#black and gold velvet curtains

[literallyfrist]

Transitional Bedroom in Charlotte Example of a mid-sized transitional guest dark wood floor and brown floor bedroom design with gray walls and no fireplace

[honeyedmiller]

Birthday Girl | Joel Miller

pairing: fiancé!joel miller x fiancée!f!reader

rating: 18+, minors do not interact

warnings: lots of fluff, sweet fiancé joel, no outbreak, smut (birthday sex heh— f oral receiving, unprotected piv, fingering), joel talks you through it, praise, pet names (baby, darlin’, my love, princess), no use of y/n.

word count: 2.1k

author’s note: so today’s my 25th birthday and this is extremely self-indulgent. i’d love for someone to do this for me on a birthday in the future 🥹 also sorry for any mistakes, it was written rather quickly. this wasn’t revised. hope y’all enjoy <3

synopsis: Joel gives you a sweet surprise on your birthday.

divider by @saradika-graphics 🤍

“Baby. Baby, wake up.” The deep vibrato of Joel’s soft voice woke you, eyebrows pinched together as you slowly blinked open your eyes to wake up. 

You mumbled something incoherent and Joel chuckled, knowing you didn’t like to be woken on days you got to sleep in. 

“Get up, birthday girl, I have a surprise for you.” Joel kissed your forehead, then your nose, followed by one that lingered on your lips. You smiled against his lips and stretched your arms above your head, stiff joints popping in the process. 

“What time is it?” 

“It’s nine. I know you like to sleep in a little later, but I have something for you downstairs.” 

You blinked your eyes fully awake as they adjusted to the ample rays of sun shining through the curtains in your shared bedroom. Your gaze shifted to Joel and it immediately softened. The man you love more than anything stood before you with a crooked smile on his face and messy bed hair; body adorned with those delicious gray sweats you loved on him so much and a green t-shirt you always thought he looked good in. 

Just the sight of him nearly made your mouth water, but you checked yourself to behave as you’d just woken up. He held his hand out for you to take, and your soft digits slotted in his as he helped you up gently from bed. He tugged your hand to follow him downstairs, and you complied easily. 

As soon as you got downstairs, you saw rose petals atop the coffee table with two gift bags and a bottle of your favorite wine. 

“Joel, baby,” You grin, looking at him. “All for me?” 

He chuckles and squeezes your hand. “‘F course, my love. But let’s eat breakfast first.” He pulls you into the kitchen, and a sweet aroma fills your nose. You look down at the island, seeing all of your favorite breakfast foods. Joel even made a plate of chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream on top in the form of a smiley face. 

You get teary-eyed at his sweet gesture, not ever getting used to the idea of someone caring so much for you on your special day. To him it could’ve just meant making breakfast and buying a couple of gifts, but to you, it meant the whole world. 

“Thank you so much, Joel. This is so thoughtful.” You wrap your arms around his torso, giving him a chaste kiss. 

“I love you, darlin’.” 

“I love you too handsome.” You grin up at him, enjoying the intimate moment of being wrapped in his embrace. He moves his hands down to your ass and taps it softly, slightly separating his body from yours. 

“Let’s eat breakfast.” 

-

After breakfast, Joel insisted that you opened your presents with a promise that you’d be able to drink your wine in the evening with dinner. You tucked your legs under yourself as you leaned back against the couch, Joel handing you the first gift bag. You smile up at him and thank him, opening it carefully. 

You removed the black velvet box tucked inside, opening it to reveal a pretty gold watch with an emerald green face that you’d been wanting for awhile. You gasped in awe, admiring the beautiful piece as you rotated it in your hand. 

“It’s so beautiful, Joel. Thank you.” You kiss his cheek, carefully placing the watch back into the box. He hands you the next one and plants a heavy, warm hand on your bare thigh, rubbing circles into your soft skin. You open it up to find a gorgeous lavender lingerie set. The soft lace slides over your fingertips as your eyes spark with something darker, full of desire as you look back up at Joel. 

“I love it. Thank you, Joel.” You sit up on your knees to face him, taking his face in both hands as you bring him in for a kiss. 

He immediately reciprocates, wrapping his arms around your waist as he coaxes you to lay onto the plush carpet beneath you. You untuck your legs and open them for him so he can easily slot his broad body between them. He deepens the kiss as he cradles the back of your head, his other hand moving underneath his oversized t-shirt you were wearing. 

“Y’should wear the set on our honeymoon.” He breathes against you, breaking your lips for a few seconds before reattaching his lips to yours. You didn’t have time to respond so you moved your hands up to his thick curls, giving them a small tug. 

His calloused hands travel up until they reach the soft, pillowy flesh of your breasts, squeezing generously as he toys with one nipple between his index finger and thumb. You moan into his mouth, bucking your hips up to feel that he’s already rock hard in his gray sweats. 

Arousal was already thick in your panties, and you were dying to be touched by Joel. 

“Joel, please.” You whimper, needing his fingers, tongue, cock, anything to ease the ache in your core. 

“What the birthday princess wants, she gets.” He teases, nipping your collarbone before sliding his hands up your body to remove his shirt from you. He moves one hand down your sternum, skating his fingertips over your skin. Goosebumps rise at his touch, and he looks down at you with a knowing smirk. 

You take your bottom lip between your teeth, pleading with your eyes as best as you can. Joel’s gaze softens as he moves down to kiss you, moving his lips down your body. He makes sure to stop at each of your breasts, swirling his hot tongue around the pert buds before sucking lightly. You moan louder this time, the sensation shooting straight to your core. 

“Fuck, Joel.” You’re breathless and soaking, canting your hips up. Joel finally moves down, nipping as he goes, kissing your tummy a few times before moving down to your clothed core. He groans at the dark wet patch he can see through your panties. He runs his knuckle over the soaked fabric, causing your body to jolt slightly at the contact. 

Joel chuckles and moves down to kiss your clothed core, sticking his tongue out to lick the lace material. He was driving you crazy with his teasing, eliciting a whimper from your throat. He taps your hips twice, hinting to lift them up for him. You oblige instantly, and he easily slides the material off of your legs before spreading them again, tossing them over his shoulders. 

Your glistening heat was met with his gaze, and he looked up at you. You card your fingers through his hair, stopping at the crown of his head. He smiles at you and wastes no more time, moving to give your exposed heat a kiss. You softly moan at the contact, continuing to run your hands through his soft hair. 

He pokes his tongue out to lick your folds slowly, teasingly, lovingly. He was taking his time with you, lapping up your arousal at a languid pace. His tongue prodded into your entrance, fucking you slowly with the muscle. The curve of his nose was rubbing against your already sensitive clit as he did so, causing you to tumble toward your climax much faster than you’d anticipated.

Then again, you’d never met any man who could get you off as fast as Joel can. His skillful tongue knew exactly what it took to make you shake with pleasure, mouth constantly willing to praise your body over and over.

You were looking forward to it for the rest of your life. 

You gripped his dark curls to signal you were close, still being shy about talking too much during intimate moments like these with him. Joel always tried to coax you, but he knew you and your body so well by now that he could tell you were on your way to an orgasm before you could even make a gesture. 

“That’s it, pretty girl, there you go.” Joel coos, replacing his tongue with his fingers as they prodded your entrance. His fingers curled up to hit that sweet spot that drove you absolutely insane. 

“J-Joel, god, fuck—”

“I know baby, I know. Feels good doesn’t it?” 

Your brain couldn’t even conjure up a coherent sentence, so all you could do was nod desperately. The white hot coil brewing in your core was about to snap, waiting impatiently to take over your whole body with pleasure. 

Joel brought his mouth down to your clit and sucked it a few times, finally sending you over the edge. Your legs shook as your cunt spasmed, head fuzzy with euphoria. 

“There you go. That’s a good girl, let it all out. I’ve got ya.” Joel smeared his slick lips against your inner thigh, nipping your skin softly. The drag of his scruff had your skin on fire, sensitive to the touch. 

It took you a minute to come down from your high, finally catching your breath as you stared at your fiancé with glossy eyes and a fucked-out gaze. 

“Want more, baby? Need my cock too?” Joel smirked, that same smug look seeming to be permanent on his face. 

“Please,” You croaked out. “Need it so bad. Need you so bad, baby.” 

“Usin’ your manners n’ all. I’m all yours, darlin’.” Joel tossed his t-shirt over his head, stripping himself of his sweatpants and boxers as well. He was painfully hard, pre cum seeping from the weeping head of his cock. 

Your gaze shifted back up to his as he hovered above you, a soft look in his eyes that made you fall even more in love with him. He placed one hand by your head to steady his arm as he took his other one to stroke himself before lining up with your slick entrance. His eyes flicked back up to yours, and you gave him the smallest of smiles to let him know it was okay. 

He slowly slid into you, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, legs mirroring your arms as they wrapped around his torso. 

He leaned down to kiss you and you both sighed into each other as he reached the hilt, starting off by slowly rocking his hips. He kept whispering sweet praises in your ear— takin’ me so well, you’re so beautiful, love you so much, can’t wait for you to be my wife. 

Your wedding was only a few months away, and the thought of spending forever with your best friend in the whole world meant everything and more to you. 

Joel’s head dropped to your shoulder as his pace picked up, breathing ragged as his hips snapped into yours. 

“God, you feel so good Joel. No one ever compares to you, my love. Can’t wait to—” You squeeze your eyes shut as you feel your second orgasm slowly start to build. “—Can’t wait to be your wife. Spend the rest of my life with you.” You cry, hands moving to his back as you slide your fingers down to the plush of his ass. 

His hips rocked violently into yours at this point, groaning at your words. 

“My wife.” He grunts, and the slide of his heavy cock in and out of you at an unforgiving pace had you seeing stars. 

“M-husband.” Your words were slurred, absolutely cock drunk on the man pounding into you. That same coil wound up tightly, and Joel could feel you squeezing him. He moved a hand down to your clit, giving you that extra push you needed before you were diving over the edge, orgasm crashing down like waves kissing the shore. 

You chanted Joel’s name over and over, clenching around him to bring him to his end. His hips started to stutter, and he leaned down to nip your collarbone with kisses before burying his head in your neck as he reached his high. 

His thrusts were sporadic, filling you up with everything he had to offer. He slumped down, cradling your body as if you were a fragile flower in a field of thorns. 

Joel always made sure to let you know how much he loved you, even if it wasn’t through words. His actions said more than enough, loving you like you’ve never been loved before. 

He kissed the crown of your head as he slipped out of you, catching his breath. 

“Happy birthday, my love. I’ll be sure to make this year the most special you’ve had yet.” He squeezed you in his arms as reassurance following his sweet words.

And you, of course, knew that Joel Miller would lay down the whole world at your feet if he could. You had your best friend and lover all in one by your side, and that’s all you could wish for this year, and the many more to come.  

tags: @party-hearses ; @ilovepedro ; @bastardmandennis ; @nostalxgic ; @tinygarbage

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

Omega Ours - Part 1 | Alpha!Cassian x Alpha!Nesta x Omega!Reader| Short Series 2.7k

After fighting your way out of every potential mating offered to you, your village sends you off with the High Lord. Rhysand, tired of dealing with the Alphas living in the House of Wind, gifts you to Cassian and Nesta in the hopes that it'll settle all three of you down.

Warnings: 18+ sexual content, language & themes. Omegaverse dynamics including Alpha & Omega and the sexist assumptions/implications that go along with it, heat/heat cycles, forced proximity, d/s themes, only one bed (and only one chaise), lots of tropey tropes! No use of YN but liberal use of pet names.

Divider by @firefly-graphics & @reveriesources

Cassian & Nesta - from Pinterest

Created for @polyacotarweek - prompt 5 faveourite tropes (Omegaverse, only one bed, forced proximity, sort of insta-love)

Part 2 will be posted on the 13 (Free day!) follow @illyrianlibrary for updates ❤️

Part 2 | Masterlist | Poly Fics | Cassian

The only way to describe the couple stood before you was - handsome. 

The High Lord and Lady who’d brought you here were beautiful, elegant. But this couple could only be described as handsome, strong, Alpha. 

You knew them, of course. General Cassian of the Nightcourt and his mate, Lady Nesta. Lord of Bloodshed and Lady Death, they’d called them in the camps that circled the Illyrian villages like pilot fish on a shark.  

“I’ve brought you a present,” Rhysand drawled, pointing at you. “Well, it’s a favour and a present. The last unmated omega of the season. She's  from the Western Isles, I thought it might help to tamp down your behaviour if you two had a project.” He grinned and you turned to look at Nesta and Cassian again. 

It was true, you’d rejected every mate offered to you, bitten some of them, in your desperation to get away, and that’s how you’d lost your freedom. Fighting the boys from the village was one thing, fighting an Illyrian was another. They’d hauled you into the camp in front of the High Lord on his last visit and demanded compensation. 

Rhysand, ever flush with jewels and gold, had paid them and then had a set of cuffs and leathers made for you. Nightcourt black velvet, red stitching and silver buckles. But restraints were still restraints, no matter how soft they felt against your wrists and ankles. He’d had new clothes made for you as well, traditional sheer panels of matching blood red that hung in gossamer curtains down your legs, pooling around you as you were forced to your knees in front of the Lady and General. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Nesta studied her nails, her air bored but her eyes kept flickering towards you. 

“Come now, Nesta, we both know you and Cassian caused quite the stir the last time you were both in heat.” 

You were right then, you could smell it on them anyway, that raw power and strength that designated them as Alpha. 

“Still -  you want us to take care of your problems?” Nesta huffed. 

“Of course not, she’s a gift, for you and Cass, if you happen to tame her enough that she stops mauling my men then that’s a bonus.” 

You looked between them, it was undeniable how attractive they were. Better than the mud caked idiots from the village at least, but you still railed against the hand that dragged you back to your feet. 

Cassian kept his hand under your elbow, pinching your cheeks with his other hand. “Come on, Nes. She’s cute, isn’t she?” He angled your face up towards his mate. 

Nesta shrugged one shoulder and you snarled, snapping at Cassian’s fingers. 

“Feisty,” he gave a deep chuckle, “I like that, that’s how Nes and I got together.” He hauled you over his shoulder, your legs and arms dangling, the panels of your dress slipping dangerously. 

“Put me down!” You beat your fists on his back. 

“Should have thought of that before you tried to bite me,” he teased, jostling you. 

You scowled at Nesta, who followed, laughing, through the halls of the palace and then tried using the only knowledge you had about the Illyrians. You reached out and grabbed his wing, squeezing as tightly as you could. 

He growled back, the sound travelling up through his chest into yours, vibrating your very core. 

“You want to play rough? Good.” 

Cassian shouldered a heavy door open and suddenly the sweeping corridor was gone and a dark, warm room wrapped itself around you. 

The walls were an oxblood red with thick velvet curtains that lay heavily in front of the eternally open windows. The soft jasmine breeze that circulated through the house was mixed with the cleaner scent of mountain air and the crackling of a fire, rich and inviting. 

The general set you down, his gaze travelling slowly down your figure. He clenched his jaw and then instantly turned to his mate, cupping her cheeks in his large hands and kissing her roughly. She growled in response, leaning into his embrace and allowing him to lift her against his body. You watched as he carried her across the room to an open archway, almost hidden behind a large tapestry, and then they vanished again. 

Tentatively, as much as you could with the thin chain connecting your ankles, you crept across the room to the curtain, now brushed back and curling heavily on the polished floor. 

Nesta and Cassian were tangled on the bed, the heady scent of their arousal lay thick in the air, the bedsheets already rumpled as if they’d been interrupted before, the room in disarray. 

On both bedside tables there were stacks of books of various genres, a pitcher of water on one and dagger on the other. 

“Either come in or go,” Nesta groused from the bed, hair messy, one of Cassian’s hands still tangled in the long golden-brown strands. 

“Play nice, Nes.” The general laughed, biting at Nesta’s earlobe. “You can join us or you can sleep,” he said over his shoulder. 

Sure enough there was a small chaise made up with blankets at the end of the bed. You shuffled over, and fell heavily onto the soft cushions listening to the sound of their love making. Each grunt and moan made you press your thighs together harder. Each stifled sigh had your hands twitching, itching for something more. You may have rejected every attempt at a mating, but you weren’t completely without feeling, without desire and needs and lust. 

You lifted your hands to cover your ears, the chain between them digging into the bridge of your nose, and fell into a confused sleep. 

 You awoke to the sound of moving bodies and cloth dragging on the floor. 

“She’s asleep, let her rest, Cas.” 

“What if she’s cold?” The footsteps came closer and you tensed on instinct. The steps stopped, but a gentle weight floated down on you, a large cotton blanket, awash with their scent, settled. 

“I’m going to wash,” Nesta’s voice faded as she walked away but there was no other movement. 

“I know you’re awake.” His voice was loud in your ear, closer than you’d expected and you jumped again, almost sliding from the chaise. Cassian’s arm caught you, tight around your waist and his bareskin was so warm against your own. You cracked one eye open and looked around the room as best you could with his wings blocking out the faint candlelight.

His arm was speckled with tiny scars that twinkled against his tan skin, the hair that decorated his forearm was as dark as the long tendrils that brushed over his shoulders and this close, his chin almost resting on your own arm, he smelt heavenly. That mixture of his own scent and Nesta’s even stronger in his proximity and, no doubt, enhanced by their earlier activities. 

“If you want, you can borrow some clothes.” His voice was a sleepy rumble and you resisted the urge to let your omega instincts take over and push yourself back into his chest, seek out that warmth, that comfort - but you didn’t respond. 

The sound of running water in the other room stopped, replaced with the gentle pad of Nesta’s footsteps and then she was in front of you. Surrounded by them again you had to fight back every urge to give in to her wicked mouth, her lips plump and kiss bitten. 

“We’ve left you some things on the chair, choose what you will. If you want to join us on the bed, you can.” Nesta moved away taking Cassian with her and you assumed from the gentle rustle of sheets they were back in bed. 

The chair that sat opposite their grand fireplace was strewn with clothes, silky looking negligees and billowing linen shirts, some cotton leggings and a pair of woollen socks. 

Waiting a moment, hoping they weren’t looking, you rose from the chaise and rushed for the chair. The translucent dress the High Lord had had you wear left your skin cold and bare, exposed and vulnerable. Cassian’s shirt was a welcome relief, covering your body from view, although the two slits in the back for his wings did feel slightly odd. The socks were warm and fluffy, long enough to reach almost to your knees. Redressed, you turned to return to your chaise and tugged the blanket up to your chin. 

You didn’t really want to spend the entire night there, but you also refused to give in to the ridiculousness of the situation. No one chose your mate, or mates, for you and you’d rather sleep on the tiny chaise that allow anyone to take that choice from you. 

Thankfully, Nesta and Cassian had turned away, the Illyrian’s large wings spread over the bed,. Shielding his mate from view? Or stopping her from following you around the room with her silver stare? You weren’t sure, but you were grateful as you closed your eyes. 

It was only as you were falling asleep that you realised you were snuggled into the shirt, inhaling Cassian’s scent, and by then it was too late, you were tumbling into your dreams. 

The next morning Cassian and Nesta were gone, but someone had left a tray of food, a pot of tea and a stack of books on the table. The doors to the balcony were open and the jasmine wind blew the curtains back so invitingly you couldn’t resist. 

You were halfway through one of the books they’d left, something by Sellyn Drake that had far more smut in it than you were anticipating. A slice of buttered toast was stuck halfway to your mouth as you stared transfixed at the page, when the door opened. Cassian held the door for Nesta, taking a long sword from her hand and placing it on the table that was perpetually strewn with weapons. His own sword and daggers followed and the two of them began to strip out of their leathers. 

There had been a rumour that Nesta trained alongside the Lord of Bloodshed and the Shadowsinger, trained with other women as well, but you hadn’t thought to believe it until now. 

Her leathers were tight against skin, a sheen of sweat making her sparkle, her long hair was tied up in what was now a messy ponytail and, most surprising of all, she was smiling broadly at Cassian. He returned the smile, cupping her cheek and pulling her in for a kiss, his hands wandering down to the buckles and clasps that held her fighting leathers together. 

Cassian looked equally as powerful, his own armour dark against his tanned skin, his tattoos flowing under the leather before appearing again at his collar bone and trailing over his shoulders towards the vast wings at his back. You set the book down slowly, the lust filled scene already had you feeling hot under Cassian’s shirt even before they appeared. 

The movement caught his eye and he turned, taking Nesta with him and pinning her against his chest. They way they looked at you, like the most delicious prey, had you pressing your legs together. You wouldn’t give in to this, especially not when it was exactly what that smug prick of a High Lord wanted. 

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he cooed, “Would you like to join us?” 

It was Nesta who held her hand out, crooking her finger to coax you forward. “We’re going to bathe, the tub is large enough for three, come.” It was more a demand than a question and, though you longed to see how far down Cassian’s tattoos went and how Nesta would look covered in bubbles, you resisted again. 

With a shake of your head you went back to your book, trying to ignore the sound of them together through the wall. 

You fell into a rhythm, the three of you. Nesta and Cassian continued as they were, training, working in the library and attending meetings, and inviting you to join them whenever they were together. 

Your nights on the chaise were becoming increasingly uncomfortable, but you refused to be worn down by their requests, preferring to stay silent and read alone either on the balcony or by the fire. No amount of reading could drown out the sound of their love making, though. If you could call it that, judging by the bruises both of them sported proudly and the way their headboard banged against the stone wall. 

Despite your protests their allure was difficult to ignore, their playful banter, the care and attention they showed each other, even the way they whispered in bed, dissecting the day's events and, on a few occasions, discussing you. 

This only happened when you were pretending to sleep heavily, breathing slow and steady as you wished for dreams to take you. 

“Nes, did you see the way my shirt fit her today, rolling up her thighs-” Cassian had made a deep, guttural noise, only to be shushed by Nesta. 

“Yes, Cas, stop, she’s right over there.” Nesta hissed in return. 

“I know, God, she’s so fucking close, don’t you think she smells good?” 

“You know I do.” The sheets rustled and you heard Nesta whimper as a wave of arousal flooded you. They could smell you, you knew it and you couldn’t stop it. 

Sleeping in their room, bathed in their scent every day, surrounded by their things, it was like a huge nest and the longer you lingered here the more you wanted to give in and climb into their bed, to be between them and allow them to care for you.

You knew something had changed when you woke up drenched in sweat. As usual, Nesta and Cassian had already left the room, your breakfast arranged in its spot, clothes laid out for you. They’d started adding some new things, items that smelt like neither of them, clean linen and lavender, but you were still drawn to their items the most. Perhaps, it was the way they smiled when they saw you cuddling into one of Cassian’s shirts or standing on the balcony in one of Nesta’s dresses. But you refused to confront that feeling. 

Despite your long, cold, bath you still felt hot and uncomfortable. It was mid way through stripping off your linen trousers that Nesta reappeared. She moved with a preternatural grace that you were sure existed well before her sister’s ascent to High Lady. A smoothness to each turn of her hand, or extension of her arm, she made walking seem like a dance and you were transfixed.  

Nesta stopped as soon as she saw you, her nostrils flared, almost imperceptibly.

“Are you okay?” she asked in that cool, silvery voice. 

“Yes,” your voice felt hoarse. You barely spoke and had gone days without saying anything to either of them, merely existing in their presence. But now, locked by her gaze, there was no escaping. 

“You seem -” she weighed her words carefully, “unwell.” 

“I can assure you, I’m fine.” You took a half step towards the balcony doors, hoping the breeze would cool your skin. 

Nesta hummed, surveying you from head to toe. “I’d feel better if you got into bed.” 

You knew this was as persuasive as Nesta could be, a simple request made in the lowest of tones, an argument not worth having. 

“I-” 

“The bed.” She crossed the room swiftly and turned you towards the large, velvet draped bed that took up a large portion of the room. Since your first entrance into Nesta and Cassian’s suite, you’d done your best to avoid even looking at it. Now there was no escape.

Your hands were shaking, a tingling heat rising from your spine and coiling in your stomach. On this occasion, just once, you’d listen to her. “Fine.” With great difficulty, you pulled the shirt over your head and dropped it to the floor. You were so tired. When had you become so tired?

Nesta’s deft fingers grasped your chin, holding you still so she could look at your pupils, large and frightened. “Get in bed and go to sleep,” she insisted, and you obeyed. 

Part 2

[supercap2319]

"This is Doug." Ben clapped a hand on a nerdy boy with thick rimmed glasses wearing a blue and gold marching uniform. He had been one of the band members who played for Y/N and the others when they arrived. "He's going to help you with your class schedules and show you to your dorms. Speaking of which..."

Ben turned to Y/N. "Unfortunately, we didn't have another room for you, and since all the boys have a roommate, you'll be bunking with me for the time being."

Y/N wasn't sure who was more shocked. Him, his friends, or Audrey. Did Prince Hot Lips really just say a vk was moving into his bedroom? Oh, this was delicious. The cotton candy fool. Y/N had to suppress the smile that threatened to make its way towards his mouth.

"I'll see the rest of you later, okay? Y/N? If you would kindly follow me." Ben said. He walked upstairs, and Y/N followed him, trying to ignore the diry comment Mal made to Evie about Y/N sleeping with "Prince Benny-Boo."

Ben talked about the rich history of the boys' wing. How it was built and who built it. Y/N wasn't paying attention. All he could think about was how he couldn't wait to get his hands on Prince Ben. Not in that way, mind you. Just to mess with him and stuff. Make his life a living hell.

They walked down a hallway with only a door, and when Ben opened it up, the sight of the Prince's bedroom made him want to gag. The matching blue and gold velvet beds with soft white pillows and navy blue curtains fluttering gently in the fresh air breeze from an open window. There was also a blue and gold chaise chair and a giant flat screen TV with a walk-in closet and a bathroom.

"What do you think? I know the blue and gold are a bit on the nose, but I'm willing to redecorate." Ben said.

Y/N looked around the room. It was sickening. It was bright. And it made Y/N want to scream in delight. He didn't tell Ben that, though. He looked at the Prince. "You got anything against black?

Ben just chuckled.

[twstfanblog]

~Manhwa AU- A Fairytale Do-Over~

A/N: Holy shit look at this. the first chapter of the manhwa AU! Hope you guys enjoy! I'm gonna look into making a story title card for this series, to be added later! Word Count: 2.5K Pairings: Crewel/Crowley (They hate each other but they are married) Warnings: Mentions of blood Next

Yuu snaps awake, body thrown forward by the force of a scream that had refused to leave her throat finally ringing out into the air. She pants, eyes wide, blurry vision focusing over time as she calmed herself. Her hands traced along her surroundings, the soft covers of a bed, the fur of a stuffed animal…

Her breathing had finally slowed, allowing her to slump back into the overstuffed pillows that normally adorned her bed. She…survived? That was the most terrifying experience of her life. The echos of summer bugs buzzing in the garden, the harsh light of the sun in her eyes, the burning of the stone on her skin that slowly grew wet before she slipped away…

Looking out the window she noted how it was nighttime. A question of how long or how many days she had been out was barely pondered before she noticed her curtains. The color to be more precise. The soft, chiffon pink that ombred into a deeper shade with gold threaded stars scattered closer together near the bottom of the fabric. Lovely drapes, but not the ones in Yuu's room at that moment. She had a set of thick, light-blocking dark teal drapes, as she had her room redone years ago, they matched better.

But, she had owned this set of pink curtains since she was a child.

She blinked, staying down, her eyes started to roam around the room. Taking it all in just how soft and whimsical the design was. The dream room of a little girl on the edge of leaving social infancy and still not allowed to be called a young lady. Not at all the room of her twenty-year-old self.

Looking down, she didn't see her dark-colored long nails with delicate gold designs. Instead, she saw two tiny hands with short and neatly cared-for nails. Her eyes travel upward on her right arm, crisp white ruffles leading into light purple velvet sleeves. She scrambled out of bed, falling onto the plush carpet face first as her legs were tangled in the soft grey duvet. Recovering, Yuu made her way to the full-length tri-fold mirror stationed in the corner of her room. She stood before it, drinking in her appearance.

Small. She looked so small.

A round baby face stared back at her, large black eyes with perfect baby doll lashes. She was wearing a long-sleeved nightgown; cozy and warm, buttery soft and intricate lace almost bursting from every opening, small pearls used as buttons keeping her collar closed. 

She looked like a doll, an adorable little doll. Just the way her papa would dress her until she turned 13 and he allowed her to finally have more say in her wardrobe. Yuu slowly lifted her hands (So tiny), one to pat her soft cheeks and the other to run down a braided pigtail of two-toned hair. She breathed out in a shudder, her voice higher than she remembered, before she turned and ran out of her childhood bedroom.

Running down the hallway, Yuu Crowley realized she was eight years old, again, for some reason. But she couldn't complain. It was better than meeting her end by bleeding out at the bottom of the hot summer stairs of the royal garden…her feet were cold now that she thought about it. Looking out the grand windows of the manor as she ran, she realized they were frosted over. Bare trees seen in the distance through the ice in the chilly late hours of the night. She should have put her slippers on; Papa had made her a knitted pair that looked like his snow boots that she loved…

Soon she came to the double doors, or what she remembered, of her parents' room. Yuu reached a small hand to one of the levers and quickly shuffled her way inside. 

She doesn't remember entering her parents' room much, never had a need to. She scarcely remembers them even entering her own room, but maybe that could change; maybe she could spend more time with her parents and learn more about them this time. Yuu looked around, noting the room looked different from the most recent memory of the space. She did really like the look of the iridescent curtains covering the door to their large balcony. The sheer fabric casting the room into an almost eerily shifting color tone, making the area calm and dreamlike even in Yuu’s awake state. Catching her breath, Yuu Walked closer to the lavishly dressed bed, staring down at the rare uncovered face of her father.

Dire Crowley, Grand Duke of the Noctorn Empire, arguably one of the most powerful men in the land. And if you asked her papa, without a doubt one of the most frustrating. He snored, mouth hanging open with his star and moon printed button-up pajamas messy from his tossing and turning; a loveable embarrassment…

A gasp calls her eyes to look at the other side of the large bed at her papa. Divus Crowley nee Crewel, Grand Duchess of the Noctorn Empire. He had his hair wrapped up in a fine patterned scarf and a hand clutching his silk robe closed, his eyes wide as he stared at her before huffing.

Divus leaned into his hand, taking care to not smudge the cream spread under his eyes as his lips turned into a scowl, “What are you doing up, puppy? I know it's far past your bedtime…” To any other person, Divus looked as though he was annoyed to be dealing with his child, and he was. But after years of knowing, loving, and being loved by her papa, Yuu was aware he was annoyed that his method of putting her to bed seemingly needed to be worked on again, not that she was bothering them.

“...” Yuu looked at her papa, blinking before taking in a shaky breath and whispering out her question, “Can I sleep in bed with you?”

“...Oh, puppy…” Divus groans, an elegantly sharp nail tapping against his creased brow. His darling daughter was eight now. Close to the double digits and being expected to start behaving in a mature manner, yet still so painfully young. He had somehow managed to train his clingy toddler to sleep in her own bed years ago, a feat that was hard enough as is. But how was he to deny his puppy his comforting embrace when she was still so cute!?

Clasping his hands over his mouth, he breathed in. Raising an eyebrow at his strangely still daughter he asked, “Why do you want to sleep in our bed, puppy? You haven’t asked since you were four…”

Yuu blinks, taking in another quivering breath as it all seemed to be hitting her at once. The years of her friendship with the men she grew to love that meant nothing in the end, the years of cold eyes and harsh off-handed comments. The fall, the crack, the pain, the blood.

“...I died…”

“...” Divus sat up straighter in his bed, eyes gaining a new worried flicker as he stared at his daughter, “What?”

“I-I…I…” she hiccuped, the tears finally welling in her eyes as her hands clenched onto her nightgown. Words were lost as all she could do was take in shuddering gasps and let out pitiful chokes, unable to stop the grief fully settling into her body.

Divus slapped Dire's chest, each hit coming quicker and harder the more distressed Yuu's cries became, “Dire. Dire! Wake UP, you crow BASTARD!”

Dire blinked his eyes open, bewildered as to why he was being forcibly woken in the middle of the night. His remark quickly lost on his tongue as he noticed his crying child right beside him, “Oh, my darling! What's made you cry like this?”

“Stop asking stupid questions and pull her into bed!” Divus slapped Dire’s shoulder, nearly punching the other man in an effort to bully him into doing as he said.

“Ow! I am!”

Yuu started to sob as Dire gently pulled her into the bed, placing her between the two fretting adults. She could feel their arms wrap around her, trying to soothe her tears with soft words and gentle pets. Her father had rung his service bell like a madman, no doubt sending the servants into a panic and scrambling to heed his call. Soon a flustered servant ran into the room, Dire ordering them to bring a midnight snack selection of his daughter’s favorites, anything to ease his child's crying. Yuu didn't get the chance to eat any of the snacks, having slipped into a pitiful slumber locked in her papa's arms.

She had somehow traveled back in time over a decade, long before her death and the betrayals of her closest friends. And as she laid curled between her loving parents, she made the decision to not look this gift in its mouth. For whatever reason, she was given a second chance and Yuu didn’t plan on dying the same way twice. Her old life wasn't worth repeating a second time, she knew her heart couldn't take it again…

The morning wasn't much better. Dire and Divus had canceled all of their meetings, choosing to crowd and dote on their daughter. Yuu had been strangely quiet since she woke up. Even throughout Divus's daily outfit selection, she had remained silent, letting her papa hold up dress after dress to her body without complaint. They had moved to the family lounge of the home to spend time together after breakfast.

The family lounge had always been Yuu’s favorite room past her own bedroom. Dark wooded panels caging in forest-printed wallpaper that was so detailed it almost felt real. Artwork of dogs and crows littering one of the walls as though they were locked in a never-ending war as her fathers keep replacing portraits with their favored animal. Couches framing a large and elaborate bricked fireplace, the fire's flickering warmth in contrast to the bleakly white outside.

Dire and Divus were quiet, each almost afraid to speak to break the silence. It was concerning, the way things had progressed from the early morning hours. Dire looked at his family from his armchair, watching Divus fuss and pick at their child in an attempt to engage her in conversation. Yuu would only give weak answers, seeming content yet still so tired. She would give little sighs and nuzzle into the fur-lined collar of her papa's long-tailed vest whenever Divus pulled her into a hug. His sweet, rambunctious child had never been so reserved and passive. Not even as a baby…

Divus was barely keeping it together, emotional yet holding it in for the sake of his daughter. The fur-clad man moved to busy himself by brushing Yuu's hair into more styles he had been meaning to try. The fact she let him only made his nervous energy stay and slowly fester, “Hmmmm…half-up styles look more elegant for you right now. But you still look positively adorable with pigtails…which do you like best, puppy?”

“...I don't mind what you pick.”

The comb in Divus's hand snaps, the man holding back his growl and stomping away, muttering he was going to gather more hair accessories. He loved his daughter, he truly did. But she was possibly the most argumentative, wiggly child he had ever known and he knew it was from his blood. While any other day he would have been overjoyed at Yuu allowing him to dress her up to his heart’s content, knowing she had a breakdown no more than ten hours ago ruined whatever joy he could gain. A feeling that was only growing as she refused to explain herself.

Dire watched his husband stomp out of the room, standing from his seat and kneeling with a smile at Yuu, “My darling, do you want some cake? Or maybe a new doll? Tell your papas, we will acquire anything your heart desires…”

Yuu was quiet, unable to look at her father. As the seconds passed, she couldn’t stop the hiccup of her breathing as another wave of tears crashed over her. 

“Oh, my sweet girl…” Dire quickly gathered her into his arms, patting her back when she clung onto him. He shushed her cries, walking with her as he would have when she was younger to soothe her.

He and Divus share a worried glance across the room as the other man re-entered the lounge. Yuu had had nightmares before, that was simply a staple of childhood. But they were always told to them with a smile in the morning over breakfast. She'd describe them almost with a sense of pride at how hard her little mind had worked to terrify her. But this dream of her dying had truly terrified her. They were quickly reaching past the realm of simple concern and into the fields of trepidation; Crowley worried if it was a dream of foresight. If he needed to prepare for an unseen threat to his child.

A pair of servants announce their presence with a knock from the doorway, both wearing excited smiles. One of them stepped forward, almost giddy as she bowed and presented an ornate silver tray holding a few letters in a neat line, “The mail, my lords!”

Crewel and Crowley lock eyes, both of them smiling. New years had passed and the next major event of the empire was the young prince's birthday party. Malleus was one of the people Yuu adored most; without a doubt, the invite was the item needed to lift their child's mood.

Divus rushed to the servants, snatching the black letter from the tray and holding it up in excitement, “Oh, puppy! Look what's arrived!”

Dire beams, trying to pull Yuu from his shoulder to look at the elegant black and silver lined envelope sealed closed with the enchanted green wax of the royal family, “Darling~! The prince's birthday invite has arrived, now you and your papa can finish your dress! And the present you were so excited to give-”

“No.”

…

The servants looked at each other, the girl holding the tray quickly scurrying back out of the room with the other close behind. Excusing their presence, they closed the doors of the private family room and left the three in their silence.

Divus's hand was shaking, eyes looking toward Dire with a barely contained fury as though he were the one to cause this dramatic change in their child.

Dire nervously averted his eyes, his arms holding Yuu tighter to use as a shield against his husband's anger, “Dearest…what do you mean ‘No’? Do you not want your papa to pick out your dress-”

“I'm not going…I don't wanna see Malleus”

…

Divus felt the letter flutter to the ground from his slack grip, his face ashen at the shock, “...CROWLEY!”

Dire was already across the room, Yuu still in his hold as he fumbled with a telephone, “I'M CALLING! I'M CALLING!” He rang for a doctor, demanding they come to their home at once to give his daughter a check-up. 

Their worry had fully bubbled into a hysteria. Yuu Crowley, refusing the invite of the crown prince Malleus, his child had clearly fallen deathly ill…

[shoccolatine]

things i associate them with

╰┈➤ ❝ LUCIFER. ❞

red wine, dark chocolate, violin music, clinking of glasses, the light chatter in a restaurant, rustling papers, papercuts, loose black feathers, waltzing, chandeliers, skulls, cologne, red wax seals.

╰┈➤ ❝ MAMMON. ❞

chocolate coins, white chocolate, gold chains, the smell of tires and gasoline, mechanic grease smears, leather, the divot in your favourite spot on the couch, coins jingling, fuzzy dice, warm hugs.

╰┈➤ ❝ LEVIATHAN. ❞

pixel art, neon signs, LED strip lights, glitchcore, songs made in mario paint, multiple desktop screens, the clear purple N64 i've had since 2000, aquariums, jellyfish, 20-sided dice, ramune, ecco the dolphin.

╰┈➤ ❝ SATAN. ❞

cats (specifically calico), new book smell, dusty shelves, the rough feeling of novel pages between your fingers, introspection, dark academia aesthetic, existential thoughts, freshly brewed coffee, elbow patches on sweaters, paws and tails.

╰┈➤ ❝ ASMODEUS. ❞

velvet, lace, flowers and leaves, whispering secrets to each other, mirrors, clay masks, warm hugs, sunlight streaming through sheer curtains, gentle laughter heard from another room, glitter, strawberry shortcake, holding pinkies.

╰┈➤ ❝ BEELZEBUB. ❞

all-you-can-eat buffets, sitting with family/friends at the dinner table, the refreshing feeling of downing an entire glass of cold water, a roaring crowd, drops of sweat, grass stains, laughing so hard your stomach hurts, big fangs.

╰┈➤ ❝ BELPHEGOR. ❞

cows, thick socks, pillows, big sweaters, naps, sleepy cuddles, moonlight through the curtains, warming up cold hands, hot chocolate, deep conversations at 3am, watching the stars, astronomy, thorns.

[inkonparchment]

Leon Kennedy x Reader - what a curious hotel in the middle of nowhere with a strange receptionist.

cw- blood, skulls, exposed bone, themes of drugging and kidnapping, dub-con if u squint. is this dead dove???😭

It's hot. The car's ac had long given up, blowing tepid air on your face. One hand gripping the steering wheel, you run your free hand around your neck, gathering perspiration on your palm and then flicking it away. The leather of the seats sticks uncomfortably to your exposed skin making you unable to relax, constantly shifting around, the unsticking sound making you grow more hot under the blaring sun.

You had been driving for so long now, the actual time gone from your mind. You weren't even sure where you were, the map haphazardly strewn about in the passenger seat of your old mustang. You grasp your empty water bottle shaking it dejectedly and then tossing it into the backseat.

You push up your sunglasses on the nose, sunlight reflecting from the road harsh on your features. You were driving on an abandoned single road, barren land on both sides, cacti dotting the faraway line of sight. Your throat was dry, lips parched as you continue on your journey, regretting not stopping over at the rest stop a few miles back.

You squint behind your shades, heat so sweltering that it was forming mirages of lakes right in front your eyes, so close in reach but disappearing in a moments notice. You breathe a sigh of relief when a lonesome signage greets you; "Hotel De La Mort UP AHEAD".

You keep your eyes peeled, leaning away from the leather of your seat, hair sticking to the back of your neck. You notice a tall, red building a little way down the road. You don't dare to blink in the case you blink and it disappears like the previous visions of lakes.

It doesn't and you can feel relief wash over you.

The sound of the handbrake is loud when you pull it, throwing open your door and clambering out, slamming it shut behind. You stand in its shadow, the red bricked building towering over you. You take off your sunglasses, holding them by the tips of your fingers, curiously looking at the peeling paint of the building the sign "Hotel De La Mort" a little skewed from its axis.

You shrug, walking towards the big brown doors, gold doorknob encrusted with glittering jewels, cool under your touch. You twist the knob, cool air bursting through the cracked open door, grabbing you in its embrace and lulling you inside. The door shuts with a loud click, the noise reverberating in the hallway.

Your jaw falls away. The room was huge, deceptively so from the humble look it had from the outside. Multiple grand chandeliers hang from the ceiling, various gems adorning the gold of the chandelier, the colours glittering down onto you. Large columns decorate the sides, drapes of maroon velvet curtains hanging from them, paintings on gigantic canvases littered across the walls. The furniture is almost Victorian, matching with the drapes in maroon and black.

You try to locate the air-conditioners or the vents, anyplace from where the cool wind was bellowing from, carrying a scent so sickly sweet with it. Despite the blazing sun outside, it was completely dark inside save for the lights from the chandeliers and the light fixtures.

A throat being cleared breaks you from your gawking, eyes searching for the source. You finally find it; a man standing diligently behind a desk with a sign that says "Welcome" on the dark wood just a few paces from in front of you. You eye the man who is looking at you intently, hands neatly folded in the front of him.

He's clothed in what you assume is the staff uniform. A maroon blazer, black collar shirt with a black tie and black trousers, stripe of gold on every article. The golden of his hair accompanied with striking blue eyes, glittering like sapphires is what catches you off guard. You approach the desk.

"Checking in?" He smiles wide and sweet.

You lick your parched lips, "I don't have a reservation."

He shakes his head, chuckling with a glint in his eye, "You don't need one here."

"Oh," You shift on your feet. "Yes I'd like to check in."

He simply nods, sweet smile widening but not reaching his eyes. The sickly sweet smell returns, a blast of chill air, you blink and the façade flickers; blood fills your nostrils, oozing from the walls, rips in the perfect curtains and the canvases. The receptionist's visage flickers, handsome angular, face replaced by torn skin one side showing a hollow skull staring back at you, clothes tattered, collarbones protruding from his flesh.

Before you can gag, you blink and it disappears. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, goosebumps fresh on your skin. You look over your shoulder in fear but there is nothing to be afraid of, the state of the hotel still pristine. You look back at the man, still smiling, as he hands you keys.

"Your luggage will be brought to you." He steps back. "We hope you enjoy your stay with us." And then disappears behind the door at his back.

You stand there dumbfounded, staring at the keys he had given you, the bronze cold against your palm. Room 013. You shiver, hand against your forehead, owing the crazy vision to your dehydration.

You locate the elevators and walk towards them. The thirst grows on your tongue, the sweet smell greeting you once more, coming across a small table on your way. You stop to inspect it. Sitting on top of it is a bowl of pomegranates, a bronze pitcher and a tall glass filled with red liquid.

The sight of it salivates your tongue, hand moving on its own accord as your fingers wrap around it. You bring it up to your lips, ignoring the screaming voice in your head telling you to stop, and drink. The sweet and sourness of the juice floods your taste buds, the sickeningly perfumed smell filling your nostrils.

The world slips from your grip, glass crashing against the floor as your slump. But you don't hit the ground, encircled by a pair of strong arms pulling you taught against a muscled body. With heavy lidded eyes to look to see who it is who has saved you.

And its the man from the reception. Only he looks different. His golden hair is now pulled back, styled into various curls and waves, glint in his blue eyes, dressed in a sharp all black suit with golden cufflinks. He grins wide at you, nothing in it to warm you but to plunge you in icy waters.

He leans down, lips capturing yours softly, his tongue darting to run against yours, lapping up the speckles of the red liquid left behind. He rests his forehead against your, his breath fanning against your nose as your consciousness is pulled into the dark.

"My wife."

[humanpurposes]

We're Born At Night

Chapter 1

Lady Rhaelle Targaryen of Runestone travels to King's Landing to plead for her sister's life, though the King she must bow to is a kinslayer three times over, and the very man who slaughtered her father

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond Targaryen x Rhaelle Targaryen (OFC)

Warnings: 18+, eventual smut, politics, mentions of death and war

Words: 4.3k

A/n: a self-indulgent post-dance fic and I'm excited about it :)

She rocks with the carriage as it rolls over the cobbled streets of King’s Landing. Bricks and tiles in dull shades of red, yellow and browns move past the window, and the air is thick with dust and all sorts of unpleasant smells. 

Her heart sinks at the absence of greenery, like the forests and fields that surround Runestone, the sounds of rivers and streams, the bright bursts of colour in the wildflowers. The Red Keep overlooks Blackwater Bay, she remembers that. She loved rising early to watch the sunrise, to see the waves glow red and gold. She loved going down to the beach below the castle to feel the warm summer sun on her face and dip her toes into the cold water.

It is autumn now. Grey clouds dull the sunlight and there is a chill in the air.

Daena sits opposite her, tugging at her sleeves and the collar of her travelling cloak. They are in matching gowns of dark green velvet, newly made for their visit to court; a cheap play for the King’s favour, but she needs all the help she can get. 

Her younger sister’s constant fussing is irritating, but Rhaelle cannot blame her.

“You look beautiful, my lady,” says Morra, Rhaelle’s handmaiden who sits beside her, a sharp and observant young woman.

Daena’s harshly violet eyes glare up at her. She gives a small huff and drops her arms into her lap. “I look better in red,” she says.

“Careless talk like that will cost you your tongue the moment we’re through the castle gates,” Rhaelle warns.

Daena tuts and turns her head towards the window. “What an awful place,” she says.

Rhaelle pulls back the thin curtain with the tip of her finger. Miserable faces, crowds of bodies, market stalls, bands of mummers, and an endless array of buildings pass her by. She has prayed to the old gods and the new that their visit to the Red Keep will be short, but that is wishful thinking and she has never been much of an optimist.

Ten years ago she had been hunting with her late mother’s cousin, Ser Gerold, when a raven appeared over the hills, headed for Runestone. It had filled her with an inexplicable dread and she could not understand why until she returned to the castle to learn of the death of Laena Velaryon, her step-mother. Daemon had summoned his eldest three daughters to Driftmark to see her laid to rest and mourn alongside two sisters they had never met. In a matter of days, Ser Laenor was dead too, Daemon had married Princess Rhaenyra on Dragonstone, and had plans for three more marriages.

Their oldest sister, Alyssa, and Prince Jacaerys were married at the Red Keep little more than a month later, she being sixteen and he a boy of ten. Baela was betrothed to Prince Lucerys, and Rhaelle was betrothed to Prince Joffrey, only a babe at the time.

While Rhaelle and Daera had returned to Runestone, Alyssa had remained at Dragonstone with her husband and so her fate had been sealed.

They come to a gatehouse made of red stone, where the banners of House Targaryen loom proudly over the walls and flutter in the breeze. The sight sparks a memory Rhaelle had forgotten she had, and suddenly it feels like she never left this place at all. Her family’s sigil, the three-headed dragon, should be more familiar to her than it really is. She finds more comfort in the colours of white and bronze, black pebbles and the ancient runes of her mother’s house.

She looks down at her own sleeves, at the runes embroidered into the cuffs with golden thread. The right reads the words of House Royce: We remember. On the left though, is a saying far older, so old that no one can truly say where it came from, only that it has been passed down in proverbs amongst those who carry the blood of the first men. Now they are written in books and scripture, carved onto tombs, whispered in prayers said before a weirwood, spoken to her by her mother: Learn to die.

Did those words pass the lips of Rhea Royce when she fell from her horse and cracked her head open on a rock? Did they echo through her mind when she lay in her bed, either unconscious or incoherent for nine days?

Does Alyssa utter them to herself in the darkness of the Black Cells?

The carriage comes to a stop. Rhaelle takes a deep breath, checks that her hair is neatly pinned back, that her gown sits right and that her boots are spotless. There can be no room for weakness here, not where people will judge every move she makes, note every word she says and stare into her eyes as if to read her very thoughts.

The door is opened for her and she steps out into the courtyard clutching the hand of one of her household guards.

Lord Corlys is waiting to greet them by the steps to the castle, dressed in fine robes of sea green and silver. On his collar she spots a gleam of gold, the pin that marks him as the Hand of the King. 

When she had last seen Lord Corlys he was the Seasnake, a naval hero who carved out his own legacy and built his seat of Hightide to fill with the trophies of his victories. Now Hightide is nothing more than ruins buried in ash and Lord Corlys is an old man leaning on a cane, with long silver locks, a thick white beard and a tired look in his eyes, the look of a man who has seen his last war. 

He offers her a small bow of his head. “Lady Rhaelle, what an honour it is to welcome you to the Red Keep.”

Daena follows her and greets Lord Corlys with a perfect curtsey. He smiles and notes how much they have changed since he last saw them, but they were girls then, young and sweet, only grieving their first loss.

Morra takes their travelling cloaks before Lord Corlys leads them inside, followed by their household guard. The halls are quiet and solemn, the colours she remembers from childhood somehow duller and she wonders if it is because she is older.

Eyes fall to the sisters easily and whispers echo wherever they walk. She hears a faint whisper of “traitor” as they come to the great stairwell in the very heart of the castle. She looks around her and above, up into the cavernous space overhead where faces peer down from balconies and galleries, made hazy by smoke and heat from the braziers.

Traitor, the accusation clings in her stomach and throat, until Daena’s hand gently wraps around her wrist and urges her to walk on. But perhaps the whispers are right. She is the daughter of a traitor, the sister of a traitor, perhaps it is in her blood and she cannot escape it.

They are shown to their chambers in the west wing of the castle. A small reception room joins two privy chambers and two bedchambers beyond that. It is a pity, she would have liked a room where she could see Blackwater Bay or the Kingswood to the south.

Her bedroom is a little smaller than her own bedchamber at Runestone, decorated with tapestries, furnishings and details in green, gold, red and black. She looks from the window, over the towering walls of Maegor’s Holdfast of her lavishly decorated prison, a thought which she immediately reprimands herself for. She will not allow herself such pity, not while her sister is a prisoner.

Alyssa had stayed by her husband’s side through the war, donned a widow’s veil when he fell in battle and decided that she would stay on Dragonstone when Rhaenyra took King’s Landing.

The war went on. Alyssa's letters stopped abruptly. Word came that the commonfolk had revolted against Rhaenyra, and her own betrothed, the boy Joffrey, was slain in the fighting.

Then came the raven from King Aegon. Rhaenyra was dead and their remaining siblings had been taken captive: Little Aegon, Baela, Rhaena, and Alyssa. She can still the words scrawled onto the parchment: “She has been treated with no unnecessary cruelty.”

Aegon wouldn’t have dared lay a hand on Baela and Rhaena, not with Lord Corlys on his small council. Alyssa had no such protection, not with their father rotting alongside the corpse of the dragon at the bottom of the God’s Eye.

And now the man who slaughtered him wears the crown.

Lord Corlys has invited her to dine with him, in his chambers in the Tower of the Hand. Daylight fades swiftly into twilight as she crosses the courtyard that her bedchamber overlooks, past the lowered drawbridge of the Holdfast. With winter approaching, the days are growing shorter.

A servant of Lord Corlys’ leads her up a single flight of stairs, through a reception room and into a small dining hall. The table is set with fine silverware and glass cups, lit by flickering flames of candles and a blazing hearth. Lord Corlys sits at the head of the table and rises to meet her. She offers him her hand, and he presses his lips to her knuckles.

“Is your sister not joining us, my lady?” he asks.

She smiles politely. Daena fears for Alyssa’s life as much as she does, but she is not meant for the delicacy of a negotiation.

Her place is set to his right and as she sits he pours her out a glass of wine. “From the Summer Isles,” he says. “I could never understand why anyone would bother with the stuff that comes from the Arbour.”

“We are lovers of ale and cider in the Vale,” Rhaelle says, “but I trust your taste, my Lord.”

They raise their glasses to each other and take small sips as two servants bring in plates of beef, bread and butter, and roasted vegetables. They move like shadows between the candlelight, their footsteps light, their movements gentle and unobtrusive. They are gone as quickly as they came.

When the door is shut, Lord Corlys leans forward with his elbows on the table and his hands clasped together. He says quietly, “I intend to put your matter to the King in the morning.”

Rhaelle places her glass down on the table, her hand lingering on the base. Sadness suddenly strikes her heart. “You mean you have not spoken to him at all?”

“I have told him you seek to improve your position, and the position of your younger sister, of which he has been supportive.”

“But what about the matters we have discussed?” she asks.

His eyes are distant, settled on nothing in particular. He reaches to take a roll of bread from the table, but he does not eat it, he simply places it on his plate. “Lady Alyssa is an admirable woman, truly. She reminds me much of Baela–”

“Not admirable enough for you to appeal on her behalf,” Rhaelle says sharply. “I only wish to see her returned to her home, to Runestone.”

“In the eyes of the King, she is a traitor to the realm. She challenged the true line of succession.”

“As did you,” she says, “at the start of the war, you pledged your support for Rhaenyra.”

“Aye, I did, for the good of my family, and the cost was great.”

“Greater than siding with those who killed your wife?”

Corlys looks to her with a grave expression. “And Aemond killed your father, but you have come to his court, in the hopes of lobbying him, to plead for his mercy and his favour.”

But that’s different, isn’t it? Her father was a rare presence at Runestone, his name hanging over her head like an unspoken secret. He did not come to lay his first wife to rest, but he had tried to claim her inheritance and had no difficulty condemning their daughter to a marriage that would tie her to a war.

“I just want my sister to be safe,” she utters.

“I want that too,” Lord Corlys says and she can almost believe him.

“When can I speak to him? When will he release her?”

He takes a slow breath. “We must approach this matter with caution,” he says, “and it will be worth your while. Many say Aemond is a far more reasonable man than his brother was.”

“You served them both. What do you have to say on Aemond’s reason?”

A sad look falls over his face. He looks the way he did the day his daughter was buried. “Aemond is just, in his own way, but the Targaryens have always ruled with fire and blood, and he is no exception.”

When she returns to her bedchamber, she finds Daena curled up on a chaise by the dying hearth. 

“She wished to see you after your dinner with Lord Corlys,” Morra mutters as Rhaelle fetches a blanket from the bed and drapes it over her sister. “It has been a tedious few months, and I do not doubt she is tired after the journey from Runestone.”

As a child, Rhaelle often wondered if she and her sisters had been born cursed. They had inherited nothing of their father’s looks save for his violet eyes; three Targaryen girls with dark curls and the stern face of their mother. Daena has always had a softness that she and Alyssa never had, a fuller face, a smaller nose, slight but pouted lips and large eyes. She looks like a doll, even in sleep.

She smooths her hand over Daena’s head, lightly so she will not disturb her, like she used to do when she was a babe. Daena makes a small humming noise in her chest but does not rouse.

She wishes her sister could rise from her sleep well rested, to a world where she would never know fear or uncertainty. Such a possibility seems close; in her heart she chases it like a hare, a flash of movement through a forest. She need only draw an arrow and strike her target.

Rhaelle is awake before dawn. By the time Daena will have started to stir, Morra has her bathed, skin scrubbed with sugar and honey then scented with lavender oil, dressed, then adds the finishing touches to her hair. She takes the top half and braids it around Rhaelle’s head like a crown, the rest falling freely down her back. With no Queen, the ladies of the court are said to follow the fashions of Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Helaena. If she is to be a lady of Aemond’s court, a Targaryen, she must appear the part.

She breaks her fast in her privy chamber. Servants bring in jugs of cherry juice, bowls of sweet stewed oats, platters of blackberry tarts and slices of apple dusted with sugar and cinnamon. The sun rises over the courtyard and a pale shade of red shines through the window where the light reflects from the red stone of the Holdfast.

Daena bounces into the room like an excitable child and takes a blackberry tart before she has even taken a seat. She will need to work on her table manners before she dines before the King and his court, Rhaelle notes. Her hair has been brought into one thick braid that falls over her shoulder and her gown is black, like Rhaelle’s, but detailed with silver rather than gold. 

“What did Lord Corlys say to you last night?” she asks, following her pastry with a sip of cherry juice.

“He said that he means to put our cause to the King, and that we must employ patience.”

Daena scoffs, “patience?”

Rhaelle shares a pointed look with Morra, standing by the table. “We have no other choice,” she says, “and you will mind what you say, even in private, even when you think we are alone.”

“I thought the Master of Whispers had been put to death, or does Larys Strong still manage to spy on the Kingdom without a head?”

“And will you continue to slander the King if I find a smith to wrench out your tongue?”

Daena glares at her, then pouts her lips to stifle a giggle.

They finish their meal in relative peace and when they are done, Rhaelle is left with a pleasantly sharp sweetness on her tongue from the fruit. Morra adorns her with jewellery, all gold and set with rubies, a chain about her waist, earrings and a necklace. For the final touch she dabs tinted rosewater on her cheeks and lips.

“They say he’s terribly dull,” Daena says, patiently waiting her turn.

Rhaelle frowns at her through the mirror. “The King?”

“Tyland fucking Lannister– yes, the King.” 

Prince Joffrey had been far too young to be her escort to the wedding of Alyssa and Prince Jacaerys. Aegon was already betrothed to Helaena, and so on the day of the festivities Rhaelle had been presented with a sombre looking, silver-haired Prince. He frowned constantly, which she did not doubt had something to do with the cut through his left eye. The wound and his skin was red, held together with stitches. He often had his hands balled into fists, breathing deeply through his nose as though he was in pain. He tried to talk to her about his studies, and asked her about the histories of Runestone and House Royce. He led her through one dance after dinner before he retreated to his chambers. She had despaired with Alyssa the next day that she hadn’t been allowed to be escorted by any other young man of the court. That boy is a man now, and a kinslayer thrice over.

“Better a dull King than a drunk King, I suppose,” she says quietly.

“Who’s a slanderer now?” Daena says with a wicked smile. 

There are less clouds in the sky this morning. Sunlight bleeds through tall windows and floods the halls of the castle. It is more lively now, servants hurry about with baskets of food and fresh linens, men and women in all their finery walk through courtyards and galleries, though most are gathering at the throne room.

Rhaelle and Daena stay arm in arm, until they reach the entrance hall and the great oak doors that lead into the great hall.

“These carvings are new,” Rhaelle wonders aloud. The stone is cleaner here than it is in the rest of the castle, images of dragons carved into walls, pillars and archways. 

She hears the ominous hum of voices on the other side of the doors. She can picture them, the staring faces like a pack of wolves eager to sink their teeth and claws into the daughters of Daemon Targaryen.

And she can picture the Iron Throne, where her uncle once sat with the golden crown of the Consolidator atop his head.

Daena leans in close to Rhaelle’s ear, tightening her hold on her arm. “But he was a dragonrider, and a warrior, surely he cannot be so dull.”

She tries to imagine that boy from the wedding feast, his serious expression, his round little face, a single sad blue eye darting around the hall. Then she imagines a killer, a bloodthirsty monster with fangs for teeth and talons for hands. She cannot place them in the same body.

“They say he has a sapphire set in the empty socket, but that he wears an eyepatch so as not to frighten the ladies at court.”

She has heard of this story, like Ser Symeon star eyes. “How considerate of him,” Rhaelle adds, glancing over her shoulder but no one seems to have heard them. She clenches her jaw and takes slow, steady breaths in the hopes that it will calm her nerves, just enough to get through this ordeal.

“I wonder if he is handsome?” Daena adds.

He’ll be wearing the Conqueror’s Crown, Valyrian steel and set with square rubies, the same worn by his brother, by Maegor the Cruel. She has only seen it in history books.

“There were awful rumours about Aegon, but he has his own now, doesn’t he?”

He will surely have Blackfyre by his side too, unless he managed to claim Dark Sister from their father’s hands once he was slain. Would he take it as a trophy of war? The thought makes her stomach churn.

“The Harrenhal whore,” Daena hisses.

This tale she is also familiar with. Aemond had marched to Harrenhal and left King’s Landing undefended. When he arrived at that cursed castle and heard the news that he had lost the capital, he slaughtered all of House Strong for treachery, save for a bastard woman, some kind of servant who he took as a bedmate. “He made her Lady of Harrenhal,” she adds, much to the ire of the realm’s Lords.

"A generous patron then," Daena chuckles, and then she falters. She lowers her voice even further till it is scarcely a breath against Rhaelle’s ear. “Will he kill Alyssa too?”

A familiar feeling of fear strikes her in her chest, squeezing on her heart and lungs. She can make no promises, not before she hears the sound of wood creaking as the doors are swung open and the voice of Ser Willis Fell calls, “Lady Rhaelle Targaryen of Runestone, and her sister, Lady Daena Targaryen!”

She drops Daena’s hand on instinct and takes a step before her like a sworn shield. The hungry faces stare up at them but she looks ahead, to the Iron Throne, to the man who sits amongst the mass of swords.

He is too distant for her to make out the details of his face, but they become clearer as she walks through the hall. If there are any whispers of “traitor,” she does not hear them.

The crown sits proudly upon his head of silver hair, long enough to pass his shoulders and fall to his chest. He is dressed all in black with no other distinguishable colours other than the silver buckles on his jerkin, and wears an eyepatch over the left side of his face.

She stops at the base of the steps leading up to the throne, knowing Daena is lingering behind her. Now she sees more of him, the line of his scar, the sharp angles of his face, his jaw, his cheeks, his nose. Most of all her attention is drawn to his mouth, to the curve of his lips, the way they settle in an expression that could almost be amused, were it not for the look of fury and hunger in his remaining eye, which is violet, like her father’s, like hers.

Lord Corlys stands by his side, but she keeps her eyes on the King and curtseys as deeply as she can. She feels her legs trembling under her skirt, her hands shaking by her sides no matter how she wills them to stop. Aemond stares at her all the while, not sparing a glance for Daena who will be following her lead.

“My King,” she says, only to find her jaw is trembling too. She dare not take her eyes from Aemond, should he take it as a sign of weakness. 

She knows the words she must say, Lord Corlys had been very specific, but there’s a thick feeling in her throat, a reluctance that she never had before, now that Aemond’s one eye is boring into her very soul.

She allows herself a breath. “My King, my sister and I have come to renounce the pretender, Rhaenyra, and all those who supported her treason, including our late father–” her eyes fall to the ground before she can stop herself. 

“You have come to ask something of me, cousin?” Aemond says. His voice, hauntingly gentle, draws her eyes back up to him.

“We have come to beg your forgiveness, and pledge our undying love and fealty to you,” she bows her head once more, “the one true King.”

Relief lifts a weight from her body but fear creeps under her skin like a fever, burning and chilling all at once. Murmurs fill the air and she hears Daena let out an exhale of breath, further away than she had expected her to be.

She keeps her head down as she sees movement in front of her, as the murmurs die down and the sound of tauntingly slow footsteps approach her where she kneels.

“Rise, my Lady,” Aemond says. 

She does as she is instructed, straightens her body, her neck, and the last thing she lifts is her gaze.

There is something sinister in the intensity of his eye as it moves about her face, the care he takes in reaching for her hand and pressing an achingly light kiss to it that lingers on her skin, but then he does not let her go. He holds his hand firmly over hers as if to keep his kiss there. “You shall be an honoured guest in my court, Lady Rhaelle.”

She cannot tell if this is kindness or a butcher calming a lamb before the slaughter.

He goes to Daena and kisses her hand, but he does not hold her the way he did Rhaelle.

“Those of my blood who are loyal shall always have a place at my court,” he says to the hall and is met with a cautious applause. 

Rhaelle meets Daena’s eye as they turn to face the crowd. Her sister frowns innocently, wide eyes begging for an explanation. Why should they trust him? Why should they have to appeal to him when they played no part in the war, when they did not challenge his brother’s inheritance? Why should they beg for forgiveness from a kinslayer King?

Aemond looks over his subjects with his head held high and his hands behind his back. He carries no sword, just a knife tucked in on his right hip. He does not regard his people with the warmth of King Viserys, instead he watches them like he’s looking for fear, like he thrives in it.

And he is so utterly captivating.

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[impala-dreamer]

Wonderstruck

A Magical Short Story

~ Attending a wedding alone is rarely fun. Add to it a bunch of people you don't know all hidden behind masks, things can get a little shaky. But sometimes, if you're lucky, magic can happen...~

Henry Cavill x F!Reader

3,160 Words

Warnings: Nothing but romance and magic and fluff and mystery!

A/N: Yes, it's me. No, I have not been kidnapped. This was written in part for my personal goal of branching out a bit, but moreover as a Valentine's gift for @mariekoukie6661 and @kittenofdoomage <3

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

Her dress was sleek and as dark as midnight; her heels were high and deadly. Her lips dripped with crimson; a silver mask hid beautifully sad and strikingly painted eyes.

She kept to the edges of the ballroom, ducking behind round tables clad in expensive linens and gold inlaid china, skirting billowing gowns as they spun on the dancefloor. She slipped in and out of the shadows with a slowly emptying champagne glass pinched delicately between two fingers.

Despite her annoyance in being there, she could not deny the beauty of the night. The massive room was decorated in glamorous gold and pearl accents. Heavy velvet curtains hung over the windows on each wall, letting in a glimpse of the moonlit garden outside. The floors were marble that had been polished to perfection, and a warm candlelight glow illuminated the room.

It felt as if she’d stepped into a fairy tale.

A fairy tale about a sad girl watching the party from afar, alone but for the bubbles in her glass.

Which, sadly, were now gone.

Y/N sighed heavily and looked across the dancefloor at the long bar that stretched across the back wall of the ballroom. A hundred guests in suits and gowns, feathers and masks, twirled in front of her, blocking the path. Silently, she weighed the pain of entering the waltzing throng over going another moment without a healthy buzz in her head. She took a breath. She took a step.

Her heels clicked rhythmically as she laid her course for the bar. She kept her eyes on the goal, carefully maneuvering through the dancing couples, wondering if they’d all been to some class she hadn’t been invited to. All their steps seemed identical; all the women spun with the same flourish. She shook her head. Life should never be so choreographed.

After nearly tripping over a dragging tail of taffeta, Y/N finally made it to the bar and braced herself on the top. As she caught her breath, a deep but soft laugh hit her ear.

She turned toward the sound and spied a large man leaning on the bar a few feet away. He turned as she did, leaning one elbow on the bartop and kicking a long leg over the other. His tuxedo was immaculate and perfectly tailored; his shoes shined like the stones below. He wore a mask of black with silver adornment, and two crisp blue eyes scanned her form from beneath. She could feel them sneak down her body, lingering a bit in the deep curve of her waist and at the globe of her ass.

She cleared her throat, drawing his eyes up to hers.

“Something funny, Slick?” she asked, lips pursed in clear annoyance.

The man grinned. His lips were full and pink beneath a thin scruff of a beard.

“I liked your dance,” he said in reply.

She was startled by his accent - elegant and somehow too perfectly English, as if he were pretending to be from across the Atlantic. She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes at him, trying to figure him out.

It was nearly impossible. The masks were a problem.

Y/N rolled her eyes. She didn’t know why, but she felt that he needed to work a little harder to get her attention. Maybe she was bored, maybe the shock of his voice had her aflutter. Whatever it was, she turned up the sass.

“Yeah, well, I was a ballerina in a past life.”

Again, he laughed. A little louder, a little more enticing.

“I can see that. Prima ballerinas often trip over themselves and end up slamming into tables.”

She bit back a laugh and turned back to meet his gaze. “We take a special class for that.”

The man cocked his head towards her champagne flute. “And with an empty glass, no less.”

“What can I say, I’m very good at my job.”

Slowly, he pushed himself up from the bar and took a step closer. “May I buy you another?”

Her eyes slid up from his shoes to the loose, curly mop of black hair atop his head. He was tall and broad, and looked as solid as a statue. Her pulse quickened.

“I’m pretty sure it’s free,” she teased.

He stopped a foot from her side. “Still…” With a quick snap of his fingers, he called for the bartender and ordered them both another round.

“A dirty martini, Mr. Bond?” She smiled at his order.

“Shaken, not stirred,” he replied, lifting his glass.

His smile was as intoxicating as the golden liquid in her glass and butterflies swirled in her stomach.

Each took a sip, swallowing slowly with their eyes locked. The blue crashed over her and Y/N lost herself in the sparkle of his smiling gaze.

Worried that she was staring too hard, she tore herself away and let out a hard breath.

“So… how do you know the bride?” she asked, trying to pry his identity free.

He licked a drop of vodka from his lip. “I don’t.”

She laughed gently. “Wedding crasher, huh?” She leaned closer, dropped her voice to a whisper. “Don’t worry, I won’t turn you in.”

He moved in even closer. A warm scent pulsed off of him, flooding her senses with leather and vanilla and something she couldn’t place. Something spicy that made her mouth water so much she forgot that she was supposed to be playing hard to get.

“That’s kind of you,” he whispered. “I don’t think Charlie will press charges though.”

She smiled. “Ah, you’re on the groom’s side.”

“And you?”

His eyes fell to her lips and Y/N’s cheeks burned.

“I, uh… I work with Chloe, the- the bride.”

He nodded and took a sip of his drink. “Charlie and Chloe,” he said with a light laugh. “So many Cs.”

He was too cool, too confident yet sweet. She almost hated him.

“Who are you?” she asked, confused and irked. She had not come to the wedding to meet anyone, let alone a gorgeous, blue-eyed Brit, who may or may not actually be British.

Another slow sip guided her eyes back to his lips and she wondered if he tasted as good as he smelled.

“Henry,” he said softly.

She laughed. “Of course you are.”

“Why’s that funny?”

“Because of course your name is Henry. With your perfect accent and your sexy tuxedo…”

He stood up, suddenly towering over her, and tipped his head, eyes swiping over her again.

“And what about you? You’ve got to be called Celeste or Audrey or something classic and elegant.”

Y/N drained the rest of the champagne at the bottom of her glass and stood to face him properly. “Well, Prince Charming, why don’t you just call me Cinderella.”

Henry reached for her hand and she gave it jokingly.

His kiss was no joke, landing softly on her skin and making the rest of her shiver. She held her breath and nearly fainted when he looked up.

“Pleased to meet you, Cinderella.”

Her head swam a bit and she wondered if that was what swooning was.

“Charmed,” she said with a dreamy smile.

He held her gaze, swept a warm thumb over her knuckles. His touch was like fire and she wanted to run. Away from him or into his arms - she couldn’t decide. All she knew was that there was magic in the air and she could not seem to tear herself away from the mystery of his face. His eyes were tragically beautiful, as if she was lost at sea on a broken raft, thirsting and alone, but she had the comfort of the blue waves to keep her safe. She thought herself insane. He was just a man in a mask at a fancy wedding. Just a tall, impossibly fit, perfectly dressed man at a masquerade ball. A deliciously gorgeous man who smelled like drinking in front of a roaring fire in a cozy library filled with old books in some ancient castle in Scotland. A man who was still holding her hand and her gaze, stealing too many moments and breaths from her day.

Y/N shook herself and pulled her hand from his.

“I should… go…” She turned toward the room. She had to get away, had to free herself from the captivating stranger and return to ignoring her coworkers and the bride’s overly friendly family. “It was nice to meet you, Henry.”

His frown nearly cracked the earth beneath her feet.

“Don’t leave just yet,” he pleaded. “I… Well, I don’t really know anyone here and you’re…”

She looked back over her shoulder as he hesitated. “Yes?”

He blushed and sought comfort in his shoes. Such a beautiful sight: a strong, confident man instantly melting into shyness.

Blue eyes looked up. “Beautiful and enchanting and… I was hoping that we could dance.”

She nearly fell over, knocked out by his voice and charm. A quick breath steeled her nerves. “Sadly, I cannot.”

He stood up fully but somehow still seemed small. “Dance with me?”

“Dance at all,” she corrected.

He laughed. “Well, how about another drink and some conversation?”

With a sigh, Y/N looked back at the crowd, into the sea of indistinguishable masks and unfamiliar forms. Giving in, she nodded politely and spun around to the bar.

They ordered another round and took up residence at the end of the counter, half hidden in shadow, invisible to the other party-goers. Music soared above their heads but they could barely hear it, so engrossed in each other’s stories.

They spoke of simple things- movies they’d loved as children and that well-worn paperbacks were still tucked into their bookcases. She asked him about home and he talked about the London traffic and how he preferred to stay around the house on rainy days playing games on his PC. He poked her about work and she glossed over her job, insisting that they keep the conversation light and free from day-to-day struggles. They drank and laughed and fell even deeper into each other’s gaze.

It was strange to have a conversation with a stranger in a mask. She knew that he was handsome- his eyes were brilliant, his lips perfectly plump. His jaw was tight and his neck was thick. He was big and sturdy, yet gentle and bashful. Though most of his face was hidden, she knew he was perfect.

Perhaps a little too perfect.

But as the alcohol flowed and the night wore on, Y/N couldn’t find a reason anymore to run. The night had cast a spell around them and there was no escape. There was magic in the gilded accents around the room, in the symphony of violins that danced above their heads, in their true smiles and tentative touches.

Even if he wasn’t perfect, she thought, the moment was.

And the moment was suddenly broken.

A firm hand on her wrist dragged Y/N from her place at the bar and onto the dancefloor. The bride would not be ignored and refused to take no for an answer. Pained by the intrusion and the demand, Y/N reluctantly took Chloe’s hands and twirled her around. The skirt of the massive wedding dress billowed like a cloud around Chloe’s small frame and Y/N laughed as she was nearly caught up in the fabric.

Heart racing and smile wide, she turned back to Henry but was shocked to find his place empty. Their glasses sat abandoned on the bar and Prince Charming was nowhere to be found. She felt a tug in her chest and a dampness behind her eyes.

Before she could shrug it off as just a random encounter and push his blue eyes from her mind, a tap on the shoulder made her gasp.

She spun on the spot and found him there with a sweet smile and open arms.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, dipping into half a bow.

Excitement rushed through her and Y/N bit her lip. “I told you, I’m not a good dancer.”

Unwilling to let her back away, Henry scooped her up and held her close, one hand capturing hers and the other pressing gently into the small of her back. He leaned in and teased his lips at her ear.

“Then let me lead…”

His fingers pulsed against her back, guiding her to move against him. They turned a few times until she was dizzy in his arms, laughing as he whispered into her ear:

“Left… right… back… you’ve got it…”

His breath on her skin was like a gust of summer air, warm and delicious, flooding her body with calm.

“See? You’re not too bad at this.”

Y/N looked up into his eyes and felt the world fade away. They rose up together off of the dancefloor, floating gently above the other guests, impossibly alone in the crowd. She knew she was drunk, knew she’d pay for it in the morning, but she didn’t really care. She didn’t care that her friends were watching, probably whispering about the mysterious man she was dancing with. She didn’t care that she’d twice stepped on his toes or that there was no way she could hide the fact that being so close to him wasn’t turning her into a melted, lustful shell of what she usually was.

The music crescendoed and Y/N held her breath. Henry dipped his chin, blue eyes locked on her hers. The world slowed down, the seconds stretched on forever. She closed her eyes, savored his exhale against her lips. His hand slid gently up her back, fingers wove through her hair. She felt her legs grow weak, her stomach tensed, her heart skipped. He took a breath.

The band stopped short and Y/N startled as the crowd shited. The moment was gone, ripped away once more by the party swelling around them.

A rush of silk; the click of hundreds of heels. Cheers rose throughout the room as a giant cake was rolled out onto the dancefloor. It towered up to the ceiling with beautiful rows of white creme roses and pearls strategically placed to make the fondant glow in the warm light trickling down from the chandelier above.

As the guests closed in, Y/N was pulled out of Henry’s arms and her heart ached as he once again was out of her sight.

Black suits swarmed around her, heavy gowns brushed against her legs. Voices rang loud. Bodies closed in on all sides.

Breathless, she spun, searching for an exit, for a way to push through the throng.

A hand appeared and reached for her. She clasped his fingers and Henry raced toward the big doors to their left, pulling her free of the mob.

They tumbled out into the cool air and found relief as the doors closed behind them, blocking the music and the excitement, leaving them alone in the night.

The garden was dark but magically aglow with warm, golden light. Fairy lights twinkled around them, strung from bushes and topiaries, highlighting a stone path. Beyond, a labyrinth of tall evergreen waited for curious souls to venture inside, daring the branches to keep them from reaching the end.

Wonderstruck by the evening- the dramatic escape, the music, the champagne and Henry’s crystalline eyes- she stumbled. One single step turned her ankle and the deadly heels she never wore took her down.

Her gasp tore through the garden, but Henry was there to catch her fall. She swung in his strong arms and her fear turned to laughter.

“This is just absurd!” she said, steadying herself with a palm over his chest.

Henry was calm and stable, easily holding her upright. “What’s that?”

“I mean… You literally just swept me off of my feet.” She shook her head and with a blushing smile, pushed away. “This is getting silly.”

Away from his grasp, she teetered again and Henry took her hand before disaster could strike.

“Why don’t you sit down for a moment,” he suggested, nodding towards a stone bench not far away. “Those shoes are dangerous.”

“You have no idea.”

She let him help her to the bench and watched in awe as he fell to one knee. Like an actual Prince Charming, he took Cinderella’s ankle in his hands and gently ran his fingers over the thin strap holding the shoe in place.

“You’re not swollen,” he reported. “That’s good.”

When he looked up, concern fading from his eyes, she gave up trying to suppress the enchantment of the night and took a deep breath.

Hands cupped around his face, she leaned in and finally met his lips.

Startled but delighted, Henry pushed up to meet her, taking her once more in his strong arms and kissing her properly.

Tiny lights flickered in the breeze, soft music seeped out into the garden, and Prince Charming and Cinderella found each other in the dark. Lips hungry and hands wild; heat mixing between them like a budding fire.

When the clock struck twelve, it chimed loudly and they broke apart, laughing.

“Seems about right,” she joked, looking towards the wedding. “Party ends at midnight.”

Henry dragged a thick finger over her collarbone. “Does that mean you’ll turn into a pumpkin and disappear?”

She laughed softly. “I don’t know when the last time you read Cinderella was, but… no.”

He licked her taste from his lip. “So you don’t need to go then?”

Her smile fell. “I do…”

“You could stay…” He dipped his chin and looked up through the mask, blue eyes dark in the light. “We could… find a spot-”

Y/N shook her head and reached for his hand. “I can’t, I’m sorry. I have to be back in the city tomorrow for work.” She lifted his fingers to her lips and left him with a final kiss.

Henry sighed. “Pity.”

She nodded and gathered her strength to stand and do what she should have done hours ago- run. Except this time, she was certain she meant it to be into his arms. Only this time, she couldn’t.

“I’m sorry…”

Quickly, she turned, carefully stepping back onto the stone path and away from the mystery man with his intoxicating voice and perfectly engrossing kiss.

He stood and called to her, desperate for one more look at his Cinderella.

“Wait-”

She paused, hand on the big glass door, heart in her throat. “Yes?”

“Don’t I even get to know your real name?”

She looked over her shoulder and smiled. “It’s Y/N.”

Henry bowed his head in thanks and when he came up, the mask came off, slowly revealing a face she’d only imagined in her dreams.

He blushed at her shocked stare and laughed gently.

“It was nice to meet you, Y/N.”

She sighed, blissful and lost in a dream that she prayed would last the rest of her life.

“You too…”

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[crappymixtape]

gold & glitter

REQUEST → @superblysubpar, A VERY MERRY MIXTAPE ❝ i’m thinking a little rich!steve harrington, a little spicy somethin, somethin and a holiday play – spicy is right, steve takes you to see the nutcracker, but you don’t even make it to the first act • 18+  | ( 3.1k – smut with a dash of fluff, rich!steve x reader )

G O L D & G L I T T E R 🎶 the nutcracker suite, tchaikovsky

“Good evening, Mister Harrington. Miss. May I take your jackets?”

“Thank you, Charles. Did you order the MacCallan Anniversary malt?”

“Of course, sir. It is available neat here from your decanter or we can dress up however you like. Miss, your jacket?”

Squeezing your eyes shut, you opened them again expecting the finery before you to disappear into thin air like a dream, but it didn’t.

“Oh ye-yeah. I mean-yes. Yes, thank you,” you stumbled over your words as the waitstaff took your coat and disappeared behind the curtain. God, you were working overtime to maintain the same level of calm and collected sophistication that seemed to come so easily to your date.

Steve Harrington. Son of John Harrington and heir to the Harrington fortune. One with a foundation built by generations of brokers and wealth managers. Carried on throughout the years to be passed down to the eldest or, in Steve’s case, the only son.

You’d been together for over a year now, but you still weren’t used to it. This lifestyle.

Going anywhere with him meant multiple planned routes in and out of your destinations. Private cars with dark tinted, bullet-proof windows. Black American Express cards, Gucci loafers, and champagne flown direct from the Garonne Valley in Bordeaux, France.

And of course, at Christmastime, a viewing of George Balanchine's The Nutcracker from a private balcony, performed by only the finest troupe at the New York City Ballet.

You’d been to the theatre, the opera, but never like this. A suite all to yourselves, up and away from prying eyes, and upon each seat rested a pair of exquisitely golden opera binoculars for your viewing pleasure. It felt otherworldly. Lush and dark, gilded and polished. Long, red, crushed velvet curtains draped heavy to the floor and on a small table thick, crystalline tumblers sat next to a matching decanter full of only the finest single malt whiskey.

Lifting a hand, you ghosted an immaculately manicured finger around the rim of one of the glasses.

“Is it up to your standards, honey?”

The low, warmth of Steve’s voice broke your trance and pulled your gaze quick to look up at him.

“What?” you wondered aloud, still surprised at how he could ask such questions, “My standards? God. It’s beautiful.”

“Good. M’glad you like it.”

A smile tugged up at the corner of his mouth as he watched you walk to lean out over the balcony and look down at the sea of seats below. You were wearing the emerald green dress he’d bought you especially for the occasion. Made of the finest silk and fitted tight against every curve and dip of your body. Your hair swept long over one shoulder, soft skin exposed through the keyhole cut into the back. You were exquisite.

And you were all his.

Tucking a hand into the pocket of his slacks he reluctantly looked away from you and took up the decanter to pour a measure of whiskey for himself. MacCallan, single malt, from 1928 and around three-hundred thousand dollars a bottle. Lifting the tumbler he inhaled deeply and let his eyes drift shut. Worth every single penny.

“Charles,” his voice notched up in volume and the man from earlier appeared through the thick, velvet curtains.

“Sir?”

“A bottle of Dom and a chilled glass,” Steve took a drink from his whiskey and let it sit on a his tongue for a moment before swallowing it down. “Oh, and my cigar case.”

“Sir, you know smoking isn’t permitted–”

Steve hummed, a low thrum in his throat, and stepped forward toward the other man.

“How much do I pay for these seats, Charles? How much does my family pay for these seats? Since the theatre opened in 1964…I’ll let you do the math,” he took another sip of whiskey and lifted a hand to smooth down the other man’s cravat, “My cigar case.”

“Yes. Of course, Mister Harrington,” the man replied quietly, eyes glued to the cheap, shiny black plastic of his dress shoes.

Steve put on a smile, the one he gave to clients when he knew he’d closed an account, and gripped the man’s shoulder, “Good man.”

And without another word Charles was off again through the curtain.

There was no denying it, Steve’s presence always held weight. Held power. No one could tell him no. Stood in boardrooms dressed to the nines. Gold heirloom cufflinks, custom tailored jackets and Tucci de Lusso oxfords included, but this version of him was different. Somehow more and you didn’t know how it was possible.

Brunette locks perfectly coiffed. Custom black Armani suit fitted tight across his chest and shoulders. Gold signet ring with his initials engraved upon it shining up from his index finger, and damn if his ass didn’t look incredible in those slacks.

You clicked your tongue at him and fixed him with a look, closing the gap between the two of you.

“Babe, he’s just trying to enforce the house rules,” smoothing a hand up his chest, you pretended to adjust his tie as an excuse to touch him.

“Honey, you and I both know who makes the rules around here,” he drawled, his tone making you weak in the knees, and he set his glass down in favor of taking hold of your waist. His hand wide and warm on the small of your back as he ran it down the curve of your ass and squeezed, pulling a gasp from your lips.

“Steve,” you chided, no heat behind it, and he dipped down to press a kiss to your neck.

“This really is your color,” he whispered in your ear and your eyes fluttered at the sound. Pressed your thighs together as he traced a finger across your exposed collarbone. Warmth blooming in your core as he followed the hem that chased along the edge of your shoulder.

“You’ve got good taste,” you whispered back, swallowing the moan that had crept up your throat and he grinned.

“I do, don’t I.”

“Sir, your cigar cas–oh!”

Charles came back through the curtain to find the two of you pressed into each other, Steve’s nose buried in the crook of your neck. Your cheeks burned at being caught.

“My sincerest apologies, sir! I should’ve–”

“S’alright,” Steve chuckled, pulling away from you to casually take the case from the other man without missing a beat. He reached into his money clip and slipped a hundred dollar bill into Charles’ hand, “Now. That will be all. If I need anything, I’ll ring you.” The finality of his words hung in the air.

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Excuse me,” and with that Charles disappeared again for what you were certain, after all that, would be the last time.

“Shit,” you breathed, cheeks still bright red as you bit back a laugh.

Steve was laughing too, but no where near embarrassed, and he grabbed your hand to pull you close to his chest again as the theatre lights flickered and slowly dimmed.

“Mmm, damn. Showtime,” he murmured softly into your hair.

You felt your stomach drop at the thought of having to sit so still, and so far from Steve for three hours, but then another thought came to you. One that made your cheeks flush again and you pressed your face into his lapel, breathing in the citrusy, cedar scent of his cologne.

Pulling away just enough to meet his gaze the expression you maintained was innocent, but the look in your eye wasn’t. It was dark and needy. Warm and flickering at the feeling of his hands on your waist.

“We could freshen up first,” you suggested quietly and as Steve put your words together his pupils blew wide. Pools of black edged in gold and he squeezed at the plush of your hip.

“Uh-huh,” came out strangled and it was all he could manage. Unable to focus on anything other than rucking that silk dress up around your thighs, and without hesitation he grabbed your hand and pulled you through the thick, velvet curtains.

The corridor was empty, Charles hiding wherever he’d rushed off to, and everyone else was in their seats to catch the opening act as Steve led you the short distance down the hall.

Luckily for you, the neighboring balcony’s ticket holders had filed for bankruptcy earlier in the year and now the restrooms on this wing were exclusively Steve’s. Doors crafted from thick oak and etched with breathtaking carvings of Swan Lake and Slyphide, they were heavy enough to drown out anything happening on the other side.

Thank god.

Ignoring the men’s and women’s signs, Steve chose the closest door and shouldered into it, bicep straining against the tight fabric of his shirt as he held muscled it open. It was a hurried mess, both of you tripping into the room on the train of your dress in a fit of giggles as Steve huffed a laugh and cursed under his breath.

“Baby.”

Heels clicking on the white granite tile floor, you regained your footing and finally took in all the exquisite details of the ornate room. Wide marble slabs. Bottles of lotion and perfume that cost more than your mortage. Gold fixtures shining in the low light falling from crystal chandeliers that refracted bright shards of color against the walls.

You would have appreciated the incredible beauty of it all, but Steve. You couldn’t have cared less and neither could he.

He spun you around to face him and hooked his arms behind the backs of your legs. Scooped you up off the ground and pulled a squeal from you as you held on tight around his neck to steady yourself.

Squeezing his hold on you, he freed an arm and swept it across the counter. Knocked the soap dish clattering into the sink basin and paid absolutely no attention to the lush basket of designer hand towels that fell to the floor as he lifted you with ease onto the marble surface.

“Steve,” you protested weakly and when he notched himself between your legs you felt yourself melt under him.

His hands were everywhere. Your waist, the small of your back, fingers pressing into your cheek and pushing your hair over your shoulder to drag messy, open-mouthed kisses against the skin there. It pulled a moan from your lips and at the sound he groaned into you.

“Christ, babe. I’ve wanted to get my hands on you since you climbed into the limo. Pretty as a fuckin’ picture in this thing. So damn hot. All for me, huh?”

“S’always for you,” you half-laughed, but it caught in your throat as he slipped a hand between your thighs, “God, Steve.”

“This for me too, honey?”

He gathered a handful of emerald green silk in one hand and pooled it at your waist as the cool air of the room sent a shiver up your spine. Then he caught sight of the black lace panties hugging tight against you and sucked in a breath. Bit down on his bottom lip and looked like he might cry.

“You’re gonna kill me with these. Are you kiddin’ me? Baby. Look at this,” he babbled, just standing there not touching you and you grabbed hold of his wrist and tugged him back into you.

“Talk too much,” you murmured against his ear, running a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck and dragging your nails against his skin, “It’s all yours…Mister Harrington.”

And fuck if the dress and panties weren’t enough, the sound of your voice wrapped around his name did him in.

“Damn right it is.”

He growled as you tugged on his hair, slipped his hand back between your legs and tugged the thin fabric of your panties aside. The way he had been kissing and talking at you out on the balcony had been plenty to send you pressing your thighs together, but the way he was handling you in here had you soaked.

His fingers slipped in your slick as he felt just how wet you were and he smirked against your skin as he dragged his lips up to your jawline. Tutting softly he slowly circled your clit, his other hand moving to wrap gently around the column of your throat.

“Bet you want me to talk now, huh honey? You want that? Talk dirty to you?” his voice was barely above a whisper as his fingers slid down to press against your entrance.

You swallowed against the hand he had on your throat, your lips dropping open into a perfect little ‘o’ as you squirmed against the counter, impatient for him.

“Uh-huh,” you breathed and he smirked at how he had you wrapped around his finger, literally as he slid one into you.

“That’s my girl. I know what you like, don’t I? Give you everything you need. Take care of you, hm?” he babbled, kissing and sucking at the hollow behind your ear as he began to slide his finger in and out, in and out. A slow drag at first before adding a second finger and pulling a moan from your lips.

“Good care of me,” fell out mindlessly as he gently tightened the hand on your throat making your heartbeat thud in your ears.

“This isn’t enough though, is it? Not enough. Want me to fill you up, don’t you honey?” he whispered and you nodded, your throat too tight to speak, and god you wanted him to make you see stars.

He pulled his hand from between your legs to undo the button on his pants and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes at the loss of his touch.

“Shh, I got you, baby,” he coaxed, pulling down his zipper and reaching in to free his rock hard cock.

It sprang out of his pants without any encouragement and he wrapped a hand around it. Rubbed it against your slit as it practically cried in anticipation and as he slowly pushed himself into you it made you sucked in a rasp of a breath.

“Steve,” you begged and he moved his hand to grip your thigh.

“I know, baby.”

An inch more and he was into you up to the hilt. Filling you so much that you could feel the tip pressing against the spot only he could reach. Easing out he groaned as you clenched down on him before pushing back in and he set the pace there. A slow drag. In, out. In, out.

The wet sounds coming from you as he fucked you slowly were obscene. Made louder by the empty room, but you didn’t care. You wanted more.

“Harder,” you pleaded. He wanted it too and as he looked down at the sight of his cock sliding into your cunt he nearly lost it.

Letting go of your throat he grabbed onto your other thigh for purchase and pulled you to the very edge of the counter. Picked up the pace and started fucking you faster, the slap, slap, slap of his thighs against yours filling the air.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Feel so good. You like that? Huh? Want more?”

“More–shit. Yes, god. More, Steve.”

Your knuckles were white with how hard you were gripping the counter, moans falling freely from your lips now as Steve pushed you both closer and closer to climax. You could feel the coil tightening in your stomach as he squeezed into the plush of your thighs and your hand flew up to grab at the back of his neck.

“Gonna–ugh–come, baby. Come with me, baby,” he said through gritted teeth, jaw ticking when he clenched down, and as he rocked his hips back into you, you both came.

Your orgasm wrapped around you tight. White hot. Electric. Every inch of you buzzing and sparking like fireworks on the fourth of July and you cried out as his thrusts fell out of sync, jerky and messy as he came down.

A soft thud echoed against the tile as your head fell back against the mirror behind you, beads of sweat holding your hair messy across your forehead. Steve leaned into you, rested his head on your chest, and slowly your breaths evened out.

Your lips twitched with a smile, your hand lifting to cover your mouth as you held back a laugh, and Steve seemed to have the same thought as he chuckled against your dress.

“Someone heard us. For sure,” you finally said, voice crackly from breathing so hard.

“And? Who gives a shit. Maybe we just gave them a good idea,” Steve grinned, looking up at you from where he rested his chin on your belly.

You swatted at him, gasping as he pulled out of you to avoid getting hit.

Bending down, Steve grabbed a couple of the hand towels from where they’d landed on the tile and ran warm water on them. Quickly cleaned himself up and then took his time with you. Paid close attention to where he’d held onto your throat. Where his fingertips pressed into your thighs. Dabbed softly across your forehead and spent extra time on the mess between your legs.

You touched up your makeup and perfume, adjusted Steve's tie and hair, and when you both finally emerged from the bathroom the piece the orchestra was playing reached a crescendo and the theatre filled with applause.

It couldn’t be the end of the first act?

Steve walked you easy back to the balcony and held the heavy velvet curtain open for you. Your gilded opera binoculars were still sitting perfectly upon your seat where you’d left them and the bottle of chilled Dom Perignon was on ice along with a champagne flute – you hated whiskey.

You both sank into your seats as the orchestra began to play again and you recognized the piece and shot Steve a look.

“The party scene just started,” you whispered, “We’re not even out of the first part of act one.”

“Christ,” he groaned, grinning into his hands as he rubbed them across his face. Then, glancing over at you he grabbed his cigar box, “We can always make up for it next year. Right?”

Your eyes grew wide.

“Skip the Nutcracker?” you asked incredulously and he quirked a brow at you.

“Yeah. Skip it and we’ll go catch part two of the bathroom scene at mine,” he said giving you a wicked grin and you feigned shock, your own grin threatening to shatter your facade.

“Mister Harrington, what would your mother say?”

And the look he gave you then was the absolute definition of smug.

“My Stevie boy always gets what he wants.”

And damn if she wasn’t right about that.

[felicitywilds]

The Magiciatron

A couple of posts came across my dash recently in quick succession about Crowley and Aziraphale’s costuming, and boy howdy did they get me Thinking™. The details of those posts are not super relevant, but they did inspire this one and were quite insightful, so I’d recommend giving them a read anyway, as well as the several other posts I have linked throughout where ideas were taken. Please do give those a read/reblog as well!

And then take a look at this post I saw:

“You’re not trying to trick me, are you?”

Now kindly consider the fact that Crowley is beside Muriel’s left shoulder (like an angel) and the Metatron is on Aziraphale’s right (like a demon). And notice, like I did, that the lapels on his coat are some of the lowest we’ve seen. Which, for an angel-who-isn’t-Aziraphale, and you know, the literal fucking voice of God, is pretty fucking weird. But I digress.

Because what’s important here is that you’re reminded, like I was, how weird it is that the Metatron is wearing so much black.

Surely the most important angel we’ve ever met-- who up to this point, has only ever been depicted as a brilliantly glowing white head, and is (stage blocking-wise, literally) above inhabiting the typical corporations that other angels have, even while in heaven-- surely he would be sporting the cleanest, purest, whitest clothes imaginable, right?

But... he isn’t. He’s not wearing grey or beige like any of the other angels, or even white like Muriel’s constable uniform, he’s wearing black. That’s weird! Angels don’t wear black! Oh... well except when they’re magicians, of course:

(X, X)

But even in his magician costumes, Aziraphale retains many elements of his angelic nature: the upward-pointed lapels; the white cuffs poking out of his sleeves; the floppy bow ties; the single-button or open jacket revealing the soft gold and velvet vests. This is merely a flashy costume! Don’t worry folks, he’s still the same, good old angel underneath!

The Metatron, on the other hand, does not have any of these angelic indicators. Underneath his magician’s coat-- which is big and loose, falls closed in front of him in a way that obscures his suit, and has extremely downward-pointing lapels-- he wears a dark tie, and a very normal-looking, white, pinstripe shirt. No angelic tartan to be seen, either. It’s a very understated, business-minded look compared to Aziraphale’s flashy stage getups. Also worth noting imo is that in many scenes, the Metatron has his hands in his pockets, which obscures his form even more.

Now this might be indicative of something more, some larger scheme we haven’t deduced yet, but by itself it’s a brilliant move by the costuming department, adding yet another perfectly conniving layer to the Metatron’s manipulations:

Dress him in the magician’s coat and send him on stage, where his tricks are hidden in plain sight...

Engage the audience to participate in a dramatic reveal...

Reassure his volunteer that his props are completely normal by offering them up for inspection...

Have the assistant do all the flashy presentation for him...

So that while the audience is distracted, they fail to notice...

... that a swap has been made...

And then the curtain falls. Show over. Audience fooled. Job well done.

The End.

[cookybananas]

The Aftermath - (Darth Vader/Anakin Skywalker x Deceased!Reader)

author's note: Vaderkin x Deceased!Senator!Reader (yes, another angsty fic because I'm tired of the lack thereof and I'm in an angsty phase)

summary: The Former Ruler of Naboo is visited by a familiar figure

"Would you like to know more about Naboo's former glorious excellency, Queen Y/N L/N, sir?" The protocol droid spoke up, trailing behind the dark figure attempting to assist him.

"No..." The Sith Lord paused. "I have heard it before." his tone sounding defeated.

"If you have any questions or require any further assistance, I will be right here. Carry on then." The droid responded before returning to his previous position outside the temple, keeping an eye for any other visitors that might enter the mausoleum.

Outside the structure was a statue of you in your coronation dress. At age 14, you were the youngest Queen the Naboolians had elected. You were considered a beacon of hope and prosperity to the people of Naboo during the Clone Wars and your reign. The mausoleum was built just shortly after your untimely death that occurred over five years ago.

The rainy night, had a cold breeze that blew through the dark lord's heavy black cape as he made his way inside the structure.

The dark lord took his time, slowly walking through the large structure, admiring every little detail along the way. It was as if it was his first time here, but it wasn't, he wanted to soak up every moment that reminded him of you at any given chance. Sound of the rain, his heavy footsteps, and his mechanical breathing accompanied the atmosphere.

Tall pillars held the inside of the structure where your tomb was. There were dark red curtains draped from the high ceilings that were neatly tied to the pillars with a gold sash. At the base of pillars, were large pots of the Naboo native (and your favorite flower): the red millaflower.

There were numerous amounts of your personal belongings exhibited in enclosed, locked display cases. These items ranged from the gowns and jewelry you wore, to the beauty items you had used daily, and to the items that were personally gifted to you to preserve them.

The Sith Lord sighed to himself, looking down at his gloved hands. If he were to close his eyes and rest his head against the glass of your personal belongings, he can faintly remember the memories of you attached to the item.

It had only been five years since your passing. Five years since he had wrongfully killed you in an act of desperation. He should have listened to you in that moment and time, but fear drove him off the edge. He wanted, needed to save you. The nightmares of you dying haunted him at the time and needed a way to resolve them quickly.

He strongly believed that if he turned to the dark side, he would be able to learn the power to heal you from any sickness, even death itself.

But he was wrong. He force choked you, depriving you of oxygen as a way to get you to listen to him, but killed you in the process.

"Anakin...I wanted was you...your love." you whispered out to him, before fluttering your eyes shut, slipping into an eternal slumber in his arms.

Your words echoed in the back of his mind as he remembered the painful memory. Soon after, he had become this revering machine that everyone feared, a monster, a dark lord.

A glint of an object out of the corner of his eye captured his attention. The Sith Lord made his way over to the display case that had a light shining down on the japor snippet that was neatly displayed on a velvet pillow. The very japor snippet he had made for you many moons ago.

He gifted it to you when he was just 9 and you were 14, right before he left for his Jedi training. He gifted it to you as a token of fortune and in hopes for you to remember him if your paths were to ever diverge.

There were moments where he would catch you wearing the necklace when he came over to your apartment after a long mission. At times, he couldn't help but tease you about it in private, but also feel proud of himself, as it meant that you were all his and only his.

Anakin stared at the gift he had given you all those years ago, wishing he could turn back time and be that little boy who was smitten for you. But he couldn't, the damage was already done.

He soon found his way over to your tomb. The Sith Lord used the force to brush off the fallen debris and dust that had coated the top of your sarcophagus. Incased in duracrete, the tomb was engraved in aurebesh that stated:

"Here Lies

Her Royal Highness

Queen Y/N L/N of Naboo

Beloved Queen, Senator, and Fighter for the People of Naboo."

Thunder rumbled in the distance. A flash of lightning flashed through the glass stained artwork of you that was just a couple of feet from your tomb.

With a hiss, Vader, Anakin took off his helmet. He looked up at the glass artwork of you in your red, royal gown and styled headdress. He remembered you had wore face paint and would often switch positions with your handmaidens to keep your identity and yourself protected from any assassination attempts.

Anakin choked out a sob, falling to his knees in the process. Feeling overwhelmed at the waves of emotions he felt at the situation. He tried to steady his breathing, as he grasped the edge of your sarcophagus to keep himself stable.

"I'm so sorry my angel...for all of it. Forgive me, alas.." Anakin choked out. Hoping that if you were a ghost or a spirit just somewhere in the room, hearing his cries, but you weren't.

You didn't possess any force abilities, you were just a human that was a Royal Member of Naboo Royal Family and leader to your people. You couldn't pass over to the next life and be seen by force-sensitive individuals, simply because you weren't one.

Anakin stayed there, quietly sobbing to himself. He had wished he listened to you and his old master, but didn't. This was one of the dire consequences that he had cause himself and most importantly, affected you.

But alas, the trail of blood Vader leaves continues. He had a new master to follow orders, an empire to rule. But deep down, he seeks retribution on your behalf and for his sake towards the Emperor.

[mykneeshurt]

Confession

Image by wallpaper flare

Priest AU

Priest! John McTavish x AFAB! Reader

Warnings - 18+, minors DNI, heavy religious themes being used in a very blasphemous way lmao, if you’re easily offended by sexualised religion this ain’t for you chief

———

Mass had long since finished, the congregation had left and the sun was setting. The sky was a beautiful orange which pierced through the stained glass windows at the back of the church. Frankincense still hung in the air, swirls of smoke drifted in the warm summer air as it blew around you.

The sound of a door opening quickly pulled you from your thoughts. Father McTavish emerged from the priests chamber, dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. His muscles bulged against the white material with every movement. He was completely in his own world having not noticed you were still sat on one of the benches.

‘Father McTavish!’ You called out as you waved to get his attention. As he looked over towards you his brow furrowed slightly, ‘is everything ok? I was just locking up.’ Nodding you offered him a warm smile, ‘the homily was lovely today Father, I was just wondering if you had a spare minute for confession?’ He mulled it over in his mind for a second before guesting you to follow him.

He smelt of frankincense and sandalwood, a strong musky scent but one that made you feel giddy. You watched as he led you to the confessional box which sat in the corner of the church. It was a deep oak colour, intricate patterns carved into the wood adorned the edges as two arches exposed the booths. Deep maroon velvet curtains hung lazily on gold rails to offer some feeling of privacy.

His hand brushed the small of your back as he guided you into the booth, you shot him an innocent look as he pulled the heavy curtain across. The sounds of his footsteps echoed in the booth as he took his position, the wood creaking beneath his weight.

The wood settled as he let out a breath, ‘how long has it been since your last confession?’ Smiling to yourself in the solitude of your booth you bit your lip. ‘I’ve never been Father, this is my first.’

‘And what sin would you like to confess?’

You licked your lips slowly. ‘It’s not a sin I have committed, but one I’m about to.’

You heard him take in a sharp breath, ‘what are you going to do?’

You didn’t answer.

You both sat there drowning in the silence, each of you waiting for the other to break first. The atmosphere shifted in that moment. It became thick, suffocating. He shifted in his seat.

‘Do you touch yourself Father?’ You whispered, finally breaking the silence. ‘I … what?’ He stammered.

‘Do you ever touch yourself? I’ve seen how you look at me. It’s ok if you do. I’ve thought about you too.’

‘This … this isn’t appropriate.’ He muttered, his voice cracking under the pressure you were putting him under. ‘Neither is the way you undress me during mass. You can look if you want to. I don’t mind.’ He exhaled, breath shaking violently as he did so. ‘Are you touching yourself Father?’

Silence.

‘I’m touching myself, and it feels so good. So fucking good.’

‘I … I can’t. It’s a sin.’

‘Yes you can, touch yourself for me’ you whispered.

Silence weighed heavy on the booth again, crushing you both. You could imagine how he was sitting in the booth, squirming at your request, chewing his cheek, just like he did when you smiled at him. You heard the sound of his belt buckle being unfastened.

‘Good boy’ you drawled softly, ‘you hard for me?’

A soft whimper fell from his lips, ‘yes’, images of his chest rising and falling as strained noises exuded from his chest filled your mind. ‘I’m so wet for you John. Can you hear it?’ You slid your fingers along your wet cunt, allowing the noises to fill the confessional box. The sound of pure sin, the sound of lust.

Inserting a finger you began to fuck yourself, moving your fingers in and out, moaning softly. You added another ‘it feels so good, I’m just thinking about it being your cock Father. Filling my pussy, fucking me so hard. Are you thinking of me?’ You could hear him pumping his cock next to you, laboured breathing echoing in the confines of the wooden walls.

You picked up your pace, the palm of your hand hitting against your clit. ‘I wanna hear you. I wanna hear you fucking your hand thinking it’s me.’ Doing as he was told he allowed himself to become more vocal, muffled moans and whimpers, strained cried and heavy breathing. ‘You’re such a good boy for me father’ you muttered as you threw your head back, bucking your hips you craved for more friction. Desperately wanting to feel him pressed against you, bodies intertwined in a wicked mess of sexual desire.

Adding a third finger you screwed your eyes shut, moaning his name like a prayer. You imagined his face, flushed with pleasure, his azure eyes clenched shut, biting his supple lips. The sound of him pumping his cock consumed you, his swollen throbbing cock. It made you salivate as you pinched your nipple through your clothes. ‘Father I’m so close, so so close. Are you?’

‘I … god … yes’ he whimpered through clenched teeth. ‘Say my name when you cum Father. I want you to say it, I want you to think of filling me, making me feel so full.’ Your own voice was starting to crack, your orgasm beckoning you closer and closer. The booth felt like it was shrinking as you chased your high, closer and closer. ‘Do it Johnny. Let me hear you.’

That was enough to push him over the edge, a guttural whine burst from the back of his throat as he came. Your name danced across his lips as he rode out his high, muttering it over and over again. A string of curses left him as he tried to catch his breath. Your own orgasm soon followed, your back arched off the oak wood as you clenched your thighs together. Biting your lip you writhed in your seat, ‘fuck Father, please it feels so good.’

White noise filled your senses as the coil snapped within you. As your cunt pulsated around your fingers you felt your arousal trickle out of you. Staining the velvet cushion you sat on, a perfect reminder for him every time he gave confession. A perfect reminder of the sin he committed, one that you didn’t have the power to forgive.

That was up to God.

————

Quite a short one but masturbation only lasts so long lmao

@luminousbeings-crudematter @deadbranch @glitterypirateduck @villainsoftheweek @soapyghost @cowyolks

[lancermylove]

Date with Belphie (Scenario)

Fandom: Obey Me

Pairing: Belphie x gn!Reader

Warning: None

Requested by: Anon

Prompt: Hi! This is my first request, idk if I over did with the million ideas 🐌 hope any of them are good enough! Fandom: Obey me! I'm thinking about an oneshot or scenario of taking belphie to a date with a rich GN!mc, something like clothes shopping for him - going to a theater with a dramatic story and mc crying with the end like: IF IT WERE US I WOULD HAVE SCAPED TO BE WITH YOU!! - going to a big masquerade but preferring the balcony to see the stars - them visiting a festival and belphie buying flowers for them from a walking seller that called them a cute married couple. Or maybe them taking ball dancing lessons together 🥺💕

A/N: Thank you for sending in the request! I am sorry for taking so long to finish it. 🙇🏻‍♀️ There are a lot of ideas for just one date, so I picked a few. Hope you like it!

Word Count: 916

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The city was alive with the hum of evening chatter, glowing streetlights, and the sweet scent of blooming flowers planted alongside the street. You smiled at Belphegor, who seemed curious and mildly annoyed as he tried on another coat. You had spent the past hour browsing through clothes racks, insisting on finding the perfect outfit for tonight. Belphie, while generally indifferent to fashion, appreciated your enthusiasm and played along.

"Do I really need to try on another one?" Belphie asked in a playful whine.

You grinned, taking a step closer to adjust the lapels of his coat. "Just one more. You'll see, it's worth it. Besides, you look amazing."

A faint blush colored his cheeks, but he rolled his eyes. "If you say so, but you're lucky that I am willing to forgo sleep for you."

The two of you stared at each other before laughing. While the laughter echoed softly in the quiet of the upscale boutique, no one bothered to look at either of you. After a few more minutes of indecisiveness, you finally settled on the midnight blue coat paired with a sleek black shirt. It was perfect for the evening you had planned—a night of theater and a festival under the stars.

As you entered the theater buzzing with anticipation, your arm looped through Belphie's. The venue's grandeur, with its gold trimmings and velvet curtains, only heightened your excitement. The play you had chosen was renowned for its intense storyline and emotional depth. You couldn't wait to see his reaction to the emotional rollercoaster and secretly hoped he wouldn't fall asleep in the middle of the play.

As the play progressed, you were drawn into the story—a tale of love, betrayal, and sacrifice. When the climax approached, you were on the edge of your seat while your heart pounded. By then, you forgot to steal glances at Belphie to see his reaction and ensure he wasn't asleep. The lead characters, caught in a forbidden romance, were forced to make an impossible choice. The tension built until the final act, where the lovers chose to stay bounded to their responsibility instead of escaping and living freely together.

Tears welled up in your eyes, and you gripped Belphie's hand tightly. The passion in the characters' voices and the anguish in their expressions were overwhelming.

"If it were us," you whispered, barely audible over the dramatic crescendo of the music, "I would have escaped to be with you."

Belphie turned his head, his gaze softening as he looked at you. His thumb brushed against the back of your hand in a soothing gesture. "I know you would. And I'd do the same for you."

The play ended in a whirlwind of applause, but you remained seated to compose yourself. However, Belphie gently tugged you to your feet, his smile warm and reassuring.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get some fresh air."

The night air was cool, and a gentle breeze carried the sounds of laughter and music from a nearby festival. The lively atmosphere was a welcome change from the heavy emotions you experienced in the theater. Colorful lights twinkled overhead, and the air was filled with the delicious aroma of street food. If Beel were with the two of you, he would have downed every last crumb available in the stall—the thought made you giggle. Belphie also seemed relaxed in the vibrant environment as he scanned the area with a soft smile.

You wandered through the stalls, sampling various treats and admiring the artistry of local vendors. The festival was a beautiful mosaic of cultures and traditions, each corner offering something new and exciting. When the two of you walked past an elderly flower seller, her eyes twinkled with mischief.

"Flowers for the lovely couple?" she asked, her gaze shifting between you and Belphie.

"Yes, please," your boyfriend smoothly said as he selected a small bouquet of white lilies. Handing them to you, he paid and thanked the seller, who was quietly studying your expression.

"Such a cute married couple," she murmured before returning to the other side of her stall. From the smile she gave you, it was evident that the woman was only teasing you, but your cheeks burned red. Belphie also picked up on the mischievous tone in her voice, but his focus was on you. Seeing your flushed face and attempts to hide behind your face behind the bouquet, he chuckled.

Belphie smirked and wrapped an arm around your shoulders before pulling you close to his side. "Should we explore more of the festival, my dear wife/husband?"

Despite your shyness, you laughed and nodded. "There's a lot more to see."

As the night drew on, you found a quiet spot away from the crowd and sat together on a bench beneath a canopy of stars. Belphie leaned back, gazing up at the sky with a content expression.

"Thank you," he said after a while. "For tonight. For everything."

You leaned against him while the lilies rested in your lap. "Thank you for coming with me. I had a wonderful time."

He turned his head to look at you, his eyes reflecting the soft glow of the festival lights. "I'm glad. Because there's no one else I'd rather be with."

As your heart swelled at his words, you leaned closer to kiss his cheek softly. "Me neither, Belphie."

Under the vast, starry sky, you sat together, enjoying the peaceful silence between you and your boyfriend—a perfect ending to a perfect night.

———————————————

➣  Please visit my website for the full masterlist!

[buggyboba]

✦ October 9th | Lap Dance

AN 𓏧 ↳ ○ | Day nine! So when I went to originally post this I found out that half of it was gone, just yoinked into the void so I had to rewrite it. A few things changed from the original, but hey we do what we must, anyway here is day nine~ Smut so MDNI.

SUMMARY𓏧 ↳ ○ Smokey haze from the club around them fills the private room Missy had obtained for them, the muffled music from outside brews a tense longing, and reader knows she is the only one that Missy is watching.

PAIRING𓏧 ↳ ○ Missy x Female Reader TW𓏧 ↳ ○ Lap dance, alcohol, thigh riding. WORD COUNT𓏧 ↳ ○ 1800

A03 lINK𓏧 ↳ ○ x

MASTERLIST LINK𓏧 ↳ ○ x

★𓏧 𓏧 𓏧★ 𓏧 𓏧 𓏧★

You hadn’t expected her to take you to a pleasure planet; you had been to strip clubs before, but this was a whole different thing. The air was heavy with a sort of smokey haze from incents and the stench of sex. Well,  what you assumed was sex; it didn’t quite smell like sweat and the other smells associated with sex, but this was an alien pleasure planet, so you weren’t sure what you were expecting. She looked so out of place here in her modest Victorian dress; it was almost funny. You kept your eyes on her as she led you through the main part of the club; you assumed it was a club, and you were working off a lot of assumptions here. You didn’t think she was one for places like this, but then again, you knew she had many lives before your tenure as her companion. The walk felt like it went on for ages; the sound of music barely covered the audible sounds going on in the other rooms.

She opened a black door with gold trim and motioned you inside. You walked in and shifted, adjusting the dress you wore; it was a sleek black number with a plunging v-neckline, and you wore some small gold chain necklaces. You had thought you were going out to a nice dinner or something, so your make-up was pristine, and you even wore some shimmer on your cheeks and chest, a highlight. You looked around the room, and it was decorated with black lace curtains and black velvet pillows. There was a table that had a bottle of what you assumed was alcohol that Missy had chosen. You watched as Missy walked over to inspect it after closing the door.

“A good vintage,” she said lightly, almost to herself, before she looked over at you. “You look like a little lost lamb, pet.” She gave a sort of half-smirk that reminded you of her previous regeneration.

“I just thought we were going out to a, um, nice restaurant; you said get dressed up, so I did, but now we are at an alien sex planet.” You started.

“Pleasure planet, not all pleasure is sex, poppet,” she corrected with a grin and, with a dramatic move, moved to sit down on one of the plush benches, watching you, before motioning you closer.

You felt tingly; the haze was here in this room too, but only you seemed to feel floaty; curse her respiratory bypass. You moved closer and felt her fingers trace from your wrist to your arm. “Have a drink, bunny, go on, pour me one too,” she said and looked over to the bottle of something; you couldn’t read the writing on it; it wasn’t in a language you knew, and of course, Missy’s tardis only translated for her. You walked over and poured the liquid into the two flutes provided. You blinked; the liquid was a neon blue that seemed to glow in the dim lighting. You walked back over to her and held a glass out; she took it and patted her lap. You tilted your head at the action. "Oh, come now, do I have to tell you where to sit expressly?” she rolled her eyes before they locked onto yours. “My lap bunny, that’s where I want you tonight.” She clicked her tongue against her teeth to emphasize her point.

You moved to sit on her lap, her arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back some, and you settled on her lap. You took an experimental sip of the alcohol in your glass and made a face; it was sweet but ungodly strong. Missy crinkled up her nose and snorted a laugh. “Right, little sips, bunny, its not made for the human body.” She smirked and took a sip of her own drink.

The loud music bled in from outside, the music wordless, but the melody and rhythm thrummed through you; it was intoxicating, or perhaps it was the alien alcohol now running through your system; your head was floaty, and your body was warm. The silence between you two wasn’t uncomfortable; sometimes The Master, Missy, just needed a pretty girl in her lap; sometimes she was so starkly against physical contact, it was always a roulette of what side of her was going to be the one you dealt with each day; sometimes they both happened back to back; she was confusing, but god, she made you feel alive.

You took another sip of your drink, and grinned getting a brilliant idea, you put the drink on the little table by the bench and moved to stand up, Missy made a sound, a warning that she hadn’t wanted you up yet, but you turned to her leaning closely, your hips started to sway to the music, your hand moved cupping her cheek you brushed your lips against hers before you stepped closer, your body writhing in such a sinful way, Missy leaned back her tongue pressed against her canine tooth as she watched you, her blue eyes flashed a dangerous darker stare as you slowly straddled her lap facing her, grinding down against it in time with the music, her hand moved to the back of your neck holding it as you moved, her lips parted softly.

You grinned and moved to slowly lower the straps of your dress, your chest bare for her. She flashed you a cheeky smirk. “All this for me?” she asked, her free hand moving to let her fingers trail against the side of your breast before she let the pad of her thumb flick over your nipple as you continued to grind and move to the music. You gasped out softly and leaned into her touch, “Amazing how your inhibitions—” You cut her off with your mouth against hers again; she liked talking, but right now all you wanted from her was pants and growled-out groans. You let your hips rut against hers, your hands cupping her cheeks so she couldn’t pull away from the kiss just yet, but she hadn’t made a motion to do so yet; her tongue dominated your mouth, taking in your taste that was laced with the alien drink you had. She tried as carefully as she could put her drink on the side table too, so she had both of her hands free.

Her hands moved down to your hips, gripping them, letting her nails dig in, before she pulled your skirt up more, holding it up as you danced, though now it was more just grinding. To feel that friction, you gasped out softly, feeling more against you, but she was still in too many damn layers.

Your eyes had closed as you kissed her, moving one hand from her cheek to grip her shoulder some. A soft whine escaped your throat as her nails trailed up and down your back before sliding down your underwear, gripping at your ass and pulling you closer. You broke the kiss when you needed to breathe, feeling dizzier than before. You looked at her, your eyes slightly glazed from the drink and the lust that was so present in your mind.

“Songs not over.” She smirked a bit, pulling you back to the moment and the ache in your core for her.

“You didn’t pay for a dance; the first few moments are free,” you teased, and she raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, that’s how it is, bunny?” She laughed a bit. “Maybe I should pay for a professional then,” she teased. You frowned, shook your head, and forced your face against her neck, kissing there as you continued to grind against her. You didn’t want her attention on anyone else, and you were almost positive she only wanted to look at you, nearly positive anyway. The way her fingers trailed up your back told you she would much prefer someone she could touch instead of just watch. You shifted to straddle her thigh properly; her hands slid down to grab right above your hips. “Look how needy you are, bunny.” She almost purred out and pulled you up just a bit. You let out a softer sound as you let your hips rock, causing you to rut against her, your hands gripping against her shoulders tightly.

As soft pants started to escape, you felt so warm, and grinding against her thigh felt so good. “Gonna make a mess, bunny, then I’m going to have to punish you for ruining my nice skirt.” She mused, her hands gripped, starting to pull you to move more, creating more delicious friction for you. “I suppose I could forgive you this time—the alcohol, the pheromones, you needing my touch.” She mused like she was listing off normal things; you whined rocking more; your mind wasn’t on what she was saying; no, you were chasing that delicious feeling. “It is all a biological need after all; you little humans thrive on them, your baser primal needs.” She watched you as pleasure flashed across your face; she liked pretending she was above all of this, but you knew better; you had seen it, felt it, been on the receiving end of her giving in to ‘baser primal needs', and you had scars to prove it.

Your hips rocked faster; the way it felt against your aching core was maddening; you whined more; your lips parted as your rhythm got more sporadic. She smirked more, her eyes narrowing as she felt you pulse against her thigh, felt you clenching around nothing, felt how you arched to rub in just the right way. How your eyes shut and your head tilted back as your hips stutted. When they did, she took over for you, pulling you to rut still when your thighs started to shake. She took in how beautiful you looked here under the dim lights and felt your dampness soak through your underwear and her skirt. She looked almost victorious for a moment before she smirked tsking at you, letting you rest against her, your head in her neck as you panted.

“How cute,” she muttered softly, but pressed a kiss against your temple as you clung against her. “You did ruin my skirt, and that certainly wasn’t a lap dance.” She grinned, and you whined in annoyance.

“It started as one.” You muttered, and she laughed a bit.

“It was a good attempt; I really liked it. I did enjoy the part where you rode my thigh instead, Bunny,” she mused and relaxed against the plush couch. “We have the room for a while, so you can certainly try again.” She smirked, her eyes watching you calmly. Oh, you certainly were going to try again, and again, and again. You were here on this pleasure planet, and you were her sole focus; you were absolutely going to conquer all the pleasure you could handle. 

★𓏧 𓏧 𓏧★ 𓏧 𓏧 𓏧★

Taglist𓏧 ↳ ○ @bees-fart-too , @bakusquadobsessed , @anastasa-mslfedit , @cabinedepapel , @asteria237 , @suckerforcate , @bingewatchingmylifegoby , @toastvogel ,

If you want to be added to the rest here is the link to the tag list| x

[inquisitornocturn]

⊱─ 𝕤𝕡𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕤 & 𝕡𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕥𝕠𝕞𝕤 - 𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝟛 ─⊰

➺ 𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘: Cazador Szarr/f!reader the dhampir/spawn!Astarion

➺ 𝕥𝕒𝕘𝕤: no y/n is used, rating - E, dead dove do not eat, incest (father/daughter), POV second person, grooming, manipulation, smut, spanking, threesome, PiV, blowjob, forced deepthroating, cum swallowing, creampies, facial.

➺ 𝕡𝕝𝕠𝕥 𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪: You think you have everything you want, a loving father, one of his spawn to entertain you and protection of a vampire coven, but a master and his spawn have you caught in a middle, their jealousy, desire for control and possessiveness influencing their actions. Yet you don't want to be a doll pulled by strings, you want to be the Lady of the House, Lady Szarr, respected just like your father, Cazador, is. But that might not be what Cazador himself has planned for you, and maybe not what Astarion has in mind either. Can you stand against them - only time will tell.

➺ 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥: 7, 805

𝕒𝕦𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕣 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕖: Whether you like it or not, Astarion's words did leave a mark on you and you make one last attempt to talk to your father about who you are and who you should be. The final stance against the overlord of your entire existence that ends up in you realizing just what exactly your place is. enjoy♡~

➺ 𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕥: [link] | [on AO3] |

Their eyes are downcast when you walk by the vampire spawn, hushed words of greetings befitting your status as a Lady of the House and then once you pass – whispers. Astarion was right, or at least you are almost sure he was right. Maybe the servants and the spawn will never tell you to your face what they think, but you can guess.

A day ago you tried to talk to a servant only for the woman to stare at her shoes and give one word replies or if not that – then phrase she repeated so often it nearly started driving you crazy: I don’t know. What do you think of Lord Cazador – I don’t know. What do you think of me – I don’t know. Are the servants gossiping among each other – I don’t know.

She knew nothing only because she refused to tell you anything at all. How are you supposed to be by father’s side, his bride eternal, if even mere servants of the house do not respect you enough to obey and answer when you ask them questions.

You pause in the empty ballroom and place your hand on a column, close your eyes and inhale deeply. The conversation that you know you have to start with your father is also the one you absolutely do not want to have. If it will go like last time, then again Cazador will simply dismiss anything you say, and maybe this time the punishment won’t be just embarrassment and becoming a tool for Astarion’s reprimand. Your father, however smart he is, didn’t realize that you came to him on your own volition, with your own wish to make your… what is Astarion to you? A lover? Entertainment? Your thoughts get tangled when you think about it, but it matters none. What your father failed to understand is that you want to be respected just like he is and for better or worse – you don’t want to stop continuing whatever it is you do with Astarion.

As your eyes open you feel determined, strong, proud. Szarrs don’t beg, you remember, and nod to yourself, making this your mantra while you walk to the door on the right, open it and march towards your father’s study room.

When you emerge from the dimness of the hallway, you find Cazador sitting by the window. Curtains are open to let in the light of the full moon that drapes in streams over the lanceboard, the pieces casting miniature shadows across the checkered wood. Your father is wearing his finest, a two piece garb made from black velvet, embroidered with gold and red threads that shine when they catch gentle light of the candelabra that is not too far off.

After you enter, your father pushes a piece on the board into position, then takes a glass that you didn’t notice until now. The Szarr family ring and its crest casting a shortest glint in your direction when his fingers wrap around the thin stem of a goblet. His eyes narrow and their gaze sweep over you with cold scrutiny.

“What is it, daughter?” Szarr patriarch brings the cup to his lips and drinks, waiting for you to speak, but you are not quite sure how to begin. You remember last time, the time a week ago when you did the very same thing and got punished for it.

“Dad, can we talk?” You approach him and clasp your hands in front of you, your fingers disappearing into the luscious silks of your dress and at your words Cazador rises an eyebrow, then after a pause nods. He doesn’t invite you to sit and you are not sure if you should either, so you remain standing, feeling nervousness strangle you with increasing ferocity. First it feels like your father when he’s moving against you, the touch firm, yet gentle, and then the pressure increases, threatening to cut your air. Cazador has done this too and it wasn’t anywhere near the gentleness of lovemaking.

“You can talk, daughter, but if it’s about my spawn again, then maybe I shall have to punish you more severely this time. Just in case you haven’t learned your lesson properly last time.”

You dryly swallow and shake your head slightly.

“It’s not about that. Well, not really. But-“ You rush to explain yourself because Cazador places his glass down and his eyebrows furrow at your words. “-it’s more about me, about us. Dad… Just hear me out, alright? Please.” You find yourself trying to placate the anger that you know is always lurking under the surface and your palms are starting to feel sweaty, so you clutch skirts of your dress instead of holding your own fingers.

“Very well, do tell me what you think is so important to discuss. Do you not know that just like the beginning of your life, the rest of it has already been planned out for you?” He smirks and chuckles slightly. “Ignorant girl, all you have to do is obey me and do as you’re told, it can’t be that complicated.”

You exhale slowly and force out a nervous smile while Cazador turns to the board again, picking another piece and moving it.

“I know, father, and I am grateful that you have everything figured out for our future, but… you spoke so much for all of my life that I’m ought to be your bride, I would like to talk about that.”

“Does the prospect not please you anymore?” A dangerous tension enters Cazador’s tone and you swallow again, then nervously lick your lips.

“No, that’s not at all. I want, in fact, to ask you how I can be… a more worthy bride.”

Your father pauses before he picks a board piece and his crimson gaze settles onto your face.

“A more worthy bride?” He asks, the tightness in his voice increases and you grip your skirts harder. “Did all my talks about obedience ended up misunderstood, hm?” Cazador leans back in the chair and appraisingly eyes you from head to toe, disgust beginning to etch lines into his expression. “All you have to do is obey, dear daughter, that’s all I ever have asked of you.”

“But there’s more I can do than just… sit around and look pretty.” Exasperation is clear on your face and Cazador’s scorn eases slightly. He picks up the glass again, swirls whatever liquid is in it, and empties it.

“And what do you, pray tell, think you can do beyond just that?”

“I…” A pause, a soft sound of crystal against the wood as Lord Szarr settles the empty glass. He waits for you to speak and you decide to tell him how you see it, what you want to change. He will see it, he will, you are sure of it. “Father, I don’t feel like the servants or the spawn respect me as your bride. I want…” Words trail off as you try to think of the right ones and Cazador chuckles, beginning to rap his fingers against the wooden armrest of his chair.

“You want more power in the household, don’t you? You want servants to answer to you, spawn to obey you. Hm…” He pauses, thinking and it gives you hope that he might understand where you are coming from. He chuckles again, the sound he’s making on the wood increasing in speed. “Foolish girl, you’re my daughter, they don’t need to answer to you, they only need to answer to me.”

“But-“

“But what? Do you imagine yourself a ruler of the palace?” Cazador laughs and the sound is cold, mocking, hurtful. “You want me to share power with you just because you’re my daughter? Idiot girl!” Expression on his face turns into a sneer so fast you reel backwards, moving one step behind yourself and your arms rise in a placating gesture.

“Father, please-“

“Hear you out? I already heard you out. You think you have a right to rule by my side. You, who’s naïve and inexperienced in everything except obedience. I didn’t raise you to be my equal, girl! I raised you to be mine.”

“Father-“ You try to rise your voice, try to stop his anger that you can almost see growing in Cazador and make another step backwards, fear beginning to overwhelm you. You thought he will hear you out, understand, want the same thing you do and it appears you really are an idiot, just as he said.

“No.” With a firm short word he cuts you off and stands, towering over you like a threat personified, making your knees feel weak with terror. Not again, not the pain, not the knives, the broken bottles…

“I want to be perfect for you!” Somehow you find enough bravery in you to let the words emerge from your increasingly constricted throat and Cazador scoffs, beginning to approach you. “Don’t you see? I just want to be useful to you! I can’t be useful if all I am is a pretty trinket!”

The very idea snaps a cord in you and your own rage, the Szarr anger, flares up. With fingers balled into fists at your sides, you change your mind and stand your ground, not stepping away, but confronting the man you love so dearly. First time for everything, they say.

“And why do you need to be more than that, dear daughter.” Your title sounds like poison on Cazador’s lips and in two confident strides he’s in front of you, casting a shadow over your form like a god. He is a god, after all, cruel and everchanging, the weathervane moods writing chapters of your life, but he is your god and if even if he gets angry, you know that he will always choose you.

“Because I love you, Father.” Brows furrowed, fists clenched so tight they are shaking and yet you stand as tall as you can.

“Because you love me.” Szarr echoes and laughs in a way that makes your heart nearly break in two. “You love me.” A pause, another mocking chuckle and he reaches out, gripping your jaw tightly and upturning your face so uncomfortably that you have to tiptoe. “Of course you love me, daughter. I made you to love me.” Cazador’s inspecting look takes every single detail of your face and you try not to make a sound of pain that threatens to emerge from your chest.

“Don’t you love me?” With voice strained you sound like you’re angry, accusing him of lying about how he feels, when in truth you feel like you’re on a verge of crying, but from pain in your jaw or the cruelty in his words – you cannot tell.

“I do love you, however, that does not mean that I won’t correct you when you need correcting.” A second pass and his frowning face doesn’t ease even a fraction. Instead he pushes your face away, making you stumble backwards and you immediately rub the sore spots with shaky fingers. “Go get Astarion.” Cazador suddenly demands and your eyes widen.

“What? Why?”

“You dare question me?”

“I just… This has nothing to do with him!”

In this moment, you despise how your words make it sound as if you’re trying to protect the spawn instead of standing up for yourself for the first time in your life and Cazador is not blind to that. His lip curls slightly, revealing the fangs and making vampire’s face look ugly in its predatory grimace. When Cazador gets like this – you want to flee.

“I said go fetch the boy.” Lord Szarr says slowly, tone of voice dangerous with promises of pain if you don’t obey, but you don’t understand why and most importantly, this time it really is not Astarion’s fault.

You don’t want to be used as a tool again.

“Father, I haven’t spoken to him in days, it’s not his influence-“

“Do you dare to disobey me?”

“No, I just don’t understand-“

The ringing in your ears that explodes with a swift, harsh strike across your right cheek nearly deafens you. You stumble backwards again, this time bumping into a tall cabinet and making the contents inside gently rattle. Your hand moves to your throbbing cheek and you look at your father with eyes full of hurt. The betrayal you feel in this moment is paramount to your need for him to understand and see your vision.

And that hurts turns into anger.

You lower your hand, lips pulled from your teeth and your own fangs on full display as you lean in his direction like you’re preparing to charge him.

“You NEVER listen! NEVER! I AM YOUR DAUGHTER! I AM YOUR BRIDE!” Your scream is loud, filling the study and echoing through the hallway into the ballroom where it vanishes like morning mist. To your own surprise there’s no tears in your eyes, just a fast beating heart in your heaving chest.

“Don’t you dare use that tone with me, child!” Cazador’s own voice is a low, baneful warning, but you don’t buckle under the pressure. His intimidation, for the first time in your life, is not working, so the Vampire Lord straightens his back and casts you a threatening look of his crimson eyes. “Go.Get.The.Boy.” A pause to make a point, then he adds. “Now.”

“No.”

It’s like time stops and despite the clock ticking in perfect rhythm neither you or your father move. You see a muscle twitch on Cazador’s face and he in turns sees his daughter with your hair messy because of his strike and your expression full of unbridled rage.

How did he allow you become this? Talk back at him. Disobey him. Betray him.

 “You…” Cazador starts slowly and makes a step towards you with arms rising in a promise of grabbing you, but then someone else enters the scene and you both look at the man with silver curls and shocked expression on his face.

Astarion just stands for a moment, first noticing your already bruising cheek and then that murderous look that he has seen on Master’s face himself too often. He knows the look as well as you do.

“Master? Lady?” He starts, not sure what to say and Cazador gives his spawn an arrogant, yet disgusted look.

“Why are you here?”

“Leon, he… He heard you demanding to see me so I came.” Elf’s eyes again dart between you and the Szarr patriarch and you straighten your back, lowering your hand from your throbbing cheek, but the anger in your eyes remain and so does the sneer, twisting your mouth into a feral grimace.

“So you came here wholly ignorant. With no concept of what you were needed here for?”

“No, Master, but I’d like to know.”

Cazador scoffs, displeased by Astarion’s confusion and then gestures to you.

“I believe your… rebellious nature and your endless prattle have influenced my daughter. She is misbehaving. And you both will answer for it.”

“Father, I-“

“Master, I have not-“

“Silence!” Szarr swiftly rises his arm and you both fall silent but don’t dare to exchange even a look while your father’s jaw moves, showing his barely contained rage at the situation at hand. “You – undress. You – bring Rhapsody.” He instructs first Astarion, then you, but suddenly the spawn gently clears his throat and makes a tentative step forward.

“Master, if I may speak.”

“And why would I allow you to speak, you ungrateful child?” Cazador’s gaze turns to Astarion with intensity that makes him lower his eyes to the floor, to the dirtied noses of his leather boots, but after a moment he looks up at his Master once more, eyebrows slightly furrowing.

For a moment Astarion says nothing, like there’s an exchange between them that goes above mere words and sentences, then the spawn turns to you and his bloody gaze hardens. You are about to ruin everything for him.

He can’t let that happen.

Astarion needs you to obey. He needs you to listen not only to your father but to him too, if he has any hope of escaping the shackles of a slave and you are that hope, the only one he has. And yet if you don’t listen to Cazador, then it’s even less of a chance you will listen to him. No, submissive and docile, happy in your gilded cage, that’s how he needs you, and the spawn will do anything to keep you like that, even if it means taking godsdamned Cazador’s side.

“You know that Master likes utter obedience, Lady. You don’t want to do this.” Astarion slowly starts and your eyes, blazing with anger, fix on him, but your fury is nowhere close the overwhelming sensation of choking that Master exudes and the spawn even offers you a small, nearly sly smile. “I don’t want to be punished, do you?”

“What do you know what it is that my father likes?” You spit your words like poison and Cazador lets out a small hum of disapproval.

“The boy may be a slow learner and dull like a rock at the side of a road, but this he understands correctly.” Your father speaks and you look at him.

“I am not disobeying you, I just wanted-“

“Stop.” Astarion immediately interjects, making you and father turn your eyes onto him. “I don’t want to presume however this sordid tale might end, but I think we both can take a good guess.”

Sharpness, excoriating and inescapable. Your thighs press together at the memory of tortures, of suspensions in chains, of pain and your fighting spirit begins to flee. Cazador, seeing the effect that Astarion’s words have on you exhales with displeasure, but witnessing his spawn actually acting as he should, the Vampire Lord relents and his rage begins to simmer down. Slowly, but surely.

Yet you don’t understand. Wasn’t it Astarion who spoke about your status among the servants and the spawn? He was right, they don’t respect you, not even he does. Last spark of defiance ignites brighter.

“And who are you to tell if I should stop? I am talking to my father, to your Master, to my future lord husband, what do you know-“

“You’re acting like a brat!” Cazador snaps suddenly and strides to you, grabbing your upper arm and giving your whole body a shake. Your eyes snap to him and you gasp from pain from his iron grip.

“I just want-“

“No, you don’t hear him.” Astarion steps closer. He doesn’t appreciate seeing your father handle you like that, but it could be worse. Maybe he can prevent worse from happening. When you glare at the spawn, he gives a glance to Cazador, then comes a little closer. “What are you even so upset about?”

You try to move your arm from Cazador’s fingers, but he doesn’t relent and you grimace, but pause to explain to Astarion.

“I want to be respected, I want to be his deserving wife, he made me to be his, so I want to be more than just a doll, built to sit quietly and look pretty, I…”

They interrupted you so many times that now that they are listening, you are not even sure how to finish your sentence. Astarion waits for a moment longer, then gives Cazador another glance and takes your jaw in his fingers. His touch is gentle, avoiding the bruises forming from earlier Szarr grasp and especially the blue that is becoming deeper almost with every passing moment on the side of your face.

“But you are a deserving wife to Master already.” Astarion hides his true feelings as he tries to convince you, for his own sake, to relent. Gently, with a pad of his thumb, he rubs the outline of your jaw and offers a small comforting smile. At the same time, Cazador’s fingers lose their powerful grip and slip to your elbow, holding you by it just in case you still decide to pounce at him like a wild cat.

“No, the servants-“ You stop, unsure how to finish this sentence either, you keep repeating yourself again and again and it’s like neither of them want to listen. Your eyes go from father to Astarion and back again, like a pendulum that has been set to swing until something stops it.

“The servants and us, the spawn, are Master’s to command. Not yours.”

“And one day, if you behave well enough, maybe I will allow you to have your own spawn, your own children to teach if you need more than what I will give you naturally.” Cazador speaks too and your gaze stops on him, eyes widening.

“Our… children?” You ask, barely able to believe your ears. Szarr patriarch never spoke about your own progeny until now, you always imagined that he maybe didn’t want any besides yourself, but now you’re not sure.

Cazador’s smile becomes almost soft and he leans closer to your face while Astarion still holds it still and with other hand he trails a path from your neck, over your chest and then cups your breast through the fabric of the dress.

“Yes, daughter. You will be the mother of our offspring, however many you will be able to give me.” A gentle squeeze of your breast as you keep staring at your father wide eyed, only enhances the words, making you think of nurturing the heirs that you could give to this man that have done everything to make you perfect.

Your imagination runs wild, paintings of epitomal moments flashing in your mind’s eye as if they already happened. Images of children that you will give your father, the love that you will feel by being his perfect wife, just like you always dreamed to be, giving him more family than just yourself and the spawn that he both despises and needs. For a wonderful moment the world loses its edges, its finer boundaries, and you are fluid but trapped, like a creature to be preserved, suspended in amber. The wonderful visions and promises of endless happiness only get interrupted by your father himself, who takes the hold of your jaw from Astarion and leans closer, a smile that would otherwise look dangerous, now looking sweet and satisfied.

“My dear, here you are, I see it in your eyes. You will obey now, won’t you?” He hums in a tone that is almost a purr and you sink into the scarlet of vampire’s irises before you slowly nod. Another squeeze on your breast and Cazador’s mouth descends upon yours, capturing your lips in a passionate, almost bruising kiss.

You answer his song of passion with your own that starts immediately in response to his like a trained dog. You try to reach for father, but your wrist gets grabbed by fingers that you know belong to Astarion and Cazador’s hand releases your breast only to yank the front of the dress you’re wearing down, exposing your hardened nipples to the spawn who first kisses your neck, then wraps his cold lips around a hardened peak, teasing it with his tongue. You moan into Cazador’s lips and that grants his own demanding tongue access into your warm mouth, of which he takes full advantage, deepening the kiss with a hunger that you know will bring no pain, only pleasure. Your father is pleased with you. Somehow, you don’t know how, you rebelled but you won’t get punished for it.

And so you give in completely.

You shudder when Astarion mouth releases your breast and then engulfs the other, but you are used to cold bodies now and that only makes you grow needier, arousal first stirring somewhere below your stomach, then seep down your insides where it begins to spread in a pool of warmth and desire. When Cazador pulls back from the kiss he smirks, seemingly pleased that you are submitting to him once again and then he glances at Astarion, who’s almost reverently holding your breasts pushed together while lavishing your nipple with attention.

“Boy.” A simple command, but the spawn obeys immediately and releases your soft flesh with a pop, making your unbruised cheek color with gentle pink.

You look from one man to another, already suspecting what they might have in mind and you wonder if it will be a reward to you or them.

“Master?” Astarion looks up at Lord Szarr and when your jaw is finally released, your father glances at his desk, but says nothing, instead grips your elbow tighter and begins leading you there.

You manage to cast a glance back, at Astarion who’s close behind and he offers you a deep grin, just before you come close to stumbling over the rug, your feet as always not being able to properly keep up with Cazador’s strides. Once by the desk you are pulled up, made to step on the platform that the wooden workspace has been heavily resting upon ever since you can remember it, and with one sweep of his hand, the vampire makes sparce items scatter on the floor. An inkwell spills, a quill lands quietly, some untarnished letter paper falls with a flutter of parchment like a whisper, a metal cup clanks and rolls away, but that’s all you can identify before there’s a grip on the back on your neck and you are bent over the side of the table, your breasts pressing to the cold surface and making your skin break in goosebumps.

“I wanted to punish you, my dear.” Cazador says and your skirts get hiked up with two swift motions, then your panties are yanked down. Suddenly your father’s palm connects this time not with your face, but with your rear and you yelp in shock, because the hit is hard, punishing, disciplinary. “But in the end you realized you have been wrong, haven’t you?”

“Yes, father.” You rush to answer and try to grip onto the table, but before you are even able to do that, another snap of his hand against your skin and you yelp with your back stiffening for a moment. You don’t dare to look back or to Astarion who is observing the scene, because your eyes are firmly fixed on the stained glass window ahead of you.

“I need you to say that louder.”

“Yes, father! I’m sorry, father! I will never misbehave again!” You prattle in feverish desire to placate Lord Szarr but another hit makes you cry out, the skin becoming way too sensitive for this to feel in any way playful or pleasurable.

“Again.” This time before you even speak his palm makes a loud sound once it connects to the same, increasingly sore spot and tears begin to well in your eyes. You grit your teeth at the moment of impact and then rise your voice even louder.

“I’m sorry, dad! I made a mistake! I’m sorry!” You are basically shouting now and listen to your father let out a satisfied chuckle, then a moment of near silence as the palm disappears from your neck and fabric gets handled in a quiet rustle.

You wonder if you should say something else, apologize more. One side of your ass is throbbing with pain that makes tears near spill from under your eyelashes, but then you feel softness against your moist slit over which Cazador rubs the tip of his cock.

“You know how to apologize at least.” A deep chuckle rumbles in vampire’s chest and you nod eagerly. “What are you staring at?”

“Should I leave, Master?” Astarion’s voice comes from your side, unsure and slightly tense, but then Cazador scoffs as he keeps teasing your entrance, smearing your own arousal all over your folds.

“Leave? Hm… No, don’t leave. You learned how to obey as well, so take your reward.” Then your naked hip gets gripped and you moan because Cazador pushes into you slowly, staking his claim in you as a good father should.

The way he fills you, stretches you around him, and the way the coldness of his shaft pierces your heated core in a most wonderful sensation, it takes your breath away and makes your heart thunder in your chest so much faster. More, you want more. Yet before you can even think of begging, which you should know not to do in the first place, you watch Astarion come closer, his hand traces over your partially naked back so gently it’s a ghost of a touch, but then he leans to your face and smirks in a way only you can see.

“Such a wonderful daughter you have, Master.” The elf says and Cazador huffs in approval, then slowly pulls out of you almost entirely, before inching himself back inside, taking his time, which gives Astarion leisure to move his fingers into your hair and pull your head off the desk.

A kiss is what follows and you gasp into his mouth when your father shoves himself deeply into you once again. Astarion’s tongue traces your right fang and he even nips at yours when you try to seek out his own before pulling back. You watch him glance at Cazador, who most likely gives silent permission, perhaps a nod, before the spawn undoes his pants and his pale, ivory cock, with slightly blushing tip, gets freed from its confines, all in an offering to you.

Swallowing a pathetic mewl when Cazador nearly pulls out again, leaving you with insatiable feeling of temporary emptiness, you begin to rise yourself on your elbows. Then your father leans in, pushing himself to the root once more, and grabs your right wrist, quickly bending it behind you so that he can pull you upwards while still holding your hips down steady and pressed against the edge of the table with the other hand. Your palm immediately finds purchase on the desk top and with a moan you watch Astarion slide himself onto the table, his hard length bobbing slightly as he does so like an alluring vision that makes your mouth instinctively water, and then he skids himself closer, finally giving the offering for you to worship.

“Take it.” Astarion’s voice is smooth, inviting and you watch him reach to place a palm over the back of your head, guiding you closer, downwards, until the tip of his cock nudges at your lips, which you part immediately and let him slide in his length into the heat of your mouth.

The moment he pushes your head lower, making you take him whole, Cazador slams into you, forcing you take more of Astarion’s length into your throat than you intended, choking on it and gripping at the inner side of his thigh, trying to push him back, but your father only pushes your wrist he’s holding higher, making you unable to move while his nails dig into your hip, drawing blood, as if to emphasize that you’re not going anywhere. Not at least until they are done with you, united against you in their need for you to obey them.

With a low chuckle Astarion at last pulls on your hair, allowing you to inhale while your mouth waters at the violent intrusion in your throat and you look up at the spawn, seeing a satisfied, arrogant grin pulling at his lips, so much like your father’s that you can imagine while he’s beginning to pick up the pace behind you. Cold vice on your wrist doesn’t become gentler as he shoves entirety of his length into you, making you moan around spawn’s cock while you succumb to their desires and move your tongue, trying to please Astarion while Cazador is busy pleasing himself with the help of your body that takes him with aching familiarity.

“So beautifully responsive as always, no matter what is done to you.” The Vampire Lord chuckles and releases your hip to grab soft mound of your rear, pushing at it so that he can watch his cock being swallowed by your cunt with greediness that makes him breathe faster already. “My perfect daughter…”

His skin slapping against yours and symphony of your combined moans and groans are the only sounds to fill the study room while Astarion guides your head for you, going faster, his eyes becoming misted with familiar signal of impeding release. You’re uncomfortable, with your arm held tightly behind you and your hair gripped fiercely to control you like a puppet on strings, but even with all of this – you enjoy it. You can’t help it, you’re in your rightful place, obeying, being needed, wanted, desired.

Another hard push into you by Cazador and you deepthroat the spawn’s cock with your nose smushed against his pelvis, his scent surrounding you with new familiarity. Astarion is becoming a constant in your isolated life and when your eyes meet his once again, all the while he holds your face down for a moment longer before pulling it up for you, letting you breathe, you both realize that there’s no going back after this, not anymore, not after he sided with your father the way he has done just now.

All so that you remain theirs, loving your invisible shackles, hidden like the most precious treasure in Faerûn.

Astarion mutters something you can’t quite catch and how his upper lip pulls from his teeth that he clenches tightly, you only have a moment to accept the inevitable. Once more he shoves your face down and under your chin you can feel his balls tighten a mere second before he spills himself into your throat with a satisfied groan and you swallow. His fingers in your hair clutch harder, nearly threatening to start pulling strands out of your scalp, while his cock twitches and spasms, spurting his essence like it’s an offering to you, a pious maiden of the Szarr legacy, that he has the honor to defile. Innocent still, yet so eager to serve, he can’t get enough of you and it’s clear in his face when he lets you come up for air again and releases your hair, panting, flushed, yet gentle in touch as he traces your jawline with his fingertips.

With a gasp you pull back, releasing Astarion’s cock from your mouth while heavy strings of saliva connect you to him for a moment longer. His glistening shaft still stands hard and ready until your face gets pushed against it, smearing wetness on your bruised cheek. Cazador is chasing his own relief and you hear him grunt with either anger or pleasure, maybe both, as he fucks you so hard the desk moves even with you and Astarion weighting it down.

“Father…” You moan, trying to move your head but unable to with your face pressed against Astarion’s finally softening length and the spawn grips the back of your skull again, this time using his palm to keep your head pinned against him.

As you pant loudly, marking every roll of Szarr’s hips against you with a moan, Cazador leans over you, his shadow draping across your swimming vision as you begin to quiver too. His punishing pace giving you no time to try and stall yourself, to wait for him, something he too chastises, but you can’t help it, not anymore and with a shaky cry you close your eyes and come undone. Your body shudders and tenses under their arms keeping you in place and you hear some words pouring out of your father’s mouth, but you can’t comprehend what they are as pleasure washes over you in waves. Chilly moistness that suddenly fills you, tells you that Cazador couldn’t resist the siren call of your body clenching onto him either.

A moment later you feel him release your wrist and Astarion finally removes his grasp from your head. You try to lift your upper body, trying to catch your breath while you still shiver, feeling delightfully dizzy and you can’t quite understand what the men are doing. The spawn slips off the table and his feet make a soft thud on the carpeted platform, then father comes into view, his fingers lifting your chin so that he can look at your face. Sweat pebbles his brow that thankfully is not furrowed in scorn.

“Beautifully done, but you still need to be reminded your place, hm? Is that right, daughter?” Cazador’s thumb strokes your chin with softness of a feather and you nod, feeling hands grip you, fingers spreading your folds and you let out a soft gasp.

“Yes, father.” You answer after finally realizing that he was waiting for your dutiful reply and when he’s finally given it, the Vampire Lord smiles, with his eyes reflecting golden flames of candles.

“Good girl, you remember your lessons. Now open up for me.” Cazador’s voice gains lulling undertones, plying you to keep following the orders and you do as he wishes, parting your lips with a soft exhale. Astarion, meanwhile, presses a hand to your lower back and you feel his once more hardened length press into you, making your exhale get followed by a mewl.

Cazador strokes himself couple of times while your eyes drink in the sight, your mouth again watering with need. You know you will taste yourself on father’s skin and the anticipation that borders addiction makes your insides coil tightly. You let out another moan when Astarion pulls back and slides back in, slowly, like he’s measuring how much you can take despite very well knowing the answer, and finally Szarr patriarch releases your chin, tapping the tip of his cock against your lower lip before he slides it in as well, pressing it down onto your tongue. And you taste him, taste yourself, your eyes rising to meet his as they become misty with satisfaction.

“Beautiful, truly beautiful. I am pleased that you realized your mistake so quickly.”

Cazador lifts the hem of his shirt to watch himself disappear inside your hungry mouth and you moan around his length when Astarion starts picking up the pace, pushing down onto the small of your back and gripping over the sore spot where father spanked you so roughly just earlier, making you wince right after the moan. Szarr patriarch then switches hands, family crest ring casting a shiny blink over your face as he grips the shirt with his left hand so that he can use right one to steady himself with the help of the desk. All you can do is move your head, trace your wet, hot tongue against his cock, trailing the veins and tiniest curves on the hardness that you take so deeply it goes to the back of your throat. A moan escapes your father as he watches you worship him.

Your head feels submerged under the ocean of desire and you try harder, go faster, stopping only momentarily to lavish attention onto Cazador’s tip, making it drip with your spit before you take it whole again, eliciting another moan from the man you want to please and pleasure the most. Behind you Astarion is letting out strained grunts while he plows into you faster and faster, his skin now slapping against yours while his fingers knead your sore flesh. The wanton sounds of your sucking and his cock sheathing itself in your squelching cunt are almost louder than the gasps and the sighs, than the moans that keep forming at the back of your throat.

It’s already all too much and your eyes betray how close you are to your relief once again, Cazador knows the look perfectly well, which makes him grin a little despite his own quickly building climax. He glances at Astarion, seeing the spawn’s curls sticking to sweaty forehead and his gaze firmly fixed onto himself as he takes you, maybe second to do so but no less demanding, and Szarr looks down on you once again, then pulls out of your mouth, leaving you gasping, trying to chase after his length as much as you can while leaning on your elbows.

Cazador smiles slightly and strokes himself again, watching your hungry gaze silently beg for him to grant you more of himself, to let you show benediction that only his daughter can bestow him with, but no, he denies you the privilege, the delight of letting you taste him as you wish. Moans keep pouring out of your moan because Astarion goes faster, harder, pressing your lower back downwards even firmer, he’s close too, you know this much and you know that his relief will take you with it.

“Keep looking at me.” Cazador’s voice is strained but he keeps stroking his cock in front of your flushed, dazed face, enjoying how your eyes greedily watch first drops of his cum begin to seep out of the tip. It makes your mouth water again, slipping past your lower lip in crystal clear strands and onto the desk below, but he still refuses to grant you what you wish.

“Fuck!” You hear behind you as Astarion rushes after his bliss and for a moment your focus returns to your body, to the heat that is shrinking into a pinpoint mark inside of you, making you stiffen and gasp so much louder.

You cast a shortest glance over you, seeing the spawn pound into you with relentless need and then before you can even wish to delay what your body surges towards, you cry out and come undone. Cazador grips your hair and makes you look at him while Astarion spills himself inside of you just like your father did, overfilling you, making you overflow with their seed as you gasp and moan, drawing in shaky, loud breathes.

The moment you begin to come down from your utter high, the moment you feel Astarion give you few more erratic thrusts so that he can give every last drop of his essence, Cazador grins and suddenly cool, wet strands of his own seed begin covering your face in short spurts. He moans, watching your face as he spills himself all over it, a lot of it ending in your open mouth, which after a moment of comprehension you swallow eagerly and give father a tired smile. You stick out your tongue, still gasping for air and when Cazador’s strokes finally slow, his body spent and with your visage being a complete proof of that, the vampire wipes the tip of his cock onto your warm offering.

“You did well.” The Vampire Lord commends with his voice strained, betraying the exhaustion he himself is now beginning to feel while Astarion is trying to catch his own breath behind you, his hands still gripping you tightly and you lick your lips with a weary smile.

“Thank you, father.” You whisper and watch him tuck himself into the pants, making himself presentable while he looks at the spawn who finally releases his grasp upon you, pulling back with a small stumble, his legs shaky. A moment passes, you feel the cum drip down your skin slowly, and Cazador tugs on his sleeves, then runs a hand over his hair, slickening it backwards as usual. “You, boy, make sure she’s clean.” And with that he walks off, surprising you and Astarion at the same time.

It takes no more than couple moments for Cazador’s footsteps to echo into nothing as he crosses the hallway and the ballroom, going somewhere he didn’t care enough to tell you about and Astarion walks around the edge of the desk, coming into view. He leans to your face, but keeps distance, seeing what kind of gift your father left you with after this whole affair and frowns.

“Don’t ever do that again, my little dhampir.” He whispers and you lift your upper body a little higher, searching spawn’s eyes for an answer. You don’t understand. “Don’t disobey Cazador again, do you understand me?”

“All I wanted was for him to be proud of me.”

Astarion sighs and after a moment offers you a sharp grin.

“Don’t you understand it yet? He’s proud of you when you do exactly what he says.” The elf pauses, then gently caresses your disheveled hair. “And I am proud too when you obey me as well. Don’t ruin it, little dhampir, this is your place, to be ours. Don’t let your silly, girlish ambitions make Cazador or myself doubt your upbringing. You wouldn’t want that, would you? To disappoint your father, make him think that all that training he has given you has been for nothing?”

Words like poisonous snakes make their way into your thoughts and your heart, and you look at Astarion with worry, regret, shame even. You’ve been so blind, so stupid, you understand that now.

“No, I don’t want to disappoint… either of you.” You say slowly and Astarion’s smile looks somewhat sharper, maybe it’s the candlelights making it look predatory, menacing. You’re used to smiles like that from your father and it makes you feel strangely comforted.

“Wonderful. Now, let’s get you off this desk and cleaned up, I’m sure Cazador wouldn’t want his precious flower stroll around the palace looking like this.” Astarion chuckles and it sounds cold, but you’re too tired, too regretful for having rebelled against your father, and even Astarion himself, to care if he’s taunting you or not.

With Astarion’s hand on your elbow, you slowly stand, your dress all crumpled up and down your waist, your face sticky and needing a wash. You can’t even begin to imagine how your hair must look like. You pull the dress over your chest when Astarion moves to tie laces of his pants and then, with a gentle touch against the small of your back, he begins guiding you out the study room.

“You did well.” He compliments and you give him a short glance, pausing because you were trying to clean your face with the sleeve of your dress while your shaky steps try to keep up with the spawn strolling towards the ballroom.

And then you smile, feeling relief that both him and your father complimented you in the end. Your shoulders straighten proudly and you feel like a worthy lady of the house at last, even if you resume trying to wipe your skin clean from your father’s award for eventually behaving well.

All you need to do is obey. You feel silly for forgetting this simplest lesson of all that Cazador taught you the moment you could begin to comprehend his teachings. It’s easy, effortless, uncomplicated. You know now that neither father or Astarion will let you forget who you are, who you were made to be.

For the better, because you want to remain Cazador’s perfect daughter. You want to remain the object of Astarion’s desire. You want to remain…

…theirs.