reignfall | 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔦𝔤𝔫.

𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔦𝔤𝔫.

"We need to talk about the conditions."

To talk is not the same as to put them into ink, but she does not want a contract, hasn't wanted one from the start. For every other thing – every sponsorship, every appearance, every minute detail, she wants a contract, but in this instance, it would make her feel cheap. Sold, even if she is the seller. Perhaps this would be a good moment for regret, but regret does not come easily to her, and this is no exception. Her father would rage, if he knew she did not mean to get anything in writing, but, and it bolsters her resolve, her father would rage as well. Casimir Zarek is closer to his age than her own.

This isn't, she reckons, all that unusual for people like them. Both the situation and the age gap, but mostly the situation – what was the name of that actor, the one from the cult? Rumour him and his ex-wife, or at least one of them, did it on some kind of contract, too. Hell, it's probably more common now, where anyone could get famous on social media and numbers were everything. It will be good for both of their brands: she has missed out on the health craze, she has never posted pictures of herself exercising or eating clean or sipping juice cleanses, though she has done it all, because her body is as much, if not more, an asset than her mind is on some days. It would give her a boost, as would that hint of a scandal, the talk and the drama. Those who come only to see more of him, too.

He will get a new slew of followers as well: men who believe he'll get them a girlfriend half his age, then a number of her own followers, more deals for his own brand. It'll be worth every second in gold.

So here she is, in his minimalist haven, sipping one of his teas and finding herself enjoying the taste and view alike. If it must be anyone, she thinks, it might as well be someone as attractive as Casimir Zarek.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She does regard him with more suspicion now, as though freshly aware what it means to strike a deal with a man far more driven by his goals than by some hormone-driven desires. It does not help that she is young, that her experiences are limited to those equally as young, and that she tends to know how to play those boys by virtue of her own grander ambitions. It occurs to her that she might have found her match, which is exciting – it occurs to her also that she might not know how to win this round.

That he means to leave marks at all, much in the same vein, has her eyes widen with a hint of surprise –– and a not-so-healthy dose of curiosity. Love bites, yes, that far she has gone before, and she knows to keep them hidden by virtue of her favoured choice of lover, but she cannot help but wonder if this is the furthest he means to go. "Make-up or reasonably fashionable clothing. I am not above showing that I am a grown woman with a sex life, but I am not sure how much your brand would suffer from looking as though you crossed some lines of decency."

And if she looks at him now as if she wonders just how indecent he can get, she at least means to be subtle about it. "As for myself... I am not made of glass, and I am not expecting a candlelit lovemaking." It's not an image that appeals to her.

"My brand would not suffer from it at all. It is only if I failed to cross back again that I would be in trouble." His teeth, when he smiles, are very white. There is that gleam in his eyes again, as though he is enjoying a private joke. "Decency is one of those things which you should strive to dip in and out of. A person with no regard for it is repulsive, but a person who never crosses that line is dull. And dullness is publicity suicide."

He reaches over to pick up the glass teapot, refilling his cup, and raises his eyebrows as he silently offers her a refill, too. "Consider that free advice. You have a very clean public image. You might find a little scuff here and there gains you attention." His smile, now, seems less a private joke, and more one that might be shared between them; his eyes trail, lingering, over her. "I'll let you consider where you want it put."

She wonders if that whiteness is natural, or if he had a little modern help to get by – and she knows she will strive to find out, if only for her own satisfaction. They do not, at least, have that slight blue tinge that comes with an overzealous bleaching.

"What do you think you are here for?" She could have the boyfriend that suits her image. Perhaps a singer her own age, or a fellow influencer, ideally one who made most of his money off a children's network, and has the contractually-obligated purity of profile to go with much of her own. She could also veer into the entirely opposite direction, start an OnlyFans, double, if not triple her income, and let that choice haunt her until the internet learns how to forget. This is a better middle ground, a way to stir the pot, as they say, without causing unfixable damage. "You are younger than my father, but not by a large enough margin for people to gloss over it."

She can pretend that his gaze on her body does nothing for her, just as she can pretend that touch of pink to her cheeks is a fresh new blusher she tried. Makeup, not a physical reaction. She uncrosses her legs. "I think you have some ideas of where you would like to, ah... put it."

"I'm sure I could think of some." He leans in further, and lingers longer, than the pouring of tea entirely necessitates, his gaze unhurriedly finding hers again. Not touching, not at any point, but close enough to be a reminder of touch.

He fills her cup to the brim, then settles back into his seat, kicking his feet back up onto the countertop as he sets aside the teapot in favour of his own cup. "Do you always try to get people to agree to arrangements by calling them old? I have to say, it's a tactic that wouldn't have occurred to me."

Not that he's actually insulted by it. It is, after all, a simple fact that he is only a couple of years shy of her father's age; just as it is incontrovertible fact that, while he is no longer a youth, he is still very young for all he has accomplished. He has no intention of worrying about his age until he has successfully survived to see forty. Enough people want him dead, either for his father's work in politics or for his own more underhanded business dealings, that age is nothing but a sign of success.

Also, he looks damn good at thirty-six. He knows that, too.

She loses track of her thoughts for a moment with him so close, and it takes her a grand deal of palpable restraint not to test the waters of their arrangement on the spot, right then and there. Perhaps with her lips against his throat, with her fingers catching him by the belt loop and drawing him down to cover her – but there is the tea, which would scald her if spilled, and there is the power she must consider, his and her own. They should, at least, finish the negotiation, or rather, she should pretend to have so much control over her wants that finishing the negotiations unfucked is an option.

Her eyes, when meeting his, are blown as dark as a cat's on the verge of pouncing. She does not breathe until he has lazed back into his own seat.

"Normally, the people I step into contract with are barely able to string together a coherent thought, much less an intelligent one. I would praise them for their successes and pretend I am not celebrating their daddy's money or their own dumb luck." Or a combination of the above. "You know your worth and your achievements, and most of all, you know when someone is trying to suck up to you." That, just as his physical attractiveness, makes for much of his appeal. And that what is publicly known might only scratch the surface is the cherry on top, though she does not have an accurate impression of the scale of the iceberg. "So I am sparing you the sweet talk."

"Good." His smile, if anything, only widens; and it is genuine, despite the coldness that lingers in his eyes. "I wondered, you know, whether it was you or a team that made the decisions. How very refreshing to see that it really is you. I was so afraid you would be stupid."

She is not stupid. That much, he will allow. She probably isn't as clever as she thinks she is - certainly not at that age, when even he wasn't as clever as he thought he was - but she is not stupid. She is sharp, and suspicious, and she has a quick wit, and she has the good sense to keep her flattery to things that are true. He won't say that he likes her - he likes very few people - but he likes her for this purpose. She will do, and she may even be an actual benefit beyond arm candy. The satisfaction in his smirk, as he sips his tea, is real.

"Sparing the sweet talk, then, what else is there to discuss? For joint sponsorships, I am prepared to assume a 50/50 split." It isn't the money he needs, after all: money is a means to an end, and he has enough for now. "You will post nothing about me without my prior consent. I presume you would like the same consideration from me." Which is, noticeably, not an agreement to give it. "For the duration of this arrangement, I would prefer that you be either exclusive, or discreet. I won't hesitate to break contract if you do. Understood?"

She tries her best not to be insulted by the insinuation, and succeeds only partially. She had assumed he must known from that start that she was not as daft as the rest of those silly influencer girls, and it doesn't occur to her that her default assumption towards others in her line of work being one of vapid, mindless drones was in and of itself unfair and biased and more than a little sexist.

One golden curl is wrapped around her finger, though that seemingly relaxed pose is broken as she listens to his suggestions. "I expect the same consideration from you." It is already concession enough that she will effectively have to ask his permission to post as she pleases, she will not grant him unlimited freedoms on top of it. He had rightfully pointed out that she had more to lose, and while she also believed herself capable of gaining more out of his arrangement – else she would not risk it – she is unsure what is going through her mind right now. There are alarm bells going off, red flags rising, but there is a certain thrill in it, too. There is the potential for growth, the influence she will gain, the whole new range of people she will come in contact with, the chance to network far past her father's reach.

And yes, perhaps she wants to be taken seriously not just by the rest of the world, but by him specifically.

"Exclusivity is entirely on the table, of course. Though before either one of us signs on for it, perhaps we should find out if we are compatible enough." Why limit herself to a sexual partner who leaves her unsatisfied, in a worst case scenario? Or, if his demands are of some nature that she is unwilling to perform, why set herself up for the public humiliation of being viewed as cheated on when he seeks his satisfaction elsewhere?

Expect. There's an arrogant entitlement in the way she says it, as though she will not even consider the possibility otherwise - as though what she is offering is worth bargaining for.

Which, of course, it is. He wouldn't be here, otherwise. He smiles a little wider, a little more toothily, arching one dark brow. She has genuine confidence, under the brash narcissism and smugness - armouring traits which so often, in his experience, crumble like a house of cards under correctly-applied pressure. There is something to be said for that. He can even appreciate it. Weak wills are useful in the short term, but he would much rather ally himself with someone who has at least a little spine.

"Is that a concern you have?" His eyes gleam with a predatory amusement, and he sets his cup aside again, steepling his fingers. "And what kind of compatibility is it you're worried about? Brand? Personality?" His gaze meets hers, deliberate in its intensity. His tone is light, joking, but there is a darker note behind it. "I know you aren't worried that you won't find me attractive. And rest assured, I will make you scream."

With pleasure, even. At least mostly.

It cannot be brand or personality, though she can tell by his tone that he is teasing her, no more. If it were a concern about the compatibility, the aligning of their respective brands, they would not have this conversation. And if he said something to offend her, then she is convinced she would stand up and walk away, for now. It will not be so easy, and that she is certain of as well, once their little shows goes on the road. He would not have it, and she deems herself quite in control for being so aware of it.

He is not wrong, though, and no amount of sipping from her near-overfull cup can hide that awareness. She would need to be rid of all her senses to not find him attractive, and then she would likely suffer some acutely pressing memories in the dead of night. But she does not want to give him the satisfaction of admitting it – she knows that he knows, and that is bad enough. There is a horrible intersection here: it is confidence that attracts her, but she would rather have him insecure and vying for her attention, if only to relish in the sense of power it would grant her. That interest wouldn't last, though.

"I would like the assurance." She meets his eye bold as anything; it is a bold promise he makes, and if it is at all true, it would be a good use of her time. She sets her cup down with a smile that she hopes is beguiling. That is what it was practiced for, after all. "I don't really see a point in waiting."

"Patience," he remarks drily, swinging his feet down off the table, "is a virtue." But he stands, and steps once more towards her, holding out a manicured hand as though to shake. "But by the same token, I can patiently wait to finish this conversation, if you are so keen to be... assured."

Really, it works out in his favour. Experience suggests that she will agree to more in the post-coital glow than she ever would otherwise, and still walk away thinking she has the better end of the deal. But it has to be her idea to fuck. That's what so many of the sad, lonely men he sells seminars to don't seem able to grasp - how easy it is, and how important, to push a person into leading. Never be desperate. Never want too openly. Always want too much.

"Nothing we have discussed is particularly virtuous." So why bother with patience, arguably the one among the heavenly virtues she is about as disinclined toward as chastity? He stands before her, lean, taller than her, and leaving no doubt in her mind that the rigorous regimes he preaches are carried out in his own personal gym to utmost efficiency.

She has listened to some of his talks, so perhaps she should know how readily she had gotten tangled in his web, but she is blind with confidence, and she can only see this as her own ideal outcome. She has long since decided she would sleep with him, that she would seduce him along the lines of their arrangement, because a truth peppered in always made a lie that much more convincing. In fact, she is convinced her body will win him beyond their contract, verbal or otherwise, and play out more and more of it to her advances, so even if the sex were terrible, she would, at least, gain all there is to gain.

None of the sex she has imagined with him had been terrible, though. Perhaps that is why she spent a good amount of time thinking over whether or not this was cheating, adultery, but then – there is no such thing as cheating on one's self. Nipped in the bud.

She takes his hand, and she does note the manicure with a pleased hum. It is meant merely to distract as she tries to draw him closer by it, as her other hand darts up to make purchase in his luxurious shirt so that she can pull him down for a trial's kiss.

His smile - sidelong, sarcastic - is a tacit agreement with her remark. She is, after all, right. Virtue is something that neither of them seems to hold particularly highly. That is as it should be. There is only one virtue, power, and that virtue does not fade with impatience.

So long as the impatience is somebody else's, in any case.

Her hand, slim and warm, falls into his, and he allows himself to be drawn forward, although not down. Instead, he moves to pull her up, not particularly gently, his other hand snaking out to wrap around the back of her neck, beneath the golden silk of her hair. He will allow her to think this is her idea, yes; he will let her initiate and prove that this is something she wants. But there are limits, and there must always be a point - and it must come early - where she is also reminded of who is in charge of this situation. He is not unduly rough with her (yet, he thinks, and smiles a foxlike smile), but the message is still there: he means to decide how this proceeds, not her.

And if she lets herself be drawn up against him, if she allows him to press his body close to hers, she will be rewarded with the kiss she was seeking in any case, his lips finding hers with undisguised passion from the beginning.

She had meant to incite hunger, and so she does not fight him when he draws her up – she is often blind still to machinations that are not her own, and she sees but her own will. Her will was to kiss him, to draw him close in a way that might leave him surprised, and that he matches her energy seems appealing, rather than a warning sign.

It is worse once they kiss, for she meant, perhaps, to see him warm, and was unprepared to already find him as passionate as he had been in the daydreams she had permitted herself at the sight of some of his more provocative pictures. The bait is laid out, and she takes it unthinking, meets him with her own greed and hunger, one hand still a twisting hold on his shirt to support her stumbling rise into his arms, the other now tangling in his hair with little consideration.

Her lips part beneath his, an invitation for a more fiery taste, and if her teeth, once they must part, nip light at his lower lip, she means it as play.

He catches her easily enough, tugging her up against him until their bodies lie flush against one another, the heat of his body baking through the fine silk of his shirt. His hand, freed from hers, finds its seat on the small of her back, palm flattened against the curve of her spine as he parts his own lips in turn, his tongue running against hers.

Her teeth graze his lip, and this, too, he will happily allow. If there is a disappointment in it, it is only that she is so light and playful in her approach - but that will be rectified soon enough, he is sure, once she understands his tastes. Once he shows her that he is not afraid to play rough. His hand trails lower down her back, onto the curve of her ass, almost incidentally hitching her hem just a little higher, as his other thumb caresses the soft skin behind her ear, an intimacy at odds with the rough press of his body against hers.

When he nips at her lip in turn, it is not so lightly, and his eyes are dark as he draws back a little way, dragging at her lip as he does. That smile still lingers, creasing the corners of cold brown eyes. "You seem like a woman who knows what she wants."

It dawns on her that her own frame of reference here may be slimmer than his, that he easily has more than a decade of casual encounters to fall back on now. She knows her worth, of course, she knows no one else can compare to her, that she is the sort of woman he might have pictured while he was in bed with someone else entirely. Emboldened by her vanity and unwilling to show even a hint of nervous curiosity, that, if she stopped to dwell on it, might be a natural reaction, she answers to his rougher calls, her own hands' roaming taking a possessive turn. She groans as he gropes at her ass, but that is fine, all fine, when posed against the sigh he draws from her with that more intimate caress to the side of her head.

It does not help that her head is swimming with lust; how is she to work on a strategy when her mind's unhelpful calls merely crave more of the same? This is not the sort of dance she has danced before, with partners of her own degree of experience (or lack thereof). But bait has ever worked on her, it works just the same now.

"I get what I want." It is more important to hiss that to him, so he knows that she is the one being victorious here, that she has gotten what she came to him for. It is not just knowing and empty musing and wishing. Her next kiss is rougher, consuming, and this time, she draws blood at his lower lip. The pause once she tastes it is distinct – this was not, after all, discussed. She means to tide it over as intention, though, and she arches herself against him, her smile bloodied, but winning. "Now what?"

He laughs, low and throaty, his tongue darting out to lap the blood from his own lip, and then, without hesitation, from hers. Judging from the hardness that presses now against her hip, through the fine cotton of his trousers, he doesn't at all object to that undiscussed violence; his own smile, sharp-toothed and dark-eyed, is heavy with both desire and dark amusement.

"Now what, indeed?" His hand slides up from her ass to the hollow of her back, fingers splaying against the soft arch of her spine. His eyes find hers, a glint of mocking humour in their depths. "Should I not ask you that, since you so proudly get only what you want?"

When he leans in to press his open mouth to her throat, it leaves a tiny smear of crimson on the white skin of her neck. It suits her, he thinks, and smiles a predator's smile. "Tell me what you want, then, Miss Lannister."

It could have been an overstepping that means the end of their tryst before it even has a chance to begin – instead, she feels him hard against her, as though roused by the taste of blood. The red flags are raised high, then, and all she is thinking of is how very much red is her colour.

"I want to know if you usually get this hard when there is blood at play." She fails, then, to reject his mockery. Her curiosity might be less evident to someone less astute, but she has no doubt he will scope out her tells – the flicker of it in her darkening eyes, the way her breath catches when his mouth is at her throat, as though she is concerned he might bite. Her nails are sharp, even through the fabric of his shirt, and then one hand is at his neck, as if meaning to encourage him to leave his mark at her throat.

He can feel her pulse beneath the skin, a bird beating its wings against the walls of its confinement; her breath hitches beneath his lips, and even if he could not see her curiosity and her desire in her face, he hears it in her voice, and smirks. It was not unthinkable, until this moment, that she would flinch: that in this moment, propriety or fear would get the better of lust and this whole arrangement would fall apart. It would not have been a disaster if so - she has nothing that can harm him - but it would have been a shame.

It no longer seems probable that she will flee. Not when she is so pliant against him, and not when she was the one who bit first. He does not leave a mark, no matter how her guiding hand might invite it, but only nips playfully - albeit hard - at her neck, then draws back with a smile.

"You hardly seem disturbed by the idea," he muses aloud, and brushes a lock of gold back from her temple.

If she were disturbed by it, she thinks, she would be no different from any other dull, unimaginative girl. She fancies herself different: smarter than the rest, more daring, cutting edge, a revelation even while balancing along the tethers of tradition. It is something she believes in with a shocking confidence, and also something that must all the same be half a lie – if she were so convinced of it, after all, would she need to dive into something that anyone else would readily declare unsafe?

"A little blood does not scare me." His smile, on the other hand, does send a chill down her spine, but it's more of pleasure than fear. He does not scare her, not truly, not so much as he tastes of something forbidden and exhilarating, and certainly not enough to have her rethink her idea of proving her maturity to him. There is something especially delightful about the idea of testing such boundaries while their public image would likely need to remain as pristine as can be. It's ever appealed to her, to carry out her affairs in secret, to mock every fool who thinks her pure in the arms of a lover she should not have in this way.

Her fingers edge beneath his shirt now, eager to feel more of him. "Why don't you show me to your bedroom?"

He has always felt that the art of seduction - the art of managing people at large - is in teaching people what it is they should desire; and she is, if nothing else, a quick study. She moves so quickly into the place he has set for her, and with such enthusiasm; and how, now, can she back away from where she has put herself with such aplomb? Her hands are hot and fine against the flat muscle of his belly, a tempting reminder of her willingness to give way to his desires.

His own hand shifts to her thigh, his touch light enough to be almost teasing as he plucks at the hem of her skirt. "Why not, indeed?" he purrs, leaning in again, his breath ghosting against her cheek. "Perhaps because I had thought you might want to look out over the city, to see the world at your feet when I make your knees weak. The view from my room is slightly less spectacular."

There is little so tempting as the grace of his touch at her thigh, and she wonders instantly what it would be like if he went from this casual teasing to a more conquering approach. Her own fingers loop in his belt, before she begins to open it with deft expertise, and she doesn't much hesitate when he suggests that his bedroom might not be so grand a sight to see.

Not that this constitutes agreement. She swallows, and her own breath is hot and asking at his throat, and she presumes, as she has done before, that these things are entirely negotiable. He says he thinks she might enjoy the view – she has, in fact, no interest to find herself exposed in front of his window. They are too high up to give a passing stranger a show, yes, and still – there is the slight jerk of her head as she means to judge those overlarge glass panes – the thought of such openness is discomforting. Her voice, then, is low, persuasive. "I have all the view I need in this moment. The rest of the city can wait while we become acquainted."

He notes, with that detached part of himself which specialises in noting such details, how experienced her movements are and how readily she makes them; her body is pliant and willing in his grasp, delicate enough to be a sweet reminder of how easily it could be broken. She has not yet grasped her position, aims to negotiate out of discomfort, and there is a thrill in the question that poses itself: whether to disabuse her of that illusion now, or wait until she has signed herself away? She will have to learn, one way or another, whose decisions will carry more weight here. She will have to learn who is in charge.

Teach that lesson too soon, too aggressively, and she may still flee. Teach it too late, and she may balk, betrayed. It is a knife's edge, this kind of choice, and knives' edges have always appealed to him.

He nips at her ear, and the hand under her skirt continues to rise, still light in its touch. "The rest of the city will wait, regardless," he murmurs; and when he moves, it is snake-swift, as he twists and pushes her with sudden force up against the counter, yanking her shirt open. Turnabout, after all, is fair play. His mouth finds hers, rough and claiming, and he has her pinned for the moment between himself and the glass-topped counter, his hand cupping the swell of one full breast.

The time for delicate consideration is slipping fast through her own fingers. She fancies herself in her father's image, cool and calculating, playing a situation to her own advantage, and neglecting to pay heed to the side of her that has long since overtaken this conversation. The part that is selfish and pleasure-seeking, blind to consequence where her myriad of petty lusts are concerned, and, worst of all, the part that is convinced a man this much older than her would be as easily out-witted as her most tried lover.

He nips at her ear; she moans her response, until her shirt is torn open and she can hear the tell-tale clutter of buttons falling to the floor. It's nothing compared to the sudden impact, the roughness with which he's shoved her into place, and perhaps part of her response means to restore some sort of balance in power. "You'll replace that," she hisses, and bites back another hungry sound from her throat. No rewards for manhandling her, she thinks, for about as long as it takes for her to grab at the hand at her thigh, meaning to finally force him to touch her where she needs him most. In spite of her sudden lurch in frustration with him, she is wet and waiting between her thighs, and her fingers dig sharp nails into his hand where she means to take some semblance of charge, even as he has her pinned and half-bared.

There is a dance here, a fine balance between her desire and her fury, and both of them are sweetly intoxicating. Her vitriol is every bit as satisfying as her lusty moans, and he laughs low in his throat as her long nails claw against his hand.

"I can afford it," he assures her, and the smirk is as clear in his tone as it is on his face; a joke with himself, a smug reassurance of how little he need care about such petty things. She drags his hand higher, and he can feel in the slick, smooth heat of her cunt just how little she actually minds this frustration. He can be kind, too, he decides, and takes her clear demand, pressing manicured fingers against her entrance and seeking out, with the pad of his thumb, the hood of her clit. His mouth wanders down again, teeth scraping the hollow of her collarbone, his fingers kneading roughly against the soft weight of her breast.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔢𝔦𝔤𝔫.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject