Spicy Q&A – Part One (Mature) (Patreon)

You know the Hadrian that comes out when Romanus is in danger or gets hurt? Serious, lethal, merciless, steely-eye? Ready to set the world on fire? What would THAT Hadrian be like in bed?

His hands shake as they cup your cheeks. "Are you hurt? Lord, you..."

You grab his wrists and sweep your thumbs over his pulse points. Hadrian's eyes are frantic, bouncing all over your face, and blood flows from a cut on his forehead, but he doesn't seem to feel it. "Hadrian, I'm fine," you say, trying to keep your voice from cracking. Your leg hurts to stand on, and an iron taste coats your tongue. "I'm fine."

You need to calm him. You've never seen him like this. Hadrian's sword lies on the ground, the black marred by bright red, and his once-green eyes are completely dark. You gently let go of his arms to put your palm against his cheek. Mud clings to his stubble, mixed with sweat and blood, and he's Hadrian, your Hadrian. But you see Hadrian, the Templar too.

It shouldn't send a warm shiver down your spine.

"You can ease, Hadrian," you whisper, feeling a new wave of exhaustion. "You got here on time. I'm fine."

His hands shake no more. You crack your eyes open, not realizing you had closed them, just in time to see Hadrian tighten his jaw in a resolute line. He looks you over one more time, eyes lingering on the mess of your leg. "They hurt you," Hadrian says, his voice as black as his sword's steel. "God purge their souls."

And then, you're being lifted. "Ah!" you let out as two strong hands grab you by the waist. Hadrian carries you half-thrown over his shoulder, taking care to avoid touching your injured leg. "Hadrian!"

He doesn't answer. The rocky hillside is mostly deserted, but a lone tree stump sits not far from the place of the ambush. Dead branches lie on the ground, but the stump is high and thick, and when Hadrian carefully places you on top, you sit almost at eye level with him. "I don't have anything on me," he says in that same dark, distant tone. Hadrian grabs your ruined pants at the cut and yanks them with a single, harsh tug.

The sound of ripping fabric tears the air.

"Hey," you protest.

"Not even a single wrap. I—" Hadrian's jaw clenches again. "I'll make do."

He starts to take off your pants, but you had enough. "Hey," you say again, grabbing his chin. You pull his face up, nails digging into the side of his mouth to keep him looking at you. "Snap out of it. You're not going to fix my leg here. Hadrian, I'm fine."

His eyes are so dark. His face indescribable. He stares at you in silence.

"I'm here," you say again and bring him close. Your nose touches his, and you slid your hand to his hair. "Just listen to me." You kiss him then, slowly. Your lips brush his, tentatively. Hadrian remains stone-still. "Hadrian."

You turn your head and find a new angle. You kiss his unmoving lips, cupping his face between your hands. You can feel him so rigid, so stiff beneath you. You scoot forward on the tree stump until your knees rest on the side of his hips. "Don't ignore me, big man," you say, smiling slightly as you pull back. "That'll hurt me more than any blade."

Hadrian stares at you. Your smile falters. Is he—

But then, holy passion assaults you. His hands snap to life, and they grab you. Five hard, strong fingers grip your waist as the other five cling to your nape and pull you. You're not kissed as much as you're invaded. His mouth closes on yours, desperate, as if he kisses a miracle that can vanish at any second. Hadrian holds you tight, and you can barely inhale before his tongue charges inside. "Hmm," you moan when his teeth graze your lips. Hadrian leans over you, making you bend back on the stump to puts his body weight on top of yours.

"You're here," he rasps after he's stolen all the air from your lungs, leaving your mouth to leave a trail of blazing kisses on the side of your neck. Hadrian bites you. He bites you! You jerk in surprise and are met with a harsh, forceful thrust of his hips against yours.

He's hard already. Your eyes roll back.

"I'm here," you pant, struggling to breathe under the weight of him.

*if Romanus is female

Your breasts flatten against the hard muscles of his chest, as Hadrian's tongue sucks at the junction of your neck and shoulder. Hadrian pauses frowns, and then he leans back to grab your shirt by the collar.

Your mind spins, so it takes you a beat to understand. "Hadrian, no!" But it's a beat too long.

Hadrian tears open your shirt, throwing the ruined cloth aside. "I have a spare," he mumbles and swallows your protests with his tongue. He kisses you again, deep, as his hands unceremoniously knead your breasts. His hands are so large, he can hold them on each palm, his thumb on your nipples, his fingers riding the line between harsh and gentle.

"Oh," you moan, throwing your head back when he pinches your nipples. "Hadrian."

He kisses your collarbone, and then the valley between your breasts, licking the sweat and blood, and dirt. You look down at him and see his face as harsh as before. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. You've never seen him like this. You've never been handled by him like this. Hadrian slams your hips on him, pressing your groins together, and he closes his eyes in bliss. "Fuck," he growls.

Your toes curl.

"Tell me if I'm hurting you," Hadrian says and pulls your pants free. He manhandles you, grabbing your injured leg and carefully setting it aside his hip. Hadrian rests a hand on your thigh as he guides himself to your entrance. "I can't wait anymore," Hadrian says, leaning over you to whisper by your lips. The other hand goes to your core and carefully slips a finger inside.

It goes in easily.

"No need," you mewl, grabbing his shoulder with sharp nails. "I'm ready."

Hadrian nods, adjusts your leg... and, with a sharp thrust, plunges all the way in. "Lord," he groans as you moan. Lord, indeed. He's so big. He's never gotten in so quickly, so harshly. Your nails make red lines on his back. "You're heaven."

You open your mouth, but are interrupted when he pulls back—

And slams into you again.

"Oh!"

*if Romanus is male

Your chests crash together, hard muscle over hard muscle as Hadrian's tongue sucks at the junction of neck and shoulder. Hadrian pauses frowns, and then he leans back to grab your shirt by the collar.

Your mind spins, so it takes you a beat to understand. "Hadrian, no!" But it's a beat too long.

Hadrian tears open your shirt, throwing the ruined cloth aside. "I have a spare," he mumbles and swallows your protests with his tongue. He kisses you again, deep and maddening as his fingers pinch your nipples.

You hiss as the sudden, odd pleasure shoots like an arrow to your groin. "Fuck, Hadrian."

He kisses your collarbone, then down your chest, licking at the sweat and blood, and dirt. You look down at him and see his face as harsh as before. You've never been handled by him like this. Hadrian grabs your hips and then snaps them against his. Your groins press together, both hard and aching, and you both release a moan. "Lord," Hadrian mumbles through numb lips.

Your hands clench on his shirt.

"Tell me if I'm hurting you," Hadrian says and pulls your pants free. He manhandles you, grabbing your injured leg and carefully setting it aside his hip. Hadrian rests a hand behind your knee as he guides himself close to you. "I don't have anything to ease it," he says, and his large, thick hand closes around your member. You groan, head thrown back as Hadrian pumps you – fast and efficiently.

His other hand closes over your jaw, and then a thumb pushes past your lips. You moan around him, sucking him as Hadrian leans closer, hand pushing your members together as his hips thrust into you.

He adds another finger into your mouth. You obey.

Hadrian thrusts again, and again, and then he stops and leans away. You almost protest when he plops his fingers out of your mouth, but the words die when he presses them to your entrance. "I'll go slow," Hadrian promises.

"No need," you hiss. You're burning. You want him. "Just do it, Hadrian."

He nods, and his fingers open you.

"Oh!"

He works you carefully, but quicker and more demanding than ever before. Time wraps until finally, he pulls back only for something else to press at your entrance. Your nails wrack his scalp, your mouth sears over his, and finally, finally, Hadrian thrust—

You yell. 

-

"You're here," Hadrian mumbles near your mouth. His hand on your thigh never moves, keeping your leg safe, but the other rises until it cups your face. "You're here," he repeats like a chant, kissing you gently even as he sets a brutal pace. You're plowed up and down the tree stomp, mind melting away to the harsh, cold pleasure being forced out of you. Into you.

"I'm here," you gasp when you can, saliva mingling with his. Hadrian's fingers tighten on your hair. "I promise."

"I almost lost you," he says, pressing his forehead on yours. His breath washes over your lashes, and you hug him tight. His voice is laced with pain.

"Never."

Hadrian pushes his face into the crook of your neck as he grabs your hips and lifts them. The new angle has you screaming. He's deeper, harder, faster, dragging you towards the precipice. Dragging himself. You grab his hair, his shoulders, and wince when you move your injured leg, but wrap the other around his hip.

"Never, Hadrian," you promise.

You move together until the universe contracts as sensation expands and stars explode behind your eyelids. All the while, you hear him. Half-coherent prayers shaped like your name spilling from his lips long before he has stopped moving and rests inside you. "You are here."

• Pillow talk with Alessa.
  

Her breasts rise up and down.

A beam of pale moonlight falls from the window and bathes her white skin, glinting on the sweat in the valley between her breasts and the sharp tips of her nipples. Alessa has her arms thrown over her head, elbows bent behind her pillow, and you can see the soft ridges of her ribs and the sharp hills of her hips. Her hair makes a halo around her head, some strands stuck to her damp forehead, and her cheeks are flushed even in the cold light.

Her freckles shine like constellations peppering cheeks and nose, shoulders and collarbones, and the flat lines of her arms. You can't see them now, for they're wrapped in the blanket, but you know she has a cluster of small, almost white freckles on the inside of her right thigh.

But, above all, you watch the smile that adorns her full lips. Satisfied, and blissful, and one she allows none other to see but you. "Is your inspection finished?" Her voice rises in the still air. You meet her eyes to see the playful gleam in them. They look white, like bone, in the glow of moonlight. "Do I measure to your standards?"

You smile. "Always," you say, and grab her arm, bringing it closer to you. Alessa's smile grows as she turns slightly on her side. Her skin is like silk beneath your fingertips, but you can feel the faint scars, bruises, and callouses as you roam them from her elbow to her wrist and lastly, to her hand. You press your lips on her knuckles, kissing each slowly. "You're beautiful."

"You have already bedded me," Alessa points out. You love the tone of her voice. Light and carefree. "You do not need to keep flattering me so."

You kiss the side of her wrist next, tongue gently lapping at her pulse. Alessa's foot nudges your leg beneath the sheets. "Nonsense," you answer, kissing up her arm to the inner fold of her elbow. "I'll flatter you until your ears turn to stone."

Alessa laughs. She wiggles closer, her leg intertwining with yours. Her free hand slowly creeps closer to you, the tips of her fingers grazing the side of your ribs. "But then whom else shall suffer your speeches?"

"Oh, you will," you say, playfully nipping at the lean fat under her arm. Alessa jerks, and you soothe the spot with your tongue. She tastes like sweat and citruses and so very Alessa. "Just because you can't hear me, doesn't mean I'll stop talking."

"Thus, proving you do not desire a discussion. All you want is to hear the sound of your own voice." Alessa smiles a smile that makes you want to kiss it from her. But you just keep kissing a path to her shoulder. Her hand sprawls on your stomach, cold fingers exploring your muscles and belly button. You suck in a breath when she tickles the skin on your lower stomach.

"You blabbermouth,” she whispers near your shoulder. You feel her lips moving against your skin.

"I love it when you insult me," you say, and tug on her arm until she's pressed against you. Your other hand hugs her closer, and you move your lips to the crowd of her hair. Your body still tingles pleasantly from your release, but as Alessa's hand roams lower, caressing the inside of your thigh, a tiny spark of desire ignites again.

"Then I shall not do it," she says, lifting her head to look into your eyes. She's beautiful. Alessa extends her neck, and soft, full lips graze yours. "I shall call you something else. Darling one."

You smile into the kiss. "That's good too."

Alessa hums, parting her lips to allow you entrance. Your tongues mingle together, not hurriedly, but languidly. The passion is spent, and you close your eyes to enjoy the taste. Her taste. Alessa's hand moves south again.

*if Romanus is male

And now you inhale when she wraps her cold, lean fingers around you. "Alessa," you rasp, but she shuts you with another kiss.

"Do not move, darling one," she commands, gently pumping you up and down. Your groan is halfway between pleasure and pain. You're not fully ready yet, but your body answers to hers on its own accord. It always does. "I seek compensation for my ruined hearing."

Your laugh is ragged as you feel her nip your earlobe, sucking it into her mouth "Fuck, Alessa... I just need a moment," you say, but she lets go of your member to cup your balls, and the world turns dark for a moment.

*if Romanus is female

And now you inhale when she rests her cold, lean fingers on your core. "Alessa," you gasp, but she shuts you with another kiss.

"Do not move, darling one," she commands, gently sweeping her thumb over your pearl of nerves. Her middle finger enters you slowly, dragging it curled against your wall. Your moan is halfway between pleasure and pain. You're still sore, even as your body reacts to her touch. It always does. "I seek compensation for my ruined hearing."

Your laugh is ragged as you feel her nip your earlobe, sucking it into her mouth "Fuck, Alessa... I just... I need a moment," you beg, but she joins in another finger and crosses them like scissors inside you. Your world turns dark.

-

"You misinterpret," Alessa says, and you open your eyes just in time to see her wicked smile. She stops touching you, making you growl in protest, but Alessa jumps up, hands firm and nails digging into your shoulders as she comes to hover above you. Her knees are on either side of your head, her naked body displayed in all its glory. Moonlight sparkles across her skin, making it seem like Alessa holds an inner light of her own.

At this instance, you gaze wordlessly upon an angel.

"All I require, special one," Alessa says, sweeping her hand over your scalp. You part your lips as she lowers herself towards you, nails like claws pulling your hair. "Is your mouth."

She sits on you, and you taste her yet again, trading words and speeches and flattery by the rawest, most sincere form of worship.

• The Pirate King being teased in public.
  

The first time, The Pirate thinks it an accident.

You were walking past the large bonfire blazing its flames on the otherwise dark beach. The stars sparkled way above, twinkling in the firmament, but the moon was absent, and the waves of the rolling ocean were only present in their roar. The Pirate had been nursing a bottle of mead, half-listening to his second babbling by his side when his dark eyes landed on you, and his lips spread in an instant smirk.

You caught his gaze and smiled back, and then your shirt fluttered open just enough that the king of outlaws could see the soft curve of your breast — unbounded and bouncing with every step you took on the sinking sands.

He had sat up straight, eyes immediately surveying his men, making sure none of them saw the same. But most were drunk, laying on their side or hollowing at the sky, and when the Pirate looked back at you, you were walking away, heading to the spread of meats on the other side.

An accident. His smirk widens. That certainly got him awake. The Pirate staggered to his feet and sauntered closer to you, looping an arm around your waist and taking another peek at your shirt. It was closed now, and you smiled innocently up at him, and, he was sure: it was an accident.

The second time, the Pirate didn't leave as sure.

Rain fell over your group, gloomy and borderline depressing, and the damned beast under him kept hitting him with its tail. "I don't like this either," he said to the horse, who just huffed and lowered its freakishly large head. The Pirate's mood took a darker turn. He clenched the reins, dreaming of his ship when suddenly, you came riding closer.

And just like clouds parting, a ray of sunshine brightened his mood.

"Peach," he had said in greeting. "How much longer until we get to the inn, you reckon?"

You paused in thought. "At least until sunset."

Spirit's sake. "Then let the damn sun hurry up."

You laughed, and he smirked. Silence fell for a while. He watched the rest of your silent group, all of them little more than shadows in the rain. Then, the Pirate looked back at you, a quip on the tip of his tongue—

Your horse, the one with the lazy eye, crashed against his, and the next thing the Pirate knew, your hand was gripping his leg. His muscles clenched in surprise, but he watched with wide eyes as your fingers — small and nimble and wicked — quickly roamed up, flying over his thigh, then his inner thigh, and then he jumped when nails brushed over his groin.

Fire flared in his loins. "What—"

"Sorry," you said, wobbling on your saddle. "Billy, calm down," you said to your horse, patting his neck with that same exploring hand. You looked up at him, then, and smiled again. It looked so innocent. "I lost balance."

You turned away, but he stared at the back of your head with narrowed eyes. The Pirate couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw it. That glint in your eyes.

Now, the Pirate is sure.

He's lounging on a chair in the common room of a too-loud inn. Your companions share his table, a round of half-empty tankards discarded on top, and again, he half-listens to the conversation. Music plays somewhere in the air, drifting from that blue-haired bard's lyre, and his stomach is pleasantly full of warm bread, warm beer, and even warmer stew.

His eyes feast on you.

You're talking to Alessa, your cheeks flushed from laughter, and your eyes alive, and the Pirate likes to see you so. You're gesturing widely with your hands, explaining a tale or two, and the Pirate misses his ship and his men, and the rocking of the ocean, but he supposes this isn't so bad.

You pause your tale, the other mercenary looks away for a second, and it's so quick, it strikes him numb, but you snap your eyes at him, hold his gaze, and then bite your bottom lip.

The Pirate's eyebrows shoot up.

You look back at Alessa, smiling a pleasant, innocent little smile that looks nothing like the grin you gave him.

The damn minx.

He sees it again, not long after. You're talking with the nobleman now, pointing at something over your head, and when the Theer turns to look, you spin on your heels, bend over a table, and arch your backside right at him.

The Pirate puts his drink down.

When you walk behind his chair, he feels nails dragging along his back, and then a hand cups the back of his neck, quickly, lightly, but not before leaving red marks on his skin.

You walk away, but he gets up from his chair, and like a predator, the King of Pirates starts stalking you. He steps where you step, rounding patrons and companions alike. You walk towards the bar at the corner, but he catches you at the mouth of the stairs. "Hold," he commands in a rusty voice, hand closing on your elbow.

You bounce against him in surprise but relax when you turn and see him. "Hmm?" you hum, your lips curling at the sides. His fingers tighten on your arm. "Do you need something?"

Oh, he could bend you right here. "I do," he says, the other hand closing on your waist.

"Well, you'll have to wait," you dismiss him, pulling from his grip. "I'm getting Hadrian a drink."

It takes all his willpower not to throw you over his shoulder. Instead, the Pirate simply pulls until your back presses into his chest. He hears your little gasp. "Hadrian can wait," he rasps and hauls you up the stairs.

You're dragged after with weak protests and faint little scowls. When you're halfway there, the Pirate loses patience and grabs you by the waist, lifting you up the last steps and barging into your room.

"You brute!" You cry when he puts you down, but you're smiling wide, eyes glinting again, and fire flares in his veins. "What gives you the right?"

The Pirate rounds on you. You take a tiny step back but then bump against the wall. You look up at him through your lashes, your chest heaving up and down, and spirits strike him where he stands, but you like this. You wanted this. He almost laughs. Why did it take him so long to get it?

"I have every right," he says, making his voice cold and dark. He reaches for you then, making a hostage of your arms. "I know what you're doing."

You tilt your chin defiantly. "Took you long enough."

Ouch. That’s a hit to his ego.

"It did," he whispers in apology before the Pirate’s lips roll over yours. You mewl. He gropes your thighs, lifting you in his arms. The Pirate deepens the kiss as you wrap your legs around his waist. "You little devil."

The Pirate kisses you until he feels your arms shake, and your thighs quiver, and he can't help it. He rolls his hips against yours, once. Pleasure soars up his spine. Twice.

Your little moans echo in his ear.

And it's time to teach you a lesson. With a snap of his head, the Pirate takes his lips away from your throat and untangles your legs from his waist. "What..." you mumble, eyes glazed and confused, but he simply spins you, holding your cheek against the wall.

"I like trinkets," he says, teeth grazing your ear. He feels you shiver when his hands roughly pull down your pants. Too bad you're wearing travel clothes and not one of your dresses, but that's alright. The Pirate lightly thumbs your knickers, his pointer finger slowly creeping to the front. "Especially if they're stolen."

You pant, pretty lips parted, and cheeks flushed. "You can't steal anything from me," you tell him, cracking an eye open to look at him with defiance. He bites the side of your jaw.

"Can't I?" he asks, finger pressing now. You bite your lip as he lightly plays with the moist spot. His other hand disappears inside the compartments of his large belt.

"No," you say, pushing your ass back against him. He has to bite his tongue to keep from humping your perfect curves. "You can't steal what it’s freely given.”

That makes him pause. He pulls back to stare at you, and now your smile softens. Shit. "Not now, peach," he whispers, kissing your cheek gently. "I'm trying to teach you a lesson."

You smile together.

But yours dies when you feel the cold touch of steel kissing your hip. "What are you doing?"

His knife tears your knickers. "Taking something," he says, voice smug, stepping back with your knickers in hand. You turn around, pants halfway down your thighs, shirt disheveled, hair a mess. Looking like the best treasure he's ever seen.

The Pirate scrunches your knickers in one hand, takes them to his nose, inhales. And smirks at your blush. "I'll hold onto this," he says, putting it in his pocket. "See you downstairs."

With that, he walks out of the room, smirking wide at the shocked, outraged look on your pretty face.

• Possessive Neia!
  

Her hands feel like iron.

"Neia."

She lifts the corner of her mouth in a snarl, her scar white and deep like the tear of scorched earth. The fingers of your left hand are distant things, beyond the pain of numbness as her grip tightens even more around the thin bones of your wrist. "Neia," you call again, legs struggling to keep up with the brutish pace.

She doesn't even snarl now. The specter drags you, rounding the corner of the low-lit corridor, and then Neia lounges at the nearest door. Her massive shoulder pounds it open, the creaks protesting loudly, and you're thrown into the room with as much grace and care as a charging bull.

"Neia!" you shout, stumbling the few steps from the entrance to the bed. You put your hands on the mattress to steady yourself and then rise with fire shining in your eyes. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Your voice shakes with anger. You clench your left hand, feeling the sting there, and raise your eyes at her. Neia stands in the doorway, her shoulders practically blocking the whole entryway, and all you see in the shadows of her face are the two yellow glow of undead eyes. And her scar. You can see her scar too.

And anger makes your blood sing, but looking at her, you feel a familiar twist in your stomach — something halfway between fear and desire. A feeling only Neia ever gives you.

"Wrong with me?" Neia rasps at last and takes a step inside. She closes the door with her foot, plunging the room into an even denser darkness. She's a silhouette now, barely touched by the moon. You wish the fireplace was lit. You thank God that it isn't. "You were having fun there, weren't you, sweetling?"

She says the nickname like an insult. That hurts you more than anything else. "I was," you say defiantly. "I really was, Neia. I thought you were too."

Her scoff sounds like glass breaking. "You think it's fun to watch that fucker undress you with her eyes?" She takes a step forward. You feel the vibration in the floor planks.

"What?" you let out in complete disbelief. "What are you talking about?"

Neia's twin flaming eyes narrow. "Don't play innocent."

You're the one who steps forward now. "I'm not playing anything," you spit out, frustration roughing your voice. You stick a finger in her chest.  "What are you on about?"

Neia looks at your finger and slowly looks up. "You wanted to go with her, is that it?" she asks, and her tone has you freezing. Neia doesn't sound angry anymore. She sounds calm. She sounds emotionless. She leans down, and now her face appears out of the shadows. "Is that it?"

You're almost at a loss for words. You stare at a predator but part of you just wants to laugh. You can't... you can't believe it. "Is that what this is about?" you ask, and you can't hide the shock beneath the tone. "Oh my God, Neia are you... are you jealous?"

You stopped in an inn for the night, and the evening had been generally pleasant. You and Neia were weary from the road, but the food was warm, the inn master accommodating, and the drinks tasted better than piss water. All in all, you were ready to call this a successful night.

You had gotten up to order another beer when, while waiting by the counter, a woman engaged in conversation. She was an artisan, she told you, going to sell her wares in a province down south, and she wanted to know how the road was from here to there. The bartender brought you your beer, but you stayed at the counter as you continued to talk with your new drinking companion.

She was funny and friendly and was in the middle of telling you a tale about a madman who believed himself the king of an unmade bridge when, out of nowhere, Neia stepped up to the pair of you, scowled at the woman, grabbed your wrist, and dragged you up the stairs as if you were a victim of one of her interrogations.

You stare dumbly at her now. It couldn't be. You were talking for only a short while, and you're pretty sure the woman was married — you caught a glimpse of a silver band on her ring finger.

"Neia, you're—"

"Not damned jealous." Neia's hand flies and grabs onto your arm. It doesn't hurt you, but she pushes you until your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Neia is a tall shadow above, her voice like the crack of thunder. "I don't get jealous."

It's your turn to scoff. "It seems like you do."

Her other hand grabs your elbow as Neia leans down to your level. You lift your chin, but a thrill crawls down your spine when you feel her hot breath on your cheeks. When you hear her hiss by your ears. "Shut up."

You open your mouth to do the opposite of that, but Neia decides to shut you up the old-fashioned way. She lifts you, raising you almost half a foot in the air, and crashes her mouth over yours. Her teeth bite your bottom lip, her hands bruise your upper arms, and Neia, the Dawnseeker, kisses you until the world is naught but a spinning mess. Her tongue battles with yours, sweeping over your teeth, the ceiling of your mouth, plunging as deep as it can in your throat. You can't even moan as saliva builds at the corner of your mouth, and she drinks it too as if she's resentful of it. When your lungs scream for air, you pull her hair urgently, but Neia doesn't listen.

Her grip tightens, bordering on pain, and her teeth snap on your tongue, and now you taste metal before finally, she tears her mouth away and throws you back.

You inhale an urgent breath as you go flying to the mattress. Your vision pivots, but you barely have time to raise yourself on your elbows before two hands grab you again and spin you around. You go sprawling on top of the bed, your breasts pressed to the cover, your cheek mingling with the sheet, and Neia holding you by the waist. "This is mine," you hear her growl, roughly palming your ass. Heat builds within you, spreading from her touch to the front, on your core, your lower belly, your neck, and your cheeks. You close your eyes tight as she squeezes and kneads your flesh, and then she clicks her tongue and tears at the clasps of your belt.

"Neia..."

Your pants are thrown aside, and you feel her callouses on your bare skin. Neia gropes your ass again before she drags her hands forward, pulling your shirt over your head. You're shaking when she loops her arms under you, and now ten fingers latch onto your breasts. "These are mine too," she says, and you almost jump when you hear her voice right behind your ear. Neia presses her face on your neck, her teeth grazing the skin as her fingers pull on your nipples.

You open your mouth and moan.

She bites your earlobe. "Fucking mine," Neia repeats. She lays on top of you, her heavier form practically swallowing yours. Neia nudges her nose on the back of your neck, parting away the hair to suck on the skin. You press your face into the mattress as the twin sensations of her lips and fingers work you to oblivion. "As long as you want this."

Neia sweeps her tongue on your neck, squeezes your breasts in her hands, puts a knee between your legs, and moves it against you. "As long as you want me," Neia says and pauses. "Then this can be no one else's."

When she said 'this', Neia bit, kneaded, and thrust at the same time. You would have dragged on the sheets if she wasn't pinning you down. You try to move your hands, but can't reach her, so you twist your neck as much as you can to catch a glimpse of her eyes. "You're such an idiot," you say, voice ragged and breathless. The words feel like stones rasping on the walls of your throat.

You feel her frown. You smile. "I don't want anyone else, Neia. I only want you. I can't believe you haven't figured that out yet."

You haven't spoken about the... nature of your relationship. Neia's hard to approach. So far, you've gone with the flow, but... you thought it was obvious. At least, for you, there's no one else. How can there be?

A pause.

"Pretty words you sing," she says at last. Neia's other hand caresses your ribs, then the planes of your stomach, then she drags it down, slipping into your underwear. You suck in a breath when her thick hand cups you, two fingers pressing at your entrance. "Pretty words, sweetling."

Neia kisses your neck, kneads your right breast, and, with a gentle press, pushes two fingers inside you. She's all you feel and hear, all you smell and taste when her lips come to mingle with yours, and even when you close your eyes, you see her in the darkness of your vision. Two yellow eyes framed by white hair. So beautiful.

"This is mine too."

Neia fingers you, working you with a possessiveness you're ashamed to enjoy as much as you do. Later, you'll have to talk about interrupting conversations and the decorum of boundaries but now...

Neia's tongue on your chest.

White hair between your fingers.

You crash against a shore of pleasure again and again.

Now, you'll fall into her embrace.

• How does each RO respond when they cross the finish line?
  

This one is intrinsically tied to the question of 'How loud are the ROs in bed?' that I answered in the last Spicy Q&A. You can read it here!

Hadrian always comes with a word on his tongue. More often than not, it's the sound of your name. He'll whisper it, growl it, pant it, gasp it, roll it, have it choke on his throat, make the shape of it with his hands. Hadrian says it like a prayer, like a rock he clings to while the rest of him falls into oblivion. Your name, drawn out in pleasure, his mouth already seeking any part of you he can reach, his hands weaved into your hair or clutching your arms, or supporting your legs as his hips chase completion.

He'll hold still, then, for a moment, deep inside your heat, and mumble whatever else comes to mind. Praises, mostly. Promises, sworn vows of devotion. Hadrian will say use your name and Heaven in the same sentence, and were it anyone else, you'd find it inauthentic.

But not when it's him.

-

Alessa comes silently. She always clenches her jaw and wraps herself around you. She'll squeeze you, thighs as strong as tree trunks as they close over your hips and arms like shackles as they go around your neck, and her nails... her nails will speak all her mouth withholds. Alessa jumps out of the precipice with a tight jaw, and barred teeth, and nails digging into your flesh.

Afterward, she slowly unwinds, the cold winter melting into spring, and it's then that she unclenches her sore jaw, nails gentle as they trace your cheek, and voice husky. "Darling one," she says in the afterglow, her eyes as calm as a shallow creek.

-

Alain climaxes with a grin. He may speak or he may not, it depends on his mood and the nature of your tryst. If he's been whispering filthy words into your ear, grinning as he praises how good you are, and how good you make him feel, then Alain comes with another quip before he bends down to bite the back of your neck or your ass, or that spot under your chest that almost has you jumping in his hands.

If your lovemaking has been... quieter, more serious. If Alain finishes with his face next to yours with your breath bathing his lips, and your hands clinging to his curls, then he bites down the corny word that rises up his throat and closes his eyes and lets the moment speak for itself.

After, he rolls over on the bed with a lazy smile and limbs spread all over the place. "That was something," he says, voice hoarse and chest glinting with sweat and tanned skin more gold than ever. "Let's do it again."

-

Ysabella comes with a yell. Or a yelp, or a moan, or a gasp, or a wail, or a cry, or really, whatever gets her lungs empty. She has her soul to expel, she'll use whatever means necessary.

She arches her back and crushes you to her ample chest, her thighs shaking and her stomach spasming. Her hands grab you everywhere, her feet command you to keep going, her lips beg you to never stop. Ysabella yells, sometimes wordlessly, other times for God, or you, or herself. "Oh my God," she blasphemes but she can think of no purer way of worship.

After, she smiles, her body stretched like a cat, heavy curls falling over her face. "Come here, dear," she says, hands pulling you in, lips kissing your shoulder, or your cheek, or your temples.

-

The Pirate King comes with a grunt. He likes to come deep in you so, he'll hold you still, bend your back in a perfect angle, hands roaming your curved spine until they settle in the planes of your ass, and then The Pirate pumps you until he feels your walls clench, drinking him in, begging for him and he can do nothing more but obey. He closes his eyes, the world tumbling, and he won't say a word except for a single, muffled grunt. He does it by the crook of your neck, or the side of your mouth, or behind your ear. He likes to speak it near your skin.

After, he holds you with firm arms as you come down. He spreads you over him, limbs tumbling together, and if he can, he lights his pipe and watches the smoke curl toward the ceiling. "That good?" he asks, then, knowing full well that it was.

-

Neia climaxes in silence. To call her a specter wouldn't be more fitting then. Sometimes it's hard to tell when Neia comes. You're either watching her intensely or with your fingers inside her because otherwise, it's almost impossible to tell. She'll barely change her expression. You learn, with time and experience, that when her brows knit, just the slightest, and her mouth turns, car twisting, and Neia's arms flex for less than a heartbeat...

That means that she came.

After, she releases a single, sharp breath of air as if she has just run a hundred yards, but then Neia shakes it off and goes back to handling you as if nothing had happened. It would be frustrating if the former Inquisition hadn't a near-infinite amount of stamina. As it is, you relish the challenge to make her crack. Just one time. Just one...

"Fuckin' God," Neia growls, eyes shut tight, jaw clenched, and voice sounding like a threat. But when you lift your head from between her thighs, your lips glistening, you're almost embarrassed by how proud you feel. Almost.

"Stop making that damn face," she gruffs, pulling you up, but her searing kiss is made with smiling lips.

-

Lance... I'm not sure. 😄 I could see him whispering "God", or your name, or a faint grunt that would barely drift to your ears. His blood would be pumping in his eardrums, and Lance's tongue, in a rare moment, would be at a loss for words. He's not noiseless, as much as he isn't exactly coherent.

It's afterward that Lance would express what goes on in his soul. His long fingers would trace lines on your body that only he could see. Tapping lightly on your spine, the side of your thigh, or along the curved elevation of your calf. He'd trace your collarbones, and the line from their center to the base of your jaw. He'd trace you everywhere, and smile whenever your eyes would cross paths.

"What're you doing?" you'd rasp, voice tired but satisfied.

Lance would shrug and pull you close. "Memorizing."

-

Rafael comes in a storm of babbles. He's calling on higher powers, calling onto you, calling onto the foulest language his addled mind can muster. He curses, praises, mumbles, groans, clenches, and bites. "Ah, for fuck's sake, ya feel so good. Ya feel—"

Rafael pushes the words into the crook of your neck or mouths them by the curve of your ass — before and after he takes a greedy bite. He comments on how warm you are, or how soft, or hard, or whatever else might come up. He comments on himself, asks you questions, and does not wait for an answer. There is not one way Rafael climaxes; the only constant is that he'll be running his mouth as fast as he runs from the guard.

Afterward, he rolls over with a wide, always slightly disbelieving smile that shows the gap between his teeth.