#Bosom Bloodies

[waitingforthet]

Bosom Bloodies: honestly, showing covered in blood might not be the worst idea for a first date with a vampire

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[bloodybosom]

MY BLOODY VALENTINE

2009 | dir. Patrick Lussier

Thank you @zombiscribe

[skxrbrand]

How many pillows does your muse sleep with

Does N'kari count as a pillow?

[eldrith]

˗ˏˋ footprint in the snow ˎˊ˗ cregan stark

cregan stark x fem!lady!reader words: 12.1k synopsis: "The stones of Winterfell have always been blissfully cold against your palms, and Cregan’s presence has always naturally attended you." notes: hi!! this is my first cregan fic [so pls be gentle] but im excited to write for him more... still trying to work out his character but. ily @useralba and @dipperscavern ... febu frong anyways <3 i didnt edit this sorry but hope u all enjoy <3 warnings: canon-divergent au; dance does not/has not happened. north-centric AS IT SHOULD BE. characters aged 23+. slight jealousy, betrothals & poorly made up politics (actually made up so much lore sorry i do that when im nervous), brief mention of parental death, fluff, friends to lovers, smut (fingering, slight breeding kink), brief finger sucking what, light dirty talking. masterlist requests are open.

FOR AS LONG AS YOU’VE KNOWN, THE EVE OF WINTER HAS BEEN SAID TO COME IN A SHARP WHISTLE DOWN THE MOUTH OF THE PEAKS TO THE NORTH. 

Sharp, precipitous - the wind that breaks bones and scatters breath; it howls through the northern curls of the Wolfswood, piercing its glacial breath through trembling needles of pine, hissing up and over the stone of the North Gate. Tales of chipped slabs of sharp, which fly from the Old Tower in a gale of old; stealing the breath from lungs old and new, whipping away parchment, stealing flight and life from those southern ravens white of feather as far as the Bloody Gate. 

As a babe, your mother would sing of the sharp teeth of the Threnody; nursemaids and maester alike whispering of its wail against chamber doors even in the deepest of the castle. Your father, a less cagey spirit - still, he’d not stop the furrow of brow at the blow of hard iced snowdust that gathered within the stables on the outskirts of baileys. 

And perhaps it is not yet time for the howling of the wind when the wolves still linger in the woods; when life may still yet subsist away from the spitting crackle of hearth within castle walls - but you do not feign ignorance. 

Winter is coming. 

It comes in wind; and, just as the Threnody of old, it is subtle and piercing, perniciously beautiful. 

Lord Stark of Winterfell sits at the end of the hall, in a fur cloak that nearly swallows over the bulk of his wide frame; the lick of flames over his skin dance with the murmured din of the crowd as you watch, a cat-eyed weariness from your corner spot. It is not often this loud, though the Great hall has been much more full as of late - with the Southern company from the Reach, Winterfell has bursted at the seams just in the eve of Wintertide. A less than optimal time to host guests; but your Lord is a steadfast one, and knows an opportunity for trade when he sees one. 

Your father speaks to him - you watch the men with vague interest until the elder catches your eye across the assembly; a gesture of his hand, beckoning you to their side. And the Lord Stark, face young, weathered - handsome as he is dour in the torchlight, nodding with a surprisingly warm gaze when your eyes meet.

You do not heed your father’s summon; you remain rooted instead, struck with a sudden fatigue as some odd taste of jealousy from the nest of your bosom peeks into your mind, whispering of the woman who sits only three tables away from you. 

The Southern Rose. Her father, a man visiting to treat in way of increased wheat and salt trade with Winterfell; preservation starts soon, the harvest has found its end - leaves curl tight as a grip frozen in fist now, even near the Neck. She accompanied her father - words whispered from advisors of a potential betrothal - and as she is a girl just two years your junior, your father had instructed you to accompany her through her visit to Winterfell. 

Truthfully, you’ve found her quite wonderful - a sweet girl, though fairly plain-minded: innocent smiles, soft polite nods. You spent the fortnight riding through the Wolfswood, needlepointing - tasks rather simple, though torturous only when you caught glimpses of Lord Cregan and his men in the yard, in the halls, or treating. A yearning festered in your breast during these past days - a desire to attend matters of the mind instead of, perhaps, such soft matters. 

Though no fault of her own. A kind girl, you do swear by the gods - though each simpering look to the man who walks with Ice at his back twists a dagger deeper into your gut; A fine wife for a wanting Warden, the lords had advised - and you, with an ear pressed to the closed oaken door of Cregan’s hall like some bright-eyed maiden. An alliance with a house South would allow for a stake in the Southern lord’s trade route to Dorne; A smart match, perhaps, if Cregan searches for reach outside his North. 

You’re not particularly convinced he does. 

Though the hearths are large and heavy tonight, you yearn for that curling reach, that whisper of agony that cradles limbs into chests - and with a spare step towards the crack in the hall’s entrydoors, cool air pierces the tissue within your chest. 

Outside is the swirling ink of the owl’s hour. 

If you could see through the song of night, up and over the walls of stone which keep the first whispers of Threnody at bay - you might find the ridged roofs of Winter Town; and even beyond, those breathing hills that bring the Kingsroad up and back down. And cold, that creeping wolf, that slither of ragging which drags clouds to the ground and whispers promises of winter. 

You press your lips together; Who would wish to look beyond such persevering beauty? 

Cregan’s voice is low across the hall, though you can hear it through the din of the feast as he converses with his men; a swirl of affection, that comfortable specter in the corner of your thoughts. A glance back through the oak door to that sirened wail of glacial, ancient breath; the southern rose… and you, a pine in wildflowers. 

The yard below the great hall swirls with untouched crystals; miniscule, they glimmer in the open air and twirl in a mesmerizing dance - the ale in your palms is much too warmed by the blood that pumps through you.

A young man beside you gestures rather agitatedly; and you, bristled with the realization that you allow the creeping draft to leak into the hall, step forward once, allowing the doors to once again shut. The hall is warm and your mind is fuzzy; you step away, hugging the outskirts of the wall and avoiding the heat of your cheeks. 

Lord Stark rises in your peripheral when you begin the short promenade returning to your seat.

It is inevitable at any feast, his company - Cregan, a man only three namedays your senior and, even before becoming your Lord, a very close companion. Youths tied up in the training of noble roles, you and Cregan got on rather well - your father advised Lord Rickon, as a vassal house of the Starks; now, he serves Rickon’s son just the same. 

Your brief respite near the exit of the hall is short-lived when his boots pave their way towards you, bisecting your path though you pretend to pay the man no mind, a grin growing on your lips - there is only a breath of his own amusement in the short cat-and-mouse game you begin on the way to the trestle table; the stones of Winterfell have always been blissfully cold against your palms, and Cregan’s presence has always naturally attended you. 

Trots of hooves through the Wolfswood, trailing steps hurried through halls to keep up with long strides – a brief nod in passing when Maester Kennet would end the young Stark’s studies early. You’d learned to shoot a bow with him and his late brother in that very yard below; shared huffs of amusement when your arrow sailed wide. 

And even now, well over your youth; it remains how it has always been, with your roots so very sunk into the hard earth of the North; the Kings of Stark over your family’s barony of land just half-day’s west of Winterfell. And when Lord Rickon drew his final breath - and some years later, too, when Bennard’s slow relinquishment darkened the skies - you never dared worry of how life might change. 

You call him Lord Stark now - though in the quiet moments, he oft prefers Cregan; still the boy who convinced your father and his own to let you attend seasonal hunt, who sat with you in the rookery for hours of silence when your mother left the mortal realm; who did not protest when you insisted you did not wish to discuss it; who wiped tears from your weary skin so they’d not freeze; who waited patiently as you watched wind blow needles from the pines and ravens drop from clouded sky. 

And you, still with some melancholy whisper from the air that blows crystals over the hills towards Last Hearth; a Threnody of your own, your chilled craving despite the warmth of your soul. Cregan calls you my lady now - though he was keen to do so just as oft in youth, despite the blushing of your cheeks and quick glances to the snow-licked ground. 

He approaches you this evening with a storm of a stare and a hint of a smirk that, to any other, would look merely as his usual stoic countenance; though there is a bright in his eyes, a twitch upon his lip as he takes in the shifting of your boots upon the stone. 

You busy yourself traveling to your seat without tripping upon your feet - but still he meets you, eyes hooked upon the curve of your jaw and sliding over the apple of your cheek when you arrive to your spot, concealing your smile with a nod. 

A cacophony of laughter from the wolf’s council - you feel much more at home when the attention is off you and your Lord, hidden in the backlit corner. 

The hall is warm; warm, when all you can see are dark locks, drawn brows, pink lips, stubbled jaw. Your heart clenches when his arm brushes your own, if only for a moment.

 “Lord Stark.” Your voice swims; a wavering, perhaps from the mead that lingers on the back of your tongue, or at the stare that hooks itself upon your own. His eyes take you in - slowly, as if appreciative - an active repression of any fluttering at such a gaze, knowing him much too well to allow yourself a stirred feeling. 

“My lady,” He greets back; he’s obscured you with his height from the brunt of the hearth’s breath - a small relief, as your chest grows hot under the slow roll of his tone and your eyes fall from the mountain of his comportment. His gaze finds the doors at the hall entrance before returning to you, alight with something less than mirthful but not completely chastising. 

“Is the feast not satisfactory?” A drop of tease in a river of adherence; you hear it though, you feel it - and with the flow comes a tide of affection in your stomach. A small smile that smoothes your hot cheeks, “It is wonderful,” You mend, biting your lip, “I am rather keen to find momentary respite outside, though.” 

He seems sated enough with your words, nodding just once. “You’ve always been one for the cold.” He absently observes as his eyes flick to the table briefly, “I suppose you’ve been kept inside the walls too much as of late, aye?” 

A reminder of your recent charge - of the girl, eyes shining as clear as day, gazing upon the mountainous frame of Lord Stark from across the hall.

She much prefers the hearth to the raw air; and you’ve done nothing but acquiesce, placating the whims of the girl who might one day be your Lady Stark - an unpleasant thought, though one that could very well be a reality. Your throat tightens in a bough of unwarranted jealousy at the thought and, with a tight swallow, you nod to your Lord, gaze leaving his own. 

 Your fingers trace the silver prongs upon the table, left after you’d finished your meal half-eaten in search of the whispering sirens of flurry in the courtyard; you do not find it within yourself to speak, and perhaps that is why Cregan worries so for your disposition. 

“You’re distant tonight,” he decides, eyes lingering for a moment longer on the flush of your cheeks - perhaps from the drink, perhaps from something else entirely - and though he is just inches away now, he makes no unnecessary movements - an approach calm, unwishing to ward off a skittish creature. A wolf upon a pup. 

You, in your avoidance of his ownsolemn disposition, nearly miss the opportunity given for you to respond - and so you start with a breath and a lifted stare. 

“Perhaps it is because I was not seated with all you lords at the grand banquet table,” you quip; a rather surprising use of attitude in front of such company. An inkling of rather instant regret - you ought to watch your tongue around the members of the Household. 

Mercifully, Cregan only provides you with a stern glance and a lifted brow, that trickle of amusement only a breathed whisper across the cool gaze of piercing eyes. 

He certainly is aware of your quiet yearning - perhaps in a degree more at least than your yearning for himself, which has never been spoken but has often been rather obvious  - but instead to follow your father’s footsteps; an advisor to the Warden, a trusted voice, in the eve of wintertide. 

You have, for all the exhausted topics Cregan and yourself have touched upon in your many years of companionship, not outwardly admitted such hypnagogic desires; implied, perhaps. But a dreamy wish, a foolish one for a noble girl like yourself. 

His eyes swim between your own, perhaps waiting for more words that do not yet come. You should apologize for your tongue, though away from any other ears, it is oft that your Lord prefers you to speak candidly, uninhibited by much courtly restraint. It is indeed the most common times you’ve been successful in pulling a chuckle or laugh from the man. 

Though this time, he makes the decision for you. “Too much ale?” 

You lift a brow in challenge of the amused tone that barely leaks through, setting the mug down upon the banquet before you. 

“Too much heat,” You excuse instead, hoping your fuzzy mind does not lead to slurred words as your jaw directs his gaze to the massive hearth that threatens to swallow him from behind - and then, with that quiet voice once again, “I apologize for my tongue, my Lord.” 

A frown that looks heavenly on such a countenance- and a brief flush upon the strong ridge of nose; he shifts, vague but endearing from one large trunk of leg, corded with thick muscle, to another. 

“You need never apologize for a gift. So long as you know well enough when to use it.” He murmurs - and after a stilled moment, you nod with tight lips, heart thumping quietly; unintentional as it may be, such words from him sends your desire for him into a gallop. 

In an effort to conceal your affections, you laugh quietly against the heat of your cheeks. “You will come to regret such words, surely.” Your jest falls upon his ears and he hums low, finishing the ale in the mug held by large hands, eyes burning into yours even as he finishes the last gulp. “I doubt that, my lady.” 

There is a draft that catches the edge of your skirts; it carries, beckoning you - the doors have opened, and Lord Cerwin steps outside with a swift nod to Lord Stark and yourself. Some break of the seal which held together your remaining composure; you let out a breath, eyes flickering back to the storm of interest that watches down upon your visage. “I regret I could not attend to you these past weeks.” He murmurs again- rather talkative this eve, it seems. You eye the goblet dwarfed in his large palms; perhaps the ale has done him in as it has you. 

A flip of your stomach, heartbeat picking up at his words - attend you? He must see your expression; for he shifts as flames lick up the leather upon his back. “It has been nearly a moon since I placed a blade in your hand.” He mends, face solemn; a breath from your lips as you exhale shortly. Ah. 

Many days - wind whipping at your cheeks, piercing through your heavy cloaks; Cregan’s few minutes found in spare days to show you parries and ripostes, castigating gently when you try a cheap sweep at his legs and barking in amusement when you fall upon your backside. 

A small burst of cracking embers rise from the hearth just over his stalwart shoulder - you smile at the man before you, watching his own lips twitch at your small huff of amusement.

 “There were more important matters,” Your voice light. “-Negotiations, alliances,” You clear your throat, “matters of the realm.”

His eyes, hawkish as he shifts once more; the shadow of his figure swallowing your own frame as your hand falls onto the table to stabilize yourself against his stare. “Aye,” He nods, gaze briefly flicking to the row of men at the front of the hall; your father finishes his ale, in discussion with Lady Gilliane and the Southern lord. “Tomorrow eve they set for the Kingsroad. And they will have my trade agreements.” His words come as some promise. You’d well noticed the thirty men and women preparing to leave Winterfell; they are guests at this feast indeed. You resist a snarking comment in rebuttal, instead heeding his politeness - and nod slowly.

Another guest leaves the feast and you follow the swish of her skirts and furs with your stare. Just out those ajar doors, tendrils of flakes fall from the skies. You long to feel them kiss the crown of your head, feel them settle upon the downy cloak that sits crooked upon your shoulders; a small draft that kicks again, and the chill begins to settle your flaming cheeks. 

The Southern Rose sips upon a goblet of sweetwine across the way with her few ladies-in-waiting; she smiles brightly at you across the hall and you smile back, aware of the brooded stare upon your visage from beside you. “Only trade?” You finally wonder, unable to look at Cregan, finger tracing the wear of the wood below your palm. 

After a small breath - Lord Stark must direct his glance towards the previous subject of your attention before turning back to you, a frown carved by the gods into the solemnity of his gaze. 

Your heart jumps when he shifts, his arm brushing yours - fingers, large and calloused, adjusts the clasp upon your cloak, knuckles kissing the line of your jaw before dropping away. 

Your cheeks are impossibly hot, though his are just as well. “Only trade,” he echoes, though there’s something within his tone - some secret assurance, one which sets your stomach in warmth. It is a simple silence which follows; his cloaked arm is warm against the fabric of your gown, though you do not mind it. 

“I would not keep you any longer from your respite.” He finally decides, gesturing to the open oak doors, to the pull of chill; A dulcet resonance - you stare at the crawl of flames around his ribcage, flicking over the bulk of muscled mass swathed in furs. You nearly request he join you, though it is swallowed by the polite nod he sends to the girl who sits across the hall, watching with curious eyes. 

“You have a good evening, my Lord.” You bid him, heart fluttering at the pearly soot of his gaze, at the warmth that leaves you as you take a step aside to gather yourself. 

His eyes do indeed follow your movements, tracing the familiar bend of your spine from your peripheral. 

“You as well, my lady.” 

THE NIGHT BRINGS HOWLS OF WINTERTIDE.

And the morning reaps a chill that does not subsist from the core of your bones - even when you pace through the outer hall of the Great Keep, fingers tapping anxiously against the fabric of your skirts, cheeks sharpened by a flurry across the yard. 

There is a great excitement that has stirred in your chest; some disbelief, tethered to the echo of men’s swords in the yard and of hushed whispers between bearded mouths in the halls - though as you recall Maester Kennet’s words written and delivered to your bedchambers late last evening after the feast, you cannot help but bite a smile back between your lips. 

Schooling such girlish giddiness in the brunt of impending adversity, still your heart swells; a glance up the spiraled stones of the Keep’s exterior, you eye the grimed window of your Lord’s study with a huff of disbelief. 

Maester Kennet informs you Lord Stark has accepted your request for private audience - just thirty minutes past your initial supplication - and so you begin to creep your way up the inner spirals of the structure, tracing the old stone with some newborn interest. 

Your hands do not waver when they knock, though you’d hesitated just a breath when you’d made it to his study; Enter, you hear him call - ever practical in his deep tone; a flutter of affection blossoms, spring in the forest of your heart. You once again wipe your perspired palms along the length of your silvered cloak before heeding his beckon.  

The long croak of the oaken door behind you drags against dilapidated stone; with a scratch, the hinge shuts and you slide into the warm chamber, blinded momentarily by wintering light. 

Your lord looks up from his own desk and you trace your gaze along the outskirts of the study; a rather humble room, if the beauty of Winterfell’s castle could ever have such a thing - leatherbound histories, candles that once wept tallow, waxy tears now hardened into dots of bone upon his desk. 

Lord Cregan indulges in his own sweeping glance over your figure wrapped in only lighter furs, your hands clasped and twisting before your dark dress. 

“My lady,” he greets - a girlish tickle within your stomach spurs at the use of title, as though you’ve not bore it your whole life. 

“My Lord, good morrow.” You greet, resisting a short rock upon your toes. 

Cregan leans back in his chair, thighs spread as he wastes no words. “You awaited my acceptance from Maester Kennet,” He observes. At your nod, he continues, “You’ve no need to request an audience when you wish to speak with me. I’ve told you just as much before, have I not?”

Your smile, though faint, is genuine; you relieve yourself of the distance between you and Cregan, finding your seat with gentle grace just across him. You fix him with a glance, “And just as I’ve told you,” you echo, “-as long as you remain my lord, I shall remain mindful of your duties,” Your brow raises just so. “-Whether you wish it or not.” Your voice is rather coy, unable to contain the giddiness in your heart that arises, despite your maintained perplexion - the root of your visit to the Lord in the middle of the morning. 

For half a moment, a flash of amusement upon Cregan’s lips at your familiar stubbornness; but then, he leans forward - large palms curling over the chair’s arms; you eye the worn wood enviously. “Of what do you wish to speak, then?” 

You take a breath; a sweltering heat has begun to stir at the base of your neck - perhaps under the icy stare of the man before you, or the quick gallop of your heart within your chest; outside, the same whistling howl of winds that laces itself through the song of the hounds in the kennels below. 

“I’m…” You shift after beginning, eyes flicking to the quill and ink well that lie abandoned beside him, letter halfway handscribed. A surprising bout of shyness you’ve been struck with under his attention, under the memory of the letter delivered to you last eve. 

Your frown is one of far-off considerations, recalling the information that’d been served with your evening tea while you prepared for slumber last night, a syrupy sleepiness to your hands from the remnants of the feast’s mead; News, given by way of Maester Kennet’s handscript, informing you of your new station. 

A twist of anticipation and determination; you level Lord Stark with eyes icier than his own. 

“I suppose I’m rather surprised that you’ve appointed me to your council, my Lord.” 

The truth is blunt - it feels relieving to rip it off your skin; and so you press on, watching the stern visage before you, wondering if you’ve ever noticed him looking at you without such tender absorption as you see now. 

Your voice continues, strong. “-It’s uncommon for a woman to serve on the Warden’s council, unless she is the Lady of the House.” You fight to ignore the thunder of your heart at such a sentiment - you, Lady of the House - and add with a voice just as strong, “-and we both know I am no such thing.”

A call of raven outside; and a laugh bubbling off somewhere in the courtyard below, melting into a long howl of a hound in the kennels. Cregan watches you carefully, holding your gaze; moments pass under his stare, but you do not squirm - no, as always, you stare back.

 “Would you not accept?” He wonders finally, tone rather unbiased - and for a brief moment, you believe his question is directed towards your latter sentence; a drop in your stomach, though you recover in a breath, swallowing thick. 

You rush to deny it in your accidental hesitance. “-No, my Lord, I'm honored. It’s just rather…unexpected.”

The quiet looms, a cloud rolling over the morning sun; eclipsed in the backlit shadow of daylight by his frame, you begin to pick at the thread of your dress. A fine gown, hand-needled by your own hands just a fortnight ago. 

And then, with a breath; his lips twitch ever so slightly - merely a brief uptick, but you know him. His stare, stark as the wintered sky as he nods curtly - you fight your own grin at the shift. 

“You’ve a good mind for these matters,” his voice is even, face serious. “Some at my table will do well to learn from you.”

You let out a soft laugh, not particularly out of amusement but rather out of surprise at his words, heart stumbling. “I wasn’t aware you thought so highly of me.” You admit, though you both know this to be untrue. 

His gaze doesn’t waver, and neither does his opinion. “I’ve always thought highly of you.”

The words lodge themselves true into your chest. 

And yes, you’ve never been one to underestimate your own intellectual prowess, nor to shy away from an opportunity; though your mind still reels in befuddlement, and you press to hear more, to understand. “You have wiser men - those who served your father well before you.” You observe, tilting your head; a wintery sunbeam ices through the looser strands of your hair, and Cregan's grayed pools trace their colour in the sun. 

“Aye,” He nods as his gaze returns to your own, “Your father is one of them.” 

He is firm; an intimidation in his broad frame, the haloed bright of snowed refractions around his head. “Though it is not about who is wiser, nor who has served longer. It’s about knowing when to speak, and when to hold your peace. When to challenge me.” And Gods be good, his lips curve slightly; a whisper of a smile, some sweep of chilled wind over the face of a mountain.

Your heart stirs at his words, a rush of emotions that burst below your composed exterior. Memories of mulish disagreements, of sliding glares at his youthful visage and stubborn stomps of your foot. Your voice remains firm, though rather surprised. “Challenge you?” You echo with a small smirk. 

“Aye,” he responds without hesitation. “Many lords surround themselves with voices that tend to echo their own thoughts. But you,” His gaze never leaves yours; pinned you remain, eyes unblinking against his, “-you will tell me what I must hear, even when it is hard. Will you not?”

Heat that blossoms over your cheeks as you nod at him - your throat is incredibly dry, “Yes, my lord.” 

He hums, eyes in a brief flash over your sat figure before returning to you. “Good.”

And in the burgeoning moment, a pounding of your heart; you shift in your seat, flattered as a beam of wintered light graces the colour of your stare.

Your fingers still their nervous picking at your gown as you take a slow breath. “And if I do not always agree with you? If I say no, when you would rather hear yes?” 

Cregan leans in just slightly. “I trust no other as I trust you. You'd not dare speak something you do not believe, simply because it pleased me.” 

An absence of concern in your heart at his words, instead filling you with a fierce warmth that curls around the sweet ice coursing through your veins. “You have my word, Cregan. I will advise you as best I can when needed.”

His expression does not waver; though there is a flicker within his gaze. “I never doubted it.”

And then, a gust of breath from the heavens; a rattling gentle against thick pane of glass, though a chill still finds its tendrils in your bones when hard flakes of snow whirl against the exterior. 

“The Southern company leaves this eve,” You observe, eyes glancing out the window, “It will do them well to set off before supper. Lest they become caught in the storm of Wintertide.” And then in your mind, an echo of lovely, sweet laughter; and a curl of unwanted envy at the woman behind the voice, a haunting within your own mind. You are plagued, it seems - thoughts of her kneeling before the weirwood, of his cloak round her shoulders. 

“Aye,” Cregan's voice pulls you back, “We'll not hold meeting until they have left. House Cerwin’s host returns this eve, and I must attend to them.” 

He rises, then - and you, with him, fingers clenched as you register his words informing you not with any air of casual discussion, but rather as a Lord does his vassal. You tamp a grin, nodding instead, following the warm guide of his hand hovered above your back towards the door. 

“I will see you at my table on the morrow, my lady.” He promises when you turn back to him; with a rush of affection, you let yourself smile.

WIND WHISTLES BETWEEN NEEDLES OF PINE AND LEAVES OF OAK IN THE GODSWOOD. 

A rather divine earth upon which you kneel, mind clear with the prayers you whisper to the heart before you. 

It is growing cold, steadily these days - and though you have known the North your entire life, you rather forget how biting it can be when the afternoon snowfall comes. 

You’ve seemed to have forgotten today, as well - your spine shivers just so, the cloak around your shoulders much too light for the tempest that has grown in the skies; flakes that kiss your braids and lick down your cheeks as you finish your intercession, eyes opening to meet the bleeding stare of the heart tree. 

You choose to remain despite the frost that curls around your knees - and after a few moments of quiet, there are footsteps in the snow. 

You know quite well the heavy drags of boots over the whitened crust of earth - a silence that echoes through the woods that you know can only be your Wolf. 

He arrives, perhaps only moments before you register his presence; you had not known he had returned. With a thrill, you wonder if he came straight to you once crossing the gates back into Winterfell. 

“My lord.” you greet, nodding as you feel his warmth behind you - and you can almost imagine the shake of his head at your knelt form. 

“A northerner should know better than to come out in the cold without a proper cloak.” 

A faint smile tugs at your lips, though you don’t yet turn from the tree before you. “The snow came after my prayers. I wasn’t unprepared.” You defend with a twitch of a smile - and then, just to your side, a leather glove extended for your grasp. 

He pulls you to your feet with ease - and there you find Cregan, the low pool behind him echoing the breath of cloudy sky. His eyes are warm and knowing when you trace his irises with your own gaze. 

Flakes continue, shed from the heavens; A white crown of winter falling upon his hair as he takes you in. 

“I came to speak with you.” He says after the moment of quiet you allow; he drapes his thick outercloak upon your shoulders though you glance at him rather sheepishly at the gesture, second in nature in your long years of companionship. 

It is remiss that your first few days appointed in the new station has seen a lack of advisory; alas, Cregan has finally returned after two days with Lord Cerwin and his host, and you will adjoin this evening for strategy.

“I thought as much,” your voice is soft; perhaps residual from your prayers whispered into the listening quiet of the Godswood. “Of what do you wish to speak, my lord?” There is indeed much to discuss now that the company has left Winterfell - winter comes soon enough, and the Wall indeed calls for your Lord’s visit. 

His voice is only rougher as though the words take a coaxing to admit, “Before you were appointed, the lords at my table…” he begins, and your brow lifts as he stares ahead to the tree. “they spoke of a match.”

Your heart stills; you turn to face him fully, swallowing the dip in your stomach. “A match?” you repeat. 

“Aye,” he confirms, “the Southern Lords proposed I take one of their daughters to wed,” He is rather impartial in tone. “Though my men… they advise I take a bride from the North.” 

Perhaps it would be more of a surprise to you, had you not spent the better part of your freetime pressing ears to the council doors; indeed you are familiar with the pressure upon Cregan to take a wife. 

“And…” you begin carefully, “Will you wed the Southern Rose?” 

His jaw clenches; a flutter of flakes against skin though his gaze still holds you with an intensity to make your blood hum; “I denied betrothal to her,” he murmurs, breath puffing in a soft cloud of mist against thicker snowfall; he grows more quiet, then, and it stirs in your chest. “Though as for the proposal set before me by the men of my hall…” He pauses just briefly, and you blink snowflakes from your lashes. “It was not something I rejected.”

A sacred stillness; a raw breath from you as the implication of his words hit you - here, in the Godswood, before the heart tree.

The cloak he’s brought, wrapped around your shoulders, warming your chilled flesh; a kiss of sage and leather as you watch his visage - patient, waiting. Devoted.

A breath puffs from your lips in exhale. 

“You speak of me,” you whisper; his eyes remain on yours, anchored to the press of your teeth into your bottom lip. 

“Aye.” His response is firm, evergreen, rooted. “I speak of you.”

The trees of the Godswood whisper in that quiet way they can; breaths of creeping air that lived long before your ancestors were here. They watch you, how your fingers curl tighter into Cregan’s cloak - how your veins pump with the same blood that runs through his own. You had known this was a possibility - hints from your father’s mulling eyes as you and the Lord had returned from sparring lessons, cheeks winded and amusement laced into small glances and brushes of arms. 

There is a long yearning affection that burns in your heart when you glance back up at his looming height, a small smile teasing your lips. Perhaps, as your fingers brush over heavy fur, you seek to cut through the thick silence which has found you tense with anticipation.

“Well,” you begin lightly, hoping to mask the tremor in your voice, “I suppose you would not be the worst choice for a husband, Lord Stark.”

Cregan’s brow lifts slightly at your words - and a flick of amusement swallowed by a softening; he does not brush off your words with the same playful jest you offer. A step towards you, a hand seeking your own, leather against worn leather. A hollow gust of wind across the gulley of pine to the side of you, and a red bloodleaf falls to your boots. 

“I hope,” he says slowly, eyes anchored on his thumb across your knuckles. “to be the best I can be.” he continues, his voice unwavering as snow dusts his hair, his cloak.

You can only nod through a thick swallow, heart thundering. “You could never be anything less.” You ensure him. His lips part, pink against the light of afternoon; warmth spreads through your chest as his tongue wettens them just so under your watchful gaze. 

“You’ve spent your life here,” he murmurs, “The North is in your blood as it is mine - Winterfell has always been yours.”

Cold, which nips at your skin and aches your bones - it is so distant now. Now, when his breath plumes between you gently. Now, as your hand squeezes his own, even faintly; Now, in a smile that you must bite back as your mind floats, his words rooting into your heart. 

You grin, and it’s softer now. “You make it sound as though it’s already decided.”

Cregan’s broad form towers over you as he leans - though an effective protection from the wintered wind, you feel a shiver down your spine. “I would not presume to decide such things without your consent,” he ensures, “But the thought of another standing beside me… it has never felt right.”

And perhaps, then, he’s always known of your yearning - for how could you not know so familiar the face which looks you back in the mirror, whose heart bleeds your own blood; to know is to love, perhaps. You smile, your other hand falling onto his chest - beneath thick furs, beneath leather and tunic, a heart beats strong. 

A palm, large and calloused as it graces over your cheek; you press involuntarily into his burgeoning warmth, a small smile upon your lips. “It is a good thing I suppose, that I could not imagine leaving Winterfell.” You admit - and then, fixing him with that same intent stare he brings to you: “I will marry you, Cregan.” 

His breath, stuttering only momentarily as his eyes search your own - and then, a clear of his throat. “Then it will be settled,” his thumb lingers against your cheek, his touch warm against the cold that swirls - and it is more than what you'd wished for your whole life; after all, the Threnody would chase you right back to Cregan if you'd gone anywhere else.

“I will be yours, my lady.”  

THE HOWL OF THE THRENODY IS A NEAR SONG ON THE DAY OF YOUR WEDDING.

The tub has been placed rather precariously aside the larger of windows awarded to your chambers; you sit in the smoldering heat of the bath, tendrils of oiled steam snaking up and curling into fog at the corners of your vision. 

Outside, scarce birds chirp - a morning early enough, although in this sharp of wintercoming the creatures prefer to retreat to their nests as you stir in your own, sighing away a small dreamy breath. 

It has been five and a half moons since your betrothal; your eyes flicker with a bout of excitement over to the wardrobe across the way, wherein hangs your gown and maidencloak awaiting your presence later this afternoon. 

A smile unbounded, you press palms to your cheeks, attempting to cool them under the thought of what will come tonight. The handmaids have been asked away; a peculiar request from you, but you wish to enjoy a moment of serenity before you begin the day’s preparations - of which there are many - and you worry they will scarce find a moment to eat and enjoy themselves before they are tasked with your hair and your body. 

It snows only in the way trees shake dust from their bones - a heavier pile of white which burdens lower limbs, and you watch the ground of powder stir when it is imbued by the weight. 

Winter is near; words for so long, though now, it is true. And a fine day it is, the Gods have blessed you and Cregan - but indeed, the last of the alpine flowers have curled around a layer of frost, the lakes and ponds have crusted into flat planes thick of ice. Threnody, its whistling song in the dead of night, beckons - winter comes, and the North is prepared. 

A hand falls submerged in the bathwater and you lift it once more with a stinged gasp; the skin over your middle knuckle is cracked and near raw. Maester Kennet administered a salve to it daily since your return with Cregan, Lord Cerwin, and your father - a weekslong trip to oversee the fortification of supply lines in the coming of winter’s harsh brunt. 

Split skin, cracked by the iced wind; and a warm palm to hold you, lips brushed over the top of your temples in a murmur. Your cheeks burn hotter than the bathwater enveloping you; Cregan.

And true that when you lie in your lone bed each evening, plagued with an aching and catch-of-breaths that find you after the memories of chapped lips brushing your own, firmly tender touches that are more fleeting than they are anything else. When you are plagued with such thoughts, you truly think it had all been so much simpler before the betrothal. 

Simpler; glances across halls - stolen moments while he’d chide to you in lessons, quiet words in the library or prideful smirks during a hunt in the Wolfswood. Anticipation is a torturous excitement, perhaps - his hands, you used to wonder - how would they feel against you? 

And you know now - how they hold your cheeks, caress your shoulder, your back; you know, yet you must wait to let them truly hold you, to truly touch you how you so desire. 

A sweet torture, restraint has become. Touches, kisses - far too brief, far too constrained. Your gaze falls upon the stain of red through the Godswood outside, your stomach turning with anticipation, with hunger. 

And yet, the day advances. 

A knock at your quarters starts you just slightly, clearing your throat as your head turns to the door. A stare at the oak, wondering if the doors to your marital chambers will look so similar as these. 

The oils of mountain thyme and coltsfoot bead upon your skin when you sit upwards slightly, wondering aloud who awaits behind the door. 

“-It is me, my lady.” 

Not your handmaidens yet, it seems - Cregan’s voice jumps your heart into a gallop. 

With a flush, you press your lips together, grasping the edge of the tub to rise from the tendrils of steam - the bleeding bundle of leaves which hemorrhage the treeline in the distance abandoned. 

Perhaps only now, as you pad over thick furs upon stone to reach your robe, do you wish you’d allowed your handmaids to remain with you; if only to aid you with some slip that is less revealing than the thin satin you slip on. The stone beneath your feet is warm; you bite your lip gently. 

“Come.” You call; only a breath before the oaken creaking reaches your ears - you’ve pushed your hair back, droplets of oiled bathwater cascading down your temple, over the edge of your chin, kissing the skin of your chest exposed with the loose robe you tie. 

Perhaps you should better ensure your modesty - though by nightfall he will be yours, and you his. What difference does it make now, to let him see you?

Cregan’s frame is backlit by the corridor; a broad figure, ducked only slightly in such tall stature, shoulders brushing the stone sides of the frame - your eyes meet, though swiftly he averts his gaze, turning his head rather sharp as his chest shutters only slightly. 

“My apologies.” His voice holds some tight restraint; you have no power to stop the warmth that spreads upon you at his tone, some hint of arousal at the drop in timbre. “I did not realize…” He trails off, lingering in the doorway - a glint of amber over his dark hair and you swallow a flustered giggle before it can escape your parted lips. “I will return when you are not occupied.” He decides. 

You interrupt gently, shaking your head as your fingers press to your damp palms; an earnest hope he will not leave, now when he’s already here. “There’s no need to apologize,” you gesture to the table and chairs beside the hearth. “You may stay, Cregan. Please.”

His gaze does not return to you yet; palms, large and calloused with life and labor - you press your thighs together in a momentary weakness as your eyes trace over thick forearms that remove a thick fur cloak, dragging over veins which swim up skin kissed by afternoon light. 

A quiet grunt when he sits himself in the chair, thighs spreading as his eyes finally meet your figure once more - gray as the clouded heavens, penetrating as you cross the room to follow him; how those eyes follow the trail of damp water droplets slipping beneath your robe’s loose collar - how they find the rivulets that slide down the bare of your thighs, dripping just slightly onto the stone beneath you. A heat in your cheeks, spreading low over your neck, chest - and lower more, as you find yourself before him, waiting for his eyes to flick up to your own. 

Your chambers in Winterfell have always been much too large in your opinion, for just one woman - though they hold a most divine view of the Godswood; now, the room is impossibly small with the frame of him, silent, watching you slide into the chair across him. 

“Does something trouble you, Cregan?” You wonder finally, searching the face drawn by a stern brow, how his jaw flexes at your question. 

A half-shake of head; a beam of light once again has found his face, an ethereal sight of such a man softened by the wintered sun. He hums, “I came to…” He pauses momentarily, as though struggling to find his words; his eyes once more wavering as a bead of water slides down your damp leg. His eyes flick back to you, swallowing, “I came to ensure this marriage is not being forced upon you.” 

A startle from you; though spoken with a lilt of care, such blunt words hit you rather suddenly, and your heart pangs. He does not see how you crave him, even after these last moons? How your cheeks grow hot under his attention, how your arm laces through his when he walks you to your chambers after meetings - how your lips seek his own in every darkened corridor you might scarcely find? 

 How you return your affections for him each time he murmurs them into your ear in solitude - how you have loved him since long before there was such a word? 

 “I’ve never been more certain of anything.” Your voice does not hesitate; neither does your heart. His eyes, so dark in the yards of Winterfell, so bright by light of your solitary quarters; though he does not respond for a brief moment, and in the silence you grow concerned. 

“Cregan,” your voice is soft as you lean forward just so. “Do you want this?”

He blinks at that - daring to be surprised by the question - and for a moment, as his lips part, no sound comes out. The hesitation upon his breath strikes your heart; faint doubt lingers in your chest. 

“I’ve thought about it long before the idea was brought to me.” He admits; a deep tone, eyes fixed upon yours as he murmurs. “Before it became a matter of duty,” his gaze is as steadfast as the words which fall from his pink lips, “I wanted you.”

The breath upon your lips hitch; a warmth that sprouts within your heart begins to spread, against the wide windows behind you, against the man who sits with knees nearly touching your own. 

Tonight, you will meet him under the leaved arms of your ancestors; of those haunted, ancient spirits which call to you in the wind, who blow the Threnody through sharp ravines, who watch you with solemn edict. You will whisper words that have waited upon your tongue for years - he will drape his cloak upon you, and you will taste his faith when your lips find his own under the sight of the Old Gods. 

Dark, his hair blows gently in the quiet of his breath - and perhaps struck by the sheer beauty of the North within him, that steadfast stare cooling the heat upon your skin - you rise from your chair.

His eyes, a hawk; they watch you, head tilting back as you rise to stand before him, your palm gracing his arm; a tinge of pink that creeps over his countenance, a low snowcloud over the breath of dawn upon his cheeks. 

Under your palm are the thick muscles of his bicep; and a heat, one from his skin through the tunic, melting you just the same as his own breath catches. No hesitance from him at your boldness - instead a large, warm palm comes to cup the back of your thigh as you stand before him; and a thumb that traces over the goosepimples that grow at his touch. 

A slide upwards and over his shoulder - your breath quiet, nearing labored as a rising growth of hunger stirs in you. Your eyes catch the armoire across the way, where you know your wedding gown awaits; the material gentle, lined with fur and coloured the refraction of cloud and snow - and wolves, silver and embossed with the darker patterns of your own house sigil. 

The thought stokes your mounting desire for Cregan; your hand slides along the thick warmth of his neck, turning to cup his jaw. Rough stubble which catches on the soft of your palm when your thumb strokes his cheekbone; and eyes, those dark lashes, fluttering only slightly when he blinks up at you - silent, waiting. 

You do not make your lord wait much longer. 

“Cregan,” you whisper, eyes finding some wonderfully reflective taste of devotion laced through his own stormed gaze, and your breath falls with your confession. “I have long wanted you. I wish not to wait anymore.”

His chest moves with a breath - and in lieu of words, a calloused hand wraps around your spare hand, pulling it towards his own shoulder; guiding you. 

With hot cheeks, you allow it - his breath is warm as it hits your cheek, though you gasp when his hands move once more with a gentle motion towards his lap.

You stumble slightly against his powered tug; knees, knocking together as you’re drawn upon his lap - and a small, breathy laugh from your lips. Some flutter of anticipation within you as his own hands come to steady you, taking in your flushed cheeks as he holds you firm atop him, steadying you with a hint of a smile ghosting his visage.

 Gods - you’re close to him, now; closer than you have ever been. And his clothing, fine and smelling of sage, is warm against your robed figure - intoxicating. 

“We need not wait much longer,” He murmurs now, “We’re to marry tonight.” 

As if you’d not been aware - a smile grows on your face as you shake your head. “Yet it seems so very far away.” You sigh. His eyes do not waver; and in a passing moment, a bird calls outside.

Longing falls in puffs of breath from Cregan’s wanting lips; drank in and breathed back out by your own, you shift only slightly, feeling the stutter of his breath, how his chest brushes your own with each inhale.

You both simply stare - allowed, finally, to enjoy the arresting starkness of beauty laced through your veins and his own, that sturdy, hardy northern resolve that persists in the truest of souls. 

Outside, there are preparations; household members prepare the hall - polishing the long trestle tables, setting goblets and trays. Cooks prepare a feast in the kitchens - garlands of evergreen and coltsfoot lifted to archways, Maester Kennet gathers texts and prepares the ceremony. 

The skies are calm, low swirls of snow-caught breaths fluttering up and down when boots fall upon the ground. Outside, the sun bleeds its love unto the harder layer of snow fallen during the eve previous - and you will follow that path, that leads out to the Godswood tonight. 

“You’ll have all of me soon enough,” He promises - and the tone; a deep stirring within you. 

Your eyes fall to the man you’ve known for your better life; and still he watches you, hands firm and unyielding, gaze quite the same, melted only by the breaths that come from your lips and caress his own. Love, held in communal - that is what you feel when his hand slowly slides up the ridges of your spine, his chin tilting up to where yours begins to fall, as if called upon by the same spirits.  

And slowly, shyly - as if you do not know Cregan as you know yourself, as if you do not know how he breathes, how he speaks, how he is -  you lean forward. 

His eyes flutter closed just as your own do, his fingers flexing against your waist. 

The kiss that comes is nearly tentative; gentle as it is, it still shoots through you, a deep warmth and need when his mouth presses, a test against your own. Your fingers curl, of their own volition searching nape of neck, strands dark of hair. 

His own hands, one sliding up your spine, thick arm circling you, pulling you into his orbit - and the other, resting where your hip meets the breath of thigh; a thumb, pressing just so into the divot, curling around the top of your backside, warm against the thin of your robe. Heat surrounds you when you pull away just a bit, your breaths mixing, eyes opening to flicker between each other. 

And he pulls you back to him once more, a small hum in his throat when his lips slide to part against your own. Gods - you shiver, hands grasping the thick muscled frame of his shoulder and neck, shifting to press up into him, chasing that tingling chill of hunger. 

Perhaps it is when you shift upon his lap once more, growing hot in your burgeoning desire - or perhaps when his tongue slides against your lip and you part them, coaxing him into you; he tenses, then, pulling back as muscles fall rigid under your hungry palms. 

Your fingers trace the rapid beat of his heart beneath his skin. A teasing tug upon your lips, exhilarated at the blush that’s grown across his cheeks.  “Have I made you nervous, Cregan?” your lips brush, tantalizing against his.

Cregan’s hand tightens slightly on your waist, the other reaching up to cup the side of your face; his palm dwarfs your visage, thumb brushing along your cheek before pressing against the soft flesh under your jaw, coaxing you to look up just so. 

“No,” he says, though his voice has muffled itself as he brings his lips to the soft patch of skin against your throat, lips ghosting your own pounding heartbeat. Shivers of arousal through you; and a near growl as he hums, “though you have made me an impatient man.”

A thrill through you at his words - an admission rather echoed by your own sentiments, you nearly let out a small mewl at the aching desire gathering between your thighs. 

And as his teeth scrape over the junction of your neck, you tug him gently back to look at you- a dark gaze, clouded by the anticipation of your coming union, of the coming night that will be spent within each other’s arms, finally. A sunbeam wintered and frosted across his chest and yours; they rise and fall together in your shared breaths of desire. 

It’s hungry, eager when your lips once again find each other - noses sliding against each other, a sigh into your mouth. Cregan’s palms paw at your waist; and as you’re pulled tighter against his sturdy chest, the feel of his body hard beneath you sends a shiver of anticipation. 

His hair is silken under your fingers; tugging gently as you deepen your embrace, Cregan lets out a short groan into your mouth. The sound vibrates through you - an ache of arousal that bleeds through each layer of skin, clothing, tissue that separates your soul from his own. His own grip grows rather impatient when your hips seek more of such a feeling; a raw, urgent indulgence, your mind reminds you there is still a wedding to be had - that you will need to prepare for it very soon. 

The press of lips, a hot, open-mouthed trail down your jaw, your neck - and you gasp softly, your body arching into his palms. “Cregan,” your voice is a near whimper, some unspoken plea as you shift upon his lap once more. 

A grunt, his lips pulling back from your flushed flesh - and a puff of air and a tightened grip to hold you against him as he murmurs. 

“You test me, woman.”

It is a valiant effort on your part to resist a grin at the desperation laced through his breathy grunt - though you simply hum, smiling sharply. A thrill of need - breaths fall fast from your lips, spurred by the arousal that grows within his own dark stare. “Do I?” You wonder - and a stern look no more than teasing upon his visage, lips glossy with your previous kiss. 

“Every day of my life.” He grunts, then - a low tremor of restraint that begins to break with a tempered softness he holds only for you. “You know what you do.” He murmurs upon your lips, large palms reaching the expanse of your back, tugging you into him. 

With a flutter, you admit, “I do.” And how very close you are to giving in; to wait until this eve seems torture when you could simply ask him to take you right here, right now. A glance of heat between you and your soon to be husband - his breath falling upon your lips. “And do you know what you do, Cregan?” You wonder, a static of hunger spurring your hand to catch his wrist in your own grasp. 

Eyes watch with hawkish interest when you guide his hand lower, lower - he drags his rough palm over the downy satin of your robe, swallowing thickly as you press his hand the the warm, damp skin of your upper thigh. His breath is hitched - perhaps given up on a response, or rendered unable to from the heat of your flesh upon his own. 

A whisper of a curse, perhaps upon his lips - his eyes break from yours, the mountainous frame of his shoulders under your palm. It seems he has finished speaking with you - a tension has snapped, the final thread pulled; and though he teases you with a light kiss now, his fingers - they are not so patient. 

A trail - one previously led by you as you’d tugged his palm to your thigh - is slow, achingly so as his fingers slip under the hem of your robe. Your breath hitches, now - and he, with a rumbled voice: “Tell me. Tell me what feels good.” 

Shivers of arousal send your spine curling to seek his warmth; your hips buck just so, feeling the length of his own hunger press deliciously into you. “Cregan,” You can only murmur, and his head tilts just so. A tease - a gentle one at that, but still what you’d not expected; indeed it sends jolts of desire through your body when he hums, fingers digging just lightly into your thigh. 

“Use your words, my lady,” His voice orders you, though there is some desperation in his wanting tone, “I’ll not move until you tell me what it is you desire.” 

You've waited much too long for him to stop now, to duck and retreat merely from some pious embarrassment; and in your bout of shivered hunger, you groan. “Touch me, Cregan.” And, perhaps as a last-ditch hope he will indeed understand the extent of your desire, “I’ll do anything.” 

A guttural sound escapes from Cregan's throat - the growl of a wolf, the howl of wind through a valley; and his lips brush over your jaw teasingly soft, as if savoring the power he’s found over you despite the strain of his own hunger. He says nothing, heeding rather quickly to your request. 

Sharp gasps from you in succession when his thumb slowly presses over the pooled heat - a stolen breath or two before you let out a quiet moan, hips instinctively bucking into Cregan’s touch. 

“Easy,” And his voice is no more than a whisper, some tender coaxing as his other hand steadies your hips, drawing you into the slow-burning torturous circles he draws with his finger. It is indeed a sensation you’ve tried to explore yourself on many restless nights in these very chambers - but his fingers sturdier, calloused, gentle - and his presence, warm and loving against the bright of day. 

It is wholly too much and not enough at once, and when he shushes you gently against your lips, a shiver thrills down your spine. 

Your hands grasp at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto as the pleasure slowly burns through you - his fingers explore you, your molten heat; and his lips press warm and insistent upon yours. A slip into the depths of him; some choice warranted only by breath of desire, by the knowledge that come this evening he will be your husband and you his wife. 

His forehead falls against your own, breath uneven as you slowly buck your hips, letting his other hand guide you in a motion that sends pleasure curling around the tips of your fingers. “Wife.” 

The word spurs you; with a jolt you whimper into him, voice breaking desperately as you keen into his large palm. Your lips find the thick column of his neck - a warm smell, saged and spiced; your teeth grazing along the beat of heart upon his throat, a grumble low in his chest. 

“Husband,” You respond, though the word is strangled as one finger, dragging through your molten heat, prods at the entrance of you; with a gasp, you whimper, “please, please.” 

He hums, shifting only slightly beneath you; a whimper from you as the heel of his hand presses deliciously onto your swollen bud, tensing your thighs as you swallow dryly. 

“My sweet wife,” He repeats, brows drawn as his eyes rove over the exposed flesh revealed from your loose robe, “Tell me, how does this feel?” 

Your eyes pitch back, hair tangling in his grip around your back as you shiver, his hand pressing into your cunt - “Good,” You respond pathetically, unable to formulate any semblance of reflection when you begin to see spots of pleasure in your vision; your fingers sliding to grasp at his neck, at his hair. “I’d- I’d like more,” Your face burns at the meekness of your own tone; only in the girlish fantasies, in dreams of Cregan climbing to share your bed under a heap of furs, have you allowed yourself to consider such things falling from his mouth. 

A kiss to your throat, the nip of teeth gentle against your jaw. Perhaps, if you were any less enraptured with the thrill of his touch, you’d feel the small smirk that presses against your throat.

His breath is warm, though you nearly jolt as one finger presses slowly, languidly into you; you keen as he groans, feeling your tight warmth envelop him. 

A very slow torment as he begins to move his fingers against you - you’ve grown rather speechless in pleasure.  Eyes lidded, cheeks hot, lips parted as you watch him; and he nods smally, murmuring, “-Is this what you needed?” 

A kiss to your lips, silencing any broken response that attempts to fall from your hungry mouth, fingers curling to fist his tunic as slowly, another finger joins his first. 

His other hand, a strong grasp - he guides your hips in a slow roll that leaves you both breathless and gasping, your slow peak building after only a few moments. 

Once again, his forehead falls against yours; the uneven stutter of his breath falls against your skin as he watches you intently, eyes gauging every sound you make, each furrow of your brow in pleasure as he takes you apart. “You mustn't-” You swallow, unused to your voice laced with such desperate pleasure, “-you mustn't dare stop,” 

He dares to chuckle against your throat - a brief vibration as fingers press deeper into you, reaching the spot within that has your eyes rolling to the ceiling; you’re suddenly staring at him wide-eyed as his thumb finds your clit, and with a near whimper, you buck your hips. 

And then he pulls back slightly, his eyes locking with yours - his thumb still lazily circles over you, pushing you closer to the precipice with every pulse of heat. His countenance is more gentle, though he watches your body keen into his touch with brows furrowed and a strong inhale. 

“Tonight,” He murmurs, thumb stroking excruciating strokes over you, “I will take you as my wife, and you will take me as your husband.” 

You’re nearing the very edge of bliss, muscles rigid, his voice low and thick as you buck against him. “We will finally have each other. Completely.” He promises, his stormed eyes never leaving yours. It mounts such pleasure; your eyes flicker to the armoire, wondering how he might use his strength later this evening to rid you of the gown’s intricacies; how his touch might burn you - how your touch might burn him. 

How he might sound, as he finally pushes inside of you - taking you, as you’ve so yearned for him to; how you might one day be gifted by the Gods and swollen with his babe, round and glowing. How he might give you many children, and they will be rooted with the same fierce durability, same gentleness, the same love their parents have forged their whole lives. 

Shivers down your spine as Cregan’s hand cants your jaw to face him once more, cradling your flushed cheek as his fingers take you apart so easily - so intimately, so knowing. 

How could it ever be anybody else? 

And that gentleness, so at odds with the raw need in his touch, so known by you - he, so known by you - each slow stroke of his fingers within you, dragging pleasure in waves. He says your name and it echoes in the pounding of your heart.

“Tonight, I will make certain that you feel all of me.”

You’re helpless at the pleasure he’s built - his thumb moves with a maddening precision as you clutch him, sage and pine and wildflowers and love; your lips part with a moan, the last threads of control loose.

“Do you wish for that?” he murmurs, thumb pressing down just slightly harder, sending a fresh wave of heat through you as you desperately try to stave off your crest if only in hopes he will never cease the words that fall from his honeyed lips. “Have you yearned for it, every night as I have?” 

You are unable to respond as his words and ministrations bring you to your crest of pleasure, shuttering as your body bends into your peak. He grunts when your hand tugs at his tresses; though his hand does not cease as your cunt clenches around him, pleasure swirling and clouding your mind. “Yes,” you moan out finally, ecstasy pulsing through you as his lips trail over your jaw with jagged breaths. 

His name, pressed from your lips into his heated skin as he guides you slowly through your wave. “Cregan,” You exhale breathlessly, lips pressing to his skin as you begin to fall from your peak, aftershocks tremoring through you. 

His hand, leaving your hip to soothe up your spine - and an awakening of hunger when he presses you against the hard line of his own arousal; a shiver at the craving hunger it awakes within you. 

Your legs have lost their tight rigidity; you are rather slumped within his grasp, the afterwave of your peak rendering you rather sensitive. His fingers slide out of you slowly, and you watch with parted lips as he brings his hand between your heaving chests. 

A hunger rekindled when his fingers slide past his own lips, a grunt as he tastes you upon his tongue; and a whimper from yourself involuntary and helpless, unable to do anything more than pant in desire. He must see the hidden desire, as he grows merciful - with a slow motion he drags his thumb, to you - and slicked with yourself, over your bottom lip. 

Your taste on your own tongue - earthy, mountain thyme and desire - sends a shiver of unknown desire through you - never in your darkest, impurest desires could you have imagined Cregan here, as he presses his thumb past your parted lips and upon the flat of your tongue. You stir against him and his breath hitches; a promise of the eve to come as he pulls his hand away from you. 

It is upon his lap, with his arms around the bend of your spine, that you rest - within the heart of Winterfell’s castle come clangings, shouts of merriment as the beginning of the celebrations are set. 

Your cheek upon his shoulder, his head against yours as you both relish the small bit of solitude you’ll have before you rejoin finally within your marital chambers this evening. 

And, as it came, the day advances once more. 

Your heartbeats have slowed, though his arousal is a present reminder pressed against the soft of your inner thigh; he presses his lips to your temple, emitting a reluctant sigh. 

“I regret to leave you.” 

You knew it would come; though you mind not, for in only a few hours, you will be with him once more. 

“-but there are preparations yet to be made.” His fingers trace a gentle path along your neck - similar in devotion and exploration as the one you trail over his sturdy chest. 

A playful thought crosses your mind as you consider him returning to his own chambers to prepare for your wedding: “Will you be shaving before the wedding, my Lord?”

Cregan's brow arches - perhaps at your use of his title or the question itself, as he inquires in response, “Would you prefer I do?” 

You beam at him, cheeks heating in memory of the first time he’d asked you if you’d prefer he shave: No older than ten-and-four, when he’d returned from the Wall with his Lord father and you’d faked horror at the sight of the stubble gracing his young visage for the first time. He’d not listened to you then, though you were rather boisterous and impressionable as a young girl.  

Much has changed. 

“Yes,” You decide after a moment. He grins at you and it sends your heart into a race, his hand pulling your inner wrist up to his lips. 

“Then it is done,” He decides, stubble tickling your soft skin as he presses a chaste kiss to your wrist. “I will call your handmaids back, if you wish.” 

A gentle nod from you and he presses a kiss to your warm cheek, returning to his full height and setting your rather unstable legs onto the stone floor. 

“I will see you this eve, my love.” he promises; your heart flutters at the term.

And after one last kiss to your knuckles, you watch him shut the oak doors of your chambers - the wind howls down the slopes outside, though Winterfell shines cold and unstirred. In the distance, the bleeding leaves of the heart tree shimmer, spreading a warmth through your chest as you slowly ease yourself back into the tub, waiting for the maidens to return and begin the preparations. 

Birds chirp outside; there is already a new signet and silver wax prepared and sitting upon your desk - it boasts the sigil of the Direwolf. It is forever yours.

taglist/moots ; @softspiderling @cregan-starks @useralba @dipperscavern @benjinotes @earth4angels @nightfyres @astrxq @oldtowrs @ficlovegirlie @sanzuandmikey @dozcan123 @inkandarsenic @writtenapoiogy @vee-mage @xxselenite @cregnstark @princessvelaryon @princessbellecerise @hxtd @divinesolas @bucksplum @manhandlememando @housetargaryenloyalist @v3lary0ns

[dirty-jammies]

Late Night Desires 🌙❤️

Astarion x Fem!Chubby!Reader x Halsin

(Reader is AFAB and is referred to with she/her pronouns and terms like "good girl". )

AN: Pure self-indulgent smut because I have Feelings about Halsin's fingers. You ONOW these two would just adore spoiling a cute plus-size princess~ Enjoy!! (Psst! There's a surprise at the end!!)

-~-

Your other party members have long-since fallen asleep, but in a secluded part of the surrounding woods, atop soft grass, you were giving your lover a midnight snack…

You hummed as Astarion’s lips pressed a gentle kiss to the column of your throat, the elf’s tongue darting out to catch the last few dribbles of your blood from the dainty puncture wounds on your neck. You sighed, the usual lightheadedness settling in and your lover pulled you to rest against his chest.

“Decadent as always, darling,” Astarion murmured softly, his arms cradling you close, “you're far too good to me.”

You hummed blissfully and let out a breathless laugh as those dexterous hands of his moved up the soft curves of your body, fondling your plush waist all the way up to your bosom, “Need anything else, my love?” You teased.

Astarion laughed in reply, “How did you guess?” Those hands set about undoing your shirt, flying flawlessly over the buttons and clasps, you watched him work with a smile. Lockpicking or lovemaking, Astarion was certainly masterful with his hands.

Your pale paramour must have noticed your gaze, as he smirked down at you as your shirt fell open.

“You want my fingers tonight, my lovely,” it was less of a question and more of him stating the obvious. Either way, you bit your lip and nodded, legs spreading almost subconsciously; your bloodlessness had rendered you docile and dumb - just the way Astarion liked it. Astarion grinned, bloodied fangs glinting in the moonlight that bathed the small grassy clearing you were in, “Such a good girl for me, already spreading your juicy thighs… lift your hips for me.” he commanded and you obeyed, him watching lecherously as he rolled your leggings down over the plump swell of your thighs.

Now fully bare to both the elements and your lover’s hungry gaze, you swallowed, excitement swirling in your heart and your loins. With your legs spread as they were, your arousal was on full display.

Astarion did away with his shirt as well, leaving his pale skin almost glowing in the moonlight. You saw his nostrils flare and his pupils dilated, “Oh, darling, do you know you smell absolutely divine when you’re like this, wet and desperate for me?” He spoke lowly, roughly, “I normally find your scent delectable, but like this?” He leaned down and kissed you, nearly growling against your lips, “I just want to devour you.”

You gasped as his fingers finally made contact with your core, easily sliding through your slick folds. You moaned and whimpered as Astarion played around your opening, circling your clit for a brief, bright moment before going back down to smear your slick around more. You opened your mouth, wanting to beg him to put those maddening fingers in you already, when a noise alerted you. You nearly missed it, quiet as it was, but both you and Astarion were perceptive enough to pick it up: a groan. Instantly, your heads turned to face the tree line, expecting an undead or a bandit.

What you didn't expect to see was a shirtless, seven-foot tall druid with his cock in one hand, the other clasped over his mouth, mortified.

You reflexively went to reach for your clothing to cover up, but you were stopped as Astarion finally plunged two fingers knuckle-deep into your pussy. You keened loudly and your head tipped back, feeling embarrassment war with your arousal at the needy sound you let out. You heard Halsin give another groan, muffled by his hand but still apparent, and you watched Astarion’s mouth widen into a grin. You moaned as he fluttered his fingers inside you, pressing upwards into the soft, spongy spot that made you whimper his name.

“Now, now, darling,” Astarion scolded you playfully and leaned back, putting your body on display for Halsin, “don't hold your voice back. Let our guest hear your pretty little screams.” he kept massaging that spot inside you and you gasped, writhing in the grass below your lover. You craned your neck over to look at Halsin, and you felt a jolt of arousal burn through your body at the sight of the normally calm druid bracing himself against a tree, mouth open and letting out ragged pants as he fisted his cock. His hazel eyes were darkened with lust and were focussed intently on where Astarion’s fingers were buried in your wet heat before they flicked up to lock with yours. Your lover kept up his pace, swirling his fingers inside you and prodding your sweet spot. He clicked his tongue, “This is fun enough, darling, but… what would you say to letting Halsin have a go at you?”

You couldn't answer, feeling yourself getting closer and closer to ecstasy. Astarion huffed and yanked his fingers out of you, making you whine.

“Please! Please…” you begged mindlessly.

Astarion lightly pinched your clit, “‘Please let Halsin come over here and fuck me with his massive fingers’?” He supplied for your sweet, speechless self, “I thought you'd never ask, darling.” You could barely hold back an excited smile.

Astarion curled one of his fingers towards Halsin, who put himself away (causing his leggings to strain over his bulge) and sheepishly approached the two of you.

“Forgive me for intruding,” Halsin spoke lowly, “I heard noise out here and wanted to make sure everything was alright.”

Astarion hummed and ran his hands over your spread thighs and soft stomach lovingly, “And once you deduced the source of the noise, you figured you would enjoy a free show?”

“It has… been a while,” Halsin admitted, kneeling next to Astarion and raking his eyes over your supple body, “May I touch you?”

You nodded and reached out to him, taking one of his large hands in your own, “Yes, I can’t lie, I’ve been wanting this for a while,” You guided Halsin’s hand to your chest, letting him feel your racing heart. You looked back at Astarion, who was watching Halsin’s hand slide down your chest with a filthy smile, “Both of you, touching me.”

Astarion laughed lightly and trailed his nails, sharp and ticklish, over your soft thighs, “Such a naughty girl we have, don't we, Halsin?”

“Quite,” Halsin rumbled, his large hands finding your breasts and he smiled at your moan, “What a wonderful body, so soft and sweet…”

“Isn’t she just?” Astarion cooed and helped maneuver you into a new position, leaning you back against his chest. His lithe arms wrapped around your body, “Her breasts, her stomach, these delicious thighs and her arse…” he listed, humming as he pressed a warm kiss to the nape of your neck. You could feel the hardness in his tight pants pressing against your cushiony rear, “they’re all exquisite. She makes me simply ravenous.”

At the praise and the two sets of hands exploring your body, you felt your arousal start to grow again. Halsin’s hands were huge, caressing your breasts gently and thumbing your nipples like a string instrument; you could tell he was holding back.

“You don’t have to be too gentle, Halsin,” you spoke, voice trembling as Astarion’s hands sank into your plush waist, holding you steady as he ground his covered cock against your ass, “You can touch anything you want, h-however you want.” Your breath was getting heavier, anticipation making you wet. Halsin seemed to sense it, his nostrils flaring as he took in your heavenly scent.

“So generous,” Astarion purred from behind you before nipping a fresh mark into your neck, a quick spot of cold amidst the warmth of their caresses, “Go ahead, Halsin, I want to see you ruin her.” The vampire’s voice was low and heated and you shivered in anticipation as Halsin's hands left your breasts to travel down your supple form.

“Your body is magnificent,” Halsin rumbled lowly, as if to himself as his hands felt up the soft swell of your belly, “like a Goddess of bounty and fertility…” he locked eyes with yours and you let out a soft moan at the sheer intensity behind his gaze.

Astarion purred and licked up the new blood he drew, “You want to breed her? I don't blame you, her body is practically begging for it,” his soft hands reached down and you felt heat rush to your face as he spread you open, parting the soft folds of slickened skin to show off your hard little clit and needy pussy to Halsin, “Open her up, she’s dripping for you.”

Halsin groaned at the sight of you and he bowed his head, almost in reverence. You could see a smile bloom on his face as his fingers played around your impossibly soft, pillow-like mound, fluffy with hair. It was ticklish and infuriating, it wasn’t enough.

“Please, Halsin,” you whimpered, squirming in Astarion’s hold before he bit you for your disobedience, “Ah! Halsin, your fingers…” you bit your lip and stilled yourself, hoping he would fill you up where you needed most.

“Start with two,” Astarion commanded and you could hear his smile, “she can handle it.”

Halsin nodded and you gasped in surprise as he leaned in to kiss you, full, slightly-chapped lips caressing your own tenderly. Your gasp turned into a loud moan as two of Halsin’s thick fingers slid into you. Astarion opened you up with two of his earlier, but Halsin’s were far thicker, they stretched your walls, eased by your natural lubrication, and you clenched around them needily. You whined into Halsin’s mouth as he gently started fucking his fingers in and out, slow and steady, making your hips grind down onto his hand. Halsin groaned and sucked on your tongue, spreading his fingers inside of you and making you moan.

“Silvanus preserve me, you’re hotter than a brushfire,” the druid panted, “and so tight and wet…”

“Isn’t she positively intoxicating?” Astarion shifted you so you were straddling Halsin’s lap. You instinctively wrapped your arms around Halsin and nuzzled into his neck. You heard the quick snaps of buttons being undone and you could tell Astarion was touching himself, watching his lover be pleased by another. The vampire groaned, “Give her another.”

Your eyes widened slightly, about to object as you were still getting used to two of those thick digits inside you, but all thoughts of stopping immediately left your mind as Halsin’s ring finger pushed into you and pressed firmly against your sweet spot.

“Oh, Gods!” You cried, voice high. Your eyes rolled back into your head as you were stretched further than you have been before. You could feel your pussy pulse around Halsin’s fingers and drool even more slick around them. It burned, but it was so good, “They’re so big…” you panted and put a hand on Halsin’s broad, hair-dusted chest.

“Is it too much?” Halsin asked, rubbing your back with his free hand soothingly. His fingers were still.

You shook your head, “No, it's good,” you looked up to him, all hazy eyes and warm cheeks, “Please, go on?”

Halsin smiled and took a deep, steadying breath, “As you wish.” He slowly withdrew his fingers until only the tips remained, and you whined at the loss before they slid back into you, making you moan again.

Slowly, he continued this steady rhythm, getting you ready, getting you wetter. You relaxed in his hold, taking in his scents of musk and cedarwood.

“Does that feel good, darling?” You heard Astarion purr from the side, “Oh, he’s treating you so well~”

At the praise, you felt the Druid's breathing hitch, and, gone as you were due to blood loss and lust, you picked up on Halsin’s apparent praise kink pretty quickly, “Yes~ Halsin, you feel so, so good!”

“You two will be the end of me,” Halsin chuckled and pushed you back to lay on the grass. His fingers curled upwards and pressed into your soft spot, making you cry out, “There we go, now we can both see you.” Halsin pressed one hand on your belly, appreciating the softness as he once again started moving his fingers.

This time there was no restraint, Halsin plunged his three thick digits in and out of you fast and deep, and you couldn't contain your noises. Sweet moans and whines as Halsin fucked you, stretching your cushy walls and using his palm to rub your clit on every inward thrust. Your head thrashed around, feeling yourself getting closer and closer to your peak. In and out, in and out, in and out…

“Fuck yes,” you heard Astarion moan, “Fucking give it to her, make her cum!”

Halsin was panting at this point, his other hand mindlessly groping every soft swell in your body; your jiggling tummy, your bouncing tits, your pillowy mound, everywhere. His arm was like a piston, filling you up and hammering you until, finally-

You screamed, back arching, body shuddering, clenching and squirting around Halsin’s fingers. Your hands fisted in the grass under you, toes curling. Your mind went blank as pleasure overtook you, feeling nothing but Halsin’s warm arms holding you steady.

“Shit!” You heard Astarion grunt, and you knew he had come as well. You could see him out of your peripheral vision wipe his hand clean on the grass next to him.

“There you go,” Halsin groaned, thrusts slowing the tiniest amount, fucking you through your orgasm, “there you go, good girl…” he took your face in his other hand, caressing your cheek gently, “Beautiful girl…” he pulled his fingers from you with a wet squelch, and you and Astarion moaned as he licked up your flavours from his hand.

You could do nothing but catch your breath with a smile, feeling lighter than air as you bathed in your afterglow. You looked up at Halsin, then over his shoulder as Astarion sidled up beside you two.

“Did you enjoy that, darling?” Astarion purred and wrapped his arms around Halsin’s broad chest.

“Yes.” Both you and Halsin sighed at the same time, making Astarion laugh, light and playful.

“Good to hear,” the vampire hummed and dragged his lecherous gaze up and down your plush, pliant body, “mmh… Halsin certainly did a number on you, didn't he, love? But we shouldn't make our guest go without,” he pouted, “that would be terribly rude.”

You sat up, letting out a little moan as you put pressure on your oversensitive, well-fucked pussy, “You’re right. Halsin,” you looked up at the druid, all doe eyes and soft cheeks, “what else can we do for you?”

Halsin let out a gruff laugh, “You’ve already been so generous, but,” he rubbed a large hand on your thigh fondly and turned to look at Astarion with simmering heat in his eyes, “I would enjoy just about anything you two have in mind.”

You and Astarion shared a dirty look. You had something in mind, alright...

AN 2: Polls??? In MY smut!? Lol I was a little stumped on just how to get Halsin off, so I figured why not get some reader interaction going and let y'all vote? Don't worry if I don't do your fav pick, I'm planning on writing loads more of these guys -w-

I hope you enjoyed! And don't forget that your comments mean a lot to me! 😚💕

[lizard-on-a-window-pane]

Enemies to lovers, period sex and dirty talk with james potter please 🥹

yay a kinktober request! this is why i love these things, i would've never put those together (this request gave me some saltburn vibes ngl but dw i didn't take it that direction)

mdni obviously, fem!reader wc: 3.8k - sorry i got a bit carried away; hope you enjoy!

Bloody Hell

Damn, it was like your period was on a schedule to come when as inconvenient as possible recently. You weren’t supposed to get it for a few days. You groan, clutching your achy back, considering whether this meant you had to change your Halloween costume for tonight. You were going to Sirius’s party as witch. It didn’t involve white trousers or anything ridiculously tight or short, so you felt fine wearing your fancy dress with your now necessary period pants. 

As the day dragged on, pain killers helped the cramps, but definitely not the moodiness. It’d been a while since it made you this grumpy. But, Halloween only came once a year, and you’d been excited for the party, so you try to change your attitude as you’re getting ready later.

The witch’s costume is a bit typical, but you’d loved the colours and liked the classics. Besides, it fit unusually well. Tight and loose in all the right places, the perfect skirt length, and not to mention what it did for your… bosom. You looked hot. The first person you see upon arriving at Sirius’s does not help your mood: James bloody Potter. Looking gorgeous as ever… Wait, what? No. Not gorgeous. Annoying. Yes, that was it. Annoying and smug and irritating and fit. Ugh, okay, whatever. He looked really fit. 

He hadn’t dressed too far from his normal self. Still wearing his typical leather jacket and jeans, but he’d cuffed them differently and had arranged his usually very messy luscious head of hair differently. 

“A witch, Y/L/N? Really?” God, why did his stupid, gruff voice always have such an effect on you?

“Not very creative.” “At least I dressed up, Potter. What are you supposed to be? A twat?” 

“Har-har. So witty. This, for your information, is a 1950’s look.” “Oh, is it? I thought I saw you wearing it last week.” 

He just glares at you. “Alright, alright, you two. Should’ve dressed as vampires; hasn’t even been five minutes, and you’re already at each other’s throats,” Sirius comes interrupting, giving you a quick greeting hug and shoving James a bit along the way. 

“Hi, Siri,” you hug back. “Blame your bestie. He’s the one who doesn’t know how to be nice.” “Oh, because you’re always a ray of sunshine?” James retorts. “Fucking hell,” Sirius sighs, already walking away, busy playing host. He’s already turned his back but you — both of you — clearly hear his exasperated, “Just fuck already, and stop torturing the rest of us.” 

Your wide, mortified eyes snap to James, whose expression mirrors yours. Then he just scoffs and walks away. Typical. 

The party goes on and is actually quite fun. The place is completely covered in Halloween decorations, and some of the costumes are amazing. It’s working wonders on your mood, especially when Remus arrives, but the grumpiness has a way of sneaking its way back into your system whenever Potter approaches. 

You catch him looking over at you frequently, and it gets on your nerves. What does he want? To pick a fight? And why do you care? You try to ignore him as you keep chatting to Remus.

But it becomes impossible when he comes to stand right next to you. “Alright, mate?” He claps Remus on the shoulder, completely ignoring you. 

“I’m standing right here, Potter,” you can’t help but say.

“Yes, I noticed.” “Did you? Because, you see, most people when they notice someone is having a conversation, don’t just interrupt it and ignore them.”

Remus is off with a sighed, “Not this again.” “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot how much you love my attention,” James says smugly, finally turning to you and smirking. You roll your eyes. “Yes, I’m desperate for it,” you deadpan. “Though don’t think I haven’t notice you looking at me, Potter. If I did want your attention, I wouldn’t really be left wanting, would I?”

He seems a bit flustered by this, and you love it when you actually manage to get to him, to render him speechless even if for a mere moment. So, without a clear idea of where it will even lead, you pounce on the opportunity that seems to be presenting itself. 

“Am I wrong? Why have you been so interested in what I’m doing tonight then?” You quirk an eyebrow at him, take a step closer. This really throws him.

“Pfft, have not.” He crosses his arms defensively. “Wow. So witty.” You cross your arms, mirroring him. 

This draws his gaze down to your chest, and it lingers there. He seems to catch himself after a few seconds, but it was still a few seconds too many. Interesting. 

God, was there any way Sirius was right? It was bound to happen some time. 

And even if he was… if James was… what? into you? as into you as you were him? was that what you wanted? Actually admitting the feelings sounded much scarier than relentlessly arguing with him forever. 

You’ve gotten lost in your thoughts (and, ugh, feelings), so you don’t notice how long has gone by. Nor do you notice that your demeanour is changing, shifting from teasing and challenging to reflective and slightly worried. 

“What?” James asks, noticing.

“Nothing,” you panic.

“You’re definitely thinking something.” He waves an accusatory finger around your face. “Pfft, am not.” “Wow. So witty,” he repeats, and it’s filled with glee at retaking the upper hand. 

This annoys you to no end, but you still can’t think of anything to say, so you just push past him with a “you’re so annoying.”

You try for a while to enjoy the party, to ignore James Potter — and the many thoughts and feelings about James Potter that won’t stop hounding you. You keep looking over at him, unable to help yourself. 

The seemingly millionth time you do, his eyes catch yours. You want to look away, but something keeps you from doing so. Not wanting to give him the upper hand, again? Not wanting to look away from his beautiful orbs, possibly? 

You just stare at each other from across the room for what feels like the heaviest few seconds of your life. Then his gaze drops, and rather than victory you feel… disappointment. You want him looking at you. Want to look at him back. Your disappointment doesn’t last for too long, though, as you realize he’s walking over to you.

He stops right in front of you, extremely close. He doesn’t say anything. You watch each other intently. “You’re staring at me,” he finally says. “You were staring at me first.” 

Expecting him to deny it, you’re stunned when he responds, “So what if I was?” Then he checks you out shamelessly, his eyes dragging across your whole body, lingering on your chest, exploring your face, before landing back on your own.

That’s it. Stupid, shameless Potter. You do the only thing to do: you take a tiny step forward and smash your lips against his.

He’s kissing you back ardently before you even truly realize what’s happening. His hands grasp you desperately, pulling your body into his; his mouth contorts over yours, devouring you hungrily. He moans deeply enough for you to hear it over the loud sounds of the party. When he gropes your arse, you moan back. But you also realize what the fuck is happening. In the middle of a crowded room. So you pull back from him. 

His mouth chases yours desperately, not wanting to break apart. 

“Wait, James, wait.” He does. And he’s looking at you funny. “Are you alright?” you ask him. “I like how you say my name, sweetheart.” His sincerity surprises you, melts you. So even though you can’t help yourself as you respond, “Whatever, Potter,” it’s much softer than usual, warmth where there’s usually snark. He smirks at you.

“So can we keep kissing now?” “We’re in public, James.” 

You don’t miss his lips quirk at the word. “So?” “So? I’m not a bloody exhibitionist! I have some standards…” “Toilet, then?” “Yeah, toilet,” you nod frantically. 

His hands don’t release your hips the whole way you chase each other to the bathroom. He catches the back of your neck in a couple of quick kisses, and it’s sending tingles down your whole body.

You’re extremely grateful it’s empty when you reach it, rushing in in a frenzy. James slams the door shut and wastes no time in pushing you against it. He picks up where you had left off.

His mouth is hot and delicious against yours, his tongue dancing against yours in its explorations. He enjoys your mouth but soon traces down your jaw and starts sucking on your throat. You shiver at the sensations and pull him to you, your fingers winding into his gorgeous hair. He moans at this and the vibrations directly against your skin make you whimper.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he says, his lips still tracing your throat. “I love the sounds you make.” 

You hum, and he grazes his teeth across your skin, morphing your voice into a soft yelp. “Yeah, like that,” he chuckles gruffly.

The next time his mouth makes it to the base of your neck, he continues downward. He starts kissing the tops of your tits desperately, bringing his hands up your body to grope them as he does. 

“Fuck, I’ve been going mad all night looking at these. You should wear this every day.” His hands move to your hips pulling you from the door over to the sink. “C’mere,” he says as he lifts you to sit on the small counter.

You wrap your legs around his hips and your arms around his neck. You play with his hair as he kisses you fervently.

“I’ve always wanted to pull your hair,” you confess, surprising both of you with your honesty. “Oh yeah?” He looks so turned on, you throw any last inhibitions out the window. “Yeah. Fuck, you have nice hair.” You tug harshly on it, and his reacting groan is almost animalistic. His now black eyes stare directly into yours for a charged moment before he dives back into you. 

He kisses wetly down to your throat and chest, and this time when he gets to your breasts, he unceremoniously pulls your dress and bra down. 

“Fuck, you have nice tits,” he echoes and grins. He plays with them, kneading them and tugging on your nipples, rolling them between his fingers before shoving his face between them. He licks across your chest and circles your nipple with his tongue. He switches eagerly between them, puckering them both up before taking one into his greedy mouth and sucking. You let out a loud, strangled whimper at the intense and exquisite sensation, and James hums around your tit. You cradle his head against you.

Rubbing his face against your breasts, he pleads, “That’s it, baby. Keep making those sounds. I love hearing how good you feel. It’s so fucking hot.”

“Jaames,” you whine as he sucks your nipple again. 

“Fuck, Y/N.” Groping them hard one more time, he brings his hands down from your tits, massaging your sides before grabbing your thighs. He squeezes them harshly, jiggling them and running his nails across your skin. 

He’s running his hands up your thighs, under your skirt, toward your center, whispering “You wet for me, baby?” when your stomach drops and you remember, panicking. You’d been so caught up in James, you’d entirely forgotten. 

“Fuck!” you yelp, pushing James away suddenly. He stumbles, then takes a steadying step back. He looks completely confused (and unreasonably sexy, all scruffed up from making out with you). “Fucking hell, Y/N. What? You alright?” 

“I — fuck, yeah, I’m fine — I just — fuck.” You cover your face with your hands and squeeze your thighs shut. “Hey,” James says much more softly. “What’s up, love? Y’alright? You’re kind of freaking me out.” “Ugh, ‘m so sorry,” you slur into your hands. He grabs your wrists gently, pulling them away from your face. “It’s alright, whatever it is. Just… can you tell me what’s wrong?” God, how you wish you could vanish in that moment. Or better, not have had your bloody — literally — body betray you like this this morning. Why this fucking time of all times to come early? 

You’re mortified, embarrassed as hell, wishing there was some way out of this without having to explain the truth and put James Potter off, probably for good. After all the time and tension it’d taken to get you here at all. 

“Y/n?”

You take a steadying breath but still can’t get the words out. So you cover your face again, only able to utter them while feeling hidden from him. “‘M on my period,” you confess. He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, so you brave moving your hands down and looking up at him. You’re not sure how to read his expression. Then he grins lightly and brings his hands to your cheeks. He tucks your now messy hair behind your ears on both sides before holding your face. 

He’s surprised you several times tonight, but this next one takes the cake. “If you don’t mind, I don’t mind,” he says simply with a shrug and a caress of your cheeks. “What?” You can’t believe it. Every other guy it’d come up with before had treated it like the most disgusting thing. “I don’t mind,” he repeats, chuckling, moving his face closer to yours to look up deeply into your eyes. 

“Are you serious?” “Yeah. I mean, if you don’t want to that’s fine, obviously. Like if you’re not feeling well or whatever, but if it’s just about the blood… I can handle a little blood.” “It’s more than a little,” you whisper embarrassedly.

“I didn’t mean it literally,” he laughs. How can he seem so lighthearted? Could he really not mind?

He brings his hands back to your thighs, pulling them slowly apart, giving you time to resist the motion, stepping between them when you don’t. He messages them on either side of his hips. “So?” he asks seductively, clearly eager to continue. “You really don’t mind?" “Really. Fuck, Y/N, I’ve been wanting this so fucking long, I’d be a madman if I waited longer just because you’re on your period.” 

Worrying your lower lip between your teeth, you open your legs a bit wider at his words. The dark smirk that usurps James’s expression as you do makes your cunt pulse. God, you want him. Blood be damned. 

Slowly, so slowly it’s driving you insane, he ghosts his hands over your skin the rest of the way up your legs. When they finally reach your underwear, they snake under the waistband and tentatively pull. You lift your hips, and he yanks them the rest of the way off. 

Instinctively, you try to shut your legs. James standing where he is only lets you do it part of the way. Pushing the insides of your knees open again, he says, “No need to hide, gorgeous.” “I — “ But words fail you. So, you simply let him open your legs. 

Sensing your tension, James kisses you again. He starts softly, but you’re both so hungry for each other, so worked up already despite the interruption, that it’s only a few seconds before you’re ravaging each other again, moaning and grasping and pulling each other close. With his mouth still on yours, one hand holding your face, the other comes between your legs, grazing where your thigh meets your cunt.

You shiver, a combination of nerves and pleasure. He breaks your kiss, but rests his forehead on yours, looking straight into your eyes. He lifts his eyebrows in question, and you nod hesitantly. 

He finally brings his fingers to your center, ghosting over it. When you feel the string of your tampon under his fingers, you ashamedly let out an “Oh, god” then “sorry.”

James tssks at you and whispers, “’S alright, sweetheart. It’s fine. Maybe let’s get rid of this, though, cos it’s where I want to be, yeah?” Fuck, how could he keep turning you on even more? You nod and bring your hand between your legs. You pull out the tampon and toss it over into the rubbish bin.

Without further ado, James touches you properly. His fingers slide up and down your wet folds. Your slick and blood mix under his ministrations, but it feels so fucking unreal that you finally start not to care.

You’d always been sensitive during your period. But no one else had ever touched you during it. Nor had it been after ages of sexual tension and lustful fantasies. Every graze of his hand is divine, and when his motions become proper strokes, the full length of his fingers rubbing against you, you squeal as your head falls onto his shoulder. One hand clutches the sink, the other James. “Feel good?” he teases. “Yes,” you sigh desperately.

“How about this then?” he asks as he plunges two fingers into you. You scream. 

“Shhh, sweetheart,” he laughs. “I mean, keep screaming, but maybe not so loud. Don’t want anyone to come knocking when I’m finally this close to fucking you.”

“Fuck.” “Hmm, that’s it. Just relax, love.” His hand thrusts as his fingers curl inside you, and you clench in utter pleasure. “Fuuuck, you’re squeezing me so bloody tight, love. Can’t wait to feel you around my cock.” You let out some kind of strained affirmative groan and clench again. “Yeah? Want to feel me fill you up?” “Yes, fuck, yes, please.” 

“Who knew you could be this nice, Y/L/N? That all it’d take was my fingers inside you.” “Shut up, Potter.” But there’s no bite to it. “We both know you don’t want me to shut up. I can feel how much you’re enjoying this.” You just bite your lip and whimper when he pushes his thumb against your clit. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. You can bring the snark back after I make you cum.” 

Your eyes roll to the back of your head at the thought, and you nod, giving into him. “I know I could do it like this, but I can’t wait any longer to feel you, baby.”

He pulls his hand out of you, and you whine. When you see how entirely covered in blood it is, any further sounds die in your throat at your mortification. 

“I —“ you start, but James just shakes his head and kisses you to shut you up. Not breaking apart from you, he reaches blindly for the hand towel and cleans his hands when he finally finds it. There’s still dark red traces of you on the fingers that then hurry to his trousers, opening them in a rush. He pushes them down and pulls his cock free. Your cunt clenches around nothing at the sight. “James,” you whine. “Yeah, sweetheart?” “Please fuck me.” With a deep groan, one of his hands roughly pulls your head to keep making out with you and the other grabs his cock and lines it up with your center. He pushes in fast. His mouth devours the sounds yours makes in response. 

He starts pounding in and out of you, not bothering to start slow. You’re sure you’d be wet enough regardless, but as things stand, he’s gliding in and out of you. A loud squelching sounds as he thrusts, but before you have time to be embarrassed, James moans, “Fuck, you feel so fucking amazing,” and pounds harder.

He has to bring one hand to the sink just behind you to stabilize himself from how roughly he’s going; his other hand takes a vice-like grip of your hip. His head ends up in the crook of your neck, and he kisses and sucks. Your hand comes to his hair, your other arm clinging around his shoulders clutching him as your whole body reverberates with his movements.

He slows down only enough to lean his head slightly down to where your tits are bouncing. He sucks your nipple and keeps it in his mouth as he keeps fucking into you. At the harsh and unexpected suck, you scream again. He makes no effort to quiet you. 

With his face at your chest, he’s opened a bit of space between your bodies, and he brings a hand to where he keeps disappearing in and out of you. He starts rubbing messily on your clit. 

With that sensation on top of all the others that have your body on fire, you cum violently around him with strangled yell. 

He thrusts through it, but a few clenches of your pussy later, he can’t help but cum too. Your clutching cunt milks him dry. 

He’s panting loudly when he finally stops moving, his hips still, his face resting on your chest. An aftershock ripples through him, and his body gives a quick shake. Then he gives your breast a quick peck before moving to kiss your mouth. It doesn’t last; he’s so out of breath, but he rests his forehead on yours as he recovers. His arms rest on the sink on either side of you, caging you in. You feel warm and safe, and you stroke up and down his strong arms. He smiles and pecks your lips. 

“Not bad, Potter,” you finally break the silence. He chuckles, rolling his eyes.

“You cannot possibly act nonchalant after the sounds you just made, Y/L/N. I’m surprised no one burst in here thinking someone was getting murdered.”

You laugh together. It’s concerningly nice.

When you settle down, James looks between you. He pulls out gently. And it’s a fucking mess. 

“I don’t think the words ‘bloody hell’ have ever been so appropriate,” he jokes, staring at it. “Oh god,” you say, covering your face in your hands again. “C’mon, Y/L/N. I thought we were past this bit.” It’s harsh but encouraging as he pulls your hands from your face and quickly kisses your forehead. “C’mon,” he offers as he helps lift you off the counter in a way that lets you hop over the… puddle. 

You both stand there staring at the crimson crime scene of a sink. 

Looking at it but leaning toward you, James asks, “D’you think we could get away with saying it’s Halloween decorations?” 

You burst out laughing again.

“The blood, maybe, but… there’s some of you there too…” 

“Well, at least our first time is certainly memorable. Happy Halloween, Y/L/N.” 

Your heart does something funny at “first time.” So, you ignore it for now and simply say, “Help me clean this up before Sirius actually does murder us in here.”

[cassieuncaged]

Comforting Touch (Astarion x Reader)

NSFW/MATURE/18+/MDNI

Summary: You bring a new definition to a ‘good morning’ for a certain vampire spawn.

TW: explicit sexual content, oral sex (male receiving), hand jobs, language, etc.

WC: 1.7 K

A/N: Haven’t done a smutty reader insert in awhile so here ya go!

The windows are safely shuttered come morning, only the tiniest tendrils of sun sneaking through the cracks. Your shared chambers may be humble though they are rather cozy, stuffed to the brim with furs and a meager stone mantle. Astarion had pouted when you’d balked at a mansion nestled in Manor Born, telling the Grand Duke a cottage on the outskirts of the city would be preferred. Raised from elven nobility, he’d thought an opportunity had been squandered for a mere pittance. Though the vampire didn’t complain now, curled into your side as he tranced.

Organic warmth soothed him these days especially, no longer having the luxury of the sun beating down upon icy skin. Though he’d settled for the heat that his lover radiated, the moon coming to love the sun for all she offered. It was poetic, despite the pangs of frustration at losing something else. What had his last two centuries been but filled with loss?

Dashing the intrusive thought from a groggy mind, bleary eyes fell upon the prim man. One arm was slung across your torso, rising and falling with your every breath. Limp curls had bled out the rest of their pomade, laying messily atop his head and across a pallid brow. You giggled, knowing how he preferred to keep them so neat and tidy, practically styling every damned curl with his fingers. It was as frustrating as it was adorable. Now he didn’t care, nestled between your bosoms. Cold air escaped his mouth, fangs twitching as he remained blissfully unaware of the world around him.

Fingers gently muss silken curls, enjoying the locks of spun silver tickling the tips of your fingers. They were so lovely and soft, malleable as they wound around sure digits again and again. It kept you busy, refusing to move until your lover stirred. A long time had passed where Astarion had known no such comforts and hells you wanted to hoist them all upon him now. Of course there were adventures to be had, research to be done, companions to write to. But that could wait a bit longer. At least until those liquid ruby eyes fluttered open, as delicate as the wings of a butterfly.

Pads of cool fingers pressed into the fleshy curve of your thigh, flexing softly before even colder lips were pressing gently across your chest. He lingered for a moment, enjoying that steady heartbeat that ruminated beneath his touch.  A delighted chuckle vibrated against a warm plane of skin, resulting in goose flesh that spread from your scalp down to the tips of ten toes.

“Morning, darling.” He murmured between kisses peppered up to one clavicle then the hollow of your throat, “Have you been awake long?”

“Not especially,” you sighed, enjoying his ministrations as soft touches migrated from thigh to navel, drifting down to trace the curve of one hip bone, “Just enjoying you.”

“Seems to defeat the purpose when I’m lost in a trance,” he cooed before rolling onto his side. Your mouth was agape, scraping across the sight of him, skin lustrous beneath the low light, groin delicately draped with the coverlet. “There’s more fun to be had when I’m awake, my dear.”

Propping yourself on one elbow, you studied him silently as a barrage of thoughts crept through your mind. One word and you’d be a fly trapped in the spider’s web, the hare bloody and twitching in the wolf’s maw. And as much as you enjoyed submitting to him, something more appealing came to mind.

“What is it, love?” his head cocked to one side, curls lolling as he did. Gods he was lovely, and you wanted nothing more than to remind him of that. “You’ve a mischievous glint in your eyes; what’re you thinking?”

“Oh, nothing…” You inched closer until your nose practically nestled beneath his chin, lips pressing against knot bobbing in his throat. One hand pressed against the flat of a lean chest, fingers drifting down the ridges of hard muscles, “It’s just that you always take care of me. Let me take care of you.”

“That’s, erm, a very nice thought.” His voice trembles as his fingers wrap around a slender wrist, stopping the descent to the apex of muscular thighs. “But this is all still very new to me.”

“We can just lay like this,” you whisper against icy skin, nuzzling into the column of his neck, “I won’t force you into anything.”

“I didn’t say stop,” burgundy eyes roll, unseen as warm lips continue soft ministrations. Carefully, he drags your fingers to the hem of the coverlet, urging you to uncover his cock. The silken bedclothes began to tent as he slowly hardened. “I often imagine your hands on me.”

You hesitate, chewing the inside of your cheek. As much as you want to caress him, there’s a small request that hangs at the back of your throat. Eyes shutter at the thought of teeth slotting into those fading scars, feeding until warmth envelopes the icy marble of his body. How you swear it ignites a pulse within in his chest, how the veins in his cock become tight ridges along his shaft, skin dusky and warm…

“Whatever you’re thinking has you smelling absolutely delectable.” He inhales your arousal as it tickles his nostrils, filling his heightened senses. “Do tell, lover.”

“I’d like you to bite me. First.” You pull back, so your gaze can fall upon those shimmering rubies. An ashen brow arches upward at this revelation, corners of lush lips quirking upwards. “I want to feel your warmth beneath the tips of my fingers, against my tongue…

“How absolutely debauched of you,” he reaches out to stroke your hair, genuinely adoring such a suggestion despite the aching inside him. The spawn wishes he could provide such a natural warmth but appreciates your loving offer. “Let me sup from you.”

Then he curls into the curve of your neck, suckling and lapping at scars that have never healed completely, preparing you for the icy sting. You hiss at the initial insertion, the ice that shoots through your veins slowly dissipating into a thrum that invigorates as life blood is supped upon. And you feel it, the heat begins to pool beneath his skin, inviting as you finally pulled the sheet from his hips.

Astarion laps at the droplets oozing from your wound as lithe fingers drift down his length. He peels his lips away, mouth bloody as he looks upon you. Eyes drift down to see your own gaze glued to his now straining and rosy cock. Feeding upon you always stiffened him completely, leading to a pleasurable grind against your thigh while he shrouded you like a shadow.

But now, shallow breathing was parsed through gritted teeth as you finger gently traced a dusky vein from base to tip, enjoying how the blunt head was flushed and bulging. He twitched beneath such a gentle touch, enjoying how you used a fat bead of pre spend to lubricate the length of his slit. The muscles in his neck tightened at that familiar tug behind his navel, the one that demanded more. So your fingers splayed around him, enjoying how he felt like velvet wrapped around steel as you gave a firm squeeze. Slender hips thrust involuntarily, needing more friction as you suddenly removed that warm hand.

“What are you doing?” his voice came out in a strangled whimper, eyes widening as you lapped at his salty seed coating your thumb. It was still a mystery to the vampire how his body delighted you so, though he wasn’t about to complain. Awkwardly, you craned your neck upward to dribble a healthy amount of drool upon an upturned palm before slinking back to where he most needed such attention.

“Relax, my love.” You pressed a kiss to his chin before focusing on that task literally at hand. “Let me take care of you.”

And he did, savoring the rhythmic pump as your knuckle slid down his length, careful to stroke from head to base. His hips began to meet your jerks, imagining the tight heat of your cunt wrapped around him so pleasantly. Actually focusing on his own sexual pleasure was still so foreign, chasing his own release without worrying about another’s climax. Gods, it was delicious. Almost as much as the blood still staining his lips.

“On your back,” you demanded softly, removing a soaked palm to topple him onto the broad back, “I want to taste you.”

“If you do that, I’m afraid I won’t last.” His breathing was coming out in ragged pants as you slid between his spread thighs. Astarion watched with rapt attention, enjoying how your breasts swayed as you moved to lay flat on your belly.

“That’s alright,” you assured, tongue darting out to lap at the seam beneath the head. And he moaned, such glorious music cutting straight to your core. What a symphony every groan and whimper was, even as you continued to tease with short licks and kisses. “I want you to come undone in my mouth.”

“Get on with it, please.” His hips thrust upwards, tip pressing past the barrier of your lips before you complied with his wishes. Hollowing your cheeks, you sank upon all that could be fit into your mouth as a warm fist enveloped the rest. His heady musk invaded your senses, cock twitching on your tongue, practically begging you to move. “Hells below.”

Astarion’s deep bellow had been enough to spur you into a fervor, bobbing hungrily as his back arched off the mattress. Lithe fingers knotted in your hair, holding you still as he began to frantically fuck your throat. He could count on one hand how many times he’d enjoy such a pleasure over the past two centuries while he craved to lose track of how many times he absolutely lost himself in you. Pumping, striving, chasing that release while he imagined you bouncing atop him. Your blood warmed him but he felt like he was on fire.

“So good,” he muttered between ragged breathing as you struggled to breathe out of your nose. “So, so good.”

Then the dam broke as he came down your throat, twitching and spasming until he was still against your tongue. Swallowing all of the seed that was earned, you broke away and began to clean his softening length before snaking up to curl upon that delightfully broad chest.

“How do you feel?” your voice was a welcome whisper that buzzed in his ears, messy curls digging back into a down pillow as long arms cinched at the small of your back.

“Like I know what it is to feel true pleasure,” he groaned sleepily, nuzzling into your own nest of messy hair. “True love.”

“You’re drunk on ecstasy,” you giggled, eyes watching as his expression softened, any masks long melted away. “It’ll pass.”

“The feeling won’t,” he argued softly, “No, you’ve gifted me so much that I never thought I’d have. Taking care of me so sweetly. I’m eternally indebted to you, darling.”

“There’s no debtors in love,” you reminded him warmly before resting an ear above his dormant heart. “There’s only equals.”

“If this is your way of reminding me, I may need your help remembering more often.”

[hirschkuh-im-traum]

Bloodlust

the plot is: after having a taste of each other you cannot deny that both of you're absolutely obsessed with the new flavour and the desire it awakes

part one, part two

words ≈ 6.3

warnings: smut (like a lot of smut, it's almost only smut with a little bit of plot in the end), still a lot of blood, still licking and sucking blood and just licking and sucking, cunnilingus, bites and scratches, alastor's shadow is a creepy voyeurist (sorry not sorry)

let me know if i missed anything

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

The dusk and the uneven candlelight wrapped two bodies on the bed like a velvet blanket. The night was cold and windy, the heavy curtains slightly trembled, and though you were bleeding in his embrace you felt warmth. You were hot, and you would never exchange this night for anything else. Even for redemption.

Alastor held you firmly with one hand on your hip and the other one on your scapulae. He pressed you close to him, licking the dripping blood from your neck, causing trembling in your body. His smooth long tongue went up and down, drew circles around the teeth marks, tickled you where you weren't bitten. You softly moaned, when his opened mouth covered your wound and sucked your blood and skin, and you knew this predatory kiss would leave bright bruises on you. Your claws dug into his strong shoulders, you threw your head back, and he embraced you tighter. Your hearts rapidly beat against each other.

You told him you didn't influence his vision, you just made his mind see what he craved. And these words didn't leave his head, whilst he caressed your body and sucked your blood. You slightly moaned, whispering his name, making him press himself to you more. He believed he wanted just your taste. Blood, skin, flesh. You always looked so delectable and yet so dangerous with your snow-white fangs flashing between your bloody red lips in a mischievous smile. And when had it all changed? When he began desiring different tastes of you? An hour ago in this very bedroom in these dim lights? Or did he always misunderstood his own desires? 

The only thing was clear to Alastor — you made him famished. When you first came all covered in blood, Alastor watched you from the shadows and felt an unpleasant emptiness in his belly; when you made your first kill in the walls of the hotel and thought nobody saw you, and you licked your bloody lips, he felt ache in his stomach; when you first gave him that hungry gaze of yours, he swallowed; and when his lips first met your skin, he felt starving.

Whatever hunger you evoked in him, you'd better satisfy it.

With a deep sigh Alastor parted his mouth from your neck, and you fell on the mattress when his hands let go of you. You watched how Alastor took off the undone shirt and let it fall to his knees. On his fours he crawled to you, wiping away remaining blood from his lips with his long tongue. His body radiated heat, as he leaned over you and pressed his forehead to your collarbone. He panted loud and uneven, and his breath burnt your skin like fire.

“You have no idea how much I…” He mumbled into your skin, the unsaid words grasped your heart like a trap.

Hot air fanned your chest again, as Alastor sighed and sat up. His fingers curved under the fabric of your clothes on your chest, and he began pulling down the little black dress of yours. It traced down through your hips, knees, and finally slipped down from your ankles. Alastor threw it to his shirt (you wished your scents could mix there), he grabbed your legs, putting them on his shoulder, and went down. His nose brushed your skin, as he went from your knees and core closer to your bosom, neck. He inhaled your scent, poisonous sweet and fresh like night. His face stopped between your bosoms, and you held your breath. He could hear your rapid heart. Alastor left a kiss on the right side, “Your scent,” on the left side, “Your blood,” straight on the middle, “Your soul.” Each word dribbled slowly and darkly from his mouth as a venom. The static filter disappeared, his real voice was low and husky, it fastened your pulse.

Alastor listened to your heart. The rhythm was fast and loud, it trembled like the heart of a bird caught in a cage. You could move under him, but it seemed you didn't even want to, staring at him with flashing eyes, chewing your lower lip. Alastor pressed his lips to where your heart was beating, taking in the melody of your life. The rhythm resounded in his head, your skin pressed more to his lips with your every deep breath, and he could feel you quivering under him with that contact. Alastor began to kiss tenderly, lightly. The wet kisses warmed your flesh, the sound of the smacks made you more aroused, moistening your core. Alastor stayed open mouthed against your chest, caressing with his tongue your skin. He was so close to your heart, to the source of your life.

Just a single strong enough tilt is enough to bury his teeth in you, to grab your trembling muscle and keep it between his teeth, to make you scream and to swallow you alive.

But you lay still, softly breathing and moving your legs against his hips, so calm and relaxed as if a starved cannibal wasn't hovering over you now. He glanced at you, saying, “Think I understand why you prefer to bite here,” His fangs slightly sank into your soft flesh, causing your gasp. “I can feel your life under my teeth. Inestimable feeling, indeed,” He purred in law.

Next moment a suppressed whimper escaped your lips, as his fangs grazed down your skin. He slowly tilted his head down, making the long but not deep scratches. You looked down to see several crimson lines sheding bright red liquid and a pair of blazing eyes watching you. Alastor stuck out his tongue and licked all that your body gave him, still looking at you as he lapped up your blood. His hands lay on your ribs, and you understood how small you were under him.

“Delicious… Darling, you're so delicious…” Alastor purred. He looked up when he heard your chuckle, “Ooh? You don't believe me?” You wanted to answer, but Alastor grabbed your wrist, and you watched in wonder how his long claw sank in your soft forearm and went down, slitting your skin. Blood ran down to elbow, and without taking his gaze from you, he commanded, “Lick it.”

You stared into each other's eyes, as you brought your arm to your mouth and began to make bottom-up licks. Your own tongue glided across your pale skin, you fed yourself with you, as you bobbed your head up and down and watched Alastor, wanting to see his emotions. His eyes flashed brightly, his Adam's apple moved up and down when he swallowed hardly and pronounced “Enough”. You closed your mouth and smiled. He definitely liked seeing you eating. No matter whether it was your victim, you or him.

“Which do you like most?”

“Yours.” You answered without hesitation, and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

“And I like yours.” His tongue traced from your elbow to your wrist so beautifully, you had to suppress your moan, but you blushed, when his eyes glanced down between your thighs and then back to your eyes. He slightly leaned to you, placing his palm on your lower back forcing you to sit up and lean to him.

“Come here,” He said, holding your palm tenderly and guiding you forward, whilst he slowly lay down on his back, and you turned up staying on your fours above him. He pushed your hips, signaling that you had to crawl further. His hands traced down your body from shoulders, to chest, to sides, to hips as you crawled to the metal rods of your bed headboard. You stopped when you appeared almost sitting on his chest.

“H-higher?” You looked down at him. Gleamy red eyes flashed with lust, tongue licked the lips in foretaste, “Higher,” He commanded. Before you did as he ordered, you took off his monocle. The rim was made of a black metal but wasn’t cold to the touch, warmed with his skin. The candlelight reflected in its red glass. “Ahh, thank you, dear. So providently, you must be reading my mind, hmm?” Hummed a static voice, and a cold shadow tendril took the object from your palm to place it on your bedside-table. Glancing down at him, you noted, “I can't read minds.”

“Hmm,” Alastor hummed pensively, and his furthest words brought rose on your cheeks, “What a pity!” 

His fingertips tapped against the soft skin of your buttocks when your hips hovered over his face. You heard a clap and suddenly cold air kissed your already wet entrance. You blushed when you heard a moan beneath you, “Mmm,” A drip of your juice fell into his mouth just when he made your panties disappear. You were already so wet, so exuding, so ready.

Hands on your waist gently pushed you down, and you spread your legs wider. You felt his hot breath on you and clenched onto your knees. The sharp tip of his tongue slipped along your heat, making you gasp and slightly jump up away from his greedy mouth.

“Don't be shy, dear. You'll feed me like I did, won't you?” His lips touched your folds, and he covered your pussy with gentle kisses, pressing down on your buttocks to bring you closer. A kiss on your left thigh, a kiss on your right thigh, loud smacks on your mound, a suck on your clit, more kisses to your soaking cunt. He glanced at you, waiting for your answer. “Y-yes…” You murmured stutteringly, and he placed his lips on your clit again, sticking out the tip of his tongue, slightly brushing it, “Ahh! Y-yes! Mm, yes, Alastor, I will!”

You heard a low chuckle under you and felt how his tongue rubbed along your slick folds back and forth, back and forth, making you slightly moan, its tip swirled around that tiny pink spot of yours just very slightly, even teasingly, causing trembling in your thighs, filling you with need. You looked down to see bright red eyes with half-drooped crimson lids, staring at you with lust, hunger, adoration. His pupils widened, he greedily breathed in your scent and lapped your taste. Oh, how tasty you were there, he licked every inch, every fold of your pussy like a spoon covered in syrup.

The tip of his tongue poked at your slot, slowly went up to your clit, pushed at your little organ and drew little circles around it. Your thighs shook slightly, you mumbled something, and he went back to your dripping hole, sticking out his tongue further. Your hips began to rock, as you wanted more and deeper. Feeling your anticipation with his tongue, he pushed you lower, and your walls clenched around his appendage as it slipped deep into you, making you claw into the sheets and moan voluptuously. Alastor groaned into your flesh when your pussy embraced his muscle tightly, he snatched at your hips more firmly, not wanting even a millimetre to separate you from him. His tongue swirled deep inside your soft walls, touching the places you never reached yourself and causing more of your juices to dribble into his mouth, causing more shivers run down your spine, thighs. His brows knit, as he savoured your taste with loud slurp and groan, and the lewdy sounds made your hips gyrate more.

The heat you felt, the pleasure Alastor brought you, was divine. You softly moaned, rocking on his face, throwing your head back, propping yourself with your hands against his hips. Out of the corner of your eye you noticed some motion and turned your head. You saw a tall slim shadow among the red flames of the candles. It stared at you with a wide grin, and you could see how hard it breathed, just as a dog after a chase. Its shoulders shook in strange movements, but you didn't see its arms. It was Alastor's shadow and it watched you and his master right now. You blushed and your head spun with this realisation, but suck at your clit made you switch your attention back to him. “Ah-alastor! Alast-tor!” But he only groaned into you, finally hearing how his name sweetly fell from your lips, and drove his tongue back in you, making your hips quiver. “Mmmm,” You mewled when his tongue rubbed your little nub again. Your hand wandered across his hips until it touched the hard organ of your lover, and you felt a deep sighed against your pussy. You glanced back, moaning just at the sight of his swollen member twitching in your tender grasp. The taste of his skin and cum phantomed on your tongue, awakening your appetite once again.

Alastor moaned when he felt your fingertips on his cock, stroking up and down his length with such tenderness and shyness. You didn't squeeze him tightly, just slowly traced along his cock, lubricating him with his precum. Alastor placed his thumb on your clit, and pushed his sinister tongue back into your sugar hole. You whined at a new touch that sent vibration through your muscles, making them tense and arch your back. “Ah-al.. Alastor, it's-” But the demon beneath you consumed from so deep parts of you and so voraciously, so pain and pleasure blended, occupying you brain and turning it into fuzz.

Your strokes became faster and you held on his member firmer, your hand moistened in his sticky fluid, and you brought it to your mouth. Alastor watched you sweetly licking your palm and wrist, your fingers and between them; you kept your eyes on him feeding yourself.

But then your eyes widened, and you covered your mouth with your now clean palm, afraid that the loud obscene sounds escaping from your lips could be heard on this quiet night. Rolling your eyes back, you pitifully moaned into your palm, rocking your hips, trying to take more in this blissful release, whilst your nectar poured down Alastor's throat, intoxicating him like a love potion, for he desired for more and for longer and forever.

“Fuck! Good… So good, darling,” He said as he sat up to his knees, grabbing your trembling body from your back and kissing off the sweat from your neck. You gasped when he pushed you forward, and you fell on your belly. With your back you felt Alastor's heat and hot breath against the nape of your neck, as he leaned over you, pressing his aching cock to your butt, his fingers closed down around your wrists.

“If you starved for days, I starved for months, dear,” His dark whisper burnt the place behind your ear, “It was luscious, dear. So good,” His fingers intertwined with yours, a moan escaped your lips when you felt him rubbing between your cheeks, “Can't even know whether I'm able to keep control tonight.“ The static in his voice became louder, the noisy warning of danger made you feel calmer somehow.

“Then don't try.”

The buzz subsided and you heard a slightly alarmed, “How's that?”

“Don't try to hold you back, Alastor. I want you, and I want all of you.” You bucked your hips back against him, making Alastor let out a suppressed groan. “I've been starving for months too, and if you let go of me now, you'll be able to see it yourself.” You were frustrated with his silence and inactivity, for he stopped those tender movements of his hips against your skin. You turned your head to glance at him and continued, smiling, “I am not afraid, Alastor. I accept anything you offer me. I need it, Alastor. Please. Please, let us not worry about what we’ll face when the sun rises. Tonight is only you and I.”

For a moment you could hear only the rustling static, and then Alastor leaned in, his bare chest met your back and you could feel with your skin his breath, as his chest touched you with his every breath. His lips captured yours in a tender kiss. No blood, no pain, just shivers running down your bodies, as you tenderly partake each other's breath and taste, proving your devotion for each other for tonight. For more nights.

Parting his lips from yours, Alastor didn't open his eyes but hid his face from your gaze, pressing his forehead to your crown. He whispered, “Not only this night, darling. You know it. You belong to me, now.” His cock slowly traced down between your nates, and his tip kissed the rim of your heated hole.

“Mmm… Yes..!” You moaned, dispelling his last doubts. His already dewy cock easily slipped deeper into you. “I fought back my desire to devour you for so long…” Your voice trembled.

“Longer than me?” You heard a smile in his voice and couldn't help but smile too. The half of his length was inside of you, and then he moved out but just to make his next thrust deeper.

“Ah! N-not sure! But from our f-fir-ohh-st meeting I-I thought only- ahh ‘bout you!” He slowly rocked his hips back and forward, not letting his whole length come into your core yet. Shivers ran down your spine, Alastor quietly called your name, told you how good he felt and how perfect you were for him, and you loved him being so vocal.

You remembered the first time you heard his footsteps in the dark corridor, the crackling of the atmospherics brushing your ears, his loud heartbeat telling you how hot his blood could be. When he first gave you the intent glare of his shining crimson eyes, his first sharp smile with long fangs, and the first touch of his warm hands. He grabbed you by your chin, forcing you to look up at him and answer his question, “So, do tell me, why are you sneaking at my door in the dead of night, sweetheart?” The first time you heard that bewitching voice hiding a threat behind its sweet tone, and coupled with his burning gaze and firm sharp claws on your chin, it gave you no choice but to say the truth, “Thought I smelled something scrumptious. I'm hungry.”

Since that day the static buzz still ran through your veins, sending pleasant shivers down your spine. His alluring voice echoed in your head, the phantom feeling of the atmospherics vibrated through your muscles, and every time facing him, you had palpitation and felt the heat in your core.

Alastor placed his hands under your hips to slowly lift your pelvis, making your back bend to a beautiful smooth curve. “Ahh…”, He pushed a little deeper, hands held on to your hips tightly, his head pressed against the nape of your neck, and a low moan escaped his lips as you mewled under him.

Alastor bowed his head down, so his teeth slightly grazed the skin on your shoulder blades, leaving the bright red lines, and making you softly whine with pleasure blended with pain. His tongue lapped the blood away, but his fangs made new scratches that were immediately caressed again with his tongue, “Good,” another lick and another thrust, “Very good.” Staying inside of you with half of his length, he helped you boost a little more until you stood on your fours. You chewed on your lip, feeling his cock inside of you, big but not deep enough, and you slightly leaned back. A trembling sigh fell from your parted lips, as his cock went deeper, and you slowly returned to your previous position just to pull yourself on him anew and feel him again. Alastor watched how he disappeared in the tight ring of your heat, felt how your pussy clenched around him and how your juice enveloped his cock, listened to your unintelligible sweet babble and moans.

“That's right, dear… Yes…”

A slender silhouette began to form on the maroon wallpaper, where the candles didn't pour their light. The shadow peered into your face, wryly grinning at you, it slowly tilted its head, admiring the sight of you being fucked with its master. Soft moans flew down from your slightly parted lips, only white fangs gleamed in the dark; your cheeks blushed so cute and probably were warm to the touch; tears were forming in the corners of your magenta eyes, as it became harder for you to control your breath and suppress your moans. The hazy black face suddenly flew closer to you, its hollow eyes seemed to look into the depths of your soul, whilst you moaned looking back at it. “A-alastor..?” You felt a cool humid touch — the shadow cupped your cheeks in its hands but soon let go of you and dissolved in the darkness. The same cold touch traced down your back, disappearing as it reached the pit above your buttocks, and a quiver went through you, making your body wave with pleasure. You heard a low chuckle behind you, but weren’t sure if it wasn't a hallucination. Alastor placed his hand on your chest, caressing your soft skin, playing with your hard nipples, then his hand slowly went down to your waist, and stopped on your hip to hold it firmer.

When your hips moved back, Alastor harshly pushed forward. You couldn’t suppress a loud moan, and you felt a hand on your lips. He pulled your hips closer to him until your pussy met the base of his cock, causing you to groan into his palm. “Shhhhh. You don't want to wake anyone up, do you?” Alastor whispered in your ear, and you nodded your head. His heated body pressed against yours, and he didn't move, giving you time to adjust his size. Tears were running down your cheeks and tracing down his hand, as you puffed against his skin and breathed his scent in. 

Slowly he began to thrust, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin reached to your hearing, and the sound made your pussy wetter, causing more of a sultry noise. The slaps became more rapid, louder, so was his breath; Alastor whispered the senseless yes's almost every time when his hips kissed your butt; among your quiet moans you tried to say his name, but failed on the last syllable, as he pushed harder, reaching to the very right spot inside of you. “Yes, good good, darling. You're just… perfect.” He breathed above you, and you felt how your orgasm drew nearer, your exhalations became rapid and you pathetically moaned in his palm, your drool slipped down under his hand, and when you thought your release was so near, Alastor retracted and removed his hand from your mouth.

“N-no, no, n-noo!” You cried in desperation, but a cold invisible touch to your face made you silent. Alastor turned you around and pushed you down on the mattress, he held your shaking legs together and placed them on his shoulder, leaning closer to you. “Now, my sweet darling, don't you dare to take your eyes off me, understand?” You could only nod your head. “Lovely.” Alastor stroked your knees, as he waited for you to catch your breath and your heat to cool down. The tip of his cock was still between your folds, your juices mixed on your skin.

The red wine moonlight haloed your lover from behind, casting a shadow on his face. The bright moon seemed to be stuck between his large antlers. With his sinfully grin and the red aureole sharply outlining his figure Alastor looked like an ominous saint. A saint you willed to serve and willed to eat, so he'd dissolve in you completely as you absorbed him. Or, if he commanded, you'd slide into his mouth to disappear in his void. What pleasure would it be to melt away on each other's tongues.

You bit your lower lip, holding back moanings, when a strong wave of pleasure quivered your body from your toes to head, as Alastor finally pushed forward, slowly entering in your soaking hole wholly. He looked deeply into your wide eyes flashing bright with delight and groaned, feeling how warmly you clenched around him. “Adorable,” He cooed at the sight of your fangs showing under your red lip and your eyebrows rising high in a pleading look. He made a few thrusts, firmly holding you by your ankles and hips, as you curved your toes.

You watched with devious gaze how Alastor parted your legs, letting you embrace his waist  and pull him closer to you. The hand Alastor kept on your hip slipped down to find its place between your thighs, his fingertips touched your clit, causing you to press yourself closer to him instinctively. 

“Not now. Perhaps some other day.”

The static statement made your blood cold — did he want to stop? — before you noticed a spot darker than night behind Alastor's shoulder. His shadow appeared again, its wide mouth was very close to your ankles, fingertips pressed to your knees. Did it ask Alastor something? Did it ask about you?

A strong hand grabbed your chin, turning your head straight, “Eyes on me,” Alastor said and rubbed your sensitive pinky spot, making you bite your lip harder. Blood slipped from under your fangs, and his tongue glided along your lips, collecting red droplets, and when he thrusted again he covered your mouth with his in a passionate kiss. You moaned into him, his tongue embraced yours, his hand went from your jaw to your cheek to caress it softly, while he thrusted so deep it almost hurt. Your lips parted, tongues slowly separated their embrace, and Alastor hushed at you again, whilst his fingertip still played with your clit, drawing slow circles around it or tracing up and down, while you whined with your mouth closed. He adored your moans and deep heavy exhalations burning his face; adored how you struggled so much to fulfil his task, keeping your eyes on him and not to roll them back or turn away your face; adored the smell of your arousal and sweat and how your bosoms rocked to the rhythm of his thrusts. He adored you, when your claws dug deeply in his skin and he felt blood running down his spine, “Ff-uck! Ahh, are you still trying to consume me?” You could only answer with your glowing eyes that lit up when you smelled blood. His blood. So delicious, intoxicating. The tip of your tongue swept drool from your lips. “Now now, stop looking at me like I'm your game. We’re both caught in each other's snare, darling.” And when he leaned closer to coo in your ear, you sank your teeth in his shoulder, making him groan. Your claws drew longer lines on his back, as he leaned forward, making your fangs go deeper in him and going himself deeper in you. You immediately retracted your fangs until your venom could flow into his veins, and in his fashion you licked his flavour clean, whilst he rocked his hips faster. “Such a bad girl,” He darkly chuckled, “Oh, I’m so getting you back, sweetest.” 

Alastor accelerated his pace. Through your teary eyes you saw how the long shadows wrapped you both, plunging you into complete darkness. You felt yourself hovering in the air, cold and moist air like fog, and only the heat of Alastor’s body above and in you warmed you. Everything around you seemed monochrome, and only his bright crimson eyes and a green “X” flashing on his forehead were the only visible things. You knew, Alastor couldn't cause hallucinations like you, so you guessed he summoned the shadows he had control over to hide you not only from prying ears and eyes but even from the dim light of the moon. Tonight is only you and I.

You couldn't control yourself anymore, a long moan escaped your mouth, and you threw your head back, when you heard Alastor's voice groaning your name and his moan, as he came at the same time as you. Your back arched, legs wrapped around his waist, pressing him close to you, not wanting to let him go, his seed creamed your walls from inside and your own nectar poured on him. You shook in his embrace, your hands clutched at his back and his hair, he was still filling you wholly and whispered, “Good, my dear. You're so. Fucking. G-good…”

When you opened your eyes you saw the crimson wallpaper and burning candles. The flame built beautiful unequal steps of wax, though the length of the candles hadn't changed. The curtains were closed. In the silent room only heartbeats and breath of the both were heard. It was your bedroom again.

You looked down and saw Alastor sitting at your legs, he fingered his cum back in your pussy and left light kisses on your thighs. You noticed some bruises and bitemarks there. The shadow hovered near him and watched the smooth movements of its master.

Alastor felt your gaze on him and looked up. He made a last push into your pussy with a proud smile and crawled to you to lie by your side. You immediately clung to him and he wrapped his arms around you. Your legs intertwined and you understood that both of you were absolutely clean now (excluding your inside, you felt how uncomfortably but pleasantly wet you were there), though the scent of blood of him on of you still was in the air and tickled your nose. “Thank you,” You said, turning to your side and looking at him. Alastor’s face was so beautiful when he was so close to you. You could see all the mesmerising shades of red in his eyes, the little wrinkles in the corner of his eyes, caused by his ever present smile, and even the tiny wounds on his lips after your vampire kiss. Alastor raised his black brow at your words, and you continued, “I don't remember if I told you that, but it was in my head for all night. Thank you.”

“Hmm,” He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he looked at you again, his smile grew bigger and in eyes played a mockery, “You're welcome, my dear, but don't forget I'm grateful for you too. The pleasure you received me I have never experienced before. Thank you, dear. But!” His forefinger appeared in front of you and playfully bumped you in your nose, “For all night you said? That's a lie, dear, a shameless lie.” You stared in wonder at him. “We are so, so far from being finished. And have you forgotten? I still haven't taken revenge on you for the bite.” Your eyes widened, “B-but I thought… What happened in the shadow was-”

“Oh dear, don't you take orgasm as a punishment? Oh please!” He rolled his eyes, snickering at you, “It was just a treat, dear, that we both deserved after such long starvation.” Suddenly he wrapped your wrist with his hands and rolled over, pinning you down to the mattress with his weight. But this time his eyes flashed not only with desire and hunger. A bit of anger gleamed too, and the sight made your heart skip a beat both in fear and craving.

“The real punishment is starting now.”

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

A night creature like you never needed sleep. Neither day nor night. You could stay awake for days and just time after time gave your eyes rest by closing them, but your body or spirit never felt the urge to sleep. Alastor was the same. Why waste your time sleeping and see useless dreams when you could do something really entertaining? Go for a hunt for example? Or trying to eat your beloved alive?

But when the sky behind the glass changed in a lighter hue, the sign of the coming morning, you both needed a little rest after the longest night in your afterlife (at least, for you it was the longest). You felt exhausted and really needed a break, which you suggested to Alastor too, for you knew he’d never admit that he was tired, but by pretending that he just supported you, he could give himself a rest too. So now you lay in a warm embrace with your eyes closed, listening to each other's heartbeats.

The pink sunbeam hit your eyes and you opened them. The sunrises in hell were always red-pink, and the warm light of the sun entered your bedroom through the black uncurtained velvet, painting the room with a soft reddish hue. Looking around, you noticed that the candles were still burning, and with a wave of your hand you made them go out. One of your powers: to make lights go out but never light up. It was a beautiful theatrical menace before you chase your game in hunt. You propped yourself up on your elbow and viewed yourself. The night was hard and the bite marks on your tights, neck and breast with scratches on your hips and ribs, and also the muscle pain  in your legs were proof of that. Smiling broadly like a crazy man, you fell onto the pillow. You felt ecstasy, so satisfied, proud and filled with delight.

You cast an eye at Alastor. He looked a tad damaged too: vampire marks on his chest, arms, and his back was all red after the rough caress of your claws. Several little scratches were visible even on his antlers, as a few hours ago you clutched at them during the nth time he took you. But after all, he looked much better than you.

His eyelids trembled as the sun reached to his face too, and before he could open his eyes, you pressed your lips to his. He emitted a sound of surprise but next second you felt him clinging closer to you in a gentle but determined kiss.

When you parted your lips, your voices merged into a “Good morning, sweetest”, when you both whispered against each other's mouth and chuckled.

* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *

When everybody went downstairs for breakfast, the first thing they saw in the dining room were you and Alastor, sitting at the table. No plate was in front of you, and Alastor held only a cup of coffee in his hand. All others plates were already filled with omelette with some vegetables and waffles on the saucers nearby.

“Sooo, you stay?” Asked Angel, taking his place next to you. You wore a black dress with a long skirt and long bell sleeves, a velvet choker wrapped around your neck, crimson gloves covered your wrists. Such an inappropriate outfit for breakfast just to hide all the lovemarks Alastor left on your body. He didn't like that you hid the job he was so proud of, but you alluded to the fact that he hid your lovemarks too, and also you mentioned that you didn't want to make the residents worry or even frighten them with your new wounds.

“Sure!”

“Why of course, she is!”

You and Alastor exclaimed at the same time and gave each other a glad look.

“Are you sure?” Vaggie crossed her arms on her chest, gazing at your figures with uncovered suspicion. Charlie sat next to her, pressing her hands to her heart. From the other side of the table you could hear how it beat in a shy hope.

“Yes, my dear, she stays.” Alastor stated with a poisonous smile, and you wrapped your hand around his elbow, slightly tilting your head to his side. A satisfied smile played on your face, but what surprised the crew the most was the lovely blush on your cheeks. Nobody even guessed that someone like you actually had blood running through the veins, but when you satisfied your hunger completely you were like alive again with red hue in your cheeks and warmth on your fingertips.

Angel was sitting closest to you, after Alastor of course, and noticed the marks on your neck, which couldn't hide the thin necklace you wore. You heard a smirk and glanced at him.

“And what so special did he do to bring you back to life, miss fancy fangs?” He asked with a seductive smile, arching his eyebrow.

“Just gave himself to me.” Your answer made Angel choke on his waffles, and it caught the attention of others, making them stop their conversations. Angel blushed but not only because of your words, there was also something too intimate in the glow of your red eyes, and something forbidden hid in the curve of your smile. But he was the only one who heard your words clearly, not counting Alastor, who placed his cup on the table and placed his hand on the small of your back so nobody could see, “Now now, darling, learn to choose your words properly,” Alastor said, giving Angel a dark glare, “I gave you my blood and this is the reason you felt so good."

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” Angel exclaimed, making others listen closely.

“No. We're absolutely honest with you, Angel!” You said, looking at him and then turned back to Alastor. You looked up at him, your cheeks blushed more and you lowered your gaze, covering your mouth with your fingers, “But honestly, Alastor… Not only your blood.”

Angel looked at you with wide opened eyes, his mouth slightly opened in shock. Husk, sitting next to him, froze with his fork stopped half way to his mouth, as he heard your words. He cast an eye to your direction.

“Well, to be completely honest,” Alastor said loudly, pushing back his chair and standing up. He grabbed your hand, making you follow him and trying to keep his pace, as you still chuckled embarrassed into your fist. As Alastor passed by behind Angel he bent slightly to say, “She wasn't the only one who satisfied the hunger.” And hand in hand you left the dining room. Your ringing chuckle echoed in the walls.

Husk said grampily, “The fuck he said now?”

*. ⋆ ✧.·:·.* ☽ ･ ｡ﾟ･ ☾ *.·:·.✧ *. ⋆

beautiful vampires: @totespferd @mo-0-o @ivebeenthearchersstuff @rintheremy @eris-norwega @certifiedalastorsimp @phantomk24

@alastor-konig-kakashi-shoutasimp

[sassenach77yle]

I DON’T KNOW how long I had been sitting there, head in my hands, listening to the loud buzzing of bees. But I heard footsteps coming down the path and managed to lift my head. “Are ye all right, Sassenach?” It was Jamie, the large box of medicines and bandages in his arms. And from the look of alarm on his face, it was reasonably obvious that I didn’t look all right. I couldn’t muster the energy to try to look all right. “I just—thought I’d sit down,” I said, flapping a hand helplessly. “I’m glad ye did.” He set down the box on the yellowing grass and came to crouch in front of me, examining my face. “What happened?” “Nothing,” I said, and without warning began to cry. Or, rather, to leak. There was nothing of the sobbing, convulsive, racking nature of weeping; tears were just streaking down my cheeks without my approval. Jamie nudged me over a little and sat down beside me, wrapping his arms around me. He was wearing his old kilt, and the smell of the dusty wool fabric, worn thin with age, made me utterly dissolve. He tightened his grip and, sighing, pressed his cheek to my head and said small, tender things in Gaelic. And in a little time, the effort to understand them gave me a tenuous grip on myself. I drew a deep breath and he released me, though he kept an arm around me for support.

“Mo nighean donn,” he said softly, and smoothed hair out of my face. “Have ye got a hankie?” That made me laugh. Or rather emit a sort of strangled giggle, but still . . . “Yes. At least, I think so.” I groped in my bosom and withdrew a sturdy square of much-laundered linen, on which I blew my nose several times and then wiped my eyes, trying to think what on earth to offer as an explanation for my disordered state—of mind, as well as body. There wasn’t any good way to begin, so I just began. “Do you ever—well, no. I know you do.” “Likely,” he said, smiling a little. “What do I do?” “See the . . . the void. The abyss.” Speaking the words reopened the rent in my soul, and the cold wind came through. A shudder ran through me, in spite of the warmth of the air and Jamie’s body. “I mean—it’s always there, always yawning at your feet, but most people manage to ignore it, not think about it. I’ve mostly been able to. You have to, to do medicine.” I wiped my nose on my sleeve, having dropped my handkerchief. Jamie pulled a crumpled hankie out of his sleeve and handed it to me. “Ye dinna mean only death?” he asked. “Because I’ve seen that often enough. It hasna really scairt me since I was ten or so, though.” He glanced down at me and smiled. “And I doubt ye’re afraid of it, either. I’ve seen ye face it down a thousand times and more.” “Facing something down doesn’t mean you aren’t afraid of it,” I said dryly. “Usually quite the opposite. And I know you know that.” He made a small sound of agreement in his throat and hugged me gently. I would normally have found this comforting, and the fact that I didn’t merely added to my sense of despair. “It’s—it’s just . . . nothing. And so much endless nothing . . . It’s as though nothing you do, nothing you are, can possibly matter, it’s all just swallowed up . . .” I closed my eyes, but the darkness behind my eyelids frightened me and I opened them again. “I—” I raised a hand, then let it fall. “I can’t explain,” I said, defeated. “It wasn’t there—or I wasn’t looking at it—after I was shot. It wasn’t nearly dying that made me look in, see it yawning there. But being so . . . so bloody frail! Being so stinking afraid.” I clenched my fists, seeing the knobby bones of my knuckles, the blue veins that stood out on the backs of my hands and curved down my wrists. “Not death,” I said at last, sniffing. “Futility. Uselessness. Bloody entropy. Death matters, at least sometimes.” “I ken that,” Jamie said softly, and took my hands in his; they were big, and battered, scarred and maimed. “It’s why a warrior doesna fear death so much. He has the hope—sometimes the certainty—that his death will matter.”

“What happens to me between now and then doesna matter to anyone.” Those words swam out of nowhere and struck me in the pit of the stomach, so hard that I could barely breathe. He’d said that to me, from the bottom of despair, in the dungeon of Wentworth Prison, a lifetime ago. He’d bargained for my life then, with what he had—not his life, already forfeit, but his soul. “It matters to me!” I’d said to him—and, against all odds, had ransomed that soul and brought him back. And then it had come again, stark and dire necessity, and he’d laid down his life without hesitation for his men and for the child I carried. And that time I had been the one who sacrificed my soul. And it had mattered, for both of us. It still mattered. And the shell of fear cracked like an egg and everything inside me poured out like blood and water mingled and I sobbed on his chest until there were no more tears and no more breath. I leaned against him, limp as a dishcloth, and watched the crescent moon begin to rise in the east. “What did you say?” I said, rousing myself after a long while. I felt groggy and disoriented, but at peace. “I asked, what’s entropy?” “Oh,” I said, momentarily disconcerted. When had the concept of entropy been invented? Not yet, obviously. “It’s, um . . . a lack of order, a lack of predictability, an inability for a system to do work.” “A system of what?” “Well, there you have me,” I admitted, sitting up and wiping my nose. “Just an ideal sort of system, with heat energy. The Second Law of Thermodynamics basically says that in an isolated system—one that’s not getting energy from somewhere outside, I mean—entropy will always increase. I think it’s just a scientific way of saying that everything is going to pot, all of the time.” He laughed, and despite my shattered state of mind, I did, too. “Aye, well, far be it from me to argue wi’ the Second Law of Thermodynamics,” he said. “I think it’s likely right. When did ye last eat, Sassenach?” “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m not hungry.” I didn’t want to do anything but sit still beside him. “D’ye see the sky?” he said, a little later. It was a pure deep violet at the horizon, fading into a blue-black immensity overhead, and the early stars burned like distant lamps. “Hard to miss,” I said. “Aye.” He sat with his head tilted back, looking up, and I admired the clean line of his long, straight nose, his soft wide mouth and long throat, as though seeing them for the first time.

“Is it not a void there?” he said quietly, still looking up. “And yet we’re no afraid to look.” “There are lights,” I said. “It makes a difference.” My voice was hoarse, and I swallowed. “Though I suppose even the stars are burning out, according to the Second Law.” “Mmphm. Well, I suppose men can make all the laws they like,” he said, “but God made hope.

The stars willna burn out.” He turned and, cupping my chin, kissed me gently. “And nor will we.”

The noises of the city were muted now, though even darkness didn’t stifle it entirely. I heard distant voices and the sound of a fiddle: a party, perhaps, from one of the houses down the street. And the bell of St. George’s struck the hour with a small, flat bong! Nine o’clock. And all’s well. “I’d better go and see to my patient,” I said.

118 THE SECOND LAW OF THERMODYNAMICS ~ Written in my own heart's blood

[moirindeclermont]

It's a new week, and welcome all of you!!

Today's episode of "All Polin's First Times We Didn't See" is about dreams (in two parts, this one is Colin's, tomorrow is all about Pen). Please continue to make requests. We have roughly two weeks to go before this series ends and Kinktober starts... I have around 6/7 prompts already, so I have space for more 6/7. I can't wait to read your requests! But now, let's talk about dreams.

Pen might ask about dreams since Colin said he was dreaming of her. Maybe they are cuddling in the morning, and it's a nice quiet day where they get to indulge a bit. "Tell me about your dreams," says Pen, playing with the hair on his chest - something so intimate it still makes her heart beat faster. He looks at her, "Only if you tell me yours," he says, and by the blush Pen now has, he knows it's going to get juice soon. Pen nods: she must be really curious.

"The night after our first kiss, I didn't sleep at all," he confesses. Now, the memory is happy and not bittersweet because she is here with him, so he can laugh a bit at his own dramatics. "You rocked my world with that one, Pen," he adds, stealing another kiss—now they can, now they are married. "But that evening, I was so tired that I went to bed early, and I dreamt about me coming back to your garden," now he gets shy because he knows what's next.

He looks at the incredible woman who is looking at him with such awe in her eyes: "I confessed my feeling... and you—dream you—said you felt the same. that I occupied your thoughts constantly. Then I kissed you, not like our first kiss. I pressed you against the wall and made you mine with my hands and mouth," he tells her, and she smiles at him. "You're such a romantic; even your dreams are as sweet as you," she says, but he laughs with her, "That was only the first dream... "

"Every night after that, it got worse and worse. I imagined having you under me. Exploring your bosom," and he traces a nipple with his fingers, making it hard. He pinches it, making Pen gasps. "Once we were at a ball, and you were dancing with someone else... in the dream, I walked towards you, pushed the Lord away and kissed you there right in the middle of the room," he says, remembering how he approached her and Lord Debling he thinks now he might have taken some inspiration from his dream.

"After the hot ballon, it got even worse," he adds, noticing how she is trying not to move. "I had an erection constantly," and as he speaks, Pen takes him in hand, pumping him slowly. "I imagined your mouth around me or how you tasted. I bought an eclair that day to get close to how your mouth would taste," and he shakes his head. "You had me under a spell, Pen," he says, his breath just a bit quicker because of Pen's movement.

Pen now takes him in her mouth. He would never get used to seeing her in between his legs, eyes on him, licking and sucking him like she was starving for him. He moans and pants, "Continue," says Pen. He can't think much, but he tries for her. "I woke up humping the sheets or with my erection in hand, thinking -- ahhhh, Pen, yes -- thinking of how much I wanted to sink into you and show you what pleasure is," he says, and it seems like Pen is enacting his dreams.

Because the moment after, she is sinking into him, her wet core enveloping him. They both moan loudly. "Tell me more, Colin," she says, and he can only grab her hips to accompany her while he speaks, his voice broken by his moans. "I tried everything to get away from thoughts of you - bloody hell, Pen - I even went to a brothel but I passed the time on my own, imagining you, -- you're a goddess, wife -- Always you."

And Pen is not jealous, not in the slightest, when she is the only one capable of making him turn into this with just a look. Words become useless as they fall into each other, kissing and moaning their pleasure. "Dreams didn't hold a candle against you," he says between thrusts; they are both close now. "The first time I sank into you, I think you took my soul as your prisoner," he says, utterly wrecked, pen all but screaming her release above him.

He comes a bit later, and Pen is now lying on top of him. "If I took your soul, it's only fair, I think," he finds the courage to look at her through the exhaustion. "You took mine when I met you," she clarifies for him as they kiss, staying like that in that embrace for a very long time.

[waitingforthet]

Bosom Bloodies: it’s a matter of perspective

first previous next

[comatosebunny09]

tw: profanity, blood, torture, implied minor character death notes: up late again. i started thinking about a guard dog au again and spat this out.

“You still let that sick fuck control you!” Carlos spits. Voice gurgles, blood puddling in his throat. For someone on the edge of death, he sure likes to talk. “He’ll kill you when he no longer finds use for you, you stupid bitch!” 

You ignore his monologuing, more concerned with the speck of crimson flying from his mouth to stain your shirt collar. 

You fret over it, smearing the bloodstain with your thumb. Your brow ticks as you attempt to rub it clean. No dice. 

You really like this shirt.

Sucking your teeth, you twirl the tactical knife in your hand before driving it into Carlos’ thigh. He screams bloody murder. You wince; you’ve never known a man to cry like that. He’s not the one with blood on his favorite shirt. 

You pop up from your spot crouched before him. Wipe your hands on your thighs, heaving a sigh. You circle the chair Carlos is bound to, deceptively gentle as you clasp his shoulders once you're behind him. 

“I no longer have a use for you,” you whisper, squeezing his arms with a reassuring smile. You bend to ear level, Carlos’ blubbering simpering as your lips graze the shell of it. “But they might.” 

He follows your line of sight. You wordlessly signal to two brutish-looking men Sylus left at your disposal, framing the door.

You pat Carlos’ shoulder. “Good luck,” you say, stepping around him and between the hulking guards. You tell them to have fun, tossing your bloodied gloves over your shoulder on your way out. 

The steel door slams shut behind you. You straighten the lapels of your blazer. A muffled scream erupts from the room you just exited. They didn’t waste any time getting to work.

Carlos is in good hands, you think, exiting the warehouse. You throw your leg over your motorcycle seat after you turn it on, stuffing your helmet onto your head. You’ve got some debriefing to do. They can handle the rest.

—

The twin doorknobs are cold in your palms. 

You exhale as various masculine voices filter through the door leading to Sylus’ office. He’s in a meeting discussing things you can’t be bothered to follow. You don’t want to interrupt, yet the twins told you he wanted to see you immediately upon your return. 

You look down at your clothes. They’re bloodied and streaked red. Damn Carlos. Who knew someone could bleed so much? You can’t go in there like this. Not when you have a reputation to uphold. 

Shutting your eyes, you focus on controlling your breaths. Home in on a flicker of energy collecting in your solar plexus. You tap into it, a stream of it steadily bleeding out. It pulses through you, a cooling sensation wading over your skin. You don a glamor, a veil to hide your disheveled state until you can shower and change your clothes.

With a surge of confidence, you push through the heavy doors, a cool gust of wind kissing your molten skin. Six sets of eyes settle on you. The conversing peters to dull murmurs as you make your way to your boss, your heels clicking soundly over the marbled floors and a smile cresting over your lips. 

He’s sitting down at the head of the table. Tapping his temple in mock contemplation. He seems annoyed if the tense line of his shoulders is anything to go by. Maybe some good news will help lighten his load. You angle yourself to earshot, your torso brushing his shoulder. You get a whiff of the warm scent he carries. Try not to let it deter you from your mission. 

“It’s done,” you murmur. He smirks in your periphery, glancing at you with eyes the color of a wildfire. It’s a brief exchange, enough to warm you from the inside out. He dismisses you with a waggle of his fingers. 

You try to ignore how your heart swoops when you step back, a hand over your bosom as you bow tersely. You’re halfway to the door when he calls to you, stopping you in your tracks. 

“Make sure you clean up before your show this evening. Wouldn’t want to scare off our guests now, would we, darling?” 

You stiffen. Heat prickles your cheeks. Of course, he can see through your glamor. The aether core embedded in his eye allows him to do so. 

The businessmen sprinkled around the table exchange hushed words, unsure of what Sylus is on about. You look impeccably polished to them. You bow again, tamping down your bashfulness. You’re mortified. “Understood.”

You exit the room, mouth drawn into a rigid line. If no one else, you never want to look unkempt in front of your boss.   

[tellmeallaboutit]

Raphael/F!Tav: belle de jour

Summary: Raphael obsesses over his sleeping Archduchess wife.

Rating: Mature / Explicit

Trigger warnings: somnophilia (and therefore dub-con), obsessive thoughts, paranoia, power-lust, jealousy, breeding kink, creampie, established relationship, dark Raphael.

Wanted, wanted: little mouse. 

Hair: blonde. Lips: scarlet.

Where is she hiding in his house? 

Why are you hiding, darling? (*)

****

There she lay.

There she lay, his temptress: face down, her hair unbraided, her body naked but for the lace of her knickers, on their enormous four-poster bed.

There he stood.

There he stood at the door, rapt. The red pillow, the excessive, creamy silk pillow she lay on was so soft and deep that her face was almost hidden, but he could still see the high curve of her cheek, her small flushed ear. There was something innocent about the way her legs were splayed, childlike about the way her hands were tucked under her breasts.

Her innocence is nothing but a sweet little lie, and this sweet little thing doth lie, oh doth she lie.

His Archduchess lay there, passive, soft, his belle de jour, his sleeping beauty. A delicate snore escapes her lips. Such a perfectly mortal thing, a defenseless thing, an irresistible bait. 

His Archduchess is elsewhere, in realms where he is barred from entry. Scarcely anything escapes his control now; yet her dreams are her sanctuary. He watches her inhale and exhale in slumber's grasp, he notes the rhythmic ebb and flow of her lush bosom's rise and fall.

Her eroticism is his oblivion.

Her skin, oh her skin, is pure liquid silk and it's so soft to touch and utterly void of even the smallest blemish. He yearns to see this vixen flayed bloody raw to strip her perfect skin of its tyrannical hold over him.

He kneels before her splayed legs like a suppliant, but it's futile to beg for mercy from her: for she, his Archduchess, is bereft of mercy – her cruelty dwarfs his own.

He touches the satin fabric of her undergarments which are dampened by her desire. “What do you dream about, mouse?", he asks, his fangs nibbling the tender terrain of her thighs. "Whom do you dream about?". 

She remains silent, ever the tease, ever the provocateur, and he feels a rush of desire which is almost painful.

Who could she possibly be dreaming about that would cause the wet stain on that beige satin, that nymph harlot of his?

He kneels and he pulls away her knickers to probe her, and his tongue encounters her wetness, thick and syrupy - she is in the middle of her lunar cycle. His body jolts at this realization and aching need - she is fertile - she commands him to perform his duties.

More sons, strong, powerful hellspawns, more sons to pit against each other, to ensure the survival of only the ones who prove their mettle, to ensure his legacy for eons to come. Daughters bring naught but a handful of cubs, his sons will have thousands of women swell for them.

Her eyes flicker half-open and all he can see is the stark white. 

“Raphael?” she asks in her dream, as if not sure; and why is she not? Who else does the vixen expect to lay between her legs in their bedroom?

He lullabies her with his soporific enchantment, not ready to part with the power that is being her voyeur and violator.

“Sleep, my darling wife”, he hushes, and her face softens and her lips part and she tosses her head back and lets a small, child-like whimper. 

He showers his sleeping beauty with lascivious caresses, the skin of her thighs gooseflesh under his fingertips. He is generous with his attention, tasting her juices as if they hold the secret to who occupies her thoughts, as if his tongue could coax the truth from her. 

She whimpers and moans but betrays nothing, her lips and mind sealed. 

She need not tell; he has a vast imagination.

He imagines catching her in flagranti with his own brother, their bodies obscenely knotted, her small hands grabbing his spiral horns and her slim ankles forming a vice around Valefar’s back. He imagines: her crying out vulgarities, his brother flicking his tail in delight. 

Oh, that whore of Babylon, that Messalina, Circe, Jezebel, oh, his bane and downfall, hiding behind her veneer of porcelain skin and rose-tinted nipples and the scent of honeydew.

Wildly, he pursues the shadow of her infidelity. He positions her supine and unfurls her under his weight. Her transgressions, so vivid in his imagination, make a savage out of him.

He imagines how he decapitates his brother before her very eyes and stakes claim on her beside the still-warm corpse. Oh, would she whine and sob and garble apologies and plead for mercy, oh, would he give her none.

He sheaths himself inside of her, in this silky soft scabbard, which is his right, and she gasps and winces and she utters a soft ‘ow!‘, and he tastes the pang of pain off her lips, her Boticellian pink lips, the color of raw rose.

His claws tug at her skin, marring her, and this is his right too. Tears form in the corners of her eyes, and oh! such tears she has! never before had he seen tears of that size and brilliance. His tongue pilfers them from her skin, to which she responds with a slight toss of her head.

He punishes her for the phantoms of any other that might have haunted her golden-tressed little head, and her lax and defenseless body shakes with the cadence of her chastisement.

Many dream of pressing their weight onto her, oh, of that he has no doubt. Other devils covet her, and rightly so; let them squirm in the throes of envy and desire, let them gag on their impotence, and let them watch, for they will never have her because she is his and only his. 

She dares not dream of any other. She dares not think of any other. She dares not look. She dares not dream…

Oh, but she does, the little serpent, the viper. What does she do when he does not look? He recalls his father's frayed lips whispering too near her round little ear as Mephistopheles dubs her his cherished daughter-in-law, and she musters a forced smile. He remembers her overdone laugh at Mammon’s tasteless jest, eyes darting. What does she hide, what does she plot? 

He thrusts her open, he lays her bare, his fingers and tongue and manhood know naught the limits of his possession, and yet the only truth his interrogation elicits are her soft moans.

Oh how cruel she is to him! Always has been. Mocking him even when asleep with that La Gioconda smile of hers. Man covets; woman is coveted. This is a woman's singular yet significant edge. Woman knows of her power and will abuse it given the opportunity.

After all, what's power for if not to abuse? 

He seizes her by the wrists and tries to kiss her, but she tilts her head to the side and his lips meet only her cheekbone. He stares into her soul taking in her lust, pride, ambition; but her soul is not his; it's hers.

Yet.

"I adore you, my little mouse", he breathes into her sleeping face. These insipid, cliche, mortal words mean nothing but he wants to taste them and they taste bitter. He thinks surely now, she would snap out of reverie just to open her lips into a scornful laugh at his confession. 

But no, she sleeps, an expression of capricious boredom on her languid features, her cheeks flushed from his kisses.

She will use this weakness against him. The others will too, those others who always wanted to see him fail, ever since birth. All those others waiting for their turn to mock him, cheering for his downfall.

Weakness is a contagious disease, the most contagious of all diseases. Let it inside his Layer, his domain and his marriage and watch them crumble and bury him underneath.

His Archduchess despises weakness, and so she must, or she wouldn’t be his Archduchess. She cannot know of any of his weaknesses, and she will not. The failures on the Eastern Blood War Front, the rebellions, the debt chokehold Mammon has on him, the legions who still pledge their allegiance more readily to his father than to him.

She cannot know that or... his fears.

What fears?

He has none. He fears not. He, the Archdevil of Avernus, is feared. He claimed his power, he took his thrones, he forced the first Layer to his knees; he needs but to maintain it, to control it, to…

Never let her go.

She will never dare to leave him. She knows that. There is just one escape from him and that is death.

“Do you know that, mouse?”, he says, his thrusts underscoring his question, his hands around her alabaster neck.

She stirs. She moans. He hushes; she should sleep. So he could tell her all the things he shouldn't.

If only he would just have more power. More souls under his command, more treasures in his coffers, more armies marching at his beck and call, more layers of Hells—these are what he needs to truly possess her.

Power is the only thing women ever respect, mortal or not. He's seen this tale play out a thousand times; they chatter of love but only kneel before the mighty. Should a stronger contender emerge, should he exhibit any frailty, they...

No. No. She will never leave him. Nobody can give her what he can.

He feels her walls flutter around him and he knows: she bewitched him.That's why her sweat, her tears, her juices taste so divine, that’s why he is hopelessly shackled to what is between her thighs. She bewitched him to try to weaken him and…

She. Will. Pay. For. It.

"You are becoming a heel, son", he hears his father's acidic voice; he hears it always, every day, a never-ending reminder of his shortcomings. "Let her taste your whip, let her taste it daily, or she will make you a slave to hers”.

The old coot is right. He ordered her to get his firstborn back in their house; and she made her little face, and she pleaded “you promised, Raphael, please, you promised”, and what did he say?

Nothing. He is becoming a heel, a wretched lovesick fool.

He let her get away with too much. What hasn't he given her? The Archduchess swims in riches, his beautiful, passionate, cruel, and despotic mistress who wantonly changes her whims every passing day.

His most prized possession, the crown jewel of his hoard, and yet this treasure thirsts for more of her own.

Women.

They never have quite enough, no matter how much you give them. Glasia sits on piles of gemstones, Fiera has her own temples upon temples of souls, Baalphegor got an entire plane as her tribute. Yet, is their thirst ever quenched? 

Never. There is always another man who could give them more. He needs to compete with everyone, every single day, and he needs to make sure his Archduchess has more today than there was yesterday, so she would never, ever... He dances to the tune of the infernal chant, the empty promise of infinite growth: more, more, more.

He needs more from her too, and he takes more, hips grinding with a savage rhythm, forcing his wife down into the mattress.

You can only hurt those you love, and they are the only ones who can truly hurt you back.

His thoughts wander to her whip, he thirsts for her strike, longing for her to lay pain upon him, longing for his Venus in Furs to mark him as her captive, to see the passion flare in her sharp blue eyes as she raises her unforgiving hand. Oh, cruel thing, cruel, capricious thing, his little mouse. 

Pain is their shared delicacy, both of them the finest of gourmets, and they spoon-feed it to each other every night.

He unleashes the hot poison of his loins into her and her toes twitch, her mouth agape, and there's a strand of saliva down her chin and that too he claims as his own. His thumb rubs her between the legs until he sees right through her body to watch her womb contract; once, twice, thrice, the little ripples through her body, and he is satisfied with her satisfaction. 

He is more charitable than he thinks.

He draws his tongue across her damp brow and whispers words of love that would never see the light of the day. She's already basking in admiration and flattery; no need to slake her insatiable ego any further.

The Archduchess sighs and curls away from him, knees to her chest, leaving him to stare at the cleft of her buttocks and her slit moist with his seed.

She will wake up come morning with a dull ache between her legs and might even have the audacity to reprimand him for his nightly fervor but he knows, he knows, ever since the first day he made her his own: 

She loves it. 

(*)  A play on the poem "Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze" by V. Nabokov.

The still is from the movie "Sleeping Beauty", 2011.

[unsoundedcomic]

Whumptober 2024 - 07 - "Only For Emergencies"

New Tawhoque was a dangerous place for Ssaelit, but if a woman knew just what crooked street to turn down and upon which unmarked door to knock, she might find a sanctuary or two open to those of the Way.

This one was a public house (semi-private house, really, they did not allow Gefendur) called Arbert's. A woman slipped its heavy front door closed behind her and pretended she didn't notice the wall of eyes move to sweep across her from the bar. Finding the newcomer hidden beneath a dumpy rain slicker and a waterproof bonnet, the collective gaze rolled back towards their whispered conversations and their glasses of imported beer. She chose a hightop in the corner, asked for a cheap pour of Trieste, and unwrapped her hand to see if the bleeding had stopped.

"They cut your finger off," a male voice observed behind her. She jumped a foot in the air, then collapsed forward over the injury to hide it from him.

"It is nothing!" she said.

"It is nothing now," he agreed, "But until recently I think it was your right index finger."

"Oh, why do you care? Did you want it?"

She turned. Her shoulders hunched even higher to discover an unreasonably tall man looking down at her, his face half a void of shadow. "Perhaps," he admitted at length. The words sounded strange. Artificial. Pymaric? What a strange thing to say, and in what a strange voice to say it! "Which of the gangs have you crossed?"

"I did not 'cross' any of them!" Her head lashed back and forth in pain, then anger. "I am a good and honest woman! I went to the constabulary! I went to report all my hens dead!"

"O-oh!" He seemed to suddenly lose a foot of height, shocked. Perhaps he loved animals too?

She continued: "I think my neighbour's hounds had at them in the night. One of the constables said it would cost thirty sem for them to go and investigate the scene. I pointed my finger in his face and called him a villain. Then he said he would have that finger, and before I knew it he had nipped it free with a spell! Have you ever heard of such a thing? That is not how policing works!"

"Naught works in the expected manner here," the stranger whispered. For all his prior forwardness, he suddenly seemed to be avoiding the sight of her gory hand. "I… am afraid I can be of no help confronting the local lawmen, but I would happily pay for your drink and direct you towards a more honest physician than the twin-eating sawbones you will find on the high street."

His voice was unnervingly tinny, but there was warmth there. In spite of her anxiety and her throbbing hand, she tried to wind down. She hadn't been in town very long but even the Ssaelit she had tried to befriend were standoffish. She was beginning to understand why. Sharteshane was a land of traps and predators; everyone was waiting to see what you had, and if you were strong enough to protect it. Why she had supposed the law would be different, now seemed beyond her. A final illusion shattered.

"Is it still raining?" he prompted when she took too long to decide on an answer. "It is forever raining here. It is as though the city must be kept wet, or its amphibian skin will crack open."

"And out will pour the bloody flies," she agreed, removing her coat. It had done little good. The clothing beneath was sodden, draping, and she coloured to realise how prominently her bosom rose. Oh, dear, her nipples were visible too. These cheap Sharteshanian weaves simply did not reflect her patterns correctly-

Now it was the stranger's turn to give a start! He shuddered and stumbled away as though burnt. Had it been the fly remark that had disturbed him? He was surely scandalized to hear such language from an Aldishwoman. Of course he would be! Soon she would be a ribald Sharte, all cusses and swears-

Ach, no, no. He was trying not to look at her chest. A gentleman! Of course.

"You must forgive me, sir! I dove into the rain after the attack without first buttoning my slicker and… and…" Her good hand fumbled at her bonnet, slipped it free of her head so he could see her earnest green eyes. Oh, a mistake! Now he would see she was a Soud, and hate her-

He stumbled again, struck, and grabbed at his midsection! Then from her eyes to her hair his attention alighted once more upon her missing digit.

"What is it?" she demanded, "Are you ill? What is wrong with you!"

"D-did you keep your finger?" he sputtered, almost wailed, "Or did the constable take it?"

"What a question! You monster! Bartender!"

"Bartender!" he echoed, "Aye, please bring to me my emergency order! I require my emergency order!"

A moment's pause, and a broad-shouldered Bronze suddenly jumped the bar. He was nearly seven feet tall, with a touch of the Glut about him. A steaming hot bar towel was in his grasp. The stranger grabbed it, two-fisted it with all the alacrity of a drowning man reaching for a watertight coffin. Then she swore she heard a hiss as his impossibly perfect white teeth bit down upon it hard. When he started gnawing it like the hounds last night had surely gnawed at her poor hens, she flew from the pub, never gathering the courage to ask if he'd been the one to leave nothing in that coop but two beaks and a pile of bloody feathers.

[starlightsuffered]

we need a new fic pls🙏🏼 (only if u can)

One More Night

Info - Slytherin and Gryffindor, some intoxication, mentions of sex, toxic couple, polar opposites, song fic, one night stand, lust, mention of drugs, a little bit dub con language, blood purist regulus, dry humping

One hand gripped the curls at the nape of my neck, the other pulled hard on my tie. I was gasping into the kiss. It took so much to get this desire to build in me normally, but just a makeout with her started an inferno inside me.

“I should go,” I breathed.

“Then go,” she said with an almost cruel tone. I let out a needy pant. She smirked as she felt the wild racing of my heart when she pressed her bosom against my chest,

“Y/n,” I said the hallowed name through nips and laps of her lips.

I couldn’t leave her. I couldn’t pull myself away. I tried to remember the guilt I felt every time just after we’d stopped touching. It seemed less palpable. I couldn’t picture it. It was just like every other fucking time.

I used to be a good student, a prefect, quidditch captain. I was respectable and nonchalant to a point it bothered others. Now I was like an addict. I didn’t think of anything but her body and allure.

“Is your-“ she cut off the question by grinding her crotch against me. I knew she wore no panties and the dress was so thin I could practically feel her slick.

I imagined slipping my cock into her velvety wet folds. A full body shiver overwhelmed me. My hands were on her ass. I was barely resisting anymore. My body couldn’t tell her no.

“Is your lipstick laced with something?” I finally got out the weak query. I wished she’d say yes. I wish I had some fucking excuse for how many times I went back to her. I wish I could blame enchantment for my all consuming desire for her.

“No,” she said in a smug voice that made my dick even harder. She completely knew the affect she had on me. She loved it. And though I shouldn’t, I loved it too.

Dysfunctional didn’t begin to cover us. Gryffindor and Slytherin was only the beginning. She was muggle born and would ruin my reputation. She was a party girl, who dabbled in dangerous wizarding drugs and had no care for her own well being. I was the stoic head boy who never went to parties and had each step of my future planned out. I could have never planned for her.

One party, I’d gone to one bloody Slytherin party. She’d been let in due to the illicit items she carried on her. She hadn’t even knows who I was. She didn’t know how I’d stared all night. She didn’t know my hands, my skin, my breath, my cock, all longed to be hers. It was like metal trying to resist a magnet and I’d broken eventually.

I’d felt stupid the morning after. No protection. No safety spell. It had all been raw and electric and so pleasurable I’d felt as though I could pass out. I’d been stupid enough to tell her I was a prefect and I’d be telling the headmaster what sort of things she brought to parties. We’d been nearly at each others throats, moments away from hexing one another. Somehow it’d turned into me bouncing her on my cock as she bit into my shoulder so hard it bled.

“You coming to mine?” She asked. She had the audacity to question me as she reached into my pants and fondled my aching cock. It was probably purple with need at the moment. Only she made it that way. She made me feel like a cheap whore with how fast I began to harden for her.

“No,” I breathed. It was the right thing to do. I was going to do the right thing this time.

“Alright then,” she said instantly. She stepped back and I felt my skin had been stripped away. I was left breathless, raw, sensitive, and vulnerable.

She stood there looking like a wet dream. Her hair was tousled, lips swollen where I’d bit them. Dark marks were blooming on her honey sweet skin where I’d sucked. Her dress was hitched up. I noticed a dribble of arousal making its way down her thigh. I could have exploded in my pants.

“Goodbye then Regulus,” she purred. Her eyes were dark with promise of the most erotic pleasures.

“One more night,” I said weakly. I went to her, to my forbidden fruit. I wouldn’t be satisfied until I’d devoured it all again.

@pmak2002 @softhecreator @plutoispurplw @sp1deyyf4ngz @seungcheol17daddy @jesschalamet @vvsdreaming

[remembrancer-of-heresy]

(Not) Salvation

AU Reverse Therapy

Next Part: New Home

Summary: One of the agriworlds is attacked by heretics and the young girl finds salvation in the arriving Space Marines. Not suspecting that it was they who brought death to her planet.

Pairing: Chaos!Lamenter/fem!OC/Chaos!Flesh Tearer

Characters: Malina (fem!OC), Luka The Angel (OC Chaos Lamenter), Virgil (OC Chaos Flesh Tearer)

Warnings: yandere, violence, cannibalism

Word count: 2244

Author's note: In this part I wanted to focus more on the space marines and the atmosphere of horror. Hope you were interested in my OCs. In future there will be more interactions between this trio but here only meeting.

Song: Inkubus Sukkubus - Wild Hunt

It was scary. Screams were heard everywhere. The air smelled of blood and burnt flesh. From afar came cries and pleas for help, the hooting laughter of heretics. Someone was less fortunate than her. No one had found her yet.

And it is unlikely that they will.

“God-Emperor, do not abandon me, guide me to the light, I will not fear the darkness for I believe” - she repeated the prayer dryly, like a memorized text from school.

Because it was a lie. Of course she were afraid of the darkness. Afraid of death. And even more so of torture. The endless pain that the enemies of the Imperium promised to bring with them. Yes, the clergy would say that she was a heretic. But in the last hour, she did not want to lie, at least to herrself.

Soon her agri-world will drown in the blood of its inhabitants. And if the Imperium returns the planet to its bosom, resumes the delivery of food, then other people will do it. Your fate is to become meat in the hands and mouths of heretics.

She felt new tears running down her cheeks. They haven't found her yet, but soon, soon they will find her small and weak body. Soon they will tear her apart, eat the meat, throw away the bones, and put the skin on thier armor like a cloak. She already saw how the heretics did this to an elderly couple.

Sudden steps pulled her ark thoughts and returned to an equally dark present. Her heart fluttered like a bird in a cage. These were too heavy steps for a human. Too metallic a sound. The smell of imminent death hit her nose and she held back from screaming in horror at the imminent meeting with the most terrible shame of the Imperium.

A Chaos Space Marine.

And at that moment, when the legionary appeared before her in full height, when she almost bit her lip until it bled, just to keep from screaming... only then did she notice the armor. Golden as the sun, with a distinctive sign in the form of a bloody heart. The Lamenter.

She burst into tears like a little girl.

“The G-God-Emperor h-heard m-my prayers.” - her world was under siege, she had already managed to lose loved ones, she had the right to tears, but she still tried to wipe them away. - “I-I am too weak to walk. Please save the others.”

The Space Marine did not say a word, listening to her sobs. He came closer until he knelt down on one knee next to her. Only then did she notice that his armor was covered in blood, and in some places there were signs drawn that were unfamiliar to her. If she had any doubts, they were dispelled as soon as the Astartes removed his helmet.

He was quite handsome. Pale-faced, with a snub nose, a scattering of freckles and bright cheeks. His wheat-colored hair barely reached his shoulders. His face was clear and bright, with only one scar crossing his left eyebrow. But what stood out most about the young man were his eyes. Blue as the sky of her planet until the heretics attacked it and it turned red.

“You really are an angel.” - she switch to a reverent whisper. For the first time, a happy, albeit tired, smile appears on her face. Her eyes are still shining from recently shed tears before she plunge into the saving darkness. She could no longer remain conscious after what she experienced. She were too tired.

For a second before she finally lose consciousness, it seems to her that the Astartes' ears are red. Like an ordinary young man who heard a compliment from a pretty girl.

Hah, what a heresy.

***

The mortal soldier of the Corpse on the Throne writhed helplessly in Virgil's arms, unable to resist him. In truth, Virgil would not have minded playing with his victim, but the thirst for blood was stronger. But it doesn't matter. The planet they had landed on promised rich loot.

Quite a long time had passed when he joined the Red Corsairs. And when he realized this delightful feeling. The ability to not pretend. The ability to kill as he pleased, torment as he wanted. Maybe the Black Thirst was a curse, but such an opinion was imposed on him. The veteran never thought so.

"Virgil!" - a completely joyful cry rang out across the battlefield.

But having a roommate like this one is a curse. And to his great dissatisfaction, quite scary and uncontrollable. Although a narrow-minded mortal would probably think that a flesh tearer covered in someone else's skin is more dangerous than a lamenter with an angelic face.

But to be fair, he thought so too.

The veteran sighed and threw the soldier's body away from himself. And judging by the convulsions, he was still alive despite the loss of blood. On another day Virgil would have liked to watch mortal’s suffer longer, but the plundering had only just begun, and man had to deal with the young pup before he did anything wrong.

“Vergil, look who I found. She mistook me for a loyalist.” - the young man, unusually softly holding the limp body of a mortal girl, looked at her face with almost love in his eyes. - “I saved her.”

Vergil rolled his eyes, scratching his poor bald head. Why, why, did he get Luka?

“Of course she thought so. Not only did you not change your armor, but she also apparently passed out before you spoke.” - the lamenter, to Vergil’s irritation, ignored the fair remark. - “Why did you even bring her here?”

“What do you mean, why? I saved her, now I have to marry her.” - the blond answered as if nothing had happened. Seeing how his pale partner’s eye began to twitch involuntarily, he raised his voice in displeasure. - “Don’t look at me like that! She will behave well.”

“Like the previous girls, huh?”

“First of all, I liked them, but I wasn’t going to marry them. Secondly, we met when they already knew which side I was on.” - Luka again gazed tenderly at the sleeping girl, burying his nose in her cheek. - “And she said that I looked like an angel.”

A little more and Virgil would throw up, he was sure of it. Of course, he was a sadist. He liked to torture and torment. He liked to hear screams. And yet, when it came to intimacy, it was unnecessary. The cultists screaming in strange ecstasy irritated. Some went completely wild, so after a couple of blows, he had to fucks their still warm corpses.

And the captured slaves... well. They cried. Of course, it was beautiful, but their constant attempts to escape and crawl away also irritated the man. Why couldn’t they just lie quietly and wait for him to finish his business? Why are they all so disrespectful?

It's annoying. Everything annoys him.

But the girl's calm, sleeping appearance was apparently one of the few exceptions. Virgil would even say that he liked the way her eyelashes twitched slightly, and her lips parted just a little. Serenity itself. Innocence itself.

Even as a loyalist, Virgil didn't care much about mortals. But still, even in such a callous person as he, there was a hidden desire to protect the innocent. Now he likes to torture them more (everyone, to be precise). But after his desire was returned, the need to possess lovely ladies settled in him. Alas, but he no longer serves the Emperor, and the girl expects exactly this from them. Luka, an idiot, does not understand this and dragged her to her death.

Although-

"Let's tell her that we are fighting for the Corpse on the Throne."

"What?"

“You just said that she took you for a loyalist. So why try to convince her otherwise?” - the veteran smiled with all his sharp teeth, enjoying his genius. - “She has had it tough enough as it is. Let’s lock her in the quarters. She will see and listen only to us.”

The boy stared at him blankly for a while until the whole plan dawned on him. Luka opened his mouth joyfully, causing the blood of the dead to slowly flow inside. Virgil involuntarily stuck out his black mutated tongue at the sight. Hmm, he would have to keep that abomination in his mouth if he didn't want to scare the girl ahead of time.

"Oh, that's a great idea. She'll be so thrilled to have ended up with the good sons of Sanguinius. But, Virgil, what if she finds out that we're fighting against the Imperium?" - Luka hugged the girl tighter, burying his nose in her hair. - "What should we do in that case? Will she cry? Hate us? What if she wants to run away??"

"By that time, she'll be used to us and her new home. She'll come to terms with it, you'll see." - the veteran growled with displeasure and slapped the blond on the back of the head. - "And stop squeezing her like that! You'll break all her bones."

"B-but she's so pretty!"

He was right. She really is pretty. By the Ruinous Powers, Virgil hated the False Emperor and the Imperium. But he had to admit that some of its citizens were better looking than the cultists.

"Don't. Squeeze. Control. Yourself. Or better yet, drag her on board before she wakes up."

The blond immediately went thin. The veteran involuntarily cringed as he saw tears gathering in his blue eyes. You wouldn't know from Luka that he was wreaking heretic.

"But we've only just begun the massacre! I've never even come across any children!"

You wouldn't say he was a pervert either.

"Then it would be in your best interest to quickly take her to the flagship and return to us. I don't know how you'll do that. But since you've picked up the girl, have the respect to take care of her."

“Fine! But then I’ll choose her name.” - the blond possessively hugged the limp body and headed towards the ship. Virgil only sighed heavily, raising his red eyes to the sky. How hard it was sometimes with the young man.

But on the other hand, he was still useful. The idea of ​​playing the role of the Emperor’s loyal servants was hilarious in itself. And an unhappy and lonely lady in distress was an extremely pleasant bonus after the massacre. Surely, such a good girl was followed by crowds of vile fanatics of the Corpse on the Throne. But never mind, now her saviors will take care of her.

“We are the Emperor’s Angels after all.” - Virgil muttered under his breath, pleased, turning his attention to the soldier who dared to shoot at him. It seemed he would finally change his cloak.

What a great hunt they made on this world.