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lou-struck · 2 months ago

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Three Heads, Three Costumes

Lucifer x reader

Flufftober Day 3: Pet Costumes

WC: 1.4k

~ You were supposed to go shopping for your own Halloween Costume but got carried away and ended up making Lucifer's whole month.

Lucifer is exhausted. The haunting melody of one of his favorite records does little to destress him as he sits hunched over his dark mahogany desk, completely engrossed in the expense report for the upcoming RAD Halloween party. Each charge on the ledger seems to deepen the crease between his dark eyebrows.

No matter how many times he looks lit over, he cannot understand why Asmodeus spent 36,000 Grimm just on Mirrors for what he has labeled as aesthetic purposes.

He sighs deeply and runs his hand through his hair. Of course, he trusts his brother, but he worries that the fifth-born may be letting the power of being on the party planning committee go to his head.

After staring down at these documents for so long, the demon feels a headache brewing behind his tired eyes. Even when he glances away, he can still see the numbers from the ledger ingrained in his blurred vision.

"You look like you could use a break," a soft voice says from the doorway. He has to blink a few times to remove the numbers from your figure, but simply seeing you eases his mind tremendously.

"Ah Mc. How did the costume shopping go?" he asks as you pad across the room over to his seat and wrap your arms around the demon, which melts under your loving touch.

"I didn't quite make it there," you say with a strange little chuckle. Lucifer looks up at your face, and he knows you are hiding something from him.

"But you were gone all afternoon; how did you not manage to buy anything?" he presses, shooting you a knowing smirk.

"I never said I didn't get anything, just nothing for me." You say, your excitement bursting at the seams as you let go of the demon and pull his chair out from his desk. "Come see what I got."

Your eagerness is contagious and Lucifer finds himself on his own two feet, following you out the door, a loving smile on his face as he wonders what he has gotten himself into.

You had wanted to go costume shopping today, you really did.

But as you were walking to the little boutique Asmodeus told you about, you passed the pet store advertising new seasonal pet treats and you just had to go in and get a few special biscuits for Cerberus has been such a good boy lately.

You filled your basket with more treats than even Beel could eat in one sitting. You realized that the store didn't just carry pet food and seasonal treats; they also had a huge section of enchanted pet costumes designed to fit whatever pet the owner has.

You immediately discarded your basket and grabbed a cart instead.

As you descend down into the underground tomb where your sweet, three-headed, fire-breathing hellhound resides. You hope that Lucifer doesn't bring up how much Grimm you have spent today…

"Well, I hope you aren't bringing me down here to share a Cask of Amontillado with me," Lucifer chuckles, following behind you.

"Nope, not today," you pant, forgetting how many freaking stairs you have to climb to get down here. You pant and are so thankful you used a spell to whisk your many, many shopping bags down all these stairs just moments after you got home. "I got a little something for Cerberus."

"I see," the demon says amusedly, not sounding out of breath at all. "Whatever it is, I hope it doesn't spoil his dinner."

"What kind of dog parent would I be if I don't spoil him a bit," you huff, reaching the bottom of the steps and glancing back at him with a smile.

His lips curl into a smirk as he stops on the last step, towering over your form. "Are you implying that the two of us are a married couple?"

"For now," you say playfully, looking up at the handsome demon, "but if you don't play your cards right, I'll take the dog when we split." He laughs as you walk over to your pile of shopping bags next to a long stone bench.

"Did you really get all of this for the dog?" he asks, eyeing your purchases. Of course, you weren't gonna be able to hide anything from him; he's been dealing with Mammon's spending habits for years.

"I had to," you say quickly. You look around for Cerberus, but he must be off wandering the tunnels, which means that you'll have to do the first part of your pet store haul without him. This may be for the best because you know there is no way in Diavolo you will get that dog to try on all the costumes you bought him. "Have a seat, and I'll show you what I got."

"What's in the bags?" he asks, sliding onto the bench next to you.

"Costumes," you say, holding up the first bag, "I thought he should get to dress up for Halloween, too."

"You bought costumes… for my Hellhound…" he says slowly, trying to process your strange request.

"One costume for each head, actually," you say, reaching into the bag filled to the brim with treats and crinkling the packaging; the faint sound travels through the room, alerting the puppy to your presence.

From one of the tunnels, Cerberus emerges; his sleek fur shines in the light of the enchanted torches as he rushes towards you, his three tongues out and tail wagging up a storm as he slides across the stone to side obediently in front of you.

"Hey babyyyy," you squeal, rushing up to him and petting the giant hellhound; his tail thumps the ground so much, you feel the vibrations in your feet, but you don't mind at all. "I got you something." you step back and reach into the treat bag, pulling out three pumpkin-shaped dog treats that are supposed to help with digestion. You toss one into each one of his mouths as his six eyes sparkle.

"You spoil him, MC," Lucifer says, walking up and scratching under his pet's large chin. "Just how many treats did you buy?"

"Only this bag," you say, trying to look as innocent as you can. But you can tell that despite the demon's obvious soft spot for you, he isn't falling for it.

"Okay, fine, like three bags." You say, cracking under the pressure of his knowing gaze. "But I had to. How else are we going to get him to try on all the costumes I bought him?"

The damn breaks and Lucifer's low laughter fills the room; the look of loving joy on his face makes him look far more lively, almost angelic. You find yourself unable to look away from him. "What am I going to do with you, human?"

"Help me?"

He pulls off his cape and sets it on the bench behind him. "Alright then, where do we start?"

Cerberus has had quite the afternoon, being dressed by you and Lucifer. So far, your favorite demonic pupper has had its heads dressed up as doctors…

Sailors, Superheroes, Lions, Tigers, Bears, and more.

And every time he sits still, he gets showered with treats and friendly scratches.

"Alright, Cerberus… you are doing so good. Just sit still for just a little longer," you grunt, trying to secure the last feathered hat on the Hellhound heads. Lucifer gives him another treat as a bribe, and he stills once again.

His dinner is definitely spoiled now.

Sliding down his back, you step back to admire your handiwork. So far, the Three Musketeers costume you picked out is the best yet. The large hats and bright blue doublets around their necks make them look absolutely adorable.

"What do you think of this one, Lucifer?" you ask, looking over at The Avatar of Pride, who looks much happier picking out Halloween costumes for his pet than wasting his day away in his study.

"I like this costume more than the last," he says, sparing a glance at the charred pile that used to be the bumble bee costumes on the floor next to him. Cerberus certainly has his own opinions when it comes to the outfits you pick out. "But I still think we can do better; what else did you buy?"

"Let's see," you walk over to your now-smaller pile of costumes and go through them carefully. "I have the alien, the astronaut, and the moon set."

"Interesting…" he says, "Cerberus would look rather fetching with the little alien headband. What else do we have?"

His little pun brings a smile to your face as you grab the next few bags, holding them up to the light, "How long do you have?"

Tagging: @pixelcafe-network @ambiguouslady42

#obey me nightbringer #obey me shall we date #obey me x reader #obey me #obey me x mc #obey me lucifer #lucifer x mc #lucifer x reader #lucifer fluff #x reader

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pricegouge · 3 months ago

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Haul

Part Five MDNI

Master list | on ao3

slasher!trucker!141 x reader

series cw: dark fic. major character deaths, rape/noncon

chapter cw: noncon oral. unsafe sex

You keep track of your passing dark periods - the closest approximation you have to a night time - in cards taken out of your deck, carefully collecting in the second drawer. The cards pass in relatively undisturbed silence and while one would expect such a display of mercy to appease you, it only manages to twist your stomach into tighter knots.

Without the blessing of exhaustion, sleep is hard to come by in the basement. It's more than the odd hum of the venting that runs through the corner, or the creaking of the beams overhead. More even than the condensation that collects, cold and clammy, on the walls around you and makes your joints ache. You think mostly it's the way your circadian rhythm has been disrupted, reduced now to the on and off hours of the dim, incandescent bulb. You learned on your second night there that they control it from above somehow, subject you to darkness or light whenever they wish. As far as you can tell, they're mostly keeping a schedule, but you're not too stupid to know a threat when you see one. They can plunge you into days of darkness any time they wish. It gives the darkness that enshrouds you now an edge, the possibility that they may never turn the light back on lingering every time you open your eyes to try and find a more comfortable position, only to find it makes no difference. They could Cask of Amontillado you down here and you likely wouldn't even realize for a full day.

There's a schedule now - a wake up call when the sun is still low in the sky followed closely by your bland breakfast, odd hours spent alone until one of them, usually Simon, retrieves you for a restroom break around noon. You don't get lunch, but Johnny sneaks you a little serving of applesauce on the second day and it's good despite having to pay for it with a kiss. He still makes you sick to look at, though he seems oblivious to your plight. Simon, on the other hand, barely looks at you. Stoic, menacing. You briefly wonder if he feels guilty and try to break past his defenses by joking with him as he escorts you to and from your room, or asking him for advice like he'd seemed amenable to giving that first night. You give up when he just continues to stare right past you.

True to his word, Gaz had told the boys your mouth was off limits until further notice while they'd all gathered around their little table for dinner that first evening. You'd tried not to watch their reactions too closely, wanting to feign indifference just to bother them, but there was no ignoring Simon's blase nod of acceptance, or Johny's annoyed huff. Especially when John expanded on Kyle's rules unexpectedly, settling his hands on your shoulders as he leaned over you to inform them all you'd be off limits entirely for a week while you 'settled in.'

At the time, it had been hard to keep your relief in check, not wanting to seem too eager lest John rescind his offer just to be cruel. But when Johnny forms a habit of sneaking into your room at night you wonder what good that offer was at all anyway, if John even has as much control over these men as he thinks he does.

The first time it happened had you sitting up almost excitedly after immeasurable hours of darkness when the door creaked open and a small circle of artificial light spilled into your room. A flashlight, you'd noted, your fear that they'd plunge you into darkness forever placated for a few more hours at least. Deep down, you knew there would be no help on the other side of that door, but it was a hard thing to get past, the human inclination for hope and survival. But then a thick brogue asking if you were awake doused you in fear like a bucket of cold water. You hadn't had much time with Soap since he nearly flayed your skin off with the hose for which you'd been extremely grateful, but it seemed your luck was coming to an end on that front. Perhaps on every front, all told.

He's not supposed to be there, but he only ever wants to hold you close and fend off the cold so you let him, happy when he's gone in the morning before even John can come knocking. Feverishly warm and pleasantly solid, with a thick pelt that rubs almost pleasantly under your good cheek when you lean into him, he'd make for a good bed fellow in different conditions. If it were anyone but him, the man you saw drag your friend's corpse around with a crowbar. But it's not, and you find no comfort in the man's arms, often laying awake well into the early hours of the morning.

But if you can set your cards by Soap's visit, it's John's daily appointments that you look forward to most, despite yourself. His arrival brings the light and the little traditions that make you feel human, like dressing properly and bathing and eating. Still, he's worse than Johnny, somehow, in that he actually expects you to indulge him, whereas Johnny is simply content to let you cry about your position. It's odd, but you get the feeling that John at least makes an attempt to please you, most days. While the boys moped about your being off limits, John took no small measure of delight in making you earn your panties every morning - though the ways he makes you earn them take you quite by surprise. Like Gaz, the captain's a man of his word, at least.

Captain John Price, as you've come to know him, deals in secrets just as much as sexual favors.

The first time he ducked through the door, wielding your prize in his pocket with a cocksure grin, he found you standing awkwardly by the desk, having taken a borderline defensive position with the stool blocking you from the door the second you heard someone descending the stairs. John just kept grinning as he took you in, eyes too knowing and yet completely unconcerned by the dubious weapon you've potentially found yourself.

You thought you'd known what he wanted, which was why you were so shocked when he'd stopped you from stripping for him with a firm but gentle hand on your good shoulder. "No need for all that, doll," he'd rumbled, "just come sit with me, let's talk."

Nearly a full week in and you've only ever talked with him, though the quality of the secrets he wants from you are ratcheting up to a level you're not sure you can deliver on and you're terrified to know what you'll have to give him once he grows bored of your secrets.

It had started off easily enough. He'd wanted to know about your first crush, your first job, if your parents were divorced. Your first kiss was a funny story, and you'd even managed to share a laugh about it when you told him how the boy had kissed your chin, both of you too embarrassed to try again for quite awhile. John had gone so far as to share his own experience, laughing about what a little fool he'd been with a smile that bares too many teeth, sets you on edge. You're not stupid. You know what he's doing, trying to humanize himself, get your guard down. It isn't working, but when he leans in close and listens with rapt attention as you describe your first love, doesn't laugh as you recount the more awkward stages of middle school, you worry it might, if you don't get out of here soon.

He eases you into harder questions so slowly it takes you a while to notice. And perhaps they aren't harder anyway - after all, how much more invasive is the question of how you'd lost your virginity as compared to your first kiss really, when both questions were asked by your kidnapper? Still, you take notice when he gets to your friends, what Ash's last name was, how close you were with your family. You try lying, hoping if they think your family is looking for you they will turn you free to avoid the headache. But they aren't, and John doesn't, and you see the disappointment in his eyes when he clocks your lie.

It's Gaz who ices your ass, after John belts it.

You sniffle the whole while, unable to resist clinging to him when he props himself up next to you. Kyle's been nice ever since you've learned how to be sweet to him, and it's hard to resist the comfort when he gives it freely, harder still to remember he's not one of them when he whispers to you about how best to please the captain, or how to get Soap to listen to you.

Delirious in the dark of night, you sometimes lay awake and wonder if he's your ticket out, if you can appeal to his humanity enough that he will take pity and leave your door open one day. Better yet, ferret you away in the cot of his truck and steal you across the border. You dream of drowning him in the Gulf and wake up to Soap's hands on you, coarse as sand.

***

John's happy this morning, heavy boots nearly buoyant on the stairs. It's strange how quickly one becomes attuned to the people who hold your fate in their hands. When one misstep could mean your life, you learn to read the quality of their treads in less than a mile. Only six cards in, John only ever descending that short staircase once a day, you think you've learned his in twenty yards.

The lights always come on just before he enters, from which you've inferred the switch must be just outside your door, tantalizingly close. Today is no different, though there's a marked pause after the light comes on and before John enters. You count the seconds in heart beats, your ass still throbbing with his latest displeasure. Resolutely, you decide you'll do anything to keep him happy today.

When he does duck through the door, John's gaze scans the room expectantly, eyes crinkling tightly when he finds you still laid up in bed.

Sometimes he calls you lazy if he finds you there - as if you could do anything else, with the light still out - but other times he likes tucking in next to you, smelling the pillow where you know Johnny's scent must linger. Sometimes he asks if Johnny behaved himself; mostly, he doesn't care. Today he sits confidently on the edge of the bed, moving with that air of owning everything around him unique to men like him. When he sits, legs sprawled wide and boots heavy against the tiles, you're suddenly acutely aware of his office directly above, the medals that decorate it.

"Good morning," he drawls, and you resist the urge to flinch when his hand comes up to ghost fingers across your cheek. It's been healing well with Kyle's continued care, the swelling gone down enough it barely ever affects your vision anymore. Doesn't mean you like when they touch it and you take too long to respond.

"I said, good morning."

"Good morning," you stutter. John cocks an eyebrow at you, expectant. "Sir."

"That's better," he grins, cocky, adding to the almost boyish aura about him this morning. He lets you look him over a moment, weathering your wary stare with little more than an implacable smile, eyes just slightly too tight to be genuine. You briefly wonder if you could manage to smother him with a pillow and then decide you'd best wait until your arm is better to try any risky, highly physical escape attempts.

"Well? You gonna come sit with me?"

When his tone drops you scramble across the bed, cursing yourself. You should have known, as it's how he likes to spend most mornings. So much for keeping him pleased.

John waits until you settle in next to him before flashing that warm, affected grin at you again. His palm is heavy when he slides it over your thigh, fingers digging into the meat above your knee with bruising strength. He rocks your leg back and forth a moment, face contemplative. When he speaks, his voice is a low rumble you haven't heard since before he'd declared you off limits. "Want you to earn your panties properly today. Can you do that, doll?"

Shit. "What would you… like?" you ask warily, back ramrod straight as you become acutely aware of everywhere he touches you: heavy hand on your knee, the long line of his thigh crowding yours, his pec against your scapula where his shoulder tucks in behind your own, allowing him to lean in close, voice deep and lethal against your ear.

"Don't wanna have to tell you what to do every minute, that's for fucking sure."

You don't want to touch him, but you want him inside you even less, and the thought of him cradling your sensitive face as he fucks your mouth makes your vision blur even to think about, so you bite your lip and grab his knee right back, fingers sliding up the seam of his cargos in the closest approximation of seduction you can manage. Your eyes are on his, seeking approval, breath shuddering out when you get it in the form of his sly grin returning.

John leans back on his free hand, his belt buckle appearing from under his small gut as he does so. You want to cut right to the chase and undo it, but when your fingers find the brass, his own ensnare yours, spreading your palm flat against his growing hardness and making you squeeze him there.

"Take your time about it, doll," he warns, "said I wanted you to earn them, not pay for them."

It's an odd distinction, but you know what he means. John is like Kyle in some ways. There's a reason he's spent so many days just talking to you. It's… good. At least better than Soap, who openly laughs at you when you cry and beg him to leave you alone. You suppose you'd prefer they want your desire than your unwillingness, if given the choice.

So you smile at him sheepishly, though it tastes like bile on your lips; and you take your time learning the shape of him even though rubbing your hands across his cargos feels like nails on a chalkboard. John doesn't notice, or maybe doesn't mind - at least not enough to stop you, his own hand moving up to your wrist to anchor himself and keep you in place - and so you continue until his head tilts back and you deem it acceptable to try his belt again. He lets you this time, a deep sigh tightening his tummy when you get his fly unzipped and his cock swells up behind it. He seems big, and the instinct to keep working him through the fabric of his briefs is less rooted in a desire to please him properly than it is a disinterest in finding out if you're right.

You do not need to be thinking about how he's going to tear you open with that thing one day soon right this moment.

It's hard to work him through the open placket of his pants but you manage, wedging your hand down the front until you can cup his balls. His flesh is hot even insulated by the fabric of his underwear and you take care to warm your fingers there because you know he'll be displeased if you touch him with your frozen skin. You're watching your own movements, nervous and unsure, so you don't realize he's tilted his face towards yours until your fingers wrap tentatively around the head of him and he tilts your mouth to his, licks across your lips with a hot stripe. It's gross, the strong scent of old tobacco the first thing you've been able to catch even the barest whiff of in days. You open your mouth to him anyway, bite back a grunt of disgust when he licks into your mouth, no preamble.

So much for taking your time.

Emboldened, you start to stroke him properly over his briefs, hopeful that you may be able to make this grown man cum in his pants like an overeager boy because you're desperate to not touch him directly. But John seems to finally have run out of patience, swatting your hand away briefly to hook his waistband under his balls and give himself a few strokes. He makes you watch with a heavy palm, rolls his wrist with a sense of showmanship you know without asking is meant to teach you how he likes it. You file it away between decelerating while hydroplaning and skin to skin contact working best for hypothermia: What To Do in an Emergency. How to get out alive.

"On your knees for me, doll."

The order takes you by surprise, makes you tense. You stare up at him with wide, scared eyes even as his palm pushes you to the floor. "But Kyle said -?"

"Know what Gaz said," he snarls, yanking you into position between his thick thighs. "Didn't ask for your fucking mouth, did I? Said, get on your knees."

You do not take a moment to steel yourself, too scared of what he'll do if you hesitate again. Your knees find the floor with a sharp clap, the tile cold even through your flannel pants. You can feel each grout line running a grid over your skin and you sink into it despite knowing it will hurt in just a matter of minutes. Anything to distract from the image before you.

Even with his pants wide open and his briefs rendered useless, John somehow manages to look totally composed. His face is a mask of tight control, the bare skin of his forearms where his sleeves have been rolled up flexing with his movements, even and tempered. In another light - maybe sunshine, or nice, homey lamp - you would find him confident. Handsome, even. Here, the command with which he holds himself only highlights how far you are from being done and the flip of your tummy is decidedly unpleasant.

"Touch me," John grunts, but his own hand is still wrapped around his thick cock, the other cupping his balls. Your fingers find the cuff of his pants instead, squeezing his ankle through the material of his boots and earning yourself a nod. One hand continues up, finds the bare skin of his shin and holds tight. His legs spread impossibly wider, however, when the other reemerges, the better to skirt up his leg and grope his thigh. Take measure of the dense muscle there.

You force yourself to watch when his pace quickens because you want him to cum sooner and because you know you'll want him to cum sooner in the future, too. He's uncut, something you're not overly familiar with. You sit outside yourself, watch him as if you're attending some depraved sex ed class as he strokes the foreskin over his glans, sometimes letting it swallow the tip of his thumb along with it. He leaks like a faucet, more so the faster he strokes. Thin and nearly clear - you bet it sours, tastes like his tongue. The veins of his hand bulge with his grip and you briefly wonder if you'll ever be able to satisfy him, or if he'll have to hold your hand every time just to get the pressure right. For now, you press your hands into tense muscles and let your palm wander to the crease of his hip, dig your thumb against the ticklish crest because you see how it makes the cords of his neck flex.

"Open wide, doll. Let me see that tongue."

There's no quip about doctor's orders this time, just blind obedience, eager to be done with it. Your eyes cross as you watch John's cock warily, his fingers bumping against your chin on each stroke when he shifts closer. Voice mangled and strained, he tells you to keep your eyes on him and you glance up, find his face contorted as if in pain as he grunts and groans his way through his climax, dark eyes nearly burning a hole through you.

You were wrong, it tastes worse than his spit.

"Swallow."

It makes you gag but you do anyway because John's palm clamps over your mouth when he sees you struggling, his fingers threatening to squeeze over your cheek. You're coughing and hacking when he pulls away, but you show him your tongue without being asked because he likes when you're clever, and you like when he's nice.

"Such a good dolly," John murmurs, fingers tracing your brow as if in apology. You accept it with as much gratitude as you do the panties he dangles in front of you, leaning into his touch ever so slightly as you catch your breath. Vision too blurred by the tears that gather on your lash line, dropping onto the dark lace in your hand, you don't see the way he smiles down at you, nor do you follow his movements when he levers himself off the bed. You hear his belt clicking as he redresses himself, the scuff of his boots across tile. You don't realize he isn't headed toward the door until you hear your desk drawer sliding open and you whip around to see him, wiping your tears away with an impatient brush of your hand, ignoring the flare of pain it brings.

John takes a single card from the deck at random, chuckles as he shows you the seven of diamonds before throwing it back into the other drawer without a word.

You don't need to count the pile to know what day it is.

As he slips out the door, John tells you to expect Ghost momentarily. Normally, you'd prefer the large man's company over most of them, if only because his apathy was better than Soap's - or John's - outright cruelty, but today marks the end of your allotted adjustment period, and the fact you don't know what to expect from the large man who perhaps still had your bra hanging from his rearview made your stomach churn. The fear of it, the growing threat, even distracts you enough that you don't dwell on how John knew about your little tally system.

A/N: kind of a small one this week but i won't have a chance to write again for a few weeks i'm thinking so i wanted to get this little transitory part out, at least. sorry if it's not up to standard!

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#dark fic #dead dove fic #141 x you #141 x reader #haul #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #kyle garrick x reader #Kyle garrick x you #john mactavish x reader #john mactavish x you #john price x reader #john price x you #poly 141 #💷🔪

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 7 months ago

Text

Winter's King 14

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: Another work week :(

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Not long after the king’s departure, Lord Jaskier excuses himself to see to his horse. Queen Jazlene sends him off with a similar quip about serious matters. You don’t quite understand her. She should be concerned with the weeks of travel ahead of her, not only of the time, but of the climate.

She finishes the bottle on her own. Much of it went to her cup. You think of warning her but it isn’t your place. You can only watch her head wobble as that hazy look softens her features. On her last gulp, a droplet trickles down her chin. You suspect she might be as unhappy as her husband claimed of himself the previous night. They make a rather sad pairing.

It’s early still. Perhaps once they are settled, it won’t be so tense. They will have a chance to know each other better without the stresses of a war or the road ahead.

Your thoughts stray and your vision fogs as you stare at a blue tapestry. Jazlene continues to babble and suddenly, the clink of her cup jolts you from your trance. You look at her as she slumps against the table. Her shoulders are slack, her arms bent around her head as it droops onto the wood. You can see her breath as she hunches weakly in her chair.

“Your highness?” You call to her. You sway on your feet as you watch her. Come on, move. “Your highness?” You take a step toward her, “Lady Jazlene?”

She groans and slips to the side. You rush around without a thought to catch her. She garbles drunkenly as you hold her in her arms, one leg still on the seat as her other hangs limply. She’s heavier than you would expect.

“Your highness?” You squeak as you struggle to keep her off the ground. You can’t drop the queen.

Her head lolls as her lashes flutter. She is certainly not conscious. The acrid scent of wine rises from her lips. You try to hike her higher, slinging her arm around your shoulder as you grunt. She’s not that big, you’re just weak. You can carry a cask or a chest, but a person is a much different matter.

You wrap your arms around her and haul her around the table. Her slippers drag and you clatter into the chairs and nearly trip on the edge of the rug. Your leg muscles thrum with the effort and your back racks. You look around. The bedchamber is too far.

You turn and little by little, step by step, drag her to the couch. Her feet loudly scrape across the floor. You angle her around with another laboured grunt and as you do, the hinges whine and the left door opens. You look up as the king enters and your lips part in surprise. You’ve been caught. Rather, the queen has.

He stares at you and eases shut the door. He comes around as your arms quake. He wordlessly takes his wife from your grasp and lays her across the sofa. You put a pillow under her head and back up, rubbing your upper arms.

“Your highness, she was not feeling well,” you say.

“She has drunk herself into a stupor,” he snarls as he backs up, crossing his arms as he glares down at her. “Do not lie, especially on her behalf. It does not become you.”

“Your highness, I apologise. I only worry for her--”

“You shouldn’t,” he intones, “she doesn’t worry for you. Or me. Or anyone but herself.” He turns and goes to the table. He rights the overturned cup and you reproach yourself for not doing so first. “But I do appreciate you attending to her. I’d rather not have found her upon the floor.”

“Your highness,” you bow your head.

He’s quiet. You’re unsure what to do next. Should you leave him with Jazlene or stay to tend to her? He will need sleep for the ride.

“Little maid, you will send to have a bath drawn. There will be little chance to wash upon the road,” he commands.

“As you wish, your highness.”

“Mm, if only,” he murmurs as she sits and grabs the empty bottle, sneering at its hollowness.

You set off to have water brought to his chamber. You assist the other servants in carrying the vessels of steaming water. All the while, the king ruminates at the table. He picks at his index finger and his cheek ticks. When at last the tub is full, you go to trail out after the castle servants.

“Little maid, I require assistance,” he says.

You remain and the doors close in the tension. You watch the king, your fingers twined together as you cautiously approach. He glowers at his fingers and huffs.

“You have small hands,” he rests his palm open on the table, “please, I would have use of them.”

Curious, you move towards him. He turns to you and holds out his large hand. He pokes his index fingers up and hisses.

“I got it on the door. A splinter,” he explains.

You see the dark spot, just the minuscule tip of it poking above his rough skin. The skin around it is inflamed, both from the sliver and his fussing. You bring your hands to cradle his single one and lean to have a closer look. You keep one hand under his and slip the other down the side of his palm.

You brush your fingertips over the lines of his knuckles. He’s quiet as he lets you gently squeeze. You glance up beneath your lashes.

“It might hurt, your highness. Apologies.”

His cheek twitches, “I’ve had worse than a maid’s touch.”

You squeeze until his flesh his taut. You pinch the tip of the splinter with your other fingers, using your nails to get a grip of it. You pull slowly. Very slowly, terrified of losing hold and having it go deeper. The wooden sliver slides out and before you can examine it, it falls to the floor, disappearing into the fabric of the rug.

The king sighs, “better.” He brings his other hand over yours and covers your small ones with his, “many thanks, little maid.”

He lets you go, his calloused skin brushing your sleeves, and he hums grimly. He bends his head forward and his white waves shift on his shoulders. He pushes his hair back and raises his head again. His eyes almost glow as he looks at you.

“I should fetch some water for the queen in case she stirs--”

“Later,” he dismisses, “might I ask another favour of such delicate hands?”

You dip your chin down, “I serve you and the queen, your highness.”

“Mm, yes, you recall, the knot in my shoulder, where I carry my sword,” he points along his shoulder, “if it isn’t trouble, I might have you loosen it before I must ride anon.”

“Your highness,” you acquiesce, curling your fingers into your palms. You remember that first night you met him, as he sat in the steaming tub and had you touch him. You sweat at the memory.

“It would be best before I soak,” he reaches to untie the laces of his tunic.

You watch him, helpless. As with the queen, you can only heed his whims. At least he is gentler in his mastery. He pulls his tunic above his head and strips it away completely. He lets it hang over one leg and squares his shoulders as he sits back in the chair.

You go around him and he moves his hair to his other shoulder. Your hands tremble slightly before you touch him. His muscles are thick and his skin taught across everyone. His arms are rounded with bulk and his neck is bullish in girth. He carries so much strength and power as if it is nothing.

You squeeze the muscles gently with one hand, pressing the other behind it. You knead carefully, gradually putting more behind it, responding to the soft breaths and low grunts rising from the king. You hit a spot with some resistance and he growls.

“There,” he grits as he drops his head forward. “Harder.”

You push your thumb against the little pearl of tension you feel along his shoulder. He exhales deeply and lets out a wolfish snarl. He grips his thigh as you work his flesh. Your hands move without much thought. Lady Rezlyn often requested to have her feet done, a much less ideal task.

“Mm, treasure...” he breathes though his words aren’t entirely clear.

Another noise rises from him, sharper than before. You stop, frightened.

“Your highness, have I hurt you?” You utter.

Before you can retract your hand, he has a hold of you. He lifts his head and hangs it back, his hair spilling down. He looks up at you with his bright eyes as he clings to your hand. He presses it flat and moves it over his shoulder. He drags it down against his chest where you can feel his heartbeat.

You’re caught in his gaze and his grasp. You just stand there, entranced by his golden irises. Each time you see them, they are more brilliant than the last. Your own chest tightens and binds up your breath.

“You can never hurt me,” he rasps. You gulp as he lightens his hold and pets your hand. He closes his eyes and winces. “Little maid...” he sits forward and gently moves your hand away from his chest, “you must go now. You must face the road with us and you will require rest.” He lets you go completely and stands. “I trust my wife will have many a demand to keep you busy.”

“Yes, your highness,” you murmur.

“Now,” he insists. “You must go now.”

He crosses the chamber and stops in the door to his bedchamber. You quickly flit over to the doors that lead out to the corridor. You pause and glance over as you sense him move. He stares at you, his eyes licking with flames. His chest rises and falls, trimmed in thick hair that trails down his hard stomach.

“Go...”

You obey and heave open the door. The soldiers on the other side snort. It is late, they must’ve dozed. You don’t think much of that as you harry down the corridor, not looking back. The king’s timber nips at your ears. The way he spoke; ‘go’. It was more than just a word; it was a warning.

⚔️

You rise with the castle, quickly falling into the tumult of the impending departure. When you arrive at the king’s chambers that morning, you are sent away. You find Jazlene in her own. He must have taken her back before the sun.

She is groggy and sombre as you help her dress. The pain in her skull leaks out in pathetic moans. You offer her lemons water and a cool cloth for her head. You see the difference as she accepts but she remains weak. It will be difficult for her to ride.

Horses fill the courtyard and the luggage carts crowd around the stables and rear of the castle. The scene reminds you of Debray. You only hope Queen Jazlene does not cause a similar scene. You don’t believe she can.

You accompany her to the front of the train. The king is not there. The queen clutches her throat as if she might be sick as the smell of the horses is stirred by their whipping tails. She grumbles and calls for a water skin. You find one and she shooes you away.

“Enough of you,” she snips.

You stay close, keeping watch should she signal for anything else. She can barely lift her head to do more than drink thirstily. Lords and ladies as good as ignore the queen as she mutters to her horse.

“Eh, mouse, there y’are,” Bryce’s voice undercuts your pity. “I’ve been looking for ya.”

You face him and the weight slips from your shoulders, “you have?”

“What are you insinuating?” He challenges, “Daisy’s missing ya.”

“Oh,” your brows raise, “well, it just so happens I miss her too.”

“We’ll be off soon. You should come claim your place with the luggage.”

“Should,” you agree.

You follow him through the press of bodies. You get further down, away from the pages and soldiers, see Daisy lazily hoofing at the ground. She chews on a sparse bit of grass in the dust. As you near, you notice that her holster is thicker than it was. She is attached to a small cart.

“What is this?” You ask as you stop short.

“It’s yours, mouse,” Bryce says staunchly, “isn’t right you riding with the chests. Not for so far as we need to go.”

“You... you did this for me?” You ask. "But... what about--”

“Found a spare horse. He’s a bit less friendly than our beloved but he’ll do fine enough,” he explains, “’sides, Daisy needs a respite. She don’t needa be carrying around my hefty behind much longer.”

“Oh, my,” you put your hand to your cheek and go to the cart, “Sir Bryce, you are a true knight.”

“Don’t you get sappy with me,” he tuts as he follows. “Look inside, will ya?”

You look inside the cart. There’s a long cushion and a pack. It’s a lot compared to what you came with; nothing. Bryce reaches in and tugs something from beneath the cushion. You watch the fur ripple out as he reveals the cloak. It’s thick and long and hooded. He holds it up.

“When we get to the Hinterlands, you’ll be needing this,” he says.

You touch the fur, it’s soft. You blink and feel it between your fingers. Your eyes sting.

“Sir,” you bat your lashes, “it is too much for me.”

“It isn’t very much, you are just too humble, mouse,” he folds and holds it out to you. “Now, don’t you be telling anyone this was my doin’. I got a reputation to uphold.”

“Oh,” you clamp your lips shut as you try to hold back your emotion.

A smile breaks through and you bare your teeth. Your cheeks hurt from the joy bursting forth. You hug the cloak and rock, looking around. As you do, you falter at a familiar face.

The king leads a dark horse along the edge of the yard. He is looking at you, or so it seems. You let your expression slip and tamp down your glee. You bow your head in King Geralt’s direction.

When you look up again, he is gone.

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #medieval au #the witcher #winter's king

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more-lavender-syrup · 5 months ago

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The Prince's Heir

Description: Daemon returned home from battle with one very specific thing in mind. Despite your sleeping state, you're more than willing to give it to him. Word Count: 1,882 Warnings/Notes: PIV, breeding kink, reader is asleep in the beginning, Daemon is manipulative (isn't be always?), Daemon wants an heir Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x f!WifeReader

A set of black boots, bloodied from battle, thudded against the floor beside the bed. A man pulled his shirt over his head before discarding it onto the floor below. The bed dipped inward and the blankets lifted off of the mattress as the familiar shape climbed inside. Slowly, the man began to inch closer to your sleeping form, careful not to wake you.

You flinched, feeling yourself awaken as the man pressed his chest to your back.

“Daemon?” You asked through the darkness. Your mind was still asleep and it was far too dark to see anything in the room.

You got your answer when a familiar set of lips pressed against your cheek.

He smelled of ash and sweat; like battle and victory. You were sure in the morning you would see all of the new bruises that painted his pale skin.

But for now, all you could feel was gratefulness that he was safe.

You were sure that you had seen the battle in a dream; images of Daemon riding Caraxes and ordering the beast to burn everything to ash flashed through your mind, painting the pale prince in a crueler light. But, as you lay there, the dream became foggier.

His hands slid across your back, searching for the quickest access to your body.

“The tie is behind my neck.” You said. You were still half asleep as his hand drifted upward and began tugging at the thin pieces of ribbon.

“You can go back to sleep.” He whispered. Once the knot was undone, he wasted no time. He pushed a dirty hand under the white linen of your nightgown, caressing the soft skin of your back. His other hand carefully pulled the material off of your shoulders and began to usher it downward. The material drifted over your knees before he pulled it completely free of your form and discarded it onto the cold floor below. You were left completely bare, with only your husband to keep you warm.

He wanted to relish this moment; savor the fact that his bride had been waiting, warm and soft for him. He had fought valiantly, after all. He had defended the realm and fulfilled his princely duty.

You spread your naked thighs for him, your chest still pressed against your pillows. This wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence for the two of you. In fact, it had become something of a tradition.

His hands moved across the small of your back before he groped your ass.

“You’ll be so beautiful, darling.”

“Hmm?” You asked.

With each movement, he peppered more kisses across your face. It was his way of showering you in perverted adoration. You were the goddess that he would die to defend; a little piece of heaven that was his to love, touch, and fuck. He didn’t need the Faith of the Seven, so long as he had you to bury himself in every single night.

“I missed you.” You whispered.

“I missed you, too. I missed you every hour that I was gone.”

The bed trembled as Daemon carefully undid his pants and then pulled them over his pale thighs.

His lips grazed the shell of your ear. Somewhere down the hall, you heard a cask of wine collide with a wall. Several men cheered in response.

“They’re celebrating.” Daemon offered. “You can go back to sleep. I’ll be gentle.”

“Do you wish to join them?” You mumbled. Your voice was muffled by the ocean of blankets that surrounded you.

“No.” He had come home with a mission.

Daemon worked quickly, pushing a hand underneath your body so that it was between your warm form and the mattress. He gently reached his hand under your hips. His fingers ghosted through your folds, carefully finding your clit in the darkness. The pads of his finger swirled small circles over the bud. Jolts of pleasure shot through you, making you gasp and grab at the sheet that surrounded you.

After a moment, he pulled his hand away. You whined at the loss of contact. But, getting you to finish wasn’t the point; at least, not right now.

“It’s alright, darling. I’ll take care of you.” You knew he would. He leaned downward and pressed a quick kiss against your naked shoulder before he glanced downward to see a growing slickness between your legs. With that, he pulled his hand from under your hips. He folded his fingers into a fist, leaving only his index finger free.

Carefully, he slid one finger between your folds. He poked at your entrance, making sure not to move too fast. You sighed, feeling his finger slide inside of you.

“Daemon.” You gasped, overwhelmed by the feel of stretching around him. A free hand drifted upward, moving so that his large palm covered the back of your hand.

“What would you do to please me?” He whispered, his eyes still fixed on where your body was swallowing him.

“Anything. Anything in the world.” He grinned at your words; he knew you would do whatever he wished.

“Give me an heir.” He whispered. The request caught you off guard. You didn’t know why; it made perfect sense for a prince to want a child. However, it had never been something that he had directly asked you for.

“What?”

He pulled his finger free, watching as it glistened in the dim light.

He then leaned down, moving his face so that he was closer to your open thighs. You felt him drop a long line of spit against your core, guaranteeing that you would be able to take him.

The warm drool pooled between your folds.

“Give me an heir.”

“What?” You asked.

You felt his heavy cock against your thigh. He had come home from battle desperate; needy.

“Don’t you want a gaggle of silver haired babes running around?”

“Uh yes, but-”

“Wouldn’t you like to feel a part of me growing inside of you?”

“I- uh” your head was fuzzy from sleep and he was saying so much, so fast. He had clearly practiced the routine on the way home.

“Don’t you want the gift of carrying a prince’s child? A Targaryen child?”

Daemon’s child.

It would be a gift, from him to you.

You nodded against the pillow.

Suddenly, you felt the head of his cock prod at your entrance. Then, in one smooth movement, he pushed inside of you, stretching you so wide that you gasped.

“Daemon!”

You twitched around him, trying to adjust to his size.

“What do you want, darling? Is there something you want to ask me for?” He leaned down and peppered a series of kisses along your bare shoulder. Each motion was gentle; loving. It was a beautiful contradiction to the saccharine manipulation that was going on.

You had finally stretched to accommodate him. Now, all you wanted was for him to move. But, instead, he was staying completely still.

Why isn’t he moving?

You rolled your hips upward, moving until his length almost slipped out of you. Then, you pushed yourself back, fucking yourself with Daemon’s cock.

“I want to give you an heir.”

He lifted his face from your bare skin, only to move his lips to the shell of your ear.

“I don’t believe I heard you, darling.”

“Please let me give you a child.” You begged.

He grinned, pleased with himself. He had gotten his way, as always.

Now, he could give you what you wanted.

He slid his hips backward and then slammed back inside of you, claiming you as his own.

Daemon had the special ability to turn any idea of his around; now, it seemed like it was your idea, more than anything else. And he was merely the dutiful prince, always willing to please his ladylove.

You didn’t understand why he had never been selected to be the Hand of the King; he could convince you to do anything in the world. Then again you had always felt that the Daemon you saw, the man who would call you pet names and coo to you on nights when you couldn’t sleep, was not the same man who could beat rival soldiers to death with helmets. The man you got was a harmless, silver-haired angel.

You bounced your hips backward, taking him inside of you over and over.

Daemon pressed his forehead against yours; you could hear the hitches in his breathing with every thrust.

Daemon groaned; he was close.

His rough hands traced your naked form, taking in every dip and curve as you grinded against him. He wanted to feel you; all of you. Despite the fact that he was buried inside of you, with the weight of his body pressing against yours, you both still wanted to be closer.

“Harder.” You begged. Your husband happily obliged, hitting so deep inside of you that you saw stars.

It took only a minute of the breakneck pace for your head to fall against the pillow as a wave of heat shot through you. You gasped, feeling pleasure begin to shoot through you as your body clenched and spasmed around him.

He groaned, feeling himself fall over the edge after you. You felt a sudden flood of warm wetness fill you as he fucked himself as deep into your core as possible.

All you could do was writhe between the bed and his warm body.

The pleasure slowly died down, leaving your bodies tangled in a sweaty mess.

He held your hips against his, making sure that every drop had been drained into you. He didn’t want to risk any part going to waste.

Daemon whispered something against your skin, but you didn’t hear what it was. You were also too tired to ask.

You inched your thighs open, expecting him to slide out. However, he remained firmly in place, his lips still dancing over your exposed skin.

“I’m going to give it a little while. Just to make sure it takes.”

The exhaustion that you had felt earlier was eating away at your thoughts. You wanted to say something to him, but anytime you tried to open your mouth, whatever you were about to say slipped away before it could come out.

Daemon leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss against your lips.

“You can go back to sleep, darling. I’ll be here to take care of you.” He cooed.

Strong hands reached out and grasped the edge of the blanket. Daemon carefully pulled the blanket around you, tucking you in so that you could be warm.

“I love you.” He whispered. It was the last thing you heard before you drifted off to sleep.

He remained inside of you, thrusting every so often when he would begin to go soft.

You had many dreams that night. Each one was filled with Daemon’s adoring voice. There was no battle; no bloodshed.

At the end of one of the dreams, you could not find Daemon. You had found him in your bedroom. He was speaking softly to himself as he bounced on the balls of his feet. He had been so lost in his own world that he didn’t even notice you come in. After a moment, though, he turned, showing you the silver haired babe that he was holding.

#Daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen headcanon #daemon targaryen fic #house of the dragon smut #daemon smut #prince daemon smut

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wild-typo-turtle · 1 month ago

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Threads - Part 8

Explicit (slow burn, 18+ only) - Rings of Power - Gil-galad x OFC (Elf)

Includes S2E8 of Rings of Power - spoilers ahoy!

Gil-galad had only taken a handful of steps when his gaze passed over yet another collapsed building. From the looks of things, it had once been an open, airy shop that had faced directly into the plaza. The roof had caved in, creating dusty shadows, and even his keen eyes might have missed the slumped figure had he not heard the tiny whimper from the darkness.

Eregion has been destroyed; Sauron is gone. And yet, the sun still shines, as the ruined city holds the last thing that High King Gil-galad had ever expected to find.

Themes: #Idiots in love, #love at first sight, #soulmates, #smut with feelings, #fix-it, #everybody lives

Content Warnings: Explicit content eventually (slow burn), canon-typical violence; loss of parents; grief/mourning

Tag List: @morganas-pendragons, @stellar-solar-flare, @the141bandicoot; @inyx-writes44

Dreamcasting: Keri Russell as Linnea

Part 1 (includes A/N and credits), Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

Content Notes for Part 8: Grief, Mourning as themes; loss of parents

Part 8

Two Weeks Later

It was difficult for the Eldar to get drunk. Not unheard of, certainly - Dwarvish ale and the liquors of Men were seldom up to the task, yet the Elves’ own wines could often render one senseless. There were casks in the royal cellar, in fact, that Gil-galad had been wary of breaching.

But now, as he stared at the page in front of him, now might be the very occasion.

Her tender heart I feel

O! Beloved!

Her tender flesh I taste

O! Beloved!

Her tender kiss I share

O! Beloved!

A river flows, a lily blooms

A proud tree rises as a sapling in springtime.

This was getting him nowhere.

He was sure that Círdan’s advice had been well-meant, but the shipwright had never wed. He would have no concept of whether Rúmil’s writings were accurate - and indeed, Gil-galad was not sure he would either, even after his wedding night. The language was so vague and couched in metaphor, there were any number of things it might apply to.

But perhaps that was the point. Perhaps Rúmil was attempting to describe something that could not be described.

Although that bit about tasting…?

There was a soft knock on his door, and with relief, Gil-galad looked up.

Quickly, he closed the book and slid it under one of the stacks of papers on his desk. As useless as it was, he was not fond of the idea that someone might realize what he was attempting to do. This was private, and the only one he desired to be thinking about it besides himself was Linnea.

He wondered what she was thinking. Did she share his trepidation? She had no more experience than he did, after all. Would she worry about pleasing him, just as he worried about pleasing her?

The idea nearly made him laugh, and it offered reassurance. The heat that welled up in him every time he kissed her - no, she had no cause to fear. And he had seen the desire in her eyes, felt her tremble at his touch. They would find their way together.

The knock came again, and he rose. “Enter.”

Gil-galad had been grateful, all told, that Elrond had spent so much of the past weeks in Imladris. Construction was proceeding rapidly, and he knew that much of it was due to Elrond’s attention to detail - as well as his way of kindly encouraging the best from anyone around him.

It had been a necessary sacrifice, losing his herald to bigger and better things. And one he had not resented bearing - save for the matter of his pending wedding. More than once he had wished for Elrond’s help; they had worked together for long years, and while his replacement Nendir was entirely competent, it was just not the same.

He had been too proud to ask, but he was not too proud to have felt relief when Elrond had arrived two days ago, and had - very politely, and very delicately - begun assisting Nendir with composing the letters of invitation. Elrond’s arms were laden with them now as he entered, a dozen neatly rolled scrolls that awaited the royal seal and Gil-galad’s signature.

“High King.”

“Lord Elrond.”

Elrond stepped over to the desk, beginning to set down the scrolls and arrange them. Linnea and Adabes had dealt with the list of recipients, and he was glad to see that it had not expanded since the last time he had seen it. That thought of privacy pushed at his thoughts again; it was not too late for him to toss Elrond’s efforts into the fire and go find Linnea and have it done with.

But a royal wedding was more than just the bonding of two souls; it was an opportunity to renew friendships, plant seeds for the future, strengthen alliances.

And perhaps, rebuild them as well.

He glanced over the letters that Elrond had opened and set ready for him as he re-seated himself at the desk. Oropher and his family, yes; Amdír and Amroth of Lórien; various other lords and high Noldor that were already well aware of the wedding, but the formal invitation still had to be sent. And drafts of the proclamations that would be issued throughout Lindon and carried to Imladris as well, Linnea’s coronation at the Tree that was open to all.

He smiled at that last page, and Elrond saw it. “There will be a great party of the survivors that come from Imladris, High King,” he murmured. “Lady Linnea is one of their own.”

“I trust you have informed Adabes of their number?”

“I have. The arrangements are all well in hand.”

“Good.”

He calmly reached for his quill, betraying no hint of his plans, and began to sign the pages. Elrond fell into their old rhythm quickly; no sooner had he finished with the quill than Elrond was ready with the hot wax, and he pressed his seal to stamp it. Easy and familiar; it would come with time, with Nendir, but the resumption of routine, even for a few moments, was peaceful.

Unfortunately, he was about to shatter that peace.

Gil-galad sealed the last of the announcements, and set the brass seal off to the side. “I have another task for you.”

“Of course, High King.” Elrond’s attention was on organizing the finished pages; his tone was distracted. “I am, as ever, at your service.”

Gil-galad had written it himself. He had thought long and hard over the matter, and he knew it wouldn’t even be considered a slight if he didn’t; they could simply send an announcement after the fact and have done with it. There would hardly be any expectation otherwise.

In the end, as he suspected he would do so often in the years to come, he had asked Linnea what she thought.

A wedding is a time for joy, she had said, as they had shared their evening tea. Let that joy be the mortar that fills the cracks between Elf and Dwarf, and the water that smothers any fires that yet burn.

He took the letter, and passed it to Elrond silently. And it only took the former herald one glace to understand.

“ ‘Esteemed Prince Durin,’ “ he said quietly, his eyes flicking across the top of the page. “High King, I - “

Gil-galad held up a hand. They had spoken little of the late arrival of the Dwarves to Eregion; it had not been a subject that they needed to discuss at length. And apart from sending a polite acknowledgment of their help, and thanks for the offer of further aid, there had been scant correspondence between the realms since the siege.

But they would need every ally in the fight to come.

“You will deliver it personally,” he said, keeping his voice firm. “We must begin to mend this rift between our two peoples. What has transpired is past. Your friendship with Prince Durin may be the key to unlocking the power of the Dwarves against our enemy, and you know as well as I that it will be needed.”

“High King,” Elrond said again. And this time there was heat beneath his voice, the coals of betrayal that had not yet burned low. “We placed our faith in Durin once. Our dead might have been fewer in number had he held to his word. It is a fool who stores his jewels in the same casket they have already fallen from.”

“And yet, the Dwarves have reason to mistrust us as well,” Gil-galad said quietly. “They bear the consequences of our lack of sight, of Celebrimbor’s pride in allowing Sauron’s influence over his craft. The Dwarven rings cost them dearly, as Durin himself knows full well. There are wrongs on both sides, and someone must be the first to extend a hand.”

Elrond stared down at the letter in his hand. “A mighty hand indeed, to invite the Prince of Khazad-dûm to the High King of the Noldor’s wedding.”

“Khazad-dûm still roils with unrest. None of the factions competing for the throne after King Durin’s passing shows any signs of triumph. This may be our chance to tip the scales. Our public acknowledgment of his claim - to the exclusion of all others - sends a message.”

Elrond looked thoughtful. “Some of the lords may count it as much curse as blessing. They may withhold their support of Durin knowing he allies with us.”

“You speak truly, but Durin did come to our aid at Eregion. Those who would deny him their backing will have already done so. And those who are swayed by power will see that Durin has our confidence.”

Elrond licked his lips, glancing down at the page again. And what he said next proved just how far he had come, in so short a time.

“Does the lady Linnea approve of this?”

He almost chuckled at Elrond’s implication. It was possible that there would be times to come when he would have to overrule her wishes for the sake of the realm, but he would never have considered it for this. If she had objected to the Dwarves being invited to their wedding, he would have found another way.

“My lady bears no grudge,” Gil-galad said. “And if she does not, we have no grounds for it.”

Elrond winced. It was true that what he had said was an oversimplification, but the underlying principle was clear. Elrond had not been wrong when he had said the Dwarves might have stemmed their own losses - but that also held true for the brave defenders of Eregion. Linnea would have had more reason than most to object, and she had not.

The thought seemed to take the wind from Elrond’s sails. His shoulders relaxed, and he looked down at the letter for a moment more before he began slowly rolling it.

“As you command, High King. I will depart immediately for Khazad-dûm.”

“Oh, Eressie.”

The dressmaker smiled, casting her eyes shyly down at the floor. For her part, all that Linnea could do was stare, letting her eyes drink in the beautiful sight.

It had taken her weeks to decide on the fabric, but Eressie hadn’t wasted the time. By the time she had finally found it - a heavy cream silk shot with gold and copper, almost as if it were lit from within - the design had been complete, and Eressie had taken her scissors and needle to the stunning fabric with more bravery than Linnea herself would have shown.

And this was the result.

The neckline of the dress draped softly around Linnea’s chest, revealing the soft swells of her breasts above a corset that covered from breast to hip and laced in the back. The skirts fell from beneath the bottom of the corset, layers upon layers of the heavy silk, lapped one over the other like the petals of a rose. Tight undersleeves, made of pale gold silk, were fitted beneath longer, fuller sleeves of the cream. The edges of the neckline were embroidered with golden leaves and accented with pearls, as were the cuffs of the undersleeves and a band of the oversleeves around her upper arms. More leaves were embroidered here and there on the layers of the skirt - giving the impression that they had been captured in mid-flight, falling from their tree.

It was beautiful. It was incredible. It was perfect.

She had almost been afraid to touch it. But she knew Eressie needed to see it on her one last time, to make any final alterations. The wedding was in two more weeks, and knowing that the dress was done would be one thing off the list that she needed to think about.

Two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks.

“My lady? Will you step up, so that I may check the hem?”

This had been the very reason for her visit; her shoes were finished, retrieved just that morning from the cobbler. She moved to the wooden dais that Eressie had set up for just this purpose, and stood still as the seamstress knelt and fussed with the edge of the dress.

She wondered what Gil-galad would be wearing.

He would look stunning, whatever it was. But he had adamantly refused to tell or allow her to see any bit of it. The only hint that she’d gotten was when he had asked what color her dress was, and had looked immensely smug when she had shown him a small sample of the fabric. But he wanted to surprise her, and so she had followed his lead, making that glimpse of color the only clue he got in return.

Eressie finished with the hem and sat back on her heels, smiling up at Linnea. “I need do no more, my lady. Your dress is finished. And I shall have your nightclothes completed within the week.”

Nightclothes. Yes. She slept in silk and satin now, not the soft cotton and linen she had always known, but for this night she had wanted something even more special. She would only have one wedding night in her entire long life, and so would Ereinion. He deserved for her to come to his bed as beautiful as she could make herself.

Her heart quickened, thinking about it. Thinking about the wisp of a gown that Eressie was finishing, about how Ereinion’s hands would look on the soft white fabric.

And how they would feel once that fabric had been removed.

But she kept her composure, stepping down and turning so that Eressie could unlace the back of the dress, and then quickly changing out of it and back into her regular gown. She handed the wedding dress to Eressie, who swathed it carefully in a long strip of pure white wool to protect and conceal it.

She was just finishing when there was a soft thud from the back of the shop, and a small blond boy came hurrying out.

“Mother?”

Eressie’s son was still very young by the standards of their people - and every time she saw him, Linnea’s heart ached just a little, knowing how difficult it must be to grow up without his father. But the child seemed to be doing well, if a trifle shy, although perhaps that was simply his nature. Eressie herself was such.

The boy saw her and instantly halted, bowing. “Your Grace,” he said, very politely. “Mother.”

“Negen,” Linnea greeted him, smiling. “I am pleased to see you. You look well.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Eressie looked nervous at the interruption; she had become more comfortable with Linnea over the last months, but she was still finding her way around the propriety that had been drilled into her for interacting with the nobility. “Negen? Is aught amiss?”

“No, Mother. But I have finished my reading for the day. May I have some fruit?”

Eressie let out a small breath of relief. “Yes. Yes, of course you may. You know where it is.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

Negen turned and departed the way he had come, through the door in the back of the shop that led to their living quarters. The sight made Linnea’s heart ache in a different way; their weaving shop in Eregion had been built in a very similar manner, and it felt as if she herself could walk through that door and be in their little kitchen, with her mother washing vegetables over a basin and her father tending the fire -

“My lady?”

Linnea shook her head, pushing the thoughts back. And it was not for the first time.

The memories of home and family had lingered close over the last weeks, and they had prickled at her mind like thornbushes that she was gingerly trying to find her way through. Every so often, she was scratched.

“I am sorry,” she said quietly. “It is just - being here reminds me so much of home. I was distracted for a moment. You are fortunate in your child; Negen is a fine boy.”

Eressie dipped her head in a small bow. “Thank you, my lady. He - he has dreams of being a soldier like his father.”

Oh, she could not imagine how that must feel for Eressie, to have her son’s ambitions lie in the same direction that had been his father’s downfall. Linnea swallowed hard, past the tightness in her throat, and tried to think of something to say.

“I am sure that whatever path he walks, he will succeed,” she managed, and was proud that her voice stayed even. Another sign that she was learning how to be a queen.

She was saved from having to find more words by a soft tap on the shop door. A moment later, it opened, and Hellathas leaned inside.

“Lady Linnea,” she said quietly. “The light begins to fade. We should return to court as soon as you are ready.”

That had been another change over the last weeks.

Work was still ongoing to bolster Lindon’s defenses, and with the army so reduced, Gil-galad had issued orders that only the most necessary activities were to be pursued after sunset. The streets were now quiet in the darkness, the only steps to be heard those of patrolling soldiers. It had lent itself to an aura of caution and agitation among the inhabitants, but Linnea could not fault his reasoning; it would be much easier to identify intruders this way.

Lindon itself breached. The thought was scarcely conceivable, but it was Gil-galad’s role to do just that, to consider every possibility and plan accordingly.

Their role.

She nodded at Hellathas. “Thank you. I will be with you directly.”

Hellathas stepped back and closed the door, and Linnea turned to Eressie. The momentary distraction had helped her settle herself, and she was able to smile fully at the seamstress.

“I will return in a few days for the nightclothes,” she promised. “As always, your work is beyond compare.”

Eressie blushed, dropping her green eyes to the floor even as she dropped herself into a curtsy. “You are too kind, Your Grace.”

Adabes was lying in wait when Linnea returned.

She had tried to establish that when she was out, Adabes was welcome to enter her rooms and wait for her if there was need. But Adabes hadn't gotten quite that far yet; she stood outside the door, holding her writing desk, as poised as she always was.

“My lady,” she said, as Linnea stopped at the landing. “The King is still in session with the council. Do you wish to dine before we review the wedding ceremony?”

Inwardly, she sighed. She had been hoping for a quiet dinner with Gil-galad, but council meetings had been extending longer and longer as of late. He would not expect, or want, her to wait.

“Have you eaten, Adabes?” she asked. “You are welcome to join me, and we can converse at the same time.”

“I have eaten, thank you. But you need not delay on my account, Your Grace. I am happy to wait until you have refreshed yourself.”

Linnea shook her head; that simply felt rude to her, and like an abuse of her position. “No, please come in. We can talk first. I am anxious to hear about the ceremony.”

Adabes stood aside then, and Linnea opened the door to her rooms.

She had added a few furnishings since her arrival in Lindon. Although she had been fairly sequestered, still acclimating herself to all of the change, some of the ladies of the court had taken it upon themselves to seek her out. She had added more seating in her front room as a result, and also a small frame loom in the corner. The looms in the weaving room were much larger and more suitable for bigger projects, but this one would accommodate scarves or shawls or similar things. She was weaving one such now, in fact - a gift for Adabes, a silk shawl in a pattern of deep gold and pale green. It had made her smile when Adabes had admired the colors, and she was looking forward to the surprise.

One rather nice thing about being the future queen was that her needs were always anticipated. Even though she had been absent from court for several hours, someone had come and lit the lanterns and candles, and had built and lit the fire. The rooms were toasty warm, and Linnea settled down on one of the chairs by the hearth, motioning to Adabes to sit as well.

She had been eager for this discussion, an outline of what the actual ceremony would entail. She had of course attended weddings before, but that was quite different than it being her own. And she was anxious to ensure that there were no traditions she needed to be aware of, things that the Noldor did but that the Sindar did not.

Adabes positioned her writing desk just as she liked it, across her knees, and took out her quill.

“The ceremony itself is quite short,” she began. “As neither you nor the High King have living parents, you will invoke the blessings yourselves. There is no traditional point at which to carry out the ritual, but I would suggest waiting until the end of the feast, and then proceeding directly to the coronation.”

Linnea nodded. She had learned very quickly that any suggestion Adabes made was well-considered and had ample reason behind it, and the logistics of what she was saying were sensible. “I agree. Are there - that is, the blessings I know are traditional for the Sindar. But are there different words used by the High Noldor?”

“Not to my knowledge, my lady. Obviously there will be some slight alterations, as you will say the words yourselves, but they are no different in essence. The King will say, ‘May Manwë Lord of Wind watch over us’, and you will say, ‘May Varda Star-kindler hear our calls.’ And each will end with, ‘And may the - " Adabes paused, clearing her throat. “ - the Father of All bless us.”

Linnea understood the slight pause. It was no light thing, to invoke the name of Eru Ilúvatar; that would wait until that very moment when she and Ereinion were holding one another’s hands, the blessings hovering between them, one of the silken threads that bound them together for the rest of eternity.

She tried not to think about how that call to Varda and to Eru would sound from her own lips, and not her mother’s.

Lhénes had had a low, quiet voice. Perhaps it would have rasped slightly as she spoke, as she held back tears of joy at seeing her daughter wed so well. Being queen would not have mattered to her, but the knowledge that Linnea had found love, that her true soulmate had been out there - that would have pleased her greatly.

More of those thornbushes. She pushed them back, returning her attention to Adabes.

“Very well,” she said. “And the exchange of rings afterward?”

“Yes, Your Grace. The wedding bands have been commissioned from the smiths. You will return the King’s betrothal ring to him, and he yours.”

Linnea smiled. She had a suspicion that the silver star would find its way back onto another of her fingers soon after the wedding; it was too beautiful to be set aside and kept in a casket. “It seems simple enough. I had feared the Noldor would have other traditions, especially for a wedding of this importance.”

Adabes hesitated.

It was an uncommon occurrence, and it made Linnea look at her more closely. Adabes was ruthlessly efficient; this was most uncharacteristic, and she wondered at the cause.

“Adabes?”

Efficiency won out, and Adabes gave a small sigh. “There is one thing, Your Grace. I am sure that it is of no consequence, given that you are Sindar and that your parents are no longer with us.”

Her stomach twisted.

“And what is it?”

“It is customary among the Noldor for gifts to be given to the bride and groom, by either their parents or another relative. The father of the groom to the bride, and the mother of the bride to the groom. A jewel that can be worn is the most traditional. But again, I am sure that no one will expect it. Certainly the King will not.”

He might not expect it, no. But had it been something he had hoped for? Would he feel any lingering sadness that the wedding had not been quite what he’d dreamt of? And the other Noldor lords - the conflict between Noldor and Sindar that went back thousands of years - would this validate some long-buried judgments, that she was not worthy of their High King if she could not manage so simple a thing?

She felt Adabes’ eyes on her and looked back up. “I see. I will consider that, thank you for telling me. Was there anything else?”

Adabes looked like she wanted to hide - which was, again, most unsettling. “No, my lady. Once the rings are exchanged, the public ceremony is finished and the coronation will begin.”

On another occasion, Linnea might have asked about that part as well. But she knew that she would need Gil-galad for that; he doubtlessly had plans, likely a speech to give - or more than one. There was ample reason to delay that discussion, even if she had been able to manage it at this moment.

Her mother Lhénes would never see the wedding dress she had tried on that day. She herself would speak the blessings that Lhénes should have. Lhénes would never choose a jewel for Ereinion, something he could wear to remind him of his wedding day; her long and elegant hands - so like Linnea’s own - would never give it into his keeping, much the same as her only child.

She took a deep breath, and couldn’t keep it smooth. Not with the memories crowding around her, not with the thornbushes drawing in so tight.

“Thank you,” she said again. “Then I believe that is all for tonight?”

To her vast, vast credit, Adabes seemed to sense that anything she might say - any apology or condolence - would only make things worse. Instead she quickly stowed her quill and rose, curtseying briefly, and murmured. “Yes, my lady. I shall see you in the morning. Goodnight, Your Grace.”

And she left.

Linnea sat, her mind fixated on what Adabes had said, like a fish caught on one of the cruel hooks that Men used.

It is customary among the Noldor for gifts to be given to the bride and groom. A jewel that can be worn is the most traditional.

I am sure no one will expect it.

Well, they had not expected her, had they?

She rose then, her hands clenched into fists, striding over to the ironwood chest that sat next to the frame loom. Sinking to her knees, she flung the lid open and plunged her hands into the neatly folded fabrics that were stacked inside, scattering the dried lavender and rosemary that had been set to keep the moths away. She had traded three lengths of fine silk for Ereinion's ring, but much remained of what she had saved from Eregion.

The Noldor had enough jewels. Enough finery. But she could make Ereinion another gift; she was upending tradition anyway, with no female relative to perform the task. She might as well embrace it.

Her fingers dug deeper. She was barely aware of the tears that had started to fall, dripping down and landing on the floor beside the chest as she touched the cloth. Each one held memories; her hands had woven parts of many of them, the work of her mother and her father and herself all intertwined. Impossible to tell who had done what anymore.

But this -

She pulled out the object of her search.

The fabric was deep brown, a blend of wool and silk. Lhénes had finished it not long before the siege; it was one of the most versatile fabrics she had ever created, woven both for warmth and for lightness. And Lhénes had employed every aspect of her craft - not only was the fabric itself a marvel, but she had laid protective charms over the threads. It would offer concealment to the wearer, and would turn a blade or an arrow that was not crafted by skilled hands.

Linnea had helped her warp the loom when she had begun.

We oft know what our work’s purpose will ultimately be, Lhénes had said, as they had threaded the heddles together. The threads speak to us of a gown, or a wall hanging, or some such. Yet this I do not see, only that it wishes to be made.

Not a gown, no. Not a wall hanging. Not a blanket or a robe or a table covering.

Her hands could wield a needle, not as skillfully as Eressie but enough for this. There was time enough to complete the task. She would finish what her mother had started, and this would be her gift at the wedding.

A war-cloak for a King.

She hoped Lhénes would have approved.

But that dam that she had sensed when first she had arrived in Lindon - the dam that she had known would eventually burst - it finally broke, as she held the fabric and felt Lhénes’ love woven into it, her care and concern and the magics she had employed, the magics that would ultimately protect her daughter’s husband and the father of her grandchildren. The bolt of brown wool dropped into her lap and Linnea collapsed, a sob tearing from her as she fell forward onto and into the chest, clinging to it like a raft in the middle of the sea.

There had been no time. Grief had been pushed aside, but it would have its due.

She didn’t know how long she cried, her tears salting the wood of the chest and the fabrics within. The entire tower might have fallen down around her and she wouldn’t have noticed.

Melethel?

The whisper caressed her ear, and Linnea looked up, her body still shaking.

Her rooms were empty.

She leaned back down, resting her forehead on the edge of the chest, tears still running down her face and onto the floor.

But then, she heard the sound of footsteps approaching. And there was only one place they could be coming from, for them to be so clear.

Gil-galad had just returned; that much was plain as he emerged from the stairs that led up to his rooms. He was still wearing the silver samite robe he preferred for council sessions, but the weariness that normally dragged at his handsome features after the meetings was nowhere to be found. Instead, his face was filled with concern as he saw her, and he hurriedly made his way across the room, dropping to kneel at her side and putting his arm around her in one unbroken movement.

“I felt you,” he said, with no preamble. “I felt your sadness, melethel. What has happened?”

She was not too proud to lean into his strength, letting him tighten his arm and draw her even closer into his chest. It felt so silly; she would see her parents again in Valinor someday, they would even be able to meet Gil-galad, although hopefully that day was long hence.

She felt him run his hand over her curls. “Tell me, I beg you,” he whispered. “Whatever burdens you, it is mine to carry as well.”

That made the tears start flowing again. He had so many cares, especially now; the idea of adding to them was too overwhelming.

“I heard you,” she whispered instead. “I thought it was the wind or my own fancy. But I heard you…”

His hand was still stroking her hair. “I called out to you in my thoughts. But I did not expect you to hear - I did not think the ósanwe would be so strong so soon.”

He was right; she hadn’t even considered the idea. The ósanwe, the interchange of thought, normally took time to develop between Elves - although perhaps it wasn’t so surprising. She knew enough to know that it was strengthened with affinity, with urgency, and with authority. She had no trouble believing that Gil-galad’s power as the High King was enough all on its own to reach across the forests of Eriador. And with love and worry backing it? She could likely hear him from Valinor itself.

The reminder of that love loosened her tongue, and she let herself speak.

“I have thought of my parents today, more than any other,” she murmured. “And when Adabes told me about the ceremony, about how we must change the words of the blessings…and the Noldor tradition of the gifts, and I knew that my mother could not do that for you, that that would be a part of our wedding that you would not experience, and…”

“Oh, melethel.” She hadn’t thought it was possible, but his arm tightened even more. “Think you I care for such things? I vowed to you that we could be wed in an instant if you desired it. I need only you.”

She nodded, her cheek rubbing against the softness of his robes. “I know it. But it seemed so important, with everything else. And I have no other to perform those offices. The other Noldor, they may find me unworthy…I am alone, I bring no great House to ally with yours…”

Ereinion’s free hand worked itself between them and tipped her chin up.

“No one of any consequence would find you unworthy,” he said firmly. “There is none in Arda that I would have at my side, save you. There is none other I would have as queen; there is none other I would have as the mother of my children. I regret only that I will not know your parents, and that my parents will not know you. I would have taken joy in their knowing how fortunate I have become. But someday they will know, and until then, I need only you.”

He always knew what to say. Doubtlessly it was a skill he had built over the long centuries as King; his rule had been, for the most part, peaceful, and he had more often wielded diplomacy in lieu of blade. And he was speaking true; she could feel that. None of it mattered to him. Their wedding would not disappoint, no matter how it took shape.

“I wish they could have known you, meleth nín,” she whispered. “They would have liked you.”

She felt his lips gently press against her forehead. “It means much to me, that you speak so. That they would have found me worthy of you.”

That made her laugh - a small chuckle at least, punctuated with hiccups, but it was a laugh. It would be a rare thing indeed that he was unworthy of. At the sound, she felt Ereinion relax as she leaned against him, relieved that she was starting to recover herself.

“Come,” he murmured. “I would guess you have taken no food yet this evening, and I have not done so either. Let us go see to that. And afterward, you need not return here. Not this night.”

She jolted backward, staring at him. She understood immediately what he was offering, and it was tempting, so tempting, but -

“The guards,” she said, her voice catching. “They will know. And the servants - it is still two more weeks until the wedding, we should not - "

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Hush. Often the crown is more prison than privilege, binding us to tradition and obligation. Yet with it comes the power to disregard those things on certain occasions. And in my mind and my heart, you are as much my wife as if we had been married a century ago, and had lain together a thousand times since then.” He smiled, gently caressing her still-damp cheek. “And I would be a poor husband indeed if I left you to be alone in your grief. Stay with me tonight, melethel. Rest in my arms. Let me ease your pain as much as I am able.”

Any argument she had had crumbled in the face of that.

And besides, she had been in Lindon for months. Since the day she'd arrived, her rooms had been directly beneath his, connected by the private staircase. If anyone were going to talk, it would have happened already. And their kind knew when another was wed; it was in the eyes, the voice, unmistakable. As much as she and Ereinion were already bound together, it would be obvious to anyone who looked that their union had not been consummated yet, regardless of where she had spent her night.

And so she nodded, and he got to his feet and then helped her up.

“I will summon your attendants,” he murmured. “And I will tell the guards. All you need do is come to me when you are ready.”

He wasn't being the King, not at that moment, but it was simply part of his nature to take charge when it was needful. She was grateful for it, and more; she knew it helped him, feeling like he was doing something about her hurt besides just being there.

He brushed a kiss over her lips and then turned, moving purposefully towards the door as she seated herself at her dressing table. She heard the door open, heard the brief instructions he issued with absolute certainty and not a care in the world.

The queen will remain above tonight. Fetch her attendants.

The door closed, and she heard his steps coming back to her, pausing in the doorway. In the mirror she could see him, his eyes still full of concern for her, making him somehow even more beautiful.

“Gi melin,” he murmured. “I will await you.”

Continue to Part 9 - WARNING, SMUT AHEAD!

#gil galad #gil-galad #rings of power #fanfic #gil-galad x ofc #trop fanfiction #fanfiction #the rings of power #fix it fic

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pearlywritings · 1 year ago

Text

Your bed is enough

synopsis: after experiencing a not so nice day at work, Diluc decides to stay at your place tonight

prompt: 27

requested by: @bobaboob

pairing: Diluc x fem!reader

tw: pure fluff, domestic moment, established relationship (you are engaged)

word count: 1.2k+ words

a/n: check my Token of appreciation writing event!

It feels like hours have passed since the moment Diluc put the key from the tavern in his jacket’s pocket and took your inviting hand to follow you home. Though home in your and his case could mean two places - either the winery, where he offered you to move in with him a couple of months ago, which with the recent engagement feels absolutely right, or your apartment, situated in the city itself.

And tonight it’s the latter.

Diluc rarely complained and even more rarely he complained out loud, but the evening was worse than he could ever remember. Nothing functioned right - both Charles and a couple of waitresses had fallen sick the day before (he’s gonna find and strangle that merchant from Inazuma who’d offered them, as it turned out, expired snacks from his land), the number of patrons was surprisingly and almost overwhelmingly high, some barrels came with broken taps and he’ll have to deal with extra work tomorrow both with the casks’s supplier and the workers who missed the defect… Oh, and then one of the drunkards must’ve been in such a stupefied haze that he mistook the red-haired male with someone and intentionally spilled a bottle of wine all over his already messy uniform, blaming him for seducing his wife and taking her away from him. The Ragnvindr nearly exploded back then, and the man was out of the door before he could realize who’d he just offended.

You got it - the evening was horrendous.

And even now, in a bath, in your oh so familiar bathroom, in the comfort of your - now also shared - living space, with you getting ready for bed on the other side of the door, he can’t shake off that exhaustion that enveloped him like a heavy cocoon. Hopefully he’ll manage to scrub the smell of alcohol off of him at least.

When he emerges into the bedroom with a towel on his head and some loose sleeping pants sitting low on his hips, he finds you standing in front of your bed, already dressed for sleep, and staring at the piece of furniture with utmost concentration. There is a line between your brows, your pretty lips are pursed and arms crossed. In his eyes even this looks ethereal - if that’s one of the views he’s going to witness once you become his wife - getting to see you focused and serious while helping the winery owner with his work affairs, - then he wants to marry you as soon as possible. He really can’t wait to add another ring to that beautifully crafted engagement one on your finger.

Forcing himself out of his blissful dreams and deciding to finally ask what brought you to such a state, Diluc makes his presence known with a polite cough. You immediately whip your head in his direction, and the previous signs of your brooding are gone, replaced with a soft smile and a bright glimmer in those eyes he loves so much.

“Oh, you are out already,” uncrossing your arms, you make a step closer and he does the same, until you two are standing in front of each other and your hands reach to the towel. “Are you feeling better, dear?”

“Somewhat,” he answers honestly, lowering his eyelids, letting you wipe the heavy mass of his hair dry. “Do I still smell of alcohol?”

“Hmm…” You move your face even closer, sniffing air close to his chest. “No, I don’t smell any. Oh wait, how about here…” and you shamelessly press your face into his neck, making the man shudder and open his eyes. You caught him off guard and shook him out of his drowsy state.

“My flame?” He feels your hands still in his hair and you softly giggle, tickling the sensitive skin even more.

“What?” Is muffled against his shoulder and Diluc shakes his head. But there is a slip of an adorning smile and he can practically feel some weight of the evening disappear.

“Nothing, my dear. If you haven’t suffocated yet, then there is none.”

You plant a kiss where his neck and shoulder connect and draw your face away, tugging the towel and completely dragging it off of his head. Ah, here it is, the bright grin he loves so much and readily mirrors in response.

“Yeah, there is none. Only an amazing smell of my body wash. Now you smell like me.”

“And I am honored,” he says sincerely, to which you happily hum, disappearing in the bathroom and reappearing only a moment after. “But I can’t help but wonder what got you so deep in thought?”

At first you raise a brow at him, but when he motions to the bed it clicks, and you hum, long and thoughtful.

“Oh, nothing, really. I was just thinking that maybe I should get a new bed. You know, enough to fit two people?”

Ah, that’s what it was about. Admittedly, Diluc is a big man - both tall and muscular, and you have only a one-person’s bed, which he alone could take over completely if lying sprawled. He knows he could always take the couch, but in those few times he stayed at your place, you insisted on sleeping together. And those closely tight embraces under the same blanket are ones of the fondest memories the redhead possesses.

“You know, we could redecorate this place a little and use it more frequently when one of us doesn’t have enough strength to go all the way to the winery. And the bed could be the first step.”

“Is your bed cramped when we sleep together?”

He is as surprised as you are when the question hangs in the air - he didn’t expect it to just burst out of his mouth. However, he also doesn’t want to let go of this tight, but so comforting space just yet - admittedly, it gives him some indescribable sense of completeness.

You stare at him silently, as if trying to guess what he’s thinking about and what answer he expects. But nothing is better than the truth itself.

“It is,” crimson eyes widen slightly and are immediately cast down. Not letting him dwell long on whatever he’s already imagined in his head, you step closer, touching his scarred forearm, gently gliding your fingertips over the skin, asking for his attention. And when he gives you just that, Diluc sees a reassuring smile. “In the good way.”

You chuckle softly when he releases a sigh of relief, and reach to cup his cheek, feeling your heart skip a beat when he leans into your open palm.

“But I am worried that you are uncomfortable. I see how much you love to stretch in the morning while in bed at the winery, and there is not enough space in my bed. And I can be in the way of your outstretched arm-”

“You are never in the way,” the words are firm and the dancing flame in the depths of his eyes is proof enough. “You are right by my side. And that’s why it’s perfect.”

“Oh, you…”

With the trilling laughter you let him fall onto his back, landing on the soft mattress, and draw your body right on top of his. Your chemise rides up, bearing your thighs, and rough fingers don’t wait long to dig into plush skin. You stare down at him, with palms firmly planted on his wide chest, feeling the steadily beating heart under the fingertips, relishing in the appreciative look he is giving you. And for all of that and so much more your bed is perfect, because it's enough.

#pearlywritings appreciation event #token of appreciation #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #diluc x reader #diluc x fem!reader #diluc ragnivindr x reader #diluc ragnvindr #genshin impact fluff

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lovelesslittleloser · 2 years ago

Note

Loveless the peasants are asking for more of the yummy plague doctor prompts.

Also, I miss you, friend.

I’ve missed you as well! I really need to get used to having relationships to upkeep. I’m rusty and my friends are growing dusty

Brain exercise I guess: select any inedible object, anything from an empty cup beside your bed or a low resolution image of the Taj Mahal, and tell me what it’s texture and taste would be, whether it’s a plant, meat, or a just a fun guy. Tell me if you can slice into it and if it’s rigid or fold-y, or if it crumbles. Is it dry? Crunchy? Spicy? Does it taste like a banana or black licorice?

How would you prepare it? Roasted, boiled, fries, grilled, in a sandwich, frozen, with spices or condiments or sugar, or just plain? How much could you eat in one sitting? What situations would this item be prepared in a meal for? Parties? Balls? Announcements? Weddings? Meetings? Is there any cultural or religious significance to it?

Just a little brain massage~ have fun! :D

#not entirely sure what you meant by ‘yummy plauge doctor prompts’ so I hope this was good?#this was longer than I intended lmao #these are all very worldbuild-y questions. I don’t know if I should be proud or not but I’ll choose that due to Fear #asks from casks #back at it again with the best fren #ah yes I nearly forgot:#monsterfucking #I mean I guess some of the objects that could be seen as meat could also be seen as alive and therefore maybe monsters? maybe??#either way it’s great to. see? communicate with? you again!!#my brain kinda does ‘out of sight out of mind’ so I’ve been distracted by every little thing every five seconds #tbh sometimes I don’t even open any apps other than safari and YouTube for like a whole day #anyway I’m really curious as to what your response to think will be! it’s like I’m pulling the lint out of your brain XD #have a good one~

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theneighborhoodwatch · 1 month ago

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All of the scratching and trying to open a door to escape something definitely is drawing to mind a fire, especially with the soot web looking things behind home. But I guess it could also just be a buried alive (in the costume?) kind of thing as well. Also, the two works of The Telltale Heart (direct) and A Cask of Amontillado (indirect) have...interesting implications.

as pointed out in this post, the cask of amontillado is a revenge story. In Particular, it's a revenge story in which the reason the narrator montresor wants revenge is never made clear to the audience - although it's worth noting that one possibility that gets brought up a lot in literary discussion is that montresor envies fortunato's wealth (something that montresor is implied to have once had, but does not possess any longer, at least not to the degree he once did) popularity, and general good nature.

as i point out in this ask, these latest incidents so far seem to come about as a result of home wanting the spotlight to be on them/wally wanting the spotlight to be on home and acting accordingly - even if the only action they need to take is simply taking advantage of the fact that poppy was likely to drop out anyway. even then, bricking her in seems like a measure that one only would have taken to make sure she Stays out of the way, by disguising it as a favor to her.

speaking of which... the solution the neighbors come up with here falls very much into an "ignorance is bliss" sort of deal, right? and ignorance is at least partially what keeps the neighbors from like, learning a lesson that lasts longer than one episode/story or forming better ways to regulate themselves emotionally, right? and this is, however indirectly, what led home to be on the spotlight at least this time, right? then, if i'm right about these incidents being a result of home wanting the spotlight on them/wally wanting the spotlight on home - is it not Also reasonable to conclude that the neighbors remaining ignorant of both each others' distress and their own/the full context of their existence/how to better regulate their emotions etc. is crucial to that plan?

#anonymous #ask #welcome home #wh speculation #i know i've said i don't think home is like a one-dimensionally evil character but well. doesn't mean he can't be evil in a sort of #tortured and multidimensional way #as a treat

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moondance-r · 2 months ago

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SAGAU-adjacent not-Creator Creator 2

Summary: You knew, viscerally down to your bones, that you did not create this world; Teyvat had no grand creator, no single hand designing its wonders. It did, however, have something of a catalytic agent, without which it would not exist.

You.

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It had been an entirely unremarkable day for Diluc until Adelinde approached with a harried look on her face and handed him a slip of paper.

“It came by the Knights’ fastest hawk,” she informed him quietly.

Unrolled, the paper contained only the Favonius coat of arms marking it as official correspondence and a short message written in Jean’s hand, unusually shaky:

Creator sighted by Bard. Come with best harvest, They’re here.

Creator sighted.

A thrill ran down Diluc’s spine. For generations, they had hoped and prayed to see the Creator, and now They had descended during his lifetime. He was excited, but nervous too -- if anything went wrong, their ancestors wouldn’t just roll in their graves, they would burst out of the ground in anger.

“Adelinde,” he said, the tension in his tone enough for her to snap to attention, “prepare the Liberation casks for transport. I leave as soon as they’re ready.”

Adelinde’s eyes widened. “The Liberation casks, Master? But those are...”

“Yes. The Liberator has graced us with Their presence.”

The Liberation casks, named for the Liberator Themselves, consisted of samples of the best wine from every harvest since Mondstadt’s founding. They were first planned to be for the Creator, though as years passed with no sign of Them, the casks that deteriorated in taste were auctioned off for obscene amounts of money, valued as much for their superior taste as for their prestige.

And now he was going to watch all that work pay off.

He arrived to a Mondstadt bustling with activity. Children ran through the streets with armfuls of flowers, while their parents hung garland after garland on every building. As he walked to the Favonius headquarters after arranging for the Liberation casks to be delivered to Angel’s Share, Diluc watched a group of teens be roped into setting up a banner to unfurl across the main street. No one was spared from the festivities.

The Knights of Favonius headquarters was a hive of controlled chaos, and Diluc dodged more than one too-focused knight on the way to Jean’s office. He knocked twice on her door.

“Diluc here.”

“Come in,” was the response.

The Acting Grand Master of the Knights was noticeably frazzled, with clothes askew and splatters of ink on her sleeves. Diluc raised an eyebrow wordlessly.

“Our mutual bard friend alerted me to Their arrival just this morning. They were apparently located off our east coast and have been steadily moving west, and at Their current speed we expect Them to make landfall in another hour or two,” Jean said. That explained why everyone was in such a rush.

“I thought the preparations for it had been made centuries ago?” he asked idly. “The Knights are more inefficient than I thought.”

Lisa pushed the door open before Jean could answer. “The current Mondstadt is different from the Mondstadt of back then after all, of course we’ll need to make some adjustments.” She turned to the other woman in the room. “Jean, I have the ceremony records you wanted. It’s time for you to take a break, don’t you think?”

“There’s no time for that,” Jean said, already flipping through the thick stack of papers Lisa handed to her and making notes.

Diluc sighed, knowing that the Acting Grandmaster was impossible to dissuade when she became so focused. And besides, he wasn’t so dense as to deny the thrum of anxiety in his own chest -- this was the creator of their world they were talking about, the most important personage in existence, during Their first known descent to Teyvat. The mere thought of Their disappointment made him want to rip his heart out of his chest.

* * *

Mondstadt greeted you as a castle town on a lake island, connected to the mainland by only a single bridge. Beautiful yet defensible, you noted. It was yet another indication of this world’s troubled past.

Even across the stone bridge, you could hear cheering and indistinct chatter from a sizable crowd of people of all ages. Beyond the portcullis, a swarm of sparks lit up in your senses, little embers of your power similar to but weaker than the ones in the statue and Barbatos. As your gaze rested on each person in turn, a light breeze blew against your face and Anemo breathed into your ears:

Jean Gunnhildr, human, Anemo, born of Mondstadt.

A blonde woman.

Kaeya Alberich, human, Cryo, born of Khaenri’ah.

A tanned, dark-haired man.

Albedo, homunculus, Geo, created of Khaenri’ah.

A shorter man with pale hair.

Eula Lawrence, human, Cryo, born of Mondstadt.

A woman with light blue hair.

Diluc Ragnvindr, human, Pyro, born of Mondstadt.

A red-haired man wearing the most ornate outfit you had yet seen in this world.

There were more, but you flinched at the onslaught and pressed your eyes shut, causing the clamour to fade into a faint murmur.

“O Sweeping Gale?” Barbatos prompted. You could almost feel the way his attention sharpened, though you shook your head and continued with only the briefest hitch in your steps. He would probably be far too happy if you told him how the world itself was reacting to you.

Focusing on your greeting party wasn’t an improvement, however, as every eye was pinned on you. Jean saluted. “Your Grace, we welcome You to Mondstadt and hope You enjoy Your stay.”

Looking from her serious expression to the way everyone was almost vibrating with excitement, you sadly bid goodbye to any chance of correcting the Creator myth here.

* * *

The festival was a new experience for you, and you did enjoy it, but you had no plans to settle down. A night of meditation revealed that your awakening was linked to the roots of the world. People could access these roots through ley lines, and the biggest and strongest of these was called the Irminsul tree, one of which was known -- or at least strongly suspected -- to be in Sumeru.

You wanted to go there because you needed answers to your questions. Why did you wake now, not during earlier conflicts such as the Archon War or the Cataclysm when Teyvat’s need was arguably greater? And... was Teyvat ready to stand without you, for you to begin the arduous process of detangling yourself from its core? You had already been here for well over 6000 local solar orbits, albeit unaware for most of that time, and you couldn’t stay forever. One day you and Teyvat would walk separate paths; but you would also make sure that it wouldn’t crumble the instant you left the scene. That was what a responsible caretaker did.

However, your mortal body was unable to enter the core, so you could only access Teyvat indirectly through Irminsul. From the map of Teyvat that had been presented to you, the easiest way to Sumeru was to travel over land through Liyue. You were perfectly fine with walking -- you had more than enough time to detour through all seven nations if you wanted -- but Jean protested. Vehemently. In the end you managed to talk her down from a full honour guard to a horse and Diluc as a companion, since his manor was conveniently in the same direction. You had also, with difficulty, managed to avoid having an advance notice sent with news of your imminent arrival, by using the excuse that you wanted to see ‘your acolytes’ in their natural form. For some reason this worked -- you didn’t question it.

(Elsewhere, Venti gave his enthusiastic support. “I want to see Morax’s flustered face!” he crowed.)

Once again, you lamented the abundance of cults in magical worlds. You would have to be careful not to give any inclination that you planned to leave Teyvat entirely.

The journey to Dawn Winery was uneventful, save for a high number of slimes along your route that were, apparently, unusually docile. You’d spent an afternoon happily petting any that came within reach, even as Diluc fretted in his brusque way nearby. As for yourself, you weren’t worried at all; quite apart from your own not insubstantial power, slimes were elemental beings intimately connected to Teyvat, and nothing so aware of the world around them could or would harm you. Their very physiologies wouldn’t allow it.

Unfortunately, this didn’t extend to humans and other creatures who weren’t -- quite literally -- born of the earth, so your mortal journey was still in danger of being cut short. Who knew how long it would take to gestate another body? No, you had to take care of the one you had.

As you came out of the woods and caught your first glimpse of Dawn Winery and its sprawling vineyards, you let out a short, impressed breath. “It’s amazing,” you said quietly. It truly was.

From the corner of your eyes, you saw Diluc turn away with a half-hidden smile. “Welcome to Dawn Winery.”

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Tagging: @fantasyhopperhea

Interact with this post here if you'd like to be added to the taglist.

#genshin impact #genshin impact oc #genshin sagau #genshin reader insert #my writing #sagau-adjacent verse

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nartothelar · 1 year ago

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But for the vampire au, have you considered Emmet getting Severely Hurt™️ and Ingo turning him to keep his brother alive?

Or do they have an agreement to just let things happen?

“No.” Emmet responds simply, decisively.

The answer is expected and yet, the disappointment Ingo feels is an unwelcome heaviness, his constant frown turning genuine without it meaning to.

Ingo had asked the very same question thrice times now.

Once was when they were kids. It was casual inquiry that came with little prompting; he had asked out of curiosity more than anything. Ingo had asked Emmet after they had defeated a trio of challengers off hand. Emmet had laughed, light and airy, when he answered. They had gotten ice cream using their winnings after.

The second time had been following a much more harrowing experience. A safety check forgotten, a simple mistake by a depot agent newly hired, had resulted in a derailed train. Fortunately only a few were injured. Unfortunately, one of those few was Emmet.

Ingo had asked him with bags under his eyes, something quite silly since Ingo didn’t even need to sleep. (Was that makeup? Emmet had joked with an exhausted smile.)

Emmet, laying in that hospital bed, IV's in his arm and a cask around his left leg, had responded much the same, a chuckle rather than a laugh. Perhaps his headache had come back to manage much more than that. Ingo didn’t attempt to change his mind and offered him the chicken noodle soup Elesa had brought for him.

And the third time was right now: Ingo sitting across from Emmet in the dining room of their shared apartment. It was morning and even though the windows curtains were drawn, the room was illuminated with a soft glow. In front of his brother was a plate of eggs and toast, him nursing a cup of black coffee. In front of Ingo was just a cup of tea, untouched and cooling.

“But why don’t you want to be a vampire?”

The way he asks shows his cards far to easily. Whoever had said Subway Boss Ingo was hard to read must have not tried at all.

His brother looks at him, assessing him, and then looks away.

Emmet is silent for a minute, simply gazing at the cup in front of him. His food was getting cold.

Most would think Emmet was being hesitant when answering, that this was a sign he didn’t want to answer at all. But Ingo knows him well. He knows he wants to go over what he will day and that he voices his thoughts properly.

Ingo is patient and waits. Finally, Emmet answers.

“I like the sun.” His brother says, looking at him. The color of his eyes haven’t dulled all these years. “It feels warm on my skin. It feels good.”

“I love eating. The taste, the action. Yup!" Emmet picks at his plate with a hum. "I want to eat what I like, when I like."

“I like my independence." Ingo's tea leaves an ashy taste as he sips it - a floral chamomile bag floats at the bottom of it. "I do not want to be dependent on others. I do not want to be dependent on things out of my control."

"I know that I will have to sometimes." Emmet really looks at him now. "And that is ok. But I still feel the same way.”

Ingo squeezes his mug, before he relaxes his grip. Emmet notices.

Emmet lays his palm on his chest, closing it into a fist near the middle.

“I like being human.” It sounds final, the words like a gavel to wood, the way it echoes in his mind. “I do not want to be a vampire.”

Ingo wants to argue. To convince him that the pros outweigh the insignificant cons, but he does not. No. Usually Ingo is more eloquent with his words, but the fear that rises up in his throat makes his usually well thought out words more brisk, more succinct, more honest as he says the obvious.

“But you are aging.” Ingo says. You are dying, Ingo tries, fails, and a refrains to add.

Ingo hands are smooth, his face without a wrinkle. He looks as the same as he as when he first became a subway boss. He has since he was sent to Hisui. Forever youthful. And Emmet.

Emmet's hands are calloused, wrinkled from years of maintenance at gear station. His hair is thinning and his temples were turning white. His stride not as brisk as it was years ago.

“I am.” Emmet replies. “And I will continue to age.”

Ingo knows Emmet. He is stubborn, just like himself. That is how he is. He knows he will not change his mind. And that makes him clench his jaw, look down at his cup with furrowed brow.

“Ingo.”

Ingo snaps his head up, fear turning to anger that makes him feel sick. He should not be angry, but he is.

“Then you plan to reach your final stop?” Emmet’s smile dims. Ingo continues anyway. “Leave this station?” Without me? Ingo clamps down before he utters the accusation.

“You....you will have me wait here for you to die? And do nothing?!”

And there it is. Ingo barring his greatest fear since he got turned. The thing that has plaguing his mind since he stood at the grave of his old clan leader in Hisui, at the cemetery where his other wardens were laid to rest. What he had realized as he saw time passes by, years of constant goodbyes and tearful farewells.

It was that, no matter how grand his ideals, the simple truth of the matter was that he was utterly powerless to the passage of time.

Ingo doesn't realize that he has stood up until he is already towering over Emmet's seated form. His fangs barred and he suspects his eyes are slits.

And despite that, Emmet looks calm. He looks...sad.

“I didn’t ask for this.” Ingo says softly, deflated as the anger leaves his body. To live on as those around him pass. To see enjoy his life without the people he cares most around him.

Ingo feels arms wrap around him and he wraps trembling arms around Emmet too, his head laying on his shoulder. They stay like that for a moment, simply holding each other, not letting go.

"I'm sorry I never gave you the choice." Emmet finally says. Ingo's hands grip at Emmet's shirt. "We were young. You were dying. And I was desperate. I did not want to lose you..."

Emmet pulls back after that, not all the way, but enough to look into Ingo's face. His fangs have retracted, his eyes normal again. "But those details do not matter now, do they?" Emmet sighs out, that sad smile still there.

"They matter. Of course they matter." Ingo protests, but he doesn't elaborate pass that.

Emmet looks at the floor, thinking about his words and looks at Ingo again before saying, "Everything reaches its final terminal."

"Not me." Ingo says. It comes out bitter.

"Everything does." Emmet repeats, shaking his head. He squeezes Ingo's forearm before he lets go. "I did not give you a choice. but you can choose for yourself now."

His brother’s crows feet, a result from decades worth of smiles, crinkle at the edges as he looks at him. "Just as I choose for myself."

Ingo dwells on those words, on what his brother is offering. A choice and a decision to make. Emmet looks at him and Ingo understands.

With a sigh (a concession, a compromise), Ingo nods and accepts Emmet's answer.

That heaviness Ingo feels is not fully gone from his mind, but it has lightened, the tension of the room dispersing like the morning fog.

Emmet notices, smiles, and sits back down to finish his breakfast. Ingo follows. And then the silence is filled anew with his brother's latest retelling of yet another dealing he had with a rude passenger yesterday.

Ingo listens and they both laugh and talk and all is right and as it should be that morning, in their shared moment of time.

Him and his brother were a two car train, always have been, no matter their differences. And no matter what, he was going to be there with him until his brother's final destination.

And then after that, once that engine has long gone cold, Ingo would decide when his last stop was too.

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