean Valjean’s relationship with anger— the way his justified fury at his own mistreatment gets warped into more and more unhealthy forms by the way he’s forced to constantly repress it.

#les mis #les mis letters #jean valjean #don’t mind me just Valjeanposting #you know I’m doing okay when I’m Valjeanposting #but yeah I can’t remember the first person who started talking about this concept with me #(it was years ago)#but now I think about it constantly #when you read the book looking through that lens #of certain charcaters being forced to act conciliatory and polite ‘under threat of violence’#you notice it constantly #it’s such a running Thing #and you could write tons of posts about it on www.tumblr.com

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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 2 months ago

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𝐈𝐧 𝐎𝐢𝐥 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

[ 𝐑𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐥 ]

𝐚/𝐧 : This story was born as the unholy lovechild between me and @laddelulu30 in the dead of night, when our brains short-circuited and conjured this version of Rafayel. Bratty. Dominant. Unraveled. I haven’t known peace since.

He lived in my head with the weight of a temptation I couldn’t ignore—drenched in sin, sarcasm, and the kind of control that begs to be challenged. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. So I wrote him. Or maybe he wrote himself. Either way—here he is. The Rafayel that would, without question, absolutely ruin me. I hope he ruins you too.

𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐰 : Explicit sexual content • power dynamics • breathless dominance & resistance • biting • bondage (light restraint) • consensual rough sex • possessive behavior • intense psychological tension • brat-taming dynamics • degradation (mild) • mutual obsession • themes of control, pride, and surrender.

𝐝𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : To @laddelulu30—beautiful, brilliant, and dangerously enabling. A cherished mutual in the sacred halls of smutuals. Thank you for dreaming this version of Rafayel into existence with me. This one breathes because of you.

And to the incomparable @lovenstan, whose existence is a blessing and whose support is pure magic—thank you for always knowing exactly how to scream in the comments and fuel the fire.

This sin-stained offering is for you both. May it ruin you kindly.

𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐎𝐰𝐧 : [ 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐞! ]

𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 touched the painting in three nights.

Not out of satisfaction—no, that would have suggested closure, a lie he could not afford. The work remained unfinished, not in the way of technical incompletion, but in something far crueler: a silent resistance embedded in the shape of her mouth. There was a truth there he could not name, and so refused to capture. A defiance, perhaps. Or the veiled threat of mercy. Either way, the moment he felt himself approaching comprehension, his hand had faltered—as if to know her fully was to forfeit something irrevocable.

Now he stood before it again.

Palette in one hand, brush in the other—fingers twitching not from fear, but from reverence so sharp it bordered on pain. To complete it now would be to submit to her, to her memory, to the impossible idea of her. And submission, for a man like Rafayel, was a form of self-destruction he reserved only for gods and ghosts.

The gallery breathed around him with the scent of turpentine and oil—sickly, sacred. Moonlight fractured itself across the marble floor, a cold and pitiless illumination. The portrait—her portrait, though she would spit at the term—watched him from its place on the easel. It did not wait. It judged. With the patience of a saint and the cruelty of an oracle.

He touched the brush to the corner of her eye.

And in that instant, his breath betrayed him.

He hated painting her.

Hated the muscle memory of her made flesh in oil and shadow. Hated the way his hand moved unbidden, recalling the soft edge of her cheekbone, the lift of her brow when she reached like she had just defied heaven. He despised the intimacy of that precision—the hunger that resided not in his gut, but in his fingertips. A hunger that remembered her better than he did.

What was she, if not his most magnificent error?

He told himself this was about control. About preservation. About conquering the wildness of her and immortalizing it in pigment and linen. But every hour spent dragging color across canvas had begun to feel more like penance than creation. Less dominion, more worship. And not the kind given in churches—but the kind offered in secret, in the dark, with bloodied hands and bent knees.

She was no muse.

She was a consequence.

He stepped back.

The brush lingered in the air, uncertain. The red he had chosen for her lips—once defiant, now docile—was wrong. Too soft. Too floral. It lacked her venom. Her dare. No, she was not a rose. She was a briar. A blade disguised as bloom.

He sat the palette down.

Wiped his hands on the cloth that hung at his hip—habitual, futile. Rituals meant to suggest control where none remained.

Still the portrait stared.

Still it asked questions it always asked: Is this all you see? Is this all you dare to want?

He did not answer.

He never did.

Not because he lacked the answer, but because to utter it would desecrate it. The truth was not merely unbearable—it was sacrilege. And though Rafayel had long since turned his back on God, he still clung, in some small, desperate corner of himself, to the illusion that certain things might remain untouched. Unsullied. That she might still be sacred.

But he knew—God, he knew—that the moment she stepped through that door again, that fragile altar would be shattered. He would not meet her as a man.

He would meet her as a penitent without confession.

He had imagined her naked.

Not in passing. Not in the idle, mechanical way a man’s gaze might linger and move on. No—Rafayel dwelt there. He inhabited it. The idea of her was not a flicker but a cathedral in his mind, and he had knelt at its altar night after night. He envisioned her not only in the heat of flesh, but in the sacrament of stillness—in the cruel, perfect silence of bare skin and parted lips, as if she had been created solely to unmake him.

Not even the saints received such reverence.

In those fantasies, her body was never simply seen. It was offered. Not to him, no—never to him—but to some cosmic force that taunted him with proximity. She lived in his mind like a myth: untouchable, yet maddeningly near. His hands would wake aching, as if they had truly held the curve of her thigh, the delicate, defiant line of her throat. As if he had whispered into her skin, to with words, but breath: Will you let me ruin you?

Some nights he awoke choking on guilt. Others, on arousal.

Most nights, both.

He could no longer till which came first. Love? Desire? Something worse?

He didn’t know. He was no longer certain there was a difference.

He had never wanted to possess anyone before—not in the biblical sense, not in the artistic one. Not like this. Not to the point of delirium. Not to the point where each passing glance became a negotiation with the monster he kept sedated beneath layers of discipline and diluted paint. This was not longing—it was violence. The kind born of wonder. Of worship. He wanted to touch her the way the starving touch bread. The way the dying might reach for salvation and dare to hope it has a face.

He wanted her undone.

Not through cruelty, but through tenderness. The unbearable kind. The kind that strips a person bare not with hands, but with recognition. He wanted her trembling not from fear, but from the pressure of being seen. Completely. Flaws intact. Darkness acknowledged. And adored anyway.

But she could not be possessed.

That was the wound.

She wielded her power with a grace that required no effort, no performance. She was a woman who had been shattering men since the womb—gently, wordlessly. Her defiance was not a storm. It was a breeze at your back as you stepped off the cliff. A glance. A slow, deliberate turn of the head. A smile that said: You’ll drown before you reach the parts of me you think you want.

And perhaps that was the very thing that kept him circling her flame. The ledge. The fall. The exquisite absence of safety.

Perhaps that was why he kept painting her.

To hold her, if not in life, then in likeness.

To trap the infinite in linen and oil.

To make God jealous.

But the painting never breathed like she did.

It never laughed with that unbearable softness—the kind that mocked and beckoned in the same breath. It did not tilt its head with that maddening carelessness, a gesture carved from intent yet masquerading as instinct, as if to say: Try me. I dare you. It never spoke in that voice—that voice—which sounded like sleep and sacrilege layered into one. Her tone was not heard; it was embedded. It slipped into the bloodstream like silk soaked in poison. A whispering parasite, tender in its venom.

Even now, with only canvas and ghosts for company, he could hear her.

The way she said his name as though it belonged between her teeth. Not a word, but a verdict. Not shouted, never that—only laced, with the quiet cruelty of a woman who knew she needn’t raise her voice to command the room. That lazy, velvet cadence—more strangulation than speech—coiled around his throat with every recollection.

He loathed it.

Loathed the way it made him want to perform.

The way it summoned something feral from the pit of him—a need to outwit her, to catch her off guard, to win a war that had no name and no end. She didn’t argue. She baited. With smirks and silences, with that impossible grace and the godless confidence of someone who had never lost, not truly.

Their game was never battle.

It was ritual.

A theatre of glances and veiled defiance. Of distance weaponized. Of intimacy deferred until it bled. They wielded denial like a shared language, trading barbed sentences beneath the civility of smiles. Even her lies were art. He had memorized the way her lips parted just before she bent the truth—the infinitesimal flicker of amusement when she caught him watching, undone despite himself.

She knew what she was doing.

God, she knew.

And worse—she enjoyed it.

And still—still—he returned. Walked into the trap willingly. Let it spring around him like a collar, worn not out of weakness but worship. Because beneath the performance and the mockery, beneath the eyes that glittered like sin in motion, there was something else. Something deeper. Something he could not name—only suffer.

He didn’t want to break her.

Didn’t want to win.

He wanted to endure her.

To bear her in full. To remain standing while she dismantled him one breath at a time. To prove—to her, to himself, to whatever cruel God had made her—that he could withstand the full weight of her fire and not turn to ash.

He didn’t want to tame her.

He wanted to survive her.

And if the fates were merciful, if the stars aligned for even a single instant, perhaps—perhaps—he would be granted the dignity of being ruined by her hands alone.

But even that was fantasy. Too clean. Too holy.

What he felt for her was older than language, hungrier than virtue. It had claws. It had teeth. It did not beg.

It waited.

Waited for the night they would no longer pretend. When words would fail, and control would die screaming. When all that would remain was breath and skin and fury and silence—ripped apart and pressed together in the same moment.

He did not want a kiss.

He wanted a reckoning.

And Rafayel would not be content until they were both on the floor—paint-smeared, sweat-slick, and gasping for the kind of absolution that could only be earned through ruin.

It was then—of course then, as if summoned by blasphemy itself—that he heard her.

A voice from the doorway: smooth, assured, intolerably amused. It floated into the gallery like incense, thick with self-satisfaction. A knife wrapped in silk.

“Well. That’s one way to look at me.”

She stood with her hands folded behind her back, not as though entering a room, but a confessional. A judge disguised as a supplicant. The moonlight reached for her first, hiding the outline of her frame like a sacrament corrupted. That smile—sharp, unrepentant—wasn’t generous. It was intentional. Like she had read every feral thought he had ever had about her and chosen, with exquisite malice, to reward him for it.

Rafayel did not turn.

Not yet.

He kept his gaze fixed on the painting—those eyes he had failed to capture, failed to bind—and felt something monstrous and ancient unfurl in his chest. Not joy. Not longing.

Recognition.

Of course she would arrive now. Of course she would speak with that impossible casualness, that practiced cruelty.

Because she knew.

She always knew.

“I must’ve been very good,” she said, stepping forward with that same maddening elegance, “to live in your head like that.” Her tone, never quite loud, never quite soft, was the voice of inevitability. “Though I imagine it’s a bit crowded. With all the saints you’ve evicted to make room for your obsessions.”

That was her gift.

Every word a mercy and a wound. Every sentence a hymn and a heresy.

He turned—not to greet her, but to endure her.

And there she was. Real. Dreadfully, deliciously real. She had not dressed to provoke. And yet she did. She had not asked to be noticed. And yet she bent the very air toward her. Her gaze flicked from canvas to creator and back again, her amusement not in the brushstrokes, but in the man she’d caught mid-devotion.

“You didn’t get my mouth quite right,” she murmured, head tilted in mock critique. “But I suppose even gods have off days.”

He said nothing. Could say nothing. He only looked—truly looked—and something within him shifted. Not crumbled. Not yet. But fractured. The first crack in a dam that held for too long.

She had not come to be admired.

That much was clear.

She had come to play.

To see how far she could press her heel against the altar before the temple fell. To test whether the god she had been fashioned for could be brought to his knees.

And if she believed, even for a moment, that he would fall first—

Then she had gravely misunderstood the man who had painted her into eternity.

She moved with the terrifying grace of someone untouched by consequence. Each step measured, deliberate. Not toward him—not yet—but toward the painting. Her own face, her own expression—immortalized in oil and torment. She regarded it the way one might study a former lover across a funeral—familiar, curious, never quite reconciled.

“You made me softer than I am,” she said at last, her hands still loosely clasped behind her back, though one now lifted, hovering near the painted cheek as if debating contact. “Kind. Almost gentle.”

A pause.

“Is that how you see me, Rafayel?”

He watched her the way a man watches a blade just before it plunges.

“No.”

“Pity.” Her smile curved with cruelty. “I liked the idea of you lying to yourself.”

He tilted his head slowly, as if weighing the stormclouds gathering behind her eyes. As if deciding whether the rain would cleanse or drown.

“You’re not flattered?” she asked, mock surprise lacing her words. “Not even a little? Most men would unravel at the thought of being so possessed by a woman they had to paint her just to keep from going mad in her absence.”

He let out a sound—low, rough. Almost laughter. But stripped of mirth.

“Most men are weak.”

She clicked her tongue, a theatrical tsk of disapproval. “Then I suppose I’ve wasted my sharpest weapons on a man made of stone.”

“Then sharpen them,” he murmured. “Try harder.”

And there it was—that flicker. That beautiful, damning glint in her eyes. The one she tried to hide but never could. The thrill of resistance. Of being met, matched, measured. Boredom starved her. Banter sustained her. She shifted, almost imperceptibly, like a predator scenting blood—but held back. Not yet. Not quite.

“I wonder,” she said, quieter now, gaze drawn again to the version of herself on canvas, “if this is what it’s like for you. Always. Wanting to touch but never daring. Desperate to claim, but tethered by your own hand. That must be… maddening.”

“It is.”

The honesty startled her. Not because she had expected denial—Rafayel was never so petty—but because she had expected cruelty. He gave nothing easily. Least of all the truth. And yet here it was: raw and glinting like a blade place gently on the table between them.

She turned to him fully then.

No smirk. No posturing.

Only the unbearable stillness of a woman prepared to be either revered or ruined.

“And what,” she asked, her voice no longer teasing, “are you going to do about it?”

He stepped forward—just one step. Not enough to breach the space between them. Just enough to suggest that he could. That he might.

His voice, when it came, was quiet.

Not soft. Never soft.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you came her to surrender,” he said, “or to see how long you can stand before you shatter.”

Her mouth curved—not into a smile, but into something far more dangerous. A flicker of satisfaction. Hunger unvoiced, but unmistakable. She didn’t retreat. That, Rafayel noted, was her first answer. Her first refusal. She let his words linger between them like spilled wine—dark, deliberate, staining the very air—and did not flinch.

“Oh,” she said at last, folding her arms. Not in defense, but in pose—like a swordsman settling into a stance he knew by heart. “So it’s a test, then. And here I thought this was a gallery, not a courtroom.”

“A gallery can be both,” he replied, eyes narrowing with slow precision. “Plenty of saints have been condemned under the guise of beauty.”

“Is that what I am?” she asked, chin lifting slightly. Sharp. Unapologetic. “Your martyr?”

“No.” His voice was flat. Final. “You’re the flame.”

Her brow arched—performative, practiced. Feigned boredom like a mask, though her eyes betrayed the pleasure she took in the game. “Poetic,” she said, half a sigh. “You always were indulgent with your metaphors.”

“And you,” he countered, stepping forward with ritualistic slowness, “always liked pretending not to understand them.”

“That’s because I prefer plain speech,” she said, voice cooling into something surgical. “Words you can taste. Not decode. There’s something honest about vulgarity, don’t you think?”

He nearly laughed—nearly. A breath caught in his chest, dragged over teeth. “You want vulgarity now?”

“I want honesty,” she snapped, a thread of heat breaking through her composure. “But I’ll take vulgarity, if you can’t manage the first.”

The silence that followed was no longer passive.

It was pressurized.

Metallic.

The kind of silence that follows the unsheathing of a blade.

He looked at her the way one might look at a locked door—not for lack of a key, but because the door wanted to be watched. Wanted to make him wait.

“You walk into my space,” he said, calm as glass, “stand before your own painted shadow, and ask questions you already know the answers to. That’s not curiosity. That’s cruelty.”

“And yet,” she said smoothly, “you keep leaving the door unlocked.”

A pause.

Longer this time. Heavy with history. With all the unsaid things that lived in the walls of rooms like this one. Every argument sharpened by tension. Every conversation that hovered on the edge of violence and vow. Every almost.

He tilted his head—not with wonder, but with calculation. “Maybe I want to see how far you’ll go.”

She rolled one shoulder in a lazy shrug—provocation disguised as nonchalance. “Maybe I want to see what happens when you stop pretending you’re above it.”

“You think I pretend?” he asked.

He was close now. Close enough that she would have to tilt her chin to meet his eyes, and she did—unflinching. Unmoved.

“I know you pretend,” she said, voice velvet-edged steel. “You paint control into everything you touch. But I’ve seen the way you look at me. You’re not hiding desire. You’re disciplining it. You think that makes you holy.”

He let her words strike where they were meant to. Let them settle deep into the fractures she knew by heart. And then, with agonizing slowness, the corner of his mouth curved—not into a smile.

Into a warning.

“And if I said I don’t want it tamed?” he murmured.

She stepped forward.

At last.

Not in surrender.

But in defiance.

A deliberate offering of herself to the fire she had lit.

“You’d still have to earn it,” she said.

Her hand rose—slowly, deliberate. There was nothing hurried in her movement, nothing uncertain. Just a single finger, drawn like a match across the highest button of his shirt. She didn’t unfasten it. Not yet. She only traced it, featherlight, like a whisper meant for skin. As though testing the heat of something volatile. The fabric quivered beneath her touch.

He did not.

“You like to dress,” she murmured, gaze locked on his, “as though temptation hasn’t the courage to reach you. Stiff collars. Stark lines. Everything sealed shut. But your eyes, Rafayel…” Her voice dropped into silk. “Your eyes are screaming.”

He did not flinch. Not because her touch didn’t rattle something deep within, but because to yield now—even a fraction—would be surrender. And they were too far gone for surrender to be cheap.

“Funny,” he said, tone clean and cutting, “I always thought you dressed like you were waiting to be undone.”

Her mouth curved. Not into a smile—into strategy. Her finger drifted, barely, to the second button. Still light. Still maddening. “Waiting implies patience,” she said. “I prefer provocation.”

“And yet,” he said, voice low, “you’re still standing.”

“So are you.”

The silence that followed was not absence. It was intention. Heavy and crackling, like the pause between thunder and ruin.

He inhaled, and beneath the stale scent of turpentine and drying paint, there it was—her. A faint sweetness—jasmine, maybe. Or something older. A perfume made from memory and malice. She smelled like longing dressed in elegance. Like violence on tiptoe.

She was the ache that kept waking him.

“You know,” she said, tapping once—deliberately—on the third button, “I half-expected you to crack the moment I walked in.”

He scoffed. A sound stripped of humor. “You overestimate your effect.”

“And you,” she countered, eyes flashing with unholy glee, “underestimate how much I enjoy watching you squirm.”

His gaze darkened—not with lust, not with rage, but something older. Elemental. Something that belonged not in conversation, but in scripture.

“Do you want to lose?” he asked.

She leaned in—not enough to close the distance, but enough to burn in it. Enough to make him feel her breath ghosting his jaw, the way sins once lingered on a priest’s tongue.

“I want to see,” she whispered, “how long you can stand with my hands on your shirt… and not on your throat.”

He laughed then. Low. Hollow. Without mirth—but full of warning.

“Is that a threat,” he murmured, “or a request?”

Her voice, when it came, was quieter. Rouger.

“Would you be more eager if I begged?”

“No,” he said, tilting his head like a beast scenting the blood of its equal. “But I’d enjoy the sound.”

And still—still—they did not touch beyond the ghost of her finger. The heat between them was unbearable, thick with everything they refused to name. It was not just tension.

It was a trial.

Their bodies were battlegrounds not yet breached. Holy sites waiting to be desecrated.

“I wonder,” she said at last, her lips barely parting, her breath like confession near his jaw, “if you’ll paint me again after this.”

He did not blink.

“I wonder,” he said, voice precise and unsparing, “if you’ll still be able to look at your own reflection.”

Her hand moved lower.

Not with haste. Not with hunger. With certainty. The kind that stripped time of its urgency. Each motion was a sermon in undoing. Slow. Measured. A dismantling masquerading as touch.

Her fingers traced the line of his buttons, descending with the deliberation of a liturgy, until it reached his abdomen. Then her palm opened—rested there, flat, unhurried. She did not press. She did not claim. She merely existed, poised between suggestion and surrender.

“So confident,” she murmured, fingers curling slightly, catching against fabric as if testing its will. “So composed. I’d wager you rehearsed these lines before I arrive.”

“If I rehearsed,” he said, lifting a lock of her hair from her shoulder with two fingers, “you’d be speechless by now.”

But he did not brush it aside.

He held it. Studied it.

He let it slip between his fingers like scripture read in silence. A ritual, not a flirtation. A reverence for something he refused to admit he feared.

“I never said I wasn’t,” she replied, quieter now. “Only that I hide it better.”

He brought the strand towards his mouth—not to kiss, not to taste, but to contemplate. To offer proximity without consumption. His breath warmed it. The gesture was not affection. It was sacrilege performed with devotion.

“Tell me,” he said, eyes locked to hers like a sentence yet to be served, “how far do you think you’ll go before the act breaks?”

Her gaze narrowed—not with fury, but with a pleasure so precise it might have been carved from cruelty. “You think this is an act?”

“I think,” he said, letting the strand fall back against the hollow of her collarbone, “you’ve never had to mean it before.”

She leaned closer.

Not to touch—but to haunt. Her presence filled the air between them like smoke in a cathedral. Her voice dropped to a register lower than language. Something meant only for the condemned.

“And you believe you’re different?”

“I know I am.”

A beat.

No word, no breath, no reason passed through it. Only certainty—that kind which does not need to announce itself to exist.

Her hand slid lower still.

Her palm now rested at his waist, thumb at the edge of his belt like the tip of a blade—not to cut, not yet—but to remind him: you bleed.

She did not pull.

She didn’t have to.

Her stillness spoke.

“If you knew,” she whispered, no louder than a confession beneath stained glass, “how badly I want to break you…”

She trailed off, not for effect, but because even naming it would fracture something sacred.

“You’d be running.”

Rafayel raised his hand—slowly—to the line of her jaw. Not touching. Just hovering. Just asking.

“If you knew,” he said, voice sharpened into prayer, “how badly I want you to try…”

He leaned in. Not closer. Deeper.

“You’d be trembling.”

And still—still—they did not touch.

They stood like relics behind glass.

Suspended.

Unbroken.

Unyielding.

Two absolutes in collision, orbiting at the edge of annihilation. Each daring the other to step over the line. Each waiting for permission they would never ask and would never grant.

Because desire, when holy, demands not consent—

— but consequence.

And then—

The noose snapped.

It was not gentle. It was not poetic.

It was violence—wrapped in heat, in breath, in the kind of hunger that makes men forget language.

Her hands found his collar like possession made incarnate—not to draw him in, but to claim him. A grip meant to bruise, to punish, to say: you belong to this moment now. And he answered with equal ruin—both hands in her hair, not careful, not reverent, but desperate. As if anchoring himself to the last solid thing in a world on fire.

Their mouths met like war.

There was no kiss. There was no gentleness. Only collision—teeth crashing, breath stolen and weaponized, tongues fencing with venom. This was not affection.

This was annihilation.

She bit first.

A brutal snap of teeth against his lower lip, enough to break the skin, to draw sound from his throat—something not quite human. Not pleasure. Not pain. Something worse. He answered without hesitation—wrenching her head back, not to dominate, but to expose. Her neck. Her jaw. The maddening smirk that lingered even as her chest rose in ragged, ruined breaths.

“You’re slow,” she gasped, laughter tangled in want. “For someone so starved.”

He growled—not metaphor, not metaphor, a true, guttural sound that scraped through him like flame—and crashed back into her mouth, one hand fisted cruelly in her hair, the other gripping her waist as if it had always belonged there. As if the shape of her had been carved for the curvature of his hand.

She pulled at his hair—hard. Not to guide. Not to comfort. To resist. To test.

He hissed, his lips parting in furious answer, and she used the opening—sliding her tongue back into his mouth like a blade slipping between ribs.

She moaned.

It sounded like a dare.

He shoved her into the nearest wall—not for control, but for defiance. Because he would not be the one to step back. She met the impact with a gasp, legs parting just enough to invite proximity—but not surrender. Not yet.

Her nails dragged down his back, shredding linen and scoring skin.

A warning. Not an offering.

“This all you’ve got?” she muttered against his mouth, teeth flashing, lips stained with his defiance.

He answered by lifting her—just enough to steal her balance. To remind her of gravity. Pressed his forehead to hers, their breath caught between them, trembling with the weight of everything they refused to name.

“No,” he said, voice broken open. “Not even close.”

Their mouths collided again—messier now. Hungrier. Rhythmless.

There was no choreography, only need.

No tenderness, only heat.

Spit and breath and mouths that didn’t ask—only took. Her hands were beneath his shirt now, nails skimming skin like threats. His teeth found her throat—not to mark, but to claim.

Neither surrendered.

Neither spoke mercy.

They burned, and called it survival.

He tore his mouth from hers like a drowning man breaking the surface—gasping not for relief, but for the next plunge. His hand found her wrist—not to restrain, but to command. There was no resistance. Only the thrill of momentum as he walked her backwards, step by step, with the unrelenting gravity of his body.

Her spine struck the edge of his painting desk.

The wood groaned under the sudden burden. Jars of pigment trembled. Brushes clattered in their glass reliquary, trembling as if they too knew what was about to be broken.

She smirked.

Not with affection. Not even with victory.

It was triumph laced with sacrilege—as if this, all of it, had been preordained. As if she were not victim nor witness but sovereign of the collapse. She leaned back across the chaos like a monarch laying claim to a battlefield littered with the bones of past hesitation.

He didn’t pause.

He gripped her thighs, lifted her onto the altar of his ruin—the desk cluttered with his reverence. Canvases shifted. Paint tubes rolled to the floor like fallen relics. Still, neither of them blinked.

“You always were good at making a mess,” she said, bracing her palms behind her, arching slightly—just enough to goad.

“And you,” he growled, stepping between her legs, “always needed to be the center of it.”

Then—

Rip.

No ceremony. Nor foreplay of button or permission.

He tore her blouse open in a single, brutal motion—collar to hem—like a man shredding pretense with his faith. Threads snapped, scattered. Fabric parted like a wound. Her chest rose into the chill like it understood what it meant to be offered.

She laughed—high, breathless, edged with mockery.

“Could’ve asked nicely.”

“You’d have said no.”

“I might’ve said please.”

His hand rose to her jaw, thumb pressing beneath her lip, tilting her head with quiet insistence. He kissed her again—not cruel, not gentle—starving. She bit his lips. This time, he bit back.

Her fingers found the buttons of his shirt—but patience had already been executed. She tore, not with haste, but judgment. Threads unraveled. Buttons flew. His shirt slipped from his shoulders, falling like penitence to the floor. He stood bare in the glow of his desecrated altar.

“Overdressed,” she muttered, fingers dragging down his arms like accusation.

“Entitled,” he answered.

“Correct.”

He pressed her down across the desk, her back bending over palettes and brushes and crushed tubes of color. Pigments smeared against her skin—red, blue, ochre—blooming like bruises authored by art itself. Her skin was a canvas now. Not for beauty. For truth.

She arched—not to yield, but to challenge. Her legs remained closed, a deliberate defiance. She dared him to earn the opening.

“You’ll ruin the canvas,” she hissed against his jaw, her voice unsteady, threaded with pleasure she hadn’t named aloud.

“Then I’ll paint something better,” he rasped.

“You?” she gasped, hips grinding against him—once, hard. She felt the way it broke his breath, how it staggered his control. “You can’t even finish what you start.”

He snarled—his thigh forcing its way between hers, hips pinning her down with the weight of wrath and want. His voice cracked, not with anger, but belief.

“Say that again.”

She laughed—wild, delighted, her mouth blood-warmed and blasphemous.

“Make me.”

His answer was not a word.

It was his mouth—at her throat again, but lower this time. Dragging like penance down the arch of her collarbone, then further, lower, into territory unspoken but often dreamed. The taste of her was thick with pigment and sweat, the smear of ochre and oil staining her ribs like a painter’s sacrament—devotion rendered in mess and proximity.

Her blouse hung useless, gaping like a prayer left unanswered.

He found the edge of her bra and pulled—without grace, without warning. The fabric snapped, groaned, gave. Her breast spilled free like a secret finally confessed. No reverence. No awe.

He did not marvel.

He consumed.

His mouth closed over her—hot, relentless. A tongue that moved not with affection but doctrine. He flicked once, then again—slow, arrogant. His teeth grazed the edge, tested her breath, coaxed it into stuttered surrender. He did not need her to cry out.

He needed her to twitch.

And when she did—sharp, involuntary, bitten back—he withdrew. Lips glistening. eyes dark and unforgiving.

“You twitched,” he murmured, gaze fixed to her chest like a sentence yet to be passed. “How delicate of you.”

Her hand flew to his hair—instinct, rebellion. He caught her wrists before she could find purchase, one in each hand, and pinned them above her head.

Paint smeared beneath her spine like bruises blooming in color. The canvas gave beneath her body, cracking beneath pressure it had never been meant to bear.

She smirked, even bound.

“If I wanted to be still,” she said, voice low and strained, “I’d have stayed home.”

He reached for the nearest relic—an old coil of twine, frayed and paint-stained, a forgotten tool now reclaimed for worship. Her eyes followed the motion—curious, defiant, feral.

He wrapped it around her wrists.

Not tightly. He didn’t need to.

Control was not in the knot.

It was in the fact that she let him.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” she hissed, breath hitching with every word.

He leaned in—his mouth grazing her ear like the edge of a sermon.

“I’m just getting started.”

Then he descended again. His lips mapped a trail between her breasts, across the soft plane of her stomach—each kiss deliberate, cruel, more ritual than seduction. Her body writhed beneath him, restrained but unyielding. He moved like a man delivering a punishment disguised as pleasure.

When he reached her hips, he paused.

Looked up.

Her hands were bound above her, her chest rising with silent war, her jaw clenched tight.

“Spread,” he said.

She didn’t.

And so he smiled.

That thin, dangerous smile of a man who had stopped asking questions.

He used his hands.

Parted her thighs with no gentleness. Only insistence. The cotton was pulled aside—not removed, but dismissed, with the same brutal efficiency one might show a curtain drawn back from holy ground.

And there—at last—he hovered. His breath ghosted just above her, and the look in his eyes was not lust.

It was confirmation.

“Still think I can’t finish what I start?” he asked.

Then—

He licked.

Slow. Flat-tongued. Full.

A sacrament performed not for forgiveness, but for proof.

She cursed.

It was beautiful.

He did it again—slower, deeper.

Her hips jerked. Her bound hands strained against the twine.

“Careful,” he murmured against her, tongue flicking like a threat between syllables. “You’re going to beg.”

She pulled harder.

And he grinned.

Because the moment was near.

And he would not take her.

She would give.

He licked again—slower this time. Deeper. Pressing the flat of his tongue to the place he knew she loathed to love. His hands kept her thighs parted—not cruelly, not tenderly. Just enough. Enough to remind her she was open. And that it was him—only him—who had made her so.

Her back arched. A prayer without language.

She cursed—low, guttural, almost ashamed.

He smiled against her.

Then—flick. Once. Flick. Twice. A third time—sharper, angled, a precise violence.

She moaned.

Not loudly. Not like she had lost. But it left her mouth like a truth too heavy to carry anymore. Honest, Unscripted.

His groan was smug, vibrating against her.

“See?” he murmured, breath hot and damp against the lips he’d just ravaged. “So much noise from someone who talks like she’s immune.”

“Tied hands,” she panted, “don’t make me weak.”

“No,” he said, dragging his teeth over the inside of her thigh, leaving no mark, just threat. “They just make you mine.”

She laughed.

It was a fractured sound—half-breath, half-dare. Almost wrong.

“I let you have them.”

He didn’t respond.

He just flicked his tongue again. Lower. Slower.

Her body jumped.

“I took them,” he said.

“Did you?” she whispered, her voice silk sharpened on the edge of something dangerous. Her hips rolled once, subtle and slow. A test disguised as grace.

He didn’t answer.

He licked again.

Then sucked—once, firmly, with the precision of a man who knew where sin lived and refused to worship it softly.

Her thighs trembled.

“Say please,” he muttered, mouth hovering, breath dragging across wetness like a sin he’d yet to name.

She gasped.

Her eyes sparked.

“I don’t beg.”

“You will.”

He dipped again—mouth open, tongue thick and slow, tasing her like penance.

Her moan shattered the air, raw and feral, echoing through the gallery like a confession torn from the lungs.

He chuckled.

And that—that—was his mistake.

In his pleasure, he loosened his grip.

Her legs snapped shut around his head with the precision of a predator. His body jerked—half in shock, half in amusement. In that stolen second, she yanked her arms forward.

The twine—paint-stained, frayed—gave.

It had never truly bound her.

It was never meant to.

She sat up.

Hair wild, skin flushed, breasts bare beneath the ruin of her torn blouse, streaked in color and heat. She looked like a war made woman.

And he—

On his knees.

Between her thighs.

Looked up.

Not afraid.

But aware.

He had been warned.

“Your turn,” she said, voice heavy with triumph, husky with breath she’d refused to waste on surrender.

Then she shoved him—hard.

He fell backward.

The floor was cold beneath him, marble streaked with pigment and pride. He grunted as he landed, shirt torn, arms splayed. Before he could rise, she straddled him—fast, sure, devastating.

She didn’t speak.

She sat.

Claimed.

Her heat pressed down, and she didn’t move. Not yet. She simply looked—down at him. A queen atop a ruined throne.

Mocking. Ruinous. Beautiful.

“Still think I’m the one who’s going to beg?” she asked, grinding once—slow, deliberate, devastating.

He cursed.

Her smirk split into something dark and divine.

Then she leaned down—and bit his lips.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was a claim—made with teeth, not tenderness. The kind of kiss that marked, not with affection, but with authority. He growled into her mouth, low and guttural, but she pulled back before he could seize control, before he could reclaim the moment and sculpt it into something he could command.

She would not be taken.

Not tonight.

Her fingers dropped to his belt—no grace, no pretense. Just hunger given hands. Metal clicked. Leather strained. She tore the buckle loose with the frustrated satisfaction of someone who had waited too long. He arched beneath her, just slightly—assisting, not surrendering. It was not submission.

It was strategy.

Clothing was the final illusion of distance.

She pushed his trousers down just enough to free what she wanted. Her knuckles brushed along his length through fabric—casual, cruel, a drag of heat that made him twitch.

She hummed.

A sound of knowledge. Of possession.

Then she sat.

Bare skin met bare skin. Her slick heat ground down on him through what little still separated them—intimate, obscene, inevitable. Her head fell back, just for a moment, her throat exposed in all its bruised glory—paint-smudged and bitten, blouse gaping open like a battlefield never meant to be healed.

He bit his lip.

Not to restrain sound.

To survive it.

She saw.

And punished him.

Her hand shot up and caught his jaw—fingers digging, forcing his mouth open, commanding his gaze.

“Oh, no,” she said, her voice soaked in smoke and spoiled divinity. “Don’t go shy now. You were mouthy two minutes ago.”

He glared, but it was hollow. Ineffectual.

She grinned. A wolf in a queen’s clothing.

Her other hand slipped between them. No hesitation. No preamble.

She wrapped her fingers around him—heat to heat, hunger to hunger—and guided him. Slowly. Deliberately. To the place where she burned.

He held his breath.

Not out of fear.

Not for control.

But because the sight—her above him, straddling, undone and merciless, her grip sure, her eyes locked on his as she lowered her hips until the head of him kissed her entrance—was sacred.

An icon no church could house. A vision no altar had ever deserved.

She didn’t take him in. Not yet.

She hovered.

Let it stretch. Let it ache. Let him feel what was coming.

The pressure. The promise. The inevitability.

He exhaled through his teeth.

She watched the muscles in his throat shift as he swallowed it down.

And then—

She moved.

Slow. Steady. Terrible.

She slid down, inch by inch, like absolution denied and then given only to be snatched away again. Her heat wrapped around him like prophecy, like poetry written in moans.

He bucked—reflex, not decision. His hands gripped her thighs like scripture.

She moaned—quiet, broken, perfect.

And still she held his jaw.

Still, she anchored him to her gaze.

Her voice dropped, low, fractured.

Scripture rewritten in sin.

“Look at me,” she breathed, as if anything else would be blasphemy.

He did.

And it ruined him.

She sank onto him fully—inch by inch, unhurried.

Not merciful.

Commanding.

Her hips rolled with deliberate cruelty, as though each motion carried a sentence, and he was meant to serve every one of them. Her pace was not passion—it was retribution. She made him feel it. Every decision. Every inch of punishment wrapped in velvet and vice.

His hands clamped around her waist—tight, trembling. Her skin burned beneath his palms, alive with sweat and pigment, breathless tension and too-much want.

He sat up.

Caged her.

One arm snaked into her hair, fisting at the root—tight, possessive, reverent in its violence. The other braced at her spine, dragged her chest to his, skin to skin, sweat to smudged paint, breath to broken prayer.

“You’re trembling,” she whispered against his mouth. Her hips moved in slow, cruel circles, dragging him deeper, tighter. “I thought I’d be the one breaking.”

“You haven’t earned it yet,” he growled, and thrust up once—sharp, not deep. Just enough to make her flinch.

She gasped.

Then laughed.

“Cute,” she said, tongue grazing his lip like a blade. “Trying to keep control while you’re inside me? That’s brave.”

He growled.

Not a sound.

A warning.

His fist in her hair jerked back—not to hurt, but to expose. Her throat arched, bare and daring. He kissed it—wet, open, possessive.

Then he moved.

His hips snapped upward—deeper, this time.

She moaned.

Louder.

He did it again.

And again.

Her nails scraped down his back in red, ragged arcs. He bit her shoulder—teeth grazing skin like blasphemy.

Still—neither of them let go.

Her pace rose to meet his, hips slamming down in rhythm to his rise. The desk beneath them groaned, overwhelmed by the sacrilege. Tubes of paint burst beneath heel and thigh, pigments bleeding across their skin like relics from a war neither of them intended to win.

She rode him like vengeance.

He met her like prayer—desperate, furious, devoted.

“I can feel how close you are,” he hissed, forehead pressed to hers, sweat between their brows. “You’re tight as a fist—”

“Then slow the fuck down,” she gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders like she meant to anchor herself to the world. “Unless you want this to end with you choking on your pride.”

He laughed—mad, breathless, undone.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d frame it.”

They kissed again—wild and feral. Tongues clashing. Teeth scraping. Moans no longer belonged to either of them—they bled into each other, one voice, one rhythm, one threat.

And then—she changed it.

Her rhythm broke.

Not faster.

Slower.

Grinding now, each movement drawn-out, wicked, the kind of pace that hurts because it knows. His hands clutched her hips, tried to set the tempo again. She refused.

“Oh no,” she whispered, lips at his jaw, hips rolling with cruel slowness, “you don’t get to set the pace now.”

“You’re not in charge,” he snarled, biting her earlobe.

She gasped.

Then hissed back, “Then why do you sound like you’re begging?”

He cursed—loud, unfiltered.

Thrust up—hard.

She moaned—but stayed down, locked around him, refusing to give.

Refusing to lose.

They were trembling now.

Together.

Locked.

But not yet ruined.

Not yet.

Because pride was the last thing either of them would surrender. And if this was to be the end of restraint, it would not come quietly.

It would come earned.

She pressed her forehead to his, breath mingling in the fragile space between restraint and collapse. Her lips hovered above his—so close they burned—but never touched. Never gave. Her hips moved with precision now, less frenzy, more intention. Not to coax pleasure.

To drag him with her.

Into ruin.

Into silence.

Into the grave of control.

He grunted, one arm anchoring tight around her waist, the other fisted once more in her hair, holding her there like something sacred he didn’t dare drop. Sweat trailed down his spine. He was shaking. She felt him twitch inside her, thick and aching.

Still—she smiled.

“Don’t you dare,” she whispered, voice trembling like prophecy. “Not before I do.”

“I’m trying,” he growled, snapping his hips up, hard enough to lift her off the desk. “To get you there first.”

“Try harder.”

She bit his shoulder—hard.

He jerked, swore.

Then bit her back. Her collarbone. Her lip. Each snap of his mouth was not affection, but rebuttal. And each moan she gave was laced with challenge, not surrender.

She rode him faster now.

Not desperate.

Demanding.

The sound of skin meeting skin, the grit of their breath, the sharp notes of her cries—they blurred into rhythm, into liturgy. He panted into her throat, jaw locked, as if he could delay the inevitable by force of will.

“Almost—” she gasped. “Fuck—you’re close, I can feel it—”

“So are you,” he snarled, thrusting again. Her head snapped back as a cry tore out of her throat. “You’ll break before me.”

“Keep dreaming.”

“Keep riding.”

She did.

And it broke something.

Not just rhythm. Not just pace.

Control.

The slap of flesh, the blur of sweat, the snarl of teeth and breath—it all reached a fevered pitch, the kind where thought dies and only instinct remains. Her hands cradled his face now, thumbs at his cheeks, grounding him, holding him.

As if, if he looked away, even once—it wouldn’t count.

“I want to feel it,” she hissed. Her body ground against his, every movement carved from vengeance and need. “When you fucking fall.”

He laughed—but it cracked, unsteady.

“Then fall with me.”

And she did.

And so did he.

They fell.

Together.

Her body clenched around him, shaking, head thrown back, a cry ripped from her lungs like an exorcism. His hips stuttered, then seized. A curse broke from his throat, sharp and hoarse and final. They clung to each other like lifelines—like wreckage—like the war was over and neither had won.

And neither cared.

He spilled into her with a sound he couldn’t swallow. Her walls fluttered around him, as though her body itself refused to let him go. As though it needed to keep him there—inside, undone, theirs.

Her head dropped to his shoulder.

His mouth—quiet now, reverent—pressed once to her temple.

They breathed.

Wrecked.

Ruined.

Alive.

No words passed between them. None were needed. Not yet.

Not while they still trembled.

Not while their pride lay in tatters at their feet, too raw to stitch, too tender to touch.

Not until the silence faded.

Not until their masks could be drawn on again with wit and mockery.

Not until the next round.

Not until they remembered how to fight again.

But for now—

For this breathless, sacred, desecrated moment— They simply were.

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰

#love and deep space rafayel #rafayel x you #lads rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #rafayel x mc #love and deep space #lads smut #lads x reader #lads mc #lads #loveanddeepspace #smut writing #smut without plot #love and deepspace #rafayel smut #lnds smut #love and deepspace x reader

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inknopewetrust · 1 year ago

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐮𝐬𝐭

Summary: When the longevity of sin is threatened by the factions of a feuding family on the brink of war, a choice must be made to protect the secrets of a heart torn in two.

[ser erryk cargyll x targaryen!fem!reader] [wc: 10.7k]

Warnings: minors dni (18+ only), smut, angst, mentions of death/war, themes consistent with show, spoilers for the show (season 3).

quick links: masterlist

There is no duty without sacrifice, nor reward without submission. In a world as cruel as this, you often pondered in wilted daydreams of a world at peace.

As golden springs and chilled autumns once brought virtue and good fortune, the hallowed corridors of Dragonstone in the middle of a long, bleak war brought nothing but a faded memory of the past.

The halls whimpered with the martyrs it kept.

And the phantoms snickered at those in wait and the sacrifices one makes for the duty of their house bears scars on those left in their tormented wake.

Night fell with a deep, dark shadow lingering above. A hand gripping the castle as the maids scrubbed the blood from the chamber floor of the Queen.

He was dead.

And you felt a piece of you die with him.

“Sister,” Rhaenyra spoke but her voice was distant.

In an echo chamber of your mind, the noises funneled around you. A heavy weight of air pressed upon you as your hand picked at the wooden edges of the chair beside the fire.

“Leave us,” the Queen spoke to her guard and Elinda quietly.

The door shut behind her and in careful steps, she could see your eyes trained heavily on the spot now covered in a yellow rug. Toys remained from her young boys which struck the shell of her own heart with a fury.

Death lingered in Rhaenyra’s chambers and there was never a moment to mourn. A war roars on the mainland in her name; people perish in acts of heightened emotions and sacrifice puddles even the strongest of soldiers.

“Sister,” she cleared her throat. “To what—“

“When Harwin died,” your voice was hoarse from a weary day, “did you mourn the man you loved?”

Rhaenyra halted behind the settee. Her hands settled to trace its carvings.

“I beg your pardon?” She inquired.

You were lost in a haze of self destruction. Lost within yourself with a haphazard will to move on. Hours had passed, mere hours, and those on the council that sit around a painted table forget the tragedies that have befallen a great house in a matter of weeks.

You mumbled incoherently and Rhaenyra furrowed her brows. She seldom saw you blink in the light of the fire; the waterline of your eyes pooled with tears. One slipped down the cheek closest to her.

She had watched you absent in your own mind as dirt filled the grave in the early morn. It should not have come as a startle that those feelings remained.

“I fear I do not know what to do with myself,” you whispered. “I-I d-do not know what to do.”

“What for, sister?” Rhaenyra approached as she would her smallest child. “You needn’t do anything at this moment.”

She took a seat on the cushion and reached for your hand. It barely brushed your own before something snapped. A arrow shooting from its bow, breaking your stupor and sending you out of your seat.

You removed yourself from the chair and stepped away from her. Your hands shook as your lip trembled.

The death that grieves in isolation swells. Ribbons of torment become suffocating, choking until awoken with a shake.

“I do not wish to be alone,” you all but wailed. “I’ve been alone for so long, so long…”

“Do you speak of sleep? Or, or marriage?” Rhaenyra drew confused. You had been adamant for years, threatening your life and title to remain a spinster the history books would forget.

The Virgin Princess, she imagined the books may speak of.

You let out a weak, strangled laugh at her. Eyes cutting and red, she felt the tremors of Harwin’s pain bubble inside of her. It made her uncomfortable in her skin.

“I loved him, Rhaenyra.”

For the first time, you saw your sister truly look at you.

And she did not see her elder sister.

She did not see the girl, simply two name days older, who was fond of reading and politics.

She could not see the girl who would beckon Rhaenyra to braid her hair while recalling stories of Old Valyria and the conquests of their ancestors.

She did not see a now grown woman who sought independence; someone who tried to subvert the traditions of a name such as the one you shared.

Rhaenyra saw a widow.

She spoke your name softly and you shook your head at her.

“I loved Erryk. I loved him so.”

Rhaenyra let your confession sit.

“I followed you to Dragonstone,” you spat. “I left the only world I’d ever known to remain in your court because you’re my sister, Rhaenyra. But this place,” your eyes trailed along the vaulted ceilings and the wet stones. “This place has done nothing but bring us suffering.”

“Sister,” Rhaenyra sat forward. “We all make sacrifices—“

“No!” Your voice raised as tears fell consistently. “We are weak, Rhaenyra! This would not have happened if we had been prepared!”

“You speak as though his choice was my fault.”

You let silence fall. Diverting your eyes away from Rhaenyra, she felt a grip on her heart go numb. You believed it to be her fault.

“My grief,” you closed your eyes to darkness. “My grief pokes holes in the agony of my life. It heaves within me for a purpose that is not there and I do not know what to do with myself because of it. He is gone. He’s gone, Rhaenyra. I loved him and he’s gone.”

“Is that why you have never agreed to take a lord husband?”

You nodded your head and sank down on her bed.

“Did you truly love Harwin Strong?” You asked, following it with an awkward chuckle. “I find it to be quite amusable that we two daughters loved men in the cloak.”

Rhaenyra shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I did.”

“And when he died, did you grieve him as I do Erryk?”

“I did.”

“But you have a memory of him; pieces of him always with you.”

She never spoke aloud the paternity of her sons. Rhaenyra was not daft in knowing people knew, but even to you, her dear sister, she never spoke of it.

Rhaenyra did not shy away from having Harwin keep a long distance between their children. She had seen you and Harwin get along well in the presence of her children and often wondered what the world would be like had she been able to marry him in place of Laenor.

Everyone would have ended up in a much happier place, she believed.

“I do," she whispered against the dead of night. "I do, yes."

"And I will never have that," you stressed. Gaze more frantic than before. You shook your head at the thought. "I never would but I still wanted something to be mine. For me to hold and love and cherish but there is nothing I can do now but sit and ponder the "what ifs." But at war, I am not meant to dwell on them."

"Yet here you are, asking about them anyway."

That dreaded silence fell between you once more. It did not escape her that the lives of innocents were at stake while this war met on the steps of each great house. Her son, Helena's son, good men, and kind women were killed for nothing more than fodder.

It was moot; the tragedy of errors.

“I loved him,” your repeated. “I loved him dearly.”

"Tell me," she tried to offer a tight-lipped smile. "How did it begin?"

"Oh, Rhaenyra," you bemoaned. Sniffing and trying not to focus hard on the spot where he fell on his sword. "I do not-"

"But I would like to hear it," she got up and joined you at your side. Rhaenyra took one of your hands in hers. "I do not wish to hear all the details, however."

You envisioned him in your memory. His eyes, smile. How in the shadows of your chambers he was a different man than he one who served your father, your sister.

He was magnetic and quiet.

Erryk was a lover and a fighter.

You laughed and she smiled. "There was something about men in the cloak..."

"I would have to agree," she said. Her eyes gleamed with a memory of Harwin. She loved him. "Dutiful men indeed."

"It felt so scandalous... but he served me."

"In more ways than one," Rhaenyra blushed and you knocked her shoulder with the back of your hand. She had given birth to five children and still remained a form of pious when broaching the subject.

Your tears still fell but Rhaenyra felt the joy of love bloom.

“I was simply jesting,” she started but you gave her a cutting, mischievous glacé.

"Did you not say you wished not to hear of it? Do you want me to tell you all the details? He was quite good, you know? A very fine fuck indeed."

"Oh Gods!" Rhaenyra laughed loudly and for once, you forgot the pain. "Please, spare me of it!"

“He was b-“

“Please!” She spoke your name in a shriek. “I do not wish to think of you in that way!”

"You truly did not know of it?" You questioned her in a striking bewilderment. You never thought yourself to be shroud in secrecy but surely someone had to have noticed your folly in his presence.

He was your father's, then her own, sworn sword.

"I had my suspicions on occasion," Rhaenyra admitted. "It was Harwin who first spoke of it. I did what I could to protect you. It was not long after the wedding. Harwin said he had crossed paths with him," she smiled sheepishly, "though he was not sure of which twin at the time."

Rhaenyra heard a small intake of breath from you. You squeezed her hand.

"But it happened more than once. The happenstance was too peculiar to not think of it in that way, sister. But Harwin was the one to believe it was Erryk. After a while it became easier to tell them apart and he appeared sure."

"I truly did not think it that hard."

Rhaenyra gave you glance of disbelief yet you had been serious.

"Laenor favored him, as did Harwin. That is why I knew he could be trusted. Not only as a fine Kingsguard but with my sister's heart as well."

"Rhaenyra," you sighed in kindness. A tear from your eyes dropped onto your intertwined hands.

"Harwin spoke of his candor. How devoted he was. Yet he broke an oath for the sake of his honor."

"As we all do."

Rhaenyra hummed and thought of her own indiscretions for the sake of love. How Daemon had taken her to the Silk Streets at the same time you were discovering womanhood with one of the Kingsguards. A peculiar life; one caged and riddled with power.

"I would have married him... had he wished to break his oath," you admitted to her and the sheen in your eyes returned. Kingsguard were only released from their duty in death. "But the Gods had other plans it appears."

"I do not doubt it," she replied in turn. "Do you think father knew of it?"

You shrugged your shoulders in indifference. "I fear the Hightower's may have. Even more so now. It takes much to strike a Dragon so deeply. Surely their motives were amplified when he deserted their cause."

Rhaenyra nodded, looking at the children's toys on the rug. She wanted to find the good in the gloom.

"Tell me of him. Tell me of the Ser Erryk I did not know."

“Rhaenyra…”

“Please,” she nearly begged. “Let us find a happiness. As you spoke there had been nothing but pain. There is a part of you that I do not know of and I wish to know now.”

You were not sure when to begin.

The first time you met? The first time you spoke? Those times were trivial and basic. She did not want to hear of your scandals in detail but you could start at the night where it changed. Where womanhood came to you in a way you were not expecting and the wine settled too deep in your bones.

You should have known it was doomed to fail because on that same night, a man died at Rhaenyra’s wedding feast.

But you were too wrapped up in Erryk’s arms to notice that evil lurked in the Red Keep.

The wedding of Rhaenyra and Laenor was no small affair.

It was said that an entire week was to be planned full of tourney's, feasting, and ending in the penultimate betrothal of your sister to your cousin, Laenor, who had all but been absent for the entirety of both your childhoods.

He knew nothing of her but appeared kind.

As the drums beat and the violins soared in the great hall, the two-to-be-wed danced a traditional Targaryen dance that entranced the scope of the room before the guests who dreamed of dancing on the same floor as the heir to the throne joined them.

You sat at the table as Alicent conversed with her uncle in the corner and Daemon squandered his late wife's relative with the pad of his thumb. You downed your goblet of wine as Gerold Royce backed away in embarrassment and Daemon smirked in victory.

“Do you not feel sorrow for your late lady wife?” You asked Daemon who’s look always reminded you of being hunted.

“We were not fond of each other. So, no, I do not.”

"You are a cunt, Daemon," you cut. Your father made a noise of objection and Lord Hand Lyonel Strong choked on his wine.

Daemon laughed. He spared you a glance before turning it back to where Rhaenyra was dancing.

You knew of her infatuation with your uncle. Her eyes kept darting to the table as if no one would see.

Viserys muttered your name in dissatisfaction.

"Brother," Daemon snickered, "it is fine. The Princess was just expressing her admiration for me."

You scoffed as a squire refilled the goblet to the brim. The wine spilled over and the young man went to make apologies but you brushed him off with the wave of your hand.

The wine was gone faster than it had taken to refill it.

"The ire may lay elsewhere I inquire," Daemon gave a smoldering squint of his eyes. "Tell me, good niece, how it feels to be second in a tourney where you have always been first? Seeing the heir of the throne marry before you?"

"You overstep, Uncle," you cut.

"But I am a cunt, remember?"

You sat back in your seat as the air around you became uncomfortable and suffocating. Alicent returned with a strained greeting to which she received nothing in return from you.

It perturbed you that a girl, years your junior, had become your stepmother.

The squire returned to fill your cup but nearly spilled it over your hand as it covered the top of the goblet.

"Squire," Daemon's playful voice was etched with a sinful glee. "I do not believe the Princess needs any. She needs something a bit more sturdy to lift her spirits." He motioned with his pointer finger up to the sky lewdly. “A good fuck would do you well.”

"Daemon," your father spoke and Alicent looked away in a rose-colored blush.

"All in good fun, Brother," Daemon defended as he said your name in a question. The squire escaped quickly from the table; the music changed in the room and the dancers from noble houses joined at a more jubilant pace.

Lord Lyonel eyed the floor as his son, Harwin, danced with Rhaenyra.

Daemon leaned into Lyonel's personal space with a quiet voice.

"Have you been to the Silk Streets, Princess?"

"Daemon!" Viserys ordered loudly. His voice caught the attention of the Velaryon's at the end of the table. "I will not have such talk at this table on this day! It is my daughter's wedding!"

"Of co–"

"It's alright, Father," you turned to him as the weakened look on his worn face became more present. "I believe the eve has gotten the best of me."

Rising from your seat, Viserys objected and Alicent latched herself to your hand.

You felt an evil burn your skin.

"You mustn't go," she pleaded on your father's behalf. "It has only just begun."

"I assure you tomorrow will be a much better day," you told her and wiggled your arm out of her grasp.

Viserys sighed in defeat. He scoured the room for Ser Criston to escort you to your chambers but you had not allowed him the chance to speak. You turned away and stepped down from the risen floor and towards the exit to the left of the Iron Throne. In his sight, Ser Erryk caught his attention.

He could only tell the difference because his helmet had been removed.

"Ser Erryk!" Viserys barked.

Ser Erryk had been a Kingsguard for near three years with his brother, Ser Arryk, alongside him. They had been nothing short of loyal to Viserys in the time since their joining.

"Your Grace," Erryk stopped before the King as he turned around and pointed to his eldest daughter's escape from the Throne Room.

"The Princess wishes to retire," Erryk turned his head to watch you disappear beyond the archway. "Please escort and stand watch until Ser Thorne can return to his station outside of the quarters.”

"Yes, Your Grace."

Erryk did his duty and followed obediently after you. Daemon remained laughing quietly as the reminders of you were left. Wine on the table, a plate untouched of food grew cold as the night wore thin.

You traced your hand along the stones of the hallways of the Red Keep. Ancient and sturdy, the ancestors who crafted these corridors knew not of the stories they would tell; how much each turn of the stone would witness as the years passed and the shadows became ingrained in its pattern.

The wine you had been drinking began to catch up with you.

It had been not more than three cups and you felt flushed and warm. Still with your senses, you felt angry and jolly at the same time.

Yet the frustrations of your family still lingered heavier. You felt the steam roll from your shoulders, loosening itself into tendrils of anger as the sounds of jubilance became faint and the halls became darker and filled with the candlelight of night.

You continued to walk in slow steps as the weight of tiredness fell upon you.

Sounds of armor approaching caught your ears, nonetheless.

You breached the foyer of the grand staircase and turned to rest against the stones. Hands grasping the corners behind your back, you looked down the golden hallway to the armored guard approaching.

"Ser Erryk," you acknowledged as the light illuminated his features before you.

You felt the danger dissipate from your body.

"Princess," he spoke. His accent was notable among those who rallied between common-folk and high-born in the Crownlands.

In the years he and his brother Arryk had served the crown, your paths have crossed. They both presented a fine and reputable record of loyalty and devotion to the cause.

They were good men. A rarity, in the world as you lived it.

But Erryk had always captured your attention more than his brother had. Taller and more attentive to your sister and yourself, he had always caught your eye. You wasted countless minutes of your life simply looking at the knight in hopes that he would look back.

You had memorized his face in a matter of seconds.

"May I ask why you are following after me in such a haste?"

"Your Grace has asked me to escort you, Princess," he continued his approach without explicit permission.

As he came into a closer view, you took stock of the man. A strong face with determined eyes; lips plump and shoulders square yet fitted by the silver of his armor. He had a mole on the left side of his cheek above his lip.

He was beautiful. You were not sure you had ever seen a man with such refined beauty before he had joined the Kingsguard some three years ago. In the times his eyes caught yours in the midst of the chaos of your house, your opinion did not change.

You felt your heartbeat pulse faster.

There was something alluring about his eyes. So focused and intent on the subject upon whom he was speaking to, the unwavering devotion of his trade ever present beyond the armor he wore.

"I see," you muttered. "And what of Ser Thorne? He sees to be my escort often."

"Occupied, Princess. It is a busy evening for the family."

Erryk used your title in a way the others did not. He held it in such high regard, you felt.

You hummed and turned back toward the direction in which you were headed originally. The stairs loomed in the darkness like a warship approaching its moor. The wine that had settled let a small chuckle escape your lips.

"I do wish there were magic in these walls, Ser Erryk. Then I may simply float into bed and there would be no need to leave the nice party."

Erryk was not sure how to respond. He knew you not to be a silly woman. The eldest of Viserys' daughters had always appeared to him to be attentive and near motherly in the wake of Queen Aemma's death.

In the times he had spoken to you, you never feigned such girlish impulse before. It was new. And it surprised him.

Therefore, Erryk took his own leap of difference.

"Princess," he caught your attention and in the light, he wished he had never taken the oath.

Your eyes gleamed with such delight; pupils blown wide from what he deduced to be the wine of the evening and lips plush and slightly parted. The bodice of your gown fit every curve and plush part of your skin in an entrancing way that sent his mind to the places he neglected to attend to.

He knew of what the men in the Kingsguard did. He listened to the conquests of his brothers, both blood and by sword, while he refined himself to his oath.

But his heart nearly stopped at the sight of you. It had never happened before.

He felt ashamed for feeling such a way. For him to imagine what it would be to feel your skin above and below your skirts, listening to the soft sounds of content as he let his lips draw new patterns on your collarbones.

You were a Princess. He should not have such thoughts.

"If I may speak plainly?" Erryk asked you and you nodded for him to continue. He cleared his throat, shifting on his feet.

"Dragons exist in this world. I do not see why magic could not exist as well. There are whispers of such people amongst the townsfolk. Though, I cannot say their rumors are true.”

The sides of your lips began to quirk up into a smile. "Yes. I suppose you are right about that."

You smiled at him and he could not look away. The sides of your eyes creased in delight in regard to the silliest of items: a childish want to be lifted into bed because your feet were too tired.

It was not often that a naive nature still remained in adults.

"Do you not wish to return to the celebration?" You queried. “I saw even Ser Harold tap his feet at the music.”

"I have a duty to you, Princess. The celebration will not miss me."

Erryk did not miss nor question the way your eyes flicked between his lips and his own eyes. He could not resist the urge to do the same to you.

You wet your lips with your tongue in a small jut. Your top teeth tug the bottom lip in before releasing it gently. Attention falling to the chest of his armor before you blinked in a rapid succession and he felt your body radiate a warm sensation.

You pulled the back of your hand to your cheeks to sense the heat.

“My,” you said breathlessly. “I seem to have let the wine get the best of me.” Sheepishly looking down, your gaze returned to him with doe-like admiration.

He felt the blood rushing. Erryk swallowed his nerves.

“It does happen, Princess.”

Your heart beat rapidly against your ribcage—you felt as though it were going to explode.

His eyes were piercing you. Dim in the light of the hall, you could barely decipher where he was truly looking but you felt the stare. You could have felt it a million miles away.

“Ser Erryk—“

Gustily, he cut you off. “Erryk, Princess. You may call me Erryk in confidence.”

It was your turn to swallow the nerves that built up in your throat. You observed him again and in the way he stood. An arm limp on his side while the other held onto his sword tightly.

There was no fear, nothing helpless within you.

Your curiosity painted what his hands looked like under the white gloves. How strong and handsome they must be to match the face of the man. You wondered how they’d feel pressed against you; holding you in ways no woman should wonder.

The feel of them on your breasts, the way they’d play differently than your own in the dead of night.

You released a staggered breath from your nose and he caught the shake that emitted from your chest.

“Erryk,” you clarified your previous mistake. "Please use my title sparingly, then. I wish to be informal when able."

"Of course," and he tried your name on his lips for the first time.

For the first time, you felt at ease.

"I've never asked, but do you enjoy the Kingsguard? After all that is asked of you, your brother, and those in the cloak?"

"It is a honor," he stopped himself short of using your title. "I cannot envision a life outside of it."

To be one of the seven to protect the family was the most profound honor. Only the finest of knights were bestowed the honor.

"I suppose you do get to sleep in the most grand of castles," you quipped.

"And you? Do you like being the daughter of a King?"

Erryk observed the way you pondered deeply. Even if he spent every waking minute with a family of high stature and of the utmost importance, he would never truly understand the perils that came with great privilege.

"Would it be silly if I said no?"

"No," he shook his head. "There are many who wish to be you, however."

"I do not envy them," your gaze saddened at the prospect.

"What is not to be envious about?"

"Freedom... or the lack-thereof it."

The wine was making you feel all sorts of ways that evening.

"Freedom," he reiterated. "That may be more rewarding than both of our positions, Princess."

You narrowed your eyes at him to which he returned with a sly, small smirk and his own look was playful. Erryk was subverting your expectations beyond a reasonable doubt.

Your heart leapt at the idea that he was dallying with you.

You were both young and engaging in a fools errand.

Down the corridor from which you originally came, footsteps began to heighten. You could barely make out the silhouettes of more guards making rounds.

"I wish to retire to my room, Ser Erryk," you called out loudly enough for those to hear.

In an instant, a wall had gone up between the two of you and the wine was drained from your body. Erryk offered his arm in the way a Lord would as you conquered the steps one by one.

The guards surpassed you by changing their route and following down another corridor as the two of you made it to the middle landing of the grand steps.

"Oh," you feigned in their absence.

"There was nothing improper of our conversation, Princess," Erryk reassured you.

Everything and the Gods were improper for a high-born lady–even one unmarried and passed over as an option of heir.

"I know," you replied, feeling the cold metal of his armor simmer the heat of your palms.

You continued up the stairs with him and did not let go once the journey was complete.

"Do you see me a spinster, Ser Erryk?" You asked him and once more, he found himself a loss for words in your presence. No other high-born lady would give conversation so willingly. Yet you always had in your short meetings together.

“Spinster?”

“I am a few years beyond my sister. I am unwed and untethered. Not ideal for a husband to seek, no matter if my father is the King.”

"I do not believe it appr–"

"I really do not mind," your face concentrated on the passage of doors and miscellaneous objects littering the living quarter hallways. "You are not a stranger."

"Nor am I a friend," he felt the need to clarify.

"Then what are you?"

You stopped in the middle of the hall and turned to look at him. The skirt of the dress twirled and scuffed his hand. His fingers twitched to grab onto it.

"I am a sworn member of the Kingsguard, Princess. I have a duty to your name, to the crown."

"And such forsakes you from being a friend?"

Lust.

"Do you wish me to be your friend?" He asked boldly.

In the same moment, a rumble of thunder roared through the sky. The open courtyard that found itself in the center of the wing of the keep whirled with a ruinous swirl.

You opened your mouth to speak but nothing voiced itself into words.

“I do not believe that would be appropriate.” You completed his previous sentence.

The earthy thunder echoed in the sky.

"What would be appropriate?" Erryk tested the waters.

He sensed the colors of his white cloak becoming sullied by his own greed. He took a step forward as the rain began to spill from the clouds above.

"My young sister is to be married," you cautioned. "Before I am to be and I–"

"I cannot take a wif–"

"No," you shook your head and sighed. "I do not wish to marry."

"Princess."

"I do not want to be the wife of a Lord twice my age. I want to make my own choices."

Erryk saw the determination in your eyes. He and Arryk had the same as they left home and declared themselves to be willing trainees for the Kingsguard. They gave everything to live a life of stewardship.

"The guards spoke of your abstention," Erryk admitted. "How you abdicated your inheritance and now Princess Rhaenyra is heir to the throne."

"I am clear of the understanding that you cannot take a wife, nor bear any children. I do not seek that either."

Erryk breathed in deeply. "What do you ask of me, Princess?"

Your observances were flicks of nervous ticks. The way your gaze was scattered across the hall; shades of gray became wet with rain and the fires that lit the way began to waver.

"I fear I ask something the Gods deny me."

Freedom.

The two of you stared at one another for seconds before you turned away and returned walking in a wade of self-destruction.

As the rain poured heavy, chaos erupted in the Great Hall as it did in the quarters above. Erryk looked to the sky through the pillars of stone to listen for a sign.

The Gods rumbled in fury.

But Gods be damned.

The clang of his armor filled your ears faster than the force of his hand encircling around your bicep and spinning you around without much warning. His other hand grasped the bottom of your jaw, filling the space of your cheek and brought his lips impatiently to your own.

You could not hear the rain when time ceased to move.

Erryk's hand let go of your bicep and wrung an arm around your back to meet the top of your dress' bodice. His fingers gripped the back of it and you could feel the fabric of his gloves itching against your skin.

The giddiness of the anxiety that had formed with you made your hands shake. They found purchase on his chest plate. Erryk's thumb caressed your chin and then exchanged its position to the back of your head.

You broke the kiss in breathlessness before he brought his lips to yours again.

Your body buzzed without thinking.

There was no returning to the therebefore.

Not a year into Rhaenyra's marriage to Laenor did she give birth to her first son, Jacaerys, who appeared more like a common boy than a Targaryen.

In the following years, another boy was born with the same complexion and you questioned it not as she had come to you nine months prior and declared her third pregnancy happily.

It was an unkempt secret.

It was also one that you were fortunate not to share.

Ten years to the date of the wedding, both your and Rhaenyra's lives were inexplicably changed. Your father's condition worsened to where it was a battle to walk from bed to door. Alicent's ascent into her own form of motherhood rivaled Rhaenyra's as you kept your distance the best you could.

Alicent made efforts to get to know you better as an adult but you saw what she was. She was a devil disguised as a saint.

She was younger and tried yet to replace what your mother left vacant inside of you. You ignored her with what snide nature the Gods had granted you as you had gotten older.

It was your solitude that kept you sane as the keep grew louder.

That, and the life you kept in the shadows. Though, your nephews did bring a smile to your face.

"Jace!" You shouted with a laugh as the boy stumbled in the courtyard. His wooden sword went tumbling out of his hands after one strike from his brother, Lucerys.

They were so little and innocent.

"You must hold onto it if you want to be a great knight!"

"I was!" His little voice argued back as he went to pick up the word and Lucerys lifted his fist in victory.

Ser Harwin Strong stood on the sidelines of their small battle circle as you took a seat on the bottom step not far from their escapade. The yard was full of workers and knights, both those of the Kingsguard and City Watch.

"Not strong enough, My Prince," Harwin gave him a stern glare that sent Jace into a rigid stance wanting to prove his worth.

The boy was ten yet he wished to be a knight at that very moment.

"You must listen to your Aunt if you want to be a good knight," Harwin pointed at you to which you shook your head, scoffing at his words. "She has fought many a battle; can swing a sword as furious as an axe!"

Harwin laughed as you rolled your eyes.

You could see why Rhaenyra loved him. Why she would risk her entire being to bear his children in absence of Laenor's.

"You lie!" Lucerys accused him.

Harwin knelt down beside Lucerys. "I jest, My Prince. But you should know," he leaned his face closer to his sons, "your brother has a weakness..."

Harwin's voice went quiet and Jace put his arms up in defeat. You went to stand but as you gathered your skirt in your hand and went to push upwards, a hand was presented to you.

You looked up nearly blinded by the sunlight that peaked through the clouds and was met with Erryk's face.

He too had changed over the years.

His hair long was reminiscent of the Targaryen tradition of not cutting it so long as they remained the winner in battle. A beard now flocked his face in full but his heart remained the same.

"Princess," he mumbled as you took his hand, lifting yourself from the stair.

It had been two days since your last meeting but for both your hearts, the beat had not changed since the first night.

"Ser Erryk," you greeted. Lost in yourself, you neglected to drop his hand. "Thank you."

"I bring news. Princess Rhaenyra has begun her labors," he alerted you. “She has asked for your presence.”

You looked to Harwin and the boys, the prior already staring in your direction, eying Erryk with inspection. You dropped his hand in an instant.

"That is wonderful news," you replied with a kind smile. Erryk scanned your face for a sign of dejection at the admission. You noticed he had been doing that as of late and it irked you.

Harwin approached in heavy, quick steps.

"Ser Erryk," he greeted with a nod. "Are you to train with the boys today? Ser Cris–"

"I would not call this training," you clarified. The boys were but 10 and 6. "Play fighting may be more applicable."

"I came to tell the Princess that Princess Rhaenyra has begun her labors, Ser Harwin."

Erryk watched as Harwin's eyes contorted in a way he knew nothing of. A sliver of hope, joy, he was not sure. But it changed the way he felt inside.

"May the Gods grant the Princess good will," Harwin declared.

"Yes indeed," you added. Harwin glanced between the two of you as Erryk's eye-line focused on Jace and Luke putzing in the dirt.

“The Princes’ are most excited to meet their sibling. They have talked of nothing else for the past few days.”

“Speaking the truth, Ser Harwin,” you chuckled. “I pray it not be another boy for her sake. I do not know if she can handle such behaviors.”

Lucerys began to hit the ground with his stick in hard, deliberate strokes.

"I should distract the Princes then," he spoke lowly. "Thank you, Ser Erryk."

"Lord Commander," Erryk bid Harwin farewell as he walked back to the boys. Jace was occupied hitting the wooden sword on his feet and Lucerys came running towards the two of you.

"Ser Erryk!" The boy called jubilantly. "I took down my brother!"

"Oh?" Erryk responded in kind. "A very fierce battle ensued, I am sure."

"Yes! And I will do it again!" Luke smiled at him and it made your heart grow three sizes. “I wish to be a fine knight as you are, as Ser Harwin is.”

“One day, My Prince.”

"Luke," you looked down at the boy to which he put his small hand in yours. "I think it is time to choose an egg for the babe.”

The small boy's eyes lit up like a holiday. "Do you think so!?"

"I do," you squeezed his tiny fingers. "Go to your brother. Tell Ser Harwin that he must take you and then return you to your chambers once the egg has been collected."

Luke hugged at your leg tightly before running off to his brother with a screech.

"Take me to my sister," you told Erryk. "I must be with her."

"Of course, Princess."

Every corner of the keep was filled with spectators as the news of Rhaenyra's labors filtered through the castle. Erryk walked steadfast on your heels as your pace became more quick with noises of her strain making itself known.

"Gods," you said exasperated by her shouting.

"It will be alright," Erryk reassured quietly.

“I am inclined to say you have never seen a labor.”

“No,” he said quietly as you passed a guard walking in the opposite direction. “I have not had the privilege.”

“Far from a privilege, Erryk. It is gruesome.”

As her labor chambers came closer with your steps, the fewer guards and people were permitted in the hall.

"The Septa's once told us that boys were never easy. I fear this one will be a repeat of before."

"A boy?"

Without thinking, you replied: "the genes are far too strong."

But Erryk knew what you meant because in the corridors behind the walls of the keep, Harwin and Erryk had crossed paths in their escapes on more than one occasion.

He spoke your name and pulled at your arm to come to a stop outside of her chamber door. You could practically feel her pain emitting from the wood.

There were no guards standing watch outside of the door which you knew was the fault of the Queen.

"All will end well. Rhaenyra will see it to be true. Your sister is a hearty woman."

You nodded at him. "I know it to be so."

And you planted a quick kiss on his lips.

"Come find me tonight," you pleaded. "I wish to see you."

"I will do my best, Princess," Erryk glanced down the hall before cupping the back of your head and kissing you tenderly. "I will do my best."

"Oh," you gasped. The breath had been taken from your lungs as your airway cast a shudder. One of your arms around his shoulders, hand snaking itself to cradle the nape of his neck under his hair while the other hand danced along the side of his face and its thumb traced the line of his lower lip as a set of trembling pants melted together to make a seamless one.

Erryk's hands, worn and calloused from a day's work, trailed the sides of your body and traced the curve of your hips to your thighs. His grip wavered between the harshness you had craved for and his gentle mask.

“These days,” he grunted, teeth clenched tightly together as his jaw flexed with concentration, “have been unforgiving, Princess.”

It had taken him five days to find time with you after the birth of Prince Joffrey.

And so much had changed in those five days.

You lifted yourself up in a rhythmic careen as your heart began to pound against your chest. His eyes seldom left your face. Erryk watched for every bated breath and each staggered exhale while his hands helped guide your hips in genteel rolls.

Between your legs, the feel of his cock was slick and hot. Entering in and out, in and out as he helped try to ease the burn of your thighs working toward elation.

Your hand fell from his face down to his arms. A ghostly light dusting to meet his right hand that had been assisting your movements.

Loosely bringing his hand to your mouth, Erryk’s lips parted as you covered all his fingers with your own except the middle, and brought it to your lips. You kissed the pad of his finger gently.

As you kissed his finger, you lifted yourself from his cock to the tip. He waited for the cool air to hit but it never came as you sank back down and opened your mouth with a mewl as he filled you again.

At that moment, you took his middle finger into your mouth and wet it with your tongue.

He could not speak. For his words were lost in the warmth of your cunt and mouth as your tongue swirled around his digit with a wanton pant. Erryk let his head fall to your chest; lips lingering on the skin of your breasts with nipples taught and pert beckoning to him.

Erryk’s other hand loosened from your hip and grasped your left breast. He palmed the skin before squeezing and letting his palm run over the nipple. You sucked on his finger a bit harder at the sensation.

The hairs from his beard scratched your skin in an insatiable pattern. It was familiar in an exact moment where the past was no more and the future was everclear.

You wanted it memorized. You wanted it traced upon your body.

He tilted his head lower to latch onto your nipple before letting go with an audible “pop” against the lewd sounds of the room. It was morning but the whispered breaths of lovers and the sound of their coitus woke with the rising sun.

You released his finger from between your lips and he lifted his head. His eyes met yours and they glimmered with the same refractions of light one gets as the sun peaks between curtains.

His heart was as large as the sea.

“Lay down,” you wet your lips and held his hand no different than before.

Erryk used his free hand to keep you steady as he laid back on the bed. He bent his knees and planted his feet against the duvet to give you leverage.

“As the Princess commands.”

You bit back a smile. The butterflies in your stomach never ceased to exist.

With your hand eclipsed with his own, you guided his now wet finger down to your clit and he needed no further instructions. The pressure of his finger felt like a lightning bolt shooting through thunder. You gasped as your legs quivered in delight.

And then you smiled fully. Erryk smiled in return and Gods, did you feel the world open up before you.

You placed a hand on his chest before leaning down to kiss his lips still quirked upwards in a sheltered grin. The ministrations of your pleasure not stopped at the joy.

Erryk laid back against the ends of the pillows and watched you lift yourself back up, hand grasping his wrist of the hand to your clit, and began to move faster. He could not help but become entranced in the way his cock disappeared in your core. Your tightness aching for him as it became more slick every passing second.

You breathed in deeply. A hitch in your timber sent his eyes back to yours and you rolled your body deeply—feigning coy in the smoked out candlelight. He could not his gaze roaming the way your breasts moved with every bounce.

The sun was rising behind you.

Enchanting or entrancing, he was captivated as always by his royal woman.

With his hand on your hip, he raised it to trace your spine and felt your muscles begin to shake. Bumps on your skin from his touch made him groan.

You faltered and leant forward. Hands now planted beside his face, your eyes met his own and Erryk gave a small nod. He removed his finger from your clit and ran both hands up your back as you laid your weight on him.

He held you tightly and began to move his hips at an aching pace. Your eyes closed as you hummed in content. Erryk let his face fall beside yours, mouth beside your ear.

"Is this alright, my darling?" he barely whispered and you smiled, he could feel it.

"Yes," you gasped. "Yes."

He laid a kiss on your earlobe in response. With your eyes closed, you could feel bursting colors inside of you. You imagined them swirling behind you eyelids in intertwined wisps of reds and pinks. Yellows of happiness adjoined with the blues of bliss.

In the years you laid together, Erryk was not one to speak loudly nor much during those times. He admired you in its absence. Watching and waiting with bated breath of what pleasure would bring you and he to follow.

It was when he held you close that he felt the oaths he sinned against were foolish.

The touch of a woman, the touch of you, brought him a fantasy he'd never thought of chasing.

You inhaled deeply, legs shaking as he worked you to your orgasm with precision. You turned your head to capture his lips with yours; swallowing his groans when you utilized the last bits of your strength to move your hips at his actions.

Crying out as your body jolts, your right hand snaked itself into the hair that fell on the side of his face.

"Gods," you whimpered. There was little more you could do to hang on.

Erryk's low grunts matched his thrusts the faster they came.

He gripped the back of your thigh and brought your leg upwards, changing his angle. Your shoulders tensed at your growing inability to hold on. A string was snapping inside of you, waiting for it all to be enough.

And at once, it became enough.

You tilted your head upwards with a high-pitched gasp; the sound elongating the second he felt your muscles tighten around his dick and loosen a second later with a fury. He continued to thrust through your tremors. The jerking of your body erupting his own orgasm and with three thrusts, his breath became staggered and wanton.

Against his chin, you rested your forehead uncomfortably to gather yourself. A droplet of sweat beaded from your breasts pressed against his chest and to his skin.

As he recovered his own breathing, a hand of his own rubbed careless lines on your back. Erryk could feel the pulse of blood rushing to your center. He took his hand away from your back and brought it to your face to turn it to him.

Your breath was hot against him as he was certain his own was against yours.

"I apologize," his voice had grown ragged. He spoke softly yet you could hear the hoarseness of his throat. "For not fulfilling your request."

"Come find me tonight," you pleaded. "I wish to see you."

"No," you brushed back hairs from his face. "It warrants no apology."

Erryk sighed deeply. You moved a finger to trace the edges of his beard lightly. He looked at you with a furrowed brow. You pressed a finger to the worrying crease.

"What worries you, my love?"

He appeared hesitant to speak freely in that moment. The comfort of guilt had been eating at him as of late. Act that soiled his cloak in sin, he had forsaken his duty to chase what he had denied himself for so long.

It was the evening chatter amongst the Kingsguard as they sat for supper that churned in his stomach.

"I do not worry," he answered. You did not believe him.

"Your face tells different story, Erryk."

"Do you regret this arrangement, Princess?"

You stopped your movements and locked eyes with him. Just as your heartbeat had started to slow, it picked up again at a rapid pace.

"I– " you paused to find your words. "Where might have gotten that impression?"

"No impression," he clarified. "It was simply Princess Rhaenyra's children–"

At the mention of your sister, you lifted your hips and removed him from you with a shallow shudder before rolling to your side and sitting upright in search of your dressing gown.

"I do not wish to speak of my sister while I lay with you," you informed him. It had never been a subject discussed in the decade of knowing one another. "That is the last person I wish to think of."

"I do not mean it in that way."

"Then in what way do you mean?" You gathered the gown from the floor and put it on in rapid movements.

"It is no secret that the King continues to search for a Lord Husband befitting of your status," Erryk spoke as he sat in the bed you shared. "I never imagined–"

"What?" You drew defensive immediately.

Something deeper lingered inside of you. He knew nothing of the matter.

"When I swore the oath of the Kingsguard I did not imagine being the one who stands in the way of the King's desires."

"He does not know, Erryk. I stand in his way. I refuse the proposals."

"Because you love me."

"Yes!" You exclaimed. "I told you that I wished to carve my own life with what little power I do have of it. This," you stuck both hands outward to him, "is that power."

"And if he were to find out, my fate would be far more severe than being exiled to my homelands."

Ser Harwin left yesterday morning at the instruction of the King.

Rhaenyra would not see anyone in her quarters for hours.

You did not question his comment.

"Have you found someone else to warm your bed?" You asked an impossible question. Erryk let the sigh of disbelief pass his lips.

"I would not inflict such pain on you. Do you truly question my devotion? After what I risk to love you?"

A piece of you constricted with the knowledge you held. How this was likely your last morning together for some time and you were leading it to a deep crevice of spite.

"You question my own devotion for what cause?" You countered. "I do not regret this. I will never so long as I live because we chose to do this, together."

Erryk moved off the bed and slipped on his trousers and linen shirt with the ties undone.

"I do not ask out of a want to be removed from my circumstance."

"Then why ask it?"

"Do you never feel guilt? Of allowing me to besmirch your honor–"

"Please," you begged him and sat on the settee that was littered with books of old. "I do not wish to hear it."

You did feel some guilt. Guilt of a secret that had been eating away at you for a day.

The troubles of life had long settled itself within the walls of your chamber. These conversations had been occurring more often as of late and you knew not the cause but had a rousing suspicion that his honor, duty to the crown levied a darkening cloud over his consciousness.

The culpability of a sin unforgettable to his stature buried him. Now having witnessed the removal of the Lord Commander, and Hand of the King, for the consequences of lust weighed like torture.

A dam of large proportions was meant to break in the keep.

The blood of Rhaenyra's childbirth was still being washed from the halls and with it, the stones cracked under pressure.

Erryk picked up the pieces of his armor from the floor and laid them before himself on the bed. Ingrained in his mind, he assembled each piece to the best of his ability before moving toward you as the birds began to chirp outside of your windows.

The cool breeze of autumn filtered in through the curtains.

It was then he saw the wetness of your cheeks. A silent cry had formed in his wake and he had not seen it. He had given no time for care; he feared your needs were not satisfied.

Before he could stumble out words, you coughed out the admission.

"Rhaenyra is leaving for Dragonstone on the morrow."

Oh.

"She asked for my council... to go with her."

Erryk felt a terrible wall grow in front of him.

"I do not wish to leave you."

"Are you to go with her?" He asked.

A part of him knew the impossible task. He and his brother were inseparable. Being twins, perhaps it was expected of him to be close as thieves but the bonds of a sister had tethered two souls closer than even he could ponder.

He would die for his brother, as you would your sister.

"Yes," you cried. A sob escaped your lips and you let your head fall into your hands.

Erryk tossed his armor back onto the bed, kneeling before you and wrapping his arms around you as his heart stung.

"It is not my place to beg you to stay," he admitted. "You must do as your future Queen commands of you." Spoken like a knight.

"What if my leaving is the last that I will see of you?' You questioned. You lifted your head and cupped his face. "I love you, Erryk. I do not regret my actions."

"And I you," and instead of Princess, he said your name soothingly. "I speak in fear. You speak of what little you have, but with what I do have, my body and soul are yours to keep."

"I do not think I can bear being parted for long. I will not take a husband, I will not take another lover," you declared.

You made your sentiments known. He was not going to question it again.

"Nor I," he agreed. "Nor I."

You pulled your lips to his own.

"I wanted to tell you," you wept, “but I could not find you. I wished not for this to be our parting ways. I do not want to you to remember me this way."

"In what way?" He hummed with a strained, sorrowed smile. "You are as beautiful as the day we met. If this is to be our last moments together, my only regret is not holding you longer."

You let out a wet, sad laugh.

"We will find each other again," he reassured you. His blue eyes shining in the golden glow of morning as the sun blessed the skies in a red and pink dream.

"I swear it, by the old Gods and the new."

You rubbed your thumb across his cheek to catch a tear most of the Kingsguard would never admit to falling in the presence of their lovers. You nodded at him.

"I love you," you whispered.

You wouldn't see him for another six years.

The gates of King's Landing were tall and colored in an ugly terracotta.

You peered out the slim slivers the grated windows of the caravan allowed as it trudged the rocky roads along the shoreline of the city. Glimpses of a cooling fall air, the sun was shielding itself behind clouds with every inching second that wheels churned closer to the keep.

"Surely the city cannot have changed that much since our departure, good sister," Daemon's words were shrouded in a snicker. His eyes are always cutting and looking for a battle.

Eyes tearing themselves away from the outside, you looked at Daemon as he studied you.

"It has changed greatly, Uncle," you retorted. "Perhaps if you had spent more time canvasing it during the light of day you would be able to say the same."

Daemon's lips lifted themselves into a sly, cunning smirk as Rhaenyra shook her head.

"Must we bicker as such? Play civil for only a day and then we shall return home. Might we find some excitement beyond the boor?"

When Daemon became Rhaenyra's husband after Laenor passed, you wished your dragon would swallow you whole.

Rhaenyra said you were being dramatic.

"Vaemond is a peddler," you reassured her, taking her hand in yours and peering back outside of the slits. "Your sons have little to fear."

In the years that have passed over Westeros, every soul had been changed by the tenants of the Red Keep and those who watch over them like vultures at a feast. Rhaenyra's ascendance to Viserys' heir should not have been a catalyst for the pain suffered by those in their watch but yet it could not help itself.

Your fingertips ghosted the wooden edges of the carriage as the latches of the gates began to swing outwards and opening themselves up to you once more.

Rhaenyra understood that her sons had nothing to fret regarding their futures. Viserys had turned a blind eye for years and the sentiment would not change so long as he remained on the throne for the years to come.

She squeezed your tender fingers with her own.

Daemon's eyes wandered from the trusted hands of two sisters to his wife's face.

"I do wonder," Daemon cleared his throat and adjusted in his seat. His sheathed sword knocked the golden accents of the interior. "If there is something of worry for you, good sister."

Rhaenyra's face twitched. A challenge, he imagined.

"I've heard that the Queen has been looking to secure a marriage match for her children."

"Daemon, you forget yourself," Rhaenyra spoke. Your eyes were lost in the courtyard that began to form around you.

"She has evaded such for years," Daemon defended. "I know of no other high-born lady, a princess, who is beyond marrying age and still remains relevant. Alicent is playing chess against an enemy that stays hidden on a cliff."

"Why is the concern so pressing?" Rhaenyra questioned, her eyes narrowing as her hand gripped yours tighter.

"You said it yourself, if Vaemond has the will to bring into question Jace and Luc, then the family will fall into a pit before being able to hoist itself up again. A match may not be out of the question to cease the concerns of other houses who question our ability to rule."

"No." Rhaenyra shook her head. "My father-"

"Knows nothing. The green bitch does his bidding. We all know about it."

The wheels of the carriage struck a bump causing the three of you to lean in one direction before falling back. The sounds of Kingsguard and City Watch members clambering for the arrival of such a caravan began to make themselves known.

"Where do you hear such secrets, Daemon?" You tired of hearing your life being planned without your consent. You narrowed your eyes at the blonde man. "I am near twenty years elder of her children. I am far too old to be the wife of–," there was a part of you that could hardly speak it.

And Daemon chuckled at the prospect.

But then again, he was older than both you and Rhaenyra.

It may have been the proper way of great households, but it was one that you detested. You had seen what marriage had done to your sister, your family, and closest friends. So many lost to what they had known for the sake of alliances and duty.

The memories of your trysts lay present in your mind. He was there.

A piece of Rhaenyra and your mother's stubbornness had harbored itself into you for the last sixteen years when womanhood had finally made sense to you.

There had been a glint in Rhaenyra's eyes at one time and you'd be dammed if you let your family take that from you as well.

"Besides," you diverted. "Father has tried many fine men of great houses to force my hand and yet," you lifted a hand void of jewelry besides a golden dragon that slithered up ornately on your pointer finger.

"Trying times call for trying actions."

You needn't respond to Daemon for him to understand the conversation had ceased. Rhaenyra put pressure on your hand once more before removing it and placing her own back on her belly that grew another child of her and Daemon's.

Outside the caravan of black banners and red sigils, the scattered sounds of court disappeared behind walls rattled with the hooves of the steeds. The carriage came to a rough stop and Rhaenyra gave you a stressed smile.

There was no fond greeting for those who escaped to Dragonstone six years ago.

"I sense the welcome is not as it once was," you whispered to her. Her brows furrowed as she had not paid any mind to the sounds and sights beyond her small party. A sinking feeling landed at the pit of your stomach.

The clatter of tools and wooden planks stopped as the caller announced the members to descend the steps.

And as you thought, the welcome was as the keep had become: vacant of the reverence it once had.

Each member of the Targaryen's who had been nothing short of exiled for their own safety waltzed into the pit of a raging green beast with a poor reception on behalf of the crown the heir expected. It spoke plainly of the disagreeable nature floating between two sides.

With a creak, the doors to the Keep's entrance opened and one soul, Lord Caswell, looked ridden with worry which struck a chord within Daemon, Rhaenyra, and yourself. He approached the heir with a solemn face before bowing.

"Welcome home, Princess."

"Lord Caswell," Rhaenyra responded in kind. His eyes bounced between each of you. He hadn't welcomed any of you to the keep in six years time.

It was as though a century had passed in a second.

"The King is anxious for your return," he continued. "He spoke of nothing but for these past two days. As well as to see his grandchildren, so grown and presentable." Lord Caswell nodded at them.

"Take us to him, if you please, Lord Caswell. It has been a weary journey," Rhaenyra began to walk off as he stuttered.

"Surely you would like to rest first, Princess? I will have your things taken to the visiting quarters."

"Visiting quarters?" Rhaenyra questioned, stopping in her tracks. Daemon was on her heels and her eldest son, Jace, halted with the rest of the children beside you.

Your eyes danced around the courtyard in a silly hope to find a pair.

'Of course he would not be there,' you scolded yourself.

You wondered if you had changed since your last meeting. Would he be able to recognize the woman you had become in the desolate castle?

"The Queen has taken residence in your former quarters, Princess."

Rhaenyra paused before speaking with an understanding that while here on the business of securing her son's legacy, her bygone friend has seized more than just your father.

But as you took in the surroundings you envisioned a world differently than the one that presented itself to you now. One of freedom and without greed; no one playing a long game of power and where lives were not seen as pawns, but as people.

Rhaenyra took a deep breath. She held her hand to her stomach and rubbed a thumb across it gently as the overcoat she wore buried the chill with everything she had lost inside. She glanced at you as your eyes looked everywhere but hers and followed as they met every Kingsguard in the court.

She saw the light dim in the slightest.

"Lord Caswell," She spoke clearly, "take us to my father please."

Seldom would have prepared you for the state your father was in.

Forced with an eternity of pain, Viserys was a shell of himself in the bed he laid. Each minute he suffered in the stillness of the Milk of the Poppy and it guided him only to lead him astray; every swing of an ax, a sword in the courtyard, would bleed the remnants of happiness that lingered in his dusty room.

He barely recognized you as you held his hand.

It struck your soul when he mistook you for your dead mother.

"Aemma," he croaked as though it took all his strength to talk."

Rhaenyra stilled beside you. You put on a brave face.

"No, father," you reminded him of you. "We are all here now."

He repeated your name brokenly.

"Sister," Rhaenyra approached you with her own son, Viserys by name, on her hip.

You had resigned yourself to inspect the dusty model of King's Landing that had once been a prized possession of the man who could not will himself to stand. The disease had overtaken his body to the point of immobility.

Viserys groaned in pain in his bed.

It was a sound you wished not to hear once more.

"Why don't you find your nephews and reintroduce them to the Keep?" She proposed. Her attitude was emitting more positivity than it should.

"I am sure they have already made their way," you took a finger and swiped it through the dust.

"And they could do well with a guide," she pressed.

You sighed, taking a glimpse behind you and surveying your father as he hid behind the curtains of his bed and cooed at Rhaenrya's other son, Aegon.

"He will be alright, sister."

"I do not share the same confidence, Rhaenyra."

She bounced Viserys on her hip. The boy played innocently with her hair without worry of the world evolving around him.

It was turning sour.

"Go to them," Rhaenyra ordered. "I would start at the training ground... you know how my boys are."

You heard the sound of swords before you saw them.

For once Daemon had been right about the Red Keep: it truly hadn’t changed from your time spent away. The same people found themselves completing the same mundane tasks each and every day until the Father called them home.

At the top of the long steps, you took in the sights you had missed.

It smelled of shit and metal. The people were loud and crowding around a scene of two men sparring along the edges of the yard. In your vision, Jace and Luke were fumbling through the materials they reminisced of as young children.

A chunk taken out of the stone, the wooden swords still available to train with.

You leaned against the barrister of brick. Below, just out of sight, two knights sparred in their time away from the king. Their fierceness caught the eyes of the two Targaryen boys who were in awe of the sights around them.

“Look,” Jace put his arm around his brother and pointed to Erryk and Arryk’s valiant efforts.

The eldest was in awe of such gallantry.

“It is just as we remembered, isn’t it?”

Luke watched as everyone stared at them unabashedly.

“They have always been valiant fighters,” Jace continued. “I remember Ser Erryk helping us adjust our stances. We were all but six and ten.”

"That was not Ser Arryk?"

Jace laughed. "Ser Erryk was the one to help you after I pushed you into that pile of horse shit when you were four. He gave the best advice about watching your opponents."

“And what good did that bring you?” Luke jested and received a slap on the head. He caught you monitoring them from above on the landing of the steps.

“It seems motherly is untrusting of us on our own,” he told Jace who clocked you watching before the sounds of metal swords clanging caught your attention.

“She will not object to us,” Jace picked at the swords on the cart. “She let us hit each other with these same sticks when I was not yet ten. I do not think our Aunt minds if we explore our old home.”

“I do not think she cares about us at all,” Luke spoke of you as he watched the two brothers push one another backwards.

They let up with a shake of their hands and if he could tell them apart, he would say Arryk looked up at you and paused.

“Brother,” Arryk called to Erryk as the latter went to reestablish his footing.

“What?” Erryk heaved in a tired breath. “Again, Arryk. We do not have much time.”

“Brother,” Arryk now insisted and pointed his sword upwards to the tops of the steps.

When he turned around, it was as though all life paused around him. Two worlds gone completely still because for the first time in six years, you and Erryk had finally converged to one place.

It took his breath away.

As always, thank you for reading. Comments and reblogs, as well as likes, are greatly appreciated. I loved that this character has captured our hearts so much. There truly are no small roles.

#ser erryk cargyll x reader #erryk cargyll x reader #erryk cargyll x you #hotd #house of the dragon #erryk cargyll #ser erryk cargyll #x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #hotd s2 #house of the dragon s2

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