Archive of Our Own

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     Montague just about hisses at you when you pin him against his own mattress. Someone clearly needed to teach the man what it was like to not be in control– and that person would be you, even if Montague put on that fake face of rebellion that he always did. He loved to whine, and you loved to make him do it. There was a certain appeal to seeing his sulking turn into greedy bucks and coarse praises. You two had done this dance for many nights, spawned after too many risqué comments at a party now many months in the past. That first night had been hungry, clearly feeding an animal in both of you that had long been starved. Now, though, your encounters took on a more rhythmic note, each bite you placed on his neck a strategic crack at his handsome façade. Everything about him was expensive– every time you two fell into this same trap, you wondered how you of all people could possibly afford to have sex with him. His dignified posture, cruelly cut suits, and decadent diamond jewelry all screamed that he was the most powerful person in the room. You, of course, did not partake in that image in the slightest. You knew exactly what he liked– and that was being pushed into the sheets and getting fucked until his mind turned to mush. While Montague vehemently denied how much he liked it, you knew that he savored every moment of it. And, in fairness, he did make quite the sight for sore eyes when he was properly ruined– belly striped with his own come, glassy eyes, and the vaguest tremble of his legs. The surge of power it fed to your brain was an equally strong factor to continue desiring such clashes with Montague; knowing that you (and only you) was responsible for leaving him such a mess satiated a hunger you didn’t even know you had. Who could deny devouring a man as pretty as Montague was?
Even now, as you tease over the delicate skin of his chest, you can’t help but admire the man. He certainly had pretty privilege, if one thing was for sure. His breathless pleas, a far cry from the stubborn remarks he’d been making only moments before you undressed him, feed the animal in your chest. Someone like him deserved to be broken apart, and then put back together. It was an intricacy in of itself to handle him with rough but gentle hands, yet every time he offhandedly remarked how good it felt when you hit just right reinforced that you were doing it right.
Deciding to finally take mercy on his increasingly desperate pleas, you wrap a calloused palm around the very base of his dick, squeezing firm and tight just to hear him squeak. You grin at him, though he averts his gaze in embarrassment– that wouldn’t be acceptable. His noises were gorgeous, deep and rich with lust. It doesn’t take much to draw them from him, either. All you do is drag your tongue against the underside of his length and he moans, bucking towards your mouth. As greedy as ever, it seems. Despite the fact he was disgustingly rich, though, you must’ve been the top indulger of his greed. You stole him diamonds and pretty things, simply because the glossy shine in his eyes when he saw them made him look way easier to fuck into the sheets than was fair to your dick.     
     You indulge him yet again in his desires, swallowing him down in a fluid motion. You release his wrists from where they’re trapped against the ivory sheets in the same moment, allowing him to grasp at your hair with trembling hands. You’re not about to take mercy on him yet, though, instead drawing back off his length before sinking him back towards your throat. He seems awfully keen on helping you, though, and does so with a sharp arch of his back to steal back the slick warmth of your mouth. The desperate buck is more than enough motivation to grant him what he so clearly wants, setting a ruthless pace of your head bobbing down against him until he’s pleading, desperate for his orgasm.
Montague loses control of himself as easily as ever. You can feel the tremble in his legs with each shaky noise he offers you. It’s the perfect reward for your efforts to please him, even more so once matched with his disheveled hair and blissed-out expression. His breathing becomes quick and sharp, matching the same pace his hips take on as you intensify the tempo. You let him glean what he can from your mouth, humming in the back of your throat to nudge him towards the precipice of a release that can’t be far off.
Sure enough, Montague’s hips shiver once, twice, three times more before he shudders to a standstill, losing his mind into your mouth. You inhale, exhale, maintaining a calm aura much unlike Montague was. He vehemently denied his behavior after the fact, though the slurred pleas and bribes to bend to his will remained tucked away in the nooks and crannies of your mind. While he was insistent that he would never say such a thing, you knew what desperation did to him– and it was as pretty as ever. Montague was pretty when he lost it, and this was no exception.
     There is no need for words as you draw off him at last, throat slightly raw but satisfied with what you’d done to him. He was still splayed atop the now wrinkled sheets, easy for you to devour just how you liked. He knew that you weren’t the easily satiated one. You’d kept him up until the pearly pink hours of dawn before, sucking him off until his legs trembled and indulging in the complete fantasy of his body. Montague was the finest specimen you’d ever sunk your teeth into, and you planned to keep him yours for as long as time allowed. The possessive monster in your chest ripples at the sight of a ruined Montague. The best part was that you weren’t yet done; you were going to please him until he couldn’t remember his own name, no matter how long it took. After all, you had all night and then some to treat him however you wanted. The hotel was empty per his orders, and now he would reap what he had sown by ordering all his guards away. You had no reason to hold back, now. His noises could be unrestrained and unchecked. It was rare that you could spend a night with him that didn’t have some caveat or restriction, so the freedom was heady and dangerous. Sitting back on your heels, you study a relaxed Montague. He’s laid out on the bed in a deliciously languorous fashion, long legs tangled with the crumpled blanket, muscled chest shadowed handsomely by the lamplight, and his delightful mismatched eyes hidden by salt-and-pepper lashes. As pretty as ever. Unable to resist the temptation, you trace over the dips and divots of his torso with feathery fingers, admiring the trail of goosebumps your touch left. His hips twitch ever so minutely. It isn’t difficult to urge him to full hardness once more with how sensitive he is.

Chapter Text

“The sword is part of you, Nisha. An extension of your mind and your heart. Use it like the weapon it is. Fencing is a skill that only those with the ability to tame the sword can learn.” She can feel the warmth of his chest against her back, smell the undoubtedly expensive cologne he wore. It’s dizzying, having this dream of a man teaching her like this. His hand comes up against hers, guiding each slice and delicate slash towards the pincushion of a mannequin. She hadn’t exactly meant to learn how to fence from this narcissistic hotel owner, but he was hot and she was lonely. Better to spend a sleepless night with Montague than an empty one at her own house. He was tolerable, at least, and had good manners. It was hard to hate him, as much as she tried; he bought her pretty bracelets and necklaces and every other piece of jewelry imaginable. It made her feel special, even though she knew his heart belonged to nobody except himself and the diamond pendant that he never took off. 

“ Focus .” He squeezes at her waist, forcing her attention back to the drills at hand. Someday she planned to outshine him in the art of sword fighting. It would be nice to be better than him at something, considering his ego was rather dangerously inflated. Unfortunately, he’s an awful distraction, what with his rich purr of a voice and the way he made everything he said sound like an innuendo. It was impossible to do anything with him without wondering if he was flirting with you or wanted to kill you. Nisha wonders if he even sleeps at night– she always falls asleep first, lulled by the surprisingly comfortable warmth of his arms into slumber that was better than anything sleeping alone ever produced. Montague has stepped back by now, expecting her to demonstrate the skill. Mustering her focus once more, she lunges towards the beat-up dummy with fiery precision, mimicking the attack he’d spent the morning teaching her. 

He nods approvingly, though his gaze is as stony as ever. “Good. Now do better.” 

She whips off the mask, glaring at him. “Do it yourself. You’ve done nothing but distract me and tease me this entire morning, Montague .” 

“Gladly done, Nisha .” She can't tell if he's talking about the demonstration part or the distraction part until he holds out a gloved hand, requesting the blade. She smacks the grip into his palm none too gently, arms crossed over her chest. She knows she’s made a mistake in challenging him the second he stands before the mannequin, uncanny gaze narrowed and posture not unlike a cat about to hunt its prey. He attacks in a movement so quick it’s barely seen, and the blade is stuck through the head of the figure in a clean puncture before she can even register that he’s moved. He draws it out without a word, wiping the stuffing off. The smirk on his face is insufferable . Nisha fumes behind her mask. 

“Duel me.”

He laughs. “Duel you? Darling, you make a fool of me. You do not know what you are getting yourself into.”

“I was not joking.”

Montague straightens, pinning her under his cold, cold gaze. “I will not hold back. If I win, I get what I want of you. If you win, you get what you want of me.” She glares. There he is again with the ‘am I trying to have sex with you or murder you’ behavior. She hates it. Hates it. 

“Fine. Terms accepted. Now give me a sword.” Nisha knows she’ll pay for her attitude later. Montague liked his power, and did not relinquish it easily. Yet, as he rummages through his antique wardrobe for a spare saber, she knows that she will win this duel or die trying. Her pride had been twisted and injured by this man, and she would earn it back. Fair and square.

Chapter Text

“Again. I will win this time.” Nisha challenges the man with an icy glare. He grins back, as cocky as ever. She had not won their first duel, nor their third, or even their seventh. Days upon days of humiliating losses to his speed, his talent, his arrogance. Today was the day that she would finally win. Months of training had culminated in this, so many nights spent stretching to physical limits just to hone her skills to the sharpest point. Montague was quick and skilled, there was no doubting that, but she was now just as quick and skilled. 

“You really think so?” He polishes his blade absently, silver mask shadowing handsome features. “This is a claim you have made many times to me, darling. Will you finally make good on it today?” Montague stuffs the cloth back in his pocket. “The deal is the same as ever. If I win, I get what I want of you. If you win, you get what you want of me.” 

“Accepted. En garde.” The same proposal as ever. She never said no, as the diamond-cut man always made the loss worth her while with his fingers and tongue. He was a gracious victor, if anything. Nisha sets herself into a poised stance, blade alert. “ The sword is part of you, Nisha. An extension of your mind and your heart. Use it like the weapon it is.” Montague’s words during their early days together echo in her head. Months of grueling practice had lent themself well, though, and she finally understood what he had meant. To control the blade was to control yourself. Mindless attacks would only result in another loss.

“En garde.” She sharpens her stance.

“Prête.” Montague’s gaze is on her even through his mask. His French is as beautiful as ever, oozing like honey into her mind. No time to be distracted.

“ Allez !” She flashes forward, blade outstretched. His parry is just as quick– but his riposte is slow. Nisha dodges his counterattack with a smooth retreat, regaining her poise. He had missed once. He would miss again. 

Montague lunges, though he does not fall short this time. One strike would not set her back permanently. The victory was not out of sight. Days upon days of repetitive drills come back to her, guiding her footwork through each terse point exchanged. Five strikes was a win. Nisha inhales, exhales, narrowing her gaze at Montague. 

Zero and one. A simple setback. 

Zero and two. He would not win this duel from her so easily.

Zero and three. His arrogance would fail him eventually. She had to focus.

One and four. A lucky strike. Nisha would not let him win again.

Three and four. Cracks in his armor. Laziness, even. Still a formidable opponent.

Four and four. Her pride teeters on this last strike. She could not lose.

Nisha’s consciousness draws to a sharp point, focused on this penultimate bout. His voice is hazy to her, unclear in the overwhelming drive she has to finally claim this victory from him. When the command is given, her attack is cruel and calculated, swinging deep at his offhand that he failed to guard with consistency. His parry does not come quick enough– she prays her sword moves quick enough, urging every bit of momentum into the slash.

It hits . Montague hisses under his breath when he feels her blade pressed against his side, the noise audible from even behind his mask. “It seems the mouse has finally become the cat,” he purrs, drawing off his metallic mask and settling it in the crook of his elbow. “I must say, I am surprised that you fought so well after so little time training. Impressive.”

The praise digs straight into her head. Compliments from him were not easily earned. “I am glad you think so, Montague.” The deal. The deal . She knows what she wants from him, and has desired it for months. Dreams and nights spent seeking him out to provide comfort from the pervasive loneliness in her mind had not scratched this itch.

“So?” He stands, posture unbothered. “I am yours to take, dear. Your wish is my command.” Why did he have to be so disgustingly flirtatious? He never knew when to stop.

“Bed. Now.” Her command is cut-and-dry. His antics were not of her interest right now.

He shucks off his suit at the harsh demand from her, gloved fingers working deftly at the classy button-down. Nisha studies him with all the menace of a predator stalking its prey. She knows he can feel her gaze as he removes his clothes, folding them neatly and placing them on his desk. Someday she would have him over that desk. Not today, but someday.

Her pride swells as he dutifully complies with her request, splaying out on his egregiously comfortable bed without much care in the world. She almost wishes she could have as much arrogance as him as he has, envious of the way he flushed not even the slightest at the way she devoured him with her eyes. Someone as narcissistic as him had no right to be so attractive, from the soft muscle of his legs to the harder planes of his chest. Even his hair maintained a boyish tussle, mussed from friction against his own pillow.

Nisha realizes she’s still clothed when Montague cocks an eyebrow at her, the slightest question. She dismisses him by turning her back, rifling through the box he kept in the back of his still-open wardrobe. However much her thinking may be clouded, she would not allow any risks. That much is made clear when she pitches the foil packet in her hand directly at his head, though he snags it from the air with ease. 

“Put it on.” Curt and snappy. Her patience with his antics was thin.

He grins, left hand snaking lower to encourage bloodflow with rough strokes, other hand deftly tearing open the packet. Nisha blushes behind her mask, turning away once more to tug her jacket over her head. This man knew what a tease he was being, touching himself with all the grace and arrogance of some Greek god. Insufferable. Pulling off the rest of her fencing suit, she wonders if his facade will hold up when she has control. Unfortunately enough, her fantasies are soon ruined by the very cause of them.

“Je suis prête, joli diamant,” he interrupts, voice laced with sweet venom.

“Be quiet.” She unbuckles the last of her clothing, setting aside the dented gold frame of her mask. Montague had bared himself to her without second thought; she owed him that same courtesy, considering all he had done and continued to do for her. His gaze is on her the second she’s unclothed, hungry and devouring. Better to avoid delaying her end of the deal any further, lest Montague give in to his classical impatience.

Chapter Text

It’s one of those situations that you wonder how you even get yourself into. Things had moved so quickly– from an unexpected greeting by notorious criminal overlord Valeria, who turned out to be Montague’s ex, to said overlord telling Nisha something that was entirely new to her about Montague. She'd thought it’d simply been a jab at Montague, but with the eyes of both women on him, one curious and one with a knowing twinkle, he'd caved. A couple hours later and a lot of Montague hiding his head in his hands later, they’d gotten here. It was delightful to have him below her, though, and with Valeria’s assistance, he was quickly losing his mind. 

“Hold his hips like that, dear– no, up more. There you are.” She can’t decide if it’s embarrassing or pleasing to have Valeria criticize the whole process from her perch on the desk. Of course, it was made very clear that she had done this to Montague more than a few times. He had affirmed her claims with uncharacteristic sheepishness, causing Nisha to giggle. She liked seeing him act more playful than his typical upheld façade. Nisha obeys her directive, drawing him back ever so slightly with urging hands. There’s no worry in her that he’s uncomfortable with this– the frantic flutter of his chest and restrained little noises when she dug a particularly sweet angle are all she needs to know he’s enjoying himself, although Nisha does wish she could see his face. He had asked to face the other way, head hanging between his bracketed elbows. It was filthy, but she liked seeing the strained arch of his spine with each movement. She can hear him saying something under his breath, though knows he would speak up if he wanted her to hear. His desperation is cute, to say the least.

Valeria sidles over, sitting on the edge of the bed, sheets dipping and creasing under her weight. Nisha continues a slow but firm pace, attempting to keep each hilt deep and aimed with accuracy. She watches as the other woman dances nails over Montague’s trembling spine, before slipping lower and wrapping firmly around his length. As strange as it is, Nisha doesn’t feel like Valeria is overstepping or invading by doing any of this. She didn’t come between what intimacy she and Montague had. It’s an admirable talent, even as she works at him with clinical but rough strokes and muttered praises, finally breaking his restraint to avoid making noise. The combined stimulation pulls haphazard groans from him with ease. She can’t help but admire the delicate twitch of muscle with each movement made on him. His noises take on a particularly breathy note after some time spent trapped between the dual pleasures of Nisha and Valeria. To Nisha’s surprise, a particular squeeze and a sweet spot being rammed is all it takes for him to go weak below her, begging mindlessly. She watches with mild awe as Montague loses his mind, hips jerking into the hilt Nisha had him at and the tight ring of Valeria’s hand. Cute. She almost wanted to see it again, if she wasn’t worried about pushing him too far. 

“Good boy.” Valeria pats at his back, wiping off slick. “Now do it again for your pretty girl. I can tell she liked it.” Nisha blushes, though Montague does nothing but nod breathlessly , form still shaking with the residual ooze of pleasure. She is concerned for a moment that it will be too much for him, as was the case at times when it came to all matters of his life. Overstimulating him too much was not something she would risk. Her concern is unwarranted, however, when he slumps downwards once more, hips twitching back towards hers. Valeria looks at her, scarlet gaze inscrutable. It was one of many traits of the woman that Nisha found not unsettling, but interesting. 

“Nisha.” A cut statement from Montague, muffled with a twinge of desperation.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to tease.” She feels guilty at leaving him, even if it had only been a moment of distraction. Her hips pick up a much more accustomed pace, utilizing her recently gained experience with him to urge the same reactions she had before.

He slurs something in reply, back arching with every full hilt. Valeria offers no criticism this time, merely tracing the edges of his ribcage and murmuring something to him that only he could hear. It is not of much concern to Nisha anyways, not when she can drink in each delirious twitch of Montague’s body. She knows Valeria would not step between their relationship even given the opportunity. 

With each movement, she can tell Montague is quickly becoming overstimulated, muscles stiff and tensed to accommodate for such pleasure. His unintelligible pleas quickly become fluting noises, and little more. Valeria has returned to coaxing deeper reactions out of him with smooth strokes, forcing Nisha to match the way his hips bucked into her hand. It was cute seeing him lose his mind like this, facade cracking far easier than she thought it would. Yet, Valeria suddenly drops her hand away, pulling a whine from Montague at the lack of stimulation. Nisha blinks, curious, though soothes the man below her with a deep press of the toy. The fiery lady shakes her hand briefly of something, before leaning down to whisper into Montague’s ear, who buries his face in a pillow as a reply. Interesting.

“Is he okay?” She asks Valeria, timid and worried to push him too far. The other woman likely knew Montague’s limits in this matter better than she did, and would know when he truly couldn’t take it. 

She chuckles. “More than okay.”

Nisha puzzles over that. Montague had seemed embarrassed by whatever Valeria had said. Her questions are soon given an answer, though, when she spies the strangest glint at the base of his spine, intensified with a hilt she had thoughtlessly angled towards a sweet spot. The whine it pulls from him matches the sudden shoot of fuzzy crystals along his spine, branching out along the rest of his back. She stutters to a stop instantaneously, leaning forward to reach for one of his hands. Words would fail him, she could tell. No matter. They had done this many times before.

Her calm grasp of his hand, which to her surprise was equally covered in crystalline zigzags, is met with two squeezes, distinct. Valeria had ceased stimulation the same moment Nisha had, waiting with unusual patience for the two to communicate in their own little way. The answering squeeze from Montague is all she needs to be relieved that he is okay. Yet, despite his confirmation that nothing was amiss, she wonders how he had managed to sprout such unusual diamond formations. They were normally larger spikes as opposed to the cluttered sprawl on his back and arms currently, or smooth planes of the gem. Never so. . . messy. Everything about Montague radiated control and power over himself.

“Nisha, dear, you keep him waiting.” Valeria’s voice echoes smoothly, a gentle reminder that Montague was still below her, and clearly desperate to come a second time. It would be a due reward for everything the two had put him through, anyways. With that thought in mind, Nisha resumes her staccato tempo, just enough to strike at deep soft spots that left Montague shuddering when met with a calculated movement from Valeria. His muffled noises increase in pitch, wavering wildly until Valeria suddenly adjusts, pressing his hips up into Nisha’s next hilt. The rich moan it pulls from him is enough for Nisha’s movement to lose its regularity, rather seeking out those noises from him again. 

Lucky for her, his restraint seems to have snapped fully, each hilt and corresponding movement from Valeria pushing yet more crystals along his spine. Valeria leans down, saying something to him. He nods, before losing it moments later, breathless whines escaping with each buck of his hips. Nisha focuses on the way the crystals creep further with each movement from the two to carry him through his orgasm,  until he taps at Valeria’s hand, who promptly releases her grip. Nisha pauses as well, drawing out with a slick noise. Montague shivers, collapsing forward. Nisha can hear this time what she’s saying to him, praising him for handling it so well. She agrees, tracing at the visible knobs of his spine to soothe him through the lingering overstimulation evident in the shaky tremble of his legs.

“I must say, that was quite the time. I take you enjoyed yourself, Montague?” Valeria teases, looking down at the still-slumped man. He grumbles in reply, tucking himself into the pillow further. “He tends to get rather sleepy. A hot bath or shower and some good blankets will do him well, though I’m sure you know well how to take care of him.” Nisha nods, noting the lady's advice while eyeing a quickly relaxing Montague. “New sheets may be in line as well. I do apologize for not considering that beforehand.”

Nisha hops off the bed, unbuckling the necessary accessories and setting them aside. She pulls on a pair of sweatpants in the same moment, and a spare shirt of Montague’s. Valeria keeps the man awake in the meantime with idle conversation, much to Nisha’s relief. It was always difficult to wake him up, and she hated to disturb him.

Chapter Text

The hall is empty, all lush carpets and gilded portraits. Montague had been in his office since dawn, having left their shared bed with a rushed kiss and uncombed hair. She worried for him. Work had been taking a toll on him recently– he refused to talk about it, and she would not press it. He had told her she could find a job if she liked, but did not have to. It felt silly to have nothing to do with her days but read all the books Montague kept and polish the weapons she had, but it was nice. Nice. She liked being provided for, and did her best to return the things Montague gave her in her own way. 

Yet, even as she remarks on the contentment she’d found with him and Grand Glacier, it was hard not to worry for him today. Montague woke up early, yes, as every man of his caliber does, but not usually that early. Maybe she was overthinking things. Overanalyzing. Perhaps she would bring him lunch in his office. Just to check on him. 

The clock strikes two in the afternoon by the time she has a meal for him, meandering towards his office. He had the uncanny ability to perpetually sense where she was in the hotel, yet today he had made no remark about it to her. Another strange behavior. His office door looms in front of her. It’s only now that she can hear him talking– usually he is quiet. Montague never raised his voice. Ever. Not even when one of his staff broke a priceless vase. Or damaged his antique watch. Nothing ever got to him. Stepping closer, she sets the tray on a shelf, leaning against the door with quiet caution. 

“- père, tu n'arrêtes jamais de gâcher mon travail. J'en ai marre de toi .” Montague’s voice, tense. He’s angry; she can tell he is, with the rough accent he has. Only bits of what he’s saying come through. Nisha wonders if he’s really talking to his dad, if the first word she’d caught had been correct. He never talked about his family– it was jarring to her, coming from a tightly knit family. He acted like he had no father, no mother, yet he apparently did. 

A crackle of static, faint through the door.

“Vous ne lui ferez pas de mal.”

An unheard reply. 

“Ne me rappelle pas.” The harsh tone of an ended call. Nisha’s worries are only confirmed by the angry phone call she’d overheard as she backs away from the door, picking up the forgotten food once more. A sandwich. A lame salad. It seemed pale in comparison to the raw anger she’d heard. Frivolous. 

Montague’s voice echoes from within the office, lazy and rough. “Come in, Nisha. I can feel you standing there.” There he goes again with the strange ability to perceive. How did he know? Dismissing the curiosity, she shoulders open the door, holding out the food. Meager. Useless. He’s turned away from her, but spins around after only a moment, gaze completely iced over. She hated that cold, dead look in his eyes. The look of a rabbit that’s just had its neck snapped. It made her skin crawl. 

“I brought you food. . . um, you don’t have to eat it. Just wanted to check on you.” Uncharacteristic nervousness. He notices it the second she fumbles her words, studying her. Picking her apart with that dead look. It was one of many things that would’ve completely creeped her out coming from anyone else.

“How much did you overhear?”

Nisha stands, stiff. She would never lie to him. “The last bit.”

“Good.” His expression relaxes, though only minutely. “My father is best kept away from you.”

“Father?”

He nods, sharp, picking the tray out of her hands. “Unfortunately enough, yes.”

“You do not sound like you like him.”

Montague takes a bite of the sandwich, thinking that over. “That’s one way you can say it.”

The air in the room is prickly. This was clearly not a topic she should push, considering how tense the phone call had sounded. Her stance is awkward. Perhaps this had been a poor idea on her part.

As perceptive as ever, he can read her discomfort, even though he’s half-turned over his desk. Setting down the sandwich, he sighs, eyes casted at the floor. Nisha hates to see him weighed by something so mysterious. Montague was a courageous man. “I do not mean to be like this, darling. He simply brings out the worst in me, makes me out to be a man I am not.”

Nisha only looks at him. She did not want to disrupt things further.

He exhales. “I’ll finish work early. We can enjoy dinner together, if you would like.” A tentative proposal to heal this cold misunderstanding between them. She liked the idea. Feeling this uncomfortable distance from Montague made her feel akin to a fish out of water. Strange. Wrong.

“I would like that.”

“Tonight, then. Je t'aime.” She still marvels at his ability to switch languages so efficiently, staring at his back as he turns back to his monitors. Nisha grabs the empty dishes without a word, stepping out. Montague needed the space– she could tell he did, if the way he exuded cold silence was any tell. The dinner tonight would fix things; she was sure of it. 

The rest of the afternoon passed without event, Nisha opting to spend the time wandering about the vast hotel, thinking. Anticipation had eaten at her insides as dinnertime drew closer. Worry for Montague had joined it shortly thereafter. Yet, the clock only ticked slower, her anxiety creeping up. Soon, she told herself. Soon everything would be fixed. Time crawls by. Two hours until. One hour. Then half an hour. Before she can even think about it, five minutes remain. The grand clock in the lobby had gone from chiming what seemed like centuries apart to ticking down the time at a frighteningly rapid pace.

Sure enough, when the monumental chime of seven o’ clock came, Montague came with it. She had debated waiting at his office, but considering his borderline hostile behavior, it had not been worth the risk. Nisha studies him once he stands in front of her, noting the etched lines of exhaustion below his eyes and the gloom in his posture. To see him so worn down was upsetting in the least. 

“My father is coming to visit.” A blunt statement. He was not happy about it, if the anxious twist of his hands told any story. No further explanation is offered, and she knows he has about as much say in it as she does, which was to say none. 

“We need not worry about that for now,” she replies lightly, standing and setting her book aside. Nisha takes his hand gently, soothing the nervous fidgeting with a kiss to his knuckles. It was unlike Montague to worry so much; he was often careless and dismissive of things. 

Chapter Text

Nisha drags a scathing glare across the arrogant features of Montague. He was doing it on purpose, had to be. The idiotic man loved to rile her up, as she’d adequately discovered in recent months. He’d spent half the night at this point just about letting some faceless man sit on his lap, purring in his ear like he did to Nisha herself. It was infuriating . Perhaps Montague had forgotten that he no longer pulled all the strings. Something to be corrected.

The fencer rises from her chair, shaking more than a few hands on her way across the room. Montague. Montague. He’s the only thing on her mind. She intended to make him regret every moment he’d spent with that useless man– he belonged to her . Once behind his chair, she allows her presence to seep into him. There was no way he didn’t know she was there. He always knew.

Bending down, she drapes a delicate arm around his shoulder. His hair brushes against her cheek as she raises her mask ever so slightly. “A moment outside, dear.” Nisha squeezes at his shoulder, a warning to heed the command lest she drag him by the collar. Lucky for him, he nods curtly, though it’s of little mind to her as she vanishes into a secluded corridor. She lifts her golden mask, relishing in the feeling of cold air. Only moments later she’s joined by Montague, whose confidence quickly dissipates when met with her stony expression.

“Mon chérie! Permettez-moi de vous expliquer. . .” He weaponizes that pretty language on purpose. Coming from his mouth, French sounds like the tongue of the angels, like honey on a warm summer’s day. She won’t fall for his wooing yet. It’s what he wanted.

Nisha yanks him closer by the collar of his embroidered trench coat, fist knotted. “You do it on purpose. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that other people don’t get to have a taste of you like I do, hm?”

He shies back, mismatched eyes flickering with the guilt of being caught. “I cannot resist the look it put on your face out there. I am a man addicted to rare and beautiful things, like you.” Montague taps at her hand, and she obliges him by dropping her hand from his coat. “Tu es tout simplement trop belle, mon petit diamant.” Nisha originally intends to continue being frustrated with him, but it’s impossible when he kisses her hand, kneeling down to do so. He knew how to get what he wanted, if one thing was for sure. Between his words that somehow should’ve been corny but weren’t and the perfect French he swayed her with, how could she resist?

She sighs. “You are not off the hook yet, thief.” 

Montague grins. “I stole your heart well enough. I have earned the title of thief, have I not? I took a pretty girl’s heart.” The man never listened to anything other than what interested him or enabled his ridiculous flirtations. His efforts were endearing, in the least.

“I’m going to choke you with your own necklace.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” She sighs. There was no winning a debate with someone as lovably numbskulled as he was. It was part of the endearment; he never stopped flirting, she never stopped acting like she hated it. Truly, this man made everything into an innuendo. In all fairness, it was a remarkable skill. Not many were as successfully romantic as he was. She pecks a kiss onto his cheek, donning her mask in a motion so familiar she could execute it in her sleep.

“Mask off, darling. I love to see the face of my true treasure.” Did he ever stop? She mutters some curse at him, thumping his shoulder with a loose fist. Yet, despite her annoyance, she allows him to tilt off the mask and return the kiss. He was an awfully good kisser– always tasted like the first snow in winter, cold and sharp. She wishes the smell of him could be bottled, as strange as it is. His scent brings her familiarity and comfort, by now. He’s warm against her, boxing her against the wall with his chin atop her head and chest pressed to hers.

“We must go back outside, however much I would like to stay in here and kiss you.” 

A tiny part of her crumbles at the statement; she liked being here, held against him. Most unfortunately, he was not wrong in his words. “I suppose you are correct about that.”

“I always am.”

“Your teeth deserve to be knocked out.”

“Do me the honors, then.”

“Another time. Your smile is entertaining enough that you can keep it for another day. Now cease being such a terrible distraction and come.” She beckons over her shoulder, already turning on her heel towards the oaken door. They had been absent long enough that someone would ask questions, and it was better to avoid those kinds of things when it came to men like Montague. One of many parts of dating a high-class thief, she supposed.

Chapter Text

The hum of the party is loud and droning, though it’s of no interest to Nisha or her lover, Montague. As of right now, her focus is on keeping the wily man trapped until the party was over. While he had many wonderful qualities to make up for his lesser ones, there were times when Nisha wondered how this man had survived thus far. Though deeply lovable and charming, he was a thief; it was impossible to keep his hands off pretty jewelry or shiny gems when he saw them at parties. Of course, she had been long aware of his tendencies and did not indulge them per his request. He knew he could not keep a straight mind when tempted by the glimmer of a diamond, and thus had asked Nisha if she would keep him grounded during such an occasion. It was hard to maintain her will, especially when he knew exactly how to sway her to get what he wanted, but she would not budge off his lap. Montague would not get up from this chair until she either fell over dead or the party ended, whichever came first.
 “Ma chérie, s'il te plaît, tu me tortures!” He pleads in his native tongue, his last resort whenever all else fails to charm her like normal. Though his honeyed French crumbles her resistance further, she only hums behind her mask, petting at his chest that flutters with each antsy look around the room. 
 “You will live.”
 “I will not. I fear the temptation may kill me.”
 “You are too young to die of a heart attack, Montague.”
 He sighs, wrapping his arms around her more firmly. Forty minutes, she thinks. That’s all she had to coax him through. Yet, even as he silences his arguing for what must’ve been the fifteenth time that night, she can see the catlike way his pupils expanded in the golden light of the room, catching on the gleam of fancy watches and bedazzled necklaces. His thief habits were under his control for the most part, though she knew that they sometimes got the better of him, much to his humiliation. She preserves his dignity as much as possible, however, with idle kisses and attention to distract him from his plight.
 “I need water,” he states abruptly.
 She sits up, legs unfolding from where they had been tucked comfortably. “I will get you water.”
 “I can get it myself.”
 “Can you?” Nisha studies the hazy shine in his eyes.
 “I don’t want to steal the diamonds, darling. Can’t a man get some water?”
 “Can a woman not get her boyfriend a drink? Allow me.” A veiled threat to comply with her demand, lest she pin him to the seat with her saber. They did things for each other, sure, but Nisha did not hold such an attitude of servitude. She would not fall for his ploy to escape her.
 “Vous m'énervez,” he mutters, slumping back into his chair. 
 “I’ll make it worth your while.”
 His eyes glitter with greed. She knew he loved pretty things, and classified her as one. “How so?”
 Nisha hums, fingertips dancing at the muscle of his neck. “Depends how well you behave.”
 Montague groans. “Ce n'est pas juste, Nisha.” He drags the last syllable of her name, head tossed back. The water he ‘wanted’ is long forgotten, now faced by the supposed injustice. Lifting her mask, she kisses at his neck to placate his discomfort. She found him to be awfully endearing like this, when he switched almost entirely to French in an effort to persuade her of his innocence.
 “Shush.” Nisha silences further protests when she sees him open his mouth. “You can wait.”
 He exhales sharply. She knew he recognized that he could not win this argument.

Chapter Text

His hands settle just above her waistband. Everything in his head is seen or heard through a shiny fog of sleepiness, pleasant and warm over his senses. All he can focus on is the pretty girl in his arms and the way she’d looked so tempting in that dress all night. Oh, he’d thought of so many things he wanted to do to her in that pretty blue dress– namely have her over that desk in the room just off the grand event one. Montague had almost done it, too, when she’d kissed him a little too hard and brought her leg a little too close and maybe he’d given in and ground on her and maybe he’d made an embarrassing noise into her neck, but who could really remember? If anything was for sure, it wasn’t him. He could recall less than half of the past four hours and most of it was blithe statements that had latched to his memory. Useless stuff, when he remembered the half-dressed Nisha in his arms. That was important.

“So pretty. . . comme un diamant brillant . . .” he slurs into the side of her neck, unhooking her belt. The haze in his head overpowers whatever reply she gives. As occupied as he is with undressing Nisha haphazardly (who was in reality, doing most of the work herself), his language slips and wavers between some delirious mix of French and English. It never matters to him, as long as he can keep devouring her. If he could, he would do that right now– set her on the counter and eat her out until her legs were trembling on his shoulders and she couldn’t even remember her own name , only his. All fantasies for another time, another day. Right now it was about not what he wanted, but what she wanted. To please her was satisfaction like nothing else to him. Not even the most intricate diamond in the solar system could compare to her when she praised him. She was the moon and he was the stars, watching with glittering awe every time she smiled at him, or even just allowed him to study her in silence. 

The difficult task of undressing her is finally complete by the time he’s done fantasizing. Doing the same to himself takes much less time in the silence of the room, coat and slacks folded messily and set on the counter. She’s already taken care of heating up the shower; again he wonders how someone as wonderful as her would even grace him with her presence. She always knew what to do. Montague comments idly about joining her in a second – he just needed something. It takes just a moment to snatch it, dropping it in the fluffy mat. For later. Later. If things went to plan. The fog in his head clears a smidge when he steps under the hot jet of water, savoring the hiss over stiff muscles. It felt nice. Nicer still, though, was the sight of a silent Nisha examining him from the smooth stone bench. Though he felt like it probably creeped other people out, her stare never bothered him. Nothing about her did. He can’t resist kissing the top of her already-soaked hair, settling next to her.

“I liked that dress on you. Please wear it again.” His murmur into her neck is impulsive, but true. She could wear anything and impress him, but that dress had made her look like some kind of deity. Maybe she was a deity, sent to bless him. That was a nice idea. 

“You were staring most of the night.”

Montague adjusts, sitting back to allow room for her on his lap as she often liked to do. “Well, you are easy to feast on with the eyes.” Even the mere memory makes his head spin. He would buy her a million more dresses like that, if she wanted. No mortal being should look so divine in some simple cloth. It was a travesty to his dick that she managed to pull it off. 

“The dress was a last-minute choice. I will wear it again, though, if you liked it so.”The moment she perches comfortably atop him is the same moment he knows he’s fighting a losing game to keep the shower short. All he wants is to bury himself in her until neither of them could think, until his legs couldn’t keep him moving. The visceral, carnal need for her digs straight into his brain and burrows down between his hips, making him far harder than he’d like to be. Nisha knows, too, and he resorts to his easiest way to her heart. Another moment without satisfaction would lead to his untimely death.

“S'il te plaît, laisse-moi t'avoir,” he pleads, leaning into her neck. “Je ne peux pas vivre sans ça un instant de plus. Tu dois comprendre. . .” She doesn’t need to speak French to know he’s pleading for her, given the way his arms are still locked around her waist and his heartbeat is probably so strong that it can be felt against her back. He wouldn’t be surprised if she thought he was going into cardiac arrest.

Nisha soothes him with a soft peck at his water-slick temple, sliding off his lap. Confusion leaves him still for a moment, until he realizes that he needs to grab the protection he’d dropped outside in anticipation of this. Right. It wouldn’t do to let his inhibitions slip so far as to forget something so important. The issue is rectified quickly enough, though the coordination it takes to put it on is more frustrating than it should be, made moreso difficult by the fact he can see Nisha in the corner of his eye. While he could fuck his own hand just looking at her, the actual thing seems way more enticing.

He slouches back on the stone extension, urging Nisha closer with poorly veiled impatience. A whole night spent undressing her with his eyes, and now he had her . In his arms, pressed against his chest. Even under the pleasant hiss of water, she still smells of some flower that should be more familiar than it is. It smells like home, like her, reminds him of everything that makes him happy nowadays. Nobody before this had cleared him of the endless gloom that had haunted him for years , plaguing empty nights and cold mornings with welling tears and angry phone calls. She was a stable force in his life, the planet that he orbited as her only moon. It was all he wanted– all the riches, the food, the parties, none of it mattered. Everything paled when put against Nisha. Reality meshes with blind fantasy as the slightest guide of his hand and the steady weight of her allows for an easy sheathe. Montague’s mind goes numb with the slick hilt, hips stuttering after only moments spent locked firmly against her.

“Mère de dieu , tu te sens bien,” he gasps, pitch strained with pleasure. He would ruin her, keep her like this until neither of them could take it anymore. Acting on that is a little more difficult with the awkward position they’re in, but he makes do. Months of strength training lend themself well to supporting her hips upwards as his own judder towards her core, savoring the comfortable sensations. Every time, it felt like some dream he’d had when he was a teenager, wild and impossible. Yet, Nisha is no cheap video– she is real, tangible , shivering in his grip at the uneven pace. Montague draws out before hilting himself again, reveling in the shudder it pulls from her. Nary a thought can even form in his head as he sets a rather erratic tempo, angling himself as best as he could to please her. Each hilt stacks onto the delirious haze in his head, ears ringing with building pleasure at every thrust. Desperation bleeds into his pace quicker than he’d like, but there’s no helping it. Every bit of his consciousness is locked onto the way she tightened around him so sweetly , drawing a fresh shock of pleasure down his spine. He’d probably embarrass himself by sprouting crystals if she kept this up. No man could resist pleasure like this.

Chapter Text

The party is loud, loud . Montague is surprised Nisha has tolerated it as long as she has, given her vehement hatred of the events. Nevertheless, he was grateful that she came along– it opened opportunities for him socially and politically that he wouldn’t otherwise have, and she always dressed like some ethereal entity sent from the skies. It made him delirious every time, without fail. No other woman had looked as splendid as she did right now, all rich brown skin and crystal-cut eyes. Her eyes . Montague thinks he would drown in them if he looked too long, swallowed by the sharp iciness of them. Like everything about her, it made him dizzy– especially when she was perched on his lap again. It never seemed like she understood how easy it was for him to get hard when she did that. Or maybe she did know and did it on purpose. When it came to her motives, he would be lucky if he ever caught an inkling. She was as inscrutable as a stone wall, only the most minute of changes betraying her feelings. 

“Nisha. I cannot maintain myself if you do this in public ,” he hisses under his breath. This teasing was intolerable. A bit of wine and a lot of adrenaline off the crowd had cracked his self-control a little too easily for comfort. 

“You can.” The tone in her voice is ever so slightly bossy, and it does things to him that it shouldn’t.

He shifts, hips catching with the smallest of shudders. “At least I have warned you.” The brief shock of pleasure from the grind upwards leaves him hungry for more, adjusting to slide his hips in an easy rhythm. It wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone else in the room, but he’s hard against her thigh and now he’s certain she can feel him. The tedious pace of miniscule juts against her leg chips at his restraint with dangerous ease, and it’s even simpler to chase after fast-blooming fantasies in his head. 

When a particular grind sparks against a sweet spot, he can’t help but double against her, passing off the jerky motion as a cough. 

Chapter Text

Montague supposed this is what happens when you flirt with everyone you meet. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if Nisha put his guards onto this. Four of them. Four. God, he was going to be ruined when she finally got home. It’s not like she cared if he did things with other people, as long as they both knew the person and the other was aware of it. Which, if the snippets of broken English he’d picked up from two of his legion members was any reliable information, she very well did know about this. Damn her and her scheming– he had been trying to enjoy his party. That is to say, he wasn’t not enjoying this, it was just not how he planned for his night to go. At all. In all the things he could’ve ever planned for, this was not one. 

“Dépêchez-vous, patron ,” one of the staff members mumbles. Montague glares at them, 

timeskip because i got lazy 

“Faites-le jouir.” Montague can’t fucking think. All that matters to him is the fact he wants to come and come badly. Between the fact he was being treated like this and receiving some of the best dick in his life, he had lost any sense of self-control. As embarrassing as it was, the only thing that mattered to him is that he please. He liked when they knotted their hands in his hair, held his waist with a grip just on the verge of bruising. And the praise, the praise was doing terrible things to him. They’d commented on it more than a few times, how a good praise made him twitch, made his throat comme au paradis. He wishes Nisha could see him like this. Her praise would make this complete.

Montague doesn’t really know who issued the order, but someone obeys it, taking up his length in rough strokes. The calluses on their hand are delicious, catching his nerves in a blinding spark. An orgasm rips up his spine moments later, forcing a deep spasm at the base of whichever guard was hilted in him and a corresponding buck of his hips into the hand around him, seeking greedy friction. Everything is overwhelming, crowding in on his senses in blurry streaks of pleasure. It feels good , too good, too much. He goes limp only moments later, length twitching against his belly. Whatever hand that he’d fucked drops away, and he can hear the four guards muttering about one thing or another. He feels empty – after the past half hour, hour, two hours, he doesn’t know how long, the lack of fullness is jarring. Luckily enough for him, it isn’t long. Someone else is below him, urging his hips downward. Montague doesn’t even consider the noises coming out of his mouth, desperate French and slurred pleas. All things that would ruin his reputation as a thief if anyone else heard them. A dark-skinned guard ruffles his hair with amusement, calling him a bon garçon and that’s when he knows he’s screwed. His reaction is most definitely felt on the new guard fucking him, and the one who’d initially said it grins down at him, dropping to their knees next to him. He can’t focus on them as much as he’d like, though, not with the fact he’s losing his mind again.

“Tu aimes qu'on t'appelle comme ça?” comes the expected jibe, pulling a snicker from the other two. The guard he’s– riding? merely grunts, muttering something Montague can’t hear through the ringing in his ears. All that matters is the fact that he’s losing his mind, and yet another fresh guard taps at his chin, tilting it upwards. Being treated like this is different – they treat him with rough reverence. The way they chase their own pleasure above his does more to his stamina than he’d like to admit.

“Laisse-moi essayer cette jolie bouche.” 

Montague can’t and doesn’t want to do anything but comply, carefully checking his breathing so he doesn't choke. The guard smells of pine spice, rich and sharp. He tastes even better, salty and heavy on Montague’s tongue. The taste is almost cloying, but instead invades all his senses. He must look a filthy sight right now, stretched raw and with a mouth full of a nameless guard. His grip is quickly slipping on reality, a blank haze creeping at the edges of his mind. The desire to lay and please overwhelms all his senses. Nothing mattered more than being good. He needed more praise, and so bobs his head down further towards the guard in his mouth, whining slightly when the back of his throat is bumped.

“Le joli garçon aime prendre des bites.” Again, he doesn’t know who said it, but it makes it that much harder to hold on.  He was going to cum again too quickly– too quickly – a fresh angle is all it takes and his whole body tightens, core tensing hard . Come spills across his belly and barely rucked-up tuxedo moments later, and murmured praises flood his consciousness. He does his best to keep moving, but it’s hard when both his mind and legs are losing feeling. They take pity, though, working him through the blinding overstimulation with a slowed pace.

Chapter Text

Valeria works her fingers over Nisha with vicious precision, pulling a cute reaction from the pretty girl in her arms. She’d grown a little more than fond of Nisha, and she’d already held mutual respect and liking for Nisha’s lover, Montague. The two of them had let Valeria join in on their fun more than a few times by now, and it’s not like she was going to object. Nisha had already lost her mind once from the combined pressure of Valeria’s work and Montague’s subjectively less calculated pace. Of course, she knew him to be an impulsive and sometimes reckless man, but his self-control had been remarkable, all things considered. Plus, she was sensitive and had made for easy work. 

“Montague,” she snaps, bringing Nisha closer against her chest. “Switch with me. I want my turn.” Ever the obedient listener– something he always seemed to be profusely embarrassed by when she mentioned it– he moves, sitting back on the couch. She can tell he’s still seeking his own satisfaction, but setting it aside in favor of letting Nisha be tended to first. That’s something to be remembered for later; a due reward would be in line if he held himself together. 

Valeria hoists Nisha up gently, soothing her mumbles with a kiss to the cheek. The pretty fencer need not worry so much. She drapes the other woman across Montague’s lap, patting at her upper leg. Montague takes the hint in stride, sitting back fully and resting his head atop Nisha’s shoulder. Nisha, in turn, leans back into his soothing murmurs, light French that relaxes the apparent tension in her legs. Valeria, grateful to Montague for his infallible ability to calm Nisha, kneels before

Chapter Text

The fencer is losing herself already, and Valeria hasn’t even done anything. All she’s doing is laying there with that hungry look in her eyes, studying Nisha. She can’t decide if she likes it or not, considering Valeria was looking at her like she was her next meal. Anyone who knew Valeria knew she loved to play with her food before eating it, and Nisha was quickly becoming the prey. It unnerves her, in a way, how open Valeria was about what she wanted without saying a single word. The only thing she’d done was walk in and spark idle conversation before splaying on Nisha’s legs, looking up at her with all the grace of a lounging leopard. Dangerous, but only if she wanted to be. 

“I had something in mind.” The red-haired lady rolls over, head rested against Nisha’s stomach. 

An idea when it came to Valeria could mean getting pleased until her legs gave out or committing a felony. It was never straightforward with someone as impulsive and somewhat reckless as her. There’s no need for her to reply aloud. Valeria could read her like a book.

“It’s just you and I here, for what, a week?” 

Nisha nods. This could only be going somewhere dangerous.

Chapter Text

It’s late, so late, deep into the quietest hours of the night. Nisha is sweating, the gold of her mask clouded with her own breath. Montague had slunk into the practice room completely unnoticed, making himself known with a remark on her lunge form that had left him with her sword at his throat in a few short seconds. Of course, he’d only grinned at her fright, pushing away the saber with as much arrogant ease as ever. Given the time, she had expected him to be sleeping, though he informed her that he had taken a bit off work to spend with her. From there, one thing had led to another, and now they were dueling.

Fortunately enough for her, Montague’s skills were only a smidge less sharp than they had been months ago, but it’s enough for Nisha to exploit with her consistent days of training. Competitions and tournaments had been one of her favorite things to do once her skill had reached an acceptable level, and Montague encouraged (and often paid for) her to fence in them. A variety of opponents and skill levels had lent her quite the talent for fencing, and was a good way to spend her idle days at Grand Glacier.

One more bout, and she has eight points. Halfway there. Seven points, and every single thing she’d wanted to do to him for the past months could become real. The stakes had been drastically increased this time around, with the victor getting what they wanted of the loser for a week . Montague didn’t seem particularly set on winning, if the coarse flirtations and attempts to grind on her were any indicator. He’s on her the second his mask is off, pressed against her.

“Ma chérie,” he sighs, voice low in her ear. She’s up against him, warm and still running with adrenaline. “Les choses que je te ferais en ce moment ne sont comparables à rien d'autre.”

It doesn’t take a genius to know he’s saying something oozing with romance, a skill that he was exceptionally gifted in for a reason that was eternally unfair to Nisha. The French does little to help, especially when his voice is so rough with exertion. His hips are against hers only moments later, and she can feel how badly he wants to end this duel right now and have his way with her. The irregular pace of his breathing tells the story well enough too. It’s a miracle that he’s restrained his impulses thus far.

“We finish the duel, then the winner gets what they want. Not a second before.” She wants him too– what person wouldn’t? She never backed down from a fight, and while this was a duel of a less serious nature, it was still important that it be ended fairly.

“Then we finish this duel.” 

Nisha scoffs. Like he wasn’t the reason their break wasn’t going so long. “Stop being a distraction, then. Save your grinding for later.”

Montague murmurs something into her hair, before stepping back. His mask comes on next, and his saber up. She knew it would be easy to exploit his desperation; he would fight sloppy and reckless, even if he tried to do otherwise. Even his stance holds a slant that’s lazy, a weakness in of itself. One more chink in his armor of supposed dignity. 

Sure enough, the next strikes come easy. She knows he’s putting in only an ounce of effort, but the clear want in his posture every time she successfully scores is enough to encourage her to win. It’d be a wonder if he didn’t have a heart attack by the end of this, despite his young age.

Thirteen, fourteen. He’s not far behind, but the last point is in reach. Nisha holds her saber with dangerous poise, the tantalizing idea of having him at her will for a week more than enough motivation. Yet, his lunge and attack come quick and hard, breaking through her parry. 

“Vous n’obtiendrez pas la victoire si facilement.” Nisha can hear the grin in his voice, even muffled by the silver metal of his mask. Curse him and his antics.

Montague is true to his word, honing his attacks with deadly precision. It’s hard not to lose herself in the tense exchange of swords, though his attacks are faltering once more. Only thirteen points. She could win this, if she put her mind to it.

Nisha’s final strike is straight and true, blade pressed to the side of his neck.

“It seems I am the loser.” His mask comes off once she draws back, hair disheveled and messy, breath just as erratic as it had been however many minutes ago. All little details that make him that much more enticing to her. It had been a calculated loss, yes, but the prize – she would stretch every moment of the time they had together to a cruel point, savoring every bite she took of him. 

“I would agree, yes.”

“As cutting as ever. Cette attitude ne fait que vous rendre plus attirant.” He grins, wiping off his blade. Nisha glares. The man was perfectly capable of expressing himself in English, and chose not to.

“Watch your mouth if you have any idea in that brain of yours about having me tonight. I would be more than happy to leave you unable to seek the things I know you want.” A poorly veiled threat to deny him of his pleasure until he begged for it, but the point is driven home well enough.

Chapter Text

The cool dampness of the cloth is a welcome relief to Montague’s overheated skin. It had taken a surprising amount of exertion to please the shapeshifter, but a worthy endeavor. His back is to the nearly oozing man for now, but the silence hangs with a question.

“Quelque chose vous préoccupe?” A tentative ask from his position in front of the mirror. He can see the red hair of the guard out of the corner of his eye, a messy tussle from friction against the pillow. Light bruises paint his collarbone too, the product of impulsive bites. They looked nice on him, a decoration well suited to the angular man. 

Montague can sense the hesitance. Dropping the washcloth, he sits next to the lounging Fox in only his boxers. 

“Tu penses vraiment que je suis un bon garçon?” The shaky question, timid and barely audible but hopeful. It had been a praise slurred in the heat of the moment by Montague, spurred by the delirious way it made Fox tighten with pleasure. Clearly it had meant a lot to him, if the hopeful way he glanced up was any tell. 

“Bien sûr, je pense que vous l'êtes.” He scratches at Fox’s scalp, an instinctively comforting motion to soothe any worries the man had. 

Montague picks up his phone, ignoring most of the notifications. All he needed to do was let Nisha know he'd stay the night with Fox– not that he thought she'd have any issue with it, but rather to keep her informed.

Chapter Text

Fox thinks he’s going to lose his mind just like this, sitting still. It would be embarassing, but a relief to the tantalizing pressure in his belly generated by the slick hilt Montague had him at and the past several hours he’d spent with a toy pressed against a sweet spot. He was forbidden from moving, from even touching himself to alleviate the tension. It felt good, always did, but his impatience was quickly going to get the best of him if he had to live much longer without satisfaction.

“Je ne peux pas…” Fox slurs, breathless, “Je ne peux pas tenir le coup.”

Montague only grunts, hips jerking upwards. The resulting press against a soft spot has Fox tightening desperately, subconsciously attempting to glean every bit of pleasure he could. It felt too good already, and Montague wasn’t even moving, just talking to the other people in the room.

“Bon garçon. Je te récompenserai plus tard?” The rich voice of Montague does little to clear the delirious haze in Fox’s head, especially with the delicious promise of a reward .

“ S'il te plaît .” A breathless, simple plea to the diamond-cut man currently urging him to lose his mind, but a necessary one. The incessant teasing without any satisfaction would doom him, but if Montague offered him something good, something better for waiting, then it would all be worth it– every last minute of pleasure hung just out of reach. It’s easier now to tolerate the craving for pleasure once promised an end to the emptiness, though the pang is still present in each raw nerve.

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Montague doesn’t think he’s ever going to stop thinking about Nisha. His dick certainly won’t– he’d spent not just the better half of last night but most of his morning fucking his own hand to the thought of her. Every diamond in the world paled next to the pretty noises she’d made under him yesterday. It’d been a struggle not to lose control of himself– he’d wanted to unbuckle his belt and bury himself in her until he lost his mind, but she wouldn’t let him and he would respect that. Even if that meant jacking off afterwards until he lost feeling in his legs.

The staticky crackles of his blankets does little to distract him from the tempting friction of his fist. Montague had gone an hour or so without giving into that same trap of desire , but it seemed to still want him. Hell, he couldn’t even think about Nisha without instantly suffering the consequences. Every thought led back to the way she’d tightened on his fingers when he curled them right. He knows he’s never going to get over her by now– the slick junction of his fist and length told the story well enough. Each little noise she’d made when he got a good angle with his tongue or curled digits had tempted him to a sickening point of self-restraint not to replace his fingers. Someday, she’d told him. If he behaved.

It’s embarrassing, in a way, to be fucking his own hand like this like he was some teenager with raging hormones and an insatiable fantasy. But Nisha, Nisha , she was a fantasy– toned muscles, rich skin, sharp eyes, and an attitude like no other. He vaguely wonders in between his idle strokes if she’s some sort of entity sent to torture him with pleasure, kill him with rich lust. That wouldn’t be a bad way to go. He’d die a happy man as long as she wanted it.

   His pace quickens to accommodate for the haphazard burst of pleasure between his hips– the friction of his own palm was quickly becoming overstimulating, a result of the fact he’d barely gone more than thirty minutes for the last eight hours without jacking off. Humiliating, but he was lonely in his bed and she was pretty. Easy on the eyes, easy on the mind, and even easier to fantasize about until he couldn't move his hips anymore. Nothing would ever soothe the itch, the need for her except for Nisha herself.

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This man was going to be the death of you. You were sure of it. Things had gone from a bold flirtation a week ago all the way to this – in his vault, of all places. Midas had a lot to his name, though, and you’d be damn well lying to yourself if you said he was anything less than attractive. Everything about him was powerful, from the intricate tattoos decorating his visible skin to the cold gleam in his eyes. He wasn’t a man to be messed with, yet here you were, doing something that was definitely risky and probably dangerous. The initial claim had been that he needed to fetch one relic or another from his vault– of course, a believable story coming from a man who’s net worth was impossible to tally. Yet, he’d insisted you come along, and who were you to say no? More time with Midas was like spending more time with a hungry leopard, but it was worth it. You always left with a new gold trinket or pretty piece of jewelry. 

“Chéri, tu dois faire plus attention à ce que tu fais,” he chides, picking the object you had out of your hands. His smooth French never failed to fluster you, especially when he weaponized it like that. He knew what he was doing, given the sudden press of his chest to your back. It’s a steady weight, warm and grounding, but a reminder that he held the power here, and would do what he wanted.

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Everything Fox sees is in a sparkle-filled haze, blurry and delirious. The only thing he can process is that Montague is holding him and the moonlight makes him look pretty and he wants to squeeze his knot into the other man just to bring an end to the interminable carnality chewing at his core. Fox doesn’t have it in him to be embarrassed with the way he’s acting, hips jerking in a useless grind against Montague’s. Each time he squirms he’s met with a kiss and gentle pets at his belly but it’s not what he wants – he wants Montague, and wants him now. It’s far too difficult to string words together though, the syllables thick and clumsy and slurred with whatever he’d drank earlier. 

“Fox. Regardez-moi.” Montague is tapping at his chin, and he obeys. The moonlight makes Montague’s eyes look like two pieces of ice, cold and sharp but soft with understanding that took months of studying to notice. He grins stupidly at the thief, limbs heavy and sluggish. 

“Je ne te permettrai pas de me baiser pendant que tu es ivre,” he says, much to Fox’s immediate disappointment. “Cependant, j'ai une solution qui, je pense pourrait vous plaire.” The shapeshifter perks up at that, interest in seeking pleasure revitalized once more.

Montague says something else, but it falls on deaf ears as Fox adjusts to lay against Montague’s chest. Lucky for him, the thief takes the hint in stride and unbuckles the belt keeping Fox from the pleasure he so desperately wanted. The cool air on heated skin is almost more than the shapeshifter can handle, especially when Montague offers a gentle press of his thumb against a drop of pearly slick. The touch pulls a desperate whine from him, hips jerking upwards. Another moment without satiation and he would start trying to knot the sheets– it was near torture for him to lay like this.

Fortunately the wait is not long– the man behind him reaches over, grabbing something Fox couldn’t make out. Even less time is left to wonder what it is before faux flesh surrounds sensitive nerves. It’s overwhelming almost immediately, cool and slick against skin that long needed it. A drawn-out whine is all he offers in reply to the comforting voice of Montague– he couldn’t hear, think, feel beyond the tedious squeeze of the toy on his length. 

“Est-ce que ça fait du bien?” Montague inquires, voice calm and grounding to a shivering Fox.

“Trop bien, trop bien ,” he pleads, hips shivering into the increasingly tight squeeze the toy had on him. It wasn’t as good as actually getting to knot Montague, but it was more than enough for now considering how sensitive he was. He knows that this is the best he’ll get until he’s sober, but any complaints he had are erased when the smooth interior squeezes , instinct forcing Fox’s hips to judder wildly into the stimulation.

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the writing on the paper is smudged and sharp. it reeks of anika, his flowery scent, the soft blond of his hair. in another world maybe they could’ve loved each other. in another world, he wouldn’t be so scared to call the number on the scrap in his hand. nineteen and already breaking hearts. midas would be proud.

montague scoffs, kicking at a dead leaf in the street. he wants to drop the crumpled thing in his hand, forget about it forever. forget about anika, forget about the night they’d spent drowning out more than a few things in illegally purchased wine and each other’s bodies. stupid, wasn’t it? he could’ve had something with anika, if only he’d thought to be anything less than selfish. it gnaws at him, scraping blunt claws in his stomach until it’s churning with dizzying nausea. ridiculous, all of it.

if things had been different, if he had the courage to say he couldn’t fall in love, couldn’t be in love because he barely loved himself most of the time then maybe anika wouldn’t have looked so sad tangled up in the ivory sheets, blue eyes pooling with grief for what might’ve happened if things were different. maybe he didn’t want to be in love. even if anika wanted it, even if he wanted it, someone to share blankets with and idle kisses with and a life with. if things were different. maybe if they’d met first over warm coffees instead of kissing each other senseless in a dark school hallway. maybe if they had met on a gentle summer’s day instead of the dreary winter’s night. maybe if montague had been more than a student barely scraping by, just another failure being spit out into the churning gears of the world. in another world, montague thinks, anika is happy. they are happy.

but it’s not this world, and he doesn’t think it ever will be.

his world is full of polluted streets and damaged textbooks.

full of blond boys with tears in their eyes and sheets around their hips.

full of dads who didn’t know how to be nice and moms who hid when things got mean.

he misses the life of his home in the countryside, the green on the trees and the blue in the sky.

sometimes the city, despite all the people, felt all the more lonely for it.

one more fish in the sea, bird in the sky, leaf on the tree.

the clouds are grey with gloom that matches how he feels. has felt. the sex with anika had lifted the weight of the unhappiness, but only for a glimpse of brightness, just a flicker of light. he wishes this was a world where he could make the other man happy, but that was just unrealistic. he couldn’t make himself happy, let alone a boy who deserved more than the half-chewed pieces of a guy who didn’t do shit with his life other than cry over studying and rot away in his bed until sleep muffled the hurt. he hopes anika finds a man who completes him and makes him feel whole, instead of exacerbating the fractures they both had.

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“komm für mich, prinzessin.” the pace is good, rough against soft spots and gentle where it needed to be. the fact that it’s anika’s sharp german commanding him to make a mess of himself is what does it just as much as anything. of course, the exact translation is lost on him with the heavy tensity of pleasure in his belly and the breathy noises from anika into his neck, but it’s the thought that counts.

he comes with closed eyes and jagged breathing, making an unnecessary mess of his own sheets. the stutter in anika’s pace is good, nicer still when his hips judder to a total standstill. montague does his best to hold on through lingering overstimulation as anika loses his mind. montague is almost glad he asked to face away from the man– if he looked too close he worries he might fall in love with the faint freckles on anika’s nose and the chip on his canine and the immersive blue of his eyes. 

it’s been a long time since he shared his dreary room with someone else, and the company is nice. the warmth of anika, the soft tone of his voice, the peaceful way he moved about– all of it was unfamiliar to montague, who perpetually lived in chaos.

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Montague whines, sharp and high-pitched. Why did Anika have to be so damn good at everything? He can’t even remember how he got here, the gold-haired man on his knees in front of him with his unreadable eyes looking up at Montague and his pretty mouth wrapped right around the base of him. Montague was trying to be gentle, but it was hard to keep himself sane when he doesn’t even know how many times he’s lost it into Anika’s throat by now. 

The man swallows him down again, throat clutching at overwhelmed nerves in a mind-numbing motion, Montague can’t help but drive his hips upwards in a jerky thrust, seeking that same warmth and delicious clench from Anika’s throat. The feeling was incomparably nice, and though he’s not sure he can even cum again tonight, though he wants to. And then he wants Anika in him, around him, everywhere. Just to feel, to drown himself in the man and drown out the ache of being apart for years. His words to Anika are slurred, thoughtless with praise and pleasure and desire , all things that Anika was clearly enjoying himself if the awkward set of his snow-white slacks was any tell. 

When Anika draws back, before pushing himself right down to the base in a fluid motion, Montague barely has time to think before he’s doubling over, hand knotting in Anika’s hair and keeping him there while he loses his mind. The orgasm feels like it tears part of his soul off with it, detaching it and ripping it away with each delirious twitch of Anika’s throat. Nary a thought forms in his head as he gleans every last drop of pleasure from the man, loosening his grip on his hair and leaning back into the chair, hips slumped and twitching against the fresh bite of air against his spit-slicked length. 

After a moment to breathe, Montague pulls Anika into his lap, working with shaky fingers at the gold of his belt. No words are shared, the silence of their breathing more than enough. Anika doesn’t protest in the slightest, tucking his head into the crook of Montague’s neck and watching as his slacks are unzipped haphazardly. Montague internally revels at the sight of how hard Anika is, just off the praise he’d gotten. It was cute, especially when he whined shaky and quiet into Montague’s neck at the first touch, a firm squeeze right at the base of him. 

Between rough but calculated strokes and the occasional flick of his wrist, Anika quickly loses himself, hips jutting and shivering with the simple but firm pleasure of Montague’s hand. The other man is enthralled with each breathy noise the person in his lap gives him– all of them prettier than should be fair.

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This was it.

The end.

Everything had fallen apart, all his grand plans, all his schemes. The titan hand had been the foreshadowing of it all. Money had already been tight before that, then with the flowberry farms unable to manage production due to the ash, Valeria vanishing off the face of the island, and Oscar throwing in the towel shortly thereafter, things had spiraled.

And now only crumbles of greatness remain. What could’ve been the greatest vision for this  island anyone had had in a hundred years, destroyed by a pesky banana and Valeria’s desire to know . Montague hates her for it, almost. Hates everything. Hates himself.

His own greed had blinded him to the lack of structural integrity in the society. The fewest chinks in their armor had been their sole downfall. Hope and Jones had exploited it with almost sickening ease– he’d fled the battle before he saw too many of his friends taken or shot down. The violence always turned his stomach. Montague had never been a courageous man.

His balcony overlooks the fire of the setting sun, the sea far below him. He felt his age now, only thirty years. A long time to live in a place like this. He couldn’t die if he wanted to– the crystal hiding beneath his skin would never allow it, and he’d tried . Through tears and blades and guns and the worst he’d gotten was a bruise. A bruise . It’s worse knowing that he can’t die. Worse knowing that nothing can kill him, not even himself. It’s fucking horrible.

His hands seemingly mock him, crystallizing on the cold metal of the balcony’s rail. It’s like some sick joke, telling him as rage and regret pit in his stomach for the umpteenth time since everything had happened that he’s stuck living here . There was no escape for him. Oscar and Nisha both had places to go and families to return to, that is if they escaped alive, but not him. Never him. He had nobody, now, and the water below him looks tempting. Maybe he could float there for all eternity, until the Underground found him. There was nothing left for him in this life, not without his life’s work in the Society.

Maybe things would look better in the morning. 

That’s all he’d been telling himself.

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Your office door creaks open, startling you. Nobody really interrupted you unless it was important. This time, though, it’s Montague; your thief of a boyfriend who could transform into crystal at will. Honestly, even as he knots his hands in the doorway– an unusually bashful gesture– he’s prettier than he would probably give himself credit for.

“What’s wrong?” You lean back in your chair, inviting him closer. He accepts wordlessly, closing the distance between you and him. Before you even know it he’s curled up on your lap, reminding you how grateful you are that your office chair is actually sturdy.

“Missed you.” You pet at his two-toned hair, allowing him to tuck his long legs up.

“Why didn’t you text me?” It was unlike him to be so shy .

He just shakes his head, eyes drifting shut. That was enough for you to swivel around and power off your computer, before heaving him up into your arms with a muffled grunt. Your boyfriend almost never demanded attention, and you were determined to fulfill what he needed the few times he did. He was more important to you than any work ever was, especially as he tucks his face against your shoulder. It just about makes your heart melt, a comical kind of warm love for the man in your arms.

You make quick work of the walk back to your shared quarters, setting him on the bed before discarding your more uncomfortable layers. He does the same– you pause a moment to silently remark that he had skipped his own work for some cuddles. You wonder if everything’s okay with his job– stress was a constant for him, and you knew that it got to him sometimes.

Once on the bed, it’s easy to pull him against you.

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"Guns down." The command comes from the corner of the room. Familiar, but hated all the same. 

Midas unholsters his guns, watching the metallic gleam of the barrels as they thunk atop the wood of his own personal desk. Brutus was going to be the death of him.

"Knives too." While he tried to skirt around this aspect of things, where Brutus somehow knew every place on his body he was concealing a weapon, it never worked. His façade failed to hold up when met with Brutus, a man who seemingly saw through everything, even the grim veneer of Midas. It wasn't really something anyone had done before, and the vulnerability was new. Like shooting a new gun, getting a feel for the weight, the power, the way it felt in his hands. This relationship was about as dangerous as a gun. Midas was strong, but not even his entirely gold form could outmatch his bodyguard. 

He unsheathes the knives, eyes averted from the unreadable gaze of his agent. It's humilating in the most peculiar kind of way, to lay himself at a physical vulnerability to the other man. It wasn't like he was unused to it– they’d had plenty a more physical encounter, but it wasn’t like this. The awkward fit of it all, the jagged edges where they created friction. Brutus was an immovable object and Midas was an unstoppable force. Of course they would create tension, but not the kind of tension that leaves you defenseless. His guns are a mental guard too, now laid on the desk in a gleaming mockery. He doesn’t say anything after placing all his weapons down, hands set on the edge of the varnished wood. 

His bodyguard, lover, friend, whatever he is, is behind him. The internal analysis of reducing himself to nothing more than a man still gnawed at him. Perhaps it would take time. TNTina told him he had trust issues and that a little less paranoia wouldn’t kill him. He liked to disagree and call it being prepared for anything. Trust issues were for people who actually trusted others, which he did not. Except Brutus. Did he trust Brutus?

It’s a question left for later when the larger man looms behind him, hands settled on his waist. He knows that he shouldn’t indulge in this, shouldn’t mix his personal and professional life. When Brutus got hurt– which it would inevitably happen– he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. The man was undoubtedly attractive, and a good cook to boot. Midas didn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper breakfast until the very first time Brutus stayed overnight. It’d been intimate in a way unlike anything else, the calm relaxation of a Sunday morning spent with pancakes and a quiet sunlight that made Brutus look a little younger, a little more alive and less like just another bodyguard. Midas wonders when he fell in love with Brutus, which he had not realized until Skye asked him why he actually looked happy when he talked about Brutus. Stupid, frivolous, and something like a teenage girl would do. He was not a teenage girl, even though th butterflies turning somersaults in his stomach wrote a different story when Brutus hugs him close, talking in words that were drowned out by Midas’s own thoughts. Perhaps this wasn’t so bad after all, to be a real man for Brutus.

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Skye was going to kill him. That’s Midas’s first thought when Brutus flattens him against the top of his own desk. He was so dead. A few papers had been crumpled, a couple file folders bent, and a jar of pens knocked onto the floor. Really, it’s what he deserved for ruthlessly teasing the poor bodyguard, and then “arguing” with him in the hallway until he’d gotten kissed senseless. It’d left him hopelessly hard, hips jerking against Brutus’s waist for any meager sum of friction. He’d whined when Brutus picked him up, embarrassing for someone of his level, until he’d been dropped on his desk and told to behave. It’d almost crossed him to defy Brutus further, give him snark and sass until he got his brains fucked out, but the stern set of his shoulders told Midas that defiance would almost certainly result in denial– and anyone who knew Midas knew that he always got what he wanted. That is, when he wasn’t with Brutus. 

 “Hold still, you insufferable man,” Brutus hisses, pressing his palm hard against Midas’s sternum. “Keep squirming and I’ll leave you here like this.” It’s not an empty threat, so Midas complies, though the gruff command elicits another breathless whine. He may or may not have pushed the limit before and indeed been left desperate and squirming for relief. Brutus was not one to negotiate– he dealt in iron strength, not the nuance and delicacy of politics. Midas wonders if that’s why they are compatible– brute force and a silver tongue. Ironic. 

 Not much thought is left to the matter though when Brutus slides slick fingers into him with zero warning. His knee jerks from where it’s bent around the bodyguard’s waist, pleasure shooting up his spine in a reflexive jolt. Brutus grins, a rare sight from a stoic man such as him. Midas is less focused on that, though, and moreso the crook of his agent’s fingers against shrilling nerves. He grabs at the edge of his desk, legs going stiff around Brutus’s waist.

 “Where’s the attitude now, sir?” The honorific feels mocking, a jab at their positions outside the bedroom– well, office, in this case, but the details are lost on Midas when a jolt shivers up his body again, hands glowing with the effort not to turn the entire object gold. He can’t be bothered to give more than a strained moan at the teasing, hips canting towards the somehow-still-clothed bodyguard. This complete perversion of their dynamic in the workplace does things to Midas it shouldn’t. It shouldn’t turn him on to get pinned against his very expensive desk and fingerfucked until his unattended length is practically begging for attention, but it does. To a shameful extent. That train of thought is one he probably needed to think about– men like him should not rely on the external validation of praises and getting dicked down until he could barely remember how to walk in a straight line.

 “Everything alright?” Brutus slows, pulling his hand free with a pop that makes Midas cringe, snapped out of his own musing on the dynamics of unprofessional sex. His other hand releases Midas’s chest in the same moment, enough that he doesn’t feel so trapped.

 “Yes, agent. You may proceed.” The formal language is almost ridiculous, but after every title and trial they’ve put on in all their scenarios, what they have works. 

 Brutus nods, letting Midas’s leg settle down for a moment, enough to put on a condom and drip even more slick over himself. The boss takes the moment to collect himself, studying the high-arched ceiling and the deep oaken hues of his office. Then Brutus is tapping at his waist, sturdy palm a soothing weight even as he hooks Midas’s leg over his elbow. The angle like this always effortlessly allowed Brutus access to spots that made Midas’s legs turn into jelly, and stars spark behind his eyes. It’s no different this time, when his bodyguard nudges in, rocking forwards and back until he’s hilted, a deep-set weight that leaves Midas breathless.

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things im working on currently 
- finishing 2nd person reader x cis montague
- mutual masturbation montague x idk a guard
- 2nd person reader amab x trans montague
- midas x montague underworld thing
- trans midas and brutus
- hades x reader 

- trans midas x reader

think thats all

im lowk getting my ass kicked by life updates will come as my energy does thanks homies 

also as of april 6th all the chapters have been updated for easier uhh figuring out

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he squeezes on brutus’s dick, moaning unabashedly when brutus digs a deep but shallow angle, thrusting right against that sweet spot. they were in his office again, couldn't keep their hands off each other. thank god for soundproofing, or the entire agency would probably hear the noise he's making. not that he cared all too much, but it's decency to not let your agents know you're getting fucked over your own desk. the angle is just enough to brush over shrilling nerves, but he grabs brutus by the neck, arms hooked for a kiss and its slick and hot and filthy and fuck the angle is just enough that his next thrust hits square on. midas squeaks into the kiss, length drooling against his belly as brutus continues rutting, sending blinding shocks of pleasure through him. he was making such a mess of himself, of his desk, and he wasn't even touching himself per brutus’s request. usually he found it hard to come like that, but brutus was grinding against that same rich sweet spot on every thrust so hard stars exploded behind midas’s vision, breath knocked out of him with the pure pleasure. if this is what a week apart did to them, maybe brutus’s next mission would have to be two weeks. not that he wanted to get impaled or further explain the awkward movements after spending an hour (or three) locked in his office with brutus. he usually blamed it on a twisted ankle, but he's no clue how to disguise it after this. brutus wasn't ever really gentle, but this is something else, animalistic desperation so far gone neither of them made a comprehensible sentence.

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The underworld was boring. You could say that much. No matter the fact that spirits came in all shapes and sizes, from every walk of the land, it just got boring. Especially when ruling the underworld was all you’d been doing since that wretched Zeus had made you sit in this rotting realm and pass judgment over the wailing, decrepit souls. However, as unfair as it was, that was just what life looked like for Hades, egotistical god of the dead and avid disliker of Zeus. 

“Entertain me.” Some foolish mortal had weaseled their way into his world– very much alive, very much annoying, and very much about to not be so alive. Dead people were a lot less annoying.

“Entertain you?”

“Are you deaf as well as stupid?” He snaps, leaning back on his throne. There was no greater way to annoy him than to waste his precious time. 

“What kind of entertainment?” Hades doesn’t miss the way the human’s gaze flitted lower over the waistband of his cloak. Not exactly what he’d intended, but it did get lonely without his lover.

“Mm,” the mortal hums, sitting on the arm of the throne. “I was thinking something personal . After all, it must get lonely, ruling such a realm like this. It’d only be fair to relieve some of your stress.”

The god shifts on his throne. Clearly this human knew how to play their cards well, if the knowing twinkle in their eye was any tell. Stroking his ego was a surefire way to make him pliant.

“If you think yourself capable of such a task, then be my guest.” Hades reaches a clawed hand around their waist, squeezing in a possessive motion. He hopes they know the cost of interacting with someone like him– nothing came free when it came to Hades.

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wont be updating for the forseeable future
cryszv on fortnite if anyone wanna play