#THE FLOW OF THE CLOAK AND ALL THE SHAPES

[s0ckh3adstudios]

might digitalise + render it later if i have time but AUGH that video u posted last night got me,, i had to draw him,,.... anyway. an offering /silly

OOOOOOOOOHHGDHFHHFFSFFGGFHHH STOP THIS IS SO COOL. OH MY GOSHHHHHHHHHGGGGG

[danger-xylophones]

I am going feral over the costumes in this show

There's a lot of good things going on and for every criticism I have, I can find something good happening elsewhere

Rings of Power’s elven clothing & armour - design appreciation

Requested by @klngfili thank you I hope you like these!! ♥

My favorites are easily Elrond’s blue and gold outfit, Arondir’s chestplate and Galadriel’s armour.

rop design team very good job thank you

[sanguinesmi1e]

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 (you're here)

Full fic on Ao3

Art of LBM

Pt. 4: An Unexp-ectoed Party (not on Ao3 yet)

Constantine was quietly freaking out. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected that the ghost who had turned itself into a cute little tatzelwurm to avoid answering questions might be something far beyond his capabilities to deal with. Everything it said and did suggested it was way outside his scope of experience. While Tim used a shoelace to play with it like a rambunctious kitten, John mentally catalogued the things that threatened to give him a panic attack:

Before the ghost even arrived, the blinding power flowing through his spell array nearly knocked him flat. It had felt like being swatted in the eyeballs by an eldritch god.

The ghost appeared in human form, fully alive, before being transformed by the summoning magic. John had only ever heard whispers of legends about a being who could do such a thing. The legends were vague and grandiose, but some epithets included The One Who Walks Between, He Who Straddles Life and Death, Twilight Walker, Shroud Danger Child, and The Halver. 

The ghost could not only see his soul at a glance, it could perceive all the damage he had done making deals with demons.

The ghost implied it was on casual, friendly terms with the Ancient of Time aka Chronos, Kala, Father Time, etc. And that it had altered the timeline at least once already.

It could age. Despite what the ghost said, only Neverborn should be able to age. The dead were static, and given the death that he could feel sustaining the portal, this ghost had definitely died.

It was brilliant enough to pinpoint a weakness and successfully distract Tim by transforming into a shape that could manipulate his protective instincts. John did not want to admit that he also felt protective of the cute little blighter.

It had hopped out of the summoning circle as if it were just chalk scribbles, despite John working in some of his most powerful containment spells as a matter of what he had thought was excessive precaution.

Shite, the list had already reached seven items. The tatzelwurm (had Drake really just named the thing Little Baby Man?) glared at him and called him “Gross!” 

“Seriously!? This cloaking spell should be more than sufficient.” John grumbled. “Did it really have no effect?” If so, that was gonna be item number eight.

Little Baby Man tilted his head. “It worked.” Then he huffed with amusement. 

Thank fuck for small blessings. 

A quickly muttered spell turned his burning cigarette into a makeshift sort of laser pointer, and Constantine distracted Little Baby Man while he tried to think of what to do next.

“Hey kid, this is a problem.” He kept his voice low, and watched to see if the tatzelwurm appeared to pay any attention to him. It dedicated all its attention to the glowing dot, and ignored the two men.

“I assume this isn’t the normal direction your interrogations go.” Drake wound his shoelace around his hand and pocketed it. “It’s certainly a first for me.”

“Ditto, in so many ways.”

“Any idea what to do now?”

“We should probably return him where he came from, and wait for Zatanna to get back from wherever she’s disappeared to now.” John would really like a second opinion. He would also like to dump this mess in someone else’s lap and be on his way. 

Although to be fair, watching the tatzelwurm careen around after his lazer dot was actually pretty fun. Not that he’d ever admit it. Still, the creature was done answering questions and John wasn’t prepared to bind the thing because he didn’t think he’d need to pack the tools to bind an eldritch god when Batman called him to do a “quick consult.”

Danny couldn’t remember the last time he had this much fun. The CEO person played with him! He did feel a bit bad for hurting his foot, but it was difficult to dwell on regrets or worries when he could attack the string instead. And now there was a red dot to chase! It was very fast and sneaky, but he was faster and sneakier.

Is this what Paulina felt like when she wished herself to be a giant chibi version of herself to be loved and worshipped by everyone? Because he felt adorable. And fierce. He was going to kill that red dot so hard when he finally sunk his claws in it!

Frustratingly, it seemed to also have intangibility powers. Well, Danny knew what to do about that! He concentrated ectoplasm into his paw and bapped it down hard on the dot. This scorched the floor a bit, but when he lifted his paw, the red dot was skewered on one of his claws. It tried to tug away, but he clung tight. Apparently its size belied its strength, because it started to drag him across the floor. 

Danny tried to release the dot, but his claw was firmly snagged, so he resigned himself to being dragged back into the chalk circle. He tingled a bit as he crossed the perimeter, but it wasn’t a bad sensation, just a little odd. Then a portal opened up and pulled him through the water filled tube snake toy sensation in reverse and ugh! Just as bad the second time, if not worse.

The spell spat him out in human form under the Specter Speeder. Or rather, it ejected him at speed so he smacked into the bottom of the Speeder before falling back to the ground with a heavy thud. Thankfully he didn’t crack his head against the concrete, but he still couldn’t stifle a pained groan.

A firm hand wrapped around Danny’s ankle and dragged him out, and he found himself staring up at Drake and Constantine for the third time that day.

“Uh, hi,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I suppose I have some explaining to do.”

Being able to create ghost portals would come in real handy right about now. Maybe he should just commit some arson and let these two deal with escaping the basement on their own.

[dmitriene]

cw: shibari (possibly incorrect description), overstimulation, crying, aftercare.

practicing shibari with simon riley, your body tied up neatly, perched on the dark, cottony sheets, burgundy, thick oiled ropes, biding and twisting into the shape of small hearts, looping down your torso, plump breasts all bitten and swollen, nipples glistening under the dim light from saliva, and below, where the rope digs into your supple thighs, keeping them apart, exposing your drippy pussy to the gaze of his ravenous, inky eyes.

simon's eyelids heavy, making his pale eyelashes quiver, hiding his eyes, as he watches your pussy flutter and twitch at the press of button vibrator against your soppy slit, oozing in glistening tracks down the underside of your thighs, dribbling on the sheets with crystalline drops, as pretty as the tears that coat your face, skin warm to the touch, burning, as you sob and twitch, eyes glassy with falling tears.

he scoops closer to you on the sheets, letting the mattress sag under his heavy weight, his shadow cloaking you almost fully, making you lean to him instinctively, overstimulated, buzzing on the shimmering, sizzling heat that tickles at your lower belly, the steady drip of your slick tacky against his thick, long digits as he rubs them against your puffy folds, making you jolt with a hiccuped keen of his name, sweet, as simon let's you nuzzle in his neck.

single finger slipping at your sappy hole, teasing around the spasming muscle, twitching at every brush of his calloused fingertip, until he doesn't slips in, stretching you lightly, barely perceptible over the goosebumps and trembles that wrack your body, muscles tensing, rippling as you try both to run away, and lean into him more, canting your round hips, sinking onto his finger, letting him glide against your spasming walls, thrusting in, the heel of his palm rubbing harshly over your clit.

one touch after another, one finger after one more, until simon don't plugs your greedy pussy full of his rough digits, filling you up and fucking his fingers in and out steadily, curling against your small, spongy bump, your thin walls snug around the intrusion, so pleasurable, as he strokes you slowly, with shallow pumps of his fingers, before simon presses a small, buzzing button against the pebbled bud of your clit, your delicate spine arching, painfully so, as he grunts in the answer to your sobbing wail.

it's too much, your pussy being filled full and the buzz against your swollen, twitching clit, you try to move, legs and arms tensing against the ropes, but it's futile, simon presses and twirls, through your muscles burning, body going jelly lax, as your pussy gushes down, squelching around his fingers with a dripping flow of your creamy cum, making you hiccup into his shoulder, slumping when he cradles you closer.

soothing with hoarse purrs you can't comprehend, your head muddled, his hands working on the ties carefully, knowing well your supple skin littered with indents from the ropes, as he frees your arms, letting you curl them weakly around his neck, clinging tight with small, fragile sobs, while he rubs at your delicate spine, hand moving up towards the nape of your neck, squeezing at the sweaty skin lightly, anchoring you.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[novaursa]

Where Dragons Dare (2/3)

- Summary: After your declaration to marry Alicent in the small council meeting, the day of the wedding finally comes. And so does your first wedding night.

- Pairing: male!targ reader/Alicent Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin brother of Rhaenyra and is bonded with a dragon. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @literaturedog

- A/N: This was requested by @witch-of-letters. Enjoy! ❤️ Battle of the Stepstones is add as a bonus, because I love writing dragon battles. The last part will be posted later tomorrow once it is done.

- Previous part: 1

- Next part: 3

The grand hall of the Red Keep is awash with the glow of thousands of candles. The flames dance across golden tapestries depicting the histories of Old Valyria, but today the storied past pales in comparison to the momentous occasion unfolding before all in attendance. The wedding is one spoken of in whispers and rumors, but now it blooms before the gathered lords and ladies with all the splendor and gravitas worthy of House Targaryen. 

You stand at the altar draped in black and red, the rich silk of your doublet catching the light in subtle ways. The fine Valyrian embroidery at the hems speaks of dragons in flight, each thread imbued with dark crimson that shimmers like fresh blood. A black cloak, edged in deep scarlet, flows from your shoulders, fastened at your throat with a clasp shaped like a coiled dragon. Your hair, the silvery-white of pure Valyrian descent, is tied back, letting your angular features and sharp violet eyes take in every gaze, every emotion displayed openly or hidden away. At your side hangs Blackfyre—your birthright as Prince of Dragonstone—its pommel set with a ruby that gleams like a beating heart.

Before you, Alicent Hightower stands radiant in a gown of deep emerald green. The dress, fitted perfectly to her frame, billows out in layers of silk and fine lace, each shimmering with golden accents as she moves. A delicate crown of silver leaves and pearls rests atop her auburn hair, carefully arranged in elegant curls. Her eyes, a brilliant shade of brown, reflect a mixture of pride, joy, and the quiet steel she’s honed under the pressures of courtly life. There is a softness in her gaze, however, reserved only for you as her eyes meet yours—a silent understanding, a shared relief, and a promise of what is to come.

The Septon's voice rings out, leading the words of the traditional vows. Beside you, Rhaenyra is practically glowing with excitement. Her smile is unrestrained, her eyes darting between you and Alicent with genuine happiness, a sister’s joy at seeing her twin brother embrace his own fate. She wears a gown of pale red, adorned with the colors of House Targaryen and a crown of silver atop her flowing locks, her presence radiating confidence as the heir’s sister and a firm ally to your cause. 

King Viserys is seated in a place of honor, his face full of warmth and pride. His smile is wide as he watches his only son wed the woman who has become a daughter to him over the years. He has the contented look of a father who finally sees his children happy, a rare expression in a court filled with ambition and schemes. He lifts his cup in a subtle toast to you and Alicent, his eyes misting over slightly with emotion.

Daemon Targaryen, your uncle, stands near the rear of the gathered nobles, his silver hair catching the light as he observes the ceremony. His expression is inscrutable, but those who know him well enough can see the slight curve at the edge of his lips, the way his gaze sharpens whenever it falls upon you. For all his unpredictability, there is a flicker of pride there—a satisfaction, perhaps, that you finally asserted yourself against the forces that sought to control you. Daemon has always favored those who carve their own path, and today you have done just that.

As the ceremony draws to a close, you step forward to place a cloak upon Alicent’s shoulders, the symbol of House Targaryen enveloping her as you claim her as your own. The green of House Hightower blends now with the red and black of the dragon, a union that cements alliances but more importantly binds two hearts that have long yearned for this day. When you lean in to kiss her, there is a softness, a tenderness in the way her lips meet yours, and the hall erupts in applause, though the world shrinks to just the two of you in that fleeting moment.

As the applause dies down, Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, watches with a carefully controlled expression. His eyes flicker between you and Alicent, a mixture of satisfaction and unease buried beneath his calm demeanor. Though this is a victory for him in securing his daughter’s position, there’s a tension in his jaw—he had hoped to control this outcome more closely, but you’ve slipped from his grasp, a dragon untamed. He studies you with the gaze of a man who sees both a rival and a dangerous ally.

At the feast, Rhaenyra approaches you first, practically throwing herself into your arms. "You did it, Y/N! I knew you would," she beams, her joy infectious. "Alicent looks so beautiful, and you—you were magnificent. I’ve never seen the council so speechless!" Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "And Uncle Daemon, I think he’s actually proud of you for once."

You chuckle, wrapping an arm around your sister. “He probably is. But I didn’t do this for him or the council. This was always for her.” Your gaze drifts back to Alicent, who’s engaged in conversation with a group of highborn ladies, her laughter soft and genuine.

Viserys claps a hand on your shoulder. "You’ve brought honor to our house, Y/N. I couldn’t be prouder of the man you’ve become. Your mother would be so proud, too." His voice carries a slight tremor as he mentions Queen Aemma, but it is quickly overshadowed by his joy.

You offer him a warm smile. "Thank you, father. I’ll do everything I can to ensure that this union strengthens our house."

Daemon is the next to approach, a goblet in hand and that familiar smirk playing on his lips. "I didn’t think you had it in you, nephew," he says, voice laced with amusement. "I was beginning to think you’d let others chart your course forever. But you’ve surprised us all, haven’t you?"

You meet his gaze squarely, your own smile more restrained but no less confident. "Some paths are worth fighting for, uncle. Even if they’re not what others expect."

Daemon raises his cup in a mock salute. “Spoken like a true Targaryen. Perhaps there’s more fire in you than I thought.”

The feast carries on with music, laughter, and the clinking of cups. You and Alicent share dances with the lords and ladies of the realm, but every now and then, your eyes find each other’s, and the world falls away again, leaving just the two of you in this sea of people.

When you finally manage to steal a private moment with her in a quiet corner of the hall, she takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “I was so afraid,” she admits in a hushed voice, her eyes reflecting the firelight. “Afraid that we’d never be able to reach this moment. But here we are.”

You brush a strand of hair from her face, letting your hand linger against her cheek. “You’re mine now, Alicent. I’ll fight for you, for us, against anyone who tries to tear us apart.”

A flicker of relief passes through her expression, followed by a warmth that softens her usually reserved emotions. “And I’ll stand by you, no matter the storm we face.”

The words hang between you like an unspoken vow—one more binding than anything recited before the Septon. 

The night deepens as the feast continues, a blur of music and the warm glow of candlelight reflecting off the ornate dishes piled with food. Laughter and the sound of clinking goblets fill the Great Hall. You and Alicent sit side by side at the high table, your hands occasionally brushing against each other beneath the table. The touch is small, but each time it happens, there’s a comforting warmth, a silent reassurance between the two of you. Alicent’s soft smile, reserved just for you, never quite fades from her lips.

As you’re enjoying a brief moment of quiet conversation, the sound of footsteps approaches. Gwayne Hightower, Alicent’s brother, strides up, his eyes bright with joy. "Sister! Y/N!" he greets, his voice tinged with the exuberance of youth. His resemblance to Alicent is striking, though his features are more angular, his posture that of a man eager to prove himself. "I couldn’t let the night end without offering my congratulations." He gives you a hearty clap on the shoulder, his grin broad. "It’s about time someone put a spark in this old court! You’ve done well, my friend. I’ve known you since we were boys, and I’ve always believed you’d find your way."

You return his grin, reaching out to clasp his forearm in the familiar gesture of comrades. "Gwayne, your support has never gone unnoticed. I’ve always valued your friendship, even when we got ourselves into trouble as children. But I think this time, we’ve both stepped into something greater than mischief.”

Gwayne chuckles. “You certainly have, Y/N. And Alicent—” He turns to his sister, his tone softening with genuine affection. “I’ve never seen you look happier. I’m glad you’ve found this happiness, even if I’ll be the one who has to keep a closer eye on courtly matters with you from now on.”

Alicent smiles warmly at her brother, her hand gently resting over yours atop the table. “Thank you, Gwayne. Your words mean more to me than you know. And don’t worry, we’ll both make sure to keep you busy in your duties, though perhaps with fewer pranks than when we were children.”

The three of you share a laugh, the ease of old friendships and sibling bonds lightening the mood.

Soon after, the familiar figures of Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys approach. The Sea Snake is every bit the powerful figure one expects, his deep blue doublet adorned with intricate silver embroidery resembling the waves of the sea. Rhaenys is resplendent in crimson and gold, her presence commanding yet warm. There’s a certain wisdom in her gaze as she looks between you and Alicent, as if she sees beyond what most do.

“Prince Y/N, Lady Alicent,” Corlys begins, his voice deep and steady. “Congratulations are in order. The union of Targaryen and Hightower is a strategic move, and one I hope will bring stability to the realm. But more than that, it’s clear to see the bond you share.” His eyes linger on you, a hint of approval in his expression. “And perhaps this is the start of a new chapter where the young find their own path amidst the expectations of the old.”

Princess Rhaenys nods, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “It is good to see love and strength walk hand in hand. The history of our houses has often been marked by conflict, but this—” she gestures subtly between you and Alicent, “—this has the potential to change much. You both carry the future on your shoulders now.”

You bow your head slightly in respect. “Thank you, Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys. Your wisdom is always welcome. I hope to earn that respect in time and prove that this union is more than just a political move.”

Rhaenys’ eyes glint with something sharp and approving. “Oh, I believe you will, Y/N. The blood of Old Valyria runs deep, and you’ve shown you’re willing to chart your own course. I, for one, look forward to seeing what comes next.”

As they step away, Lord Tyland Lannister, clad in rich reds and golds, approaches next. His sharp features and keen eyes give away his nature as a man ever mindful of the shifting tides of power. “Prince Y/N, Lady Alicent, it is a joyous day indeed.�� His voice is smooth, practiced, yet there’s an undercurrent of genuine intent behind his words. “House Lannister is ever eager to lend its support to the Targaryen line. May your union be fruitful and prosperous. It seems the dragons have found a way to blend strength with the grace of the Reach.”

You nod, ever cautious with Tyland’s honeyed words. “Thank you, Lord Tyland. Your support will be remembered, and I hope our alliance will benefit all corners of the realm.”

He offers a slight bow before moving off, ever mindful of where the winds blow.

The feast begins to wind down, and as tradition demands, there is the looming expectation of the bedding ceremony. The air in the hall thickens with the anticipation of it. Some lords and ladies begin to gather, murmuring and glancing toward you and Alicent with barely hidden excitement. The tension, the ribald jokes, the whispers—it all threatens to reduce the sanctity of this moment to a spectacle.

Before anyone can make a move to initiate it, you rise to your feet, the air of command in your posture silencing the crowd before the teasing can begin. “There will be no bedding ceremony tonight,” you declare, your voice clear and firm, leaving no room for argument. The hall quiets instantly, the murmur of protests caught in the throats of those who thought to see the night end in such a manner.

Daemon, standing with arms crossed at the edge of the hall, lets out a low chuckle, his approval evident in the sharp nod he gives you. “Let the young prince make his own choices,” he says, his voice carrying across the room. “There’s enough spectacle in these halls without turning the most sacred of nights into another charade.”

The crowd hesitates, unsure whether to push the matter. But when you meet your father’s gaze, Viserys nods slowly, an expression of both surprise and respect on his face. Otto Hightower, who had been watching with tension in his eyes, finally relaxes, a subtle sigh escaping him. His face settles into an expression that resembles something close to approval, a rare look from a man who values tradition and order above all.

Alicent looks at you with deep gratitude and admiration, her fingers squeezing yours as she stands. You turn to her, your expression softening as you offer her your arm. “Shall we retire, my lady?” you ask, your voice laced with tenderness.

She dips her head slightly, eyes shimmering with emotion. “Let’s,” she replies, her voice barely more than a whisper as she takes your arm.

Together, you walk down the long aisle toward the doors leading out of the Great Hall, every eye on you both as you leave. There is a certain weight lifted from your shoulders as the doors close behind you, the noise of the hall fading as you enter the quieter, more intimate corridors of the Keep.

As you walk side by side toward your chambers, the echoes of your footsteps and the distant flicker of torchlight create an almost dreamlike atmosphere. Neither of you speaks, the silence between you comfortable, filled with the knowledge that this is just the beginning. When you reach the doors to your shared chambers, you pause, turning to face her fully. You lift her hand to your lips and press a soft kiss to her knuckles, your eyes never leaving hers.

“No more performances,” you murmur. “This is just us now.”

Alicent’s eyes shine as she steps closer, her other hand rising to rest against your cheek. “I’ve never wanted anything more than to be with you, like this, away from prying eyes.”

With that, you open the door and guide her inside, the world outside forgotten as the heavy oak doors close behind you both, sealing away the courtly intrigue and the expectations of the realm. In this moment, it’s just you and her, bound together by choice, love, and a shared determination to forge your own destiny.

The chamber is bathed in the soft light of the fire, shadows flickering across the stone walls as the door closes behind you both. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable but full with the awareness of what comes next. For all the warmth you share, the affection that’s blossomed over years of quiet moments and unspoken glances, this is new for both of you. The air is tinged with the sweet fragrance of candles, the soft rustle of fabric as you both stand there, suddenly unsure how to proceed.

You turn to face her, meeting Alicent’s gaze. There’s a nervousness in her eyes, a slight quiver in her breath, but beneath it lies trust, and something more—desire, hesitant but real. You step closer, reaching out to take her hands in yours, your thumb brushing over her knuckles in a gentle, soothing motion. “Alicent,” you murmur, your voice softer than usual, tinged with both affection and concern. “Are you sure? If you’re not ready—”

“I am,” she interrupts softly, her voice a tender whisper in the quiet of the room. Her cheeks flush pink, but her eyes never leave yours. “I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

You nod, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Slowly, you lean down, capturing her lips in a kiss, tender and delicate. Her lips are warm against yours, the kiss a gentle exploration rather than a fervent rush. You both linger in the simplicity of it, letting it ease the tension from your bodies. When you pull back, you see her chest rise and fall as she steadies her breath, her eyes searching yours for reassurance.

Your hand moves to the clasp of her dress, fingers hesitating for a moment before you look at her once more. “May I?” you ask softly.

She nods, her voice catching slightly. “Yes… I want you to.”

With careful fingers, you undo the clasp and let the fabric slip from her shoulders, revealing the pale skin beneath. The dress pools at her feet, and she stands before you in just her shift, delicate and vulnerable. Her eyes flicker down, shyly avoiding your gaze as you take her in. In turn, she reaches out, her hands trembling slightly as she begins to unlace your doublet. There’s an unspoken agreement between you—a mutual understanding that this moment is as much about trust as it is about desire. You help her with the laces, guiding her hands until your clothing is cast aside, leaving you both bare in the warm glow of the fire.

For a long moment, you simply stand there, your breaths mingling, your eyes tracing the curves and lines of each other’s bodies. There’s a sense of curiosity mixed with reverence, your gazes shyly meeting before drifting again, both of you learning and memorizing the sight of each other.

“Beautiful,” you whisper, your voice filled with sincerity. Alicent’s breath hitches at the word, her eyes shining as she looks up at you, her lips parting as if to say something, but words fail her. Instead, she just reaches out, fingers brushing over your chest, her touch sending a shiver through you.

You gently take her hand and guide her toward the bed, the furs soft beneath your feet as you lead her down onto the mattress. You lay her down with the utmost care, your eyes never leaving hers, searching for any sign of discomfort. Her lips part as she draws in a shaky breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly, but her gaze is steady, trusting.

You lower yourself beside her, your hand caressing her cheek as you lean in to kiss her again. This time, the kiss is deeper, a gradual melding of lips as you both begin to relax into each other. Your hand trails down, brushing against her collarbone, then lower, until it rests just above her breast. You pause, your eyes flicking to hers for permission, and when she nods slightly, you continue, cupping her breast gently, your thumb brushing over the soft skin. A soft gasp escapes her lips, her back arching slightly as you explore her.

“You’re so beautiful, Alicent,” you murmur against her lips, and she responds with a soft sigh, her hand sliding up your back, pulling you closer.

Your kisses begin to wander, trailing down her jawline, to the tender skin of her neck. You feel her pulse quicken under your lips, her breath growing more uneven as you move lower. When your mouth finds her breast, she gasps, her fingers threading through your hair. You take your time, savoring each reaction, each soft sound she makes as your lips and tongue explore her.

As you move lower, her breath catches, her fingers tightening in your hair when you kiss the curve of her hip. You glance up at her, seeing the mixture of nerves and anticipation in her eyes. She’s never experienced anything like this, and neither have you—not truly. But you remember the lessons Daemon half-teased, half-instructed you on during that one visit to the brothel, showing you the ways of pleasure in a more practical, if unconventional, manner. While you hadn’t partaken that night, you watched, curious, and the knowledge lingers now, guiding your movements.

You press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, and she lets out a soft whimper, her fingers clutching at the furs beneath her. You murmur a line from an old Valyrian poem, the words ancient and filled with meaning, letting the sounds roll off your tongue as your kisses grow more intimate. “Gevives isse tolvie jelevre—beauty in every breath,” you whisper, your breath warm against her skin.

When your mouth finally finds her core, she gasps, her body tensing for a moment before she melts into the sensation, her hips shifting instinctively toward you. Her breath comes in shallow bursts, her hand gripping your shoulder as you apply what you’ve learned, taking your time, listening to the way her body responds. When she lets out a soft moan, her voice trembling with pleasure, you smile against her, murmuring another line from the poem—words of love and devotion that have been passed down through generations.

Slowly, you trail your kisses back up her body, feeling her trembling beneath you. Her hands reach for you, pulling you close, and when your lips find hers again, the kiss is hungry, filled with the taste of her desire and the passion that’s been building between you both.

You position yourself above her, your eyes locked on hers as you ask one last time, “Are you sure, Alicent?”

Her response is a breathless nod, her hand cupping your cheek as she whispers, “I want this. I want you.”

You enter her gently, inch by inch, mindful of her innocence, watching her every expression for any sign of pain. She winces slightly at first, her brow furrowing, but her fingers dig into your back, holding you close as she adjusts. When she finally opens her eyes again, there’s no hesitation, only trust. “Move,” she breathes, her voice barely audible, but full of need.

You start slowly, each movement careful, deliberate, letting her body adjust, her warmth enveloping you. Her breaths come out in soft, quick bursts, her nails dragging lightly across your skin as she holds on to you. The tension in her body gradually gives way to something else, her hips meeting yours in a rhythm that’s both instinctive and hesitant.

As the moments pass, the awkwardness gives way to a deeper connection. The tenderness remains, but passion begins to take root. Alicent’s breath hitches when she wraps her legs around your waist, her hands pulling you closer. You respond to her need, moving with more urgency as she finds her own rhythm, her body moving against yours in a dance that’s both new and timeless.

When she pushes herself up, shifting into your lap, there’s a sudden surge of boldness in her gaze, something wild and free. You guide her movements, your hands steadying her as she takes control, her breathless gasps mingling with your own. The intimacy between you grows not just in the physical connection but in the way you respond to each other’s needs, desires, and unspoken fears. It’s a union forged in trust, love, and the desire to explore the depths of what you share.

Eventually, when the night reaches its quiet peak, you collapse together into the furs, breathless and spent, your limbs entangled as you hold her close. Here, in this moment, there’s only the warmth of her skin against yours, the sound of her steadying breaths, and the knowledge that this is only the beginning of your shared life together.

As sleep slowly claims you both, you press a final kiss to her forehead, murmuring words of love in Valyrian, promising her with every breath that this night is just the start of what you’ll build together.

The sky is a bruised shade of twilight, thick with smoke and ash. The stench of blood, sweat, and salt fills the air as the waves crash against the jagged rocks of the Stepstones. This place is a wasteland—a battlefield stained with the bodies of the dead and dying. For over two years, the Crabfeeder’s men have held these islands, turning them into a butcher’s yard. But today, you intend to end it. Today, the dragons return in fire and fury.

You sit atop Dallax, your black-scaled beast, perched on a ridge overlooking the main encampment of the Triarchy’s forces. His green eyes gleam in the dim light, and his body shifts restlessly beneath you, eager to unleash his wrath. His teeth, hidden within the dark flesh of his jaws, retract only when his rage is stoked—a menace lying in wait. You run a gloved hand along his neck, feeling the raw power coiled within him. “Soon,” you whisper, your voice firm yet laced with anticipation. “We will end this.”

Below, Daemon Targaryen plays his part to perfection. Clad in soot-streaked armor, a white banner clutched in one hand, he approaches the enemy lines. The Crabfeeder’s forces, a mix of hardened sellswords and conscripts, watch from behind their sharpened stakes and crude fortifications, unsure whether this is truly surrender or another of Daemon’s ruses. The Prince of the City moves with a calculated slowness, his steps deliberate, his head lowered just enough to give the impression of defeat. But you know him better. There’s a fire in his eyes—a fury barely contained behind that facade of submission. The plan hinges on this moment, on the Crabfeeder’s arrogance and greed.

From your vantage point, you spot Lord Corlys Velaryon’s forces hidden in the shallows, ready to pounce the moment the trap is sprung. The Sea Snake commands his men with a veteran’s precision, their silence a stark contrast to the braying jeers coming from the Crabfeeder’s ranks.

Daemon finally stops, mere feet from the Crabfeeder’s line, where a grotesque figure emerges from the shadows. Drahar, the Crabfeeder, is a ghastly sight, his face hidden behind a cracked and twisted mask, his skin mottled from disease. He raises a hand, halting the jeers, and for a moment, silence reigns.

Then, chaos erupts.

Daemon’s false surrender is cast aside as he draws Dark Sister in a blur of Valyrian steel, cutting through the nearest soldier in one swift, practiced motion. Blood sprays into the air, catching the dim light as the battlefield roars back to life. The Triarchy’s soldiers charge forward, desperate to claim the prize they believe within reach, but they are rushing headlong into a trap.

It’s your moment.

With a word in Valyrian, you urge Dallax into a dive. His wings unfurl, dark as midnight, blotting out the dying light. The air screams past you as you plummet toward the battlefield, the ground rushing up to meet you. “Dracarys!” you roar, the command slicing through the din of battle.

Dallax responds with a torrent of flame that incinerates everything in its path. The first line of the Crabfeeder’s men is engulfed in a roaring inferno, their screams swallowed by the relentless fire. Armor melts, flesh sizzles, and bone turns to ash in mere moments. You bank sharply, pulling Dallax into another dive, this time focusing on the siege engines positioned along the ridge. The ballistae, meant to keep the dragons at bay, are shattered under the crushing weight of dragonfire and claws. Timber explodes, splinters raining down on the screaming soldiers below as you rip through their defenses with ruthless efficiency.

You catch a glimpse of Daemon, now fully engaged in the melee, his sword a blur of lethal grace as he carves a bloody path through the Triarchy’s forces. He fights with a savage joy, laughing as he dodges and counters, the battlefield his stage. Corlys and his men surge from the shallows, catching the enemy in a brutal pincer. The once-confident soldiers of the Crabfeeder are thrown into disarray, their lines crumbling under the combined might of dragon and steel.

You circle back, eyes locked on Drahar, who attempts to retreat deeper into the labyrinth of stakes and pits his men have constructed. But there’s no escape. You guide Dallax lower, skimming the ground, his claws gouging the earth as you close in on your prey. The Crabfeeder looks up in desperation, his eyes wide behind his mask as he realizes his end is near.

“End him!” Daemon’s voice echoes in your mind like a phantom’s dare, though the words are drowned out by the roar of battle.

Dallax’s jaws snap open, his teeth glinting as they slide out from their hidden sheaths. With a snarl, he lunges, clamping down on Drahar with a sickening crunch. The Crabfeeder’s mask falls away, revealing a twisted visage frozen in terror before his body is torn apart in a spray of blood and gore. Dallax shakes his head, flinging what remains of Drahar’s corpse into the dirt before incinerating it with a final jet of flame.

Around you, the battlefield is a scene of utter carnage. The ground is slick with blood, littered with the hacked remains of soldiers. Men scream, their limbs severed, or burn as they try to flee, only to be cut down by Corlys’s disciplined troops. The cries of the dying are a symphony of suffering, underscored by the relentless roar of flames. Dallax moves among the survivors like a shadow, crushing and burning any who dare to resist.

As the last pockets of resistance are snuffed out, you land amidst the ruins, stepping down from Dallax’s back. You scan the battlefield, taking in the broken fortifications, the piles of charred corpses, and the men who now kneel in surrender. Victory is yours. The Stepstones are won.

Daemon approaches, blood splattered across his armor, a wild grin on his face. “Well done, nephew,” he says, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction. “I thought I might have all the fun, but you’ve stolen quite the show.” His eyes gleam with shared triumph, the bond between you strengthened through battle and bloodshed. “The Crabfeeder will feast no more.”

You smirk, wiping sweat and grime from your brow. “Someone had to keep you from getting killed. I couldn’t let you take all the glory.”

He laughs, the sound cutting through the dying echoes of the battle. “You’re learning. Perhaps there’s more of me in you than anyone cares to admit.”

As Daemon moves to rally the remaining men, your thoughts drift, carried away on the winds of victory. The image of Alicent appears in your mind—her gentle smile, the way her hand rests on the curve of her belly, swollen with the child she carries. You think of your son, Aegon, barely more than a year old, his bright eyes so full of curiosity. It is for them that you fight, for the future you intend to build, for the family you have claimed as your own.

The taste of blood and ash lingers on your tongue, but underneath it all is the yearning to return to them, to hold Alicent in your arms and feel the soft weight of your son as he rests against your chest. You think of how you will recount this victory to them—how Aegon will listen in awe, his little hands reaching out as if to grasp the tales of dragons and battles. You smile to yourself, imagining the way Alicent will scold you softly for the bloodshed, though you know she will be proud all the same.

“Soon,” you murmur to yourself, the words almost lost in the wind. “Soon I’ll be home.”

But for now, the battle is done, and the Stepstones are yours. The fires burn low as you gaze out over the broken landscape, your thoughts with your family, even as your dragon’s shadow stretches long over the conquered land, a reminder of the price of victory.

[poetryvampire]

painfully needy Rolan going into rut

Had this on the brain lately. I don't think it would take much to make Rolan an absolute mess but imagine how worse it would be when he's going into rut. Boy would snap so fast

Rolan x afab non-tiefling reader

Have some 🔥spicy🔥 musings

*this went longer than I wanted lol. But if you like it tell me if you want more 🧡

● Rolan had been doing this dance with you for months now. Both working at Sorcerous Sundries you saw each other regularly, even tried to work together as much as possible (not that he'd ever admit that). The banter, the playful mockery leading to not so subtle flirtation was easy until now.

● The conversations didn't flow like before. A joke about becoming a doe eyed scarcely dressed maiden -like the ones on the covers of those novels you so enjoy- suddenly lead his mind to wander. Any wisecrack replaced with the image of you gazing at him so lustfully. An image that stays with him for the rest of the day (and night).

● Lia and Cal are very vocal about his uptick in irritability. He tries to ignore them but they're not wrong. Ever little thing sets him off. He's frustrated at himself. For letting the feelings get so far without truely noticing. For being too proud or too embarrassed to act on them.

●He often forgets his words as his eyes lingered on your lips, your neck, your figure. More than once you caught him staring and to his surprise no offense was taken. Just a quizzical look, perhaps a soft smile that flooded his face with warmth.

●Rolan would have almost preferred you'd have met him with anger. Now the hope of you ran rampant through him. That if he was ever to give in he may be met with the embrace he so longed for. The need for you was growing by the day. He even took care to not stand to closely to you now. He coursed himself for it. How had he become so starved for affection that even the scent of you sprung his body to life.

●The wizard had spent many nights forced to take action if he was to ever find sleep. He'd be tangled in his sheets, hair wild, trusting violently into his own fist. He tries to keep his fantasies to more abstract forms of pleasure but as hard as he tries the vague shapes melt into crystal clear images of you. It would always be you around him like a vice that would push him over the edge.

● There were times he'd lose himself so throughly he'd cry out your name as he came. Embarrassed by this lack of control, Rolan told himself it was better to happen here than in front of you.

● Going into work that morning something felt off. Rolan's whole body felt extra sensitive, aching. The horrible thought finally struck him at midday. Was he going into rut? Now!? With such little warning? He calms himself. He's not certain after all.

● Until he's been paired with you to clean out and old study turned storage room. He's hyper aware of your scent. Its filling his lungs,making his knees weak. The room isn't exactly small but it's stuffed with stacks of books making moving around a problem. You're constantly having to squeeze (delightfully, terrifyingly) close to each other.

● Luckily you're busying yourself with the task at hand. Rolan prays you won't notice how red (red-er) his face is or the sizable bulge he's currently cloaking with a stack of books. The straining against his pants is almost painful. He's eyeing the door, anything to escape the heat building in his blood.

●His eyes fall back to you and all notions of making a run for it leave his mind. Along with everything else that isn't right in front of him. You looked a vision, standing on and old box body spread across the book self as you attempt to reach something on the top shelf. Not only was it a perfect view of your form, it reminded him of a pose one might see in an old painting.

●Suddenly the box wobbled threatening to send you falling backwards. Your scream was cut short as you felt Rolan catch you, arms wrap around your middle tightly pressing you to him. His face buried in your hair he couldn't help utter a deep groan. The wave of intoxicating aroma washing away his last bit of restraint.

●With ease he flips you around, pressing you into the shelf, a maon escaping your lips. Your hands came to his chest not to push him away but in a gentle caress.

●'Rolan? Please,' was hardly out on your mouth when they were swallowed by his lips. He kisses you like a drowning man breaking the water's surface. Madly, desperately as if any second you may be taken away for him. Hungrily he deepens the kiss and your lips part for him with ease, both of you relishing in the taste.

●It's only when you part for air he realizes he's been rocking his hips into you. An apology catches in his throat as you grind back against him. He's dizzy with lust, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

●His lips find your neck, kissing, sucking and biting. Trying his best not to break the skin. Your moans drive him on. His hands are frantic running all over you. Soon your hands lead his to the laces on your dress. He makes quick work of it.

●Rolan takes you in his arms again and lays you down on a near by table. A little too eager he tears your under things away completely. But to his awe you only laugh and spread yourself out for him to drink you in fully. You're a goddess in his eye and he intends to worship.

●Words spill senselessly from him as he lavishes you with his mouth. 'Fuck, Fuck! You're beautiful you're perfect. I need- God's, l need you I need you.' He hasn't the brain for elegance now. He's kissing you everywhere maoning words of love into your skin.

● As he makes it to your thighs he cannot help but bury is face between them. The sweet taste of your sex has him throbbing with out so much as a touch. He wants to make sure you're nice and ready for him. You're not a tiefling after all and he couldn't bare the thought of hurting you. It doesn't take long before you're dripping wet against his tongue as he slides wildly between attacking your entrance and your clit.

●You stifle a scream as an orgasm suddenly rips through you, your thighs shaking in his grasp. Youre still panting but you pull him away, drawing him closer to you. As you pull him into a soft kiss your hands unlace his pants (finally) freeing his erection. Though to hold him lightly his gasp is sharp. He's painfully hard; his head already glistening with precum.

●As he runs he length against your folds he tries to center himself. He doesn't want to be too rough or finish terribly fast. He wants to go slow but when he catches on your entrance he can't help but thrust into you, the relief of his agony so close. You tremble but encourage him on. His name quickly becoming a soft prayer on your lips.

●He's wrapped inside you now, almost all the way. The pleasure overwhelming him he opts for quicker shallow thrusts. He's taken aback by how vocal he is as more sweet lustful nothings spill from him. Rolan's control is fading fast. He's practically shaking, slamming himself into you losing whatever rhythm he had. The sight of your face contorting with pleasure is pushing him to his end. He can feel the hot pull in his gut. And suddenly something else as.

●A chill runs over him as he feels the swelling at the base of his cock. He grasps it and pulls out not wanting to subject you to something he didn't even take the time to explain. In part he's too late. He didn't fully knot but he still comes hard, spilling thick ropes all over your stomach and thighs. Fuck, you're beautiful like this.

● He blushes deeply and panics, apologizing over and over. He didn't want it to be like this. You run your fingers through his hair and kiss him gently. You don't know that much about teifling biology but Gods you wanted to learn. Rolan tries to believe you, that this wouldn't scare you off.

● He adjusted his pants, somehow still as uncomfortable as before. Perhaps it was the sight of you dressing. How you made no move to do away with his mess before you did. He could take you again easily. But not here.

● You convince him to claim illness and leave work early. To take time to rest. He agrees wanting to lock himself away from the world. And yet he also agrees to meet you that night. Then he'd have a more level head. A chance to explain himself and perhaps to hold you in his arms for longer.

Xoxo thanks for reading friends ❤️

[gladiatorcunt]

Hi! Can I request a scenario or one shot (whichever you prefer) with Anakin loving to touch/grab Y/N’s butt?

Hi, and yes you can <3

Anakin Skywalker is an ass man through and through. Before you had taken the plunge and taken your friendship to the next level, you could practically feel his eyes burning holes into your ass. No matter how far you were standing away from him, he'd always find himself devoting every ounce of his attention to what he's honestly convinced is a gift from a higher power.

You were only shocked the first time, but it was a bit silly in hindsight when you realized just how "close" Anakin liked to be with you. He drags his eyes and hands all over your body no matter your relationship, he's just a very physical person with the one he loves. (Though you don't let yourself think about in what way until it's too late.)

He immediately grabbed two big handfuls of your ass when you had your first kiss. It's like he was spending just as much time and effort groping the fat globes as he was sucking the soul out of your tongue.

Smacking your ass is how he starts his day and giving each cheek a rough but loving squeeze is how he ends it. His default sleeping/cuddling position is your leg thrown over his torso and him keeping you there with a firm hand on your ass. His grip is so tight that you can't even roll over if it starts to get uncomfortable.

Sometimes he prefers to laze around in bed and marvel at the sight of your plump flesh in the inescapable hold of his prosthetic arm. The glint of the metal bouncing off the shimmer of your skin. He'd rather lose his other arm than hurt you, but he does enjoy pinching and prodding at your ass cheeks until there are hoards of red welts and finger shaped bruises.

He'll nuzzle when he's giving you aftercare and cleaning you up, paying extra special attention to the area. You wonder if he drags it out so long just so he'd have an excuse to paw at it, but he does that regardless of the situation, time, or place.

You're embarrassed to recall the instances where in the beginning, when you were nothing more than "very good" friends, you would spend hours debating with your handmaids over which dress made your butt look better. Which one would drive him to the point of no return, and which one would coax the drool to flow from his maw like a river of milk and honey. You used to wait until you knew he was already looking (he always was) so you could coyly drop something and bend over right in his face to pick it up.

You still do it; Anakin has come to anticipate it in every waking moment. He has to smother his hungry smile under his palms, or you'll lose the nerve.

His obsession's most tender form shows itself when he returns to their chambers after a harrowing mission or a grueling meeting with the council.

The doors slide open to reveal your tired husband, his body and soul no doubt needing to be mended in your arms. So you let him envelop you with his entire being, you allow his weight to make you sink further into the bed until you're pinned. Whether he wants to rut against you or just lie on top of you for the rest of his days and past them to the death of the universe, you are ready to receive him.

He simply shimmies his way down your back today and rests his weary head on the swell of your ass. Your boy king of the stars lets his glittering cloak of unfathomable responsibilities crumble to dust over your soft jiggling skin. Ani skirts the tip of his nose along your ass crack like he's giving it a nose kiss in greeting. He flattens his tongue and drags it up and down through whatever enticing garment you're donning, getting it and you soaked in seconds flat.

"Missed you, angel."

He is not talking to you.

faetreides 2024

[claramelooo]

CRIMSON REVERIE

Hey, babies! I must confess that this was a story that I wrote with my instincts, I simply let the characters flow. I love filling it with intensity and adding love, I want this to be, in fact, the hallmark of my writing.

And of course, we are entering the final stretch of this saga :)

so enjoy it a looooot <3

MINORS DO NOT MUST TO INTERACT

Warnings: angst and truth revealed

Summary: Wanda discovers the truth about the necklace, and cannot accept it.

Hey. Now I've a masterlist

SOLIS

The crossing between the multiverses was a storm of colors and impossible shapes, a parade of fragments of realities tearing and stitching themselves as you moved forward. It was a hypnotic and chaotic spectacle, where the unknown seemed to breathe around you, whispering secrets no one could comprehend.

You were in Wanda’s arms, the only constant amid the chaos. The warmth of her body against yours was more than physical; it was a silent promise of safety, a beacon in an unpredictable ocean. Your eyes were closed, but even in unconsciousness, there was something about you that radiated a unique strength.

Carol walked beside you, silent at first, but her unease was evident. Her eyes constantly darted to you, as if trying to decipher a riddle that refused to reveal itself. Time passed, and finally, she broke the silence.

“So…” Carol began, feigning casualness as her gaze remained fixed on you. “She’s really real?”

Wanda didn’t reply immediately. Her full attention was on you, her gaze intense and protective, as though her mere presence could ward off any threat.

Carol cleared her throat, insisting. “You know, it’s not exactly common to see someone cross dimensions carrying another person like they’re a lost treasure. I’m curious.”

There was a moment of tense silence before Wanda finally responded, her voice low, almost a whisper, but laden with something primal. “She’s more than real. She’s everything.”

Carol raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, but she didn’t interrupt. Wanda continued, her eyes shining with something that bordered on fervor. “I found her when there was nothing left, when the entire world was against me, and yet... she stayed. She saw me. She gave me something even magic couldn’t bring back.”

Carol let out a small sigh, a mix of understanding and discomfort. “And that’s why you’re willing to do all this? For her?”

Wanda looked at Carol with an intensity that made the Captain shrink back for a brief second. “I’m not willing. I will. Because she’s my light, and no matter what happens… I won’t let her go out.”

The silence that followed was filled only by the hum of realities unraveling around them. Carol looked away, Wanda’s words echoing as an unshakable truth, impossible to challenge. After all, who was she to judge someone who had found such a strong reason to fight?

When the last tear in the multiverse opened, you arrived in a vast, desolate field, where the silence was broken only by the sound of boots from an army standing ready. Strange was at the center of it all, his eyes sharp, and his cloak floating with a purpose of its own. Around him, the Avengers stood prepared to fight, weapons and powers ready to face whatever emerged from the portal.

But when Wanda stepped through, carrying you in her arms, the chaos ceased.

Strange raised a hand, signaling his army to stop. His gaze moved from Wanda to you, then to Carol, before returning to Wanda. There was something in his eyes—not just surprise, but recognition.

“She’s real…” Strange murmured, the incredulity in his voice hanging in the still air.

The field seemed to hold its breath, every hero frozen in a moment of shock as they watched Wanda emerge from the portal, you in her arms like something sacred. The tension was palpable, but Strange remained calm, though his eyes betrayed the depth of his understanding.

The Avengers around him, weapons still raised, began to relax, but only slightly. Natasha stepped forward, her eyes narrowed, analyzing every detail. Steve remained still, his shield instinctively raised. Tony, however, broke the silence with a typical comment.

“Well, look at that, the witch brought a… friend?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, but his eyes were fixed on you, clearly trying to piece together what was happening.

“Tony,” Steve warned, though even he seemed unable to tear his gaze from you.

“She’s not a threat,” Wanda declared, her voice firm but quiet, like a promise. Her gaze burned with something fierce and unyielding.

Strange took a step forward, his hands clasped in front of him. He seemed to avoid direct eye contact with Wanda, focusing instead on you. “The necklace,” he said finally, pointing to the pendant around your neck. “Where did you get that?”

You opened your eyes slowly, confusion etched across your face as you looked around. Strangers, all of them, and yet… there was something familiar. Wanda held you closer, an almost overly protective gesture, as Strange approached.

“Don’t come any closer,” Wanda growled, her magic crackling in her hands.

“I just want to understand,” Strange said calmly, though his posture was tense. He knew what was at stake. “If what I think is true, she’s not just unique… She’s impossible.”

“What are you talking about?” Wanda’s fingertips blackened, magic already summoned. “She’s real. And she’s mine.”

Strange hesitated, keeping his hands raised in a gesture of peace, but his eyes remained fixed on the sun-shaped pendant around your neck. He spoke slowly, as if weighing each word before releasing it.

“I’m talking about something that shouldn’t exist. A broken line in the fabric of time. That necklace… it’s not just an ornament. It’s an anchor, a link to something beyond our comprehension.” He paused, as if struggling to organize his thoughts. “She… shouldn’t be here.”

“Watch your words, Strange,” Wanda murmured, her voice low and threatening. Her blackened fingers trembled, and the magic around her seemed to pulse with the intensity of her rage. “She is everything that should be here. And you will not touch her.”

Strange looked at Wanda, a mix of pity and caution in his expression. He knew the line was thin, and the witch was teetering on the edge of an emotional abyss. “I’m not trying to take her from you, Maximoff. But you need to listen. Because if what I’m seeing is true, we’re dealing with something that affects more than just you or this world.”

“Stop it,” Wanda interrupted, her voice rising in intensity. “You don’t understand! You think you know because you have books and spells. But this…” She looked at you, her expression softening for just a moment before hardening again. “She’s mine. Every life we’ve lived, every sacrifice we’ve made. This isn’t a mistake, Strange. This is love.”

“Love or destiny?” Strange countered, his eyes gleaming with something between curiosity and reverence. “Because if she is who I think she is, there’s no separating the two.” He motioned subtly to the pendant. “Do you understand what she’s carrying around her neck? That energy isn’t just ancient, Wanda. It’s primordial. It’s the origin.”

Wanda shook her head, stepping back instinctively, as if she could push Strange’s words away. “You’re wrong! It can’t be that. I would know. I would feel it. I would see it in our lives together.”

“But you didn’t,” Strange replied, his voice softer now, but still firm. “Because you couldn’t. Because this isn’t something that reveals itself. It’s something that manifests, in time and necessity.”

Wanda’s disbelief was palpable. She looked at you, searching for some confirmation that what Strange said was absurd, but all she found was your confused gaze, still lost in the whirlwind of emotions and information.

Strange continued, his voice now heavy with gravity. “She is more than a being. She is a point of convergence, something that all cosmic forces recognize but cannot control. And now, Maximoff, she is at stake.”

Wanda pressed her lips together, trying to hold back the tears threatening to fall. “No. You’re wrong. It doesn’t matter what she is to the universe. She’s mine. And no one is going to take her away from me.”

“That,” Strange said, pointing at Wanda, “is precisely why she is different. Because even with all the power and chaos surrounding her, you see her as a person. Someone to be loved, not feared.” He took a deep breath, the tension on his face easing slightly. “And perhaps, Maximoff, that’s exactly what she needs to be right now. Before the rest of the multiverse realizes what’s happening.”

Wanda didn’t respond. She only pulled you closer, her trembling hands tracing gentle lines along your skin as if to reassure herself you were there—whole and hers. But in her mind, Strange’s words echoed like distant thunder, heralding a storm she knew she couldn’t ignore for much longer.

Tears streamed down the woman’s face. “Feared?” she murmured, the word escaping like a broken whisper. Her eyes fixed on your face, even closed in the torpor of sleep, and she felt a pang of despair at the peace in your expression. Peace that, perhaps, she could never truly protect. She held your hands—your youthful skin standing out against hers.

“How could something so pure be feared?”

You were everything to Wanda. Her doll, so precious and untouchable. Her bright sun, chasing away the shadows of her own soul. When everything around her was darkness, you were always the light guiding her back, the anchor keeping her connected to her humanity. But now, Strange’s words seeped in like poison, awakening something she didn’t want to face.

Why you?

She knew there was something about you, something no one else understood. The way your presence seemed to alter the very fabric of reality around you, as though the universe bent to accommodate you. The way you bore the weight of chaos magic, not as an imposition but as if it were a natural, almost organic, part of you.

You couldn’t be just human.

The idea was unbearable, but Wanda knew she couldn’t avoid it any longer. Every word from Strange, every unspoken suspicion, every piece of evidence pointed to a greater secret buried deep within your existence. A secret Wanda feared to uncover because it meant you weren’t solely hers.

But you were. You had to be.

The sound of boots echoing behind her broke her train of thought. Strange had moved closer, his gaze now a mix of curiosity and something heavier, almost sorrowful. He opened his mouth to speak, but Wanda raised her hand, a silent warning.

She wasn’t ready to listen.

Carefully, Wanda adjusted you in her arms and stepped back, keeping your presence as a shield between you and the world that seemed determined to unravel you. Her mind was a whirlwind of denial and fierce protection, but in her heart, a doubt grew like a shadow.

“What is she?” Wanda asked, her voice low and hoarse, almost a whisper swallowed by the vastness around her. She didn’t lift her gaze, fixing it on you in her arms as if the answer might lie in the softness of your breathing or the warmth of your skin.

The tears at the corners of her eyes glimmered under the magical light still hovering around, and even without meeting them directly, no one there could doubt what was happening: Wanda Maximoff, the most feared and powerful woman they had ever known, was fragile.

Stephen Strange saw it. He saw the vulnerability hidden in the witch’s careful gestures, in the trembling fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. He saw the weight she bore, the duality of her strength and fragility.

Slowly, he straightened his posture, squaring his shoulders. The gravity of the moment demanded more than words; it required a delicacy he rarely needed to wield.

Stephen took a deep breath, adjusting his stance as every eye in the room turned to him. The silence was palpable, broken only by the distant sound of held breaths. Wanda continued to hold you in her arms, her gaze fixed on Strange, daring him to say something that could explain the impossible.

“There are stories, legends even, lost in the darkest corners of the Multiverse,” Stephen began, his voice firm but laden with reverent respect. “Stories of the Guardians Infinitum. They are not merely powerful beings. They are... embodied concepts, tied to the fabric of the Multiverse. Each of them belongs to a clan, and each clan is responsible for maintaining the fundamental balance of existence.”

Thor crossed his arms, his surprise evident. “Guardians of the Multiverse? I’ve not heard of them in Asgard.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Strange replied without breaking his gaze from Wanda. “They existed before Asgard, before Odin. Before even time had form.”

“And her?” Natasha asked skeptically, leaning forward. “Where does she fit into this?”

Strange hesitated, as if the words were difficult to articulate. “She... is a Solis. The rarest of all. The clan that represents the Sun, the primordial essence that fuels everything that exists. They don’t just create; they maintain the cycle of infinity. Pure cosmic energy, capable of shaping realities and undoing even the most absolute forces, like death.”

Tony let out an incredulous laugh, breaking the silence. “So, what you’re saying is she’s a walking cosmic battery? Fantastic. Just tell me she has a self-destruct button.”

“Shut up, Stark,” Wanda snapped, her voice sharp as a blade, but her gaze remained fixed on Strange.

Stephen ignored Tony and continued. “The Solis clan was... lost. Almost all of them were destroyed by Thanos. He feared them because they represented something he could never control: primordial energy, the force that keeps the Multiverse connected. But now...” He looked directly at you, still unconscious in Wanda’s arms. “She is the last. And that makes her a target.”

Thor frowned, his expression growing serious. “If the clan was lost, how is she here? How did she survive?”

“That’s what I need to find out,” Strange admitted. "Wanda?" He raised an eyebrow at Wanda, encouraging her to say something.

“Her parents. In every life, they were already gone, and Y/n was either raised by adoptive parents or in orphanages. In this life, she told me about a fire. It was massive, violent. She and the necklace were all that was left.”

Thor crossed his arms, gripping his hammer tightly as if feeling the weight of the story unraveling. “A fire that destroys everything... and spares only a child and an artifact? That doesn’t sound like a coincidence.”

“It isn’t,” Strange replied, his voice grave. He stepped into the center of the room, his cape softly flowing behind him. “The Solis were known to protect their descendants with extreme measures. Even in moments of annihilation, they created mechanisms to ensure their essence—their power—would never be entirely lost.”

Tony scoffed, breaking the silence with a cynical laugh. “Right, so we’re talking magical inheritance now? Some kind of cosmic insurance policy? Because, frankly, this sounds straight out of bad fiction.”

Natasha shot Tony a cold look but said nothing. Her focus remained on Wanda, who held you even closer as if fearing someone might snatch you away. Wanda seemed lost in thought, but her hands trembled slightly, betraying the storm inside her.

“It’s more than that,” Strange said, ignoring Tony’s comment. “The clans were masters of manipulating existence itself. It’s possible her parents channeled everything they had to protect her, sacrificing their own lives in the process. The necklace she carries... it’s not just a keepsake. It’s a link. An anchor for her power.”

Wanda finally looked up, her tears dried but her eyes still shimmering with conflicting emotions. “So, you’re saying this wasn’t an accident? That she survived because they wanted her to? For... what? What kind of life is that?”

Strange held her gaze for a moment before answering. “I don’t know if it was a choice or desperation. But what’s clear is that the fire wasn’t just an accident. Someone knew what she was. And they tried to erase her before she could realize her potential.”

The silence that followed was so heavy it seemed to fill the entire space. Thor appeared to be digesting the information, while Natasha watched Wanda’s every move, ready to intervene if necessary. Tony rubbed his temples, visibly uncomfortable but without a joke to lighten the mood.

Thor finally broke the silence, his deep voice resonating through the room. “And the necklace? Does it hold that power too?”

“Not exactly,” Strange said, stepping closer to Wanda. “The necklace is a channeler. It stabilizes her energy, prevents her from consuming herself. Without it...” He looked directly at Wanda, as if willing her to grasp the weight of his words. “Without it, her power would be chaotic. Unstable. And devastating.”

Unconsciously, Wanda pressed the necklace against you, as if Strange’s words had confirmed her worst fears. “She won’t lose it. No matter what.”

Strange nodded slowly, but there was something more in his expression, something he hesitated to say. Finally, he spoke, his voice lower. “Wanda... the necklace might also be the key to something much greater. Something not even the Guardians of Infinity could fully understand.”

Wanda’s gaze hardened. “What are you trying to say?”

Strange hesitated for a moment before responding. “I’m saying her power might not be complete yet. And Seline... the child... she has a destiny too. It’s not just the Solis bloodline running through her veins. It’s your magic as well. Chaos. A cycle within a cycle.”

Wanda didn’t respond. She simply held you closer, her eyes fixed on the emptiness ahead as if processing the weight of everything she had just heard. The room was tense, and even Tony was at a loss for words this time.

What no one noticed was that, in the corner, a small golden flame danced on the edge of the necklace, pulsing softly as if alive and listening to every word.

Standing abruptly, her breath uneven, Wanda tried to compose herself. “And what am I supposed to do, huh?”

“Leave her here,” Strange said plainly.

Wanda laughed, but there was no humor in her voice; it was sharp, dripping with irony and despair. The room fell silent as her magic began to thrum in the air, red energy crackling with intensity. Everyone held their breath, watching the witch who seemed on the verge of exploding.

“You think I’m going to leave her here? With you?” Wanda gestured, her voice filled with disdain and disbelief. “In another universe, surrounded by strangers who would never understand what she is? Who would never protect her like I would? You’re insane, Strange.”

Strange remained calm, but his expression was serious. “Wanda, I know you think you’re doing what’s best for her, but listen. Here, I can study her, help her channel her powers. If she’s as powerful as she seems, she’ll need control. Guidance.”

“She has control,” Wanda snapped, her anger boiling over in her words. “And I’m the only guidance she needs!”

“Wanda—” Strange tried to reason, but before he could continue, she raised her hand, and with a swift motion, flung him against the wall. The impact was loud, making the shelves tremble as books tumbled to the floor.

“Only I can protect her!” Wanda roared, her magic crackling around her, transforming the space into a storm of chaotic energy. Natasha stepped forward, ready to act, but hesitated when she noticed something.

It was your voice, so soft it was almost a whisper amid the chaos, that cut through the air like a blade. “Wanda? What happened?”

The room froze.

You were awake, your eyes blinking in confusion as you looked around, vulnerable and so small you seemed to shrink within the vastness of the unfamiliar space. “Why... is everyone yelling?” Your voice trembled, each word an effort.

Wanda turned to you instantly, her expression shifting from rage to something softer, almost broken. All the energy around her seemed to wither, as if your very presence was a balm to the storm inside her.

“You’re awake...” Wanda murmured, kneeling beside you. She pulled you close again, one hand gently stroking your head while the other clutched the necklace around your neck, shielding it from every gaze in the room.

Strange, still recovering from the attack, remained silent, watching. The golden flame on the pendant glowed more intensely, as if echoing Wanda's promise. But something in the light seemed different... something he knew Wanda hadn't yet noticed.

"Wanda, I..." You tried to speak, but your voice failed, and your hand found hers, squeezing it gently. "I'm scared."

The sound of your vulnerability seemed to break what little was left of Wanda. She closed her eyes, her tears returning silently. "I know," she whispered, her voice laden with desperate tenderness. "But you don’t need to be afraid. I’m here. And no one is going to take you away from me. Ever."

The silence that followed was tense, but Strange knew it was the right moment. He didn’t try to approach immediately. Instead, he stayed where he was, rubbing his sore neck while observing you and Wanda. His eyes fixed on the pendant, glowing softly, before meeting yours.

"You know what that is, don’t you?" he asked, his voice careful, almost hesitant. He didn’t want to scare you.

You looked at him, confused, then at the necklace around your neck. Your hands instinctively touched the pendant, its familiar warmth offering a sense of security. "It’s just... it’s just a necklace. It was my mother’s." Your voice was low, as if the words carried a weight you didn’t even know existed.

Strange frowned, not in disbelief, but with cautious curiosity. "Do you feel anything when you wear it? Something... different?"

You hesitated, your fingers still on the necklace. "I... I don’t know. Sometimes it feels alive, like it has a heartbeat of its own." You looked at Wanda, seeking comfort in her gaze. "But it’s just a necklace, right? Just a keepsake."

Strange took a step closer, slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal. "It’s not just a necklace. It’s an artifact from a clan that shouldn’t even exist anymore. The Solis Clan. And you... you’re proof that it still does."

Your eyebrows knitted in confusion. "What does that mean? What’s really happening?"

Strange took a deep breath, realizing he needed to be direct. "The Solis Clan was responsible for maintaining primordial energy, the force that connects everything in the Multiverse. They were powerful, but also dangerous. And for reasons no one fully understands, they were wiped out. Or at least, that’s what we thought."

Your eyes widened. "Wiped out? Why?"

He hesitated but continued. "Because the power they carried was too immense. So much so that it could destabilize everything—every life, every universe. The kind of power people fear because they can’t control it."

"So you think I’m like them?" Your voice trembled.

"You’re not like them," Strange corrected. "You are one of them. The last. Which means, somehow, you survived what destroyed your clan. And the necklace—it’s connected to that. It protects you. Or maybe, it protects the power inside you."

Your hands fell, your eyes wide in shock. "I don’t... I don’t want to be dangerous. I don’t even know what you’re talking about."

"I know it’s a lot to take in," Strange said, his voice gentler. "But you need to know. You need to understand what this means. Because, with or without your consent, that power is in you. And there are people out there—things out there—that will want to use it. Or destroy it."

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. "No. I’m not that. I’m not a monster."

"You’re not a monster," Wanda intervened, her voice firm and laden with emotion. She cupped your face, forcing you to look at her. "You’re mine. And no one is going to hurt you. Not while I’m here."

Strange watched the scene, his expression a mix of understanding and concern. "Wanda," he began, but was cut off.

"Don’t say another word," Wanda snapped, her voice cold. "She’s scared enough already. Do you think explanations and theories will help? They won’t. She’s not an experiment for you, Stephen. She’s a person. And she’s staying with me."

You looked from Wanda to Strange, trying to process everything. His words echoed in your mind: power, danger, clan. But it was Wanda’s voice that seemed to anchor you, like a beacon in the storm.

"I just want to know who I am," you murmured, your voice barely audible.

And in that moment, Wanda realized that despite all her love and protection, perhaps you needed to hear more truths than she was willing to accept.

Hours later, Strange offered a room in the tower. Wanda hesitated; leaving you there, so vulnerable, in a place that wasn’t your home, felt wrong. But you were exhausted, your eyes barely able to stay open, and reluctantly, she agreed.

Now, Wanda stood before a mirror in the room, her face illuminated only by the soft glow of the moonlight. Her thoughts were a whirlwind. Solis. The word seemed to vibrate in the back of her mind, laden with meaning. Guardian of Infinity. Wanda had always known love was complicated, but this... this was a destiny she had never imagined.

If she had enemies before, she now had an army of threats.

The sound of the door opening pulled her from her thoughts. You entered, your hair still damp from the shower, wrapped in a fluffy white robe that seemed too big for your small frame. Seeing Wanda, you smiled shyly and approached. Without a word, you gently kissed her shoulder, a soothing gesture that made her tense shoulders relax slightly.

"Where are the boys?" you asked, your voice soft and concerned but clearly tired.

"With Agatha," Wanda replied, straightforwardly.

You raised your eyebrows, surprised. "Oh. So Professor Harkness… she—"

"Knows everything? Yes." The answer came quickly, but then Wanda’s voice softened, almost thoughtful. "She helped me at the beginning of all this. To understand my magic. She saw things in me that even I didn’t understand."

You were silent for a moment, absorbing the information, but you couldn’t hold back your next question. "And… and what happens now?"

Your voice came out short, almost breaking, as if the answer was something you were afraid to hear. Wanda turned to you, and this time her eyes were steady, full of certainty.

"Now, we’ll find a way. Because this is bigger than the two of us," she said, her voice filled with conviction.

Before you could ask what she meant, Wanda extended her hand and placed it gently on your belly. You froze, holding your breath.

"This is..."

"Seline," she murmured, a small but tender smile forming on her lips. "Yes, my love. She’s here. Our Seline."

Tears filled your eyes before you could stop them. Your whole life, all you had ever wanted was this: a family to love, protect, and call your own. Now, against all odds, it was happening.

Wanda wiped away a tear that rolled down your cheek and held your face in her hands. "I know it feels impossible. I know it’s a lot. But you’re not alone. We’ll do this together."

You smiled through the tears, your hand covering hers. "No matter what happens, Wanda. I’ll protect them. I promise."

Wanda’s eyes softened, but there was a fire in them—a resolute determination. She leaned in and kissed you, gentle but with an intensity that said everything words couldn’t express.

Outside, the world was on the brink of a storm. But there, in that room, under the moonlight, there was a sliver of peace. It wasn’t just chaos—it was creation emerging from it. And both of you knew, with all certainty, that you would do whatever it took to protect this new life—this family you were building.

It was a blessing. It was a miracle. It was only the beginning.

The entirety of your life had felt adrift, rootless, homeless. The world seemed vast, empty, an infinite expanse where you were but a forgotten particle. But now, as you looked at Wanda—your light, your strength, your reason—and felt the warmth of the silent promise between you, something shifted within you.

That emptiness was filled. Not with magic, but with love. A love that pulsed in the walls of that house, in the laughter of the children you called your own, in the knowing glances exchanged in the quiet of the night. A love that turned chaos into purpose and destiny into a shared choice.

You had never understood what it meant to belong until this moment. Until you felt the weight of a mutual promise, of a future you would build together, of a family that was as imperfect as it was unbreakable. The infinite, which had always seemed so cold and distant, was now warm, embracing—and it was yours.

You looked at Wanda, at the soft curve of her smile, the strength she radiated. There lay the answer you had always sought. It wasn’t about being the Guardian of Infinity. It wasn’t about the powers you possessed or the battles you had fought. It was about the love that finally anchored you. With Wanda by your side, with Tommy and Billy in your life, with Seline growing within you, you felt alive for the first time. Not a life that chose you, but one you had chosen for yourself.

You were whole. Not because you had found a destiny, but because you had created a home. And that night, as the moonlight bathed the two of you in a silvery glow, you knew you would shine. Not just as the Guardian. Not just as a survivor. But as someone who had finally learned what it meant to be loved.

It was enough to realize that this thing called infinity had always been inside you. And now, it was brimming with love.

~*~

Tag list <3

I'm crying with a piece of bread in my mouth u.u

So good to see R building a safe home, and that's what I wish to for all of us.

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @trindad2k

@indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher

@idkwhatever580

@reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good

@imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp

@lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

Megathread: All Clues concerning “Elrond = Sauron” in “Adar meeting/Kiss scene” (2x07) - Part I

Fellow fans and I have discussed this theory several times, and in many posts, but I think it’s time to create the ultimate megathread, with all the clues, about it. 

And brace yourselves: this is a long read. The amount of evidence is mindblowing and so extensive I had to make two posts about it: Part II.

I) Visual clues:

1) The Touch ™

Let’s start with the obvious one:

This might parallel Sauron’s proposal to Galadriel in 1x08 (and even Galadriel’s reaction is somewhat similar in both scenes):

In 2x08, there’s also a callback to his previous offer (in Season 1 finale): I would have placed a crown upon your head. I would never have rested until all Middle-earth had been brought to its knees, to worship the light of its Queen.

In 2x07, there is an actual callback to Sauron’s offer in 1x08; when Galadriel reveals to Celebrimbor that she did wanted to accept Sauron’s offer (to be his queen):

2) Elrond's Inexplicable Glow Up

When Elrond arrives at Eregion, leading the Elven army, his face is soiled with dirt and mud. However, in the tent with Adar, he’s all cleaned up, with a fresh face, and pristine clean and polished armour and cloak, and flowing hair.

You have the beauty of your foremother, Melian of the Valar. If even a fragment of her wisdom is in your veins, you must know you cannot defeat me in battle. Adar can't see a pretty boy without gushing over him, 2x07

Why is this mention of Melian odd in this context? Melian was the Maia who fell in love with an Elf, Thingol, and birthed Lúthien, the Half-Maia, Half-Elf lady who married Beren, a human (and these two are Elrond’s ancestors). Maiar falling in love with Elves? Does this ring any bells?

Adar compares Elrond’s looks to one of the Maiar, angelic beauty (that Elrond, in spite of having Half-Half-Half-Maia blood, cannot truly have, no matter how attractive he is). And this isn't the first time in Season 2, that Adar talks about Maiar beauty, either:

And after what seemed endless thirst and hunger... I saw it. His servant's face. Sauron's face. And it was beautiful. Adar talks to Halbrand/Sauron, 2x01

There is also a lot of fire (red) on this scene; especially over Elrond himself: the ones who read my post about Sauron's color code in "Rings of Power" already know that red is the color used to signal Sauron's deceptions.

3) The Mystery of the Two Pins 

Hercule Poirot has entered the chat because the pin Elrond usually wears isn’t (1) the same as the one he has on in the scene with Adar, nor (2) the one he gives Galadriel: these are two different pins.  

Elrond’s pin is square-shaped and fits the circle; and the metal is mate. The one he used on the tent scene with Adar is diamond-shape and shiny (like Galadriel’s), and it’s placed on top of the circle (and not inside). 

3) Passing plot-device objects in an intimate manner is kind of their thing

4) The Two Saurons in Prince Durin’s speech

This is actually my favorite clue, and it’s used in mystery/thriller genre.

When Prince Durin is giving a speech to the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm to get them to fight for Eregion alongside the Elves, he mentions Sauron on two occasions. And what’s the footage on screen?

Sauron with Celebrimbor at Eregion (predictable):

But then, we have this: Elrond leaving the Orc camp after his meeting with Adar. Odd...

After we see him leave Orc camp, Elrond's next scene in 2x07 is him in full battle. Which might indicate that the battle didn't stop for Adar's meeting with Elrond... for some reason. 

4) Bear McCreary (OST)

“Elrond’s theme” is not present in the “Kiss OST”, which is strange, because when two characters kiss, usually their themes are mixed together. Yet, in 2x07, we only hear “Galadriel’s theme”.  

"Battle for Eregion": 4:27 - 5:20 (Kiss OST)

"Last Temptation": 6:27 - 6:55 (Rendition of Kiss OST with Sauron's theme on the background | this bit was edited and cut from 2x08, for some reason)

II) Autopsy of a Scene 

In this scene, we, the audience, see Elrond acting completely out of character. “Rings of Power” has established him as diplomatic character, a politician, and even Adar himself tells us this: "You are a courtier. More suited to wielding a scroll than a sword."

We do see (the real) Elrond growing into his “warrior” role in this episode, however, we still witness a certain vulnerability and unsureness to him during his scenes at the Battle of Eregion, because he’s starting his warrior arc, and we see him suffering with the loss of his kin, and his anguish and heartbreak over Durin not coming to help.  

We don’t see this in this scene, at all. It’s a completely different vibe. Here, his body language and attitude it’s like he owns the room. Even when Adar is a bit uncertain, "Elrond” is commanding and bold. Sure, he knows that Durin will come to help, but Adar’s legions are still massive (and the Dwarves only manage to control the situation in 2x08 because the Orc army is shattered and their leader is having a religious experience at the top of the hill).

Let's dig in:

"Your kin"!?

"Not before you have painted the sands of the Glanduin black with the blood of your kin."

Nevermind the threat, Elrond calls the Orcs Adar’s “kin”. Why is this odd? Perhaps we should recall Galadriel’s chat with Adar back in Season 1, to understand how the Elves truly see the Orcs:  

Adar: My children have no master. Galadriel: They are not children, they are slaves. Adar: But each one has a name. A heart. A heart. Galadriel: A heart created by Morgoth. Adar: We are creations of The One, Master of the Secret Fire, the same as you. As worthy of the breath of life, and just as worthy of a home. Soon... This land will be ours. Then, you will understand. Galadriel: No. Your kind was a mistake. Made in mockery. Adar reveals to Galadriel that he killed Sauron, 1x06

Galadriel calls the Orcs "slaves" and "your kind" because their existence is a mockery to the Elves themselves. Morgoth breed them as a corruption to Eru (Ilúvatar)’s creation (the Elves are called the “Children of Ilúvatar”). Meaning: no Elf alive would ever acknowledge the Orcs as “children” out of nowhere (let alone Elrond who’s meeting Adar for the first time, but apparently can read him so well like he has known him for ages).

The previous scene to Elrond’s arrival at Eregion, there's a lot of weight on Sauron’s blood being black, too: If you do not believe me, cut him open. Look at his hand, look at his blood. Black as pitch" as Celebrimbor describes it. We also see Sauron perform an illusion for his blood to appear red.  

Adar: My children have endured cruelties your bravest couldn't bear to hear spoken aloud. Elrond: "Are you prepared to spend their lives so freely, Adar? Are they?"

Why does Elrond keeps acknowledging the Orcs as "Adar's “children" or “kin”? He’s the enemy, and there is no agreement or diplomacy happening in this scene, because Elrond has been antagonizing Adar even since he set foot on that tent. There is no reason for Elrond to talk like this... unless he’s not Elrond, at all.

Because, in 2x01, we saw another character speaking in such a way: 

There is one. Since Galadriel's defeat, she sought out a new ally. An ancient sorcerer, to instruct the Elves in forging a new weapon. One you first told her about. A power over flesh. Do you remember those words? A power that will allow him to use your children as slaves in his army once more. Sauron/Halbrand "plants the seeds" of the Battle of Eregion in Adar's mind, 2x01

And this is the moment when Adar realizes that Halbrand is, in fact, Sauron, and later has Galadriel confirm his suspicion. It’s the mention of “his children” (Orcs) that triggers the recognition between them. Maybe, because: "Do you want to know what he [Sauron] offered me? [...] Children." He tells Galadriel, in 2x06.

The “idea” of the Orcs came from Morgoth, and Sauron was the one who used Dark magic to see it through. And, perhaps, that "magical imprint" creates a recognition between them, because, like Charlie Vickers said, Adar and Sauron share a deep and mystical connection.

Why is all of this relevant? Because after “Elrond” calls him “Adar” (“Father of the Orcs”), there is a switch on Adar’s whole demeanor, and we can even see him looking deeper into Elrond’s eyes, as if he was suspecting him not to be actually be Elrond. And we can see this in Adar’s body language:

Vorohil: The enemy outnumber us ten to one. So why the confidence? Elrond: Because I know something the Father of the Orcs does not. Vorohil: And what is that? Elrond: Even now Prince Durin is rallying a legion of Dwarves to our aid. And at the first rays of sunlight... you will guide them straight into Adar's flank [...] Ride to them now. Meantime, I will ensure that Eregion's walls hold for one more night.

Elrond continues to call Adar the “father of the Orcs” after he leaves the tent for some reason (force of habit?).

But it has to be noticed that Vorohil himself is puzzled by Elrond’s confidence and boldness. And why is Elrond sending him away, exactly? It’s not like Durin and the Dwarves need an escort to get to Eregion, we know they have been there before, in 2x03. Or is he sending him away for him not to tell anyone about this meeting with Adar? 

It's also worth mentioning that another character is also "ensuring that Eregion's walls hold for one more night":

Sauron: Lord Celebrimbor refuses to permit a counter-attack. He says the river will protect us [...] And that is why we're not going to obey him. Gather your finest troops. I am taking command of our defenses.

And how would Sauron know that the Dwarves are coming to help Eregion? Because King Durin III has one of the Seven rings of power, connected to Sauron himself. Which means that Sauron has a direct streaming service into Khazad-dûm, and is aware of everything that happens there. More; King Durin (by the power of his ring) doesn’t allow the Dwarves to help Eregion. Which means, the Elven army will be defeated (just like Sauron wants).

Planting the seeds of discord 

The diplomacy isn’t in the room with us, because we, the audience, don’t see Elrond trying to reason or deal with Adar in any way, shape of form. Instead, Elrond taunts him with doing Sauron’s biding and sacrificing the Orcs’ lives, while going full warmongering on Adar. 

Adar: Sauron is my enemy as much as yours. Give me what I need to defeat him and let us all be rid of him. Elrond: Is it not you that has done his bidding by laying siege to Eregion? Adar: Eregion has fallen into shadow. It belongs to the Deceiver now, as does every Elf within its walls.

What an odd thing for Elrond to say... How does he knows that Adar is doing “Sauron’s biding”? Has he earned his “gift of foresight” already? Without his ring of power? 

Elrond: Are you prepared to spend their [Orcs] lives so freely, Adar? Are they? Adar: The Ring for Galadriel's life. What is it to be? Elrond: Ask me on the field, when the neck with a blade against it is yours.

In this scene, "Elrond” is taking advantage of the Orcs’ dissatisfaction with Adar to create even more conflict between the “father” and his “children”. And the camera lingers on Glûg after “Elrond” says this: who was the first to betray Adar for Sauron, and stroke the first blow to kill him, in 2x08?  

Why is Elrond using tactics from Sauron’s playbook of manipulation and deception in this scene, exactly? Because, here, he’s “planting the seeds” of everything Sauron wants: the Battle of Eregion proceeding (as planned), the Orcs betraying Adar, and giving Galadriel a means to escape (which appears to be the only reason why Elrond is there, in the first place).

Houdini Elrond 

Elrond removes the pin in front of the Orcs and not one sees or says a thing about it. Glûg might have seen it (as I���ve read some fans saying), but Galadriel breaking free wasn’t going to stop the battle, so there was no point in him allowing it; and Galadriel killed several Orcs during her escape, so it kinds of contradicts the theory that Glûg  “let it slide” because he was upset with Adar. 

However, the Orcs being blind it’s one thing, but Elrond boldly faces Adar without his pin. Are you telling me that this corrupted Elf, with thousands of years old (older than Galadriel herself), doesn’t notice that Elrond’s pin is missing and that he took it off? 

What kind of sorcery is this!? Is almost like... magic.

"Forgive me"??

Why is Elrond asking for Galadriel’s forgiveness in this scene, exactly? It can’t be because he’s allowing her to stay as Adar’s prisoner, because he’s giving her a means to escape. And he looks very emotional for it to just be a trick to fool Adar. 

Also, Elrond being there in the first place is a contradiction to the promise he made Galadriel, in 2x04: 

Galadriel: Promise me, Elrond, you will put opposing Sauron above all other considerations. Even my life.   Elrond: I will make no promise whose asking is borne of that Ring. But I swear to you... defeating Sauron will come first. Even before you.

Is he apologizing because he broke his promise? Or because he’s about to kiss her (as I’ve read some saying)? All of these justifications seem kind of weak.

There’s another character who has a lot to apologize for, and who already had a similar to parallel this one, back in 1x05:

[luna-azzurra]

Introduce characters

Here are some ways to introduce characters in a story

The Action Introduction, Jump right in by showing your character in the middle of something intense or important. It gives off instant vibes about who they are and what they’re about. It’s like giving the reader a sneak peek into their personality through what they’re doing. For example: "Maya’s sword cut through the air, slicing through enemies with a focused determination, her eyes sharp and unshaken." Right away, you get that Maya’s someone who’s got strength and doesn’t mess around.

The Dialogue Introduction, This is where your character’s words do the heavy lifting. Whether it’s through a deep conversation or an inner monologue, their personality and what drives them starts to shine through. Dialogue intros are super effective if you want to reveal how they think or what they care about. For example: "Leaning against a rain-soaked lamppost, James muttered under his breath, ‘Life’s just a bunch of missed chances, isn’t it?’" That one line tells you a lot, James might be cynical or disappointed, but he’s definitely reflecting on life in a big way.

The Physical Description Introduction, Sometimes, a look can say it all. Describing a character’s appearance in a way that stands out can give readers a strong first impression. But don’t go for the basic stuff, focus on something unique that makes them memorable. For example: "Her emerald-green eyes glittered with wisdom beyond her years, and her silver-streaked hair flowed like a river down her back." You’re already picturing this person in your head, and she’s not just any random character, she’s someone who stands out.

The Entrance Introduction, A grand entrance can make your character unforgettable from the moment they step onto the page. It’s dramatic, grabs attention, and makes people want to know more. Imagine something like: "The heavy doors swung open, and in strode a tall figure, cloaked in darkness, their presence sending a shiver through the room." Boom! That person just stole the spotlight.

The Symbolic Introduction, This is where you use an object, symbol, or even the setting to hint at who your character is without directly saying it. It’s subtle but can be powerful. For example: "As the sun dipped below the mountains, a lone figure stepped out of the shadows, leaving a trail of rose petals behind them." The rose petals could hint at something deeper about this character’s personality or past, giving the reader something to think about.

The Flashback Introduction, Flashbacks can be an intriguing way to bring a character into the story because they show a piece of their past that shapes who they are now. This intro style creates mystery and a sense of anticipation. For example: "Sarah closed her eyes and drifted back to that day in her childhood, the one that turned her into the tough, unbreakable woman she’d become." You’re left wanting to know what happened to Sarah and how it changed her.

The Contrast Introduction, This is a fun one because it plays with expectations. You set up a character to seem one way on the outside, but then reveal something totally different going on inside. It creates curiosity and keeps readers guessing. For example: "With his muscular build and tattoo-covered arms, Jake looked every bit the tough guy, but the way he cradled the baby bird in his hands showed a heart full of kindness." That twist in perception hooks readers and makes them want to know more about Jake’s story.

[cherryheairt]

Hi :)

I’ve had this headcanon for a while where thranduil, upon falling in love again, makes it quite obvious he feels strongly about reader but won’t push physical limits of affection quite yet. Due to him having been married before he wants to be sure the Gods approve of him falling in love/marrying again as to not cause ill intend to fall upon reader because of him not being in control of his carnal desires. Reader is oblivious to this and pushes/teases him relentlessly.

Might end in smut upon him knowing reader is safe and he may pursue them fully or just him saying fuck it I see no god but me down here lol

Or just might end in him teasing back big time n leaving reader high and dry (but maybe with an explanation lol we love some open communication ✨)

Thank you! And feel free to mix it up and or change ending I’d just love to see a take on this 🙂‍↕️

hello! I'm so sorry that its been forever since you submitted this. thranduil is a character that we only ever got to see in super serious king mode, and had little screentime at that so I wanted to think through his personality a lot. might be ooc

I personally don't know how to write smut, so I didn't include it. I hope that's okay.

The character will be named Myria (meer-rhea), but have no skin color, body shape, hair color, etc description. She is eleven though, if that matters.

👑

The Gods had long since forsaken Thranduil. After he lost his wife, Legolas' mother, the world seemed to darken along with his own attitude. He changed, and everyone in Middle Earth knew it. Legolas never grew up to know the kind and magnanimous person his father was before his late wife's death.

To him, and the world, Thranduil was a stoic and unforgiving King.

To all, perhaps, except Myria. Myria had been born not too long after Thranduil—in Rivendell. Though the two never met until well into adulthood, Myria liked to say that they hit it off well. Thranduil would never admit the same out loud.

Myria moved from Rivendell to Mirkwood for her studies, thanks to her friend Elrond's advisory, and had since lived there for thousands of years. Youthful as ever, Myria made it her unofficial duty to occupy the King of Murkwood's free time.

She had even befriended his only son, Legolas, despite their age gap. The young elf was approaching 3000 years old soon, and he swore that he was more mature than the she-elf that graced their halls.

Myria didn't mind the head shakes or comments from royal advisors, telling her to mind herself around their King. Thranduil had long grown used to it, anyway.

Myria made her way to his royal chambers, uncaring about her unpropriety with visiting without being called upon. This was their daily routine. Thranduil had his meetings before breakfast, then went back to his chambers to dine alone. Or, he would, if Myria wasn't always waiting right there at his table for him.

"What is for breakfast today, My King?" Myria asked jovially, perched upon one of his carved wooden chairs. Originally, there had only been one for himself, but he ordered a matching one to me made after the woman's incessant visits. Before there was a seat, she simply stood at the table. The thought bothered him, a tinging in the back of his mind telling him that she must be on the same level as him, at all times.

Thranduil's long flowing sleeves and cloaks followed behind him as he entered the room. "You ask this every day, Myr. And what is my answer every day?" He asks, though there is no bite to his words.

"That you 'do not know'. Quite amusing, the all-knowing King not knowing something so simple." She mused, scrunching her nose up at his tall frame.

He fought an amused eye roll, sitting in front of her. He poured himself a chalice of sweet red wine, sipping on it as he replied. "Simple, or trivial? I do not concern myself with such affairs, the food is brought to me and I eat it."

"Careful, Thranduil. That may one day get you poisoned." She mirrored his movements, having waited for him to start drinking.

"By whom? Yourself?" He chuckled darkly, amused at the prospect of such a thing. Mirkwood elves' loyalties ran deep, the chances of him dying suddenly from a cold where higher than dying of poison. "You are the only outsider residing here."

Myria 'hmphed' vehemently, lifting her nose at the accusation. "I hardly can be called an outsider these days. How long have I lived here? Four...five thousand years?"

"Five thousand, two hundred and thirty." He answered for her.

Shocked, she stared at him, mouth agape. "You know the exact year?"

"How could I not? That is the year when my life started to get ten times harder."

She snorted, shaking her head. "I disagree. I think it only got better."

Two servants entered the chambers, one plate in hand each. Platters were lifted to reveal the neatly presented food, a light breakfast of fruit and toasted bread.

Myria and Thranduil dug into it, a pleasent chatter filling the room. "What are your plans for today?" She asked him.

"Same as usual, final preparations for the Feast of Starlight. Though, there is a task I wanted to assign you–" Thranduil was interrupted by a guard rushing into the room. He lifted an unimpressed brow, staring the guard down for his brash action.

"Your majesty, a party of rogue Dwarves have been apprehended in the Mirkwood forest!" To this, Thranduil immediately stood and strided past the guard out of the chambers. Myria, struck by the news, eagerly followed in suite.

"You are not supposed to sit in on prisoners being interrogated, Myria." Thranduil told her sternly, knowing the sound of her light steps trailed behind his own heavy ones.

"When has that stopped me before?" She laughed. It had been a nearly a hundred years since she'd seen a dwarf, and much longer than that since one had been in the depths of the Elvenking's Halls. She was excited to see what brave adventurers had come, and survived the dark forest's curse.

Thranduil seated himself at the head of his lifted throne, elegant giant antlers rooting themselves out from behind the throne like a crown. The one perched on his head mirrored that, thick branches striking in contrast to his pure white hair. Myria took a moment to admire him from her spot at the base of the stairs. The guard next to her didn't even blink at her intrusion, knowing the relationship between the ward and the King was a complex one that even the elders didn't bother to deduce.

Myria stayed silent during the precedings, not moving an inch except to lean her head forward and inspect the Dwarves. The party was quite large, a whole gaggle of Dwarves were bravely setting off to reclaim Erebor's keep and defeat the dragon nested under it. The leader, Thorin, was quite handsome for a Dwarf, not that Myria would say so aloud. For all her teasings, that would surely be the tip of the iceburg for Thranduil's patience.

As the majority of the Dwarves were escorted to the dungeons, only Thorin was left in Thranduil's audience. She listened as Thranduil made his offer, then got rejected harshly by the Dwarven King. Screamed at, being told off by a life form deemed lesser than an Elf, Thranduil had enough. He sent the man away with a flick of his wrist.

As he slowly desended the steps after the dwarf 'king' was escorted away, Thranduil placed a hand on Myrias shoulder.

The cold rings on his hand raised goosebumps on the back of her neck and arms, shivering at the feeling. She cursed herself for wearing an off-shoulder dress, dressing herself for the nice weather that morning. If he noticed, Thranduil didn't say anything. But the tiny lift to the corners of his mouth said plenty. "Do not fraternize with the filth that dirties our halls."

Our halls. The brief words pleasently rung in the back of Myria's mind. She nodded. He knew her well, guessing that she would try to sneak into the dungeons during the feast to try to speak with the curious Dwarves.

He moved his hand down, resting it gently on the small of her back. "Let us go, the feast will not oversee itself."

👑

Myria and Thranduil lounged in his chambers, simply biding time until the Feast of Starlight had begun. Admist muted chuckles and jests, mostly from Myria, Tauriel entered the room. "You called for me, My King?" She bowed shortly. "I have come to report to you." Tauriel glanced briefly towards Myria, nodding when she lifted a goblet towards her silvan friend.

"I thought I ordered that nest to be destroyed." Thranduil said, voice taut with frustration. The spiders had been plaguing their forest for years now, unrelenting.

"We cleared the forest as ordered, my Lord." The woman insisted. "But more spiders keep coming from nests in the South. If we could kill them at their source–"

"That fortress lies beyond our borders. Your orders are to keep our lands clear of those foul creatures. That is your task."

"And when we drive them off, what then? Will they not spread to other lands?" Ever the bleeding heart, Tauriel worried for other people.

"Other lands are not my concern." Thranduil said coldly. "The fortunes of this land will rise and fall. But here in this kingdom, we will endure." As had been the way for thousands of years. Thranduil insisted that Mirkwood keep to themselves, not needing or offering help from any others.

Tauriel nodded stiffly, excusing herself from the King's presence. Before she left, however, he spoke again. "Legolas said you fought well today. He has grown...fond of you."

She paused, thinking his words over carefully. "I assure you my Lord, Legolas thinks of me as no more than captain of the guard.

"Perhaps he did once. Now, I'm not so sure." Thranduil pushed.

"I did not think that you would allow your son to pledge himself toward a lowly silvan elf." She responded, voice slightly hopeful.

Myria leaned forward, too, curious of his answer. Would he allow his heir to love an elf with no royale blood?

"You are right, I would not." Thranduil chuckled humorlessly at the thought of it. Myria bit her tongue, hurt by the comment indirectly. She was no common-born Elf, sure, but had no royal blood to speak of either. She deflated in her seat, drinking down the rest of her wine. "Do not give him hope where there is none."

Is that what Thranduil had been doing for Myria, merely giving her hope? Slivers of special attention, with no intentions of truly loving her. She stood from her seat, leaving the chambers without a word.

Tauriel, too, left quickly after that.

Thranduil stood alone in his chambers, looking at the spot where Myria had once been.

👑

The feast came and passed quickly, Myria in no mood to sing or dance like she usual did at such events. She attended for the sake of politeness, leaving when she had greeted enough people for the night.

She spend the rest of it wallowing in her chambers.

Word got out that the entire party of Dwarves escaped, and Myria silently applauded them for their boldness. She hoped, for their sake, that they were successful in freeing their home.

Days passed, and news of Smaug's death had spread to every corner of Middle Earth. Thranduil was quick to organize his army to march toward Erebor, wasting no time to retrieve his precious gems. Myria had come along on her own white elk mount, following behind Thranduil silently, if only to satiate her curiosity. Last time they had come, Thranduil had rejected the Dwarves' desperate plea for help. This time, he came to declare war if they refused to return his gems.

The damned gems. Always on his mind. True, they were a physical reminder of his late wife and Queen. But it seemed as though he dwelled on them more than he cherished her memory. He did not speak of her, ever. Even to his own son, his wife was but a ghost haunting the halls.

Myria couldn't begin to understand the loss of a spouse, but she did understand that he was too caught up in himself.

Even though she had little intention of fighting the Dwarves, Myria still brought a dagger and bow on the march. Could never be too careful, Thranduil always reminded her. She guided her elk to stand behind his, watching him greet the human leader stiffly. It was almost laughable how mad his manners were, his kingly presence deemed to good for polite small talk.

Myria had been given a temporary quarter near Thranduil's, their tents close as they usually were. He had been too busy to notice her absence lately, both to her joy and displeasure. She missed his daily warmth around her, but knew it was best to distance himself from him. Just this last journey, then she sould go back to Rivendell to live out the rest of her long and lonesome life.

Thranduil plotted with the human leader, Bard, and a wizard by the name of Gandalf. Myria wandered the decrepit town while they did, having no place in war council, nor did she wish to.

By the time she had returned, night had fallen and all the humans of the town were asleep. Myria ducked into her tent, desperate for some solid rest before a potential battle on the morrow. She was surprised to see Thranduil sitting awkwardyl on her cot.

"Thranduil? What are you doing here, you should be resting." Myria insisted, brow furrowed.He stood at her entrance, possibly being left waiting for quite a while.

"I wished to see you before we go to Erebor's gates in the morning. I suspect that the Dwarf will have something up his tiny sleeve. I know you are a capable fighter, but I want you to stay in town tomorrow just in case."

She protested sharply, "I am just as much a fighter as any elf in your army. I will not sit around and wait for you to return–"

"Please, Myria." He rested both of his hands on her shoulders, looking down at her with his deep blue eyes "I could not focus if I knew you were behind me somewhere. If I know you are safe, I can retrieve the jewels easier." Always about the jewels. He should have married them, she thought bitterly.

"Is that an order?"

"It is a request. From a friend." Thranduil said softly.

Myria bit her cheek, crossing her arms. "Fine. I will stay here on the morrow. But, if any fighting breaks out, I will join."

He seemed content with her answer, knowing its as far as he'll get with her stubbornness. "Very well, I'll see you when this is over." He planted a tender kiss to the top of her head before he left to his own tent.

👑

Myria could only watch from afar as negotiations with the Dwarves had clearly gone to shit. More dwarves had shown up, an entire army to match the Elves' golden one. Myria rushed back to grab her bow, bursting out of her tent to the sound of screams in the town. Surely the Dwarves wouldn't target the women and children who had stayed behind?

She was right. It was orcs who had invaded the town, cutting off exits as they slashed through defenseless crowds of people. Myria rushed to help whoever she could, shooting down orcs' fat heads whenever they got too close to a fleeing human. With her dagger, she slashed through whoever she could reach to retrieve each of her arrows.

This arduous process repeated for some time, Myria panting with effort as she continued. The sounds of screams toned done as golden-armored soldiers flooded into the cobble streets and started to push back at the beastly creatins. Myria breathed a sigh of relief, engaging another orc. It was larger than most, with armor protecting its head and chest. She slashed at his with a sword she had taken from dead enemy, yelping when he stabbed into her abdomen with his own weapon. She gasped, trying to keep her composure as he approached above her menacingly. As he lifted his sword above his head again, ready to strike down the Elf, his head was detached from his body in a spray of hot blood.

Myria flinched at the feeling on her skin, feeling disgusted more than she already was with the sweat and dirt covering her. Thranduil came from behind the orc, who was now dead on the floor. He crouched down in front of her, a frantic look in his eye that betrayed his regal appearance. "Myria, look at me!" He shouted, her blurry vision shakily focusing on him. He held her face in his hands, watching her try to keep them open. "It's okay, I'll get you help." Thranduil promised her, gingerly lifting her up princess style. He flinched when she protested in pain, clutching at her stomach to stop the blood from gushing out.

"It's okay, you'll be alright, sweet." He told her, repeating himself multiple times as if to convince himself, too.

He brought her outside of the town, where Elven medics had set up a discreet few tents disguised to the orc's vision by Elven magic. The King layed her gently on a stiff cot, petting her hair comfortingly as she screamed in pain at the medic disinfecting and stitching her wound up. He glared at the Elf assigned to help her, making the poor young fellow sweat in fear of messing uo in front of his King.

Eventually, the sounds outside died out. Thranduil regretted taking his forces to this pit of death. He had lost more Elves today than had ever been lost at one time since the Great War. Elves did not die easily. This was a massacre of great damage to their ranks, to their people. Thranduil mourned the deaths of his kin dearly.

Myria had calmed, pain dulling when given some numbing herbs. She focused her attention on Thranduil, "you came for me." She said, voice barely a whisper.

"Of course, I did. Why wouldn't I?" He asked, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

"Your gems...they're still locked away in the keep, aren't they?" She asked.

"The gems are not my priority. They are merely objects, remembrances. You are alive, I need you."

Myria felt tears blurr her vision, clamping her throat shut. "But–I am not from any important bloodline. I am not a Princess, nor—"

"I do not care. You are Myria. The woman who has been by my side for five thousand years. The only lady worthy of being Queen by my side is you."

Thranduil took her into his arms as she cried. He shushed her gently, hands locked into her hair as she clung to him.

"I love you, Thranduil. I have for a long, long time."

"And I, you, my dearest Myr."

[razorblade180]

Union

In the midst of going over blueprints for their future home, Jaune’s concentration gets interrupted by flowing petals. He cracks a smile before turning around to see Ruby completely obscured by her cloak.

Jaune:Have you come for my soul?

Ruby:Might as well. Already have your heart.

Jaune:Heh, then I kindly ask for you wait. Your payment will be paid in full down the aisle.

Ruby:How stingy. I’ve already given you both of mine; and a little extra~

Jaune:*red* How was work, you gremlin?

Ruby:Patrol duty was fine. Starting to think crooks know my schedule.

Jaune:Or you threw most in jail.

Ruby:Organized crime calls for chaotic heroism. Anywho, house plans going well?

Jaune:More or less. If all goes well then we’ll be living outside Vacou before our anniversary.

Ruby:Always thinking ahead. Meanwhile I’m struggling with awesome vows.

Jaune:You brought a world together. I’m sure you’ll think of something.

Ruby:Feelings are a little harder than a battle cry or call to arms. Speaking of feelings, I have a little something for you.

Jaune:*looks at cloak* Is that so~

Ruby:*blushes* It’s not what you think! Not this time. This gift is way better!

Jaune:I don’t know Rubes. Last gift that started like this was pretty amazing. *smiles*

Ruby:Just close your eyes and hold your hands out!

The knight chuckles as he does what he’s told. Immediately something weighted and cool to the touch lands in hands. Jaune opens his eyes and stars at a white scabbard. Somehow, this took him by surprise. It had his symbol in the middle and was surrounded by red thorns.

The grip of the hilt was this dark blue with a spiral of fierce red that went up and outlined the golden hand guard that was modeled in the shape of his symbol. He pulled out the gift from the scabbard to reveal cold, shining white steel that had its double edge and tip run red like hilt. If Jaune was being honest, he’s never seen a sword look more like a work of fantasy. Ruby stood right in front of him and put her left hand in the hilt, showing that his symbol had subtle thorn and rose engravings that matched her gold and red on her engagement ring.

The accomplished and proud Huntress then took a step back and started twiddling her thumbs while swaying, finding it hard to meet Jaune’s gaze; so she pulled her hood over her head. At this point it probably matched her face.

Ruby Rose:So uh yeah, that’s a Ruby Rose Original.

Jaune:You made this!?

Ruby:*nods* I’ll be honest. I spent so long shopping for wedding bands with Weiss helping. I’m still definitely getting one! But none of them really… felt like they were saying how I feel. There’s not a moment I want you feel like you’re fighting alone; even when we’re far apart. With this, I’m always by your side ready to help. The scabbard is a shield too but if I’m being honest I’m still a rookie when it comes to that kind of smithing. Consider this my own form of engagement to you.

Jaune:Ruby this is…I don’t even know what to say.

Ruby:*trembly* I uh..it’s fine if you treat this as a ceremonial blade too. After all…there’s history in Crocea Mors and I don’t want to step on that or make you feel like you have to stop wielding it because of m-

Two hands gentle hands pull back her hood and reveal teary, anxious eyes. Honestly, Ruby felt so ridiculous right now. All this effort into a heart felt token of affection and yet anxiety gripped her mind on how he’d take the jester. His thumbs run across her cheeks to catch a few stray tears.

Jaune:Hey, talk to me. What’s with the tears? This is an amazing.

Ruby:I just…Crocea Mors is its own vow. It has been for years and I know I shouldn’t be feeling guilty or nervous but I do. Gods, it’s so dumb hehe. Pyrrha would totally give me an earful for being so-

Jaune:Thoughtful? *smiles*

Ruby:..Heh, yeah. Yeah she would.

Jaune:Well, I don’t know if your beautiful brain and smithing skills have noticed, but you’ve really gotten good at knowing my style.

He briefly lets go of her and grabs his sword along with the new gift. Jaune pulls out both and puts them against one another. Yeah the hilt is different but it’s wide enough to work. Without hesitation, Jaune took the scabbard of Crocea Mors and slid it on the new sword easily; right down to the satisfying click in place that took Ruby by surprise.

Jaune:If you really feel guilty, then I can do this! Not gonna lie, I’d feel like shit getting that scabbard dirty in the future. It’s my first Ruby Rose original! Also gives you time to hyper fixate on shield crafting. As for the blade, I know this bad boy will keep me safe and sou-

Once again, petals flowed. Each one danced around him while the rose itself pressed her lips against his with gratitude and overflowing joy that dispelled fears like magic.

Ruby:Jaune Arc, you truly are my fairytale ending. My happily ever after.

Jaune:Hehe, And you said your vows would be hard? C’mere.

He pulled his loving fiancée into a deeper kiss before matching her smile. She was right. This present was the best.

Jaune:Does this engagement sword have a name?

Ruby:The deepest part of my soul wants to call it Bloody Moon but that doesn’t inspire luck as wedding gift.

Jaune:I kinda like what you said a few moments ago.

Ruby:Oh, so Ever After?

Jaune: Tale’s End

Ruby:That’s so- damn I’m marrying the right person. That’s such I good name! When our house is done I think my first order of business is mounting the scabbard with Crocea Mors somewhere nice and proud. Gonna need your height though.

Jaune:Naturally. And who knows. Maybe it’ll protect the both of us in a new way someday?

xxxxxxx

Several years later

Jaune:Alright squirt, ready for your first real sword sparring!?

A foolish question for a young girl waiting to dives out the front door and slide across a sand dune into a wide battle stance, her grin in full bloom with Crocea Mor ready to aid her first step towards greatness.

Carmine:Born ready!

Ruby:Do your best! Show him who’s boss!

Carmine:Ha! With this by my side, I might as well be invincible.

[luonnon-varainen]

I had it in mind for a while already so I here are my thoughts and headcanon about Collie or rather the „bodily functions” of the eldritch god, here the "species" is archivist

There are some extra notes on doodles but oh boi the amount of typos there is unbearable x"d

Starting from the beginning and basic - the core:

The core is a semi-conscious substance of unknown molecular structure, if with any molecular structure, functioning as magic carrier/vector(similar to the ATP). It's a mystery whether it is really an elemental structure, a condensed energy or a form of electromagnetic waves beyond our current knowledge. In general it is said that core is pure celestial magic. It has many physical qualities of a fluid. The closest liquid to the core would be a Non-Newtonian fluid. It is a blackish, very sticky, dense liquid similar to pitch, which is highly sensitive and "reactive" to a electromagnetic field like ferrofluid. The core, most likely due to its structure and origin, is very unstable. Visible light exposure is enough to cause a spontaneous rapid reaction which ends with an explosion. Making existence on its own very unlikely. In case when the core happens to be sealed inside the archive - the semi-conscious body made of mostly gold, iridium, wolfram and glass, which contains all collected life forms - it creates what is known as an god, in this case an Archivist. This amalgamation allows to not only creat a stable form of both elements, but also develop an fully conscious eldritch, who is able to exist actively. Archivists possess almost full control over their core: shaping it, moving around, grabbing different objects with it, shielding themselves

The core is a more "human" side of an archivist. The element capable of adapting, blending, learning mortal structures both anatomical and social and rebuilding it to their own standards, experiencing emotions and many more. It plays the main role in defining what kind of person the archivist will be. Yet, the core is not equal to Archivists. It possess it's own "personality" and "opinions", similarly to the archive. Sometimes the core and the archivist are quite different and are working not very well with eachother. Situations like these are called "speaking" - a small part of core presents, usually visually, it opposing opinions against whole god's will. It's not harmful, just annoying and uncomfortable

The core is like a liquid - almost incompressible. It's quite an issue when you are a planet size entity who needs to shrink whole your body to be able to fill the archive and keep on existing, but also need to protect "guts" from exploding during day. The long, baggy robes come to aid in this case. Dresses, veils, hats, too puffed trousers and sleeves allows to hide quite a lot of the liquid from external conditions, by creating the precious shade, controlling the temperature amplitude and keeping it away from other liquids. Extra protection are given by their characteristic cloaks, which inner lining is a portal to the Grand Archive. The Grand Archive is a pocket dimensions away from intense light, where the core can be a bit safer and longer outside the capillary archive than usually. Also in order to work in an unwelcoming environment such as a planet, archivists developed a pulsating movement of the core. As the whole core cannot be at the same time in the archive, to prevent the destabilisation and consequently explosion, it is constantly flows through the body and around their closest surrounding. It's quite similar to the cytoplasmic movement around vacuoles in a plant cell or blood flow in Mollusca' s vascular system. The free flow of the core is the key reason why archivists avoid intense light and making them rather a "nocturnal" creatures

The core is inside the archive, where it's well secured and stabilised. However, there are many passages for the core to leave its shelter. These channels have no protection besides a thin membrane. They have a crucial role in an archivist's life as they are the doors to the inside of a god. All collected mortals eventually will end up inside the archive, but that requires a special spell that will reduce the mortal to smallest functional elements. Even smaller than the scrolls provide. That is possible thanks to these exact entrances. The mortal, whether in a scroll or not, will be pushed through one of those channels, encapsidated by the core, " dissolved" and placed inside one of bazillion capsules of the archive. It's unknown if the final archivisation is an painless process, but the truth is that it doesn't matter at this point - whoever was placed inside will stay there forever. The main passage are eye sockets-

The eldritch gods and deep sea creatures are extremely similar in terms of their adaptation to the environment, conserving energy idea and their life motto "eat or be eaten". So no wonder that archivists put a lot of effort to become the most efficient and effective as they could. The core shaped the archive to resemble intelligent life forms displaying a beautiful example of aggressive mimicry. As mortals are the most troublesome in terms of catching them without excessive energy loss. Looking like a young and lost in the forest nymph can really boosts chances of putting hand on curious mortals. After all who wouldn't try to figure out who the hell is this and why it's in my forest at 11 pm(at least I would, but I'm the natural selection's target for a while so I'm not the best example xd). Why go and chase when you can make them come to you. There are way more of the adaptations but it's more the archive than the core topic and I'm not writing it down today

A skilled archivist can use the surrounding matter, even quite reactive one like water, to temporarily shield the core or divide it and archive in order to create the "puppet - puppetmaster" form. A terrible thing to encounter on a long voyage or while wandering on the desert, especially if your specie decides to resist god's will-

[valkyrieromanoff]

🕸️MOONLIT RIDE: ANAKIN X YOU (day 3 of 31)

synopsis: you and Anakin go on a speeder ride at night.

warning: fluffy, car accident but no hurt, idiots in love

words: 1.3k

 a/n: Hello there, Anakin is my favorite character, so expect a lot about himI hope you like it💖

ꜱᴜɴ'ꜱ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜱᴏᴏɴ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴅᴀʏʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴀᴠɪɴɢꜱ 

ᴍɪxᴇᴅ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴɢʀᴇɢᴀᴛɪɴɢ 

ᴘɪᴄᴛᴜʀɪɴɢ ᴜꜱ ɪɴ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇꜱ 

ᴀʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ'ꜱ ᴀɴ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀᴛᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ

“I don’t know if I believe Master Kenobi let you roam the streets of lower Coruscant unsupervised,” you teased, your voice low as you followed Anakin through the poorly lit alleys. The dim glow of flickering lanterns and neon signs cast long shadows across the narrow streets, where dark shapes darted in and out of view. The eerie Halloween decorations strung across the bars and stalls added an almost festive edge to the otherwise foreboding atmosphere.

You clung to the hem of Anakin’s Jedi cloak, the rush of people making it hard to keep pace. The bustling crowd was overwhelming, a constant flow of locals weaving through the streets, each moving with purpose, as if they were eager to disappear into the shadows. Hooded figures brushed past you, their cloaks billowing as they vanished into the maze of Coruscant's lower levels. It felt as though everyone here had something to hide, and perhaps they did. After all, the lower levels of the capital were infamous for harboring the galaxy’s most dangerous criminals—bounty hunters, assassins, and rogue separatists.

“Well, it is Halloween,” you whispered, a mischievous smile playing on your lips. “Maybe your wish to escape the Jedi Temple was granted.”

Anakin glanced back at you with an amused smirk, his eyes twinkling in the dim light. “I don’t need a wish. I’m a Jedi Knight now,” he replied confidently, though there was a hint of defensiveness in his tone, as if your comment about needing Obi-Wan’s approval still lingered.

As you rounded a corner, Anakin’s hand shot out to gently pull you in front of him, shielding you from a group of drunken Rodians stumbling out of a bar, their laughter echoing off the walls. You could hear the low hum of music spilling out of nearby clubs, mixed with the occasional cheer from patrons gathered around tables for late-night gambling.

“Walk like you’ve been here before,” Anakin whispered, his voice close to your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “You’ll stand out otherwise.”

You shot him a sidelong glance but nodded, doing your best to mimic the hurried steps of the locals. Still, you couldn’t help but marvel at the lively chaos around you—the streets were alive with a strange mix of festive energy and danger. Jack-o'-lanterns carved with grotesque, glowing faces adorned the doorways of various establishments, and garlands of fake cobwebs hung from rooftops. Every now and then, a ghostly wisp of fog drifted across the streets, adding a haunting touch to the scene.

“How many times have you been here?” you asked curiously as you watched him toss some credits to a Zabrak at a speeder rental shop. “You seem… comfortable.”

Anakin shrugged, his fingers brushing through his unruly hair as he took his time choosing a speeder. “I’ve chased a criminal or two down here before,” he replied casually, his voice nonchalant, but there was a gleam in his eye. Finally, he settled on a sleek red speeder and gestured for you to climb in beside him.

“Sure,” you scoffed, raising an eyebrow as you settled into the seat. “Like you’re *only* down here for Jedi business.”

Before you could say more, Anakin gunned the engine, and the speeder shot forward with a burst of speed that left your stomach in knots. The night wind whipped through your hair, and the ground blurred beneath you as he weaved effortlessly through the crowded air lanes. Your fingers instinctively tightened around the edge of the seat as he made sharp turns, narrowly avoiding collisions with other speeders.

“You’re going to get us killed driving like this!” you shouted, your voice barely carrying over the roar of the engine. Anakin spun the speeder, flipping it upside down for a brief, stomach-dropping moment before righting it again. You let out a gasp, your heart racing as you clung to the door for dear life.

“Trust me, love,” Anakin teased, glancing at you with that infuriating smirk that made your pulse quicken for reasons that had nothing to do with fear. He barely avoided another speeder and shouted something in Huttese at the other driver, his hands expertly maneuvering the controls.

The smirk was wiped off his face when, in his haste, he lost control of the speeder, sending it careening into the side of a building. The crash was loud, the front of the speeder crumpling as it slammed into the wall with a sickening thud. Smoke billowed from the engine, and the once-sleek body of the vehicle was now a twisted wreck of metal.

“Kriffing, Anakin!” you gasped, your heart pounding in your chest as the smoke began to clear. You turned to find him grinning, completely unfazed by the crash. His amusement was contagious, and despite yourself, you found your fear melting into laughter.

“Look, on the bright side,” Anakin said, chuckling softly as he reached out to squeeze your shoulder. “I didn’t kill us.”

“You’re an idiot,” you murmured, shaking your head but unable to stop the smile from tugging at your lips.

“But you love me,” he retorted with a cheeky grin, his blue eyes sparkling as you playfully pushed his face away. He caught your hand mid-motion, bringing it to his lips. He pressed a soft kiss to your palm, then another to your wrist. The tender gesture sent warmth spreading across your cheeks, and your breath hitched as he held your hand just a moment longer.

“What do we do now?” you asked, stepping out of the speeder to assess the damage. More than half of the bodywork was crushed, and the engine continued to sputter and smoke.

Anakin didn’t hesitate. “We run,” he said, grabbing your hand as the distant wail of Republic droid guards grew louder. The sirens were closing in, and you didn’t have time to wait. With his fingers laced through yours, the two of you took off, darting through the crowded streets. You moved in sync, your Jedi training kicking in as you expertly wove through the mass of people, disappearing into the shadows whenever necessary.

When you finally reached the Jedi Temple, both of you were breathless, your backs pressed against the cool stone walls as you tried to catch your breath. The night was quiet now, the bustling streets of lower Coruscant far behind you, though the faint glow of the Halloween decorations still lingered in your mind.

Without realizing it, you had inched closer to each other. Anakin’s arm slid over your shoulder, pinning you gently against the wall, his gaze intense as his deep blue eyes locked with yours. You could feel the heat between you, your chest rising and falling in time with his. His eyes dropped to your lips, and your tongue darted out to wet them, the anticipation palpable.

“I’d really like to kiss you,” Anakin murmured, his voice low and rough as his eyes flicked between your mouth and your eyes.

You smiled softly, your heart swelling at the raw honesty in his words. “Would it be like a Halloween wish?”

Anakin chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “Maybe. We could start our own tradition.”

The idea of a Halloween tradition made just for the two of you felt intimate, secretive in a way that only deepened the connection you already shared. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your skin as he leaned in.

“Only ours,” he whispered, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You nodded, your breath hitching as his lips brushed yours softly at first, testing. But the kiss quickly deepened, his hand tangling in your hair as he pulled you closer, his mouth moving against yours with growing passion. His kiss was a perfect mix of fire and tenderness, making the world around you fade until there was nothing but him—his warmth, his touch, and the way your heart raced in sync with his.

[mythorhuman]

Scream For Me

In the small town of Mystic Falls, shadows danced ominously beneath the pale moonlight, weaving a tapestry of ghostly shapes across the streets. Bonnie Bennett stood at the center of her turmoil. A powerful witch from a long lineage of magical practitioners, she felt the heavy burden of her heritage pressing upon her shoulders. Though she had always taken great care to conceal her gifts, she still always found herself in the middle of some danger to protect a loved one. She knew her ancestors wouldn't approve of her use of magic to help the vampire species, and they wouldn't approve of the man she loved.

Klaus Mikaelson, her boyfriend, was far from ordinary; he was the Original Hybrid, caught in a tumultuous battle between his inner darkness and the light that Bonnie embodied. Their love was strong like an inferno, igniting the air around them. However, lurking in the shadows was Kai Parker, a bitter and envious siphon witch whose resentment toward Bonnie simmered just beneath the surface. Cloaked in jealousy, he had woven himself into the darkness, adopting the sinister guise of Ghostface, his heart set on siphoning the very magic that made Bonnie extraordinary.

One fateful night, as the Halloween festivities began, Kai struck. Dressed in a chilling mask and flowing cloak, he approached Bonnie's backyard, where the flicker of candlelight illuminated her focused expression as she practiced an intricate spell. “Hello, Bonster,” he taunted, his voice dripping with venom and dark amusement. “Let’s see just how powerful you really are.”

Startled, Bonnie turned to face him, recognizing the familiar aura of magic swirling around him. “Kai, you don’t have to do this! We can help you!”

But he only laughed, the sound echoing ominously in the darkness. With a wave of his hand, tendrils of energy lashed out, binding Bonnie’s hands. She fought back, summoning her own magic, but Kai’s jealousy fueled his power, and she felt her strength begin to wane.

Just then, Klaus emerged from the shadows, his instincts kicking in at the sight of Bonnie in danger. “Malachai! Let her go!” he shouted, his voice a deep growl.

Kai’s laughter turned to fury. “You think you can save her? You’re just as much a monster as I am!”

With a burst of supernatural speed, Klaus lunged at Kai, the two combatants clashing in a flurry of power. Energy crackled between them as Klaus, with his vampire strength, pushed Kai back. But Kai was relentless, using dark spells to attack Klaus from all sides.

Bonnie struggled against her bonds, watching the fight unfold with growing dread. She could feel her magic being drained, her essence slipping away. “Klaus!” she cried out, her voice breaking.

Fueled by her desperation, Klaus found a new surge of strength. He knocked Kai to the ground, pinning him with a fierce glare. “You’re going to regret this,” he hissed. In a swift motion, Klaus sank his fangs into Kai’s neck, draining him of his lifeblood. The look of shock on Kai’s face was one of betrayal, but Klaus was unyielding, fueled by the need to protect Bonnie at all costs.

As Kai’s body went limp, Klaus turned to Bonnie, the victory bittersweet. She rushed to him, her hands trembling. “Are you okay?”

But as she looked at him, horror dawned on her. “You… you were in on it. You and Kai—”

“No!” Klaus interrupted panic in his eyes. “I didn’t want this! I was trying to protect you!”

Bonnie’s heart raced, torn between love and the truth. She had seen the chaos and destruction that followed in the wake of Klaus and Kai’s actions, the lives lost to their dark games. “How many people have died because of you?”

“None of it was meant to hurt you,” he pleaded, stepping closer. “I love you, Bonnie. That’s all that matters. We can keep this between us. I’ll do anything to make it right.”

Bonnie felt the warmth of his words and the weight of her own power swirling within her. “You killed him,” she whispered, fear and love colliding in her chest. But deep down, she recognized the depth of their bond. “If I promise to keep your secret, you have to promise to never let anyone hurt me again. No more dark games, Klaus.”

He nodded, desperation shining in his eyes. “I swear it.”

Bonnie gazed deeply into Klaus’ eyes, searching for the essence of the man she had once fallen head over heels for. As she searched, she noticed the flicker of vulnerability that danced behind his usually steely gaze, a hint of desperation that tugged at her heartstrings. Despite the horror that had unfolded between them, she couldn’t suppress the undeniable connection that still sparked between them like electricity in the air.

“Nik,” she whispered, her voice trembling with unspoken fears, barely above a breath. “I don’t want to lose you.” The raw honesty in her words hung heavily in the space between them, laden with the weight of unexpressed feelings.

In a moment of unexpected tenderness, she reached up, her fingers brushing gently against his cheek as she tucked a curly strand of hair away from his face. The softness of her touch ignited an immediate spark. Klaus leaned closer, his breath mingling with hers.

“You won’t lose me,” he vowed, his voice low and earnest, each word steeped in an intensity that made her heart race. 

Then, as if time itself had paused to witness the moment, Klaus closed the distance that had felt like an insurmountable chasm. Their lips met softly at first, a gentle collision that held both tenderness and an underlying urgency. The kiss spoke of the flickering hope that still refused to be extinguished by darkness.

Bonnie melted into him, the outside world fading away, her worries and fears momentarily forgotten. In that intense embrace, she surrendered herself completely, losing track of everything but the warmth of Klaus’ body against hers and the promise of what their connection could still hold. The kiss deepened, becoming a delicate yet fervent exchange, as they sealed their fates together for eternity.

[verbenaa]

venus in furs

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: He’s always imagined you like this in his dreams, he thinks. Naked, dressed in rubies as red as the wine in your silver chalice, blood like pomegranate juice dripping from your lips, staining your mouth to match the red of your blood that colors his own.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: Astarion/Reader

𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: smut, 18+ only

𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 6.1k

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: Ascended Astarion, dom Astarion, dom/sub, vaginal fingering, finger sucking, blowjobs, slight exhibitionism, slight degradation, guided masturbation, vaginal sex

𝑎/𝑛: back with another one, friends. I didn't ever think I would really write ascended Astarion, but what can I say?? I hope you all like this one, I definitely enjoyed writing it and getting out of my comfort zone a little bit! Let me know what you think! Thank you so much for reading!

MDNI, 18+ CONTENT

ao3 here

masterlist

The air of the palace is cold against your exposed skin as you walk through the halls you now own, wearing nothing but an ermine cloak and glittering jewels, your stride confident amidst the darkened hallways.

These halls were once filled with the smell of decay and the leftover dust of ages past, a distasteful reminder of the horrors that had occurred here over centuries. You had made sure upon Astarion’s ascension to rip out as much of the place as you could, making decisions with that of an aesthete’s touch, ideals of what a grand palace should look like for your lover.

Dull red carpets were hastily replaced with elegant emerald green, every oppressive drapery torn away from their rods and transformed instead into flowing brocaded silks, old and rotted furniture sent to be thrown into the river or to burn, it mattered not which end it met. Such matters of what happened to the furniture were beneath you. 

You had much loftier concerns to deal with, now.

After all, what use was being His Dark Consort, if not to wile away your now infinite hours doing whatever you so wished, consequences be damned?

You stride towards the ballroom where two thrones of gleaming gold sit side by side on a newly raised dais, not caring whether the servants you passed noticed your state of dishabille. You knew they would turn their eyes from you, they would never dare to look upon you in such a way without his express permission.

At last, you make your way to your destination; chandeliers dimly lit with tapers of dripping wax hang from the ceiling, illuminating the richly woven tapestries decorating the walls. It was a shame you still couldn’t manage to get all of the blood stains out of the floorboards from the battle with those dreadful wolves, but you supposed there were worse trophies than those of your victories. You were content to let them serve as a reminder to all those who entered this place of who it was that had eventually won the battle.

A quick step up onto the dais has you exactly where you want to be, your eyes flitting between the twin thrones, resplendent with whorls of gold crafted into scenes of animals at hunt, the seats plush with dark velvet. With naught but a minute glance towards your own throne, you instead bring your gaze upon that of Astarion’s. 

You settle into your lover’s throne and arrange your cloak around you, the blood red of the velvet sliding against your curves as you move to recline, the contrast stark against the milky fur of the oversized collar, dark dots smattered across the expanse of alabaster like drops of ink against a page. 

The jewels around your neck and in your ears shift with every movement of your body, the pear-shaped ruby of your necklace—practically the size of your palm—encrusted with crystal clear diamonds heavy as it rests upon your collarbone. 

You wait for Astarion to find you, just like this, your body on display for him in the way you know he so likes. Soft curls of anticipation settle deep within your stomach, embers of pleasure eager to transform into a wildfire. 

Astarion, thankfully, does not keep you waiting long, his muted footfalls upon the covered floors catch upon your ears soon after taking your desired place. The knowledge he is finally here and so close has you sitting up slightly straighter. 

You know he will be able smell the scent of you, the heady aroma of your slow growing excitement will lead him right to where you lay in wait for him. You arrange yourself for one moment more on the throne, a siren’s smile on your face as you await the presence of your lover.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

The last thing Astarion expects to see when he walks into the ballroom is you, lounging indolently on his throne of all places, wearing nothing but the dark red of an ermine cloak and dripping in jewels.

He has to give you credit, he supposes; when he walked in from the city after a series of decidedly droll meetings with decidedly useless patriars, finding you waiting for him like a little treat dying to be tasted did not make his list. 

How very lucky you are, it seems, that when he scented your arousal on the stairs he decided instead to investigate rather than moving on to whatever work awaits him in his office.

You had always liked playing these kinds of games, your subtle machinations something he was always happy to bear witness to with a smile on his face.

His perfect, pretty Dark Consort and her quaint little schemes. 

“And what do we have here?” Astarion arches a brow as he takes in the sight of you. 

His eyes trace your frame, from the white and black of the fur trim that rests against your naked flesh, hiding your peaked nipples from sight as your crossed legs obscure the telltale wetness he knows is forming between your thighs.

You flutter your lashes prettily at his perusal of your body, a coquettish tilt of your head at his interest.

With predatory intent, Astarion makes a slow circle around his throne with inhuman grace, his eyes never leaving you. You feel the intensity of his gaze against your skin, your hair, your lips—every part of you on display for him and him only. 

He’s always imagined you like this in his dreams, he thinks. Naked, dressed in rubies as red as the wine in your silver chalice, blood like pomegranate juice dripping from your lips, staining your mouth to match the red of your blood that colors his own.

He completes his circle and his eyes meet your own, his glowing claret gaze darkening and you know with certainty that he is pleased at your offering for him.

“Won’t you bend the knee for me, my Lord?” You feign innocence in your question, eyes roving greedily over his clothed body, taking in the fine tailoring of his intricately embroidered velvet doublet, the skin-tight fit of the finest leather pants highlighting the beginnings of his erection.

“Is that what you would like, dearest?” His eyes bore into your own, a mocking smile alighting his plush lips at such a request. 

“It’s the least you can do, don’t you think? To be greeted with such a gift like myself?” Your thighs open for him as you recline further into the velvet, your wetness glistening in the dim candlelight.

“How presumptuous of you, my sweet Consort.” despite his words, a spike of heat works its way through your body at the sight of his knees moving smoothly to the floor in front of the throne you have now made your own. 

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips absentmindedly as he comes to settle his chest between your open thighs, a wicked smile forming on his lips.

Astarion doesn’t miss the sight of your tongue brushing against your lips, and he can’t help but think of other things that your mouth is capable of. He runs his hands up and down the outside of your thighs with surprising delicacy as his eyes move to your dewy center, now exposed to him. 

“I do hope you haven’t been waiting long, pet.” His hands make their way to your waist, thumbs brushing teasing patterns against your skin as he leans in to press a kiss to the softness of your lower belly, breath catching in your throat at the closeness of his lips.

You have but a moment to relish the feeling, the hands at your waist moving to yank you out of the throne upon which you sit. You quickly find yourself chest to chest with your lover, your exposed center pressing against the growing hardness still hidden behind tied leather for mere seconds before your world is turned once more; Astarion moving you onto your knees as you now face the seat of the throne you had just occupied, a spot of your own wetness darkening the velvet cushion as your ribcage presses hard against the golden frame of the throne.

A hand makes its way from your waist to clasp against your throat, the feeling of his fingers pressing in on your windpipe exquisite. 

“Because you’ll have to wait a little longer, I’m afraid.” His words fall hot against your ear as he speaks, lips brushing against the tender skin as your face falls at the thought of being denied what you had been so sure he would give you, a small noise of discontent falling from your rouged lips.

You feel the hand still resting on your waist move up to unclasp the fur cloak from your throat, the heavy fabric falling to the floor behind you with a muted thud before Astarion moves to grab and throw it aside. He quickly presses close, eager to replace the lost warmth as his hand makes it way back south, the embroidery of his doublet pressing against your exposed back, every caress of the threads like fire against your skin. 

The hand around you neck tightens infinitesimally, the additional pressure drawing a gasp from your lips as his other hand continues making it way lower, sweeping through the curls at the apex of your thighs before coming to cup at your dripping wetness. 

“I don’t take orders from you, lover, and it would do for you to remember that.” His fingers slide through your folds, drawing a noise from both of your lips at the feeling. 

“Gods, look at you. So desperate already, and I’ve barely touched you.” His words are a whisper against your neck, reverent despite his prior condemnation. Fingers trace at your entrance, their touch light and teasing as he continues his scolding. 

“What a little tyrant you’ve become. Daring to sit in my throne and to make such demands of me.” His tone is mocking now as he presses those two fingers at your entrance, pushing in to the knuckle, leaving you no time to acclimate to the fullness. A whine falls from your lips as his fingers move deep, eyes falling shut and head lolling forwards the hand still squeezing lightly at your throat.

Astarion allows the gesture, his hand softening its hold to instead stroke at the graceful column of you neck as your head falls back to rest upon his velvet draped shoulder. 

The fingers inside you find that spot deep inside, curling to press into it with relentless intent. Moans fall from your lips as his fingers fuck into your pussy, your wetness aiding their slide in and out of your wanting body. 

“Look at how easily you cry for me, my sweet.” His words spur you on, your hips riding his hand as his fingers find their rhythm deep inside you for but a moment before he mercilessly pulls them from of your body.

Astarion’s fingers leave you empty, a whimper filling the air as he drags the hand that had been pleasuring you up your body, leaving a trail of slick across the heated skin of your stomach to the place in between your breasts. 

His wet fingers leave your body to hover in front of you, your head coming up off his shoulder. 

Astarion’s pulls his fingers apart, shining strings of your arousal clinging between the digits. The sight of it has the both of you entranced as Astarion slowly brings those fingers together again and presses them against your lips.

“Open.” The command is clear in his voice, and you open your mouth without a second thought.

He settles the fingers on your tongue and you obediently close your mouth around them and suck at your own wetness coating the digits. 

“Such a good girl, barely having to be told what to do,” His praise is like velvet running across your skin as you hollow your cheeks around the digits in your mouth, your essence heavy on your tongue. 

“You taste divine, don’t you think?” You are powerless but to nod in agreement, empty core clenching at the honey dripping from his words.

The taste of yourself in your own mouth like this is downright lewd and you know without a doubt that if the heart that sits in your chest could beat once more that your face would be flushed as red as the roses you now choose to decorate with.

You can feel Astarion’s hardness through his pants, pressing into you from his place behind you, cock twitching with every movement of your tongue. His fingers make their way out of your mouth before reaching down to tweak at a hardened nipple, your saliva coating his digits as they rub circles around the nub. 

“Do me a favor, darling, and stay on those knees of yours.” Astarion’s lips brush against the delicate skin of your ear once more, his words a seductive whisper as he rises behind you. 

You look over your shoulder as he stands at his full height, your face at eye level with the hard bulge still hidden behind leather. A corner of your mouth tilts upwards as you turn on your knees to face him fully, hands coming up to rest on his upper thighs as you look up into his eyes.

Your fingers rub the leather covering his strong legs, head moving forward to rest lightly against his covered erection.

The sight of you down on your knees is that of sin incarnate, Astarion’s breath hitching slightly before that same wicked smile creeps back onto his features.

“May I, my Lord?” Your fingertips inch upwards with your words, playing with the waistband of his pants.

“It’s the least you can do, don’t you think?” He uses your earlier words against you tauntingly, his haughty smirk deepening at the devilish raise of your brows.

You see fit not to answer him with words, instead letting your hands do the talking as they make their way to the laces covering his erection. With several quick motions of your fingers the laces fall open and you free his aching length, placing a kiss to the tip.

Astarion groans at that first brush of your lips against him, hips jumping at the touch as his cock bobs in response.

You mouth at the crown, reverent brushes of your tongue moving on the soft skin of his shaft have his head falling back with a sigh. Astarion brings his eyes back to your form on the floor beneath him, knees resting on the ground as your nipples pebble in the chilled air, lips and tongue working him with the motions you know he loves. 

You lick a stripe up a vein on his cock before taking his heat inside your mouth, cheeks hollowing against him as you suck. The action has him moaning, your lips and tongue moving to work him as you slowly begin to bob your head.

You continue your ministrations, sucking him into your mouth as your hand comes to help you touch what you can’t easily reach with your mouth, pumping him at the base as your tongue caresses the crown of his cock. 

The noises Astarion makes is like music to your ears, the sound of his carnal moans only serving to drive you to move your mouth faster and deeper.

“You can take me harder, can’t you?” His words are uncharacteristically breathless as his fingers card through your hair, gathering strands into a makeshift ponytail in his fist as his other hand brushes against the high point of your cheek.

You nod your head as much as you can with your lips wrapped around his cock, humming in confirmation as your eyes look up to meet his own gaze, glassy with lust. 

Astarion pumps his hips at your blessing, moving his cock in and out of your mouth with slow motions as your tongue brushes against him. Your lips open wider to accommodate him, hand on his thigh squeezing in encouragement.

Pleasure rushes to your core as Astarion’s hand fists harder in your hair, his hips moving faster now as he sets his pace, your moans around his cock spurring him on as he moves closer to your throat, eyes watering involuntarily with each thrust as he nears the back of your mouth. 

He hisses at the pleasure, at the sight of you letting him fuck your mouth however he pleases as your eyes flash upwards to meet his own, the beginnings of tears dusting your lashes as he pushes deeper into your warm mouth. 

Few things compare to the knowledge that Astarion is under your control like this, and you know he won’t last long as you breathe in through your nose, relaxing your throat for him to press as deep as he wants with a flutter of your lashes, stray teardrops falling onto your cheeks as you can only imagine the thoughts floating through his pleasure-addled mind. 

As Astarion looks down upon your form below him, taking him so very well, he can’t help but think that the deepest and darkest parts of him covet you like this always. Lips wrapped tight around his cock, unable to think of nothing but him as he fucks your mouth, your lips sealed around his cock. 

The beautiful blush of your lips, the crystal of your tears, the claret of your blood. 

All for him and him only.

He comes on your tongue with the thought, his spend going down your throat in hot, salty spurts. You swallow him greedily, intent on not wasting a drop as the hands in your hair tighten as Astarion’s hips buck into your mouth with abandon as you drink down his seed.

With a sigh the hand in your hair loosens as Astarion comes down from his high, your mouth still moving over his softening cock. You slowly pull off him, tongue licking at him as you go, collecting the remnants of his come off him before you let his length fall from your lips.

With one last swallow, you look up at him from your place on your knees, licking at a stray drop of his come that escapes your mouth. Astarion brushes his thumb against your closed lips, his eyes still hot with lust as your tongue darts out to lick at the fingertip.

With a nod of his head, Astarion gestures to your cloak where it lays long forgotten against the cold floors. With a coy smirk up at him, you bring your hands to the floor and crawl over towards the soft velvet. 

Astarion follows your every sway of your body as you move, and when you finally lay yourself down onto the cloak, back resting against the lush material, he follows. He wastes no time to lower himself above you, hovering, as he takes in the vision of you resting beneath him.

His Dark Consort. His blasphemous Queen.

He would do anything for you.

His eyes rove your naked form, burning the memory of the way the deep crimson of the cape highlights the color of your skin, the open yearning in your expression and complete submission to him into his mind to last the entirety of his eternal life.

Astarion finally touches your body, no longer satisfied with a simple gaze, a hand brushing back your hair from your face before making its way down your body. You let your legs fall open for him to continue his exploration, eagerly exposing your wanting center to him as he bends his head down, giving an experimental lick up your slit, collecting your wetness on his tongue.

“Do you want to come, my love?” You nod your head, a whine escaping at the promise in his voice. 

“Then I want you to make yourself come while I watch.” He releases your legs, moving to stand before making his way to his throne.

He sits down with the grace of a king, his gaze expectant on your naked body as you part your legs for him once more.

His words are unexpected but you waste no time, not willing to wait lest he decide to abandon your pleasure all together. A hand skates its way down your body, bypassing your aching breasts to go straight to your clit. You rub at your pearl with delicate fingers, your motions second nature as you let yourself fall headfirst into the feeling of pleasure as Astarion watches you from his place on his throne, his cock already hard again.

Your eyes fall shut as you continue your ministrations, head falling to the side as your pleasure drives higher and higher with every motion of your fingers. 

“Eyes on me, darling.” His words are hard, the command clear in his voice has your eyes opening fast and landing back on his form.

You watch Astarion where he sits, taking in the sight of him as your fingers continue drawing circles around your clit. He reclines back in his throne, a hand drawing lazy touches up and down his cock as his own eyes are fixated on your fingers at your most intimate area. 

With a breath your hand leaves your clit, moving further down to touch at your weeping entrance. 

If he wants a show, you will gladly give him one.

Without waiting, you plunge your fingers into yourself, pushing them as deep as you can. Your own are nothing compared to the length and elegance of his own, but they will have to do for now. You fuck yourself on your fingers, quickly adding a third in an attempt to recreate the feeling of Astarion’s own. 

Your fingers shine with your wetness, Astarion groaning at the sight of you fucking yourself like this, knowing you won’t last much longer at the rate you are going.

“Slow down, darling,” A smirk plays at his lips as he notes the shaking of your thighs. 

“You can’t come until I say so, and I’m not ready for this little performance to be over quite yet.” You whine at his command, but slow your fingers obediently, moving them inside you at a slower pace now.

Your fingers work diligently as your eyes don’t leave Astarion’s from where he sits some feet away. His attention on you only serve to drive you higher, those crimson eyes never leaving you.

Your legs widen so Astarion can better see your motions as your other hand comes up to palm at your breasts, fingers still moving in an easy rhythm that drives your higher and higher with every pass.

You know that he loves to see and watch you like this, and there is nothing you love more than leaning into that yearning, eager to let his dominance wash over you.

“A-Astarion, I can’t hold off much longer.” It takes effort to keep your eyes on him, trying to push off your orgasm as long as possible, thighs shaking once more with impending release.

“Let go, my love.” His permission feels like a balm, hand at your chest coming down to rub at your clit as the fingers inside you speed up their thrusts, intent to bring yourself to orgasm as fast as you can get there.

You had waited so long to finally be allowed to come, to get the pleasure you desired and deserved, and while you wish that it was Astarion’s hands instead of your own, you supposed beggars could not be choosers.

Your orgasm hits, limbs seizing and hips bucking against your fingers, head thrown back as a moan leaves your painted lips, back bowing with pleasure.

“Beautiful.” Astarion murmurs the words low, barely audible over your own moans as you come on your fingers, orgasm washing over you as you writhe on the floor in front of him.

Your body relaxes in the wake of your release, limbs loose against the cloak on the floor. You ease your fingers out of yourself with a slight wince, the digits soaked with your own come. You lay there for a moment, your senses coming back to you as your eyes finally open and glance back at your lover. 

“Come to me.” His words are expectant, and you force yourself to rise despite the pleasant exhaustion weighing down your limbs, walking to the throne and standing in between his knees as he spreads them to make room for you.

Astarion’s hand reaches out to grab your wrist, bringing the fingers that had filled your core to his own mouth before he wraps his mouth around them.

He licks at your come, tongue sliding against your fingers in a bid to collect all of your spend, intent on letting none go to waste. The feeling of his tongue on your fingers drives a wedge of heat right back to the spot between your legs, Astarion’s eyes never leaving your face as his tongue glides up and down your fingertips.

With one last motion, he sucks hard on your fingers before pulling his mouth away from your hand.

“Sit.” The command is simple as his hands grab at your waist, pulling you to him. 

Your knees land on either side of his hips, his cock brushing up against your empty core as Astarion’s lips finds your own.

His kiss is demanding, passion and control combined into a fiery thing that you answer with the same emotion, mouth opening to his tongue as it sweeps inside to taste.

You’re breathless when Astarion breaks this kiss, his lips moving to press kisses against your jaw.

“Turn around and face the doors, darling.” His smile is absolutely deviant as you obey his words without a second thought, excitement building at whatever he has in store for you.

Your body twists over his own, settling onto his lap as your bare back rests against his velvet doublet. His length presses against your slit like this, your come slicking the shaft. Astarion’s hands caress the curve of your waist as you lean back into him, your head turning to brush your lips over the skin of his neck in a light kiss.

The hands on your waist move further down your sides and over your legs, stopping at your knees to grip underneath each, lifting them up and over the armrests of the throne. Your breath catches in your throat at the slight burn in your thighs as your legs stretch open, every inch of your aching cunt on full display.

He bares you entirely like this, anyone who dares to walk by the open doors and look inside would see every bit of you. It’s a small blessing, you think, that any servants have long made themselves scarce once they realized the debauchery taking place.

“Such a good girl you are, darling, keeping yourself open for me like this.” The hands holding your legs move up to stroke at your thighs, before one wanders higher towards your center. Astarion drags his fingers through your wetness, fingers spreading your folds and collecting the wetness on his fingertips as he circles your clit.

His lips find the tender skin behind your ear at the moment two fingers push inside you, sliding in knuckle deep before pulling back out again.

“You put on such a good show for me, darling. I think you deserve a reward.” He kisses your neck, those fingers pushing in once more to massage at your inner walls.

Astarion is intent on building you back up to a frenzy, his years of knowledge of your body to press and rub against everywhere he knows will only bring you higher. 

He will always worship you, you who helped him rise to this new height, assisting so selflessly in handing him such power. It was the least he could do, to keep and covet you so tightly you could never want or dream of anything less than an eternity by his side.

The old Astarion could never care for you the way he does now, could never gift you such unimaginable riches—gowns of the finest silks and tulles, an endless supply of silvers and golds, jewels of unbelievable value. 

No, he couldn’t offer you even a fraction of what he can now. His poor excuse for companionship was all that he had to offer you back then.

You deserved better, and better was what he would give you.

“You’re a vision like this, darling, held open for me while I make you come.” He mouths at the skin of your neck, never slowing in his movements.

His fingers hook inside of you, pressing against your g-spot with relentless efficiency, your cries spurring on his motions. You can hear the sounds of your wetness with his every motion, can feel yourself dripping onto the soft leather of his covered thighs beneath you.

Your orgasm hits you without warning, that familiar warmth coursing through your veins Astarion’s fingers still press on the softness of your walls as your cunt constricts around them. You writhe in his lap, hips riding his hand as he presses kisses to your neck as his fingers continue their work. You whine at the sensations, body moving closer towards overstimulation after reaching your peak twice in such a short time.

Astarion grants you a moment to recover as his fingers slide out of you, hands instead moving to bring your legs down from their place over the chair as you pant listlessly against his chest, body still shaking from the pleasure he had given you.

“Please, fuck me.” Your words carry a certain softness in their desperation that has Astarion’s cock bobbing against your entrance once more as you move onto your knees above him, looking back over your shoulder to see him grabbing his cock as he positions it at your entrance.

You lower down eagerly to take him inside you in a smooth glide, ignoring the slight twinge of overstimulation as you press all the way down until your hips meet, a hiss leaving his mouth at the feeling of your warmth finally wrapped around him.

You moans fill the air together, Astarion’s hands finding your waist as you glide yourself up and down his cock, taking him deep with every motion downwards, hips grinding into his own when he bottoms out. His lips caress the skin of your spine and neck, one hand on your hip helping you move up and down him, the other buried in your hair, keeping it out of the way of his roaming lips. 

Astarion lets you move above him at your own pace, moaning into your skin as you work yourself on him, your hips undulating above him in a seductive dance as you take him deep on every slide down before gliding back up, barely keeping the head of him inside before you begin again.

Astarion’s grip on your hip tightens as he begins to guide you in harder motions that have you picking up speed, his fingers digging into your skin as the lips on your neck switch from kisses to light nips of his fangs. 

“Harder, Astarion.” Your words come out on uneven breaths as he thrusts deep, cries of pleasure falling from you open lips as he takes control. 

“Off, darling.” He pants, other hand moving to join the one at your hip as he moves you off his cock, your wetness coating it. 

On unsteady legs you move to stand by the throne as Astarion gets up behind you, his hands never leaving your body as he quickly directs you back. Your knees touch soft velvet as you move to kneel on the seat, hands grasping for purchase on the golden whorls as Astarion sheathes himself back inside you, hips sliding home on the first thrust. 

The carved gold bites into your palms as you hold on, legs widening for him to fuck you harder as his hands find their way to hold onto your hips, pulling your body back against his own as he fucks you with little delicacy.

Gone is the easy, sensuous pace of earlier, replaced by your mutual desperation for something harder. His cock is impossibly deep like this, hitting what feels like every nerve ending inside you with the pump of his hips.

A hand grips your hair and pulls your head back roughly as his teeth nip at your earlobe. 

“Is this what you wished for, my dear?” He whispers the words, hips snapping into yours. “To be fucked like a whore? On my throne, like this?”

You moan at his words, pussy clenching hard on his cock as his skin slaps into your own, the sound echoing against the elegantly carved wood ceiling.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” He chuckles into your ear as you gasp at a particularly sharp thrust, his mouth licking a stripe up your neck.

You deign not to answer him, knowing your body tells him everything he needs to know about that particular line of questioning.

His cock hits a particularly deep spot inside you, and you cry out at the sensation, pain and pleasure mixing headily in your veins. Your hands clutch harder onto the throne under you in an attempt to center yourself, efforts in vain as Astarion continues to fuck into that same spot near your cervix.

Your eyes roll back at the feeling of him so deep, wanton moans falling from your lips with abandon as pleasure streaks through body, burning brighter than the sun. 

“Will you bleed for me, sweet thing?” The words aren’t quite a question, more hypothetical in nature. You know he will take, and you are always willing to give to him, even after all these years. You nod your head regardless, as best you can with Astarion’s fingers still gripping in your hair, never mind his hard thrusts in and out of your body.

His lips fall against your neck, nose nudging against the skin there as his breath is hot where his lips caress the skin behind your ear. The hand in your hair loosens, allowing you to move your head further to side, baring more skin to his searching mouth in invitation.

He bites down, the fragile skin of your neck breaking like it has a thousand times over, your blood dripping down in rivulets as Astarion drinks you in. Your blood stains the diamonds and rubies around your neck, facets dancing with every push of Astarion’s hips against your own in the dim light.

Every suck of Astarion’s mouth against your neck brings you closer, cries falling as you both soar higher and higher towards your peak. His hips continue to move, never slowing in their rhythm as he drinks, blood continuing to drip down over the peak of your breasts before falling onto the gilded throne beneath you.

All it takes is a few more thrusts from Astarion before you come apart, body bucking against his own as he continues to suck at the flesh of your neck, every pull from his mouth bringing the pleasure higher as you crest wave after wave of our climax, white hot heat rushing over your senses. He works you through your orgasm, never slowing his pace as he fucks you through the height of it, allowing you to luxuriate in the euphoria.

Astarion follows shortly after you, the feeling of your cunt clenching hard against his own heat divine as he loses the final threads of his control. His hips press tight against your own as he empties himself inside of you with unrestrained moans as he extricates his fangs from your neck to press his brow against your shoulder, tongue licking at the spilled blood that runs down your body.

Astarion stays inside you, his cock softening as his come leaks from your joined bodies down onto the skin of your thighs, pressing kisses to your shoulder as your breathing slowly evens out. 

Finally he pulls himself from your center, helping you off the throne as he bends down to grab your discarded cape from the floor nearby. He settles it back around your shoulders as you lean against him, looking up into his eyes.

“What ever are we to do with you, darling?” He sighs the words in mock distress, a finger coming to lift your chin up towards him as he smirks.

“I suppose maybe I need to be better disciplined?” Your smile answers his own, voice coy as you toy with a button on his doublet.

“Then lead the way, pet, there’s still much I can teach you.” Your answering smirk is all the permission required as Astarion leads you to the bedroom, intent to make good on his promise before the night is done.