#I HAVE THE PERFECT FABRIC FOR HIS WAISTCOAT TOO

[elijah-loyal]

the autism is winning guys i get to make a jehan prouvaire costume for class

[lokisgoodgirl]

Delayed Gratification [Loki x Fem.Reader]

A link to my (new) Masterlist is HERE Summary: [Oneshot/companion to Don't be Shy] A timid Loki breaks his s*x drought, with your encouragement. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Sub!Loki. Language. Dirty Talk. (w/c 2.3k)

You pressed a thumb against the pad on your door. It beeped, making Loki flinch behind you.

“Gosh, you really are nervous.” you mumbled with a smile, hearing the rustle of Loki’s crisp shirt as he straightened.

Pouring two glasses of water, you set them the side-table next to the sofa. Loki had made himself comfortable, removing his waistcoat and sitting poised with his legs crossed.

“So how long is a long time, exactly?” you probed, sliding a hand up one muscular thigh as you settled beside him. Loki's eyes darted towards you, adjusting his hips.

“Since Asgard.” he murmured tentatively, voice catching as your fingers danced up his in-seam.

“Oh…that is a dry spell.” you cooed, an amused smile curling at your lips. How is it possible this perfect specimen hasn't been ridden in years, you thought; scepticism creeping in. It's not possible.

Loki hissed as your fingers brushed his hardening cock, feeling the trapped monster grow thick beneath your gentle touch. His knuckles whitened under the crushing grip on the armrest.

Or maybe it is, you pondered with a smile.

“If you don't mind me asking...why is that?” you said, gaze crawling over his twitching brow. "I find it hard to believe you don't have a lot of opportunity-"

“Hardly-” he gasped, ass clenching before he bit his lip. Even with this achingly light level of touch, it was almost too much for him to bear. That was plain to see.

“I just...have a h-hard time letting loo-se, you see.” he stammered, his grip making the armrest creak in protest.

You squeezed again, making Loki’s eyelids flutter shut.

He whimpered, a series of shallow pants wisping from his throat. “I can stop?” you whispered, trailing your free hand over your cleavage. His eyes shot open, afire with sudden fear. “-No.” he choked, looking longingly to the fingers grazing the curve of your breasts. “For the love of the Nine...don’t stop.”

A secret smile pressed against your cheeks as you stood and intertwined your fingers with his. “Come with me.” you said firmly, nerves sizzling as Loki let out a long exhale before unfurling himself to his full height. You walked slowly ahead of him to the bedroom, circling behind and pushing the shy god gently to the mattress.

He began to yank at his windsor knot, before pausing. “Apologies, I didn’t mean to be presumptuous.”

The words were accompanied by a penitent flutter of his lashes. You chuckled. “Loki, you’re sitting on my bed. If you had any idea how wet I am right now…” you groaned, straddling him and sliding your hands firmly over his shoulders.

Loki’s legs widened as the soaking gusset of your panties grazed the hard shaft pressed against his thigh. He swallowed thickly as you began to place messy sucks on his exposed neck, whipping the tie from his collar.

“S-slow...slower.” he panted, breaths quick. Surfacing from stiff cotton, you rose on your knees; tugging his hair back as you descended with a licentious kiss. You could feel his chest heaving beneath your own, the tell-tale thrust of his hips against your core sloppy and needy and desperate.

Loki broke for air, his eyes wild. Your lips curled in a coquettish smile. “Maybe we should start gently, hmm?” you said, seeing Loki nod. “I think that’s...wise.” he muttered, a thin sheen of moisture forming on his brow. Your knees shuffled backwards, lowering yourself to the carpet between his legs and pulling your dress over your head.

“Do you mind taking these off?” you asked gently, pulling at the fabric tight against his thigh. Loki’s gaze refocused from the lingerie cupping your curves, his mouth forming a soft O.

“Of- of...of course. Apologies.” he fumbled, before a shimmer of his magic dissolved the luxurious suit trousers from his body. And his underwear, too. “You don’t have to...do...that, you know.” he mumbled.

You didn’t need to look at him to know the pink tinge in his cheeks was back with renewed force.

Loki’s cock rose between his spread thighs. It was long, pale and utterly perfect. Just as you knew it would be. You curled your fingers lightly around the thick base, making Loki’s hips jolt. Your thumb didn’t reach around the circumference.

“Just breathe…” you murmured, hearing his frantic breaths slow at the command. Your finger caressed up the length, making tingles soar on the surface of his neglected velvet skin. “This should be worshipped, Loki.” you muttered absent-mindedly as you inspected it with awe, hearing him chuckle before you lifted your gaze seductively to meet his. “So let’s make a start on that, shall we?”

His palms rested on your duvet, fingers spread. You could see him slide them into a tight grip, neat fingernails scratching against the fabric as he inhaled sharply, bracing himself. You leant forward, extending your tongue so that only the lightest of licks trailed from the base of his shaft to the tip.

Loki’s moan was raw dynamite, a long ragged sigh that made your thighs squeeze together. He tasted like freshly washed linen, the scent of clean cotton lingering in your nostrils. Unspoilt. Virginal.

You parted your lips, tongue sliding in messy kisses against the meat of his cock. The base of your palm held his length steady, perfectly vertical as his hips rocked upwards.

“F-ffuck..det er f-for godt-” he moaned under his breath, sliding a hand against the back of your head before retracting. Seizing his moment of resistance, you lapped tortuously slowly over the leaking tip. Loki shuddered as he watched the glistening bead of pre-cum that had been trembling there disappear beneath you eager attentions.

“M-more...please.” he stammered, forearms quivering as he braced against the bed. You tilted your chin up to face him, nestled between his thick thighs. “Are you sure?” you said coyly. Loki nodded, shallow breaths making his chest strain against the buttons of his shirt. You pressed your lips together, arching a brow before you descended and swallowed the tip of his cock.

A strangled whine rumbled from the god as you sucked gently, the fingers curled around his base pulsing with each smooth lap of your tongue. You could feel Loki brace against the bed, his fingertips digging into the mattress as his thighs began to shake. And you were barely touching him.

“Det føles for godt…” he groaned, toes curling against the carpet. “F-fuck...im nær...im n-nær-” he growled through gasping breaths. “S-stop.”

You released him, a strand of saliva hanging in a teasing curve between his foreskin and your lips. Loki’s addled stare rolled blissfully along the spittal’s route, landing on your glistening mouth.

“Fuck.” he murmured reluctantly, shaking his head as his eyes darted to the side. “I should not have led you on. This is...not my usual- not my typical performance I-”

You pressed a finger to his lips. “I think it’s hot.” you purred, making his eyebrows slant with surprise. “Really hot.”

Rising to your feet, you tugged down your panties before sliding onto Loki’s lap once more. The thump of arousal between your legs was untenable, the messy slick of your sex crying for relief against his naked thighs. “Just go with it.” you keened in his ear, rolling your hips against the base of the cock sandwiched between you. His breath hitched, fingertips sinking into the curve of your waist. “We can make it a little game.”

“A game?” Loki chirped, interest piqued. “I like games.”

“I know you do.” you hummed encouragingly, sucking his earlobe between your teeth. Loki hissed, a growl building in his chest as you began to unbutton his shirt. “Is this what you thought of as you fucked yourself thinking of me?” you said, feeling his stomach clench beneath your searching hands.

He cleared his throat, back straightening.

“I must confess I was rather more...dominant.” he admitted sheepishly, avoiding your seductive stare. He observed as your fingers made quick work of the buttons, ebony hair falling sluttishly around his jaw. “Dominant?” you teased approvingly. “Why do I get the feeling you made me call you Daddy?”

“Oh, I insist on it.” he joked, before you stripped back the shirt from his shoulders.

The god’s jaw clenched as you pushed the cuffs from his wrists; coaxing him backwards. “Norns…” he gasped, muscular back hitting the mattress with a soft thump. You took a moment to savour the god stretched like an shy whore on your king bed, his soft eyes wide with nervous anticipation. You smiled, crawling slowly up his long body.

“Trust me, Loki…” you said softly, the lust in your voice simmering as the thick veins in his throat hardened. “We’ll ease you back in, don’t worry.”

He opened his mouth to speak, before his eyes fluttered shut. Loki’s back arched as you ground your bare pussy against his length. You slid easily back and forth, dragging through your slick folds. The soft mewls of grateful submission from his lips made your nipples harden.

“You should be fucked every day, Loki Laufeyson.” you slurred, feeling his cock twitch against your cunt. “Every. Fucking. Day.”

Loki huffed in frustration, bucking upwards. The scent of you. The promise of your wetness. It must be driving him crazy.

“Ride me. Please-fuck me, I can’t take it anymore.” he growled, tilting his chin against his chest as your cleavage hung tantalisingly in front of him. His nose slotted between your mounds, a shuddering sigh shaking his body as he lost himself.

"Patience, Laufeyson...” you giggled, hearing a muffled whine against your skin. “A little delayed gratification never hurt anyone. Much less a god...”

You reached between his legs, hovering above his hips as you lined him up. The wide tip of his cock nudged against your slit, his forehead creasing as he tried to restrain himself with a quaking sigh. Loki’s lips formed a stoic line, eyebrows knitting slowly together as you squeezed the thick head inside your cunt.

With every inch you sank, his lips parted further; the skin sticking as he exhaled a ragged, primal gasp of relief.

“I...I...uhh-hh-gods.” he rasped, fingertips sinking into the soft thighs spread against him. You stilled, the head of his cock buried to the hilt. You squeezed.

Loki jolted on the bed, hair fanning in wild tendrils as he clenched his jaw to the ceiling. “I had forgotten.” he moaned through gritted teeth, grunting as you began to roll your hips in miniscule waves. “I had f-forgotten...faen.”

Your clit tugged against his public mound as you rocked slowly to and fro, minimising your movements.

Loki whimpered, brows twitching as he watched you relax into bliss above him; his thick girth stretching your walls as you gyrated. “This feels so good, Loki…” you groaned, letting your head fall back as his legs tensed beneath. The god's feet slid up the bed behind you - knees parking bent at your sides. Tears had begun to form in his eyes.

“Norns.” he gasped quietly, resting his hands on your hips and guiding you carefully back and forth. Like you might break. The needy touch was the final spark, lighting the trail of gasoline to climax like a match.

Your swollen clit pulsed with every slow tug against his neat pubic hair, the solid mass of his cock making you whimper. “I’m going to cum, baby…” you mewled, making Loki’s fingers dig deeper. A solitary tear of desperation rolled down his cheekbone, disappearing to the curve.

He thrust upwards once. A broken cry of pleasure from his throat sent shivers down your spine. It sounded like pain. But it wasn't pain. Far from it.

Your palms pressed against his shoulders, limiting his movement. “Not yet.” you choked, increasing the pace of your rolling hips against his base.

“You’re so...fucking...tight.” Loki breathed, ragged pants filling the air as you rocked into him, orgasm blossoming like a wall of fire. His voice was thick, wet with pure lust. “You feel s-so-uhhh, so divi-divine I-” he stammered, choking as he felt your fingernails dig deep into the ropes of shoulder muscle.

“Now, Loki.” you whined, releasing your hands from his biceps and gripping the brass railings above his head. You slid up his cock, squeezing at the tip before sinking into the god’s sloppy thrust. His eyes were suddenly wild, torn between savouring every inch of your sex-drunk body and becoming lost in his own pleasure beneath the veil of his eyelids. An animal released from the cage.

He tugged your hips towards him, beginning to bounce you on his slippery cock. Nordic curses dripped from his lips like battle cries, a vein by his temple thick to bursting against the furious weight of his basest needs. Every slap of his skin against your fizzing clit sent jolts through your body, the power of raw animalism coursing from his sex to yours.

“Let it go-” you gasped, throwing your head back as you felt an explosion of pleasure surge in your belly. “Don’t be s-shy oh my god, - oh my, uhhh...f-fuck...scream for me, -L-Loki.”

Loki slammed your pussy a final time to the hilt, before a roar of utter devastation exploded from his throat.

Tendrils of damp hair cascaded over his brow as his back arched, errant strands across his lips blown by a feral moan of your name. You could feel the force of hot cum hit your cervix, leaking into every crevice of your stuffed slit as his messy thrusts slowed.

Loki’s eyes had squeezed shut, deep lines ironed into his forehead as he murmured panting praises you didn’t understand.

He lay there silently, breaths slowing. “Was that OK?” you whispered, flickers of sudden insecurity rearing in your mind. There was no answer. "Loki?" You leant forwards, clenching around his cock as you rested against his chest. Loki nodded, humming blissfully with his eyes still closed.

“Truly... I am lost for words.” he slurred, running a large palm down your spine and planting a light, congratulatory smack on your ass.

You felt a wave of pride rise in your belly. “There’s a first time for everything.” you teased, making Loki open one eye with difficulty. “How dare you.” he growled.

In a second, he had flipped you over; pinning you to the bed with his fingers curled around your wrists. “Not so shy anymore, then?” you giggled, feigning a feeble attempt to escape from his grasp.

“Thanks to you, it seems my drought is over-” he purred, spreading your legs with a nudge of his knees.

“And darling?” he smouldered, damp curls clinging to his cheekbones as his eyes darkened. “Daddy’s very thirsty.”

Det er for godt – it’s too good. Det føles for godt – it feels too good im nær – I’m close

Tags

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[lauramkaye]

Fitzwilliam Darcy's Lucky Waistcoat, A Comprehensive Analysis

So I was re-watching the BBC Pride and Prejudice, as you do, and I made a joke that Darcy was having his valet get his lucky waistcoat to go see Lizzy- and then I was like, wait. Isn't he wearing that same one the day she comes to Netherfield to take care of Jane? Maybe it IS his lucky waistcoat!

So I had to re-watch it again to validate my theory and honestly I think I might be on to something.

First, the waistcoat in question: it looks brown in some lights and olive green in others, but I'm fairly sure it's the same garment. It has vertical stripes, a narrow double gold stripe alternated with a stripe of a woven-in diamond pattern. (Interestingly, Elizabeth's eyes look brown in many lights but when you see her in sunlight it becomes obvious that her eyes are a dark hazel. Am I saying the costume designer chose this fabric to match Elizabeth's eyes? No, but I'm also not NOT saying that...)

It appears the first time in the scene where Darcy runs into Elizabeth outside of Netherfield when she has walked across the fields to check on Jane - the scene where the stage directions for Darcy notoriously said that he had an erection - and also in the next scene at breakfast, which happens immediately afterward, and when he goes shooting with Bingley and Hurst.

(By the way the way he says "not at all, they were brightened by the exercise" and then sips his tea while maintaining dead on eye contact with Caroline like a cat pulling your drink off the side of a table is just... *chef's kiss* .... perfection.)

The next time we see it is the day that the Bennet sisters leave Netherfield. Caroline is wearing a very distinct outfit in this scene that has black, gold, and red stripes - note this for later.

At this point, my theory is that this is just one of the waistcoats Darcy brought to Hertfordshire, so it's in his rotation.

Interestingly, the next time we see it is during the scene where Jane is reading Caroline's letter and Elizabeth is imagining the scene of Bingley meeting Georgiana. I've reblogged a post before that notes that in this scene Georgiana is wearing a very fussy pink dress, styled more like the way the Bingley sisters dress and very unlike the things we see Real Georgiana wearing later on. But Caroline is wearing the very distinct stripey outfit and Darcy has on the gold striped waistcoat - it seems the Elizabeth is imagining them in the outfits they were wearing the last morning at Netherfield - possibly the last time she saw them in less formal/day clothes.

The next time we see this waistcoat is at Hunsford: Darcy wears it with his bottle green coat on the day he calls at the parsonage and sees Lizzy alone and they have the super awkward conversation about how far away is too far to live from your family. He comes alone this time, not with Colonel Fitzwilliam, and this is where I feel like the "lucky waistcoat" may come into play - it's the one he was wearing the first time he looked and her and had his "...oh" moment. It's kind of the color of her beautiful eyes. He's going to try and talk to her without his cousin there... it feels like Date Outfit vibes to me. ( I mean that scene is SO awkward because: Darcy, but still.)

He does not, however, wear it to propose - he's dressed for dinner, I think, and has a pale brocade waistcoat on during that scene.

Anyway we don't see the Lucky Waistcoat again until we get to Pemberley, and it features really heavily in several key scenes there.

First off, after Darcy jumps in the pond and runs into Elizabeth in his backyard, he rushes inside to get dressed and comes out, still buttoning his coat, his hair damp, wearing HIS LUCKY WAISTCOAT:

And then the next day when he brings Georgiana to meet Elizabeth he's wearing it AGAIN:

And then after the dinner where Elizabeth and Georgiana make friends and Darcy sits in the music room watching them with his whole entire damn heart in his eyes like he has never been happier in his life, the next day we see him getting dressed and primping and asking his valet to give him his green coat which is paired once again with the Lucky Waistcoat because apparently it's working for him so far? She doesn't hate him anymore and she and Georgiana are making FRIENDS and Elizabeth SMILED at him and everything's coming up Darcy.

So he goes to Lambton to see Lizzy at the inn again - side note, I am SO CURIOUS what he was planning on talking to her about, especially since apparently she was already confirmed to go to Pemberley again later that day - but OH NOES Lizzy has just gotten the letter about Lydia:

(the way he holds her hand and then realizes he doesn't have the right to and SO RELUCTANTLY moves back)

The next time we see it is in the short scene where he is looking for Lydia and Wickham and stops at what looks to be a coaching inn to ask after them. At first I took this as a sign that he left straight from the inn to look for them but it can't be, because there's a short scene at Pemberley where he is with the Bingleys fretting about it and storms off which I think is the dinner that Elizabeth and the Gardiners had to miss. So maybe he wore it because it made him feel close to Elizabeth, or because he was hoping for luck in his search? I couldn't find a screenshot of this scene but trust me. :) (He's wearing a different waistcoat in the scene where he confronts Mrs. Younge in London and another one still in the flashback where he's talking to the Gardiners, so obviously it took him a while to track them down.)

The final Lucky Waistcoat appearance is during the scene where he apologizes to Bingley for interfering, gives him his blessing to propose to Jane, and leaves to go back to London. I couldn't find a gif but here it is with a (perfect) Onion headline:

I think it's interesting that this is the last time we see it, because this is actually when he is LEAVING - when he thinks that he doesn't have a chance with her anymore but at least he's done his best to fix what he broke by bringing Bingley back to Jane and bribing Wickham to marry Lydia. It's so important to his character arc that he does this! He changes his behavior and does his best to fix what he did wrong, because of Elizabeth - because he listened to her criticism and realized she was right about him - but not in order to get another chance with her. He does it because his own sense of morality demands that when he knows he's done wrong, he should do his very best to make it right again. My theory for why he wears the Lucky Waistcoat - or perhaps it would be better called the Lizzy Waistcoat - in this scene is that when he sends Bingley off to propose and leaves town, it's kind of the bittersweet endpoint for him of this relationship that has made him a better man. I think in this scene he is thankful that he met Elizabeth, and while he will never forget her he feels that he can at least go forward knowing that he did his best to make it up to her. I think he probably feels that the second chance he was hoping for at Pemberley being derailed by Wickham and Lydia's elopement - which we see he blames himself for since he didn't do anything to warn Meryton about Wickham's true character - is a fair punishment. It hurts but he's done what he can and at least he's managed to save the Bennet's reputation, and Elizabeth will be so happy for Jane to be happy with Bingley. I picture him staring wistfully out the window of his carriage all the way to London, giving himself one last day to just wallow in his might-have-beens before he has to steel himself to live without Elizabeth. Maybe he's telling himself that they can meet at Bingley's wedding as common and indifferent acquaintances.

And then Lady Catherine comes to see him and is super indignant that Elizabeth refused to promise her never to get engaged to him and he books it back to Longbourn because he cannot live in suspense. He has to know if he has a chance at happiness after all.

He doesn't wear the Lizzy Waistcoat when he makes his second, successful proposal; it's a pale brocade one, visually similar to the one from the Hunsford proposal though I haven't verified whether it's the same one or not. But then, he doesn't need the Lizzy Waistcoat anymore, because in all the rest of the scenes he has LIZZY.

Anyway that's me probably thinking way too hard about a single clothing item from the 1995 BBC Pride and Prejudice, thanks for indulging me. (Seriously though the costumes in that are so good. I am also obsessed with Maria Lucas' adorable green coat with the pink lining and pink bow fasteners and the rosebud-adorned pink and green dress Harriet Forster wears in her first scene, I think it's at Lucas Lodge?)

[no-light-left-on]

post-DotO Emily and human Outsider shenanigans, because their friendship needs more love. a little over 800 words

“How do I look?”

Emily looks up from her correspondence with the Duke of Serkonos to see the Outsider dressed in his new clothes. The shirt is of fine ashen grey silk, paired with deep blue pants and a waistcoat to match. He’s fidgeting again, his fingers toying with the corded loop of his top button, but he lowers his hands to let Emily take the whole look in.

She knew why she recommended her personal tailor to fashion the Outsider's new wardrobe for his inevitable introduction to the court.

The clothes suit him.

“You look stupid,” Emily says and the Outsider gasps.

“I will have you know that this style of embroidery and fine cording has a long tradition in Tyvia that predates the Empire of the Isles by centuries,” he tells her. “By incorporating it into the newest fashions of the Isles the people of Tyvia express their connection to their history and tradition while embracing the modern ways of life and cosmopolitanism of the Empire.” His back straightens and he rolls his shoulders back. The fine wool fabric hugs his chest perfectly and the silk of his sleeves falls over his slender forearms like waves of a stormy sea as it spills over into the Void. And yet the clothes make him appear much more human than the leather he wore back when he still was the Outsider.

Emily rolls her eyes. “Wow, you are nerdy and stupid.”

The Outsider’s cheeks flush with irritation and his top lip juts out. He is pouting. Emily chooses to forego teasing him about that.

“I thought you said you want to try something new?” she asks instead, diverting the Outsider’s attention from whatever lecture he had coming next about the importance of tradition and history of Tyvian folk motifs in aristocratic fashion. She vaguely remembers him speaking of it as she wrote a letter to Wyman while he decided how he should present himself to the nobles of Dunwall.

“This is different,” he says. “I’m wearing more colour than you could have ever possibly seen me don in the past.”

“Barely,” Emily shoots back. The blue of the fabric mirrors that of a clouded sky right after sunset. Variety, Emily thinks, is not something that she can expect from the Outsider’s wardrobe anytime soon.

Her tailor, bless her heart, does not say a word in regard to the insults thrown at the Outsider’s personal style and taste. “We can still adjust the fit,” she says, brushing over the differences between black and indigo or ash and slate grey that encompass all of the Outsider’s wardrobe. She’s heard enough on the topic from Corvo in her years at the helm of the royal boudoir. She provides no warning as she grips the strip of fabric at the Outsider’s back and pulls until the fit is snug and the Outsider startles and yelps. She pays him no mind, instead fixes the folds of the fabric fanning out over his backside.

Emily whistles. “Your waistline is incredible.”

“Thank you,” the Outsider says with a smug smile. “I hear narrow waist is popular with the older gentlemen of Dunwall these days.”

Both Emily and the tailor freeze.

“Do not,” Emily stresses, “ever say these words around me ever again.”

“I could fit the waistcoat to this size,” the tailor suggests in a desperate attempt to move the conversation anywhere that is not the Outsider’s subtle suggestion of sleeping with half of Emily’s court to gain their favour and support. “We can keep the clasp, too, but that is mostly seen as…” she weighs her words, “juvenile.”

“Leave it as is,” Emily tells her. “He’s going to fill out some, now that he has real food, and then you’d have to change it again. Save yourself the trouble, please.”

“Real food,” the Outsider mimics with a tinge of sarcasm. Juvenile, Emily thinks, is the perfect word to describe him after all.

“Yes,” Emily says. “You’ve only really eaten whatever in the Void Billie bothered to feed you with. And I would not ever dare suggest that to be real or proper meals, for the most part.”

“How would you even know what she fed me?”

“I spent a couple weeks with her. To call our eating habits proper meals would be an insult. Then again, your habit to eat only pastries is not to be considered a proper meal, either.”

The door opens, then, breaking the awkward air hanging over their little company, and Corvo walks in with a small collection of letters for Emily.

“Corvo,” the Outsider exclaims in way of greeting. “How do I look?”

Corvo does not spare him even a glance, instead passes by him to hand the letters to Emily.

“Stupid,” he answers after a beat of silence, and the Outsider pouts once more.

“I hate you,” he tells him, then turns to Emily, “both of you.”

Emily bursts out laughing.

[korewritingandstuff]

To cure the biggest pain

John finds out that the biggest pain of dying must be doing it alone.

Happy pride <3

***

If bullets were the seeds flowers grow from, his chest would be a garden, when Hamilton enters the room, Laurens knows every petal would have his name written on it. 

"Laurens," he says breathlessly while he flies through the room to take a place at his side. His hand raises through his waistcoat with the confidence of someone who knows its path. However, this time his fingers hold a different intention, curling around a white fabric that is pressed with desperation against his burning chest.

Of the size of a coin, a perfect red circle has broken the strong muscles to reveal the fragile inside; the little wound is as dark as night, with a small view of the universe in his chest, where the shine of the fresh blood is the stars. But Laurens feels like the wound is as big as his entire chest, as big as his body, as big as his ambition consuming him until there's nothing behind. He feels the burning wound will break his chest in half to reveal his bleeding heart to Hamilton; unwrapped as a gift, would that be enough to gain his forgiveness?

But that doesn’t happen; instead, the fabric is fastly stained by the intense red, Hamilton doesn't look him in the face, his eyes are tangled in the wild garden flourishing in his left shoulder.

John's right hand raises through the pain to caress Hamilton's cheek, but before it can reach the pale skin Alexander takes it and forces him to put it down. "Save your strength," he begs with his eyes transformed for fear and with his lips planting such a cold kiss on his palm John is afraid Hamilton might be dying too. "You'll be fine," the words are bathed in tenderness and affection but his eyes betray him, searching for McHenry in the room. "I promise," he says, but it sounds like a broken oath.

"Hamilton," John tries saying, Alexander keeps him close in his embrace with his right hand as a constant pressure against the wound. His fingers look painfully tense; but no matter how hard Alexander tries pressing the fabric, the white is slowly but constantly disappearing. "Sh, sh," he shuts him gently, "don't talk, save your strength, you'll be fine." He repeats.

Meade says "McHenry is coming." He walks around the room holding a handkerchief with such nervousness John would find it funny if not for his current position.

"Alexander," John tries saying, but the weight of the bullet is heavy on his chest and every breath is harder; so the name ends up like a whisper. The only comfort in it is the familiar shape of the name in his mouth.

"You'll be fine," repeats Alexander, whispering while his lips touch his forehead in an unfinished kiss. It sounds like he's holding a painful breath in his chest; deep and anchored to the center of his lungs, refusing to let it go. John believes ten minutes pass for McHenry to enter in the room followed by Tilghman, and finally, he can hear how Alexander let go a big and shaky sigh.

McHenry is a sensate man, and especially, a sensate doctor. When his eyes meet the blooming red chest of Laurens, he knows the tender tries Hamilton to stop the bleeding aren't enough to keep their beloved friend. At any moment the soul will escape through the wound, no matter how hard Hamilton clings to stopping it. Unluckily, Hamilton isn't a sensate man, he’s an especially insensate one when his dear Laurens is involved. So when the dear Hammy looks at him with hope holding every part of his face McHenry approaches to examine the wound closer, praying for a miracle to happen.

There's no way to know it (and it's better for them to not) but McHenry could swear the bullet is a few inches from the heart. As with everything he does, John must be breathing due to his own determination. The same determination that leads him to battle as a collector of wounds, this wound is his final piece. There’s only one thing he knows, this is his final hour.

His heart shakes violently at the realization, the bitter emotions growing inside him must be showing through his face. Laurens asks "Nothing you can do?" with a breathless tone that he didn't think could be found in brave men like him.

As a father, Tilghman approaches and with his right hand removes the dirt that stains the immaculate white hair Laurens works so meticulously into every morning. "Anything I could do would put you in greater pain, and you are too dear for me and the family to cause you some pain." He wants his voice to be strong and firm in the way every doctor should be at giving this kind of news, but his friendship with Laurens betrays him and his throat tightens without permission.

McHenry is sure of another thing, Laurens already knows it, a man like him, a man who knows about medicine, a man who knows how to get battle wounds must know this is his final one. Was it intentional? Did Laurens expose himself among canons and bullets to get this result? McHenry scolds himself for thinking in a dear friend that way. If Laurens exposed himself to danger so many times is because he is a man ready to die for his nation, for his country.

But a man like him, a man who loves his country, and its freedom; a man like Laurens must be familiar with the path to becoming a hero of the cause, the path to becoming a martyr.

McHenry just wishes he could have proposed his faith a little bit, giving the family enough time to know him and love him more. Or maybe he would have done it anyway knowing the pain that would cause them?

He waits for Laurens to react with the desperation of someone who cannot run away from his faith but is Hamilton who molders under the weight of the words. John carries the bullet, Alexander carries the wound, the colors have abandoned his face and he looks younger than ever, a small and scared child of nightmares no one else can see.  McHenry squeezes his shoulder with sympathy, but Alexander remains static in his eyes, his mind tormented by his personal ghosts.

"You are a dear friend of ours and a member of the family." Meade, who looks to be brave enough to start with the farewells; appears at his left. His hand still playing with the handkerchief, his fingers tied around the textile. "You know some of my tenderest affections are reserved for you." His twisted fingers give the handkerchief to McHenry.

While Meade promises his love and friendship, the doctor takes Alexander's hand from its firm place stopping the bleeding to add Meade's handkerchief. "How easy was it to love you, dear Laurens, and what an honor it was to be loved by you." Says Meade and Hamilton does a small nod, his hand holds Laurens with such strength his nails are digging. But Laurens, with the tender touch he always has with Hamilton just moves his venous thumb around his back in small circles. 

Harrison appears, with his face red from running and John cannot help but smile, who would have ever thought the Old Secretary still could run with such energy? "The Marquis will be here soon!" He exclaims while catching his breath. When he looks at John he looks to be possessed by terror. "Dear God!" His eyes are so open it looks like they are going to fall out of their orbits, covered in horror. "Young friend. Believe me when I say that if I could give you some of my years and memories, I'd give it to you, to grant you more time or to grant you the visions of places God didn't allow you to visit."

"Don't say that," Hamilton's cold-toned voice interrupts his words. Harrison shrives, suddenly feeling like the object of his hate. "He'll be fine," he repeats, his eyes refusing to see and Harrison feels pity for him, the death of Laurens will leave Harrison hurt, but it will also leave him sorry for Hamilton.

The room sinks into a deep silence, just the hard breathing of Laurens cutting the tension. McHenry, Meade, and Harrison exchange looks in silence, fighting for who will be the one to break the lie Hamilton has convinced himself of, the lie that John Laurens isn't already gone.

"Ham," Laurens says, taking the uncomfortable place to comfort his friend about his own departure. Hamilton tries to shut him up, insisting on saving the strength that’s already evaporating in the air; Laurens ignores him and climbs his arm around his neck to close their faces, John's mouth whispering breathless words directly into Alexander's ear. Harrison forces his eyes to stop looking, filled with the sudden feeling that he shouldn’t. But a broken “my dear” runs away grievously through the air. 

Interrupting the moment, fast steps sound in the hallway to show Lafayette entering the door. When Lafayette shows his face, it’s evident the soreness of loss already possesses him, his eyes are red and his cheeks are already wet. He flies through the room to descend into Laurens with an invasion of kisses.

“Be careful,” warns McHenry, but the warning doesn’t apply to Laurens who kisses the marquis’ cheek. Lafayette cries in French, he calls Laurens “mon ami” at the end of every sentence. 

“I wish you could have met my wife, Adrienne already loves you just with what I’ve told her,” Lafayette says, while his fingers brush Laurens’ hair.

It passes a moment of silence, the marquis looks John straight in the eye; he takes a deep, audible breath before saying, with a soft and fearful voice. “Is it too much pain?”

Despite his chest burns and every breath is getting harder, John finds out the biggest pain of dying must be doing it alone.

"Nothing I cannot bear.” He says with confidence; but McHenry cannot believe him, not when the pain spins each of his words. John isn’t the first man he sees dying, but is the first one he sees embracing death with so much familiarity. Isn't he scared? Or is he confusing the kisses of the Marquis with the beating of Azrael's wings? 

McHenry looks at them carefully, Lafayette entertains Laurens mentioning every good anecdote he can remember while he caresses one of his hands; McHenry can perceive the smallest shaking in it, but if it's caused by physical pain or by other pain in Laurens' mind, it's hard to tell. 

Even when the Marquis does extraordinary work telling every memory he has, he has to raise his voice so Laurens can hear him through his loud breathing. McHenry isn't sure how much time passes until small coughs start to filtrate through every breathing, at the start Lafayette comforts him caressing his hand, kissing his cheeks; until the coughs become such a violent sound it makes Hamilton wake up from the spell he was in. 

Laurens breathes- no, aspires air with the mouth open, his chest swells violently but it looks like he cannot get enough air. Hamilton raises over him until he's looking John straight in the eyes. Laurens' hands rise until they get entangled in Hamilton's hair, it looks like a painful gripping, but Hamilton remains quiet. Lafayette, who was sharing the details of his childhood, has fallen into a deep silence, his right hand caressing Laurens' hair. 

McHenry can see how every painful breathing breaks the careful mask of stoicism Laurens built; now he looks desperate, clinging to Hamilton as if he could make something about the vitality abandoning him. Hamilton, who’s been worryingly quiet, recovers from his invisible wounds.

"You'll be fine," Alexander promises, Laurens waits to see a hint that he's lying in his eyes, but Alexander provides him the kindest of looks and John cannot help but believe him. He continues talking, throwing promises. "You'll be in South Carolina, you'll rest between your mother and your brother." John's fingers move against his hair in an awkward gesture; even when it's aggressively clumsy, Hamilton can recognize it as a try of a caress. 

Alexander doesn't have a plan for what he will say, but when Laurens looks at him the words come out without permission; just being guided by the tender blue. "I'll talk to your siblings about you. They'll feel proud of you." And, being moved by the deep desire to provide John with as much happiness as he can; he continues talking, his mouth moving in a whisper, surprising himself. "I'll watch over your daughter, she'll be a nice lady. She will love you, I’ll teach her how." John's hands navigate until they arrive on his cheeks. Laurens touches him in the way Hamilton painfully recognizes as the touch of someone who dies, losing control of the limbs which causes an unintended aggressivity that’s unsetting to find between Laurens’ fingers. Despite his hands being filled with that strange touch, Laurens’ eyes hold the same kindness accompanied by a shine of surprise. 

Surprise, and something that looks like affection; even when his mouth moves violently in every breath, Alexander can detect the shape of a smile on Laurens’ lips. “I’ll visit you as much as I can,” he promises; while the words create painful knots inside his chest, they make John shine with happiness, with life. “You’ll live in my mind until the day I’m dead,” he confesses, almost falling apart under the fondness flooding John’s eyes. “Then, we’ll meet in kinder lands. I won’t forget you, dear J.”

And, guided with the deep desire of giving John all the pieces of peace he can provide. Alexander says, honesty seeping into every syllable:

"And I know; beloved Laurens, this nation won’t forget you."

[paintedscales]

FFXIV Write 2024 :: Day Fifteen

Prompt: You choose! (Hair) Characters: Nomin tal Kheeriin, Estinien Varlineau, Teiamon, Gonetomon Word Count: 1,103 Notes: Digimon AU

Master List

Summer vacation was nearly at an end, and unfortunately for Nomin, Estinien had been away in Wales for a time. With just a couple weeks left before the new school year was to start, Nomin found routine back at home incredibly dull. Even if she was allowed to work part-time down on the main floor of Buckthorn to earn some extra money for herself, she missed being able to walk the streets in his, Gonetomon, and Teiamon's company.

It was morning when Nomin received a text from Estinien. She had been busy brushing her hair -- short as it was, though, she really only made sure the locks were tame enough to be presentable. Reaching for her phone, Nomin saw the message that made her smile.

‘Back in town. You have plans for the evening?’

Nomin quickly typed up a response, saying each word slowly as she did: “Not…at…all. Working with…family at…the store… I…get off…at…six…”

“Is that Esti~?” Teiamon asked, perking up from having been snoozing on Nomin’s bed. ‘Esti’ had been a shortening that she took to calling him, claiming ‘Estinien’ was ‘too many syllables.’

“Mhm!” Nomin hit send and then looked at Teiamon. Her smile remained, the telltale crinkle in her eyes showing genuine elation. She then turned her head, her black hair swaying gently with each turn, feathering against her cheeks and neck. “What do you think? He's never seen me without a wig. But my hair is long enough now that I feel really good about it.”

“If you feel good about it, then it doesn't matter what I think!” Teiamon replied, sitting on her haunches while smiling back at Nomin. She had seen the growth of confidence in Nomin as time went on with her gradual recovery and return to normalcy from essentially being a resident at the hospital.

“I hate when you manage to say some really smart things sometimes,” Nomin said jokingly. “But…I suppose you have a point. If I’m happy with it…” she looked at the full length mirror next to her wardrobe, expression softening. “Then I'll continue being happy with it.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Evening came around, and Nomin helped get some stuff put away before eagerly shouldering off the Buckthorn employee waistcoat and nametag, running upstairs all the while. Teiamon had been in the living area, laying upside down on the couch while watching the telly, only righting herself when Nomin came hurrying upstairs. There was clear excitement in Nomin, and she had an outfit all ready and laid out on her bed.

The overshirt and shorts were of matching, lightweight fabrics, a sage green and white striped pair with pink buttons and a pink sash to tie the shorts in place of a belt. The undershirt was a simple white vest lined with watermelon slices along the hem. Pink hose to accompany black flats, and a myriad of different little watermelon accessories to really tie the theme of the outfit together.

Nomin thought she looked cute in the mirror by the time she clasped the two hairpins to keep her bangs out of her face. Grabbing the watermelon messenger bag, Nomin exited the room to see Teiamon waiting patiently for her.

“You coming along?” Nomin asked with a grin, holding out her arm. With delight, Teiamon responded, fluttering up and perching herself upon Nomin’s shoulder. With both of them ready to go, Nomin made her way downstairs to see Estinien and Gonetomon just having entered Buckthorn, the electric bell at the tail end of its ring to signal someone crossing the threshold.

When their eyes met, Estinien seemed stunned for a moment as he let the door slowly close behind him. His expression then softened as he watched Nomin hurry around past the checkout counter. He was then taken aback when she threw her arms around him in greeting, Teiamon fluttering up to give them both space. She found the perfect place to perch herself: on top of Gonetomon’s head as he gave a huff and tried to swat her away.

“Estinien! How was Wales?” Nomin asked, soon settling and looking up at him.

“It’s Wales; there’s not exactly a lot to do except visit family and see the sheep,” Estinien replied with a scoff of amusement. Looking Nomin over, he cleared his throat and then motioned to her -- specifically her hair. “It’s…different seeing you without the blue hair.”

“Oh…” Nomin’s expression faltered somewhat before she grabbed a loose lock and lightly twisted it between her fingers. Estinien’s tone filled her with a sense of uncertainty. “Do…um…should I wear my blue wig?”

“Th-That’s not what I meant. It’s…erm…” Estinien looked away, a flustered blush reddening his face as his brow furrowed somewhat. “Your hair looks really nice. I’m glad it’s growing back nicely… It was just surprising, that’s all… To see you with black hair.”

Relief welled in Nomin, a smile returning to her lips. “It’s my natural color. It’s…been nice not having to wear the wigs as much.”

The blush remained on Estinien’s face as he then motioned toward the door. “That’s…That’s good to hear. Listen…I know we didn’t discuss a plan or anything, but…” Estinien seemed to struggle with whatever it was that was on his mind.

“Whatever it is, let’s do it!” Nomin replied, trying to ease any tension he might have felt. The two of them departed from the store, their Digimon closely following at their heels. They stepped out onto the sidewalk where the smell of the nearby restaurants and their dishes being cooked filled the air alongside the tinge of car emissions as they drove down the street.

Estinien’s shoulders relaxed as he sighed, relieved to hear Nomin willing to go with him no matter what it may have been. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a brightly colored yellow flier and unfolded it. “When dad, Hami, and I got back home, this was in our mail. Thought you would have liked it if you didn’t already see it…”

Nomin took up the flier looking over it as the two of them walked together.

“A flower walk?” Nomin looked over at Estinien.

“You said your sister always came by the hospital to make sure you had fresh flowers in your room when they started wilting… I…assumed it was because you liked them…” Estinien admitted. “But if it’s not your thing, we can do something else.”

“No, no! I would love to go!” Nomin beamed, gently bumping shoulders with Estinien as they walked.

Though he did his best to hide it, a smile tugged at Estinien’s lips, delighted to have something to do that brought a smile to Nomin’s face.

Bonus:

[the-lonelybarricade]

A Blaze in the Dark - (4/8)

Chapter Title: In From the Snow

Summary: On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, Elain uses a spell to meet her true love in her dreams.

A contribution to @elucienweekofficial Day 4: Courtiers.

Read on AO3 ・Series Masterlist・Previous Chapter

-

Elain had never struggled to sit comfortably in silence.

Silence had been expected of her since the moment she was born, when her mother would hand Elain and her sisters off to a nursemaid the moment they began to weep. Elain had grown up watching her father urge Nesta and Feyre out of his study when they couldn’t keep still, and she had learned that the trick to never being pushed away was to keep silent.

There was a weapon to silence. Unlike her outspoken sisters, Elain often traded speaking her mind for observing the world around her. It was easy to slip by unnoticed, putting people at ease in her quiet and unassuming nature while she pilfered their words and countenance for the truth they did not know they were revealing.

If you are going to speak, her mother used to say, then your words must not be empty.

Even then, there were rules to obey. Speak with purpose, but never too clever, never too bold. So Elain watched and observed and weighed every word to ensure it was dignified and poised. It was a meticulous effort, being perfect. Use wit and humor to be interesting, but not so much that she be deemed unserious. So Elain listened and observed so that she could disguise every word beneath the thin veneer of perfection.

She did not mind the silence, except that she found herself struggling to leverage it to her advantage when there was nothing to be won. No one to impress besides her indignant husband, who seemed intent on prolonging the silence as long as possible. It sat unbroken for hours, past hills and valleys and the endless seas of bluebells. It was only towards the end of the trip, when the sun was hanging low on the horizon, that it fractured from Elain’s lips in the shape of a startled, “Oh.”

Lucien raised his head, as if drawn from a daze. He blinked, eyes going first to Elain, then following her line of sight out the carriage window. A small laugh escaped him, before he rapped his knuckles against the wall that separated them from the driver. Elain heard the footman call out, and soon the steady clop of hooves slowed.

The carriage jerked to a stop.

“Go on,” Lucien said, nodding towards the carriage door.

Elain set her hand towards the bronze latch, then paused. Retreated. “Will it be cold?”

“Yes.”

“Will I like it?”

“Only you can decide that, Elain.”

“Do you like it?”

Rather than answer, Lucien began unfastening the buttons of his jacket, beginning to strip himself to his burgundy waistcoat and undershirt.

Elain, feeling a bit delirious, asked, “Do you intend to coax me from the carriage by threat of undressing?”

He only smiled. “Would it work?”

She might very well leave if only to escape answering that question truthfully. “At present, I’m not sure which unnerves me more.”

“My pride is relieved,” he said dryly. Once his fingers pushed the final button free, he slid the fabric gracefully off his arms and held it out to her in offering. “It will be cold,” he said. “You will be grateful to have this.”

Elain accepted it with exaggerated reluctance. It was heavy, still warm from his back.

“Will I be going alone, then?”

The question was partly a means of stalling and partly because she was too proud to ask him directly if he could come with her. But she wanted him to.

All he said was, “Put on my jacket.”

His eyes said the rest. They watched her, gold and russet burning with surprising authority. No more questions.

That tone of voice. It was command, laced with something warmer. Something that felt like drinking a glass of the amber liquid her father kept in his study. She felt the prickling heat on the back of her tongue, slowly slipping down. She pushed one arm through his jacket, then the next as a new warmth was spread over her. She was beginning to feel a bit woozy, not helped by the strong scent of the jacket and the overwhelming urge to tuck her face closer for a whiff.

“Good girl,” he said.

And she realized what that tone of voice reminded her of.

Open your mouth.

Elain was grateful for the way her breath hitched—smothering whatever embarrassing sound built in her throat. The metal latch bit into her skin by how hastily she grabbed it to shove the carriage door open, because suddenly what waited for her outside was much more inviting than examining why those two words evoke such an intense physical reaction when they came from someone other than her true love.

A cool breeze brushed against her flushed cheeks. Good, Elain thought, swallowing every freezing breath in large, greedy mouthfuls. She flexed her fingers, marveling at the strange bite of the air, and how quickly it was alleviating her racing pulse.

Elain pressed her foot tentatively to the carriage step, and her improper thoughts were quickly chased away by the anxieties of what awaited her. She was certainly wearing the wrong footwear, but any clothes that had been brought in preparation for the Eastern Kingdom were in the trunk at the back of the carriage. Really, how bad could it be if they were just stopping to look?

On the next clouded breath, Elain pretended that she was exhaling the timid voice inside saying: what if it doesn’t live up to your expectations?

Then she jumped from the carriage.

The snow crunched underfoot. Her mouth parted open in surprise. She hadn’t been expecting a noise. In her mind, she’d always imagined winter as a silent assassin. The frost brought death to flowers and trees and sometimes the living creatures that could not survive its harsh conditions. It was a brutal, unforgiving force of nature.

What Elain didn’t know was that the snow banks glistened in the low-hanging sunlight, reflecting the gold and pink of the sky above it. There were no chittering birds, no chirps of crickets or cicadas.

The world around them was entirely undisturbed. Tranquil, yet stagnant.

“What do you think?”

Lucien stepped down from the carriage, irritatingly dashing in his fitted waistcoat—which cut to his body tightly enough that she could mark the incline of his chest, how he was slightly slimmer at the waist. A playful wind danced against the billowing sleeves of his undershirt, which he was stretching towards Elain to offer his hand. She placed her fingers atop his, though she hadn’t the slightest idea why they needed to be holding hands.

“It’s so…” she glanced back over the landscape, surveying it for a word that could describe all she was feeling. “Unsettling.”

“How so?”

Elain tightened her hand on his as she took a careful step away from the carriage. He followed, clearly having no direction in mind with which to lead her, making the offer of his hand all the more curious.

“Everything is dead,” she said. “For miles and miles there is only cold, silent snow.”

“That is unsettling, I suppose,” he conceded.

“Yes, but that I was not finished.”

“Oh?”

Another step, further and further from the carriage she tugged him, where the snow became deeper, and she had to lift her skirts to venture forward. Already, she could feel the cold seeping through her stockings.

“There is no sound,” she said, “but the wind. And there is no soul around, but for you and I. There is no one here to observe us, no expectations to cater to but our own. I am left to confront my own existence.”

Lucien made a small sound of understanding. His fingers tightened. “Harrowing, indeed, one’s own existence.”

It was said like a joke, but she didn’t laugh.

“Do you ever think…” Elain trailed off. Would he even understand? She didn’t want to reveal something vulnerable only for it to be written off as ridiculous.

He squeezed her hand. “Go on.”

“It’s all so strict. The things we cannot say or do. There are so many words inside of me that have been smothered. Do you ever think that we spend so long curating these facades, that we forget ourselves entirely?” Elain scraped her eyes over the barren snow. “What I mean to say is, I scarcely know who I am when there aren’t others around to perform for.”

Wind picked up, gentle in speed but vicious in the chill it wrought against her exposed skin. Elain had never been so aware of her body before—how it tingled with the strangest burning sensation, one that she had always associated with heat. How curious, that the cold could burn.

Lucien, despite having surrendered his jacket, seemed unaffected by the weather. His free hand didn’t curl the same way hers did, attempting to protect her numbed fingers. Posture unguarded, he seemed to be welcoming the snow as he stared at her quizzically.

Having suffered in silence long enough, Elain said, “If you don’t agree—”

“I do agree,” he said. “I fear I know exactly what you mean.”

Oh. Voice soft, she asked, “Then why do you seem so puzzled?”

“I can’t figure out why I would be excluded.”

“From what?”

“The people you need to perform for.”

For a moment, Elain felt equally puzzled. That sentiment hadn’t been intentional, but… she supposed that was what she implied.

Lucien said, “I can’t decide if I should be flattered or offended. Is it because you feel comfortable with me, or because you find my opinion so detestable that you don’t care what I think?”

Either case seemed absurd, considering they’d only met that morning. And yet even from the first moment she saw him, before she had known he was Lucien Vanserra, she had felt strangely and uncommonly comfortable speaking her mind with him.

“You are my husband,” Elain said, as if that were a straightforward answer.

His lips quirked. “Detestable, then.”

“No,” Elain said, finding that his expression was making her feel lighter. “You are my husband, which means that it could be either, depending on the time of day.”

“What about now, then?”

She pursed her lips, turning away from the blushing horizon to marvel at Lucien. He was remarkably unflushed from the cold, but the pink and gold of the setting sun rested across his cheekbones as if nature were blushing for him. He was watching her with an attention Elain was not unaccustomed to. But there was a warmth to it, a gentle curiosity that didn’t make her feel overly self-aware. Instead, it made her feel… seen.

“Comfortable,” she said.

Lucien smiled, bright as the snow at their feet. He used their joined hands to tug her closer and, as if it were a dance, he raised his arm over her head to let the momentum spin her forward. The fabric of her dress was becoming heavier, sodden from the snow, but even so it twirled with the motion, dusting up the loose powder on the surface.

He caught her gracefully as she came out of the spin, dipping her so low that the tips of her hair scraped against the snow. There was laughter in his voice as he asked, “And now?”

“Detestable,” she said. With the way she was grinning, it was not a convincing assessment.

Lucien leaned closer. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

A challenge flickered in his eyes. “Do you want to see how destable I can be, Elain?”

Her good sense told her not to indulge. But Elain was feeling bold and lightheaded and wanted to see just how deep that mischief lay beneath the surface.

“Yes,” she said again.

With a cruel smile, Lucien dropped his hands. Elain barely had time to register what had happened before she plunged into the deep snow. She sunk through the surface, cold powder rising over and around her as she gasped, flickering belatedly between her surprise and anger.

Lucien peered over at her. He was smirking. “What do you think of the snow?”

It was much less pleasant to be encased in it, she thought agitatedly. Elain kicked out her legs, uncertain how to rise without getting her hands any colder. Lucien watched her struggle whilst looking far too proud of himself, and what was worse is that he seemed to find the situation more amusing the longer it went on.

“Do you need help?” He asked.

With a shriek, Elain grabbed at a handful of snow and lashed it towards him.

He chuckled. “That won’t persuade me to help you.”

Taking pity on her, he leaned over to extend a hand. She grabbed it. Then, with all the ferocity she could muster, she used her grip to tug him off balance. Lucien fell forward—nearly on top of her, if it weren’t for his hands quickly shooting to catch himself, braced on either side of her head. His hair fell into her face, a tangle of red silk that had her spluttering, thrashing her face inelegantly as she attempted to get it out of her mouth.

Lucien was too busy laughing to be any help. Elain was forced to reach up, collecting Lucien’s hair in a fist so that she could get it out of her face and, in doing so, peer directly up into Lucien’s. He was much too close. It was like being back on the altar, except now she could see the clouds of their breath tangle together.

Had he been breathing this quickly then, too? Or was that the adrenaline from falling?

“You know,” Lucien said. He was studying her face, attention flicking from her eyes to her cheeks. To her mouth. “Typically a wife reserves this sort of behavior for the bedroom. And I took you for such a modest lady, too.”

The joke sobered any thought she had of pressing their mouths together. Their position was certainly… compromising.

Elain flushed. “Praytell what opportunity I’d have for such behavior? From my understanding, you and I will be sleeping in separate rooms.”

The heat in Lucien’s expression died, too. He reached up to pry her hands out of his hair. “Cauldron,” he swore once his hands closed over her fingers. “You’re freezing.”

“You dropped me in snow!”

“An oversight,” he said, withdrawing easily from their position. This time when he offered his hand, Elain allowed him to pull her to her feet. “Come, let’s get you out of that dress before you catch a cold.”

She hesitated, looking down at the ruined hem of her skirt. Then back to Lucien. “You don’t mean…”

“Mother-forsake-me, of course I don’t mean now, Elain. Once you’re in the privacy of your own room. We’re nearly to the inn, we can make haste.”

Indeed, Lucien was already rushing towards the carriage, hardly a thought of the wife who had to bundle her wet skirts in her arms to keep up. She couldn’t help feeling that he’d emphasized your own room on purpose. It was their wedding night, and they would be staying in separate rooms, and she of course had known this.

Yet the reminder felt raw. Cold, somehow—like the snow and her limbs and Lucien’s changed demeanor.

He opened the carriage door for her, at least, offering a hand to help her climb inside. But he closed it forcefully enough that she jumped. Then he sighed.

“I’m sorry.”

Elain did her best to square her shoulders—a difficult task, now that her body had begun shivering. “About which part?”

“Dropping you in the snow,” he said. “I was being…”

Playful. She’d like it, until he’d withdrawn from her.

“Unkind.”

She snorted, turning her head towards the window to watch as the valleys of snow passed by. “I’ve heard a rumor that Prince Lucien possesses kindness in short supply.”

“A pity for his wife,” he agreed with a wry smile. “I’ve heard she is extraordinarily kind, and in future I will strive to reflect her kindness back on her.”

Until he proved it, it was all talk. Elain said nothing. She was not prepared to dignify his behavior with forgiveness just yet. Not when she was still trembling, and no amount of wrapping her arms around herself was helpful. The air in the carriage might have been warmer, but the cold still clung to her wet clothes.

“The inn is close by,” Lucien said. “But I can help warm you up, while you wait.”

Elain offered him a flat look.

“Oh, stop.” He wrinkled his nose. “Not like that.”

He stretched his hand toward her, flexing his fingers expectantly. Elain stared for a moment, before she cautiously placed her hand in his. Lucien shut his eyes. It’s what drew her attention to his face—initially because she found it odd, then because she realized she had an opportunity to survey him without triggering that smug, infuriating smile.

In its absence, she could freely admit that he was beautiful. Strong jaw and high cheekbones, Elain searched his face for any sign of King Beron—because surely, if she could look into Lucien’s face and see a glimpse of his father, that would be enough to temper the strange, fluttering feeling that gripped her each time she looked at him. But, fortunately or unfortunately, he was unique in his beauty.

His lips parted open, as though in concentration, and it was only then Elain actually paid any attention to what he was doing. His hand, wrapped around hers, was becoming warmer.

Elain stiffened. “What are you doing?”

“Warming you up.”

“How?”

“Magic.” She yanked her hand away, holding it protectively to her chest. Lucien’s eyes were open, now—wide and confused. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” She echoed. “Magic is…”

Well, forbidden is what she wanted to say. But that wasn’t the truth anymore. That was her father’s rule and now that she was no longer in Archeron manor… she didn’t know what magic was, anymore.

“It comes at a cost,” she said, echoing the familiar refrain of Nesta and her governess.

“Yes,” Lucien said patiently. “I’m paying it.”

“What’s the cost?”

“Energy. I’m going to heat up your hands and take a nice, long nap afterwards.”

“That’s all?”

He looked bemused. “Yes, Elain, that’s all.”

Slowly, she placed her hand back in his. Magic. To think he used it so casually, like it was nothing at all. She didn’t know how much she could press him on the subject. Could she ask about the true love spell without arousing suspicion?

Lucien hummed as though in afterthought. “Though I suppose I should mention that a curse may fall on your firstborn child, but that shouldn’t be a problem considering—”

“That’s not funny,” she snapped.

She knew he was teasing, because he’d been smiling. Now, he was studying her, as though it were shocking to him that she would have such a severe reaction to something he’d said so lightly. Elain could practically see him trace over his words, connecting them with the stern lines of her frown.

He winced, finally, like his meaning caught up to him. “You’re right, lady. It was not funny, and I apologize. All I mean to do is help you.”

Elain pulled her hand away, folding it into her wet lap. “I think I’ve had enough of your help today, your highness.”

She told herself that though there was remorse in his expression, that didn’t mean he was owed her forgiveness. To speak so tactlessly about having children when he was the one denying them to her… Elain thought she at least owed him the silence he had paid her for the majority of the day, when she had acted insensitively.

“Very well,” Lucien said, bowing his head to her. He looked pained. “We’ll be at the inn shortly.”

-

Soon enough, Elain was welcomed by the sound of the carriage wheels rolling over loose stone. They slowed to a stop, the horses whinnying as the lulling clop of hooves finally quieted. Elain was so frozen in her dress that she wasn’t certain she could have moved quickly if she wanted to. Lucien had no such excuse, but he still seemed to hesitate for a moment before exiting the carriage.

Elain ignored his outstretched hand. She didn’t care if she looked graceless climbing out of the carriage—her stiff and soaking dress would mean she looked graceless, regardless. Nevermind that she was still wearing her husband’s jacket, which was equally wet and hardly keeping her warm, yet she couldn’t find it in herself to return it. She would keep it, if only to be spiteful.

“Ho there!” A man came rushing out of the inn, clutching a handheld lantern which he raised to cast them in better light. When he caught sight of Lucien, he scrambled into a bow, “Your highness.”

“If it’s not too much trouble, I request we make haste inside.” Lucien gestured to Elain. “The lady is freezing.”

“Certainly.” The man, who Elain presumed to be the innkeeper, fumbled at his breast pocket for a ring of keys before gesturing them inside. “Right this way.”

They followed him through a series of wood paneled hallways, then up a set of stairs. Lucien had to duck so as not to hit his head on the ceiling’s wooden beams. Elain, still cross, let herself smile at the idea that he might.

Her smile fell away when they stopped in front of one of the doors, and the innkeeper unlocked it for her. “This is your room, my lady. And his highness’s room is just down the hall.”

Elain glanced back at her husband, unsurprised but still disappointed.

“Enjoy your wedding night,” she said, frigidly, before walking into the bedroom and shutting the door.

Why not lock it, for good measure? It took more effort than usual, the key trembling in her fingers. Some warmth was returning to them, now, and she could feel each of them throb with their own tiny heartbeats. Maybe she would lock it later, once the footsteps faded. Elain rested her forehead against the door to listen, but all she could hear was her own heart splintering in her chest.

Alone. On her wedding night. It was a blessing, she assured herself, but that didn’t chase away the cold, lurching feeling of rejection. Maybe sitting in front of the hearth would.

She turned the key in the lock, listening to it click. The footman could deposit her trunk outside, or better yet, with Lucien. For now… for now she just had to get out of these Cauldron forsaken clothes. The ice leached all the way through, so Elain stripped herself bare before she settled atop the fur rug before the hearth.

The absence of the wet fabric was a relief. Whereas the absence of company… that still stung.

Elain angled her head towards the heap that had become of her dress and petticoats. She supposed she didn’t need to be alone. The innkeeper would likely be bringing dinner soon, but he could deposit it beside her trunk. She had no appetite in her state.

She wanted to pretend that it took her longer to consider it. That she waited there for hours deliberating over the morality of seeking the butterfly wings Nesta had given her. She wanted to have reservations, on her wedding night of all evenings, but it was horrifyingly easy to slip her hand into the pocket of her petticoat and withdraw the pouch of wings.

The only difficult part, really, was placing a bug’s wing in her mouth.

After that, it was only a matter of falling asleep. And waking to darkness.

Elain pressed a hand to the cool, silk sheets beneath her. A far cry from the fur rug she’d fallen asleep on. She wondered, briefly, where the dreams took her. Was it her old room from Archeron manor? Having never wandered further from the mattress, it was difficult to tell. But she didn’t think so. The feel of the bedding, the smell… it was different.

“You’re here?”

Thoughts of their location quickly abandoned, Elain scrambled to the edge of the bed, trying to peer in the direction of the voice.

“I’m here,” she said to the darkness.

“On your wedding night?”

The question caught her off guard. She faltered, uncertain how to answer.

“My apologies, lady, I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I only mean to say… I suppose I’m just surprised you came. A-are you okay?”

Elain pressed her lips together. She knew what he thought happened, and she supposed she should assure him that her husband had not forced himself on her. He was, in fact, not the least bit the monster that she had expected him to be. Would that be consoling to her true love, or the opposite?

“It’s been a long day,” she said. It was honest.

“I’m sure it has been.”

His footsteps echoed as he tentatively walked towards the bed. She had the sense he made them louder for her sake, so that she was not startled by his approach.

“Is… Please tell me, is there anything I can do?”

Elain was certain that he was close enough now she could reach out and touch him. She recalled how warm his touch had been last night. And the cold still clung to her, even in sleep. Was he capable of soothing it?

“Could you just—hold me? Please?”

Though she had tried to maintain her composure, her voice cracked involuntarily on the please. And maybe the snow had turned her brittle, because that small crack was all that she needed to break. Elain pressed her hand to mouth, trying desperately to smother the sob building in her throat. She hadn’t wanted to come here to cry.

“Of course I can.” He sounded distressed. By her voice, or something else? “I’m going to touch you now. Is that okay?”

Elain nodded, but of course he didn’t see.

“Sweetheart, please. You need to tell me ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

Answering him meant removing her hand from her mouth. She didn’t want to speak—she didn’t trust her voice not to crumble. If she spoke, then the tears would surely come, and she wanted to fight them off as long as possible.

“In here, my love, you only get touched on your terms. If you can’t speak, why don’t you grab my hand? I’m standing right in front of you.”

With her free hand, Elain reached blindly into the dark. It didn’t take long to find his waiting hand—warm, like she remembered. Gentle.

“Good,” he said. “Now, do you want me to get on the bed with you? Squeeze once if you do, twice if not.”

She was already feeling calmer just from the way he was speaking to her. In all of her bouts of emotion over the years, no one had ever braced them with such patience. Such… kindness. Elain lowered her hand from her mouth. Her voice crackled as she said, “I’d like for you to get on the bed.”

“Ah, she found her voice. I’m glad.” The bed shifted slightly beneath his weight. “And if you ever feel like you can’t speak while we’re in here, just remember: one squeeze for yes, two for no.”

“Thank you.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for. Do you want to lie down together?”

She searched the question for any underlying meaning. It had been nice when he’d touched her yesterday—more than—but if that was what he was offering, she wasn’t certain that was something she wanted. Not tonight.

It seemed like he responded best to honesty. “I don’t want to… to…”

“Of course not,” he said. “I won’t touch you anywhere unless you explicitly ask me to.”

“Okay,” she whispered.

He moved himself further onto the bed. She could feel the weight shift towards the middle, where he’d presumably stretched himself out, head against the pillows as if they would be going to sleep.

“Come here,” he murmured.

It was a tedious game not to accidentally nudge him somewhere delicate as she crawled towards him, feeling ahead with her hands. She gently patted his stomach, then his chest. It felt oddly catlike, pawing her way to lay down, though she could only hope she had half the grace of a feline as she laid herself down beside her true love, head resting against his steady heart.

“There,” he said. His arm came around her shoulders and he began rubbing slow circles against her back. “We can stay like this as long as you want.”

“Forever?”

It was a suggestion filled with melancholy, since they both knew that regardless of any promises made here, in the morning they would have no choice but to be ripped from each other all over again.

“Forever,” he said back.

Because what was a lie, when the truth would only break their hearts? And what was forever, when between the measly hours of dawn and dusk, she could listen to her true love’s heart beat in time with her own? Forever was overrated, anyhow.

[merbear25]

Caesar

Costume party

Gn!reader

Truth or dare

Nsfw, but no intercourse, nsfw subjects will be discussed in the game's questions.

Hey, hey! Thanks for sending in a request for the event. I'm always thrilled to write for this goat, so I hope you like it. 💜🧡

Under the foggy nighttime sky, the party unfolding within the dimly lit house offered more than just friendly chatter. Among those festively dressed, the one who’d been creeping into your subconscious more and more frequently set his sights on you that night. Sneaking off together gave the both of you such a rush, one which you were keen on keeping pumping through your veins.

CW: NSFW, MDNI, gn!reader, no intercourse, dirty and extremely suggestive questions/actions, non established relationship, pining

Tell me everything (Caesar)

Blinking lights of purple and orange peaked through the mesh curtains. Their illumination of the windowsill complimented the dim lighting within the house. A reddish glow washed over the room. Cobwebs gently swayed from the faintest whispers and floating candles dimly lit the walls. 

Lively conversations that you weren’t a part of made the chilling house appear warm. Each joke that landed, each chuckle that shook their costumes brought life to an otherwise dead night. Howls of the creatures stalking the grounds were muffled by the music and animated stories. Pleasantries exchanged even with whom you’d never associate were made tolerable with the aid of celebratory drinks.

Long dark locks draped over your shoulders as you loitered in front of the beverage stand. The clear cups with fizzy red alcohol bubbled around the decorative plastic syringe and eyeball. Each burst and pop of the syrupy liquid created an illusion of blood splatters. As he leaned over you staring down the bridge of his nose, he hummed at the sight of you.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

You brought the cup up to your lips and allowed the bubbles to kiss them. “I could say the same about you.” Hints of disappointment were held in your words, in spite of your soft tone. 

Watching you swirling your drink, the slight splashes of sweet alcohol alluded to a heavy weight on your shoulders. “It’s been too long.” The sentence brushed against your ear. “We’ve got so much to catch up on, I’m sure.” 

His jet black coat sleeves and white cuffs of his shirt grazed your sides as he placed his pale palms firmly on the table. The gold clasps caught your eye as he pinned you against him. The raisin shaded waistcoat under the long cape hugged his slender build nicely. 

Those purple lips that had been appearing in your dreams for far longer than you cared to admit teased your ear. “I’ve got an idea. Why not play a harmless game to get reacquainted?” 

Gentle guidance in his voice lured you into agreeing. A dragged out “Good” spread a smile across his lips, while his prosthetic fangs lightly scraped across your ear. Offering you his hand, the swift change of environment left you a tad dizzy. In seclusion, he’d have his fill of picking that brain of yours. No interruptions. No unwarranted, bothersome drunkards stumbling in and crashing your fun.

The white wooden door was shut, the lights still held that faint glow of the holiday’s charm, and the object of that night’s desire was sitting patiently for him: a perfect way to indulge in privacy. Slumping down on the sofa next to you, he lazily slung his arm over the back. His long fingers absentmindedly played with the loose fabric of your costume as he stretched his legs out.

“Such a headache, hmm? All those dolts chattering amongst themselves really makes one crave an escape, wouldn’t you agree?” That scheming smirk was propped up on his hand. The yellow eyes that both graced and haunted your dreams were looking straight through you—an anxious little plaything for him to toy with.

He crossed his legs in front of you, trapping you on the couch. A gentle twirl of your hair between his fingers made a flush bite at your cheeks. With such playfulness warming your body, it would be easy for anyone to forget this was a man bearing an atrocious reputation. That devilish charm was looked at through rose colored glasses. Their pinkish tint made even his most dastardly misdeeds seem justified.

“How about that little game?” The cool tone sent shivers over your body.

“What game exactly?” You fiddled with hands, when his gaze held a glimmer of mischief.

“Aren’t you dying to know what I’ve been up to? So, what better game than truth or dare?” A light chuckle passed his lips as he turned up his hands from the most obvious option.

Heat from the potential embarrassment and the close proximity flushed your face. Even under all that facepaint, there was no mistaking the blush dancing on your complexion. A hum of approval at your timid agreement swirled around you.

“Very well then,” he hissed with a slyness. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” you said in a shaky breath.

He tapped his finger on his chin, taking his time to think of a question. “Ah! What was your first impression of me?” Though the expectations were in the name of the game, he wouldn’t have accepted anything less than praise.

“I was blown away to say the least.” He nodded for you to continue. “How could I not? Working under one of -er… the greatest mind, well it’s like a dream.” In spite of him steering your answer towards the utmost flattery, each bit of your answer had your honest heart poured into it.

“Music to my ears, but such sweet words will only get you so far.” He winked.

Your sweaty hands gripped at your pants from his bolder attempts to make you flustered. The question was then directed at him. 

“Dare.” His smirk refused to leave his face, while he watched how you were already reacting to his idea of fun.

“Tell me what the biggest lie you’ve ever told was.”

Without hesitation, the answer was void of remorse. “‘I love you.’” Your next answer of ‘dare’ piqued his interest. 

He’d been holding onto a question but changed it into a command to suit a dare. “Tell me if you’ve ever had a wet dream about me.” The tip of his tongue traced his bottom lip as you stirred in your seat, your body language already giving him the answer.

“I have,” you admitted in an almost mousy voice. His chuckle came as a low rumble and was laced with dark pleasure. A sigh to soothe your own nerves did little to help you. His eyes were sparkling with intrigue the longer they laid on you.

“Dare,” he quickly answered your question. He sat up a little from the anticipation of what may come next, the game was getting more and more interesting.

“I dare you to act out a kinky action you’d like to see us do together.” There was a clear desire for more behind those eyes of yours. Such fervor was met with his own as he choked back a groan.

Pulling himself up to get more personal, he reveled in the sight of you already quaking in your seat. Two golden orbs now half-lidded kept your gaze, while he put three of his long digits into his mouth. A few pumps to lather them with his slick tongue was more than enough to get the idea across, but letting his tongue slide and flick between two of them as he finished demonstrating had your heart pounding. Your faint pants from the show he’d just put on for you made you that much more delectable to him.

“What’s the most unexpected thing that turns you on?” He leaned in closer.

“S-science.” With the image of him still fresh in your mind, you blurted out the first thing that came to mind. You felt like shrinking into yourself when he laughed. “Well, more specifically experiments.”

“Oh?” He hummed. “How much more fitting.”

He was practically on top of you, his large body trapping you in a cage of his own limbs. You wanted to feel more of him, properly feel him. “Truth or dare?”

In response to his ‘dare’, you couldn’t resist the opportunity. “I dare you to hug me for a full minute.” There was a sense of sweetness to your question, but given the nature of recent events, such a dare wasn’t intended to lead to anything innocent.

Cocking an eyebrow, he held onto his sly grin as he pulled you against his chest. He wrapped his arms around you, allowing you to fully melt into him. You responded with ‘truth’ for the next round, nearly lost in the sound of his heartbeat quickening as you nuzzled up against him.

“Would you be open to having a one-night stand?” His lips ghosted the shell of your ear. The nip of his fangs made your grip on his pant legs tighten, while your head spun from the overwhelming thrill prickling over your sensitive skin.

“I…I think so. Yes.” His arms wrapped around you more tightly and the deep sigh was laced with bliss.

“Give me another dare, darling.” A voice rough with need alluded to his waning patience.

Each subtle tremble in his body vibrated against you. “Act out your first kiss on me.” As soon as the final dare left those enticing lips, he grabbed your face and captured you in a greedy liplock. Abandoning adhering to the ‘first kiss’ part, he desired to have you feel every ounce of his ardor.

His hand cupped your face while the other roamed your body. Any soft gasps and whimpers you offered him were instantly devoured. As your tongues tangled, he paid no mind to his fangs. They pricked your soft skin, yanking more delicious sounds from you, each one sending you both into the abyss.

“I couldn’t care less about returning to that damn party.” You murmured against his lips.

“Then let’s stay up here and continue with our own idea of a good time.”

[sprnklersplashes]

snowflakes, sunshine and chance encounters (3/4)

ao3

Wylan isn’t surprised to learn that Jesper is a fantastic kisser. Not that he thought about it, even with the perfect curve of Jesper’s lips sitting in the back of his mind. But it just feels logical; the sky is blue, the grass is green, and Jesper is an excellent kisser.

The stable wall is rough when Jesper pushes him up against it, stone scraping his scalp, but Wylan doesn’t mind one bit. How could he, when Jesper is digging his fingers into his hips and claiming his lips with such fervour that Wylan is left breathless. His perfect lips travel down Wylan’s jaw, then his neck, his collarbone, and it’s a wonder Wylan’s legs are still holding him up. As Jesper undoes the buttons of his shirt and presses heavy kisses to his shoulder, Wylan bites his lip, tightens his hold on Jesper’s jacket and then says the first coherent thought he’s had since he kissed Jesper. 

“My name’s Wylan. By the way.” Jesper pauses, glances up, and Wylan is hit with the terrified thought that he’s ruined it by saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, again. 

Jesper smiles.

“Good to meet you Wylan,” he says and goes back to undoing his shirt. Wylan laughs, dizzy in a way no amount of champagne could make him.

As much as Jesper’s kisses make him feel, well, everything, Wylan isn’t satisfied with just having it to done to him. He wants everything, and so he starts fiddling with the buttons on Jesper’s frankly ridiculous jacket until it falls off him like rain off a gabled roof. Beneath the purple shirt, Wylan finds the hard panes of his stomach, smooth skin giving way to raised scar tissue and goosebumps across his flesh. As he traces lines on Jesper’s torso and back, he gasps against him and his grip on Wylan tightens even further. With a steadiness Wylan didn’t know he possessed, the shirt is pulled off his body, and lands without ceremony on the ground. The fabric is just a sad little bundle in the hay. And Jesper is in front of him, all long limbs and tight muscles and brown skin that’s already beginning to glisten. 

“Wow,” he breathes and Jesper just grins. 

In seconds, Wylan’s waistcoat and tie join it on the ground. Jesper’s fingers had grazed Wylan’s neck as he undid it and Ghezen, Wylan wants that feeling again. Then his shirt is gone, and if Wylan should feel afraid and unsure, he doesn’t. He doesn’t even feel cold, not when Jesper is pressed so close to him. 

Jesper doesn’t waste time and Wylan decides he won’t either. Heart pounding, Wylan pulls at Jesper’s belt, takes a moment to trace his hipbone with his lips. Then his trousers are gone and Wylan sinks to his knees. Jesper gasps, grabs the fence with one hand and Wylan’s shoulder with the other. He presses kisses to his waist, his thighs, his stomach, and Jesper’s breaths come faster and higher. In the near-total quiet of the stables, Wylan hears the soft pants, muttered “Oh saints” and a thrill runs up his spine.

Never in his wildest dreams did he think he could do this, let alone with someone like Jesper. Sure, he’s not as inexperienced as his father likes to think he is, but those were quick romps in private library rooms he did just to prove he could. This, this is something else. This is transforming him, pulling apart his broken pieces and making something new with them.

“Wylan-” Jesper reaches, and Wylan takes his hand and intertwines their fingers. He looks up, sees the glimmer in Jesper’s eyes. I did that he thinks almost giddily. Jesper smiles and Wylan feels like he might explode. He says his name again, stronger this time, and Wylan gets it. WIth one strong pull, Jesper is down beside him, landing in a heap that has him giggling like a madman. The sound fills the room, fills the world, and maybe you aren’t supposed to laugh during sex, but then why is Jesper’s laugh so damn beautiful? Why is Wylan then laughing too, as he climbs on top of Jesper, and why does it feel so right?

With Jesper panting beneath him, Wylan resumes his kissing, leaving invisible marks on every inch of Jesper’s skin. Then he goes back to his neck and bites harder. Jesper gasps and arches his back, and Wylan is positviely buzzing. He moves to the other side of his neck, elated at the idea. Wherever Jesper goes after this, he will carry part of Wylan with him. 

Meanwhile, Jesper makes quick work of his belt and his trousers. The other hand runs through Wylan’s hair and down his spine. As Wylan wriggles out of his trousers, he realises how damn confined he had felt in them.  Now, as Jesper’s hand runs over his ass and his bare thighs, he feels freedom. 

Freedom, in something as simple as someone touching him. Ghezen.

“Saint, Wylan,” Jesper whispers. There’s something in the way he says his name, the way he almost cradles the syllables, that makes Wylan shiver. He wants him to say it again. He wants to hear his name on Jesper’s lips every day. He wants… he wants…

He wants Jesper to take his damn underwear off. 

Soon enough, there’s nothing between them. No clothes and no fabric, just Jesper’s skin against his, the fine bones of his hips rolling beneath him. He doesn’t think about it as he slides inside him; he only even registers it when Jesper gasps, a rich, beautiful sound that Wylan didn’t think he could ever cause in someone. 

“Wylan.” His hand flails, fingers outstretched. Wylan reaches up and takes it. Fingers linked, palm to palm, as if they were made for each other. Maybe they are, he thinks as Jesper shifts beneath him, smiling and panting and looking at him with eyes so bright they’re practically on fire. Maybe they were meant to find each other like this. Wylan was meant to gasp and whimper and choke back a sob as he whispers Jesper’s name. 

Warmth floods his veins, spilling out from his pounding heart, seeping into him from the boy below him. All his life, Wylan has been cold in the shadow his father put him in. His life was painted in hues of grey and blue. Except now it’s not, it’s red and it’s gold, and the friction between them is turning into sparks and fire that burns away whatever came before. Sweat runs down his back, his skin is flushed and Jesper is… oh Jesper is smiling. It’s everything. He kisses him again, because he can, and the sound Jesper makes is too delicious for words. 

As he climaxes, Wylan cries Jesper’s name, and knows he will never be cold again.

When it’s over, Wylan all but collapses on top of Jesper. While half of his fall is broken by Jesper’s body, the parts of him that aren’t are poked by tiny pieces of hay. At first, all they can do is lie there in stunned silence and catch their breath. If Wylan had the strength to, he might’ve tried to move off Jesper, but then his arm is around Wylan’s waist and holding him closer. His head falls onto Jesper’s shoulder and well, who is Wylan to resist? 

As Jesper strokes his hair, Wylan traces patterns on Jesper’s arm. In the very back of his mind, Wylan does think about how unfamiliar this is. In every previous encounter, Wylan has simply pulled his clothes on, fixed his hair and left. There’s never been time for this, nor did any of the boys before seem interested in it, not the way Jesper is. Jesper is holding him tighter and petting his hair in a way that feels… nice. Really, really nice. 

Eventually, he finds his voice.

“That was….” He nuzzles into Jesper’s shoulder. “That was amazing.”

“Yeah,” Jesper pants. “It was.” His free hand takes Wylan’s and he presses a slow, careful kiss to it. After everything they just did, it just feels nice. Like a glass of ice water on a hot summer’s day. Without meaning to, Wylan’s eyes fall closed. He feels Jesper’s laugh in his chest. It tickles.

“Have I tired you out then?” he asks. Wylan just smiles, partly because he can feel Jesper’s breathing start to even out, his body becoming slack beneath him. He nuzzles toward him, pulled closer by the head of his body and the softness of his skin.

“Wylan.”

One word, and he bolts up. All at once, everything disappears. His temperature plummets, the colour flees from his face like rats fleeing a ship. His heart stops beating, frozen behind his ribs.

He jumps off of Jesper, keeps just low enough to stay out of sight. He dives for his clothes and pulls then on, slaps himself in an attempt to get rid of the hay sticking to his body. His hands are unsteady as he does his trousers, but he shakes his head when Jesper tries to help him.

What have I done? The question comes again and again, an endless repeating gunfire in his head. What have I done?

“Wylan, I know you’re in here.” The footsteps are slow as they approach, as if his father is dragging himself in here. But they’re coming. Grey hair comes into view, coming like a stormcloud over the top of the fence, and it’s all Wylan can see. Even as Wylan pulls his jacket on and rises, he knows it’s over. Running out wouldn’t work; the exits are either blocked by his father or on the other side of the stables. They can’t escape through the window, they’re bolted shut. He can’t hide this. All he can do is wait for the inevitable, clad in just his trousers and his half-done shirt. 

In the split second before it happens, Wylan turns to Jesper. He’s still on the ground, eyes creased in confusion, and Wylan’s throat burns.

“I’m sorry,” is all he says. Jesper jumps to his feet, his hand half extended to him, but it’s too late.

His father steps into view, and Wylan doesn’t want to look. This will kill him.

No-one says anything, but unlike before, this silence isn’t comforting or pleasant or anything. It’s suffocating, it’s the moment of calm before the storm. It’s the moment the noose is placed around Wylan’s neck.

“Wylan.” Pulled by an invisible hand, Wylan turns toward him. There are no words to describe the look on his father’s face; his skin has gone white, his eyes blown wide. Disbelief is the closest word; he is trying to understand how the scene before him is real.

“Father, I can explain-” he begins, but one look silences him. Ghezen, if he was in trouble before, what will become of him now? He knew what to expect before; a lecture and maybe a beating and then days of silence, but now? He stands on a cliffedge, and the unknown abyss before him is far more terrifying than any punishment could be.

His father laughs, cold and bitter as a north wind.

“So this is where you’ve been?” he asks. He goes to move closer but decides against it. His gaze moves from Wylan to Jesper as he tries to decide who he hates more in that moment. Of course, it’s Wylan. “Whoring yourself out to a footman?”

“He didn’t whore himself out,” Jesper interjects, appearing in a flash at Wylan’s side.

“You speak when you’re spoken to!” his father bellow. Jesper actually flinches at the sound, even when his father composes himself and runs his hand through his greying hair. “Don’t think there won’t be consequences for this. When the Novyi Zem ambassador hears what I have to say, you’ll be lucky to have a journey home, let alone still have a job.”

“Father, please.” Wylan moves before he can think, rushes up to his father like his life depends on it. He knows he’s crying, he can tell from the look on his father’s face, but he doesn’t stop. “This-this was my fault. Don’t drag him into this, please I-”

He doesn’t feel the pain of the slap first. All he feels is his head jerking to the side and the breath leaving his body. In the corner of his eye, he can see Jesper press his hand to his mouth and the shame hurts more than the slap does. 

He wants to keep his face turned away. He can’t look at his father again. But when he grabs Wylan’s arm and squeezes it, his body doesn’t let him hide.

“You listen to me,” his father whispers. “You have embarrassed me enough with your little stunt in the ballroom. But this… even I would’ve thought you were above this.” He pulls Wylan closer. “I will be waiting outside. You will put your clothes on, clean yourself up and we will not speak of this for the rest of the night. And when we get home, you will learn thoroughly the consequences of disgracing the Van Eck name like this.” He twists Wylan’s arm and elicits a pitiful cry from him. When he releases him, Wylan stumbles into empty air. “Stop your damn crying Wylan. By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll have plenty to fucking cry about. Until then, at least pretend you’re a man.”

He lets go, and Wylan is thrown backwards. His father’s gaze lingers on him, cold and hard as steel bars. More than anything, Wylan can feel the disappointment, eating him alive like a parasite. 

“I meant what I said, boy,” he snarls. “There will be consequences for you as well.”

Jan Van Eck fixes his tie. He smoothes his hair, adjusts the laurel tie pin. Then he glares at Wylan once more.

“Five minutes,” he tells him, and then he’s gone.

The scream builds in Wylan’s throat, but he can’t let it out. Not with his father standing outside. He presses his fist to his mouth, bites down like he can put all his fear into that instead. Skin breaks, metal floods across his tongue, but he doesn’t stop, because now he’s done it. There’s no coming back from this, no redeeming himself, nothing he can do that will make his father look at him differently. To him, he will always be an illiterate disappointment, a waste of space, a whore, an idiot. Whatever good will he had left, Wylan just tore it up and used it for kindling.

A hand rests on his shoulder. Another rests on his waist. It’s all so gentle that Wylan shudders.

“Come with me,” Jesper says. Wylan shakes his head, any verbal response stuck in his throat. Without looking away from Wylan’s face, Jesper’s hand leaves his shoulder and pulls Wylan’s hand from his mouth. It’s covered in blood and spit, but Jesper holds it like it’s the most precious thing there is.

“Come with me,” he says again.

“I-I can’t,” Wylan whispers. “It’ll-it’ll ruin everything. Your job, my-my father’s name. I c-I can’t…”

“Well I can’t leave you with him,” Jesper tells him. His gaze shifts to the door and he moves closer to Wylan. “Look, I know we’ve just met, and you have no reason to trust me. But I can get you out of this. I-” He sighs, curses under his breath. “It’s a long story. But I can get you out of here. Come with me and my friends.” Wylan shakes his head.

“I’ve got you in enough trouble,” he sniffles. “My father wasn’t bluffing when he said it. He can get everything taken away from you.”

“My boss doesn’t give a shit about what some merchant thinks.” 

“The Novyi Zem ambassador doesn’t care what the Merchant Council thinks?” He shakes his head. “No, my family’s one of the most important trading partners, they’ll-”

“My boss isn’t exactly the ambassador,” Jesper confesses. He closes his eyes, scrunches up his face. He exhales softly and opens them again. “Listen, I’ll explain everything later. But right now, just come with me.”  His voice is soft, his breath ghosts across Wylan’s skin. “Please, just come with me. Don’t make me leave you alone with him.”

Wylan stiffens. His gaze moves back to the stable door, where his father is lingering outside. Five minutes, he’d said. Likely four minutes now. Trembling, he lifts his hand and presses it to his cheek. Heat hisses against his cold fingers. He expects conflict, confusion, something pulling him towards his father. Instead, he feels a peculiar clarity. 

He knows there’s no fixing this. And if that’s the case, why should he stay? His father doesn’t want him and if he’s honest, does Wylan want him?

He turns. By contrast, Jesper’s eyes are so wide Wylan could drink from them. Hope shines in the dark depths, silent pleas in the way he touches him. Just looking at him makes Wylan believe in the impossible; that there is somehow an end to this where he lives. 

Once he realises that, there’s no contest.

“All right,” he says. “All right.” And the relief on Jesper’s face almost breaks him.

Quickly and quietly, the two grab their clothes and run to the backdoor. Any moment now, Wylan expects him to come back in and drag Wylan out by the hair. Even as Jesper pulls him to the back door, Wylan is looking over his shoulder, just waiting to be caught. But when the door opens and the crisp night air hits his face. As they stop to put the rest of their clothes on, Wylan strains his ears for the sound of footsteps, a door slamming, his name being called. Nothing happens yet, but as Wylan pulls on his shoes, his heart beats like a detonator, tick-tick-ticking until the  explosion.

A door scrapes. Wylan nearly screams. Jesper looks behind them, eyes bright. There’s something about the way he looks that makes Wylan wonder if he understands the danger they’re in. He’s a livewire, sparking in the darkness.

“Now or never,” Jesper tells him. He holds out his hand. Without even touching him, Wylan feels the spark too, shockwaves straight to his heart, setting off reactions Wylan hadn’t thought possible. If Jesper is mad, he thinks, Wylan is just as mad for going along with it. 

He nods. He takes his hand. A current runs through him, humming and glowing in his veins.

Then they slip out the rear door and run like hell.  

[smilingformoney]

Rickmas 2023: Day 16. Keep Warm | Turpin/Reader

AN: You know the drill by now: based on Sins of the Flesh, lots of manipulation going on here. This is during their marriage so she’s deep in Stockholm Syndrome. Don’t eat dead inside and all that.

Read now on Ao3 or below the cut:

You lay in bed, shivering, wrapped up in as much of the duvet as you could pull around yourself. It was winter, almost Christmas in fact, and you were pregnant with your first child, who was so small inside you the bump was hardly there, but you could feel him move sometimes, reminding you he was there, still growing.

The bedroom door flung open and your husband almost filled the doorframe with his large stature and the thick coat he was wearing.

“What is this I hear about you being cold?” he snapped.

“It’s freezing!” you complained, holding the duvet around you tighter.

“Well, you’ve only got one blanket, of course you’re cold!”

Turpin shook the snow from his coat and began unbuttoning it, slightly clumsily with his hands still gloved. As soon as he was free from the shackles of the coat, he tossed it aside along with his jacket, then pulled off his gloves.

“If you were cold, you should have asked the staff for more blankets. That’s what they’re there for. I don’t want you freezing to death before our child is even born.”

“Sorry, sir,” you said, shrinking into the blankets even more than you already were. “Maybe you could keep me warm?” you suggested meekly.

With the way you were peering out at him from underneath the duvet, which was now pulled up to cover your nose, you were far too adorable for him to stay angry at.

“Silly girl,” he sighed. You unwrapped yourself slightly from the duvet, just enough to give him room to join you. He slipped under the duvet, still fully dressed, and you eagerly scooted over to him, sighing with relief as body heat radiated from him.

“You just came in, how are you so warm?”

“I am a hot-blooded man. It takes more than a little snow to freeze me over, especially when I have my little bunny waiting for me at home.”

You smiled bashfully when he called you his nickname.

“Bunny’s too cold to do much bouncing right now,” you replied. “But maybe teddy bear can warm her up?”

You looked up at him, eyes wide, and he smirked, a familiar flame sparking in his eyes.

“What are you asking for, darling?”

You tucked your chin slightly, still embarrassed to ask for what you wanted, but Turpin pushed your chin up to force you to look at him.

“Tell me,” he said softly.

“Well - maybe - maybe you could just lie on top of me? You can fuck me if you want, but I really just want your weight on me.”

“Mmm, how could I resist such a request from my darling wife?” Turpin purred. He manoeuvred himself to take his waistcoat and cravat off, leaving only the undershirt, and rolled on top of you, being careful not to put too much weight on your stomach. You felt the fabric of his trousers against your legs and giggled.

“Sir, I think this is the longest you’ve been in bed with your trousers on.”

“Mind yourself, slut,” he growled, gently rolling his hips to push his cock against your cunt, and even through both of your clothes you could feel how large it was, even only half-erect. “I need only unbutton these trousers and lift that skirt, and I can be inside you in seconds. You’re not so cold you put knickers on, I hope.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“Good girl.”

You bit your lip, and he smirked, knowing how much you loved it when he praised you.

“Do you know how fucking perfect you are, darling?” Turpin said in hushed tones with something of reverence in his voice. “I’ll keep you warm all winter if you wish me to. We’ll spend Christmas and New Year in this bed, just you and me, fucking and cuddling and sleeping. The servants will bring us food and drink so we don’t have to get out of bed. You’ll never be cold again, my love.”

You let out a small whine, wondering how you could have ever been cold before, as every nerve in your body was on fire, desperate for your husband’s warmth, his love, his desire. His adoration filled you up, warming your very soul from within. He was all you and your unborn baby needed.

You reached between your sandwiched bodies to tug at the fabric on his hips, and he chuckled.

“Are you trying to make me cold, bunny?”

“Want to warm your cock,” you mumbled. “Please, sir, please - need you…”

“Ah, and who am I to deny my pregnant wife her desires? Skirt up, darling.”

He separated his body from yours briefly, causing you to feel a great loss as his weight left you, but as soon as he unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down to release his cock from within, he was on top of you again, guiding himself inside you.

“Ohh, yes, that’s it - such a warm cunt. Such a good wife, keeping your husband’s cock warm on these cold winter evenings. Let us stay here for this evening, darling. Let the servants serve dinner to us in bed. I have no obligations tonight, do you?”

“Yes, sir.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what obligation is that?”

“To serve you, of course, sir.”

“Oh, very clever answer, darling,” Turpin grinned, and you whined when he thrusted inside you suddenly. “Yes, yes, you’ll serve me… that’s your duty as my wife, of course. One you perform so well, so eagerly. I am so very fortunate to have the most dutiful wife in all of London.”

Another thrust, and another whine from you, accompanied by a grunt from him.

“Ohh, yes… my darling wife is so very dutiful to her lord husband, giving me an heir and keeping me warm. Loving me so… very… keenly.” He thrust again, you whined again, and he grunted again. You had asked only for him to keep you warm, but of course he couldn’t resist making love to you once he was inside you, his libido and his desire for you being so very strong. His thrusts were slow, languid, nothing of the usual fast pace he liked to employ. It drove you insane when he was slow, drawing out your pleasure as he dragged his cock along your channel, and he knew perfectly well what he was doing to you.

“Is this what you wanted, bunny? Am I keeping you sufficiently warm?”

“Yes,” you said with a breathy sigh, your arms wrapped around his torso to hold him close. “You’re so good to me, sir, such a loving husband…”

“Mmm… yes, I am such a good husband to you, bunny. I’m so glad you appreciate what I do for you.”

“I do appreciate it, sir… thank you…”

“You’re most welcome, darling. Now, I’m going to use my fingers and I want you to cum all over my cock. You can do that for me, can’t you, darling?”

“Yes!” you begged, the desperation clear in your voice. “Yes, sir, I can cum for you… please, please touch me…”

“As you wish.”

He reached between your bodies, his thumb pressing up against your sweet spot, and you were so aroused by his gentle yet intense lovemaking that you came in less than a minute, your walls squeezing tightly around him just as he wanted. Turpin watched, entranced, as pleasure spread across your face, and as your moans melted away, he began to fuck you harder, faster, desperately chasing his own high, and the sudden change of pace caused another orgasm to crash over you just as he came inside you, warming you up from the inside as his seed coated your core.

“Thank you, sir,” you panted, breathless. “Thank you for keeping me warm.”

Turpin chuckled with satisfaction, his body still pressed against yours, making no move to extract himself from the warm sleeve he was nestled in.

“Any time, darling. Any time.”

[aftershocked]

would love to see number 10 🥺🙏

(And if you’re up to it, here’s some others that caught my eye: 18, 35, 49, 54)

so. i was going to wait and answer these all at once but the first prompt came out to 1,487 words. so.

Valvert - #10, hair/caressing/braiding; 1.5k, rated G leaning briefly on T:

“Oh, let me get that, my dear.”

One of Valjean’s large hands reaches forward to cover Javert’s own, still pinching a bit of ribbon between his fingertips.

Javert huffs soundlessly as he passes the ribbon to Valjean without complaint, lowering his arms and settling more comfortably onto the small upholstered stool they keep next to the little desk in their bedroom.

He is already dressed for a brisk, wintry day, despite the few scant rays of dawn just now peeking past their curtains—still nervous, even now, whenever he accompanies Valjean to visit Cosette and her husband and their children. He cuts a handsome figure to Valjean’s eyes, wrapped in warm trousers and pleated woolen shirtsleeves, layered with the embroidered waistcoat that Valjean had gifted him the previous Christmas, its back panel a deep navy satin that hugs Javert’s waist with a delicately knotted bow.

Valjean forces his eyes away from the cinched fabric to note where the folded heap of Javert’s cravat yet lies on top of the desk, and beside it the simple, battered wooden hairbrush that was one of the few items Javert had brought with him to the Rue de l’Homme Armé all those years ago. His long waterfall of hair has been neatly brushed, and now needs only to be tied back into its customary queue; of late it is more grey than black, fanning out from his temples to fall in interlocking layers of iron and silver and gunmetal down nearly to Javert’s mid-back.

Valjean gently gathers the silky cascade of loose hair into his hand, stomach fluttering at the simple pleasure of his callused skin snagging on the thin strands—impossibly soft to the touch, and smelling faintly of the lavender and rosemary of their little bottle of hair oil.

He cannot resist sinking his fingers into where the hair grows thick at the other man’s nape, nails lightly scraping over Javert’s skull as he tugs a little more firmly at the hair clutched in his palm, the better to keep it straight and tidy for Javert’s queue—but a smile tugs at his lips at the quiet gasp Javert makes in response; the way Javert’s head tips back to follow the movement of Valjean’s hands in his hair.

“Do you have a second riband?” Valjean asks, enjoying the luxurious weight of Javert’s hair within his hand. His other rests at the juncture of Javert’s neck and shoulder, the heat of Javert’s skin seeping slowly through the material of his collar, Javert’s pulse strong and steady against Valjean’s palm. The impressive bristle of his whiskers brushes Valjean’s fingertips, and he looses a shuddering, indulgent exhale as Valjean’s thumb begins to rub in tiny, aimless circles; catching on the wisps of hair there, relaxing muscles that are always too tense, even so early in the morning.

“Another one?” Javert replies, bemused; even as he tilts his head into the tempting caress of Valjean’s fingertips, heedless of the way the angle pulls a lock of hair free of Valjean’s hold to tumble down his back, and Valjean ducks his head to press a kiss to the crown of Javert’s head.

“Perfect,” he says, withdrawing his hand from Javert’s throat to pull at the escaped hair. “I needed to separate it anyway; it’s been too long since I got to braid your hair for you.”

“It’s only been a few days, you old con,” Javert says, voice rasping faintly at the edges, shivering at each new touch of Valjean’s hand along his neck, the hinge of his jaw.

“Exactly,” Valjean agrees, “Nearly an eternity.”

He parts the thick layers of hair into sections, still running his hands through the glinting tangle shaded as mercury and coal and stardust. If Valjean could put a color to the glimmering constellations the other man will speak so fondly of—in that spare, gruff way of his whenever it is a matter of any importance to him—surely it would be here, in Valjean’s hands, coiled sleek and gleaming between each stout finger.

He carefully pulls and twists the familiar river of Javert’s hair into an orderly, uniform plait; resisting the urge to dither too long with the soft strands between his fingers, knowing it will only result in lopsided loops and frayed, frizzing ends. And while Valjean would hardly mind starting right back over from the beginning, Javert would likely insist on doing it himself the second time, for the sake of efficiency.

And so Valjean applies himself to the task as scrupulously as he knows the other man would do himself, the well-known rhythm soothing and intimate and over entirely too quickly by Valjean’s reckoning; the finished braid slipping easily from his hold to thump softly against Javert’s back.

“I don’t suppose you could grow your hair out longer still,” Valjean says, not entirely sure himself if he means it in jest. “I do so love to brush and braid it for you.”

The other man turns his head to look up at Valjean over one broad shoulder, his thin lips pulled down into a considering moue, his brow furrowed in puzzlement. “I would have no strong objections,” Javert says, his voice now steadied to its usual deep and resonant baritone. “Though it seems impractical. But you already know you may brush or braid it as often as you wish, whatever the length of my hair.”

“If I were to do this as often as I wished, I would need to be the one brushing out your hair morning and night,” Valjean replies, grinning in earnest now. He allows himself to tug gently at the tail of Javert’s plait, thinking ahead to the evening, when they prepare themselves for bed:

Javert changed from this more formal attire into his long, ruffed nightshirt, stockings yet in place in deference to the cold night; loosing the ribbons in his hair and fastidiously unwinding the individual strands until they fall in snaking waves down his back, enticing Valjean’s fingertips.

Valjean would want to trail his hands through the curls left by the braid; clasping messy handfuls in his work-roughened palms as he hauls Javert around to meet the other man’s mouth with his own, fingers buried in hair the color of quicksilver and glimmering to match the starlight falling through their bedroom window.

He would want to lace his fingers through the jumbled tresses falling around Javert’s shoulders and pull the other man closer to him, pressed chest to hip to thigh before walking Javert to their bed, slowly lowering the other man to lie beneath him on the plush duvet, Valjean’s hands still pulling at Javert’s hair as it spilled across the bedding, and—

“—jean,” Javert says. He sounds very much like this is not the first time in the past few minutes that he has called Valjean’s name. “Jean.”

Valjean blinks. The sunlight peeping through their curtains looks, perhaps, brighter than he last recalls. It is still early in the morning, with a long day yet ahead of them; and Javert’s expression has drifted somewhere between fondness and an amused exasperation as he says, “Are you still tired? It’s early yet, you could nap for a while longer…”

“No, no,” Valjean waves the suggestion away, cheeks heating as he determinedly sets aside his wandering thoughts and their decidedly inopportune nature; it will do him no good to keep thinking that way, with a trip to the Pontmercy-Gillenormand househould and a half-dozen errands ahead of them before nightfall—and any potential reenactment of his imaginings. “I’m not tired at all; I simply was a bit lost in thought, planning out our day.”

He pauses, and adds, with an attempt at nonchalance he knows will not fool Javert for even a moment: “But I may take you up on your earlier suggestion, if you will permit me to brush your hair out tonight.”

An eyebrow creeps up Javert’s forehead, deepening the creases cut across it by time and age and experience, and the ghost of a smirk plays around the corners of his mouth as he replies with a knowing, “Indeed?”

He tosses his head, braid swinging over his shoulder as he faces forward once more, picking up the cravat lying on the desk before him to loop it around his neck. The cravat had been a gift from Valjean as well, to match the waistcoat—and Javert slips it beneath the rope of his braid and edges of his collar, to fasten it expertly at the hollow of his throat. Once complete, his hands pull away from his neck, and he swallows; the elegant knot of the cravat bobbing in time with the motion.

Javert glances at Valjean from the corner of one eye, where a single coil of hair has been missed by Valjean’s handiwork; now lying tucked against the crow’s feet that deepen when Javert smiles. He murmurs: “As I said; whatever you wish, my Jean.”

[pendleton-manor]

Ok so I’m just going to get into it

Custis:

The eldest son.

Custis and Morgan wear almost identical outfits in the game, with Custis in black and Morgan in white. Notably, Custis wears a jacket (not quite long enough to be called a frock coat) over his blouse and waistcoat. It is a brocade fabric, very subtle but elaborate, with gold trim and excessively large, golden buttons at the waist. His (spotless!!) shoes are boots—white, to compliment Morgan—and they too have gold trim at the top. I would also like to point out the pocket watch chain, gold, running from his waistcoat pocket to what I’m assuming is a breast pocket. It’s a strange place for it; he wears it like an accessory.

Out of all three of the brother’s Custis is the best dressed. It’s not for any love of fashion; it’s a show. In part, he’s flaunting his social status and wearing his role as the eldest son on his sleeve; he’s refined, he’s respectable, he’s well out together. But it’s more than that, it’s a necessity. They’re broke at this point and people definitely know about it. The only way he can save face is to keep up artificial appearances and not give any of the other aristocratic jackals the satisfaction of seeing them struggle.

Morgan:

Morgan is wearing a very toned down version of Custis’s outfit. The lack of a jacket is incredibly significant to me, as it indicates he had one but chose not to wear it. The fabric is white, but not a perfect white. It’s more like an ivory. And the fabric isn’t brocade like Custis’s is. It’s not a cotton or anything; it’s pinstriped, just ever so faintly, and it’s clearly tailored to fit him properly. It’s still very, very expensive. His pocket watch hangs at his hip—more for utility than for show. He wears hosiery and slippers as opposed to boots.

Morgan’s outfit reflects two things—he’s much more laid back that Custis is and he’s the second son. There are no gold accents or trims, no expensive fabrics or dazzling accessories. The buckles on his slippers are the most eye catching part of his ensemble. He was probably the little boy who yanked at his cravat because it was uncomfortable and refused to wear the elaborate outfits his mother put him in. Morgan talks to a courtesan like she’s an old friend and Treavor says he might actually miss Morgan after he’s dead. This, coupled with his dressed-down look, indicates to me that he’s more down to Earth and easy going that Custis is.

Understandable, as he isn’t burdened with any sort of pressure like Custis is.

Additionally, and this isn’t important, I found it interesting that this model of Custis is wearing Morgan’s exact outfit just with a color swap.

Treavor:

Treavor is very interesting because his outfit is, fabrics and colors aside, identical to Custis’s. More so than Morgan’s is. Thigh length coat with a gold trimmed lapel and a high collar, a waist coat for visual diversity, a pocket watch that goes up to his breast pocket, boots instead of hosiery and slippers.

Instinctively, I think Treavor is trying to dress for the job he wants, not the job he has—which is to be the eldest (and only) Pendleton. He resents and fears Custis but he mimics him closely. The fabric Treavor chooses is interesting—it’s nothing special. The color alone is odd; not many other nobles wear such a drab gray/green/brown color. Not only does it wash him out and make him look sick, it is the color of peasants.

Even his boots, splattered with a bit of mud from Wrenhaven’s banks and the courtyard outside of the Houndpit’s, are a dark, dreary color. There’s a bit of accentuation there with the gold at the top. But none of Treavor’s flair rivals Custis’s.

The material of his outfit resembles Wallace’s jacket or Cecelia’s trousers. Part of this, I am convinced, is intentional. He’s the only nobility in the bunch and they’re all likely to distrust him. This is Treavor’s idea of “dressing down” the only way he knows how. It ends up making him look as uncoordinated on the outside as he is on the inside.

Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, eh Trevboy?

[typinggently]

It’s been a while…trick or treat?

(Napollya bc, well, I’m predictable 🫠)

Happy Halloween!

Happy Halloween, darling!!!!!! In honour of a full moon on Halloween, have this little snippet of an AU. I'll call it "monster mash"!!

~🎃~

Illya yanks the door open as far as the chain allows, which isn’t much. “What –“ He hisses, but the sight in front of him apparently makes him reconsider, because when he continues, his voice carries more confusion than heat. “What are you wearing?”

“It’s called a costume.” Napoleon spreads his arms to make the cape ripple. The light in the hallway is too sickly yellowish to give the fabric its proper shine, but the effect is still very nice. It even has a stand-up collar.  

Illya stares from behind the chain. “It’s a little offensive.”

“You think?” Napoleon puts his arm up in front of his face to peer at him in exaggerated Bela Lugosi fashion, then swings his arm back again to show off his necktie and waistcoat.

Illya looks on, unimpressed. There’s a twitch in his shoulder, a muscle cramp that shifts bones under his loose shirt, but his voice is even as he speaks up. “You don’t?”

It’s a brutal display of ignorance regarding Napoleon’s masterful homage, but he doesn’t have time to be offended on that behalf just now. He spares a glance at Illya’s fingers, the way his fists clench and unclench. “It’s paying respect to the greats. Now would you ask me in, please?”

At that, Illya vehemently shakes his head. “Not tonight. Check the calendar.”

“Oh will you –“ Napoleon huffs. “What do you think I came here for, huh?”

“I don’t know.” The chain glitters between them.

And it dawns on Napoleon that he really doesn’t. The embarrassment tied to that realisation threatens to swallow him up, but he gracefully shrugs it off, making the cape ripple elegantly. “I figured it would be a waste of a perfectly good costume to have you sit around on your own all night. I mean, come on. Even you have to admit it’s perfect timing.”

From the darkness of his hallway, Illya stares at him. A beat, then: “Is not a good idea. You know that.”

Napoleon shrugs. “What’s the worse that could happen?” “I kill you,” Illya says immediately.

“I mean…” Napoleon offers a smile. “Feel free to try?”

There’s another moment of silence where Illya stares from the darkness. An average person wouldn’t be able to tell that his eyes are reflecting what little light reaches him from the hallway.

Napoleon doesn’t want to embarrass himself further by talking about long nights and empty rooms, about locked doors and self-isolation. Instead, he reaches next to Illya’s door to pick up the little plastic bag he put down before ringing his doorbell. It’s bright orange and rustles. “I brought candy? No chocolate.”

There’s a flicker in Illya’s lashes, followed by a violent twitch around his mouth that for a brief second contorts his facial features, stretches them and twists, melts, bares his canines, stretches his muscles, cracks his jaw, then it’s gone and he slams the door.

Napoleon stands. The bag rustles. Faintly, he hears the clatter of the chain.

Illya opens the door and steps aside, gestures. “Come in.”

~🎃~

I got really into my head with this one, planning ahead and getting lost in this idea, so maybe this doesn't establish the set up as well as it should. To explain things a little more: suspiciously cold gentleman spends his 287th Halloween petting very large dog. Monsterfuckers, feel free to consider the possible follow up "Monster Smash". Pumking emoji.

[dyrewrites]

Before Deluca -- eternally fashionable

Gone were the days of breeches and waistcoats, and Lucient long ago fell too far into fashion not to keep us to the styles of the day—I say that as if I didn’t; fabrics being what they became I fell near as hard for every innovation, if not how they were styled.

This meant pants, long and sleek that dangled over flexible leather shoes, vests if one desired it, softer and lighter shirts with less puffed pieces in the way.

Long jackets he adored, shin-length and buttoned all the way down. No ruffles, but he made do with cravats and fur-lined jackets. Tailored all, of course. He was also specific about fits and my beautiful dream developed a love affair with hats and elaborately detailed and layered suits. Gloves were always in fashion and he went nowhere without them. Though his parasol was not in fashion, it honestly never had been for men, so he continued to ensure his at least matched what he wore.

In our travels we discovered an exciting new accessory to aid his time in the sun. One I personally disliked for what they hid. Sunglasses. A special pair were ordered the moment he could. I was tasked with its design, and delighted in the process—no matter how often he refused my details and demanded changes. They were small and round with elaborate shining metal frames and blood red lenses. They matched his ring—our promise, ever on his finger—and were a prized possession.

While I kept as light and flowing in my clothing as possible. Grateful not to need so many layers. I did enjoy long open coats and loose, light vests. My favored accessory a gold pocket watch, one with a compass attached, that Lucient had made for me on one of our anniversaries. Hats weren’t allowed, they hid my hair and he hated them on me.

Cravats, however…

“It brings out that perfect jaw of yours, treasure, never mind your delicious beard,” he’d coo, and I’d crumble and allow him to tie the suffocating thing around my neck.

Silk, he made certain. They were always silk.

I never appreciated it as much as I should have.

I give you this fashion rundown for a reason. Other than setting the mental stage for the people of the era, it is so you understand just how thoroughly we worked to belong. To blend, to fit in every century, in every city, every culture—when necessary.

We were not human, never would be again, and didn’t want to be. Lucient and I both reveled in what we were, basked in our predatory natures. Monsters, both, and we’d change it for nothing.

But we refused to lurk in the shadows, hide alone and fearful of sunshine, of crowds, of Hunters and silver. Or put ourselves up in great drafty castles waiting for some hapless man to come along looking for work just to have a connection to the world.

No, we were going to be in the world whether it liked it or not. And clothing was merely another way to ensure we were.

It also made it that much easier to lure prey when hunting.

To look as any other men, to stand out only when we wished to.

Though I argue my love stood out even in that context...

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// feel free to ask to be added or removed ^.- //

@watermeezer @starbuds-and-rosedust @thespacelizard

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[nsfwordwitch]

Kinktober 2023 Day 28

Prompt: Body Worship

Pairing: Astarion x nonbinary tiefling Tav

1541 Words

🔞Adults Only Blog🔞

Astarion finds Weft kneeling on the floor of their temporary home, Weft's family's country house, surrounded by haphazard piles of clothes. An uncharacteristic state. "What are you up to, darling?" he asks from the doorway. They look up at him in surprise.

"Going through the clothes I brought from home. Figuring out what I want to keep. Some of it doesn't really fit anymore, some of it is the sort of stuffy horseshit I wore while working. Some of it is stuff I wore when I went out partying." They gesture at the pile directly behind them, and Astarion spots some beautifully patterned fabrics.

"You have some lovely pieces here," he says, pushing things aside to crouch beside them.

"You're welcome to anything that fits."

"Hm." He picks through it, noting how little they care that he's ignoring their organization scheme. "Perhaps. Though I'm not interested in anything some stranger came onto."

They flinch. He may have gone too far. "So much of it just brings up bad memories. You know? And not just the party clothes. I think…I think I was having a really bad time, right before the tadpoling. Looking at all this just makes me think about how…worked up I got about the way people saw me. Um. What people thought of my body." They sigh and hold up a stately blue waistcoat. "It was my job to be likable. To make a good first impression, to be charming, to be everything to everybody. And to do all that, while looking like me."

"Darling," he says softly, and places a hand on their knee. "The way you look? It was only a help, surely."

"Oh, people were attracted to me, easy, but likability is an uphill climb when you're a tiefling. People see that first, and I had to work with it. And I always had to assume people knew about...." They gesture vaguely at their crotch. "I slept around enough it wasn't worth making a secret of it, so I went through life feeling like everyone saw me as a freak. It was a hurdle I had to overcome."

"Oh, nonsense, you love your body, you told me as much the first time I saw the whole thing."

"I love it, it looks like this because I want it to. It's everyone else who has mixed feelings."

"Well damn everyone else!" They blink at him in surprise, seeming to come out of a reverie. He puts a hand on their cheek. "You're not a freak. Well." He smirks. "You're a bit of a freak, but not for how you look." They stick their tongue out at him. "Your body is perfect, Weft. However you want to be, that's the way you should be."

They smile and knock their forehead into his. "I know. You're right. It's all just a bit much to face all at once. Remembering how things used to be just makes my skin crawl."

"Then forget the past." He presses on their knee and they turn toward him, away from the trunk of old clothes. He takes their hands in his. "You will never need to worry about a stranger's opinion of your body again, I swear it. With the usual caveats," he rolls his eyes and wriggles his head around, "unless I die tomorrow or get mind controlled again or you decide to leave me."

"Not if I can help it."

"No, and I pledge the same." He squeezes their hands. "Do you have any idea how insane you sound when you disparage your looks?"

They laugh. "I mean, I'm being realistic."

"You truly, literally are not."

"Come on."

"How can you be this in denial? Have you not looked in a mirror lately?"

"I have, that's why I'm feeling so wretched!"

"This room must have a curse on it, we should move to a different one." He stands and pulls them up with him, leaving the piles of clothes behind. They cross the hall into a matching bedroom, with only a bare mattress in the bedframe. He holds them still, a hand on each shoulder, and gives them a hard look. They smile sadly at him.

"Sorry, scenery change didn't do the trick." He clicks his tongue in frustration.

"My beloved. May I undress you?"

They hesitate. "You may."

"Are you sure?"

"I am. Sorry, I'm sure."

"I'll go first." They've both just been wearing different silk robes around the place, and he drops his to the floor and kicks it aside. He sees Weft's eyes rove his body and he thrills at it. He's so glad that he can be pleased by their attention again.

He reaches for their robe and they laugh. "Hold on, it's freezing in here." He turns and lights the fireplace with a spell. "Thank you. Alright, you may."

He steps close to them and draws a hand up the edge of their robe. Slowly, he slips their right shoulder bare and circles behind them. He presses his cheek to the wing-like ridges on their shoulder blade, and his hand continues around the collar of their robe. His other arm is wrapped around them, holding the robe in place on their chest. He places a series of kisses across their back, settling on their spine.

His free hand snakes into their robe in the front and he traces his fingertips across their right breast, making them shiver. "Do you know how remarkable you are, my love?" He squeezes, pressing his fingers into their soft flesh. They lean against him, the base of their tail on his pubic hair, and his cock twitches as it hardens. "There are so many people in this and every world, but not a single one is just like you."

He moves around them, letting their robe fall to the floor. "You, who took the body you had and made it the body you wanted." He takes a breast in each hand and draws his face between them, then back, with his tongue tracing a line that barely touches each nipple. His mouth travels to their sternum and he licks up the ridges of their chest, to the muscles leading to their neck, landing on his usual biting spot. He kisses softly at their never-quite-healed wounds. "Your marvelous, strong body, that's gotten you this far, and will get you further."

Their breathing gets heavy as he kneels down, his hands moving slowly over their stomach as he goes lower. He looks up at them from his position by their cock, and his hands trace over the bumps at their hips, the tattoos on their sides. He grips them tight. "Would you like me to show you how grateful I am to share your body?"

They take a shaky breath and thread their fingers into his hair. He leans into the touch, his eyes closing in pleasure. "Do you really want to, my darling? You aren't just doing it to make me feel better?"

He lets out a throaty laugh. "Do not ever doubt that I want one of us penetrating the other, dearest." He grins an impish grin at them and they laugh. "I'm not being metaphorical, Weft. I am truly grateful for your generosity, for all the sex certainly, but…your blood. The safety of your arms. A place beside you. You give me so much. I adore you, utterly." He sighs and leans against their thigh. "You should feel like the most beautiful person alive, because you are. I want to make you feel that way."

He feels a potent cocktail of love and lust rising in him, and he opens his mouth against their thigh, drawing his tongue across their skin. They let out a cry and press him closer. "Astarion, I want you to fuck me."

"Ah, gods, yes." He pulls them down to lay on the floor, guiding their legs around him. He rests their calves on his shoulders and reaches down to their entrance. His stomach flutters. How do they make him feel like every time is the first time? He teases at the entrance, and gets their tail curling around his ankle as a reward.

His eyes are locked on theirs, and they're panting, watching him. His chest feels like it may burst. He thrusts his cock into them and they both moan at once. Their hands move to their breasts, massaging them. The sight makes his head spin and he thrusts into them harder.

"Don't hold back," Weft cries. "I want to make you come."

"Weft," he whines, nothing else to say, just needing to say their name. They're moaning below him, rocking into his motions. He gets lost in the feeling of them around him, their soft backside landing against his hip bones and their legs so close to his face.

He comes into them with a shudder, and they gasp in pleasure when he does. They slip their legs off his shoulders and slide off his cock, then roll up to pull him into their arms. He melts into their embrace, buries his nose in their neck.

"I love you," he mumbles into them. "That's all I wanted to say. That's what I wanted you to know."

"I do. Gods I swear I do."

[johannestevans]

Anxious Weight

Small fiction short. A gentleman struggles with anxiety at a party.

Read on Patreon / / Read on Medium.

Just a little piece! 800w, M/M, rated T, an anxious gentleman soothed by his valet.

--

George’s skin is prickling under the thick material of his suit, makes him feel like he’s going to ripple right out of his clothes and his own flesh both. Aneurin’s expression is as calm and cool as the surface of the lake outside as he adjusts the collar of George’s shirt, the lapels of his coat. George only wishes he could take some of his valet’s calm for his own.

“You can’t make up some excuse for me?” he asks as Aneurin buttons up his waistcoat, strokes his fingers over its twin panels to ensure the fabric rests smoothly against his belly. “Say I’ve the flu,” George begs, “or a cold, or a sudden headache—”

“If we use too many excuses, sir, your social circle will either come to the conclusion that you’re lying, or dying.”

“I might as we well be.”

“Two hours,” Aneurin tells him softly, and his eyes are so warm and so tender as his palm comes up, delicately cupping the underside of his jaw. His thumb slides delicately against George’s skin, tapping against a bit of rough skin where George’s hand was shaking so much earlier, shaving himself, that he nicked it – Aneurin had taken over the shave from there.

Aneurin’s lips brush against his, and George closes his eyes, tipping into the other man’s body.

“George,” the valet murmurs in his ears, and George fists his hands – gently – in the back of Aneurin’s jacket, his face dropping to the other man’s shoulder. His nose buried in Aneurin’s neck, he inhales, taking in the scent of him, of the product in his hair, his delicate aftershave, the starch in his collar. “Two hours,” he says quietly. “The music won’t be too loud, and people will only make small talk.”

George withdraws, and he smooths down where he’d been gripping Aneurin’s jacket. “Aneurin.”

“George.”

“I wish I didn’t have to. I don’t know any of these people, my father’s people, I don’t understand them, and they all despise me.”

“So what if they do?” Aneurin asks as if it’s the simplest thing in the world, and squeezes the side of his neck. “Once your sentence is served, your duty to society concluded for the evening, you need not see any of them again for some time.”

“Until the next awful party.”

Aneurin’s smile is an anodyne thing, surprisingly soothing. “Precisely.”

* * *

George, drink in hand, resists the urge to stir it consistently. Any sort of fiddling or repetitive movement has to be resisted for all the way it might soothe his rattled nerves – people see that sort of thing as an icebreaker, a prompt for conversation.

He hates ice breakers. Ice is there for a reason.

For a few minutes, no one speaks to him, and he keeps his eye subtly on Aneurin as he speaks quietly with the footmen, helps serve finger food, pours drinks. He realises with a sinking feeling that his sister is approaching, and he forces a smile onto his face as she takes him by the arm, leading him to some friends of hers.

He does his best to be polite, to ask the right sort of questions, to seem interested – she comments that he looks pale and drawn, and even comments on the whiteness of his knuckles. For Christ’s sake, even the way he holds a glass must be commented on and brought up to the light of public conversation!

By the time she releases him and he excuses himself to select a sandwich from a platter he is far too nauseous to actually eat, there is sweat soaking under his jacket, and his stomach is roiling.

The wife of a man his father works with, a self-confessed painter – and he believes it, because he feels an astonishing moment of relief seeing that she’s got pigment staining her wrists and the heels of her palms, seeing that at least one other person is here is less than picture-perfect – engages him in conversation about the weather.

He really does try his best.

He’s physically exhausted by the time he can escape. His every muscle aches from tension, and he had had to rely several times on the subtle breathing exercises Aneurin had taught him to keep from panicking when people unexpectedly clap him on the back – he does them again as he rises up the stairs.

Aneurin has a bath waiting for him, but George collapses into his arms before he approaches the tub.

“Bathe with me,” he says.

“We oughtn’t.”

“Please,” George whispers, and Aneurin strokes through his sweat damp hair, his expression twisted in sympathy.

“You did well,” he says. “But your heart is pounding.”

“Let it rest against yours. You’ll set me right.”

Aneurin sighs, and softly laughs, shaking his head. “When you say things like that, I’m powerless to resist you.”

“As I intended,” says George, and hugs him tighter.

FIN.

More work from me here!