#Wanted to do a bit of filigree

[knightswaypoint]

Merlinktober Day 11 (on Day 15): To Bear Golden Fruit for a Golden Age

[mocha-gladiator]

holding up my 14,000 word document when I know I haven't tried to write a book since 2017 (when I was, at the time, writing about squirrels)

I maed dis

[moodymisty]

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's note: Inspired by this post here. I only did one quick revise, so forgive any mistakes

Relationships: One sided Horus/Fem!Reader, Implied Lorgar/Fem!Reader

Warnings: NSFW, Slightly yandere, Pregnancy kink, Tokophobia, Is this... is this kidnapping? Horus took you to punish Lorgar on Kor Phaeron's (and probably emps lol) advice, Male masturbation, Horus jacking it to you being his lover instead of Lorgar's because he is ~normal~, Very thinly veiled breeding kink, A very vague comment about reader being 'well fed'

So I beg of you, Warmaster Horus, help me right Lorgar before he goes further down this path. I truly believe you are one of the only men who can help him before he is truly lost. - Captain Kor Phaeron of the Word Bearers

A Luna Wolf captain stands having given Horus this letter- hand written. A odd act considering the ease of vox or other forms of Imperium communication, but perhaps the context of the letter gave the choice more sense.

“May I ask what the letter entails, Warmaster? The Word Bearer was quite insistent it be delivered with the upmost haste.”

Horus understands why. This is indeed something that needs fixing. Lorgar has gone down a path that is in opposition of their crusade. Things are corrupting his mind, and they need to be cut out like a malignancy before they take over him completely.

“...It is about Primarch Lorgar.”

The Luna wolf nods. He accepts that is all Horus will tell him, though if the Astartes says anything else, it is lost on Horus. He leaves moments after, hearing the sound of the door open and close. He doesn't look up to see, as his eyes focus on the material Kor Phaeron send with this handwritten letter.

The picts are small between his fingers, but the image is as clear as can be.

You are beautiful.

You are very pregnant.

As Lorgar’s beloved your dress is ornate and intricate, and does nothing to hide the swell of your massive belly. If anything it almost seems to compliment it- gold filigree dances around the edges of the fabric sewn to give way to your ever growing belly.

To see that they- the Primarchs - can have children is… It struck something in him that he can’t explain.

To have a child, an actual child; his own creation and not a spliced together genetic abomination related to him by science only. He can see why Lorgar has lost his way, and this needs to be corrected.

He’ll do this deed for Kor Phaeron; For The Emperor who is already concerned about Lorgar's lack of progress. But he's not doing it for them, not for the Word Bearers. It's because Horus wants to be selfish. He wants you.

On Terra it rains, droplets streaking down every bit of glass and metal. It pitter patters like music, covering the droll humming of machinery and shaking of pipes. You remain completely dry however, protected by the golden walls and ceilings of the Terran palace.

You've only just arrived, escorted to him from a Luna Wolf dropship. The trip was long are arduous, and he's thankful you survived it unharmed.

You look even more striking that you had in the picts Kor Phaeron and sent to him. The first sight he has of you, face to face, is enough to make him feel something in his chest.

Your skin is healthy and glowing, eyes bright. Lorgar has clearly been feeding you quite well, your hips are full and round.

Horus comes closer intent to greet you and watches the way you don't make eye contact with him, shaking and holding your hands together tightly. His guards he had requested to escort you have since left on his orders, leaving you both to have a moment of privacy.

“Do you need anything?” He says with a smile and a gentle tilt to his voice, warm and inviting.

And yet the look you give him when you glance up is absolutely fear stricken. He softly smiles, trying to blunt his edges.

"Perhaps I should've started with a proper introduction, instead of putting you on a pedestal so quickly. I am Horus Lupercal. Warmaster." His head tilts downward slightly, smile gentle. The pelt wrapped around his shoulders shifts.

"I believe you already know my brother, and quite well."

He takes a knee to stand at level with you, and he can see a marginal amount of fear leave you as he enters an area closer to your own headspace. He supposes it's understandable. You've only known Lorgar- he has made very sure the other primarchs were unaware of you - and in your current state, he can see why this would all be so overwhelming. Primarchs are not just anyone, they can overwhelm even the most stalwart of humans.

You aren't just a normal human however, as you've so easily demonstrated already.

“I apologize for, all of this. But Lorgar needs to calm down and be spoken to without distractions. I’m afraid your condition has blinded him to his own duties.” Horus smiles at you.

“You are a smart woman, I know you are. You know that Lorgar has things he needs to do for the sake of this Imperium you live in.”

You look away from him for a moment, left hand wrapping over your right wrist as they rest on your belly.

"I didn't know he was shirking his duties to you, if I did I would've..." You hesitate, conflicted.

Horus sighs.

Lorgar put so much on such a young, beautiful human, and now you has to deal with the consequences of his own mistakes. Even if you aren't the one who is being punished, reprimanded, warned, you- and your unborn child - are still affected by all of this.

Ever so gently he takes a risk, reaching a hand forward to cup your arm. You don’t wilt away and so he’s pleased, feeling the warmth of your skin.

“Please do not think you are a prisoner here. I merely wish to make sure you are the safest you can be while you are not with Lorgar."

You nod at him, giving him just the slightest smile as he pulls his hand away. But only partly, as it hovers in the air between the both of your bodies.

“May I?” That smile fades as you look at him confused, before realizing what he's asking.

“Oh, sure. I think they're asleep though, so you might not be able to feel anything.”

With your approval gained he puts his hand to your belly, and watches his palm cover so much of it. It takes a moment, before he can feel it. Even if your child is asleep, he can feel what a normal human cannot.

The soft movement against his palm, the shifting of your baby. The gentle thrum of it's heartbeat.

Something pulls at Horus from deep within himself, keeping his hand welded to your stomach until your eyes move from watching his hand on your belly, and he has to pull away to save face. He places the same hand on his thigh as he kneels, and gives you a wide, warm smile.

“Please, do not be afraid to tell me any of your needs. Myself, my Luna Wolves, and the serfs of the palace are here for you.” The declaration shocks you, a reaction he hadn’t entirely expected. He just gave you so much ability, and he barely knows you.

“Warmaster that is-“ “Horus, is fine.”

You purse your lips for a moment. You're so overwhelmed by this all he can tell. With time you'll settle though, he's sure of it. You're just tired and nervous from your long trip, and being so, so far away from Lorgar.

“I, I thank you for your support, I am forever in your debt.” Horus laughs.

Would you let him feel your belly again? Could he get away with asking to put his ear to it, to hear the heartbeat of a half primarch so closely?

“Nonsense, you are the beloved of one my dear brothers; I only wish to make your time here as comfortable as I am able.”

You let show an actual, real smile- your face glows. Horus sees what Lorgar has been distracted by; Horus would find himself having trouble as well.

Suddenly however you grimace, letting out a whimper and holding your belly. Horus becomes alight with worry, instinctively reaching a hand out to you that grasps your arm once again.

“Are you ok?!” He says, as you soon gather yourself and nod.

“Yes, sorry sometimes they just kick really hard.”

Horus recovers from the startle and laughs. He dares to lean closer, and returns a gentle hand to your belly. He does a few soothing, circling motions. You seem much less unnerved by him now, you smile a bit as he soothes your belly and speaks to it.

“You should be careful in there, little one. You are stronger than your mother, you might just hurt her.” Horus then soon tears himself away, and rises to his feet.

“I have other business to attend to; But please, don’t be afraid to ask the serfs for anything you need.”

Horus takes a brisk pace away, walking down the hall towards his own chambers. He doesn't make a single stop or even look in the direction of another soul, opening the massive door to his most private chambers. The door shuts behind him with a slam, and Horus lets out a breath now that he’s truly alone.

A part of him regrets agreeing to be the one to punish Lorgar; To take you from him and become the villain in this story. Another part of him is glad to, if not only to feel a part of his soul stir to life.

The buttons on the front of his trousers are easy to undo, and he can feel the outline of his own cock straining desperately against the fabric. It had irritated him the entire way here, no matter how hard he tried to ignore the way he ached against his thigh.

Once he manages to free himself, he takes a seat at the massive desk made custom for him and wraps a hand around his cock, feeling himself twitch against his palm at even the slightest touch. Precum leaks from the tip of his cock as he slides his hand against his shaft, groaning and using his other hand to grip the edge of the table.

You were so much more perfect than he imagined. Now he understands why Lorgar was so intent on keeping you hidden from them.

A selfish man, a shame he got to you first. Horus would make sure you got to see the world, meet all of his brothers and show them just how lucky he was. How beautiful and smart you were.

How you were so able to handle him, a primarch. Out of all of them, only Lorgar was the one to find love.

He can feel the the stickiness of his own precum leak on his fingers, slicking his cock. It's not enough though, and so he pulls his palm away to give an undignified, uncharacteristic spit into his palm before wrapping his hand back around his throbbing cock.

Lorgar! A selfish, whiny brat of a man who cares about paltry religions and gods rather than The Emperor's orders. How, out of all of them, was he the one to find someone that was able to handle being around a primarch?

His palm now slicker he groans at the way his hand much more smoothly rubs against his own shaft, toes curling his boots.

Horus isn’t jealous, he’s angry, he thinks. Angry that it turned out this way. If Lorgar hadn’t been a lying, secretive little snake, perhaps you would’ve had the chance to consider... better options. Horus would've been quick to charm you, to wow you with all the things he could give you and how he could make you feel.

He’s the Warmaster; he could give you anything you ever wanted, and you’d never be safer. On Colchis, he was able to pluck you from your beloved with one stern talking to.

Horus groans as his lower body tightens, cock leaking all over his hand. He's so close, he just needs a bit more.

Thankfully it was him to take you. Not someone like Russ, or Konrad.

Horus can keep you safe, until Lorgar does what needs to be done without all of these distractions. If you were his, it would be a wonder if he wasn’t always thinking about that perfect, round belly of yours.

He fists his cock faster with each second, grip tighter. He chases the high- his thighs tensed- so close. His breathing is heavier, deeper, harsh breathes through his nose.

He doubts Lorgar will ever fix his problems, however.

That would mean you would stay with him permanently; He would have no issues with that, he can make the preparations. For the short and the long term. You're surely due to have that child any day now, he'll make sure not a thing goes wrong.

Horus can hear the table top crack underneath his grip, the cords of his neck tight as he finally cums. He keeps pumping himself in his hand through it, milking himself until he's groaning and gritting his teeth. It's been so long, he's never felt the need for this until now. The feeling of satisfaction is unlike anything else, as he lets out a few breaths of air through his mouth.

He'll love his little niece or nephew like his own in the absence of Lorgar of course. They don't deserve to be punished for the sins of their father. But when you're fully healed, he would love nothing more than to on day fill that space with something of his own.

[nekohooch]

I promised I would provide some detail costume breakdown of my Azem summoning circle. It took me about 85 hours total over 19 days. The skirt is overlayed over a red petticoat (because it’s the only one I had long enough) I made the skirt about 7 in longer than floor length for me because I’m wearing platform shoes!

The skirt is two layers of black chiffon. The bottom layer is a normal circle skirt, top layer is a seven panel circle skirt. Figuring out the math for this part was hellacious I do not recommend it. The top was gold lamé with black chiffon overlay. The waistband circles are gold upholstery bolts that I used bolt cutters to remove the stabby bits of and the beams from the waistband are from a fringey door cover that I dissected. I then twisted the beams (fringe) and fastened them to the skirt.

The Ps and the filigree things are from bathroom wall decals that I cut into pieces. Then I added rhinestones, these triangle book decorations, and sequins for the designs and the giant summoning circles.

The rest of the designs are various additional pieces of fringe, rhinestones, and hand painted designs with gold calligraphy ink. I almost added my statics job symbols into the summoning circles but I didn’t have time.

There’s still more I want to add to this but I’m ecstatic how it turned out and felt like an absolute goddess.

[artists-ally]

{She Gets The Flowers, Right?} Reader x Lucien Vanssera {Pt. 3}

Welp... here you go! I shall prepare to be boiled alive. Enjoy!

Word Count: 7,525

Warnings: you know the drill. Angst, language, hurt/comfort, nasty ass cliffhanger

Tagging: @bubybubsters @thelov3lybookworm @cyrygher @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @anuttellaa @crazylokonugget @thehighlordishere @acourtofbatboydreams @thisblogisaboutabook @fabulouslyflamboyant5 @venuseuripedis

Summary: Can everything be reconciled? Be repaired? Was it all just a big misunderstanding?

~~~~~~

READER POV

THAT MORNING...

There is nothing quite as startling as waking up to the sound of silence. In a life full of chaos, full of commotion and the constant buzz of energy, silence is unsettling. Especially in a house that should be full of laughter, taunting jokes, and easy smiles.

Anger seared my heart. Branded it black. Visions of heated conversations seep into mind, flooding my vision in red. 

I don’t think I’ve ever been so mad in my life. The fact that he chose her over me. But I refused to let him disrespect me. I said hurtful things. And a twisted part of me likes the fact that they hurt him. I wanted him to suffer and grovel as much as I have been. 

It’s petty, but I don’t care.

I push myself out of bed, dragging to the bathroom to sort myself out. I look in the mirror: skin? Dry. Eyes? Puffy. Lips? Swollen. I look tired. I am tired. And no amount of sleep will fix the bone deep ache of sheer disappointment. 

Gods, he is still everywhere. Even with all his stuff gone; his toothbrush, his signature scent, his body soap and cufflinks sitting in the dish behind the faucet, somehow, he’s still here. Bits and pieces of him, of his once kind words…. All of it has turned sour. 

A day has yet to go by where I don’t think of him. Of his laugh. Of the way his lip trembles when he cries. 

I miss him. 

And every day I hate myself more for it. 

I shouldn’t miss him. What did he do besides torture me with the fact that he’ll never give me the time of day? Just like Elain was doing to him. I hope he’s happy. No, I don’t. That’s a lie. I hope he’s just as miserable as I am. 

That’s even more of a lie. 

I dress without thinking, my outfit the same as it has been for the past month and a half after opening the restaurant. The double breasted, black chefs coat with three stars embroidered over the heart. The slithering, embroidered black filigree on the shoulders, in a slightly different sheen to make them stand out. The pants had matching details over the pockets and down the side of the pant leg. My boots slip on and I grab my cap, fitting it over my head before heading out the door to get an early start. 

Every fucking day since I kicked him out has been an early start. Anything to keep myself in this place we used to call home. I should move. Repaint at the least. Change something. 

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. 

Everything is painfully the same.

When I need change the most, I can’t–for the life of me–decide what I want that change to be. 

It doesn’t fucking matter. 

He’ll always be there.

A murmur in the back of my head of what could’ve been. 

Should I be this jealous? This aggravated over this whole thing? Am I overreacting? It’s not like he cheated on me, we weren’t even together. But I wanted him so bad I was willing to kick him out because he chose someone else over me. Oh Gods… I am a horrible-

No, I stop myself. Taking a deep breath as I step down off the porch, heading down the well beaten dirt path towards the city. Your feelings are valid. He hurt you. Badly. You didn’t overreact. Some would say it might’ve been an underreaction, or how could you have let it go on this long? You are allowed to be upset, for as long as you need. No one can tell you otherwise. 

No one can tell you otherwise. I repeat the words over and over. I stare down at the cobblestone sidewalks, firsts clenched under my arms. I chew my lip. I clench my teeth. Things I always did, and things Lucien would try to get me to stop. 

He’d put a hand on my shoulder. Or grab my hand to keep from digging my nails into my palms. 

No one will ever know me as well as he did. 

And that shatters my soul.

The thought of having to try to explain the events of my life to someone all over again… it’ll be impossible. Why couldn’t he have just loved me back?

Before I have time to realize where I’m going, I’m at Meliora. I see Ms. Immy bustling around. I wonder if she ever sleeps. 

“Ah!” She cheers when I walk in the door. “My Spirit of the Gods! How are you dear?”

I give a half smile. “I’ve been better. Just the usual for me, please.”

“You are still missing your Fox?”

I nod. I watch as she pours the bubbling water into my mug, dipping the peppermint tea bag into the liquid. She’s so methodical. I’ve been here a thousand times, and she manages to make it the same way every time. Ms. Immy dusts the top with granules of sugar, adding a mint leaf to the top. She slides it in front of me as she grabs the chocolate chip muffin from the case. 

“When are you going to talk to him?”

The question throws me for a loop. I answer honestly, “I wasn’t planning on ever seeing him again.”

She snorts. “I doubt that will hold true. He misses you too.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do.”

Yes. I do. “I don’t know how to forgive him.”

“Then don’t.”

I blink. What? “So, you think I should make amends with him, but not forgive him? How does that work?”

“He is your mate, no?” I nod. “Then you love him. Why is it so difficult to forgive someone you love?”

“I don’t know,” I bit my tongue. “I don’t deserve to be treated like that.”

“Yet you still want him back.”

Wow. I sound so pathetic. I cast my eyes down, tapping my fingers on the mug. “No matter how much I love him, I won’t let myself remain second place. I refuse to let myself go through to torture of always being picked next. Never first. No matter how much it hurts to stay away from him.”

She clicks her tongue, wiping down the counter behind her. Faintly, she hums a tune, its melody ringing in my ears. I feel like I knew it once. But I've been so caught up in everything that happened last month to bother trying to hold onto those types of memories. 

I am losing myself.

“Do you know the meaning of Meliora?”

It’s the name of her cafe. I shrugged, “No, should I?”

“It means the place for better things, my Spirit. It is an ancient omen, an ancient oath of the Night Court. This is a Meliora, a place for better things. Seems like you could use some better things.”

“I have Latibule. I am living my dream of owning a restaurant. Better has come.”

��And it has gone,” Ms. Immy says. “Don’t fool yourself Yn. You are lost without Lucien. If he were to ask for your forgiveness, to give up Elain and all that has happened, would you accept him? If he said he only wanted you, would you have him?”

I grind my teeth together. The peppermint tea has turned to acid on my tongue. No one can tell you otherwise, no one can tell you otherwise…

“There are things in the world Yn, so precious and hard to find that it would be stupid to let it go. To trade it away over unintentional negligence. Lucien loves you. You love him. The two of you have been blessed by the Cauldron with a mate. Let it go to waste and suffer the consequences of never being able to fill that void. Let it rot your mind and heart for anyone else.”

I grind my teeth harder. Why does she insist on forgiving Lucien? 

“After everything I did for him, after saving his life and rebuilding him from the ground up, he decides to repay me how? By forgetting about me and standing me up on the most important day of my life? Seems pretty unforgettable to me.”

“There is a great balance in this world. And to keep it, the Cauldron dishes out magic and illusions to offset it. Lucien got the short end of the stick and got more than he could handle.”

“Well that's not my fault.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “But it is your problem. Yn, all I’m suggesting is you give him a chance. There is no telling what will happen between you two if you don’t try.”

“I don’t want to try, what if I make things worse? What if it doesn’t work out?”

“But what if it does?” _____

But what if it does? I have been doing nothing all service besides thinking what Ms. Immy last said to me. But what if it does? I start spiriling with questions after that. 

What if it does work out? Will I be able to fully trust that he won’t run back to Elaine? If it doesn't, will I just spend the rest of my life trying to find him in everyone else? Will I ever find someone else? How can I be so sure that he’ll want me in his life after I’ve kicked him out? If I see him, will I want to punch him in the face? Could I even stomach looking at him? Would I just puke from nerves and anger? Should I even bother? What if I never get the chance to-

“Yn, there is a table seated in section 8 for you,” my lovely hostess, Esmira, calls from the window.

“I’ve got six pans on right now, Es. I can’t just take a table. Where are Karos and Daxillion? They’re supposed to have a handle on this right now.”

“We’ve got a full house. It’s the High Lord and Lady, as well as her sister and the General.”

Shit. It’s midweek, why do we have a full house? Especially at lunch. From what I’ve heard amongst my staff's gossip, Lucien has been living at his house. I don’t want to see anyone. Especially someone who’s been caring for him. 

“Okay… okay fine I’ll take the table. Go take their drink orders and I’ll be right back. Esro, I need you to cover my station in between checks.”

“Heard,” he calls back dutifully. He always takes the shit I give him and dusts it with gold. I should give him a raise. 

I jog to the supply closet where I have an extra uniform stashed in case of an emergency. I change quickly, taking my cap off and fluffing out my hair. Not bad but… not great. I still look so tired. 

Esmira scampers into the bathroom to hand me their drink list. A bottle of wine and water for the table. Easy enough. 

Racking the glasses onto the carrier, I haul the bottle of wine and decanter of water to the table, plastering a courageous smile on my lips. Who knows if it’s actually convincing. 

“Evening, my High Lord and Lady,” I greet. “Cassian and-” Elain. It’s Elain. What is she doing- “Elain. Good to see you out and-”

“You don’t have to pretend to be excited to see me. I know you’re not. I ruined your relationship with Lucien.”

Well, shit okay guess this is happening now. What do I say? “He made a choice, it’s not your fault.” I settled on. 

But it is your problem… screw you Ms. Immy. 

She looks hesitantly to the High Lord, who gives a firm nod. She sighs. “I’ve tried to stop him from pursuing me for months. He still comes back. I share no bond with the firehead.”

Firehead, ha! Why had I never thought of that one?

I just press my lips together, fighting off the prickle in my nose and throat. “Can I take your meal orders? Anything you’d like to start with?”

“He misses you, Yn.” Rhysand spoke. His violet eyes swirling with stars. “Is there a chance you’ll talk to him?”

I feel like such an outsider looking at the Inner Circle. There were so many outcomes I could’ve had in Velaris. I could’ve been a part of their Court, not just an inhabitant. But I chose the path my heart wanted, and lost the thing it needed most. 

I swipe the tear away as fast as it falls. 

“I’ll bring a round of bread for the table.” And I head off. 

____

After I had served them their meals, bid them farewell with a pitiful look on the High Lords face, the room was a lost less crowded. 

Now I’m starting to wonder if we were meant to say goodbye. Maybe there is something salvageable. But I don’t want to shred myself to pieces for a maybe. Even he is not worthy of my self destruction. 

But what if it does?

“Hello?” A sultry voice says from behind me. I rack the polished pint glass and turn over my shoulder, greeted with a handsome face. Too handsome… curse these high fae. He’s got rippling muscles as he crosses his arms over his chest, eyes a vibrant, ashy caramel. And his hair… “I’m looking for Yn?”

What does he want? “Is there something I can help you with?”

“For once, my brother wasn’t reserved in his descriptions.”

What? His brother? I stare at the male, taking in his sharp nose, those eyes like fire, his hair… oh Gods-

“I’m Lucien’s brother, Eris.”

I stay silent, taking in his face. Fuck, there is a lot of Lucien there. More than I’d like to see. They have the same eyes and hair. And it hurts to see so much of him in someone else.

“Now, I don’t particularly care that much about who you are-” 

Charming. 

“-but I do know you made my brother happy. At one point or another. I also don’t care what happened between the two of you, but it must’ve been bad.”

“Leave.”

“Whether or not you talk to my sorry bastard brother means nothing to me. But if I have to deal with one more Court meeting where Rhys and his brute ask me if I’ve talked to him, I will rip off my own ears.”

“I asked you to leave my restaurant.”

“Is this how you treat all your customers?”

I narrowed my eyes, “You are not a customer, you haven’t ordered anything. So have a good day, Eris.”

“I’ll take a pint of ale,” he smirks. Smirks, like I’ve got all the time in the world to listen to him babble about how much he wants me to talk to Lucien. 

With a viscous yank, I pull off the glass I just put away and fix it under the tap. I debate spitting in it. That most certainly would not end well for me or my restaurant. I’ve already had one Vanserra ruin my life, I don’t need another to ruin the only hope I have left.

I slap the glass down in front of him, turning around to finish unloading the clean dishes from the drying racks. 

“So,” he slurps his drink, “when are you going to fix your shit with Lucien?”

“I’m not.”

“Why not?”

“Because he hasn’t earned my forgiveness.”

“What would it take?”

“Doesn’t matter. I won’t forgive him.” Can he stop asking me so many fucking questions? I just want to clean up, shut down the kitchen, hand out todays tips and go the fuck home. 

“Why?”

My hands came down on the steel counter, rattling plates and saucers. “Why are you so fucking concerned with something that isn’t your problem?”

He goes quiet for a second, and I’m blessed with a moment of peace from his irritating voice. “Because, despite being nothing but a pain in my ass, he’s still my brother. And he’s miserable. And you’re the reason why.”

“No,” I snapped, ready to hurl a glass at his thick fucking skull. “He’s the reason he’s miserable. He did all the damage on his own. All I did was ask him to be there for me, and he threw me aside like a stray cat begging for a warm meal.”

“What did he do?”

“It’s none of your business, Eris. Go away, the bar is closing.”

“I still have a tab open.”

“Then come back tomorrow and pay it.”

“But I’ll be away.”

“Then it’s on the house,” I sighed, too exhausted to deal with this. “Just go. Please.”

“As soon as you tell me what he did I’ll-”

“He fucking ruined me, thats what he did.” Thank god the restaurant was empty or else the whole city would know that I’ve been completely shattered by Lucien Vanserra. Who am I kidding, I’m sure everyone already does. “All I asked was that he be there for me the day I opened my restaurant.”

Eris puts his palms up, “well? Where was he?”

“Where do you think?” The glare I sent him made him back off. 

“Oh…”

I scoff, “yeah, oh. I gave up everything for him. My family, my home, my life to restore him after he fled to the Spring Court. I just wanted his support. And he was busy with a female who would rather be tortured than in his presence.”

“I don’t think it’s fair to blame Elain for-”

“I wasn’t blaming Elain,” I corrected. “Lucien let me down. Unforgivably. That's the end of it. I don’t want an apology from him, it won’t do anything for me.”

Eris let out a long sigh. “Look, I understand that he hurt you. I’m not trying to invalidate your feelings. He fucked up. Point blank. He’ll never be able to take back what he did and said. But is there any way that the two of you may be able to move on?”

“Move on?” I scoffed, a cruel laugh escaping me. “Move on? Eris, I confessed to him that I am his mate, and he told me I was selfish because I wasn’t happy about him and Elain.”

“Were you?”

“Of course I was,” I ran my palms over my face. “Did it hurt knowing he’d never look at me like that? Yes, but I was prepared to live with it if it meant that he got to live a happy, fulfilled life. I didn’t care who it was, it was the fact that he forgot all about me. On more than one occasion. Menu designs, recipe tastings, wine tastings… all of it. He missed all of it to go be with her.”

“So you’re jealous?”

It took everything inside me to not rear up and smack him across the face. Who does this asshole think he is? Instead of possibly earning myself more trouble, I take his glass of ale off the counter, dump it, and rinse the glass. 

“I wasn’t done with-”

“Well, you’re done now. Thank you for dining with Latibule, but the restaurant is officially closed. See yourself out.”

Eris clicks his tongue, pushing off the bar. The rustling of his clothes chafes together as he walks away. “Lucien cares about you, Yn. From the very few mentions of you he’s shared, I can tell he thinks highly of you, no matter what you may think.”

Then the door snaps closed, and I’m left with nothing but a pulse in my ear and tears in my eyes.

____

After a quick mop in the kitchen I shut off all the lights and lock the front door. As I’m walking down the street, a thick, crackling scent hits me. And my stomach churns. It’s familiar, part of it still lingering in my house. But this one is more… just more.

“Eris, leave me alone.”

“I did a lap around the block, and I was thinking-”

“Hope you didn’t hurt yourself too bad.”

Eris chuckles, then laughs. “Feisty, I can see why Lucien would like you. Just give him a chance.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Why are you Autumn Court fae so fucking dense?”

“Just be thankful it was me and not my father who came to see you, then you’d really see dense.”

“Please,” I rolled my eyes. “If I ever came face to face with that bastard I’d do a lot more than hurl words at him. I’m not particularly fond of you either, so be careful how you speak to me.”

“What if I arranged a meeting for the both of you? To talk things out and see if there is any common ground to be found,” Eris suggested, falling in stride with me as I walked up the path, back towards home. 

“Gonna pass on that one. If I wanted to ‘arrange a meeting’, I would’ve already done it. I don’t need Lucien's big, scary older brother to do it for me,” I mocked. 

“You think I’m scary?” He smiled.

“I think you’re annoying and disrespectful.”

“A lot of the High Lords of Prythian would agree, try not to be so original.”

Don’t rip out his eyes, don’t rip out his eyes. He’s just trying to get under your skin, don’t let him win.

“Come to think of it, there is one High Lord in particular who seems to agree with this idea of trying to get you and Lucien back together.”

“If you even think about dragging Rhysand into this-”

“He approached me,” Eris admits. “He’s sick of Lucien moping around the Town House all the time.”

“Then tell him my advice is to kick him out,” I bit out, more than tired of this conversation. “And stop following me, Eris. Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of.”

“But I have to make sure you get home safe, Lucien would have my head if something happened to you,” Eris reasons, knocking his shoulder into mine. 

“Is there an imminent threat against my life, Eris Vanserra?”

“No?” 

“Then there is no need for you to walk me home.”

“But if there was an imminent threat, I would be able to protect you,” Eris smiled, and curse me… it’s a nice smile. I glare up at him, but he just smirks back. 

I decided to seal my lips. If I don’t respond, he can’t get any more information out of me. 

“Just think about this for a minute: if you decide to have a conversation, one of two things is going to happen. You’re either going to confirm everything you already know; he’s an uncaring, forgetful bastard who doesn’t give a shit about you or the lives you two have built together. Or, you’re going to realize the exact opposite; that he does care, and it was all a misunderstanding. And that he does care about the life the two of you have built together.”

I can’t be bothered to care about what he wants anymore. I’ve spent too much of my life caring for his every waking need. When is it my turn?

“You are his mate, Yn. It goes against every instinct in your body to reject him. Why do you keep fighting yourself on what your heart wants?”

Because he betrayed me. He completely broke my trust, ruined my image of him in one night. Why does no one understand that? 

“I get it, he hurt you or whatever, but are you really going to risk the chance of eternity together with him because of one mistake?”

He and Ms. Immy would get along well. And it wasn’t just one fucking mistake, it was about seventeen. Apologies don’t mean a thing if you don’t ever fix what you did wrong. I can see my house, just a few hundred yards away. I can slam the door in his fucking face and spend the rest of my night doing anything but thinking about Lucien. 

“Yn, just answer me,” Eris demands. “I know there isn’t anyone you’ve talked to.”

“No you don’t.”

“Have you talked with anyone about this?” I stay quiet. “Exactly, you need to release this. To scream and shout and yell-”

“I’ve tried that. Didn’t do anything for me.”

“Have you punched anything? I like doing that when I’m mad,” Eris snickered. 

I just rolled my eyes. “I’m about to punch something soon.” He takes a step back as I finally reach my door. I unlock it and push it open, kicking off my boots at the door. I have no reason to be bitter to Eris. he’s just trying to help, trying to be there for his brother. Now, whether or not he’s doing it in the best way is certainly debatable. But at least he’s trying. I sigh, feeling incredibly defeated. “Would you like a drink?”

His smile is softer, and he gives a nod, following me inside. 

As I make us a drink, he looks around the kitchen and the living room. 

“Gods it looks just like the Autumn Court in here,” he chuckles, picking up a pillow from one of the chairs. 

“Yeah, Lucien did most of the decorating.”

“It’s gotta be difficult to see it every day.”

I bite back a sob, “You have no idea.”

“I know I am not the easiest person to get along with, or the most…tender, but if you are hurting this bad, then I know Luc must’ve been special to you. And you special to him. So, if there is anything I can do, tell me.”

As I slid the glass across the counter, I stared at my hands. Would talking about this really make a difference? I just feel like it keeps opening up old wounds without giving them the time to heal. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to move on.”

Eris looks at me, thick brows knitted together. “Because you miss him?”

As much as it hurts to admit, I nod. “So fucking much, Eris.”

“Now, do you miss him, or just having someone to share a space with?”

I blink up to meet his eyes, the ashy-caramel irises full of so much life. “I miss him. I don’t know when he started distancing from me, but I clearly didn’t notice it quick enough. I started to miss his smile first. He stopped laughing for a while after he met Elain. The creases between his eyes replaced those around his mouth.”

“Yn-”

“He started being late to everything next. He would apologize but… they weren’t sincere. I tried not to be hurt by it but… I don’t know. I thought maybe it had to do with stuff happening from the Spring Court and with Tamlin. Doesn’t matter, it just kept getting worse. He’d only talk about Elain, ask for advice on what to do since ‘I was a female’.”

“Oh Lucien…” Eris rubs his eyes. “Even for him that's low.”

“Yeah. I don’t know why I didn’t snap earlier. Part of me wanted to hold onto something I knew I couldn’t have. Then came the grand opening and once he was late for that?” I shook my head, biting my lips so as to not sob in front of Eris. “Nothing he could’ve done would’ve made up for that.”

I don’t know why I’m opening up to Eris. He’s probably just going to relay it word for word back to Lucien. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. 

“None of what he did is excusable,” Eris says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand. He wanted to spend time with his mate. He just wanted her to know that someone was there for her. But did he do it the right way? Absolutely not. And he fucked up, really bad.”

“Can I give you something?”

Eris just stared blankly at me. “What?”

“Just stay here for a moment,” I set my glass down, charging up the stairs. It’s been burning a hole in the bottom of my closet since I found it a few weeks ago. The lump of midnight blue fabric was a crumpled mess, but his scent still lingered on it. 

I held it up to my nose. Inhaling deep. It’s time to let go. 

As I stand in front of Eris, I hold out the shirt. My throat is like liquid iron. “Give this back to him, will you? It was one of his favorites.”

This shirt… this god damned shirt. It always looked so good on him. With the color of his skin and the tone of his hair. All the jewel tones made him look marvelous, but there was something about the teal color. Tears slid onto my cheeks. The first night he wore this shirt was when Rhysand and Cassian took him out to dinner. “To try and get to know me better,” Lucien said. He thought they were going to interrogate him. But he wore this shirt with dark blue pants and black leather boots. His hair was braided away from his face… I braided it back away from his face. 

Eris’s hand on my cheek pulls me out of the memory and into his eyes. “Did you keep this, knowing it was his favorite, hoping one day he’d come back looking for it?”

The fact that he figured it out so easily made my blood run cold. I tried to answer, but the sound of the door creaking open made me forget what I was going to say.

My heart dropped.

Eris’s hand was frozen on my cheek.

Lucien dead still in the doorway. What is he doing here?

Eris clears his throat, taking the warmth of his hand as he drops it to his side. “Brother, perfect timing.” Perfect timing? Did he- “No, I didn’t plan this, Yn. Though I respect you for thinking me so clever.” Eris turned me, blocking my view of Lucien. He folded the wrinkled shirt in my palms. “This is your chance.”

And then he left. He slipped around Lucien with a subtle glare and shut the door behind him. 

Lucien looks… he looks so…

“I thought you would be at the restaurant,” he spoke, voice low and cool. “I can came back-”

“What did you want?” I asked, curious as to why he’d be back here ever again. 

“Actually I wanted um… I came here for that shirt.”

Oh. Oh. My heart hammered against my ribs. “Yeah, yeah, take it. I found it doing laundry a bit ago.”

Lucien crosses the threshold of the room and takes it from me. I’m waiting for him to ask me about Eris. To ask about how I’ve been. Or to apologize. Gods Luc, please say something.

“I see you met my brother. What did he want?” 

Here we go. “He walked me home from Latibule.”

“Oh,” he nods. “Well, I hope he wasn’t too much of a pain.”

I snicker, but refrain from further details. “You look well.”

He did, he looked healthy. His arms and chest fill out his shirt in a way they never used to.

“I’ve been training with Cassian for a while,” he explained. That’ll do it, I guess.

“Sounds exhausting.”

He gives a faint chuckle, “It’s interesting.”

Then we just look at each other. My heart swells, and crashes down. My fingers and toes go numb and my head feels lighter. I want him to stop looking at me so intently, yet I don’t want him to leave. Ever again. I want him to stay here and build a home with me. A new home with new memories and new adventures. But the logical part of me knows it’ll never quite be the same. 

“Why was Eris here?”

“I told you he walked me home from Latibule.” He gave me a look that screamed ‘I’m not buying that shit’. I must have no resolve because I caved instantly. “He came and found me to talk about you.”

I’ve never seen Lucien look so worried in my seventy years of knowing him. “Why?”

“He wanted to know if I’d ever forgive you. Apparently he’s tired of dealing with Rhysand begging him to talk to you so he came to me.”

“Yn,” Lucien’s eyes sulk, “If I had known Eris would’ve found you I would've just talked to him. I just wanted him gone and away from me. I didn’t mean to drag you further into this.”

“It’s fine, he only mildly insulted me. I see where you get it from.” It was a low blow, but seeing him wince made me feel a bit better. It was petty. But cathartic. 

Silence stretched between us. Wrapping around me like a pit viper after delivering a lethal dose of venom to its prey. It constricted and constricted and constricted-

“I love you.”

I almost looked around the room to see if someone else spoke. But it was his mouth that moved, and it was his voice that sang. 

“What?”

“I love you, Yn.”

“No-”

“I love you,” he gasps, tears filling his eyes. “I-I… I am so in love with you.”

“Lucien stop,” I beg, that numbness spreading up my arms and calves. 

“I am so so fucking sorry for the way I treated you. You are so undeserving of that after all that you did for me. I was selfish and blinded by what I thought I wanted. You were right, Yn. About everything. I never once considered that it could be you because I just always knew you’d be in my life. I never thought that I’d lose you but when I did I… I broke. I can’t live without you. I need you. I love you.”

“You don’t get to decide that you want me and then waltz back into my life. That is not how this works.”

“Please Yn just give me a chance to apologize and make things right.”

“No,” I shouted, anger leaching into my tone. “No, I gave you one too many chances I think. I have given you too much, Lucien. More than enough for one lifetime and you're just now realizing that you want me back? ”

“I’ve always known I’ve loved you Yn. I just didn't understand how much. Or in what way. And I know that’s my fault and my problem. In some way I was cursed by the cauldron to have two mates. But it blessed me with one who cared enough about me to take my broken spirit and make it whole again.”

“Good luck finding someone to do it again because it will not be me this time.” I crossed my arms over my chest, turning away from him. 

“Yn please just- just let me speak. I truly didn’t mean to hurt you. I got so caught up in the fact that I finally had a choice in this world that I forgot to think about everything else in my life. I never meant for you to feel anything but loved and appreciated.”

“Lucien, you somehow managed to achieve everything you meant not to do.”

A sob tore through Lucien. And one tore through me too. “You never gave up on me, not once. From day one you have always believed in me, what happened? What changed?”

“You’re complete and utter recognition of my existence changed, Lucien!” I screamed, not caring who heard me. “Ever since the war ended you haven’t paid me the closest bit of real, undivided attention. You only spoke to me if it was about Elain, what dinner was going to be, or if I had gotten the next project done on the restaurant. But not once did you ask me how I was doing or if I wanted to go out for a fun night. I just faded away into the back of your mind.”

My blood curled against my bone while I waited for a response. He stared at the floor, eyes darting around and around.

“I’m so so so sorry, Yn.”

“I’m sure you are.” More empty apologies

“How do I fix this? Tell me what to do. I’ll do fucking anything you want just tell me- please Yn I can’t leave here without saying I gave us every chance we had-”

“And I told you I gave you one too many chances to apologize.”

I refuse to be walked all over. I refuse to be second place. I refuse to be treated as anything but a first priority. My heart is too big sometimes, and I’ve been known to forgive under less likely circumstances, but this is where I draw the line. 

Lucien gets down on his knees. “Please, my Yn. I have nothing without you. You are entwined in every corner and crevice of my soul. I know I’m undeserving of you. But somewhere deep down I think you still love me. Even if you hate me right now, and I do not blame you. I have been an awful person-”

“Lucien please don’t-” my throat feels like it’s swelling closed.

“-but I cannot see a future without you in it. If I don’t have you by my side, then all of this is useless. All these heartbeats, all these breaths of oxygen are worthless without you giving me a reason to have them.”

I try to get a grip on the world spinning around me, but it’s of no use. “Lucien get up.”

“No,” he shakes his head, pieces of his hair falling loose to frame his face. In times like these I would once comfort him. Place my hands on his cheeks and tell him how worthy he is of love and protection. And here he is, trying to do the same for me. “No, I need you to listen to me.”

“I don’t wanna hear what you have to say.”

“I don’t care. I have to tell you otherwise I might burn alive. I have never regretted a day more in my life than that night a month and a half ago. It haunts my every waking nightmare. On repeat, every night for me to relive and beat myself up over. I deserve every second of it. You’re right, I did discard you to the side like you were nothing. And I sweat my life on the Cauldron that I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t know I was doing it until you pointed it out to me. Then I just… I fell apart.

“I had no idea what to do, where to go. Ask anyone, for weeks I was unable to get out of bed after I came and got my stuff from here. The only person I talked to was Ms. Immy. Even she knew about it. She told me to respect your wishes, to not neglect them like I had neglected you in the past and I might have hope. So as hard as it was, I stayed away. Because I didn’t want to make things worse than they already were. Ms. Immy told me it wasn’t my fault that I neglected you- well… it was, but- but it was now my problem. To try and fix it. And she’s right, you’re right. Fucking everyone is right. I just want to fix this with you.”

It’s not your fault, but it is your problem. Damn that wise hag. 

My muscles are so taught they begin to ache. I can’t handle this, I don’t want to handle this. I want him gone- no… no I want him to stay and tell me how much he’s fucked up. To validate me because he spent so much time doing the opposite. 

“What if I don’t want you to fix things?” I asked. “What if I wanted you to leave and never come back?”

“That’s not an option. Being out of your life has never been an option. I want you more than anything I could think of. I am going to fix this between us one way or another, today, tomorrow, or a hundred years from now. But I will never stop trying because I love you.”

“Don’t say that,” I plead, turning away from him. His hand wrapped around my forearm, locking me in place. “Let go of me. Now.” 

“Not until you give me a legit reason why we cannot fix what we have. Yn, you have given your entire life to me. Let me return all those years back to you.”

“I don’t want you t-”

“You don’t have to forgive me today, but let me try to make it up to you. My Spirit of the Gods, who cares so much more about the lives of others than her own. Let me be the one who cares about you. Let me bear the weight of your burdens.”

“Lucine stop talking.”

“No,” he roared, shaking his head. “I need you to understand that I won’t stop trying to fix things with you no matter how much you hate me. I love you too much to let you slip through my fingers. I made the biggest mistake of my life when I blew off the most important night of your life. Through everything, you were there for me, and I didn’t return the favor when it mattered most. You worked so fucking hard on Latibue, Yn. And I am so unbelievably proud of you. And I’m sorry I wasn’t there to support you.”

“For Cauldron's sake, Lucien, shut up.”

“Why are you refusing to listen to anything I have to say?”

“Because if you say one more Gods damned thing about how much you love me and how fucking sorry you are, I might just forgive you and I am not ready to forgive you because I am still livid with you!” The confession tears from my lungs. I heave for a breath, carefully watching Lucien. “I’m not ready to be comforted by someone who hurt me so badly.”

“Then I’ll give you time,” Lucien’s eyes soften as he stands. “I can live with you being angry at me, but I can’t live without you at all.”

“I can’t possibly know how long that’ll take.”

“I don’t care how long it’ll take,” he shrugs. “I’ll wait until our souls pass again if I have to.”

My mind is too cluttered. My heart in too many shards. “You don’t need to wait for me. I’ll be fine on my own.”

“I know you will,” he smiles. Oh how I’ve missed his smile. His smile. “But that doesn’t mean you need to be.”

He wants to fix things, he was begging on his knees for you to listen to him. He’s okay with you being angry at him as long as you give him a chance. He loves you. He loves you back. After all these years, everything you’ve been waiting for… it’s right in front of you. Even if it hurts, even if you’re scared it is better to do it afraid then not at all.

I broke down into tears, my chest wracked with sobs. All this locked up pain and indignation exploding out at once. And Lucien is right there to keep me from falling. “Shh, Yn it’s okay,” he purrs, holding me so tight I can’t breathe. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I have spent so long loving this boy, begging him silently to love me back. And here he is… why can’t I find the space inside me to let him in?

“Lucien…”

“My Yn,” he breathes, cradling my head to his chest. 

I take a deep breath. “I love you.”

I feel his body relax.

“And I think you should leave.”

His body goes rigid. He pulls away, hands reaching to cup my face, but settling on the backs of my arms. “W-What? Why do you-”

“If you spent all this time waiting for it to be the right moment to make peace with me but never taking the opportunity then it’s too late.”

“Yn please- this is me taking the opportunity.”

“No,” I shake my head, sniffling. “This was just a coincidence. You didn't come here with the intention of making amends. You came here just to get a shirt. So here,” I picked up the shirt, shoving it in his chest. “Take it. And go.”

“Wait-” I began to push him to the door. “Yn wait! Yes I came here to get my shirt. No, I didn’t think you’d be here. But you were. So I took a chance. I took a risk for you.”

“Do you really think I’m so naive?” I scoffed, opening the door and shoving him through, rougher than I intended. “If you want me, then you’re going to have to do a lot better than getting down on your knees and saying you love me.”

“What do you want me to do? I’ll do anything, anything.”

“If you need me to tell you, then there’s no hope for us.”

He stares at me, eyes begging, pleading, hoping and praying that I’ll just tell him. Despite the slight sweat on my skin, my body feels calm. Powerful. I feel in control. 

Then his lips are on mine, and any sense of reality I have comes crashing down. 

[interstellarsystem]

Experiences With Being Out as a System

So, our parents know we're a system. It's all good, they understand that when we suddenly speak like someone from London that it's just another guy taking the body for a spin real quick and that they don't need to question it too much.

The thing is... They don't know our names, or anything about us as individuals. We don't have enough open communication with them to actually discuss the inner-workings of the hundreds of little guys in our brain and who they are or what they like, but even if we did, it's not actually important to them. It almost seems like it's swept under the rug.

Our mother said that she doesn't get why she should have to know anyone else when we're all "us". We're all just a collective to her still, a bunch of bits that make up her child, even though she knows we're separate. Her child, the original, isn't here anymore. But the thing is.. some of us want to get to know her and the family individually. Even beyond just being seen as who we actually are, we want to be a part of it aside from being treated as someone who is gone. But it's not a thing they understand despite our explanations of what it means to us, even despite the fact they know the original is dormant and has been for years.

The most anyone in our family knows about us is our mother, and she only knows anyone with a voice similar to Sark as "the american one". She doesn't know that there's even multiple who sound similar to him.

Technically, we're out as a system. Effectively, though... We're still closeted. Though not really because we're staying in it, moreso that we left but it follows us around like a shield within our own household, but it's not shielding us. It's shielding them from us.

Our experience with talking to medical professionals has been hard because of this--sharing bits about ourselves has been scary. It's scarier to show them pictures of our nonhuman headmates and say "that one is me", but it's never actually been bad when we've mustered up the strength to do it. One of them looked at Mal and saw his horns and said he looks like a faun from Greek mythology. Even though he's not, a positive response like that was empowering. That same one said Filigree's hair was cool. Little acknowledgements about who you are when you've tried to be seen before is great.

With our IRL friends, we expected the situation to be similar to our parents. Swept under the rug like a taboo and given weird, uncomfortable looks when spoken about. But it's been completely different.

We get asked who is fronting, we get acknowledged as separate people, hell, we even felt comfortable telling them about our actual fictive identities and letting the ones who wanted to follow this blog (hey guys if you're reading this <3) get access to it. They acknowledge our nonhumanity and nonhuman parts, share things about our sources with us because it reminded them of us, etc. Sometimes, now, because we've been open about it, we get people actually ask "is x fronting" and we say yes and they say "I knew it".

That specific feeling of being recognised even when your outward appearance doesn't change is absolutely amazing. Little manerisms, little ways our voice sounds even when masking accents out in public, even the words we choose to use are tells toward who is actually controlling the body and they pick up on it--even things we might not recognise we even do. Sure, there's hundreds of people in here and people won't know every single one off by heart, but the ones who are out here often are being recognised and that, to me, is amazing and validating to all of us.

I guess the point here is me sharing our experiences, but also.... You will be able to find people who see you for you. You as a system, you as a nonhuman, you as a disabled person, you as a queer person--you'll be able to find your people. And you know, I hope you do soon--because the feeling of being known is great.

[gildedkrone]

You said I was the most exotic flower, holding me tight in our final hour 🔞

Relationships: John Price x Male Reader Synopsis: You blow John's mind through his dick. A/N: First post on Tumblr! You can find longer works on my AO3 Master List

"You feel so good for me, love."

His voice is an arrow ripping through the seas of pleasure in gleaming gold. The beard digging into your nape and his arms around your abdomen, he has you in his grasp as relentless kisses and touches glides over your bare skin. His bed is soft and large, very much befitting his rank of the captain of an elite task force.

"Stop teasing, John." It comes out more as a breathy whine and you are rewarded with a deep chuckle.

"You can take a bit of teasing, sergeant." His voice is all rumbly and deeper, all in the mood.

His hand hasn't moved in a while as thick fingers wrapped around your aching dick, the owner of which satisfied in attacking you with chaste licks and bites. The pleasure building in your core, directed by his talented and skilled hands, remained wholly unsatisfying. He chuckles at your attempts to buck into him in search of that sweet, sweet pleasure.

"Such a handful, love. Maybe I should put you on extra training next week. Have you, mhm, running laps and bloody hell—"

You won't lie, hearing his voice hitch and stutter when his dick rides into your ass gives you the thrills. It's probably red and straining and you don't need a look to know. It fits perfectly and the heat emanating from it washes over your ass in waves. You tease him a little more and lean back until his chest is against your back, knowing just how much he gets off on you being in control. He showers you with more praise and kisses.

The captain being commanded by the sergeant. Very much frowned upon in the military but John lets you know that he loves it when you are assertive.

"John, if you don't fuck me, I'm going to ask Ghost and—" Hands slapped around your mouth and muffled the rest of the sentence as a deep rumble vibrated by your neck.

"You ask him and I will make sure you won't walk straight for the next month, sweetheart."

"Is that a challenge?"

The sensation of wetness, his pre, followed by his warm dick was ever so indulgent while his hands roam your body. One of them flicks a nipple and you arch backwards into him with broken moans and subdued cries of his name. He loves this as much as you do, being the commander of your pleasure and taking full control of your pleasure.

Its his and John won't ever let anyone have a taste of this.

"Brat. Do you want to be gagged? My pretty boy, all needy and whiny during a mission?"

Oh. That, that was fucking hot and you shiver at the thought of riding his dick in the middle of an operation. Maybe in a ghillie suit and in a bush somewhere. They can see and watch, but they will never be able to taste or touch. You turn your head to look at him, barely, as more kisses assault your cheeks. The hand on your aching dick moves to your thighs and gently caresses the area there.

Ever the gentleman, making sure his partner felt just as good as he did.

"Use your words, sweetheart."

You tell him just how much you want it and he laughs again. Hands gently tug at your sides and you flip over to face him at the unspoken command. Pleasure is engrained in his eyes in golden filigrees of lust branching into something fierce and he rumbles approvingly. He shifts back on the bed and leans against the pillows and headrest while a hand comes to rest near his groin.

Suck it.

You put on a show for him. His dancer of the night, bringing him sweet and initimate sin. You crawl towards him and a flare of lust erupts from his chest at the sight of his good boy prowling like a hunter seeking prey. When close enough, you touch his thighs gently and push them apart slightly to accomodate your body. He loves it when you look at him, it makes him feel divine, he once told you. You keep your eyes on him and lower your face until it rests against his groin with your cheek against his dick. His hand ruffles your hair and his eyes gives you the command to continue.

Being a sergeant of the 141 was tough business and John only recruited the best of the best. You are determined to show him just who he selected.

His dick is just like him, large with the head glistening in pre. You slowly grab the base and lick up his engorged organ. Spitting into your hand and the sounds of rough exhales fills the room, you grip his appendange in a gentle hand and suck on it. His head falls back against the pillows and his hand gently roams over you head. You love how caring he is every time he indulges you in this and the contented sigh hopefully conveys to him how good this is to you too.

His hip thrusts against your mouth and the sounds of his grunts pick up in intensity and harshness at every movement of your damn tongue over the slit.

"Good lad, yes, fuck, yer taking it so good for me, sweets." His scouse accent slips out and it makes him all the more sexy. The Captain John Price, putty in your hands while you drowned him in a pool of gold, the strings of lust caged around his heart yours to tug and play with.

He's beautiful, and you will keep telling him that until the day you die. Which considering your career choice, isn't too far off but the fondness in his eyes and his words makes it all the more precious and worth living for. He blushed when it first happened and you were reletentless in not letting him go afterwards, teasing him all night long and into the next day.

A quake shakes his thighs and his hand cups your face. His eyes implore you answer. All good, lad? You nod and lick up the base of the bulbous head, relishing in the broken moan you pull from the man and the jump of his pelvis towards the sinful mouth around his hard dick. His groin presses against your nose and the smell of his body wash, lavender and lilac, fits him just perfectly.

You fucking adore this man.

You can tell that he is impatient. His hands are more insistent when they play with your hair; his fingertips making contact with your scalp is tingling. Fine, you were going to empty his balls but first, you want him to admit it.

You want him to beg for it. So, you come off his dick and grabbed the base of it while a single unfufilled whine slips past his iron jaw. John isn't as good as controlling himself when pleasure is brought into the stituation. He prided himself on being collected but your mouth certainly is not helping matters.

"Captain, I'm not sure what to do now." You put on your best impression of a lost, troubled soldier.

"You fuckin, shit, tease. Get on with it, sergeant."

You bring your mouth closer and gives him a single kiss that sends shivers up his torso as beads of sweat roll down his toned body.

"Please. Move your hands, love." Close, but not quite.

"Fuck, please, sweetheart. Let this old man cum, lad."

Since he asked so nicely, you blow a kiss onto the angry looking head, earning yourself a deep grunt and some praises of good boy and my lad. You take him in fully until his dick is fully seated at the back of your throat. It's not easy since he is so well endowed but his gaze is motivation and encouragement. Your hands, not looking to rest, fondles his balls and strokes whatever doesn't fit in your mouth. He is a lost fisherman at sea, dancing as your pulled on the strings of lust shackled against his limbs. The hand in your head forces it down while he fucks your throat, his incredible core muscles lifting his pelvis off the bed to smash against your mouth. You love how feral he gets when he is close and chasing the wet, warmth heat of your throat.

He isn't loud, per se, but he more than loves to let the world know how good you are when he does climax. Ghost had once knocked on the door and asked you to please respect the noise rules. John had simply laughed when you complained to him.

Ignore him, lad. He's just jealous.

"My good boy. I'm close, love. Just keep, shit, keep that mouth tight." His words are a whip of lust that get you absolutely going for him.

The noises are obscene at this point, the wet noises of his pre mixed with your saliva and the sound of him fucking your throat are deafening in your head. His breathing has lost all of its tempo and he has that look when he is fighting to not cum. The light frown in his eyebrows and the taut muscles around his jaw. You loved the fisting of his free hand and the flexing of his powerful and sinuous thighs. His beautiful body is flexing and prostrated in pleasure, you want to see him fall.

Fall from the pedestal of a soldier and down into your embrace. Right here, neither him nor you are a spec-ops operative. He's beautiful, he always has been and now, this man is yours.

You hollow your cheeks and suck hard without telling him and he bellows. His voice is sonorous and he sounds majestic. He's your commander, in more ways than one. Weight yanks your head forward as those thighs lock your head into position. Sorry, lad but he is not sorry at all. You almost choke on his dick when he suddenly contracts his abdomen and those thighs pushes his throbbing dick further into your mouth. A single twitch, you know its his undoing, and ropes of hot cum are splashing into your mouth. He tastes salty and his cum is thick, viscous and heavy on your tongue. He might be older, but you love that about him. His fingers continue to brush over your head.

"Fuck, darling, don't swallow." That's a first.

His hand gently lifts your head off his dick where it rests against his navel when you come off him. A thin squirt when his dick jumped at the sight of your debauched look with cum on the corners of your mouth.

"Good, keep it in."

His eyes are gleaming with satiation and he tugs your body forward until you are chest to chest with him. He kisses you and his tongue darts into your cum filled mouth and swirls the liquid inside. Fuck, he's tasting himself while tongue fucking you into submission. Dirty, perverted Brit. He breaks the kiss with another moan and strings of cum are on his lips and tongue. There's even some in his beard and he makes sure to lick it clean. It’s so fucking filthy and he knows it too.

His hands start at your ass and ends at your reawakened dick. Previously forgotten, the roles are switched and the reins of lust are in his hands now. The gilded collar is beautiful against you neck, and he is determined to take all of the pleasure that belongs to him. Rough, calloused fingers settle into a slow, shitty rhythm that has you grinding into his palms for more. More of anything that he's willing to give.

"John, please." He loves your begs muffled by the mouthful of cum.

Patience, he tells you. He dips two fingers into your mouth and draws a thin trail of cum on your torso leading down to your dick. Again, stringy cum coats his thick fingers and he is slathering his cum all over your dick. The feeling starts off as weird but quickly ends up being the most sinful thing he's ever done. The milky white liquid is your accomplishment and it mixes with your own pre with obscene squelches in the mark of him. He loves the fight occurring internally to not give into him. To not beg or plead with him.

He commands you to swallow and you comply. The bobbing of your Adam's apple and your throat and he kisses you once more.

"Good work, my lovely lad. Did you have fun, making your captain beg?" His tone turns from John to Captain Price in a second and you moan at the implications. His hand turns into a prison on your weeping dick and you instinctively buck against his firm grip. Ineffective. He reminds you ever so of his strength. They don't call him captain for no reason.

"Well, I think we will need to address your discipline, soldier." His words are punctuated with sharp bites against your neck, Soap do not ask please, and your head tilts to give him more access to the area. The look in his eyes is one of mirth and thunders in the clear summer skies.

"Let's begin, sergeant." And you are arching and begging for him just as he takes control of the situation. His response, a deep laugh and you wail for him.

[nalyra-dreaming]

I have a question because I don't remember what actually happened in the books, just what impression it left on me. But I keep seeing people talking about Armand and Lestat like it was this grand passionate MUTUAL love affair and I always saw it as pretty one-sided on Armand's side. Lestat came to love him eventually, but to me it was never passionate or romantic. More like the way you have love for someone who has been around most of your big life moments so that history creates connection and love. More of a platonic, familial type of thing. But then I just saw someone describe them as "feral for each other" and I'm confused. Am I remembering wrong? Or are people creating headcanons?

Wellllllllll.... It depends a bit on how you want to see it I guess.

I do think that Lestat is mightily attracted to Armand. And Armand to him. And in the "Cinderella scene" (I'll post it below), there is a lot of talk about love and desire.

But it also becomes clear through the scene that Armand is spell-binding Lestat, in order to (force-) feed on him. And thereby blows it - ultimately forever.

And against the far wall, a backdrop of satin and filigree, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, like something imagined, Armand. Armand. If there had been a summons, I never heard it. If there was a greeting, I didn't sense it now. He was merely looking at me, a radiant creature in jewels and scalloped lace. And it was Cinderella revealed at the ball, this vision, Sleeping Beauty opening her eyes under a mesh of cobwebs and wiping them all away with one sweep of her warm hand. The sheer pitch of incarnate beauty made me gasp. Yes, perfect mortal raiment, and yet he seemed all the more supernatural, his face too dazzling, his dark eyes fathomless and just for a split second glinting as if they were windows to the fires of hell. And when his voice came it was low and almost teasing, forcing me to concentrate to hear it: All night you've been searching for me, he said, and here I am, waiting for you. I have been waiting for you all along. I think I sensed even then, as I stood unable to look away, that never in my years of wandering this earth would I ever have such a rich revelation of the true horror that we are. Heartbreakingly innocent he seemed in the midst of the crowd.

Yet I saw crypts when I looked at him, and I heard the beat of the kettledrums. I saw torchlit fields where I had never been, heard vague incantations, felt the heat of raging fires on my face. And they didn't come out of him, these visions. Rather I drew them out on my own. Yet never had Nicolas, mortal or immortal, been so alluring. Never had Gabrielle held me so in thrall. Dear God, this is love. This is desire. And all my past amours have been but the shadow of this. And it seemed in a murmuring pulse of thought he gave me to know that I had been very foolish to think it would not be so. Who can love us, you and I, as we can love each other, he whispered and it seemed his lips actually moved. Others looked at him. I saw them drifting with a ludicrous slowness; I saw their eyes pass over him, I saw the light fall on him at a rich new angle as he lowered his head. I was moving towards him. It seemed he raised his right hand and beckoned and then he didn't, and he had turned and I saw the figure of a young boy ahead of me, with narrow waist and straight shoulders and high firm calves under silk stockings, a boy who turned as he opened a door and beckoned again. A mad thought came to me. I was moving after him, and it seemed that none of the other things had happened. There was no crypt under les Innocents, and he had not been that ancient fearful fiend. We were somehow safe. We were the sum of our desires and this was saving us, and the vast untasted horror of my own immortality did not lie before me, and we were navigating calm seas with familiar beacons, and it was time to be in each other's arms. A dark room surrounded us, private, cold. The noise of the ball was far away. He was heated with the blood he'd drunk and I could hear the strong force of his heart.

He drew me closer to him, and beyond the high windows there flashed the passing lights of the carriages, with dim incessant sounds that spoke of safety and comfort, and all the things that Paris was. I had never died. The world was beginning again. I put out my arms and felt his heart against me, and calling out to my Nicolas, I tried to warn him, to tell him we were all of us doomed. Our life was slipping inch by inch from us, and seeing the apple trees in the orchard, drenched in green sunlight, I felt I would go mad. "No, no, my dearest one, " he was whispering, "nothing but peace and sweetness and your arms in mine. "

"You know it was the damnedest luck! " I whispered suddenly. "I am an unwilling devil. I cry like some vagrant child. I want to go home. " Yes, yes, his lips tasted like blood, but it was not human blood. It was that elixir that Magnus had given me, and I felt myself recoil. I could get away this time. I had another chance. The wheel had turned full round. I was crying out that I wouldn't drink; I wouldn't, and then I felt the two hot shafts driven hard through my neck and down to my soul. I couldn't move. It was coming as it had come that night, the rapture, a thousandfold what it was when I held mortals in my arms. And I knew what he was doing! He was feeding upon me! He was draining me. And going down on my knees, I felt myself held by him, the blood pouring out of me with a monstrous volition I couldn't stop.

"Devil! " I tried to scream. I forced the word up and up until it broke from my lips and the paralysis broke from my limbs. "Devil! " I roared again and I caught him in his swoon and hurled him backwards to the floor.

Now, Lestat fights Armand off after this, but I think this is what a lot of the passion stems from - and also the reason why it will never come to pass.

Because Lestat does desire Armand. But Armand forced him, just after Magnus forced him. And that ended it, before it could really start, until time changed it into a more gentle love.

[thegingerwrites]

Losing a Bet

obikin ft. Anakin in lingerie, based on this post, which i absolutely love 👀😍

Anakin isn’t looking at him. Obi-Wan watches as Anakin parts his robes with his eyes firmly fixed on the kitchen cabinets as he stands in their shared living space and reveals the layers of lingerie carefully donned beneath them.

Obi-Wan should be more concerned about Anakin’s discomfort, is concerned about not forcing Anakin to suffer the consequences of his own actions for longer than necessary. Obi-Wan will absolutely tell him to take the clothes off if they distress him so much.

But…well.

Anakin did lose the bet. Anakin was the one to set the terms. Sure, it likely never crossed Anakin’s mind that he might lose said bet but that doesn’t make him any less responsible when things didn’t go his way. He is always taking risks. Isn’t this one small lesson in getting him to think things through before barrelling into them head-first?

Obi-Wan isn’t really thinking too much about any of that right now. The thoughts pass through his mind like stars in hyperspace because the main thing on his mind, the only words and images that stick around for longer than a heartbeat are lace and skin and sheer and bulge…

His eyes dart up to Anakin’s face and stay there, harnessing all of his considerable restraint to keep them fixed. An autonomic bodily response, Obi-Wan reminds himself, much like the erection currently making itself known in his own trousers. It doesn’t mean Anakin is enjoying this. The blush gracing his high cheekbones certainly seems to indicate embarrassment.

“Well?” Anakin asks, finally gathering up the stubborn nerve to meet Obi-Wan’s eyes. His belt is gone now, allowing his tunic to fall open. His hands sit boldly on his hips, daring Obi-Wan to say something.

But Obi-Wan has no words. And even if he did, his mouth is suddenly dry.

“I wore them all day,” Anakin continues. “Padmé had to show me how to put them on. Am I done now or do you want to take a holo or something?”

Yes, Obi-Wan thinks. Stars, yes, this deserves to be memorialized. He can just imagine Anakin staring up at the camera petulant and pouting, hands on his hips just as they are now, a finger slipping beneath the straps at his waist...

No. A holo would be a terrible idea.

“Of course not.” Obi-Wan clears his throat. “No, I think you’ve done your time. You can take them off now.”

“Thank the Force.” Anakin’s shoulders sag with relief. He starts to walk back toward his bedroom and Obi-Wan, unthinkingly, follows him as he continues talking. “I mean, they’re not uncomfortable or anything, Padmé made sure of that, but it’s like I’m conscious of them all the time? I told her they were a bit too tight but she insisted they fit perfectly.”

“Mmhmm,” Obi-Wan hums, staring openly as Anakin faces the bed and slips the rest of his robes from his shoulders before letting them fall to the ground. His pants are next and suddenly Obi-Wan is treated to the full ensemble, the lean muscles of Anakin’s frame gilded in black lace filigree.

The contrast between the strong lines of his shoulders and the delicate fabric is intoxicating and Obi-Wan drinks his fill so long as Anakin isn’t looking. The garments are more complicated than Obi-Wan was expecting with straps that squeeze muscles and overlap and crisscross all along his form. The dark accents draw the eye to every part of Anakin that is now laid bare, from the length of his legs to the taper of his waist and the perfect peek of sun-bronzed skin sitting high on his upper thigh. Kark, the lingerie is practically painted on him where it cups the curve of his pecs and stretches across the flat plane of his belly.

Oh, Anakin is facing him now—has caught him staring.

“Master?” Anakin asks. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” says Obi-Wan quickly. “Perfectly fine.”

Obi-Wan looks down and away. He can feel his face flushing, even his ears are hot. When Anakin turns his back to Obi-Wan again, Obi-Wan gets his own moment of grateful relief.

The moment comes and goes in an instant, however, as Anakin gestures to the clasp at the center of his back. “Do you want to help me take this off?”

Want is such a terrible, traitorous word in that question. Of course Obi-Wan wants to help Anakin take his bra off. He wants to trace his fingertips over the marks Anakin’s lingerie is sure to leave on his skin. He wants to lick the bare expanse of tan muscles carved between Anakin’s shoulder blades. He wants to crawl into a hole and never come out.

Obi-Wan moves forward without answering. The clasp comes undone with two small hooks and Anakin sighs when it falls away from him. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

Anakin turns around then, probably to tell Obi-Wan to go. To stop being a creep and leave him to battle the garters and panties on his own. But then Anakin pauses, seems to catch something on Obi-Wan’s face.

His eyes flick down to Obi-Wan’s lips, perhaps catching the way he’s been worrying at them with his teeth. The smile on Anakin’s face is small and hesitant before it slowly grows with conviction.

“Do you want to help me with the rest?”

[valkyyriia]

Day 11: Reflections in the Waves (of Pleasure)

Kinktober 2024 Prompt List | Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

Words: 1947 CW: Mirror Sex, PiV, Creampie, Unprotected Sex, Long-Suffering Sebastian, Voyeurism Pairing: Comte de Saint-Germain x Reader Prompt(s): Mirror Sex | Oral

Notes: The urge to have Sebastian call himself ‘one hell of a butler’ was strong but I did resist. Not enough to keep it out of the notes, though…

NEW: Want to be tagged when I post new fics? Submit the form here!

“The mirror you requested has finally arrived, Monsieur le Comte,” Sebastian said when he entered the room, delivering the day’s mail to the vampire noble as he normally did. “Masters Napoleon and Leonardo helped me bring it upstairs to le Mademoiselle’s room.”

Comte smiled, pleased. “Thank you, as always, Sebastian,” he replied. “I always appreciate your hard work. I’m sure it was heavy.”

Sebastian bowed and left the room, promising to bring up tea shortly. “There’s no need,” Comte said, standing up and shrugging on his long overcoat. “I’ve a few things to do before she gets home, so I’d hate for it to go to waste.”

For the first time this month, you were actually doing your job. You had left with Isaac earlier this morning to do the shopping. Conveniently, the mirror had come in not long after you left, so it was still a surprise.

Comte immediately made his way to your room, pushing open the door to inspect the craftmanship. Normally he’d show a bit more decorum; Comte was a gentleman, truly, and would not deign to enter a woman’s room without knocking first. However, he needed to make sure the piece was up to his lofty standards before you got home to see it.

A few weeks ago, you had made an offhand comment to le Comte about not having a mirror quite long enough to be able to see your shoes with your dress unless you were standing far away, and even then you could barely see due to the distance. Comte’s eyes widened incredulously. How had he not considered that would be an issue? This was a travesty!

Thus, in true Comte de Saint-Germain fashion, he had immediately contacted a metalsmith and commissioned a large, gilded mirror. The thing was truly a work of art; it was nearly large enough to cover an entire wall, and richly decorated in golden filigree and gemstones. The metalsmiths had outdone themselves. The mirror was so grand in its design, it frankly wouldn’t be out of place amongst the treasures of Versailles.

He hoped you would be pleased when you saw it.

Smiling to himself, Comte went to call a carriage. He would meet you in town, treat you to a nice lunch, and bring you home to show you the gift he had gotten you. Maybe he would buy you a few new dresses, too. He had an excuse this time, after all; you needed to try out your new mirror.

Oh, he simply couldn’t wait.

You and Isaac had just finished up the grocery shopping when you heard a familiar tenor call your name from behind.

“Comte?” You asked, turning around, startled. Your eyes were wide, but the smile that broke out across your face was wider when you saw him.

“I thought I would surprise my lovely partner by meeting her in town,” Comte said, walking over to you and kissing your hand in greeting. “It’s good to see you as well, Isaac,” Comte added, turning his smile to the other vampire. “I was going to ask if you’d like to join us for lunch?”

Isaac, true to himself, blushed something fierce. “I thank you, for the offer, but I’ll bring the shopping home. You two have fun.” Before you could so much as protest, the physicist had taken your bags and flagged down a carriage.

You watched him go, feeling somewhat guilty. The guilt was replaced with giddy happiness when Comte tucked your hand into the crook of his elbow. “Allow me to treat you today, ma chérie.”

You finally returned to the mansion a few hours later as the sun was just beginning to set over the woodline. You were somewhat proud of yourself; you had managed to talk Comte down to just four new dresses instead of the ten he had wanted to buy. You had a sneaking suspicion that the vampire had gone ahead and purchased the other six anyway, to be delivered later on, but you would take the small victories when they came.

Comte, ever the gentleman, refused to let you carry a single thing. “What kind of partner would I be if I made you carry the gifts I purchased for you? I’ll not hear a word of it, chérie.”

The guilt you felt before resurfaced when you entered the mansion’s foyer and saw Sebastian dusting the wall sconces.

“Welcome home, Monsieur le Comte, Madame le Comte,” Sebas greeted, adding emphasis to your own name. Your cheeks flushed in a mixture of embarrassment and indignation, the guilt replaced with irritation. Comte chuckled at your side and moved a hand to the small of your back to guide you up the stairs.

“Thank you, Sebas,” Comte said over his shoulder. “We’ll be down for dinner later this evening.”

“Yes, I’m sure you will,” Sebas muttered under his breath. If le Comte heard him, he made no indication of it.

When you had made it to the residential hallway and stopped in front of your door, you knew something was up. Usually, you would join le Comte in his own chambers for the evening since his suite was far more spacious. The only true downside was the way Leonardo would sometimes barge in, though the Italian polymath had taken to knocking before entering as of late.

You briefly wondered why.

Before you could go further down that line of thought, you shook your head. “Abel,” you addressed your partner. “What did you do?”

Le Comte smiled elusively. “Whatever do you mean, ‘what did I do’? I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific, chérie.”

You rolled your eyes. “You met me in town. Took me to lunch. Bought me more dresses. Let me win an argument over how many dresses you were allowed to buy me.” You raised an eyebrow. “And now we’re back at my room. You never bring me back to my own room unless you’ve plotted something.”

“Don’t I?” Comte asked innocently. “Can’t I spoil my darling partner with a spontaneous date just because I felt like it?”

“You can,” You conceded. “But you don’t.”

Comte just laughed, gesturing to your door. You eyed him suspiciously but obeyed him anyway, opening the door. Immediately, your eyes widened and your jaw dropped. “You didn’t,” you accused, turning back to him. “Really?” You asked.

Comte followed you inside and shut the door behind him, locking it. “You said you couldn’t see your shoes in the other one. That, mon amour, was inexcusable.”

You just shook your head. Two of Comte’s favorite things were spoiling you and fashion. He particularly enjoyed spoiling you with fashion. You supposed you weren’t really surprised that this was something he viewed necessary. You sighed and conceded.

“Thank you, Abel,” you smiled. “It’s beautiful. I suppose this is why you insisted on the dresses?”

“And also why I agreed to only four,” Comte added, pulling you to him for a peck on the lips. “I feared ten would have been far too obvious.”

You rolled your eyes good-naturedly and leaned in for another kiss, which Comte was all too happy to give. The kisses quickly grew hotter and heavier. You parted your lips and Comte eagerly teased your tongue with his, his hands moving to your hips and pulling you closer. He squeezed your ass and you gasped into his mouth.

Your eyes lazily drifted open and you caught a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror. You flushed and pulled away from Comte, your palms flat on his chest. He looked down at you curiously.

You cleared your throat awkwardly before whispering, “the mirror.”

Comte raised an eyebrow.

“I can see us,” you grumbled. He chuckled lowly, sending heat pooling in your belly.

“I hadn’t purchased this mirror with quite that intention in mind, but,” he smiled deviously. “That’s another good use for it.”

Ten minutes later found Comte seated in your desk chair, his front to your back, buried to the hilt inside of you. He had his arms under your knees and was lifting you up and down on his cock. He had spread your legs wide, leaving your cunt on full display in the wall-sized mirror. You bit your lip as he moved you, his length gliding smoothly in and out of your body.

“Look at yourself, chérie. See how beautiful you are when you’re taking my cock?”

Your original hesitance was long gone; instead, your eyes were fixated on the lewd sight of him disappearing within your entrance. Comte’s cock glistened in the candlelight, your slick coating him thoroughly as he sunk deep inside you with each movement.

Your eyes briefly flickered up to the reflection of his face. Comte smiled coyly at you as you did so; the vampire was far more interested in watching your face as you took him, your eyes glazed over in lust and your mouth falling open in pleasure.

His lips drifted to the sensitive flesh underneath your ear and he kissed there. You shuddered, your legs involuntarily falling wider as he did so. Comte chuckled, his breath ghosting over the lobe of your ear. He took the lobe between his blunted teeth, careful to avoid breaking the skin with his fangs. Comte nibbled there before dragging his lips down the side of your neck, his fangs barely grazing the flesh.

You cried out in pleasure as the vampire latched onto your skin, sucking harshly on the flesh there without piercing it. An orgasm ripped through your body like the incoming tide as he slammed you harshly down on his cock. Your eyes focused on where your bodies were joined as he too met his climax, his groan resonating against your skin. You watched as your cunt pulsated, drawing twitch after twitch from Comte’s length. Each pulse of his cock resulted in a flood of warmth deep inside you. He drove himself somehow deeper with a grunt, his sweaty forehead falling against the juncture of your neck and shoulder.

After what felt like an eternity, Comte pressed a kiss to your shoulder and slipped from within you. What followed was a trickle of fluid, a mixture of his own come and your slick, dripping out of you and onto his softening cock. You inhaled sharply.

Comte laughed breathlessly, slowly lowering your legs. “I think we found something new you like, non, ma chérie?”

“Fermez-la,” you snapped at him petulantly.

His laugh just grew louder.

Sebastian knew better. He truly did.

Rather than prepare a full meal, the butler resigned himself to his fate. Steeling himself, he prepared a few cold cut sandwiches and placed them alongside a bottle of Rouge on a silver serving tray. Carrying them upstairs, he repeated his mantra in his head.

All he had to do was leave it outside the door. He didn’t have to see them. He didn’t have to hear them.

He hoped.

He breathed in deeply. He can do this.

He was a fantastic butler. So what if his employer was sleeping with his coworker? He can maintain decorum and -

“Look at yourself, chérie. See how beautiful you are when you’re taking my cock?” Comte’s voice drifted through the crack of the door.

Sebastian swallowed thickly.

Luck was not on his side today.

Sebastian didn’t fancy himself much of a voyeur, but-

He shook his head. No. He was not getting into those thoughts.

He quickly, but neatly, placed the tray outside the door. Standing up and straightening his bowtie, Sebastian retreated back to the safety of the kitchen, pointedly ignoring the tightness in his pants.

So what if he later purchased a smaller, floor-length standing mirror for his own personal use?

Dividers by @/natimiles

Taglist: @natimiles @queengiuliettafirstlady @candiedcoffeedrops @goddesswitchmother @candied-boys

@fang-and-feather @faustianfascination

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[dyssonant-skyline]

What happened with helluva boss season 2? I decided to pick it up and watch it since its free and I was curious about how the sins were handled. (This is a stream of consciousness rant, but I needed to get it all out.)

I thought the first season was okay, with some episodes being stronger than others, but holy shit it really is the Stolas show now. Striker is doing more assassin work than them. I actually got my hopes up for a mystery plus assassination plot in unhappy campers, shouldn't expect shit around here though.

I don't think I can say anything that hasn't already been said about Stolas. I don't like him. If his relationship with Blitzo was less coercive or less sexual I think I'd like him more? It is impossible to empathize with a guy who is using his power to force someone into sex.

I also felt a bit weird that the show would put something sexual in front of a child character and that was the entire joke.

Like, that's an audience of teens watching Millie and Moxie make out and I assume fuck. Gross, but also just not funny? I don't remember if these are the only instances of it, but two is still two too many imo.

I know I said I wasn't going to comment on vivziepop as a person, but knowing how she treats her staff... its impossible to not conflate her with Mammon. 2 Minute Notice feels like an anthem for her overworked underpaid staff.

I also have opinions on the way a circus and clowns are portrayed in the hellaverse, but I don't think I can really put them into words. I have a friend who is fixated on clowns and clown trivia and idk. After talking to them about different types of clowns most clown characters just ring hollow to me. Especially the fish twins, I don't care what anyone tells me they were NOT clowns.

I don't think I'll incorporate anything from helluva boss into my rewrite, Hellbound Hostel. But I did like a couple of things a lot!!!

Fizz is a pretty cool design and has a palette that is loud while also being appealing. If I ever drew non redesign fanart for these series it would be of him. I think it helps that the majority of his features tie to his backstory in some way. That being said, I'm not crazy about his relationship with Ozzie.

The little metal rings and filigree around angelic weapons is a neat design choice. Good visual storytelling and all.

That's about it... orz If anyone wants to talk abt it with me my askbox is open.

[kit-williams]

Beauty in the eye

Yandere Emperor's Children

This could be seen as an OC but I'm doing my best with this x reader (please someone tell me if it's working) ((or would it better to switch to you vs she))

tw: Yandere, nudity? body horror? dubious consent? Its slannesh time again, Emperor's children ((Also please let me know if I miss some I'm trying my best to warn ya'll ))

The moans that drifted around the room. The white marble against the gold filigree and royal purple fabrics. As men, women, and everything in between experienced the ecstasy of Slannesh. Palion Hiss ran his tongue against the exposed spine of one of his devotees. Their moans and shrieks of pain fluttered about his gallery as he was searching for a new piece.

Oh how bored he was with all the smooth shapes... the only thing that could stimulate his eyes were the way the silken fabrics would pool and wrinkle... the pulsing bloody forms of peeled flesh. The way thrown paint would chaotically splatter against the wall. It's all because he had gotten a new muse.

He tossed the devotee to the side ignoring the shriek of pain and the way they thrashed in agony. His eyes roamed over the undressed shapes before his muse walked in. Covered in a dark blue robe with a hood and wearing a white porcelain mask. He painted the red lips and applied the delicate blush.

He could see her eyes dart over the sea of bodies and shy away as one thrashing body gets too close. White gloves cover her hands... every inch of skin covered... he knew her feet were bare but the length of the robes.... hid it all from their eyes. Palion bit his bottom lip watching her eyes shy away from the more lurid acts going on in his gallery. It made his tongue tie knots on itself with how shy she would be.

She walked closer to his throne as she held a tray with food for him and drugs. Hmm he's sure he ordered that ages ago... no wonder he was bored he had been out of his muse's light for so long. How he watches, clawed fingers just idly playing with his long silver locks, her move closer and waits. He'd have to train her more... doesn't she realize that she can just walk up to him climb into his lap even he wants her to be his muse. A jerk of his chin as his eyes flick over to a cacophony of sounds for a moment as her voice is nearly drowned out by it. "Forgive my delay my lord... I was... um kept."

Palion felt his jaw tense. Did someone touch something that was his?! She was his muse, would one of his brothers dare even touch her. "Explain now." He said far too gruffly as he watched the tray start to shake.

"I had... I had to take the long way back. I don't know who they were but... they just were harassing me and trying to pull off my mask." Her meek voice sings to him of fear and shame.

"One of my brothers?" He sees her hesitate, his tongue rolls the drug laced food inside of his mouth. His muse experiences far many more luxuries than any of these drugged out devotees or playthings and one such luxury is her being allowed to hesitate, "Pretty little muse... you'll be safe with me. You just have to only move your head yes or no..." He watched her slowly nod. His hand gently grabbed her chin as he placed a chaste kiss on the porcelain forehead leaving a ghost of purple lipstick on the smooth material. "I'll take care of it... and of course you."

-----

Perfect bodies move all around you. Perfect breasts... waists that are attractive... muscles that run over the body... literally everyone in this room is a work of art. All in the throws of pleasure or pain. Perfect flesh being flayed from a body... the perfect face of pleasure as someone else is fucked dumb... even the ones you think have overdosed lay there looking perfect.

Your skin itches and buzzes as you feel so out of place... you're horribly imperfect as you stand besides Master Palion's throne as he eats and drinks with a bored look on his face. He looks so perfect... everything is perfect. You rapidly blink away the tears as you look down at the floor. You're still upset about earlier... about someone trying to touch your mask... trying to see your face. You're too ugly to be here!

"My muse?" You heard Palion's voice as your head snaps up in worry. Did you breathe too loudly? Did you let out a sad whimper? You can't stop the tremor of fear as he looks at you concerned. He has been a good master but he is in the depths of the Prince's embrace... you're use to masters like that being unpredictable... its how you had gotten disfigured.

"Master?" You whisper softly.

"EVERYONE GET THE FUCK OUT!" He suddenly snarls slamming his hands on the marble arms of the throne and you bow as you go to scurry off but he points at you muttering, "Stay."

It's quiet... saved for the dripping of blood and wine as you follow that perfect stride of his. The way his silver hair sways back and forth like a silken furred tail. You hate it here. You hate having Slanneshi masters... it makes you feel so hideous.

You whimper as your feet leave the bare marble floors and you find yourself sinking into a sea of plushness. Yet you know the bed is firm just you have your own little plush space on his bed. You hear the lock of the door as you roll over and hide your face into a pillow.

"My muse. Look at me." You shake your head at that request. You can picture his worried face... he's too pretty to look upset its why you can't look at him. "Why not?"

"I'm so hideous master! Why do you let me look at you!" You finally start to sob. The bed moves as you try to hide your face more but he calls you his little doll for a reason. He pulls your gloves off delicately... your flesh trembling under his touch as he rubs your left hand. You slap his perfect chest and try to get out of his grip. The blessed and damned mask on your face makes getting oxygen in for your temper tantrum hard. Your robes are the next thing to go.

His hands move over your left side no mater how hard you try to slap his hands away as you shriek at him to stop. You sob as he moans and kisses your ruined flesh. His long forked dark purple tongue works its way into the spider web patterning of your burned flesh. You can feel his hard cock against you and being the brat that you feel like right now you kick it hard.

He moans in rapturous delight as the heel of your foot dug into the sensitive flesh. "My beloved muse... let me see your face!" He moans as you just sob and cover your eyes not being able to handle the way he looks at you. You cry more as he crawls over you, rutting against you, "Mmmm feel what you do to me. Let me see your face my muse! I know you've locked away your beauty... I am but a groveling mortal unable to handle basking in your grace all the time... but please let me just gaze upon your beauty. Let my muse grace me with her smile... let her grace me with her beauty!" He sings to you as you sniffle under him.

When you gently press against his chest he moves back watching with such reverence as you sit up and just gently touch your mask. "I can't... I'm so hideous." You sob out.

"Then let me take it off of you my goddess. " He all but moans out as you sit there and nod. The manic reverent look in his eyes makes you squirm as he pulls the mask away. The entire left side of your face... acid and flames burnt your skin... most of your left arm... your left breast... lucky for you your leg was spared but you have been burnt. Your left eyelid droops slightly as you look at the perfect angel... you run a hand over the bald spots on the left half of your scalp and the sad patches of hair that try to grow through the ruined skin.

You avert your gaze feeling embarrassed at the way he goes to touch himself... lewdly moaning as he pleasures himself to you simply sitting there. It doesn't take too long before you feel warmth spray against your skin as he paints patches of your skin white. "Stop... please stop." You sob.

"Why?"

"I'm hideous."

"If you think that... " He says pushing you onto your back as he looms over you and his eyes glow a purplish-pink from this angle. "It means I haven't worshiped you enough recently. Oh my poor little muse no wonder you weren't having fun at the party or trying to distract me. I can tell you're feeling self conscious. Let me worship you. Not anyone gets my cum little muse. And I have so much to give you. So... will you let me worship you?"

You feel your breath shutter at the intensity of his gaze just like the first time you two met... you whimper softly, "Yes." You say and wrap your arms around his neck as he greedily goes for a kiss... and the hours- no days blend together as he worships you.

[be-my-ally]

The Lisa-Marie

Big Bunny + The Return Flight (in case you want to catch up!)

Warnings: 18+, exhibitionism (public rehearsal, but no-one else is watching/or sees), elvis is a panty thief for no reason other than it’s now totally canon in my head that he continually stole knickers, fingering, mentions of drug use + abuse, oral (v receiving, p mentioned), jealousy, p in v sex, the briefest mention of a gun threat, references to elvis’ ill health. this is somehow the least-bunny fun + plottiest, while also the smuttiest so uhhh enjoy the angst at the end?

Director Elvis is linked where the scene goes in the middle of this, however there have been some minor adjustments to the opening + closing paragraphs to make it fit *just right* and so they’ve been inserted here. 

wc: 12k

Pls forgive me for the longest author note ever:

I went waaaay too far into attempting to make the timeline totally accurate; to the extent that I was noting down what city each night when i wasn’t even referencing them but honestly it was stressing me out so much that I gave up and removed a lot of the references - so this is *mostly* accurate in the general tour dates and vibes but not entirely because … this isn’t a biography, it’s smut with a lil teeny weeny bit of plot. 

Confession time! I was and am super unhappy with The Return Flight, there was so much in it that I was excited to share but I think my writing is off and I’m not super sure why, which affected my motivation for this A LOT so apologies for the fact this took a literal months. But hopefully you’ll all think it was worth it! And hopefully a lesser wait for the fourth and final part. 

Anyway, I might return Elvis onto the Big Bunny plane for a little spin-off fun but for now, enjoy bunny still being referred to as Bunny even though, by half-way through this, she is no longer a bunny. 

October 1974. 

You’re awake before him, gently shaking his shoulder as he groaned into the fur comforter that he didn’t want to wake up yet. He eventually shoves you hard enough that you decide it’s probably safer just to leave him as he is, pulling yourself together and redressing instead - he’s still got his eyes closed when you slip out. Ten minutes later you get a note passed to you with details about where to meet them for the pre-show rehearsal but you don’t actually get the chance to see him again, too distracted with dealing with all the matters of the disembarkation and cleaning. After you’re done you change as quickly as you possibly can, ignoring the questions from the other girls about where you’re going - practically sprinting to catch a cab.

He’s already on the stage when you walk in, pacing about - blocking the show as best they can in preparation to allow for the lights crew to have some idea of where he might be at any moment. He looks marvellous - absolutely gorgeous, his hair back but essentially left to do what it likes, all fluffy and soft looking. Eyes bright underneath his tinted glasses. He’s dressed in a white shirt, cuffs like a pirate, damp see-through sweat patches evident when he raises his arms, filigree studded belt, huge against his stomach, blue stones glinting in the lights. You feel your mouth water and tummy start to flip just at the sight of him. He smiles when he sees you, with your tiny little halter dress on, chilly in the cold air of the auditorium at the venue. The breeze causes you to wrap an arm around yourself a little self-consciously as he waves you closer to the stage. You're practically leaning on the edge when he kneels down in front of you and you get a sudden flash of what it must feel like to be a girl at his concert. Someone who hadn't had the luxury of falling asleep beside him, or the feel of his palms against theirs. The feeling of being forced to look up at him, his head backlit by the lights, a halo like he's the goddamn messiah. That feeling of desperately pining for a single moment of his attention. 

“Ah-ha! lil Bun-Bun! C’mon up here,” He puts an arm down before retracting it, looking you over more carefully, a note of stern shock in his tone,

 “Good lord! That might be more r’vealing than your lil bunny get-up. Uh - here!” He gropes around the floor for his jacket before he thrusts it at you, and you look at it with amusement, it’s a rainbow. Rainbow fringe. It’s truly one of the most preposterous things you’ve ever seen in your life. He grumbles as he holds it out, 

“Don’t need every man in here to be starin’ at you. Got work to do - don’t need ‘em bein’ distracted.” You don’t think you’re particularly scantily clad, you’re certainly showing a fair amount of leg but you’re far more covered up than Playboy enterprises would like you to be had you been on shift. But still, it was chilly, so you shrug it on gratefully. The soft leather caresses your arms, encasing you in his thick scent, it’s heavy on your shoulders and big enough that the fringe tassel tickles your thigh. 

“Uh Hi, Where-“ You wonder if you should even ask, “Where’d this come from?” You shake your arms out, making the fringe dance. 

“Oh - it was a gift,” He grins at you, lips all crooked in his sheer delight, “You like it?” He clearly loves it. So you lean into the absurdity and realise that what you’re about to say wasn’t even really a lie. 

“Uh. You know what, yeah I do,” You giggle as you shimmy a little making the strands swing. “I love it.” He looks at you fondly before he leans over the edge of the stage, tugging you up with a grunt. 

“Glad you could make it doll, been waiting for you.” You smile back at him, pleased as anything that he’s laying on the charm but that underneath you can still sense the sincerity in his voice. 

“Thank you for inviting me.” He pulls you close to him and you brace yourself with a hand on his belt, feeling the weight of the buckle against your fingertips. He reaches down to grasp your hand, pulling it up to press a kiss against it. It’s intimate and gentlemanly and you feel like you’re in a period drama, feeling your chest heave as your breath catches in your throat at the movement, and you’re helpless to do anything but gaze into his eyes. You glance down, eyes catching on the wide white band on his wrist, just above his diamond encrusted ‘Elvis’ bracelet. 

You stroke his wrist gently before looking up at him with a questioning brow raised. He kicks his foot out to show you that beneath his gently flaring trousers there’s a matching white band on each of his ankles. 

“It, uh, it mimics the weight of the ‘suit, gets me used to it for the performing.” He flicks a wrist, “And, uh, gotta try and get some of this weight off.” He pats his stomach, gripping the side harshly, “No-one wants to see a big doughy ol’ Elvis.” He shakes his wrists at you, and you’re mortified at the fact that it makes you squeeze your thighs, drool pooling in your mouth forcing you to swallow hard. Something about the way the rings on his fingers glint under the stage lights, the way the buckle makes the tiniest little metallic clang, feels akin to being shown a hidden sliver of skin. Makes you think all sorts of things. Of the weight of them around his wrists, of the possibility of them around yours, weighing you down, wrapped around your ankles too, making you heavy and pliable. Or his belt around your middle, the huge buckle pinning you in whatever position he chose. You don’t realise how low your eyelids have slid at this line of thinking until he laughs, 

“God - you got them dirty thoughts written all over your face Bunny, this is a respectable r’hearsal, don’t you go getting any ideas now.” He wags a finger at you, you feel like you’re being hypnotised watching it.

“Go on now - hop over there for me, sit yourself down, just watch the show baby.” He slaps your ass, causing you to yelp as he catches your bare thigh, while he grips your upper arm and ‘helps’ to lower you down gently, almost missing his huff of laughter in response. You have to take a second after you're on the ground forcing a deep breath feeling your heartbeat between your thighs. 

You take a seat where he’d pointed, content to try and settle down and watch him practice. It’s gorgeous to watch, he struts about the stage, breaking into gospel every now and again, making you smile at the clear little flashes of joy on his face. You’d considered if it was going to be boring, contemplated even bringing a magazine with you but now you were here you can’t imagine being able to concentrate on anything but him.  Every now and again he cracks a joke, changing the lyrics to something dirty and tossing you a wink, laughing back at the boys who all join in like a pack of wild hyenas. It’s different to how he is in private, yet shockingly the same - there’s flashes of the insecurity you caught on the last flight, a quietness to him while he waits for a song to be set up or a wire to be fixed. But also an exaggerated boyishness to him, playing the jester for men who don’t seem to be aware he’s putting it on.

He calls a break after you’ve been there about an hour, and he slides himself off the stage to walk over to you. You were going to try and play it cool but you can’t stop yourself from gushing at him; 

“You sound wonderful. I can’t wait to see the show tonight.” He smiles, a little bashfully, 

“Yeah? I can see you wigglin’ your yittle hips from all the way over there,” He narrows his eyes at you, crinkles forming as his high cheekbones move, “ ‘just wonderful’, ‘s that all I am?”  

“Well you’re not - ” You squirm a little under his line of questioning and consistent stare, suddenly feeling a bit too hot in his jacket, “- not bad to look at. You’re so different out here than on the plane.” 

“In a good way?” You hum back a non-committal noise and though his brow wrinkles a little he lets it go. Instead leaning back on the chair in front of you, feet crossing between your legs. He folds his arms across his chest, your eyes track the bands on his wrists again and when you look up he’s smirking at you watching him. You can’t take it any longer and his smile grows wider watching you shrug his jacket back off, letting it hang over the back of the chair, fringe tickling your arms as it falls, 

“Let’s make this more interesting for you huh, must be boring having to wait for all this - ‘n I can see you’re all fired up for me doll.” You look around, but he’s blocking your view forcing you to focus on him even more, as if he wasn’t already the only thing you could see. 

“Oh no, it’s plenty fascinating enough El honestly,” He shakes his head, magnanimously as if he’s doing you a favour, 

“No, no, must be boring for an exciting lil girl like you.” He taps his chin almost pantomime-esque in its overdramatic nature. 

“Hmm… what shall we do to keep it entertaining.” You squirm silently begging him to stop drawing your attention to his wrists. He bends down, unstrapping the weights from his ankles, 

“They’re gonna be a bit big on you. But still,” He kneels down, like he’s the prince and you’re Cinderella, tapping your foot to make you lift it up for him. He slips it onto your ankle, letting it fall down over the top of your foot as the weight drags it down. You wiggle your foot - it’s not particularly heavy, you could definitely still walk and run in them - as was probably their intended use. But they made you feel very … aware, made you notice whenever you wanted to move your leg. He grabs your right leg now, doing the same, placing it back down when he was finished, your legs wide. You glance down at him, realising that your dress was certainly too short for this. You try to close your legs but he stops you with a hand to your knee. 

“No, no, darlin’, leave ‘em where they are. That’s gonna be your job ok baby? You’re gonna keep these yittle legs spread, and when you try to wiggle around again these-“ He taps one of the weights “ ‘ll remind you to keep still.” You hiss back at him, 

“Elvis - someone’s gonna, you gotta get up - they’re all gonna think we’re up to no good, don’t want - I don’t wanna get you in trouble.” He grins up from between your legs, spreading them further. You cringe a little, feeling the air now brush against your uncovered underwear, feel your wetness start to drool onto the fabric despite the embarrassment. 

“Ain’t gonna be no trouble ‘round here little one. ‘Member I’m in charge.” He takes a second to leer at you, and your thighs twitch at him staring straight up your skirt. Finally, he stands up, using your thighs for balance, clutching at them on his way up, you gasp at the firm grip. He leans down over you, one arm bracketed on the back of your chair, and the sudden scent of him, stronger than what was lingering on his jacket almost overpowers you - his cologne almost too much, like walking past a men’s locker room. He leans down to murmur in your ear, his other hand going down to brush against your hip, feeling through your dress for the waistband of your panties.  

“C’mon Bunny slip ‘em off, let me have ‘em as a good luck charm. I haven’t got any of yours yet.” Your legs slip a little closer together and while he looks down and smirks he allows it, 

“You got a collection?” You ask shocked, tilting your chin up at him, he grins back at you, boyishly and amused ignoring the question. 

“C’mon! Hurry up, gotta get back to work in a second baby, want you all bare - so its nice and easy for you to slip a lil hand up there, want you to rub yerself every time you like what ‘m doin, ‘till you’re all silly with it. Okay doll?” He says it like its a totally sane request, and you have to wonder if he’s of completely sound mind. You glance around, double checking that the building is practically empty, and where there are people that they’re all preoccupied with the stage rather than glancing back at you sat in the middle of the row a few lines behind the mafia. You roll your eyes, heart going almost a little too fast, but still obediently lift your hips up to tug your panties down and off, they catch on the weight on the way down, 

“No need to be shy doll, I’ve seen it all before.” He winks, as he bends down to pick them up, glancing straight up your skirt as he does. You flinch a little at the sight of them in his hand, if you’d known Elvis was gonna be taking them home you’d have put on something a little sexier, but you can’t imagine that any change could have made his face more gleeful, as he stares down at the wet spot on them before slipping them straight into his pocket.

 “You ‘member what you’re meant to be doin’ now.” He whispers in your ear, pressing what would look like an otherwise fairly chaste kiss to your cheek, before sauntering back up to the stage.

 You nervously fumble the hem of your dress, delicately sliding a hand up, trying not to noticeably flinch as your fingers brush over yourself. You wonder if it wouldn’t have made more sense to slip your arm down the side of the wide arm-hole of the dress, more subtle perhaps? But all you can hope is that the the way the chairs are placed in front of you obscures your actions should anyone look back. From anyone that wasn’t up high on the stage. You can practically feel his laser focus up your skirt, you’re far enough away that you’re sure he can’t see anything in detail, perhaps not even the way your slickness glistens against your skin, but just the gentle motion of your fingers teasing yourself. There’s a clang as the metal inside the cuff on your ankle knocks against the chair leg and you freeze, anxiously glancing around to check no one had heard. Elvis’ head had whirled around at the noise from where he’s been talking to someone at the side of the stage and you can see the way his face contorts into a knowing smirk. 

You didn’t think you’d be into this level of wanton exhibitionism, but the sudden fear that had jumped through you had translated straight into excitement, and you could feel the pulse of arousal swirling with the butterflies in your stomach. You brush your fingers more confidently, rolling your hips with the motion, not even really aware of how much your body was moving, but simply going with it. Your eyes briefly slip closed as you rub a singular finger down your self, trying to build the anticipation, but you can’t resist moving your hand to play with your clit when your vision clears and you witness him moving about the stage - dancing, thrusting. He pauses while they reset something - the mic perhaps, or the lights, and you can feel the thrum of your climax growing; the fear of being spotted, the sheer desire for him, the feel of your feet firmly planted on the floor, weights holding them down, enough to bring you closer and closer. 

He starts singing again but if someone had had a gun to your head though you wouldn’t have been able to tell them what, and as you start to move your fingers again you make eye contact with him, swallowing a moan as you watch him attempt to surreptitiously adjust himself. You should feel embarrassed, you think, but instead a sudden boldness creeps over you at the evidence of his undivided attention, and you instead spread your legs wider, your skirt riding into the little roll of your stomach, completely exposing yourself. You run your fingers against yourself, feeling them slip as you gather wetness and drag it up, reducing the friction on your clit when you finally let your finger brush over it again. 

Elvis is stood still now, ostensibly staying put so they could manually hold the lights for him to sing a ballad, but in reality in the perfect position to watch you. You watch his face flush as he misses a note, watching you finally dip your finger into your practically dripping entrance. You’re made away of the weight on your feet when your legs try to jerk and your body compensates by crunching in on yourself a little. Making it startlingly obvious to anyone watching, hopefully just Elvis, what you’ve just done. 

You let his voice wash over you, and your eyes close as you go to add a second finger, thumb moving to tease your clit with little circling touches. Your climax comes over you suddenly and unexpectedly, a slightly unplanned harder touch directly over your clitoris and the combination of your fingers curling inside yourself sending shockwaves down your spine and belly. You continue to touch yourself through it - dragging it out for a moment. Until you just know that if you push yourself any further you’re going to scream and you have to slow the pace, gently stroking yourself as you slowly come down from the high. Your head had fallen back and with a little effort you manage to bring it back around, shifting yourself upright as you do. 

When you make eye contact he winks, mimics licking his fingers, and you look down at your own sticky pair, before following his mimed instruction. You meet his eyes again and watch him trail off mid-sentence as his chest heaves taking you in, squinting under his glasses to try and focus on your fingers leaving your mouth. You make sure for a second that you let your tongue peek out, watching him gulp in response.  Before hastily rubbing your hand against your dress, thankful for the colourful pattern that hides all sin. He sets the microphone back onto its stand, slowly, deliberately. Then, he motions you to the stage, and when you make no attempt to move, fear shooting through you that you’re going to be leaving a wet patch behind, he makes the request vocal. 

“C’mere Bunny, can’t see you all the way over there.” You rapidly close your legs, weights knocking against each other, and sit stock straight as several of the boy’s heads spin to look at you. Elvis breaks into song, “C’mon and be my little good luck charm.”  While pointing to a spot in the front row. You swallow hard, trying to make your limbs cooperate again, but it just looks like pure defiance, and he’s frowning at you when you try to plead with your eyes. 

His tone changes, “Ain’t gonna ask again honey,” You flinch as several other heads in front of you turn around to stare. You trip a little as you stand, forgetting about the extra weight on your ankles and when you look up Elvis’ smirking straight at you. 

“Can take them off now baby, leave ‘em on the chair, someone’ll clean it up later.” He winks and you suck in a gasp as you do as he directed, the implication of someone having to clean up both the weights and the seat of the chair. You can feel the heat in your cheeks at the complete lack of secrecy, with your mind all muddled you don’t have the capacity to consider that the other people in the room wouldn’t understand the double entendre. 

 “There we are, right there Bunny,” He points at the same spot again and you gratefully stumble down there, collapsing into it. You can feel your cheeks blazing and you clasp your thighs together, trying to tell yourself to just watch Elvis and not pay any attention to how wet you still are, or the embarrassment of being ordered around in front of everyone. 

You sit there primly, for the rest of the rehearsal, ignoring your newfound nakedness under your skirt - unable to draw your eyes off of his wrists, his waist, now you know how those innocuous little white bands feel. Waiting to be dismissed, sent home - although you hope that you might get another invitation. He finishes, stripping off the weights as he’s laughing and thanking the sound guys - although shouting back at them as he stalks across the stage to where you’re sat to the side of the front row.

“That interference needs to be cut by tonight, it’s messin’ with my ears, I don’t care if you have to go out and buy a whole new fucking system - just get it done.” Despite his harsh words by the time he’s kneeling in front of you he’s smiling slightly bashfully. His eyes crinkling at the edges as he mutters to you - 

“Don’t know why I keep ‘em around.” He offers you his hand, pulling with his suddenly weightless feeling arms to yank you up with him, clearly overcompensating without the weight, causing you to stumble with the force of it. His arm comes around to steady your waist. He stands there, legs spread and solid, holding you to him, brushing your hair off your neck to whisper in your ear. 

“Wanna come back with me, honey? C’mon baby,” He’s pleading with you, entreating you to follow him, babying tone convincing you as if you even needed encouragement. “How - How’d you feel about, I got some things we could watch, we could, could - I sure would love to tape ya, baby.” You lean back, brow furrowing as your mind runs through what he’s suggesting. 

(Director Elvis + Model Bunny)

But still, after some consideration you agree, and before long you’re relaxing on the bed with him, taking in the moments of quiet before he’s got to head out into the screaming crowds, performing for the pleasure of the girls and women. He’s magnificent in the flesh, masterful in his ability to command the ultimate attention of the audience. But still, as wonderful as it is to watch him, rhinestones glinting in the stage lights, you have to admit to yourself that you much preferred him in the somewhat faux intimacy of the rehearsal. 

By the time you’re all filing up the steps to the plane once more it’s night again, looking forward to a short day-break for you all after the busy past couple of days. Elvis is exhausted, and though he’s gentle with you still you can tell he’s had enough. He wearily waves to the other girls, calling you over to ask for some food before disappearing.  You push the cart into where he’s ensconced himself in the bedroom to discover him in the bathroom - door open, and you can’t help but take a peek. Your eyes catch on the little pill bottles lined up on the side, the man himself shaking seemingly every bottle possible into his palm until there was a little cocktail of medication contained in his hand. He takes them with a swig of water and jumps when he makes eye contact with you in the mirror. 

“Jeez honey, make a noise next time.” His tone isn’t harsh, it’s not annoyed - but it is solid, serious. You frown, the floor was carpeted but the rickety wheels of the cart still made some noise. 

“Oh, uh, sorry - didn’t mean to scare you.” You laugh a little bit in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. He doesn’t respond. “Uh, I’ve got, there’s hamburgers, and sandwiches and uh-“ He’s wiping his hands on a hand towel when he comes out of the bathroom, throwing it back onto the floor behind him when they’re dry. 

“S’ok Bunny, that’s good. Just-just leave it over here.” He sits on the edge of the bed, pointing to a spot within arm’s reach. He’s in the tracksuit again, out of the jumpsuit from the show, out of the the sharp outfits you were now used to seeing him in. But he still looks appealing, if not moreso now. Soft, approachable and above all else - cuddly. He’s evidently exhausted, face pale after removing the stage makeup, and he shuffles back on the bed. He’s starting to slur his words a little as he reaches for a sandwich, 

“Come. Come sit here baby… come sit here with me.” He pats the side of the bed next to him as he shuffles further up. You do so and he tucks a hand into the crease of your stomach and thigh, thumb brushing in circles, a gently squeezing grip. 

“Here.” He holds out a sandwich for you and you take it gratefully, “Gotta…feed you up while I got the chance.” His head is starting to slip forward as his eyes fall closed. You pat his arm, leaning over to take the parchment out of his hand. He grips your wrist, forcing you to put your sandwich down too as he slides down the bed to lie down, tugging you into him. 

“S’ok El, just, just close your eyes. You did so good today.” He hums, a little pleased noise like he’s somehow not used to being praised still. He pulls you closer, arm wrapping under and around you, pulling you tight to him. 

“That’s it Bunny, that’s it, just - just gonna rest my eyes for a moment, doll. Be…be ready for action in a mo’ - just, ju-“ You shush him, his eyes were fluttering closed, arm clenching around you and you felt it relax a second later as he drops off into sleep. 

There’s a few more flights scheduled, but they’re busy ones - short flights with barely enough time to get the men fed and watered, let alone enjoy any other kind of extracurricular activities - there’s a hasty blowjob and an attempt for the world’s quickest round of intercourse and that’s it.

There’s a break for a little while before he cancels the next flight on Big Bunny so you only see him once more, and that time he barely acknowledges you; exhausted from a show he locks himself in the bedroom and doesn’t appear until the plane is touching down. You wave goodbye to him, a little melancholy and hating yourself for wishing that he make some grand gesture to prove it had all meant something, instead he winks at you as he leaves down the steps, whispering a

“Thanks for takin’ such good care of me, Bunny.” As he went. 

That’s the last you hear from him. For little over six months you hear nothing else. You’re almost immediately thrust back into the reality of the normal world and you’re kept busy enough that he doesn’t pass through your mind too often. 

Occasionally, when you see a tour announcement pop up in the tabloids, or from a fan-club membership that you totally didn’t take out in a pitiful attempt to keep up-to-date with his life, you wonder about him. About whether you were a bit of fun to flirt with, to tease, to sleep with for a couple of days - a distraction from the real life, like all the bunnies were intended to be, or if he’d meant any of what he’d said. The thing is, even if you were curious, you could never know - despite being so intimate, so close to him; had he lied? Did he help every girl through a panic attack with meditation? There no longer felt like six degrees of separation between you, no longer like you were travelling in similar circles, there now felt more like a hundred degrees; what were you supposed to do; ring the operator in Memphis and ask for Elvis’ number? Pull Hef aside on the next flight and ask him? Don’t be so ridiculous, so clingy you tell yourself, disgusted at your inability to let it go. 

Time passes, as it does, and though you somehow feel like you can’t escape him, ultimately you have. Months have passed and you’re busy - being promised a promotion, training a couple of new girls and it means that you don’t get to go home for what feels like weeks.

 You finally get back to your apartment, relieved to be there for at least a week, with a stack of mail waiting as tall as your arm. You take your time enjoying the peace and by the evening it feels like you can relax for the first time in a long while, glass of wine poured, comfortable little short pyjama set instead of the bunny-approved corset or dress. You’re just starting to open the first of what looks like several catalogues of clothes you’ll never get a chance to wear when the phone rings. 

You glance over at the clock, surprised that anyone would be calling you at half eleven at night, when as far as you’re aware none of your friends or family even know you’re home yet. You consider not answering, too content with your night, but it rings insistently so you drag the handset closer, accepting the call. 

“Fuckin’ finally,” You’re immediately taken aback by the annoyed exasperation of the voice on the other end of the line, 

“Where’ve you been?” You start to protest, to question who on earth is questioning you and explain that you’ve been working but the voice doesn’t give you the chance. 

“Listen, Boss’ got a new plane, he’s uh, calling it the Lisa-Marie,” he shouts to someone on his end, “I don’t know man, thought it would sweeten the deal if she knew he’d already named it! Like - ain’t that what you’re supposed to do if you’re negotiatin’ - let ‘em know you have a name?” Right. So, Elvis. Someone is calling about Elvis’ plane. You’re trying to comprehend that when he continues,

 “Sorry. Anyway, he wants you on it. He won’t hear otherwise.” He pauses, “Permanently. On call whenever and wherever he needs to fly,” As if he can sense this isn’t the most attractive prospect, “but you’ll uh, all expenses paid for, apartment in Memphis, the whole shebang, you’ll be well taken care of.” You take a second to process that, 

“Uh, I don’t quite know what to say - do, do you need to know right away?” He chuckles down the phone at you, 

“Well - uh, no, but, he’s goin’ on tour soon and we need the flights staffed by then so….” He trails off, and you know from your limited experience with Elvis and his methods that this means, actually yes, we do need to know right now, and we’re not actually giving you a choice. You take a deep breath, still confused as to why you’re getting this call out of the blue, thinking that you’re going to regret it if you do, regret it if you don’t. 

“Oh, uh, ok fine - look I’ll be at one of the offices tomorrow; I’ll give you a call and you can fax me over the information for the dates and things?” 

“No need, we need you by July.” You pause, that’s… barely a month away, 

“Ok, I’ve got a three week notice period though, I can’t just -” 

“We’ll take care of it with Hugh direct.” You laugh incredulously - is that how they think it works? 

“Hugh Hefner isn’t my boss - how high up do you think I am? I’m a jet bunny for god's sake.” There’s silence on the other end of the line as if they'd expected you to feel cowed, or awed by their famous friend. You can hear them whispering before the voice returns, just as confident as before; 

“Well, we’ll take care of it.” You frown but you’re not sure what else to do but agree - at least this way of something falls through you can claim you had no clue about any of this. 

“Ok, but you’ll have to ask for Ellen at the office and I’ve got a notice of -“ You’re cut off by him, 

“We’ll make it happen.” Well, you couldn’t say more than what you’d said - you’ll just have to hope they do enough that it all gets sorted somehow, and without totally burning all your bridges. 

“Right, well then, -” 

“Tickets for your flight on the 26th June to Memphis will be waiting at the airport. Someone’ll pick you up there.” 

“Uh ok, um, well then that’s -” 

“Thanks again, you’re a doll, bye!” The phone hangs up and you’re left holding the receiver wondering what on earth you’ve just agreed to. 

—— 

It turns out you’ve agreed to a stewardess job pretty similar to any other. You’ve got a cute new little uniform, and it was indeed little, sleeveless and hem skimming the middle of your thighs but Elvis had indeed fulfilled his promise - it was stretchy. With a scarf around your neck and tall boots it almost didn’t feel much different to your bunny outfits. In fact it all would have felt quite similar if it weren’t for the sudden increase in responsibility you were facing. There was another girl who worked on board here and there, but whether as a cost-saving measure (although you couldn’t fathom the necessity considering the gold sinks on the plane) or simply the knowledge that one stewardess and the pilots were enough for a plane of this size you weren’t often put on the plane together. It meant that you were often working alone and solely responsible for the cabin. It was certainly an adjustment, you’d been safety trained before - of course - but you’d never really had to use it; the focus of your jet bunny role had pretty much been to cater to the whims of the people on board. Like a Barbie doll you’d had too many jobs to count, and the responsibility to look good while doing so. On the plane you’d had to be waitresses, dancers, chefs and bartenders but less so a safety officer. 

And it’s so strange, you’d not been expecting much but you had been anticipating at least an acknowledgement, or something? But instead on the first flight Elvis collapses in a seat, clearly out of his mind and ignores you completely, There’s this, somewhat odd, hierarchy evident and you somehow just know that you shouldn’t approach him like this - trusting that his needs are being catered for by his entourage. But you can’t help but glance over at him, inspecting that he looks paler than before - almost sallow-like in comparison to the fit tan of the first time you’d seen him in the flesh. So you do your job, and see them on and off the plane with nary a word exchanged between the two of you. 

You fall into this habit pretty quickly, flight after flight. When he’s awake his eyes skim over you, unfocused and never stopping for long. You hate yourself for how upset it makes you, he hadn’t owed you anything and yet you still feel like you’d signed up for something under false pretences. It keeps you up at night, wondering how you could have been so stupid - you’d given up a stable salary, a life and an exciting one at that, for this - for him. With every month that passes you’re more and more aware that you’re creeping towards your next birthday and the chance to return to Playboy in any capacity is dwindling. They aren’t shy about declaring there’s an age limit. You feel like you’re trapped, in a never-ending cycle - flight, sort the plane while they’re at a concert, flight, fitful sleep in a hotel, flight, flight, flight. 

But then, like magic, two weeks before your birthday - two weeks before the deadline you’d come up with in your head to quit he notices you. He’d been looking better for a few days, on an upward swing or so it would seem, and seems significantly more aware than he had been.  He almost does a double-take, as if seeing you for the first time. It’s then that, suddenly, Georgia - the other girl, starts to come on board with you a lot more frequently - taking care of the other guys while Elvis not so surreptitiously pulls you into his excessively decorated bedroom.

It’s not the first time you’ve been in there, you clean the damn place after all, but it’s the first time that you’re able to look at it with fresh eyes, through the lens of the awe of a girl being invited back there as a guest. You feel the bend of the fibres of the plush carpet underfoot, against the smooth sole of your boot. 

He sits down, patting his thigh, “Give me your lil footsie baby, them little footsie sooties, put ‘em up here.” You look at him slightly askance, fondly, but still do as he asks, putting first one foot up on his lap, letting him unzip your boot, tugging it off and then your other one when he taps your ankle. He looks up at you, as he holds onto your foot, and you know you’re both getting flashbacks to that first flight, when he’d tugged your heels off, got caught in your pantyhose, the joy of that first time. He grips your wrist, forcing you to kneel onto and then shuffle across the bed as he tugs you while sliding back himself.  Pulling you're both placed far enough to the headboard that he sinks down into a lying position and drags you down with him. 

“Elvis - I, I, I don’t know what -“ 

“Shhh baby, don’t worry about anything, just, just feel it with me - you feel that?” He shifts to hold your hand, “Feel that energy? ‘S right between us darlin’ girl, right there.” You’re not really sure what he’s talking about, but you had been feeling the thrum of a connection, willing him to pick up on your silent desires, so you can’t deny a strength of feeling there. 

“I feel it.” He hums at you, happily, still holding onto your hand, threading his fingers through yours and pressing his nose against your cheek. He nuzzles at you for a moment, starting off gentle and slow, before rolling you into him and catching your mouth with his. He’s sure of himself, pressing himself skilfully against you - you’re more than aware that this is a skill he’s nurtured, learnt - been judged upon, almost as much as his singing and it shows, it feels no different to the first time you’d kissed. A masterclass in the right moves, just the right amount of bite, just the right amount of tongue, and it makes you buck into him. You’re suddenly desperate for him to break out of the cultured practiced mould, feel him lose control and slip. You gasp, trying to provoke it in him, biting down on his lip a fraction too hard. He shifts his grip to your neck, clutching it to pull you back a little, 

“Careful, honey, careful.” You can feel his lips move against your skin as he murmurs and it makes you shiver a little at the tickle of his breath. He kisses across your jaw, little sucking presses, before he returns once again to your mouth. 

It’s hard not to assign more feeling or meaning to it than what it is, when he seems to do everything with such feeling. Not for the first time you wonder how it would be possible to be kissed at a concert and then have to continue to go about your life, acting as if nothing huge had happened, as if something totally earth-shattering hadn’t taken place. But then, you imagine, it’s probably not that different to what you have to do. 

He pulls back a little, pushing himself up to be more on his knees than lying back, before he slips a hand down between you, pushing underneath your dress to pull at your panties, rubbing a finger on the outside. He pushes them against your folds, circling with his finger until a little damp patch is forming where he’s touching. He pulls them to one side, shimmying his hand underneath, a ring knocking against your thigh and catching on the fabric and your hair as he cups your mound. You reach a hand down yourself, brushing it over his trousers, but you’re slightly surprised to feel him still soft inside. He jerks his hand off of you, gripping your leg instead, shoving your hand away with his other. 

You pat his face as it peers over the top of you, the creases in the corners of his eyes a little scrunched up in disappointment and his lips in a slight pout; as if he were trying to stop himself being upset.

“‘S ok El, You’ve still gotta perform tonight too -“ You go to tug your dress back down assuming there was no need for you to remain bare but his hand flies out, gripping your forearm and pushing it against your stomach.

“Take it all the way off,” You look nervously over at the unlocked bedroom door but obediently wiggle down a little, as best you can with his arm still locked over top of you to slither out of the dress. He shifts back down into a horizontal position, sliding himself further down, shirt crumpling with the motion, before gripping you with one hand on an arm and one on a leg, to hint at where he wants you to move to, tugging you until you’re in position, straddling him.

“El - seriously, I don’t think, it’s fine, it happens all the time it’s noth-“ He cuts you off by sharply pulling, with hands gripping right on your hipbones, you closer to him - forcing you to stumble on your knees even further up his body. 

“‘Nough of that.” In that wonderful growly voice only he seems able to achieve, he lifts his chin up to press a kiss against your inner thigh. “Can still, still make you feel good Bunny, baby. Still make that pretty yittle cunt o’ yours feel good.” He yanks you so you’re perfectly placed, hands gripping the navy velvet headboard to hold yourself steady. “Just gonna have a lil taste, ok darling? Just needta give me a little more time. Let, let it kick in.” You nod frantically, although you’re not 100% certain what you’ve got to let ‘kick in’. 

“Yes, god, yes. Sure.” The kiss, and his brief touches had been enough to turn you on, and you jerk as he holds your thighs to press a kiss against your now bare cunt, 

“Oh, fuck.” Elvis laughs against you, and you can feel the vibration up your spine, thetickle sending sparks straight into your stomach. The sheer level of arousal makes you feel almost a little nauseous but you’re distracted by the feel of his tongue moving again, holding you tight to him with his grip on your thigh when the feeling makes you try to thrust out of his hold.  You can feel twin bruises form from the thick bands of the ring on each of his hands and the twinge of pain when he lifts the pressure makes you gasp, 

“Oh, Christ - Elvis, need, need you to,” You’re not sure if you were planning on asking him to let go, or hold you tighter - but you’re distracted by him shifting to suck down directly on your clit, briefly, just enough to make you choke on your own spit, before he releases, flattening his tongue and moving it down. Every time you clench or move you can feel his fingers digging tighter in and you can’t help but move, grinding onto his mouth and against his tongue. He pulls away, and you shift your hips slightly so you can look down at him, and your head tips back with a moan as he quirks a little grin at you. It’s utterly filthy the way his chin and mouth is glisteningly sticky and wet.

“You like that honey?” You nod, and he returns, surging forward to renew his efforts, your hips circling in response. 

“Oh god, yes, don’t, oh, holy fuck, - don’t stop,” You can’t stop moving your hips, and part of you is briefly concerned that you might be suffocating him, but the larger part is more concerned with making sure he keeps licking right there until your building climax hits. His tongue is flicks between lapping at your vagina and your inner folds. Your hips are constantly moving and you grip the headboard even harder, feeling the fabric pile shift and flatten under your hold as he finally captures your little puffy clit in his lips again and sucks hard, reaching up to slip a finger inside you as he does. 

Your lower back is starting to ache, thighs beginning to cramp but you can’t think about that, reaching down with one hand to comb through his hair, clutching at it as you thrust up and back, finally your climax rocking through you. He licks you through it, holding you open still, feeling you shudder around him, until you finally insistently tug on his hair enough to make him come away. 

You dread to think what it must have sounded like on the other side of the door, the wet smacking having been all you could hear past the blood rushing through your own ears and you’re sure you couldn’t possibly have stayed silent. You watch him wipe his mouth with a sleeve, blushing the whole while before he slips out of the shirt. Fully exposing his bare chest and, finally, reaching down to unzip himself. 

You’re sticky and soft when he reaches down, running a finger against you, opening you up to bump against you with his now, hard, cock. You’re not quite sure when it had happened, if it was a delayed reaction to a pill he took earlier, or if he simply was that turned on just by licking you to completion, but you’re not about to complain feeling how his head slips against your wetness, nudging at your clit before he angles himself down, bumping against your entrance. 

“There he is, Bunny, got Lil’ Elvie here just for you baby, for my sweet lil - ah, bunny bun,” 

Elvis pushes into you, a hand straying to stroke your labia on its way up to clutch at your waist, feeling the way you open up around him - for him. You groan at the sensation - it’s been a while, actually it’s been a long while; the last man you’d been with was the one currently pressing inside of you. He takes a moment to allow you to adjust, although you suspect it also allowed him a moment or two, either to calm himself down or encourage himself up. 

“That’s it, honey, there we are, there we go, Oh Lord, here we are, I got you, gonna, gonna do such a good job, you just lie back. I got you, got -“ 

He’s fucking into you now, slowly, sweetly, accompanying each thrust with his mouth joining onto yours, and sloppy open-mouthed kisses against your jaw and neck. He’s trying to get the angle right, you can tell, but he’s decidedly less sure than he ever used to be, or least how you remember him. Taking longer to hit the right spot, and then almost immediately slipping away and losing it.

“Ah, that’s - that’s it, right there,” You almost cry out as he moves again, begging him in your mind to return to where he was. 

Still, he’s not totally unskilled, and the motion of his body against yours, of the feel of his hand reaching down to play with clit, combined with the growling curses and praises falling from his lips, southern accent coming out harder as he loses himself in it, is enough for you to feel yourself start to shudder your way towards a second orgasm, clenching down onto him. That is, apparently, enough to set him off and he takes some time firmly rocking his hips into you, before, with a hand splayed on your tummy for balance, withdrawing fast to shoot across your stomach. He collapses there for a moment, lips in a pout and eyes closed from the sheer pleasure of the minute before. 

He rolls off of where he’s pressed against you, where you’d welcomed being crushed under his weight, tummy pushed against yours, hairs tickling your own bare skin to flop onto his back. You watch his chest heave, eyes drawn to his tight little nipples, as he catches his breath back. You take a moment to swipe the cum off your belly with the edge of the bedspread, noting in your head to send it to the laundry later. You know you should be getting up to pee sooner rather than later but he’s holding out an arm to you, and you can’t bear the thought of refusing his offer. Instead curling into him with a sigh. He smells the same as you remember now, that same heady mix of sweat and sex, woodsy heavy cologne combined with the tint of smoke, and you hate how it sends flutters down your tummy again at how you feel a sense of familiarity from it. He murmurs into the top of your head, lips catching on your hair, 

“You been here all along Bunny? Hopping around my plane?” You nod and you feel him grimace, “Didn’t recognise you without your ears, or your yittle tail.” You don’t mention that you very rarely wore ears on Big Bunny, and that he had in fact seen you both on and off the plane without them too. He tips your chin up to look at you and you make eye contact with his pair of guilt tinged blue eyes. Your nose wrinkles and he taps it with a finger, “Twitchy lil thing though still ain’t ya?” He pats your cheek, “Still gonna be my bunny? Ain’t got another bunny, got, got,” He stumbles over his words as he takes a breath in, clearly struggling to stay lucid enough to have the conversation, “got other girls, not got ‘Cilla no more, but got, got Linda … and, and - I got a whole list, baby, but no - you’re my only bunny.” 

The thing is though, it’s never for long. You prefer the flights after a show to the ones before, he’s more awake before but he’s panicked like a tiger in a cage. It’s still difficult to tell what kind of Elvis you’ll be dealing with on any given night. There’ll be one flight where he’s perfect, drowsy from a show but awake and alert, flirty and fun, and then another where he sleeps for so long and so deeply that you worry he’ll never wake up. The worst are the ones where him and Dr Nick, his father or one of the other boys with that damned black bag disappear into the bedroom for the flight. He stumbles down the stairs after in a daze, clearly half out of his mind. The alternative - that you have to listen to his whimpering cries, that his body aches, that sleep won’t come to him - why won’t anyone listen to him? That he wants his mama, that everyone leaves him, “even my yittle yisa.” Is worse, it makes you wish for when he’s sedated or so over the top in his exuberance that you know his ‘vitamins’ have a lot to do with it. You don’t know how much longer you can silently pick up the pieces - cleaning up when he’s trashed the room in a rage, or left pill bottles littering the floor. Going in to him when he calls for you, acting as his waitress, nurse and on-call girlfriend all at once. 

Linda accompanied him often, and you’re shooed out of the way of her keen eyes as they watch you a little too knowingly. She’s sophisticated and classy though, more than you would be in the situation. More than you are. You take the opportunity to swap with Georgia as often as you possibly can when you know she’s coming with him. 

You’d avoided her too at first, often being the only one working on the little plane, not usually that many people on board - maybe ten at most, well within the capabilities of a single girl and the pilots. You hated that you felt the sting of jealousy, of worry that he was fooling around with her too, to the extent that when she, unprompted, had reassured you that she had not slept with him and nor would she ever sleep with him you had laughed it off. Pretending you had no idea what she was suggesting. 

Linda though proved difficult to ignore. She was a presence - even when she wasn’t physically there - he was swearing to the boys they were through, broken up, done, and then would spend hours on the phone to her. He’d swear he didn’t give a shit about her anymore; just had to keep his promises to take care of her - but then a week later she’d appear on the plane with him. They’d sit cuddled together half the time, shouting and screaming for the other half. You had no idea how to react when she called you in to the bedroom, Elvis’ head pillowed on her thighs, dead asleep. She doesn’t ask you for much, a coffee and some water to be brought to them. You do so, still slightly surprised to be invited to intrude on what seemed like an overwhelmingly private moment. But then, a large part of your job is being invisible when necessary. You don’t expect to her acknowledge you when you return, but she does - she’s polite and courteous, but quiet, eyes never leaving his relaxed forehead. A cynical part of your brain wonders if it wasn’t intentional, if she didn’t purposefully call you in at that moment to prove she was different, but that line of thinking gets you nowhere. It’s not your place to be jealous.

Occasionally there’s other girls with him, you burn when Sheila comes aboard - you’d given up your cover dreams for this, and it feels like she’s the new kid in town - replacing you in every way. Better than you in every way, she’s pretty and lithe and young; you’re young and pretty too but you’re feeling it less and less. She’s above you - in the privileged position to sit at the side of the King while you have to settle for serving him and her. She had the cover, you had gotten pouring the drinks into branded glasses.

Elvis didn’t help how you felt - the first time she came on board he took it upon himself to personally introduce the two of you. He was sat with his legs spread wide, Sheila’s own legs over the top of his, an arm tucking her tight against his side out in the lounge area, the public display of affection almost too much for you to witness. 

“Here she is!” He called out when you came around the corner of the half-dividing wall, and you balk a little before steeling yourself to walk over, 

“Here I am.” You respond, flatly. He’d been particularly difficult recently, and your patience was wearing thin. 

“Looksies - this here is my Sheila,” He raises her arm, she nods politely, “She’s - she’s a bunny too, she was on the cover.” You smile, what else can you do? 

“Oh - wow, congratulations.” You nod at her, she’s silent. 

“Two bunnies on the plane! My two bunnies together!” He laughs, and the tone and words immediately make you smart. There’s a cruel edge to it that you don’t quite understand, it’s not like you’ve ever turned him down or refused him, not like you’ve done anything to be treated second best - to have her paraded in front of you. 

 It makes your skin crawl, furious with every decision that led to this point, cursing those pretty blue eyes that you couldn’t refuse. Makes your skin crawl that he’d sworn you were his only bunny; and as ridiculous as it might seem, the evidence that that wasn’t true at all, that it was an empty promise makes you cry yourself to sleep for too many nights in a row. The first time you’d found a notelet, tucked under the bed having perhaps fallen out of a pocket or book, 

“To Sheila, 

Love you allways, 

E.P.” 

You take two weeks off, and debate whether you should even return, if it’s worth how it makes you feel. You don’t have time to see anyone else, and you’re not dating him. But then in some ways it makes sense all your emotions would be put onto him, you weren’t physically seeing anyone else, in general, exclusively cocooned in the Elvis Presley Show bubble. There is, you think after three glasses of red wine at home in your fancy new Memphis apartment, nothing else in your life. There is only Elvis. You wonder if you can use that as the excuse on your notice. You make yourself go back though, determined to get a grip of yourself, of your feelings, give it one last try. 

It’s short-lived with Sheila, at least from your perspective up in the air above the reality of the ground below. Ultimately, you feel you somehow won. And although he may, every now and again, bring some pretty young thing up into the air with him or have Linda come on board during some of the tour he’s fundamentally alone again - the same group of men his only constant companions. You form your own opinion of them, watching two of them cringe at the sight of the little black bag of pills and needles and two others writing his signature out on blank cheques. 

You’re horrified, making eye contact with Charlie, you think, you know their names now you need to start to use them. You open your mouth to say something, but uncertain about what, but he catches your eye, shaking his head and you wonder if there’s anyone on this plane willing to stick up for him.  You’re forced ot consider if it’s something you can do too - turning a blind eye to all of this or if you’re going to be forced to leave because you were unwilling to do so.

But then, there’s a few months where he behaves differently, and he looks different - his face brightens up, and though you don’t dislike how he looked before you can appreciate that he’s slimmed down a little, looking less bloated than he had before. A renewed interest in the happenings of the group. Suddenly, he’s interested in you again - ensconcing you in his bedroom, telling the boys to stop telling you what to do or asking you for things,

“It’s not her job - her job is looking after me.” And you do, distracting him as best you can when that’s what he’s after - reassuring him when it’s not. You have to talk him down from a panic at one point and you’re thankful to have the memory of him calming you down to use as your guideline, even if you find irony in being the one trusted to provide the measured breaths. 

The sex though, is still almost non-existent; he apologises constantly, and at one point you try to have a conversation about it, lying with him in the bed, cuddled together. 

“I’m not your girlfriend, E, you don’t needta explain yourself to me,” He hushes you, 

“You’re my girl as much as any of ‘em.” It’s your turn to stroke his cheek, 

“I don’t need to be, you don’t hafta say that to me.” He just hums at you, tucking you further under his arm and cupping your face to his chest. That’s when the gifts start rolling in, before you’d even arrived back at your apartment for a few days off, finding on the doorstep a gift bag filled with lingerie. You smile when you see it, but you’re a little puzzled - he’s not even seen you in your underwear in months. Was this a hint? Were you meant to be the one putting out? You took it as you thought he intended it, picking out and wearing the little white set you found in there, but you were unsurprised when nothing came to fruition on the flight. You tentatively bring it up the next time you’re curled up next to him - the flight not really long enough to justify a nap but happy to be tucked up in his chest.  You’re drawing circles with a fingertip through the gaping neckline of his shirt, absentmindedly thinking of how best to bring it up. 

“El, what’s -, not that I’m not appreciative but you don’t needta buy me things - especially, especially if you’re not gonna get anything out of it.” You refuse to look at him, anxious for his response. 

“Wasn’t that what you told me before? That you don’t dress for me?” You can feel him already grinning at you in anticipation of your reaction and you laugh, surprised he’d even remember that conversation from a year and a half ago. 

“Well, You weren’t really my boss then.” He chuckles, wrapping his arm tighter around you, 

“Oh-ho, so I can have my wicked way with you now huh?” He squeezes you hard against his side. You giggle, and he continues - his tone turning more serious; “Honey… - Bunny,” he laughs when you squirm at being called bunny still, “I’m just, I can’t, can’t do more at the moment but I uh, I do still - I like thinking about you all pretty for me unner that tiny little scrap of a dress.” He flicks the hem, leaving his hand grasping the back of your thigh and your respond in playful outrage. 

“Scrap! You picked out this dress!” You smile into his chest as you feel his tummy move with his laugh, “Elvis - you don’t owe me anything, I don’t need to be bought things, you don’t need to feel like we have to do anything. I just, just want you to take care of yourself.” He hums at you, as non-committal as one can be. 

He shifts a little so he’s lying on his side, brushing his hand down your body, fingers fumbling as they graze over your core, he seems remarkably less sure of himself than the last time he’d touched you, and you have to wonder if, despite all these girlfriends hanging around, he hadn’t actually been doing it with them either. Whether it’s because his fingers are a little thicker than before, or his skills are simply rusty,  or maybe this is all some new technique he’d thought he’d try, he seems to take a while to do anything. He slips a finger between your folds, gathering the wetness you’d started to feel drip as a pavlovian response to his fingers anywhere near you, and rubbing it up your pussy but when he reaches the apex he seems to struggle, fingertip roving around, rubbing down but not quite finding your clit. You squirm as he continues to rub around just a bit too low, his finger making you pant simply from the virtue of it being Elvis’ finger, but not because of success with his ministrations. You panic, eyes flying open, wondering if you’re gonna have to fake it with Elvis beforehe pulls his hand away with a grunt. 

“Ain’t no good little, my hands are hurtin’ too much tonight, got them, got them shakes again.” You nod even though you know it’s at least partially untrue - his fingers not in the least bit unsteady, if anything they’d been a little too solid. 

“Just, it’s fine to just cuddle El.” He’s silent beside you for a few moments, 

“One sec doll, lemme just -“ He shakes his arms out, staring at the curvature of the plane ceiling as if he’s trying to talk himself up. “Ok, ok Bunny, lets, lets give this another go.” He captures your mouth in his, sucking gentle little bruises across the bottom of your jaw, and lowering himself down to your neck. He concentrates there for a moment as he dances his hand back down your body, shifting your dress up again. His touch this time is more sure, more similar to how he’d always felt, the confidence appeared to be back.

He circles your clit just right, the two fingers curving inside you hitting just the right spot, and he moans with you, 

“C’mon darling that’s it, oh that’s your lil button isn’t it - let me, just relax into me baby, relax, I’ve got you.” He crooks a finger, and your hips jerk, his other hand reaching over to pin you firmly against the bed while he takes the opportunity to brush directly over your clit once again. You squeal, panting, as he whispers into your neck, 

“Such a good girl, good little baby Bunny, c’mon now,” He croons into your ear, voice unmistakable, “C’mon - for me.” His words, the sight of his face, the feeling of his fingers, it all combines so that in mere moments your back is arching off the bed, clutching at his arm as you tip over the edge. 

When you’re back into the land of the living, and your breathing is starting to ease up a little, you’re able to sit up. You get onto your knees for him, expecting to reciprocate but he shakes his head at you, “Just, just lie with me, mama, let me cuddle, ‘s that alright? No-one lets -  everyone wants somethin’ offa me.” You frown, standing up, his words manipulating you into believing you’d even asked him for something, 

“Sorry El- there isn’t, there’s no pressure from me, I just thought because -“ You gesture to his still clearly wet and sticky fingers, “Just wanted to give it back to you.” He huffs, lying down again, and looking over his shoulder at you. Betrayal written on his face. It softens when you clamber back under the covers with him, and he tugs you closer. 

It goes downhill fast, the tours just keep coming, and the random, sudden desires for trips here and there. You’ll be home for a scheduled three, four week break and get maybe 60 hours before a call comes in - he wants to be taken to Colorado, California, to Vegas. Before you know it you’re careening into 1976. He swings like a pendulum from happy to angry - the emotions impossible to keep up with. He wasn’t ever wholly staid before but everything seems suddenly emphasised and the erratic nature of his personality is making you wonder if you can do this job much longer. It’s worse without a girl on board. Linda and he may have argued but he was almost always easily soothed. But she’s coming on less and less, and he’s telling tales about her more and more with the boys. Expressing how he hates her shopping now, how she deserves it but doesn’t earn it, how he can’t stand her nagging. He seems to have more girls than ever before, one or two picked up for him in every city, but they never seem to make it onto the plane.

Without the settling presence of a girlfriend that role falls to you, and although you’ve now spent countless hours with him it’s different; the fits and starts with which you get to see him is completely different to being a girl who’s able to be with him in his home - you find him almost overwhelmingly difficult to manage. The first time he’s brandishing a gun and threatening to shoot you for attempting to put him to bed, you laugh - not expecting to be essentially thrown off of the plane for weeks for such an indiscretion. It doesn’t get mentioned again - not until a while later; simply brushed over, forgotten about. There’s no apology, just suddenly one day, a bashful joke gets made with Elvis tucking his chin to his chest to look at you shamefacedly but almost immediately he cracks a laugh, and you’re forced to laugh it off with him.

His health swings like his moods, it seems to be entirely dependent on a number of factors that all seem to change within a minute’s notice. It’s a combination of his mental health, the exact cocktail of medication at any given time, the number of shows he was doing, how often he was getting to see Lisa, whether he’d been home recently, the financial situation or whether he’d recently liked how he’d looked in the mirror. As soon as any one of these changed it would either send him crashing into lengthy highs or a period of lucidity. 

You didn’t sign up to be a nursemaid - it wasn’t the role you were expecting to fill but as time goes on it seems the only form of relationship you can have with him. You don’t truly mind, although you do wish for more, if he’s going to let you have this part of him - the part of him that’s sad and lonely, the part of him that he’s ashamed of - even if just for a few hours on a plane where he can pretend to be distinct from real life, then you think you deserve the same relationship back on the ground. But you would never broach that with him, not even when he’s alone, or when he brings a girl on board who doesn’t even make it to the next city. All you can do is stay. 

The last part of the year is particularly hard. He looks awful, you only really get to see him directly after a show, the schedule doesn't allow for more spare days in each spot, and the sweat pores off of him. You can’t say he doesn’t look appealing in some ways, you wouldn’t mind  licking him clean, or crawling onto his sweaty chest. But in other ways, his face growing paler and yellower, it makes you cringe away from him. It’s not that you don’t want to spend time with him, or that you’re disgusted - a fear he’d mumbled into your stomach one night recently, it’s that it’s so difficult. Difficult to watch a man, so otherwordly virile to succumb to earthly decay. It’s almost painful - and it’s made all the worse by the fact that you’re only given the choice to witness it in fits and starts - over a tour you watch him, keeping a close eye, spending hours alone with him. But then, as you land back in Memphis, or Vegas, or California you lose him again - with no idea of how he’s getting on physically or mentally, no idea of how he’s feeling. He grows distant - and all you want is to make his journey easier, although the destination at this point is unclear. 

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

TAGLIST:

i’m just gonna tag anyone that’s specifically msged me about it and/or anyone who commented/reblogged the last two chapters - there’s one last chapter to this ‘verse coming soon(ish) so lmk if you wanted to be added or taken off the list before then :)) 

@ellie-24, @whositmcwhatsit, @thatbanditqueen, @vintageshanny, @doll-elvis @18lkpeters @prompted-wordsmith @richardslady121 @meetmeatyourworst @marriedtopresley @steph-speaks @a-literal-no-name @elvisabutler @precious-little-scoundrel @eliseinmemphis @iloveelvis @literally-just-elvis-fics @livelaughlove-talia @angelborn1

[moodymisty]

I cannot stop thinking about what you wrote about Lorgar having a corruption kink. It’s infecting my mind. Lorgar x fem!reader please. I would love to see you write this. You have such a delectable way of writing.

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's note: Yesssss!! I have been so eager to write something for this so I'ma 'bout to go ham. Lorgar is my type of pathetic man and I am obsessed with him. Also I decided to combine a few requests together just to lessen my workload a bit. I so deeply apologize for how overly dramatic and verbose this is.

TL:DR, In my opinion Lorgar's corruption kink goes two ways; One is he himself wants to be corrupted, to be forced into listening to his baser desires without the guilt of doing so himself. It's all that religious trauma. The other way is the more traditional route where he has a sweet little beloved who he knows he's gonna fuck up once he touches them.

Summary: Lorgar is burning up, and you don't even know you're doing it.

Relationships: Lorgar/Gn!Reader

Warnings: Some vague mentions of NSFW acts, Mentions of Kor Phaeron abusing young Lorgar, Lorgar being mercurial as usual and extremely emotionally conflicted, Slight manipulation, The consent could maybe be considered dubious, Religious trauma and religious undertones

Word Count: 1901

"My Lord, are you well?"

The Astartes warrior looks towards his genefather with the slightest hint of concern hidden behind his helmet, hand tightened around the hilt of his polearm. Lorgar lets out a gentle laugh, and looks towards his sons with a gentle smile before giving a gentle platitude.

"I am well, worry not about me."

He looks down from them, back to the papers that scatter across the massive and ornate desk he calls his own. Ink stains mar the wood, along with the scratches of his tools and his own fingertips. His sons are not entirely convinced, and in their worry for their genefather as his quill struggles to put words to paper, look to each other before the one slightly elder speaks up.

"Father, are you s-" Lorgar looks up, and the look in his golden eyes alone makes the two Astartes close their mouths behind their decorated helms.

"Drop this topic of conversation."

He leaves no room for rebuttal. They cease, and Lorgar waits for the quiet sound of a vox crackling in their helmets, but finds none. Even if they don't communicate with each other however, the Primarch decides they don't need to witness him in this state any longer. He has no desire for an audience, nor to unsettle any of his sons further with an issue plaguing only himself.

"Take your leave. I need a moment to myself."

The Astartes listen without question, footsteps almost in sync as they leave the room. the cloth draped over their armor like robes swishes gently as the ladder out closes the door behind him.

Once gone Lorgar lets out a sigh, his chest relaxing. The sun is still bright, light distorted by panels of stained glass tucked between pillars with openings to a grand balcony. He wasn't making much progress of anything anyhow, and so he sees no harm in having a moment of respite to let his mind calm.

Though, it seem his mind had decided take it upon itself to wander when he wanted it least, golden eyes glancing to a book teetering on the edge of his desk with a delicate filigree across the binding.

He had thought this sickness, at first.

The way that his thoughts seemed unable to stay their path and seemed to be led astray. Lorgar was normally not one with trouble focusing, so when he'd found himself rereading pages and rewriting notes, he'd quickly begun to grow irritated at himself.

But soon, after days and nights of a foggy mind and a hunger he couldn't place, he found the source of his torment in a moment of clarity.

You.

The way you listen to his words with not just the awe of a scholar, but of someone wishing to know more of him. Of what he knows. Quickly he'd gone from you only be cast the basest of glances from across massive libraries, to the Primarch looking for the unique shape of your robes.

How you of all managed to capture him like this, he's yet to discover. But no matter how you had, you'd taken over his heart and soul none the less. He has what could be called an obsession for your eyes, that eagerness in them, grasping for a guiding hand. His guiding hand. You're a peaceful company, gentle and kind to him. He wishes to have seen such kindness in his youth.

But it wasn't just that. He quickly realizes over the scrolls he's meant to write, but only finds himself only glossing over already written words and nonsensical scribbles his hand forms from habit. He's forced to scrap the parchment and start over, biting the inside of his lip until he tastes iron on his tongue.

He doesn't just want your company. Not just your gentle voice or the feeling of your soul close to his.

He wants your touch. To feel your hand brush over his skin, to feel your lips on his own. In private- where he can unravel you to your soul and only he can see it all. To see your body draped in only the silks that lay over his massive bed, asleep.

It infuriates him.

He should be stronger than this. Love is an emotion he understands, he feels it; Towards his adoptive father, towards the Emperor, towards his sons.

But lust; He never thought himself weaker than it. He refuses to be weaker than it. To feel it's grip on him enticing him closer. You dance on the edge of a cliff beckoning him to fall as well. To think you don't even know you're doing it to him.

He had thought Kor Phaeron had beaten these feelings out of him in his youngest years; The few where he didn't tower over his human pater. He's been diligent in keeping this a secret from him, as there would be no consoling him if he found the Primarch lusting after you.

Oh, if only you knew of the thoughts he has of you when you are near- drenched in sin until they drip like a cloth soaked with blood.

He wants to feel your skin, hear the way your voice cracks as you cry, cry for him, the way your body writhes underneath his own as he ruins you for anyone but him. He wants to write on your neck, in places that your clothes fail to hide the blossoming bruises.

He wants, he wants, he wants.

But he can't just want anymore. He wants to have. To be the only one your eyes look towards.

He calls one of his sons to return, and speaks to them from across the room as he rises from his chair. He leaves his parchments scattered across the desk, unfinished and ink drying. He issues them to fetch you from where ever you may be, as he adjusts the shoulder of his robe.

"And do emphasize haste."

He doesn't know how much longer he can wait, with the way a fire overtakes his blood and his robes feel far too tight. Things like his hand can no longer suffice. He wants you.

The sanctuary of his personal quarters have never felt so relieving, when he arrives to it. Books are evenly stored on shelves all throughout, tomes of his own collection and many he had written himself. Or that his pater had, before and after his expulsion from the Covenant.

He looks away from them before he gets lost in thought on matters unbefitting of the now evening. You should be here at any moment, and Lorgar wishes to provide you a respite, not drown you in bitterness.

Anything to soothe your worries, he will do; He knows to look upon and be in the presence of a Primarch can unsettle mortals, for reasons both spiritual and physical. Lorgar turns away to look towards the quickly setting sun, just as he hears footsteps. Lorgar swears he can feel his heart begin to beat faster.

You enter slowly, head peeking around the edge of the massive door as you slip inside with the permission of the guards posted just outside.

You see him standing and staring out through an open window, over a vast stretch of palace ground. He can hear your footsteps, and turns to greet you with a warm smile and gentle look in his eyes. Lorgar has moments of fury, but so many of the times you see him, you're charmed by the surprising softness that he can show. Not many others say the same, much to your surprise.

"There you are. I've been waiting for you." You mistakenly take his sentence as a slight for being tardy.

"Apologies, I came as soon as I had gotten word." Lorgar is barely even listening to your carefully chosen words, he's too distracted by the way your hands are wringing themselves in front of you. He steps away from the window, and you speak again.

"What do you require of me, Lord Primarch?" His eyes are gentle as he brushes you off. He can see when you swallow, the way your throat bobs.

He could just order you into his bed. He knows you would do it, you're diligent and dutiful but Lorgar doesn't want to. He wants to unravel you underneath him, piece by piece, until you're just as drenched in his sin as he is. Until your body is crying and weeping for him, begging to be filled by him and only him.

"No formalities. We are past that sort of nonsense. You are more than welcome to call me by my name. As I do you." You hesitate. Your lips shift and he catches each little motion.

"Then, Lorgar, do you need something from me?"

He can hear the way his name tastes odd on your lips, but falls so smoothly from them.

Lorgar moves closer to you, up until it would take only one step for you to step on the bottoms of his robes. And then does he take a knee, lowering slowly until his right knee touches the floor. You hear the moment it does as his body weight rests with a dull thud. You're waiting for something of importance, but what he says instead is so far removed from the possible options you had in your mind, that you can only stare.

"I need you."

Your eyes widen, and he can hear you utter in your confusion,

"What?"

Lorgar recoils for a moment as you both look at each other.

You can feel your skin becoming heated at the decleration, but never had you thought this sort of thing becoming a reality. You'd thought the idea absurd, meanwhile Lorgar had been consumed by it. How you can bring a Primarch to his knee by the way his name falls from your lips. To cast aside the pleasant language he's written in for many years:

He wants to fuck you. He aches for you.

His hand moves of it's own accord, drifting closer.

"Let me touch you. Let me show you how you've overtaken my mind."

You feel his massive hand on your waist, shifting your clothing and almost revealing your skin. His fingers almost seem to shake, the same as his voice when he hisses out the words through his teeth.

"You've taken over it like a sickness, like a curse,"

He's been leaning closer to you this entire time, and now you can feel his breath on your face. His golden eyes flicker over your expression as he abruptly goes from anger, to an expression filled with adoration and something else.

"I, I'm s-" Lorgar shushes you.

"Don't be."

Your lips unconsciously part as he drifts closer, his hand still on your waist. the other joins it on the opposite side, and you can feel how much more skin they cover than a normal human's would. Lorgar might not be the largest of the Primarchs, but he still towers over you.

He crosses the distance and presses his lips to yours, feeling the warmth of his lips and his tanned skin against your own. You feel so much emotion in it that it's almost overwhelming, hands moving to rest ever so gently on his collarbone.

You could never reject his affections. And you don't want to. His lips glide across yours as he speaks.

"Let me show you it all, my beloved."

[katyahina]

Ranni's two sisters (if not cousins?)

It is not just my thoughts, but more like three people discussing the ideas hahah. So, @swallowtail-ageha brought to me the idea that the name of the towers deeper in Caria Manor, The Three Sisters, could be not quite a fancy architecture name, but refer to actual sisters, given the description of Carian Filigreed Crest that we get from Iji:

The way it is specified here that Ranni is Rennala's daughter makes it feel as though other princesses were not, so they could have instead been daughters of Rennala's siblings! I will get to the possible interpretations, but I just want to bring up something interesting that I think makes it even more likely that specifically TWO other princesses existed! When I heard the suggestion about there having BEEN three sisters, I instantly remembered this bit:

Besides a 'normal' Mausoleum, in Liurnia, there are interesting two Mausoleums pretty close to each other geographically, that are unique compared to others! You probably remember them - they do not have a bell underneath but they can leap like frogs, they do not have any spirits around, and they can ONLY duplicate the ashes of the bosses that aren't shard-bearing demigods:

^ Like that, same character (thanks @val-of-the-north for all these screenshots). And there are no other Mausoleums like that.

So, yeah, Ranni once having had two sisters would likely mean that they were not contenders for the throne, as there were no extra sits resorted for them in Leyendell. But this could be more than same fate as those demigods / shard bearers who "failed" Marika. Like, think about it! There are two Mausoleums in Liurnia, that still was a domain of Carians at some point, which behave "downgraded" compared to others, whereas normally Mausoleums are where fallen/failed demigods got buried:

With how these Mausoleums are, it seems like people that are buried in them are not demigods / had no shard, yet still were important enough to earn a burial of this type? And like... would not that make sense if 'being important enough' was being related to the royal family?

I am not entirely sure why they would have no shards themselves? This is where variants really start to split! @swallowtail-ageha suggested that merely being Radagon's child was not all yet to be one, and I can see that! This is actually the full idea:

^ These are ALSO very good points! These Mausoleums are for those who died during Night of the Black Knives, so I agree that whatever the reason for them to (very likely) lack shards is, they died that night too.

And back to the reasoning, me and @val-of-the-north were also discussing the potential ideas of either 'sisters' being actually cousins or Rennala being divorced twice, hah..

The cousins idea would defeat the purpose of the name Three Sisters, sort of, unless you could say it meant 'sisterhood' of princesses. The Japanese name is スリーシスターズ (Surīshisutāzu), like... you can already see that it is English name, simply English 'three sisters' written in Japanese with syllables, rather than Japanese words used. And in English language, sisters could mean not just literal! (Japanese script found in this ( x ) document). What works with it is not just description of Carian Filigreed Crest refering to Ranni being Rennala's daughter as the unique thing, but also Renalla herself showing unambigiously special feelings towards her! It is harder to say a lot about the idea that Rennala had someone before Radagon, it could have happened under pressure of having had a heir, and so the first divorce (or maybe even more likely, loss) did not break Rennala like Radagon leaving did, since she didn't love that previous person? It just leaves even more things to work with- not exactly a bad thing if you love writing many headcanons!

And as for these variants, it made both me and Val think of a guy that might have been relevant:

On the portraits we see Rennala, Azur, Lusat, the conjoined twins guys, (very likely) Sellen and... this guy. Honestly? Could have been not actually a simp really devoted scholar in Raya Lucaria that delved deep into Moon stuff, but Rennala's brother! The royal family basically took over Raya Lucaria, and considering Moon worthy as much as the Stars was specifically what they brought into it! But Azur and Lusat, teachers of Sellen, have been very important already, since the former direction of the academy is connected to them. At the same time, their associated colors are turquoise and blue, whereas Twinsage crown features the same colors both, and Sellen... well, she knew Azur and Lusat, and has been around long enough to deeply resent how much academia has changed. All things considered, she was equally important to the twins before getting banished. The remaining guy behind Lazuli Conspectus sticks out in comparison... unless he tagged along WITH Rennala when she took over the academy!

And yeah, alternatively, he could have just been her previous husband, that was more just a tool under pressure of having heirs; she took over Raya Lucaria before marrying Radagon, and maybe something just happened with that guy, which did not effect her very much since she didn't feel anything for him. A little bad look though.. unless there was a plot twist of Radagon murdering the guy but it was one of the things wiped from collective consciousness with Celestial Dew, and that's why nobody seems to mind? Perception filter! I am not sure with which idea I agree more myself 🤔 But yeah, if the third person is involved, I'd say it had to be this guy - father of the other two "sisters"... Whether they'd be actually cousins or actually half-sisters.

___________________________

So yeah, these are the thoughts! Sorry that was probably a little chaotic, Elden Ring theories are totally not my forte compared with BB ones! It is just that Swallowtail activated my brainrot with that suggestion and I instantly had something to add to that, hahah;

[scummy-writes]

Haste is what drives you towards the library. The feel of a thousand eyes upon you itch across your skin, keeps your guard up firm, a deep ache settling into your body. You've felt like this for hours, carrying the weight of paranoia, until you've finally hit a breaking point, seeking refuge in desperate places.

Chevalier's private library.

It's not wise, but your options are limited. It being close was an unfortunate circumstance, and you're praying that you'll be greeted by nothing but dust as you open the door.

It takes a few rapid blinks to ensure no tears have been shed. And then the knot in your stomach begins to unfurl, slowly.

With a deep, steadying breath, you nod towards Chevalier, shutting the door behind you with a gentle click before brisky turning to walk towards the other end of the quiet room. It's not dust here, but in the end, everyone has said Chevalier has cared little about feelings. You couldn't fathom a reason for him caring about yours now.

You're scared he can tell, of course, but at the same time you know he knows. There was none of your usual fumbling, and you're stiff as a board, barely able to vocalize without an embarrassing rasp.

And in that moment, you're thankful. Thankful he just doesn't care enough to ask. The trek through the hallways was torturous enough, you knew if he had spoken to you, that you'd burst into tears on the spot.

Instead, you're granted the small space to breathe. Able to be nestled among the shelves, on a ledge at the little nook you've claimed in his library. Sure, your breath hitches and you have to wipe away the burning tears welling up, but your sore, overtightened muscles begin to ease.

Another deep breath, through your stuffy nose this time, and the comforting smell of well-loved pages welcome you again. The rapid beating of your heart begins to slow, and that knot inside of you gives way just a bit more.

.

You're unsure how long you rest there. Eyes closed, trying to quell the racing thoughts in your mind, before a new floral scent becomes present.

And you open your eyes to see Chevalier looking down at you, that unreadable expression of his present.

"You were in the gardens earlier…"

He doesn't respond to your quiet observation. Instead, he wordlessly hands you a book you haven't seen before.

As you gaze at the purple cover, enjoying the filigree around it's edges, he leaves you alone again.

… Chevalier 'speak' was a language you were still learning, but it was clear he wanted the sniffling to stop, unless you had a good reason for it.

But for your over-rubbed eyes, reading was the last thing you wanted to do. You hadn't even calmed your mind yet, how were you supposed to-

"It's not one you've read before."

You blink at him, skittish that he's been paying more attention to you than you believed.

"Y-you're right… I've never even heard of the title."

Silence. But when you continue to trace the pads of your finger on the filigree, he continues.

"The Dog will be here soon."

Rio? When you've been avoiding him the most today? You treasured his friendship, but when he notices you're upset, he crowds you to the point of suffocating.

"But-"

"He won't stay long."

The sigh that escapes you goes unnoticed, and you're back to instinctively bringing your knees to your chest.

.

It's on your fourth try of slowly counting your breaths when knocking against the door startles you. As Chevalier said, Rio peeks his head in and the moment he spots you, gives you a pitying smile.

Suddenly, you want to be Chevalier- able to ignore everyone without guilt. You don't want to even look at Rio for long, lest tears start to form again.

However, Rio doesn't say a word.

Instead, gentle rattles of a teacup and saucer catch your attention, and you watch with big eyes as he sets a teaset on Chevalier's side table, and pours you a cup.

The look in his eyes speak for him once he sets it beside you: imploring, begging for any indication of what's wrong with you today. It's too much that you glance away again, fiddling with the book once more. And blessedly, Rio leaves you be.

It takes so much for your numb body to reach out towards the teacup left behind, hand shaking. You're fighting not to curl up again, to stay firm in your shell, and thankfully you manage to gingerly sip the tea, feeling the warmth cascade down your sore throat.

After a few sips, feeling just a tad more stable, you manage to finally open the book, trying to take in the words with your weary eyes.

.

Soon, it's only the warmth of something new around your shoulders that breaks your focus from the words in your lap, echos of the fantasy world fading as you look up to Chevalier: his cloak his missing from his shoulders, and it takes you a moment longer than you'd like to realize it's what is laden on your frame.

He doesn't look you in the eye until his stiff hands finish securing it, pausing long enough to let out a sigh.

"Leave it in here once you've gone."

There's not even a chance to question him about it- he leaves you there, surrounded by his books, tea, and his warmth encompassing your body.

And its there, when you're finally truly alone, that you realize your shoulders have relaxed thanks to the tea and cloak coaxing you. That your puffy eyes were relieved to focused on anything else than grief. That your mind had been absorbed in the book he has lent you, long enough to make what you were upset about be taken away from the forefront of your mind.

In the silence, relief finally floods from you, and you carefully keep from spilling all over the novel.

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

Not tagging anyone for this one, sorry! This is one of those random venty drabbles, I don't feel keen on tagging people for them. This is a rough and odd drabble.

Before any... comments... in case its not clear somehow, I do think Chevalier cares about certain people's feelings. I think if you've had little time to learn about him much paat the brutal way of how he cuts to the chase, however, that you may hope the rumors are true so that he will finally not ask you about your feelings when you don't want him to.

If you believe this is ooc, I kindly do not want to hear it. I don't plan to make a habit of writing Chevalier. Thank you!