#desire and decorum 3 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lizzybeth1986 · 2 years

Text

Hindsight is 20/20

Book: The Royal Romance (with references to Desire and Decorum)

Characters: Hana Lee & Peter Foredale (OC) (platonic), Hana Lee x Kiara Theron. References to Annabelle x MC from D&D.

Rating: PG

Word Count: 5000+ words

Summary: Hana and Kiara travel to England...after recieving a letter from Hana's former fiancè. Hana explores her journey as a bi woman in a walk down memory lane.

A/N1: This takes place three years after the events of TRR3. Hana and Kiara are married and have an 8-month old child at this point. Peter Foredale in this universe is both the "Lord Peter" Hana mentioned in TRR1 (who was engaged to her then broke the match) and the current head of Countess Florence Foredale's (my D&D MC) estate, Edgewater. Faceclaims here.

Tagging @choicesficwriterscreations for FoTW and @choicespride for National Coming Out Day (Thursday).

"Ready, darling?"

Hana nods mutely. She is, after all, ready in all the ways Mother wanted her to be. Face serene, back straight, gown resplendent.

You look like a vision, the dressmaker gushed a while ago when she saw the results of her handiwork, I cannot wait to see the look on Viscount Foredale's face when he sees you!

Inside the satin gloves, her hands begin to tremble.

Viscount Peter Foredale. Gentleman. Up-and-coming barrister. A regular on the magazine spreads. The most eligible bachelor in all of England. Most of all...a wonderful, kind friend.

And after tonight...her future husband.

Her stomach tightens in a sick lurch.

"Doing okay?" Kiara asks her wife, running a thumb gently over their daughter's left cheek. Her other hand settles at the small of Hana's back, tracing soothing circles. The child shifts her attention from the pearl button she's been chewing, to coo at Mama Kiki's touch.

"Yeah... she's fine," Hana replies, her voice grainy with fatigue. "Put her in any sort of moving vehicle, and she's the world's happiest baby."

Kiara releases a laugh from pursed lips. There is nothing their 8-month-old loves more than being carried around; if you try to sit down, even for a minute, she will bash her hands against your chest and moan for you to get up and move around again.

Her eyes, however, never leave Hana's face - not the downturned lips, not the concealer-masked dark shadows under her eyes.

"I wasn't talking about Chaima," she says quietly.

Hana closes her eyes. It's easy enough to dissemble her nervousness when Chaima is in her arms, but not when Kiara is pinning her with that piercing, knowing gaze. That gaze has always been Hana's undoing.

"Look at you, asking me all the hard questions at 11 in the morning."

Kiara sighs, and fiddles with Chaima's curls. "Your arms must be aching, ma moitié. Let me have her just a bit. Rest now; we'll be reaching Edgewater in half an hour."

Hana sighs and nods. She doesn't want to let go of Chaima yet - it would be so much easier, pushing every other thought aside when this lovely golden child is in her arms...and she suspects that's part of the reason Kiara wants to take over. Don't put off things just because you think you can't handle them perfectly, habibti.

Kiara tucks Chaima's head gently on her shoulder, crooning an old lullaby in Darija. Nīnī yā moūmoū...Hattā tjī ‘andou moū...Sleep my baby...until your Mommy arrives...

Chaima thumps her little hands against Mama Kiki's breasts in approval. Sighing, Hana takes out the letter that brought her here.

Dear Hana,

I hope you, your wife and your little one are well. It's springtime here at Edgewater, we have plenty visitors in the afternoons, touring the gardens and the lake. Mabel has been renovating the house again - she's been insisting I leave the Regency-style furniture in the Regency era and go for something more contemporary (I'm right!).

Little Alphonsa thanks you for her copy of "A Smart Cookie". I'm sure she'll love the message in a few years...but for now all she can see are the cupcakes, the croissants and the macarons. I'm quite proud of the fact; in this one area she takes after her father.

Despite her nervousness, Hana cannot resist a small smile. It's been good to hear from Peter again, truly. He has always been a serious man, whose humour slips through in the most unexpected moments, and it shows in his letters. And from his wife's rare interjections in his letter, she can tell Mabel is the more open, outgoing one.

It had all begun a year ago. They hadn't spoken at all in the years since their engagement had fallen apart, first out of bitterness and then out of shame. Somewhere in those early days, he'd resented her for those dreams left unfulfilled, and somewhere she half-hated him for leaving her to deal with aftermath, alone.

But when she'd heard the news of Earl William Foredale's death from her father, it felt odd not to give him a call. They'd known each other long enough for Hana to understand how hard Peter would have been hit - this man he'd loved and worshipped and wanted to follow on the footsteps of - and whether or not her presence was welcome she knew she needed to at least try.

You reached out after years of silence and offered only compassion, he wrote to her months later, For that, I can never thank you enough.

She looks to the final lines in the letter. Just to see if there's something she's missing, something hidden between the lines. Perhaps, an courtesy-invitation to an old friend he would much rather not see again.

You mentioned in your last letter that you'd be in London two months from now. I would like to extend an informal invitation to visit the Edgewater estate, and our family, when you are here. It would be nice to catch up.

His letters to her have been nothing but sweet. Warm. Tentative in their attempts to speak about anything but that which caused them to part. And for that, she is grateful.

Still. That prickle of fear remains.

The foyer of the mansion is elegant, imposing. From the parlour nearby she can faintly hear the sounds of an excited child attempting to converse with Chaima, occasionally asking Kiara if she can touch her hand. My baby, my cupcake, we'll give you lots and LOTS of milk and carrot smash!

(I think you mean mash, Kiara replies, sounding amused and more than a little charmed by the girl already)

The Persian rug is soft beneath Hana's feet, and the oak panels shine in the patch of sunlight streaming in through the windows. But that is not what catches her attention.

A portrait on the side, of a young woman in an ocean-blue gown that bears the insignia of a unicorn and an eagle, in gold and silver. An elegant shawl around her shoulders. In her face is the pride of a woman who seems to have fought for her place here, and won. Next to her, a calm, brown-haired man, hands kept behind him. Straightening his back, trying to stand tall, trying to match the stature of the lady he just married...but happy to be there.

"That's Florence Foredale," a rich, deep voice speaks from behind, "Countess of Edgewater. 1817 to 1867." The woman who approaches her walks with grace and confidence, hips swaying slightly as she walks. On her wine-coloured lips, a small smile. "Good afternoon, Your Grace."

Hana laughs, relieved that Peter's wife seems every bit as happy to see her as she sounds in his letters. "I've heard about her. She's quite famous in Cordonia...especially in my wife's province." She gives the other woman a teasing grin. "And we're not in Cordonia anymore, Your Excellency."

"Mabel," she interjects. "Not very many people call me by my name nowadays, and I rather miss the sound of it."

Hana nods, smiling. "Mabel it is," she says.

"Hana," Mabel responds, her eyes brown and speculative, but softening when their gazes meet. "Peter's in the study. He said he'll be joining us in a couple of minutes."

Hana's spine clenches in a mixture of anticipation and dread. If Mabel notices an involuntary twitch from her guest, she chooses not to tell.

Hana closes her eyes. Lifts her chin. Tries not to sweat under the harsh camera lights. Involuntarily tightens her fist until the photographer tells her she looks a little too tense.

She can feel Peter's hands, holding her by the waist like she is glass and he's afraid he could break her. She can feel his breath near her ear, slow and measured. She can almost hear him swallow his nervousness in his throat, and wonders if he is just as terrified as she is.

She waits for the feel of his lips on hers. The one she's read about in books, secretly watched in her cousins' favourite films. The one that's supposed to release a million butterflies in your stomach, the one that softly parts your lips like they're made of silk, smooth and sensuous. Already she can feel him growing closer...closer...

"OWWW!!!"

Peter finds her half an hour later in the kitchen, calming herself down with a few small squares of chocolate. Guiltily, she notes the still-blood-red bruising on his bottom lip. She runs her fingers over the delicate filigree earring they chose for the occasion, still unsure why his frown is one of worry, not disgust.

"Are you alright?"

She sniffles, almost hating him for being so kind. "I should be asking you that."

Surprisingly, he offers her a lopsided smile, making his swollen lip even more prominent than before.

"Well, see. At least I landed somewhere in the vicinity of your face this time," Peter says, chuckling, "Give me a little more practice. I promise it will be your cheek next."

Fresh tears spring in Hana's eyes - this time tears of laughter.

"How's this, Auntie Hana!" little Alphonsa chirps, enthusiastically swinging a rattle to Chaima's face, "Am I doing it right? Does Chaima like it? Do you? Do youuuuuu?"

The last two sentences are addressed to the baby bundled in Hana's lap, applesauce running down her mouth. Chaima looks away from her food to gift her slightly older companion a gummy, two-toothed smile. Shaking the rattle is typically the job of whichever mother has her hands free, but Peter's little daughter insisted on keeping her tiny guest happy and submerged in toys for the two days that they were here.

"Yes, Alphie," Kiara blows her a flying kiss, "you're a natural!"

Hana gives Alphonsa an affectionate pinch on the cheek with her free hand. "Chaima lights up every time she sees you, darling, and so do we."

Right next to Hana, Peter grins. It's the first genuine smile she has seen from him since they started talking, and Hana is struck by how alike he and his daughter look right now.

"Alphonsa loves babies," he explains, "or any child, really, they just have to be younger than her. It sets her big-sister instincts abuzz."

Hana sighs, shaking her head and remembering her own days as the only child. Her chandelier earrings swing around her neck as she laughs.

It fascinates her, really, how at ease they are with each other when they're talking about their children. Ever since she came here, their conversations have been awkward, stilted, punctuated with pregnant pauses that harbour all the words they're too afraid to say to each other. They've been trying so hard to be normal around each other, Hana realizes, and failing.

But as parents, they've never been better friends.

"Wait a minute," Peter's voice sounds a little bemused, suddenly, "is that -"

It is only when Hana follows his line of sight that she realizes exactly which earrings she's worn for this visit.

In that moment, she wants to dig a hole beneath the parlour floor and bury herself there.

"Yes," she says, sheepishly, "I'm sorry, I didn't think..."

Peter raises his eyebrows, then turns to look at Kiara and Mabel. As they both watch their wives talk animatedly, lost in their own conversation together, Peter suddenly turns back to Hana with a mischievous grin.

"Don't be," he says, "I'm just grateful we both managed to get better kissing practice. Less bloodshed that way."

Hana stares at him, then breaks into peals of silent giggles. It isn't even that funny...not to anyone else anyway...but the dry tone and the memories make it hard for her to stop laughing.

God. She isn't sure what else may happen to cast a shadow on this golden time, this lovely reunion...but if there is one thing Hana has missed up her old friend...it's this.

It is on their second day at Edgewater, that Countess Mabel requests Hana accompany her for a short walk.

Edgewater Lake is a tranquil, limpid little paradise, tucked away behind the estate's beautiful gardens and sprawling grounds. The aroma of bay willow and birch trees is alluring and soothing all at once, and even the ducks seem to float languidly over the water.

Mabel smiles in satisfaction at the sponge cakes in her box, kept specially for the ducks. She offers some to Hana, and together they throw the crumbs in the lake, watching in rapt attention as the ducks practically spring into life, squabbling over who gets which piece.

"I don't think I've ever felt more at peace anywhere in this estate than here," Mabel says. "I found this place quite by accident on my first week here, when I was too intimidated with the rest of the house and the estate. It's been my safe space ever since."

"It's a beautiful place," Hana smiles, remembering Sôse - the lake near the Cordonian Royal Palace. Its clear waters, its free-spirited birds, that distinctive smell of yellow crocus flowers that now reminds her of home. Where she was once told she would become a Duchess. Where Kiara had proposed to her, seven months later.

"Many tales speak of Countess Florence having picnics here."

"With her husband?" Hana says with an arched eyebrow, knowing full well the true answer.

"No. Her...companion. Miss Annabelle Parsons of Hazelvale."

"Parsons? As in the artist who painted Woman's Waltz and Rose Gold Reminiscence?"

"Yes," Mabel says, a faint smile on her lips, "I'm certain you've heard all the stories."

"Not until recently," Hana whispered, remembering just how ignorant she felt, those first few months after she realized she loved women more often than she loved men. How much there was for her to learn. She remembered sitting up some nights after she came out in public, wondering just what to call herself. Am I lesbian? Am I bisexual? Why are most of the people I get attracted to, women? And how can I say I'm lesbian if I've still found myself gravitating towards at least one or two men?

It took Kiara to convince her that she needed to stop overthinking, that changing her mind about who she was didn't mean she was lying to herself. To feel good about learning at her own pace. When she first heard about Florence Foredale, Hana hadn't even known what a lavender marriage was. "I wasn't really out to anyone until I started living in Cordonia."

Mabel's smile grows wider. "Me too. I'm bisexual."

Hana sucks in a breath. "Really?"

"Yes."

"When did you realize?"

Mabel's smile is swift and regretful. "I had an inkling in my early twenties...but I was deep in denial until at least two years ago."

Hana nods, placing a hand on Mabel's shoulder. "That sounds a lot like my journey. I don't think I could even articulate who I thought I was before I left Shanghai."

"Before Peter and I met, I was a young girl brought up in a very strict Goan Catholic family," she says, "You never even uttered the words gay or bisexual around our house." She sighs, heavily, seeming to remember her first year at Edgewater. "I was so scared. The timing was all so wrong. What was I going to do, now that I knew? What was I going to tell Peter?"

Hana winces. She had the same fears the night of their engagement...only now she can give those questions a name. The memory of his face is blinding in its clarity: contorted in pain, his mouth uttering questions she wasn't sure she would ever have the answers for...Is this what you want? Am I what you want??

The way the scales fell from his eyes as she fought to stop her tears.

And then he had left. Left that secluded hallway, left her house, left China. News of the broken match came from her parents.

She had become "damaged goods" overnight. Without a single hair on her head being touched.

Silently, Mabel reaches out and takes Hana's hand, squeezing it in understanding and an attempt to comfort. Hana presses her eyes closed. She doesn't want this woman's pity. Not after this long, when it's too little too late.

Hana is afraid of the answer. But she still has to ask.

"How did Peter react?"

"Afraid."

If her eyes weren't closed already, she would have done so right now, cursing herself for coming here. All this time...and she'd really convinced herself he'd changed...but if he was treating his lawfully-wedded wife this way -

"Not of me," Mabel says softly, her hand moving to touch Hana's arm now, "Of himself. He never quite forgave himself for what you had to go through after he left."

Hana sucks in a horrified breath. "He knew?"

Even before she did?? And he never once tried to talk to her about it?

"Not right away. Not that you weren't straight." Mabel says, nervously fingering a sapphire bracelet on her wrist. "It took him years to make sense of it. When the announcement of your marriage to Kiara came out...and then that magazine spread you'd made on Trend for Pride in Cordonia...several things began falling into place."

"Before or after you came out to him?"

"After," Mabel whispers, "I won't pretend it was perfect. I won't say he understood everything all at once . But he did try...and he still keeps trying."

Hana lets out a sigh of relief. It feels good, knowing that the phantom she had built in her head of him isn't entirely accurate.

"More than once when he's spoken about you," Mabel begins again, slowly, "he's told me that he thinks neither of you had a clue you loved women back then. He said you didn't seem to have enough space to ask questions about who you were or what you wanted."

"He's right," Hana says, staring unseeingly at the ripples on the lake. "When I fell in love for the first time, in Cordonia, it was hell. I had no idea what I was feeling, I couldn't get over the fact that it was a woman...and she was lost to me before I could even hope to win her."

Mabel smiles. "...and then you met Kiara."

Hana chuckles, a glow trickling down and filling every inch of her being...as it always does when she remembers their first days after they confessed their love to each other. "And then I met Kiara."

The two women walk further, looking out towards the lake rather than at each other. Hana gropes around in her mind desparately for a change in subject.

"I feel like I've seen this place before, even though this is my first time personally visiting Edgewater."

"It's possible," Mabel concedes. "Several films have been shot here. I think my favourite one so far has been that one with Cassandra Leigh in it... what's its name...?"

"A Timeless Heart," Hana replies, wonderingly. Even as she answers she finds herself awash with memories. Memories she'd kept locked away since Peter had left...yet something about this particular one demands she revisit it today.

They're at the home theatre Father and Mother had installed, just before Peter's parents agreed to their match. Peter tries - not too subtly - to place his arm around her. Hana obediently folds her hands on her lap, and hopes he doesn't realize they built this room specifically for him.

"Did you know," he inches himself a little closer to her, whispering, "this scene was shot a few years ago at a lake close to our house."

Hana does not answer. Her eyes are glued to the screen, glued to the woman with dark hair and wine-red lips, the camera almost caressing her face. The hero, who Hana is suddenly grateful she cannot see, takes a freshly-bloomed rose from his pocket, gently brushing her cheek with it. She gifts him a slow smile in invitation. Yes.

He brings the rose to his lips, and Hana fully expects him to return it to his pocket, but he does not. Instead he brings it back to Cassandra Leigh's face again.

The petals caress Cassandra's cheek like velvet on silk, moving slowly, sensuously, down the line of her jaw. The length of her hair. Her rosebud mouth. It moves across the expanse of her face, and Cassandra responds to the flower as she would the touch of a lover.

As the flower moves languidly over her silken skin...and Cassandra's expression shifts between confusion and desire and pure bliss, Hana feels a softening deep within her. It's a sensation she has never quite felt before. It moves, again, again, almost as if the petals are kissing her - not the man holding them.

It's almost as if he doesn't exist. It's almost as if no one exists, just her. And this woman.

When the projector breaks down immediately after, and Peter gets up - grumbling about missing the best part of the film - she suddenly stares at her fiancé-to-be like she can barely recognize him.

"Penny for your thoughts?" It's Mabel. Hana shifts uneasily at her piercing gaze.

"I was just thinking..." Hana murmurs, still bemused by the revelation, "sometimes all the signs can be right in front of you - staring you in the face - and you won't even realize that that weird feeling at the pit of your stomach was desire."

Mabel nods slowly, her smile one of recognition.

"Yeah...I've had a couple of crushes I didn't even realize were crushes until later."

"It's funny," Hana replies with a small laugh, "this entire time I've been thinking my love for women suddenly burst into life when I came to Cordonia and met Esther...but it's been there all along. It just took me a while to see it. To give it a name."

"Well...you know what they always say," Mabel lays a soft hand on Hana's arm, "Hindsight is 20/20."

"And this...this is Earl Vincent the First," Peter says, pointing to the portrait of a man in 15th century finery on the wall of his study. "Quite the character. He's said to have spied on both sides during the Wars of the Roses."

Hana smiles. "I know of at least one Duchess back home who would love to hear that story."

It's their last day in Edgewater, and Peter has summoned her to the study. Hana wills away the still-slight prickle of fear that he will rake up the past. They've spoken often enough; the topic could have easily come up if he so chose.

"and this...this is my most famous ancestor - appointed Championess of the Realm by Queen Charlotte herself - Countess -"

"- Florence," Hana whispers. The young woman in the portrait is still dressed in her house colours of blue and gold, but holds a white rose to her bosom. Her gaze seems to focus on the artist, brimming with emotions she cannot yet express. Hana is confident that if she strained her eyes long enough, she would find Parsons scribbled at the bottom-right corner of the painting.

"Yes," he says, a faint smile on his lips, "I hear that back in Castelserraillan they've made a film on her life."

"She's quite popular there."

"For good reason, I imagine," Peter says, "Most of what used to be considered 'rumour' about her is...in effect...true."

Hana's eyes widen. The stories of Countess Florence Foredale marrying Mr Chambers but pledging her vows to Miss Parsons...that she gleefully officiated her "husband's" own union to another man on their wedding night...they are fairly common knowledge. Common knowledge that you'd never expect the heir to her estate to confirm.

"Among us descendants, no one knows for sure whether her son was part of the Foredale bloodline in the way the ton of those times would have wanted it," Peter stares at the Countess' portrait, hands clasped behind his back, every inch this woman's heir. "But she left behind a legacy. A legacy I am proud of. A legacy I long to live up to."

Remembering her conversation with Mabel at the lake, Hana says, "From what I've heard, you already are."

Peter's answering smile is one of sad knowing. "You've been talking to Mabel."

Flushing, Hana nods. "I have."

He chuckles and shakes his head. "She often gives me more credit than I deserve."

Hana laughs. "I think I'll let her be the judge of that."

She can see Peter's shoulders heave in a deep, deep sigh. He walks away from the hundreds of ancestral portraits, back to his table, running a fingernail across its wooden surface. His eyes are cast downwards, almost as if he can't bring himself to look at her.

Hana freezes, anticipating the difficult conversation ahead.

"Hana," he says, his voice suddenly rough, "I wanted to hate you so badly in the beginning."

Her stomach drops to her feet. "I know."

"I kept telling myself, she could have opened up to me, anytime. I stayed at her home three while weeks; she could have let me know then. I convinced myself that I was a match you carelessly chose to sleepwalk into, that you considered me another chore to get done."

Tears spring in Hana's eyes. "I couldn't understand what was happening to me back then. I still don't."

Peter moves behind the table, running his fingers through the knob of one of the drawers. His own eyes seem clouded, she notes with a pang.

"Mabel told me once...the process to figuring out who you are isn't always going to be linear. You're never going to figure it out all in one go," he finally raises his eyes to hers, "Was it like that for you?"

Hana swallows. "It's still like that for me. There are still parts of this journey that are yet to make sense."

"I could have stayed back. Talked to you. Tried to help somehow, though god knows whether I'd have messed it all up further. I could have tried." Peter's voice is flat, almost deceptively lacking emotion. Only his eyes betray his recrimination of himself. "Instead I ran off. Leaving you to face all the questions."

"You didn't!" Hana's own voice is suddenly hoarse, roused by his self-flagellation into passionate defense. "Don't think I didn't notice, Peter. Before you left, you and your family made use of every contact you could find...to kill most of the gossip surrounding our breakup. Neither I nor my family found out until two years later."

Peter shakes his head in disbelief. "But -"

"You didn't get all of it right. I know that. People still managed to spread the word, and I kept getting raked over the coals for it, even after I married Kiara." Hana takes a deep breath, exhausted from her tirade. "You hated me then, but you were still willing to do that for me. If you really want to know how worthy you are of Florence Foredale's lineage, you can start right there."

Peter sighs. "Let me apologize for not trying to understand, at least."

She lets out a watery laugh. "Apology accepted."

He searches her eyes for affirmation, and nods, opening the drawer he had been running his fingers through mere minutes ago.

"Come here," he mumbles finally, leafing through a sheaf of papers, "I have something I've been wanting to show you. Ever since we started writing each other."

It's sketches of the same woman - in various moods, various poses...the drawings themselves in various stages of completion. These aren't formal portraits, set up over stand and easel, its subjects motionless. No - these are poetry in motion, impatiently etched, capturing their subject in all her vibrancy and fierce spirit. Here she is, head thrown back in (at least in Hana's imagination) loud raucous laughter, the wind in her hair. And here, yet again, holding a little boy up in the air, his tiny hands reaching out to caress her face.

Here is one made by the Countess - herself an accomplished artist - of her wife standing tall and proud, an eagle perched on her right arm, her left hand caressing a unicorn.

Her heart almost stops when she sees the final painting - the artist Parsons herself, arms wound around the other woman's waist, her chin tucked against the Countess' shoulder. Their fingers seem woven together, so that you cannot quite tell which ones belong to whom. The Countess herself looks to their interwoven hands with a mixture of desire, and longing, and pain.

Hana runs a hand over the couple, her touch almost reverent. Her heart twists a little at the strength of their love, the immense injustice of their loss. "No one else has seen these before."

"No one," Peter agrees, "except my wife. We unearthed these just days after Father died. And a week before you made that call." He picks the last drawing up, his eyes brimming with affection. "When you rang us so soon after that, it felt like a sign. Like I had one more chance to make things right."

Hana takes his hand, pressing it between hers. "You and Mabel have done more than that. I'll never forget this visit. You both owe us a trip to Cordonia, now."

Cautiously, tentatively, Peter gives her a hug.

"I'd like you to have this last painting," he says gruffly, passing her the one she'd touched so reverently mere moments ago. "It just feels right, you having this. There's a lot of things my ancestor didn't have...that I'm glad you and my Mabel finally get the space to explore."

"And even then, we had to navigate so much to get there," Hana responds. "All we can do really is pass it forward. Make it easier for the next generation, and the next, and the next."

Peter gifts her a rueful smile. "I'll try my best to do just that, Hana. I promise you."

Little Alphonsa giggles and gives Kiara a drawing of herself and Chaima, as a keepsake. Already Kiara plans to have it framed and put up in her nursery.

Mabel has a gift of her own, too. Just before Hana leaves, she slips a small package into her bag, insisting she only open it when they're closer to the airport.

The car that takes them to the airport weaves through traffic slowly, steadily, in no particular rush. In an hour's time, Chaima is asleep on Kiara's lap, and Kiara herself has dozed off, mumbling gibberish in her dreams.

Quietly, Hana takes out the package, tears open the wrapper. A letter falls out.

H -

Since you like Cassandra Leigh so much, I thought you might like The Warmest Winter. You'll know why when you watch. Thank me later.

Love,

It's a CD cover for a film. Two women, gazing into each other's eyes in reverent devotion, their gazes speaking a million promises that their lips can never tell. Hana presses the CD to her chest and whispers a prayer of gratitude.

A sleeping Kiara shifts her neck ever-so-slightly in Hana's direction, murmuring her name softly. Her hand still lies - soft. protective - over Chaima's stomach.

Hana keeps the CD back in the larger bag she's carrying - the one that holds those precious paintings.

Seems like our plans are set for next date night, wife. She brushes away a strand of hair from Kiara's forehead, kissing it. I just can't wait.

Notes:

Ma moitié - French for "my other half"

Nīnī yā moūmoū - Moroccan lullaby (link here)

A Timeless Heart and The Warmest Winter are both Cassandra Leigh films in the Choices universe.

Inspiration for the Timeless Heart scene in the movie-watching section, came from a rather sensuous (by our 50s Bollywood standards!) Hindi film scene in Mughal-e-Azam, where the hero caresses the heroine with a feather. See:

You can watch the full song here and the scene in question is from 2.10-3.00.

#hana lee #hanaleeappreciationweek #HLAW #the royal romance #the royal heir #the royal finale #HLAW Day 3 #HLAW Day 3: Pride Parade #lizzybeth1986 #content: fanfic #kiara theron #desire and decorum #annabelle parsons #hana lee x kiara theron #hana x kiara #annabelle parsons x mc #long post

48 notes · View notes

i-put-the-sin-in-sinclaire · 9 months

Text

Desire and Decorum: First Winter came out 4 years ago 🫠

#I remember when it was announced #and I was barely recovering from the finale of book 3 #😭#desire and decorum #playchoices

2 notes · View notes

hotchocolatelovesyou · 11 months

Text

Duke Richards and Sir Gideon are gonna hate fuck and then friendly fuck and then make love in that cell, I'm telling you right now.

Also, Gideon was in love with our brother Harry fr fr

No, you can't convince me otherwise

#d&d choices pb #duke richards choices #sir gideon choices #desire and decorum #playchoices #d&d choices #desire and decorum choices #d&d 3 choices #dad choices #harry d&d choices

2 notes · View notes

smallphoenix13 · 2 years

Text

please why is the swan decapitated

#this has been happening for like 5 chapters now #diamond mining hence the german lmfao #tumblr is being a bitch so if you see this post 50 times with different video qualities captions or tags no you don’t <3 #playchoices #choices desire and decorum

18 notes · View notes

hazelfoureyes · 7 months

Text

The Radio Demon fucks a Human Sacrifice (part 3)

I deadass wrote part one as a one shot. Is this what peer pressure is? I love it.

It would have been easy to forget you, your soul was his anyways so the real fun had already finished. But that pesky video hit most streamed in 24 hours, he couldn’t even walk to the butcher without hearing you scream his name from errant phones. Surely there was a way, even from hell, to finish what he started and get you out of his system.

⟢ part1♡̶sidestory♡̶part2♡̶part3♡̶part4 ⟣

tags/warnings/promises: Alastor x reader, smut, soft Alastor, unprotected sex (duh?), creampie, edging a little, feelings, Valentino exists, Vox also exists, literally wrote this split screen with part 2 on the right side so I could line it up right like he does hehe, Alastor has a bad time

tag requested: @astraechos , @thekanrojimitsuri2 , @hoeforalbedo , @crazylazybabyk , @oddball08 , @lovingyeet , @just-trash-yeah-thats-it , @random-3455 , @alicehasdrowned , @des-deswain5621 , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @doctorswife221b

When Val released, ‘The Radio Demon fucks a Human Sacrifice’, it immediately went viral. The website crashed, downloads surpassed his wildest, horniest dreams.

It’s scary but also hot? ☆☆☆☆☆

Eat me Mr. Radio Demon!

I’ve never wanted to be a pussy so much in my life.

The reviews were all favorable, the comments rolling in, it was perfect.

Until Vox said it wasn’t. He had seen the video, but figured no one would care about seeing Alastor fuck anything. It wasn’t the success that got under his skin, it was the wave of positive attention it brought Alastor. Suddenly everyone was tuning in to his broadcasts, little miss princess’s hotel was busier than ever.

And it was ubiquitous. Every screen seemed to feature Alastor’s breakout role.

“I said pull it, Val!” Vox slammed his hands on Valentino’s coffee table.

“Vox, baby, you’re being really sensitive about this. I’m literally fucking piles of money right now. Actual piles of money, like, person sized piles.” Val took a drag of his cigarette, “Its good for business.”

“Would you rather fuck money, or me?” Vox’s screen glitched.

Val leaned his elbows on his knees, “That’s a really difficult question for me and I think you know that.”

“Augh! Val! Think of the big picture! That obsolete dickhead gaining attention means gaining power. And that’s bad for business.”

Val’s eyes fluttered, “What if we like, say it wasn’t him?”

Flashes of Alastor’s face fazed in and out of focus across Vox’s screen, your body flipping over, a mess of tentacles writhing.

Val took off his glasses, “Oh yeah, that’s pretty obviously him.”

“What is?” Vox’s face splintered back to the screen.

“Do you—- do you not know you’ve been like,” Val used his cigarette to gesture at Vox’s face, “just straight up playing his porno?”

Vox’s hands flew to his screen, “No! Fucking shit! What the fuck!!” He picked up a vase and threw it across the room, “Wipe it clean off the server! Delete it! Ban it’s fucking streaming! End of discussion!”

Val shrugged, he owned every bootleg distributor in the pride ring. He’d pull it and up the price threefold for illegal downloads. “Whatever you want, amorcito.”

Alastor was quite happy the video went ‘underground’ of sorts. The first month after you left, he was plagued by the sound of your voice. Everywhere he went it seemed you were screaming his name, every phone and television a conduit for you.

What really bothered him though, was the reaction others had to him. Where once sinners leapt from his path and set theirselves on fire to avoid him, now people winked and waved. It made his skin crawl. When alive, at the peak of his radio show fame, it wasn’t uncommon to have fans approach him in jazz clubs. But the decorum of 1930's jazz fans was a far cry from the brazen displays of desire from the citizens of hell.

“Perhaps I should have thought it through?” He mused.

“Ya think?” Rosie put her tea down, “Was it worth it, at least?”

He mulled the question over. Worth it? Well, he had your soul. Which is grand. But you weren’t even in hell to be called upon. What did he really get from the deal? Alastor brought his palm to his face, already feeling the blush spreading. Rosie's chuckle didn't help. He did get something. You'd been gone a month, and each day he woke up having forgot you existed. And every night he lied down to rest and imagined your eyes staring back at him. Did he want to fight you, or surrender, when he saw that look? When the silk tie had fallen from your face, slipping down your nose to reveal your intense stare...He thought his heart had stopped. For every ounce of resilience in your voice he found a pound of fury in your gaze. What poor luck Valentino had been given to receive you as an offering.

"Too soon to tell." He leaned back, finally dropping his hand.

“Well it seemed you had a good time… not that I could see much through the green glow and all that static noise. Really spoiled the climax with that move, Alastor dear."

Alastor’s eyes were saucers, “Rosie. Are you implying-,”

“What?” She drew out the word, “I thought you weren’t into those things so of course I was curious!”

He sighed, “I’m not.”

Rosie pushed the teaspoon around her cup with one finger, “Sure looked like you were.”

He crossed his arms, indignant, “You don’t have to have an appetite to enjoy a meal.”

“Message received loud and clear dear! I won’t bring up the subject again.” She cackled and changed the topic to the latest gossip around the colony.

Another night staring at the ceiling, mind ghosting over the idea of you. He felt like he his sanity was unraveling Leaving his bed, he stepped barefoot onto the grass of the swampy forest he materialized into his room when he moved in to the hotel.

With an outstretched hand, Alastor felt for your connection. He couldn’t see it, but the weight of the chain connecting your soul to him sunk into his palm. Curious, he wrapped his fingers around the invisible links and pulled.

With a soft green glow, you rose from the grass.

His breath hitched, he hadn’t expected that. “It seems our deal really did stick, didn't it?" walking towards you, Alastor dropped to his knees at your feet. You were on your side, unmoving.

His head cocked to the left, ears turned in. Alastor crawled toward you, rolling you onto your back and opening your legs. He slotted himself there, “Hellooo,” He took your face in his both of his hands, elbows resting beside your ears, “Are you… sleeping, dear?”

This is ridiculous.

Alastor inspected your face; peaceful. It was a new sight for him, he'd really only ever seen you in some kind of rage or lost in pleasure. His hand slid down your body, realizing you were in the robe still. He laughed, but realized it was for no one. "Are you really going to sleep, hmm?" He hooked his hands under your knee and brought it up around his hip.

Nothing.

"I'm starting to get offended, dear." He leaned down and whispered into the crook of your neck. "If you don't wake up-" He slid down, the robe open enough to let his breathe ghost over your stomach. He stopped. He couldn't do anything to you while you slept. It was void of any enjoyment for him. Without your reactions, it was just....pointless. While he did enjoy your performance in the studio, he was taught to show respect for those of fairer means. A sleeping partner fell into that category.

He reached beneath you and straightened your robe that had bunched there under your body. Placing your leg back down by your ankle, he began pulling the collar up and closed it snuggly.

He stood there for a second, looking over you. It worked. You're here again. His mother had taught him that the human soul was most vulnerable at night. When asleep, the soul could wander from the body and travel earth and beyond. She even said people could train themselves, and with practice, remember their journeys even after waking.

Kneeling down, Alastor pushed your hair from your face, "Don't forget. What fun is there in that?" The shadow beneath your body shimmered neon green before you were swallowed by inky darkness and Alastor was once again, alone.

After his mother died, Alastor was often alone. Most of his time, really. Well, there were people always around. But they were staff, or hangers-on, or women looking for a comfortable life. They were dancers and bootleggers and musicians. Which was fine and grand. But, they never saw him. He never let them, they never tried. He was the radio host. The great dancer. The southern gentleman. The killer. The cannibal. The deer in the woods. Not a single person ever looked at him on earth and saw him. Which was precisely what he wanted, and manufactured with his wide smile and good manners.

So when your eyes bore into him from that tacky studio set, and he felt suddenly naked in front of you, he knew you were looking at the him. You saw him.

It was worth it. Alastor was willing to admit that to himself.

Over the next couple days, he would randomly try to pull you to him. Through out the day, in different places, he would summon your soul and wait. Nothing. It confirmed his theory, your soul was only able to leave your living body while you were asleep.

In the privacy of his room, Alastor paced the space between grass and carpet. What was this feeling? Nerves? He hadn't felt nervous since he was a child.

But, what was causing him a pause, was if he summoned you and you didn't appear. Maybe it had been a fluke? Maybe for the 7th time in 3 days he would pull on that connection and be left standing there, alone.

Still.

He ran his hands through his hair, trying to regain composure. Finally, he reached out for your ties to him, and pulled you into hell.

He held his breath, unconsciously.

With a glow, you appeared again before him. He was quick this time to approach you, setting beside you and leaning close to your face. Asleep.

"Is this my foreseeable future?" He asked, "Staring at you while you sleep, my doe."

Suddenly, you opened your eyes and met his. Reaching up, you grabbed him with both hands and pulled his face into yours. Your hands ran through his hair as you took him in a frenzied kiss. Alastor froze for a beat, but when your tongue licked at his bottom lip, he was brought back to the moment. He pushed his tongue into your mouth, rolling over yours and reaching as deep as he could. He felt like he could unhinge his jaw and swallow you whole. He really could, if he wanted to.

Alastor swung his leg over your body and straddled your hips. "Mon cher, you've finally joined me." His chest was rising and falling with excited breath.

"Alastor?" You tried to feel your body, but it was nowhere near you.

"Don't worry your pretty little head. You're still alive and well. I've merely borrowed your soul for the evening." He looked down at you, and finally, for the first time in what felt like months, your eyes fell to his face.

But today, they were soft and out of focus.

"Can you see me, my dear?" He leaned down slightly, trying to read the look on your face.

"Am I dreaming?"

He chuckled, "Perhaps we both are." With an exhale he wondered if he had been holding his breath this entire time. "No, this isn't a dream."

"I don't understand...but--," You lifted your arms towards him, "Should I say thank you? It was fucked, what happened." Your voice was slow, words a little slurred, "But, I'm home safe and sound now. You did what you promised me. I don't know if I'll ever see you again so...should I thank you now?"

Your tongue felt fat in your mouth, heavy and delayed.

Alastor leaned down over you, "You don't have to say anything." He used his knees to open your legs, and settled there. "Unfortunately, you've become a little worm in my mind." His hands slid under the silk robe you hadn't stopped wearing yet, "I'm hoping if I finally have you, I can...whet my appetite, and return to my normal self." He felt along your hips, hands stopping when he realized you were naked under the thin piece of fabric.

"I keep remembering," you covered your eyes with your hands, "that big hand of yours. And I realize, you never touched me past that."

He smiled, genuinely, truly, "Exactly! You understand the problem precisely. Shall we both have our fill and be done with it?"

You moved your hands to touch his ears, waiting for him to disappear at any moment, "Please. I'm so tired of missing someone I don't even know." He removed your hands, and you held them to your chest.

"My thoughts exactly, mon cher." He adjusted his hips, letting his crotch rub against your core. This was the closest he had been to you since you'd met. It was dizzying, and it felt like his skin was vibrating everywhere it met yours.

A soft moan left your throat, causing his cock to twitch in his pants. Yes, it was you. This wasn’t his standard response to such sounds. Alastor sat up, his legs bent and knees at either side of your hips. Taking one of your hands from your chest, he placed a kiss on a digit. Then another. He kissed his way down your arm.

“So gentle. Weird.” You tried to focus on him, but your mind was still cloudy. The sensations were here but also so far away, too far away, in another lifetime all together.

“Was I not gentle before, all things considered?,” he continued his way down your arm.

You let your eyes drift to the sky, stars watching you from above, “More than him.”

His mouth went dry at the mention of Val, "I am many things more than him, darling." As his lips found your neck, he took a deep breath. "I can actually take my time now. No audience." He sucked a bruise, and released you with a pop. He presented two fingers to your lips, and without thinking about it you began to suck them. While you were slipping your tongue over and between his fingers, he moved to continue a trail of kisses and nips down your right arm.

"Get them nice and wet." He watched through half lidded eyes as you licked his long fingers. He knew he needed to remove his hips from yours, but the idea pained him. Finally, he took his fingers from you and swiped them over your entrance. Your chest jumped, so he did it again. He tried to push the fingers into you, but the resistance was more than he expected. You were wet, but tight. He let his middle finger slip inside you. So soft. So warm. His shadow tendrils allowed him some feeling but not this, this was something they kept to themselves.

"When was your last time, mon cher?"

Your mind searched for memories still left behind in your body somewhere, "In hell."

"You're in hell now."

"This doesn't feel like hell." You ground your hips onto his palm, trying to get that single digit slowly moving in you to come deeper, to become more. He replied by pushing in his pointer finger, erection becoming painful already as you let out a little moan. Bending them up, he began to make long thrusts past your g-spot. His mouth long stilled on your arm, staring at your face as you whimpered into the sky.

"Look at me."

Your eyes darted to him, half open and wet. Alastor felt his patience snap. Undoing his belt and zipper, he finally freed his cock. He ran his head between your entrance to your clit , gathering your fluids on him to ease his entry. Taking both of your legs, he held them at the ankles and set them on his left shoulder. With your hips slightly raised, he pressed into you.

With a hiss you dug your fingers into the dirt, body tensing instinctively. One of his arms hugged your legs to his chest, the other was now bruising your hips as he continued to push into you. With just his head in, he began fast and shallow thrusts. Every time making more progress into your warmth. The stretch burned, but the feeling of him forcing space into you for himself just made you wetter.

Finally, he bottomed out. He had no sense to still himself, shallow thrusts gave way to long, deep plunges. Alastor's breathing was filling the space around you, mixing with your own. Leaning back, he looked down at where you two were connected.

He withdrew slowly, nearly entirely, and pushed back in. Again. And again. It was intoxicating, how he felt himself melt into you. He'd had lovers in life, but never had he been with someone without a barrier of some sorts. Be that his well placed smile or latex. He'd never fucked anyone raw before. He almost regretted not trying earlier, as the sensation of your walls and arousal sticking to his cock and thighs was breaking him. Watching himself entirely disappear inside you, he closed his eyes. Everything was so hot, so tight, would he disappear entirely? Would he lost in the pleasure your body was so effortlessly giving? Was he the unlucky one?

Alastor pushed your knees up to your chest, using his body weight to hold them down as his paced picked up. You brought your dirtied nails to your own legs, holding on tightly. Desperately you needed something to tether you to the ground, keep you still against the twitches shaking your stomach and chest. You felt with any jolt to your nerves you'd fall off the world and drift into the night.

He felt the build up, his balls tightening and drawing in, he wanted to slow down-- he wanted to bring you there first but he couldn't stop the rutting of his hips. With a whine, Alastor's forehead came to rest on yours, hips smacking into you with a wet slap. "Look at me," He commanded again, and you obeyed. One of his hands came to your chin to hold your head still, "Don't you dare look away."

Struggling to keep your eyes open, he pushed into you with one final, deep thrust. His hands came down now to the ground around you as he pushed you into the grass. Hips stuttering, cock twitching in you. You'd never let anyone cum inside you before, the sensation of heat quickly filling your cunt made you tighten around him. "Good girl", He purred, jaw tight.

He pulled back slowly before bringing his hips down, sweat sticking to his forehead where it met yours. His pace was quickly becoming brutal, a hand finding its way to that little bud of nerves of yours. With rough pressure and hurried speed his thumb drew out your orgasm. When you came, you gasped out his name, craning your neck up to ghost your lips over his open mouth. As the pleasure surged from your center, you could feel your body again. He tried to keep his eyes on your eyes, but the overstimulation of your cunt trying to wring him dry forced him to shut them.

A light shone through his eyelids, startling them open again.

"Wait-!" He watched you get pulled away from beneath him. Before he could react, Alastor was on all fours in the forest, alone. Eyes wide, he pounded his fist against the grass. He tried to summon you back to him, to drag you to him but nothing happened.

He thought he'd gone crazy. Hands came to his head, smile pained as he tried to process what he was feeling.

No.

Not enough.

Too soon.

A growl ripped through his chest. This hadn't satiated him at all. No, he was worse off now. He was starved, he had nourishment ripped from his mouth and he as angry for it. Angry to hell, to Valentino, to the conditions of owning a living soul.

He did not even attempt to rest that night. Taking his time, he had to find composure again. Alastor managed to pull himself together after several hours of self isolation. After his heart stopped racing, after his hands stopped feeling phantom skin beneath them, he calmed his smile and went about his day.

When night returned, he couldn't help but stare into the forest domain. He wanted so badly to bring you to himself, but that want was terrifying. It was overpowering him, and he couldn't accept that.

Another night left, another day passed. Husk found Alastor's cruelty to be growing, his patience giving out at the smallest perceived slight. Angel stopped engaging entirely. Charlie found herself wanting to approach him, find out why it seemed his hair was always standing on end, his eyes sharp. But, she didn't. She couldn't. Alastor would pass through the halls like a raging specter. He wouldn't slow or acknowledge anyone.

He managed a week. Satisfied with his resolve, he waited for when night fell and he was sure you'd be deep asleep, yanked your soul from your body and into him. He felt rabid, like he his brain was catching fire. Finally when you materialized before him, he grabbed your face with his hand.

"My doe?"

Just like before, you stirred, and your hands immediately went for his hair. He pulled back, "Are you awake?"

"Am I dreaming? Alastor?" You looked drunk, mind struggling to process the change in scenery. Your arms wrapped around his neck as he hovered above you, and you pulled him into a kiss. He happily returned it, hands quick to untie the robe you had taken as your own. He wasted now time in getting himself unsheathed and lined up with you, before he could enter you reached out to him, "I wanted to say--- thank you. I don't know if I'll ever really see you again."

The realization made his blood run cold. His mother's stories flooded back to him. It takes training, and time, to remember the travels of the wandering soul.

"You don't have to say anything." Alastor thrust into you, your body tense but not as resistant as before. When he was finally enveloped in you, he could feel himself calm. He didn't feel any need to be gentle this time around. He immediately set a bruising pace, digging his nails into the soft flesh of your ass as he forced your hips to meet his with every thrust. You gasped beneath him, eyes wandering up to the sky just past his head. He'd bring you to climax, wanting to drink in your expression, and to his horror as you choked out his name you were spirited away from him again.

Everyone on the floor heard Alastor's rampage. When Angel ran to get Charlie and Vaggie, they were scared to knock. With a steadying breath Charlie rapped the door, "Al? You okay in there?"

Suddenly, silence.

The door whipped open, Alastor smiling with half lidded eyes, "Why of course. What ever made you think otherwise?"

"The fuckin' sounds of carnage, maybe?" Angel looked past Alastor. The sofa shredded, coffee table in pieces. The wallpaper had been ripped down and torn to shreds. Charlie noticed the dirt under his nails, but Alastor coolly pulled his hands behind his back.

"Can I do something for you?" His tone was cold.

"I guess not, Al...," Charlie took in the damage, "Did something happen?"

Alastor smiled wider, "No," and closed the door. No one saw him the following day, which wasn't entirely unusual but it was weighing on Charlie. When Alastor finally appeared and announced he was going to Cannibal Town, she was elated. A chat with Rosie would surely bring him back to himself.

"I don't see the problem. You've got her soul, you can summon her to you, and you get a little," She searched for the word, "relief. Why do you look so pained, old friend?"

"You know better than most I have no interest in chasing women, Rosie."

"Yet..." She cocked her brow.

"It isn't about the release. I don't particularly need that. I never have." He huffed, the conversation already exhausting him, "When I would kill someone, I was God. Their life was in my hands. I took that power from them."

Rosie clicked her tongue, "And when she's in your hands?" Alastor hunched over his black coffee before remembering himself and straightening his back. "I've never seen you like this before, hun. You've got it bad, huh?"

"Personal connections like this, Rosie, are dangerous. I lost my self restraint entirely. It's a weakness." He fought to regain his smile, never knowing who could be passing by.

She tutted him, "Oh no, that's where you're wrong. The difference between a strong man and an unstoppable man is having something to care about." Rosie leaned over and set her hand on top of his, "Imagine you walked into Val's studio right now and found her like you did a couple months ago. How would you react?"

His stomach wretched forward, if he saw you today, hanging from the ceiling? The stench of Valentino's cigarette smoke clinging to your hair, the marks where his hands had made contact with you? His hand under her's tightened, claws leaving marks into the wooden tabletop. "Do you feel weak right now, Alastor?" The hair on his ears was standing straight up, his now black eyes met hers, "You sure don't look it."

He’d remembered hearing something similar before from Vaggie. Could it be true? It was a precarious ladder. If he let himself be close to someone, then the person is in turn close to him, then that person knows him intimately, and then— they are a walking soft spot. Someone could take them and torture them for information. Or, hurt them to hurt him.

But, who would dare? A fire rose in chest at the thought. What was the point of power if he couldn’t have what he wanted? If he had to answer to others about his desires? To pursue strength and status was what he wanted but if that strength didn’t afford him freedom than what good was it, really?

"I say, not that you asked," Rosie smiled and withdrew her hand, "Could be nice to have a little company now and then. Plus, better than waiting 60 years or something for her to just die." She shrugged, "Now, eat. You look like a shit."

Rosie had a point, while your existence was fragile, it was still available to him.

For awhile, he would call you nightly. Alastor would fuck you into the grass, beneath the trees, under the stars. He learned your orgasm would wake you, and he would draw it out as long as he could. He'd edge you for hours, watching you sob for your release. Slowly, your consciousness became more and more solid during your meetings.

To his relief, his hunger for your presence calmed over time. He could handle a week or even two without sharing your company, and he noticed each time you seemed to recognize him more. You'd participate more, moan louder, scream his name and squirm from the pleasure. He relished trapping you underneath his wide shoulders, pulling you onto his lap as he fucked up into you.

He wasn't fond of the few times he summoned you and you were already wet, or smelling of cologne. He'd tease, "Lonely?" and when he'd fuck his back cum into you before helping you chase your own orgasm, he'd remind you, "You're mine, little doe. No one can replace me." And he'd feel his chest swell. Others had your body for the night, but your soul was his forever. With every meeting, he felt more like himself. And the nights you were screaming his name in the forest, and his horns were looming over you as he marked you over and over as his, he felt powerful.

Some nights, he'd call you to him to just let you rest. He'd enjoy a book, or some jazz over a meal, while you lied quietly in his bed.

The days he pulled you into hell and your hair smelled of the trees, of sweat and dirt, he would be gentler. He could feel the ache in your muscles, the tan on your cheeks, and sent you back.

One such night came, where he of course took your chains in his hand and tugged. But this time, when you arrived, your face was painted with anger. You were asleep still, and even when he whispered to you, you didn't wake. You were having a nightmare, from what he could tell. He took you to his bed, and let you settle.

You stayed there until waking up again in your bed.

And every night that week, he'd bring you to his bed and go about his tasks while you fought some demons in your head. He'd never seen you have a nightmare, and began to wonder if something was happening in the overworld.

Alastor was enjoying a deer carcass in his room, humming softly to himself, when a green light erupted on the floor.

He was well aware it wasn't night anymore, and that he hadn't brought you here. With a soft smile, he left his meal and approached the light. Slowly, your body rose from the darkness there. Not just your soul.

When you looked up at him, a smile on your lips and two small doe ears on your head, he grinned, "Did you miss me terribly, my little doe?" He offered you a hand up, "Welcome home.”

༻Masterlist༺

3K notes · View notes

jaylaxies · 11 months

Text

KINKTOBER DAY 18 — TOYS

PAIRING: haechan x fem!reader

GENRE/CW: smut, use of toys (vibrator, hand cuffs, and dildo), mutual masturbation, usage of nicknames, haechan is a perv and so are you.

WC: 1.3k words

WARNING: 18+ content, minors dni

A/N: hihi, angels! hyuck and @jaeminvore never fail to make me go feral istg, i hope you all enjoy reading this :3 all likes, comments, reblogs and feedbacks are highly appreciated! iloveyou all <33

✎ kinktober masterlist

“If you wanted it so much then you could have just asked for it, sweetheart.”

The voice snapped you out of your daze, eyes opening to see a very smug smile plastered onto your roommate’s face, having caught you in the act of pleasuring yourself with what? A mere vibrator.

You were beyond embarrassed, also frozen as you did not expect to see him back at your shared apartment so early. He was solid two hours early as per his usual schedule, which gave you the perfect opportunity to play with yourself in the privacy of your room, not caring about being loud whenever he was out.

Problem? It was your roommate you always fantasized about while giving attention to your needy cunt, he was irresistibly attractive, and so was your insatiable need to have him, yet you couldn’t quite go to tell him the same, to maintain the decorum of being roommates and all.

Now, Haechan wasn’t a saint by any means. He had lost the count of times he had successfully stolen your panties (especially your white lace ones with the small bow in the middle), from the laundry basket, using the already soiled cloth to jerk off, wrapping it around his cock, his cum straining it further (but you did not need to know about that).

He too was equally as depraved when it came to fantasies—you being the reason and root of the core for the majority of his fantasies at least.

So, when he returned home early, only to hear your sweet moans lingering in the air, he knew he had to take his chances and intrude in hopes of catching you in the act.

What he did not expect, however, was to hear you whimper out his name with your eyes closed, legs spread enough to give him the clearest view of your wetness, along with the pink vibrator which you had been using to stimulate your swollen clit.

That’s exactly when he said that sentence, making you halt your movements altogether, yours legs closing with panic when he took a step inside the room.

“Though, I’m really offended if you think that a measly little vibrator will make you feel half as good as I can,” he spoke up, clicking his tongue before pushing it against his inner cheek, something he did when he was annoyed, or feigned annoyance if you take the current situation into consideration.

“Fuck! Hyuck, I—I’m so sorry, I didn’t know y—you’d be home,” you stated rambling, covering yourself up by side, avoiding eye contact at all costs, but he was quick to chuckle hearing your sentence.

“Shh, darling. You should be happy I’m here to help now. And since I’m so generous, I’ll be keeping the punishment time short,” he mused with amusement, yet you could see the glimpse of darkness in his eyes, swarmed with the desire he’s been holding back all this while.

You gulped, your hands barely hiding your tits as Hyuck shamelessly gave your body a once over, mumbling pretty under his breath.

“What do you mean? P—punishment?” You whispered, and Hyuck could have sworn the sight of you being confused and breathless made him want to ruin you.

He walked closer, leaning against your bed and closing the distance between you two, lips brushing against each other in a gentle caress, which sent a shiver down your spine. You could feel just how soft his lips felt, and you hadn’t even kissed him.

“So fucking cute,” he chuckled, “now be a good girl and open your legs for me if you wanna be fucked properly,” he whispered, his warm hand resting on your thigh, parting them and you gasped when the sudden gust of cold air hit your wetness.

“Fucked? Wait, Hyuck what?” You mumbled, lips on the verge of touching his and your heart felt weaker than ever.

“Just follow what I say, yeah?” He raised his brows, nodding and you found yourself in a daze, nodding back.

Then he leaned back, not giving you the kiss you were so desperately waiting for, rather, he bent down to get a box from below your bed, your eyes widening because Hyuck was not supposed to know where you hid your box of sex toys.

“Be good and you’ll get what you want, baby,” he smirked, seeing how innocent you looked, especially when he handcuffed your hands to the bedpost, getting your blue vibrating dildo out and keeping it beside you.

Your eyes were fixated on his figure, your breath hitching when he took off his T-shirt in one go, exposing his pretty melanin and the faintest abs, which was probably the prettiest sight you had even seen.

He then sat down on the couch right in front of your bed, spreading his legs as he sat, hand resting on his hardening cock. The print of his length was visible through his shorts, your mouth open and dry as the thoughts of wanting to have him in your mouth took over.

“Get that toy, baby. Let me see you pleasure yourself,” he urged, voice sultry and eyes hooded.

“Wait—you won’t touch me?” You asked, sitting with your one wrist cuffed, disappointment clear in your voice.

“So eager to be touched by me, sweetheart? First show me how much you want it,” he said, palming his cock through his pants.

Your body felt warm. Hyuck’s aura was strong, his gaze even stronger and you found yourself following his directions simply because you wanted to be good for him, your subspace pulling you right in.

“C’mon, baby. Show me how you use that dildo, and think of me while you do it,” he commanded.

You picked it up from your free hand, shyly spreading your legs to make space for it, switching it on and rubbing it all over your wet folds, eyes closing as you thought about Hyuck’s tongue, wanting it to replace the toy.

“Hyuck,” you whispered, the toy prodding at your entrance.

“Fuck,” he bit his lip, the sight in front of him was lewd yet the most innocent thing ever, he couldn’t help but get rid of his shorts, stroking his fully hardened cock now.

“Good girl, put it in your tight little cunt,” he said.

You nodded, eyes still closed and breathing ragged, a low moan leaving your lips, which caused Hyuck’s cock to twitch as you pushed the vibrating phallic in you, thighs closing and opening again at the sensation.

A whine of his name left your mouth again, and he could have sworn it was the prettiest sound he had ever heard. You continued your ministrations, leaving the dildo in your cunt and pressing a small vibrator on your clit, doubling the feeling of your unadulterated pleasure, your eyes watering when you saw him fucking his fist at the sight of you touching yourself.

It was too hot for you to handle.

“Yes, baby. Let go for me,” he whispered, watching your body shake and a tear falling down your cheek.

That’s it, that was your punishment—watching Hyuck touch himself but not touching you, which left you frustrated.

An irritated sound left your lips, causing him to chuckle and approach you again.

“What’s wrong, darling? Not satisfied?” He asked, mocking you.

“Please,” you said in a small voice.

“Hm?” He asked, urging you to speak louder.

“Please touch me—fuck me,” you begged, surprising yourself as you had never been this desperate before, your body shivering as it ached for him.

His eyes darkened, his carnal desires taking over, “I hope you’re ready to be fucked all night, darling,” he said, voice deep and promising.

That’s all he said before capturing your lips into a deep kiss, pulling you closer by your neck, your knees weaker than ever as he bit your lower lip, making you go feral with just one action.

Oh you so knew it was going to be a long (and adventurous) night.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

permanent taglist: @jaeminvore @macaroonff @ajayke-reads @jaysbiceps @lunalovesstories @jayzdaze @deobitifull @celeste-hoon @mari-oclock @kpoprhia @ikeuizm @woniebae @lalalalawon @blessedcursd @skzenhalove @heesuncore @seuomo @kyurizeu @haechan-nahceah @tobiosbbyghorl @jezzebear @jaehoonii @itsgivingitalian @bunhoons @hyacandoit @luvswonyoung @ma-riiii

kinktober taglist: @glitterssim @kaykay11sworld @sfsrm-blog @certifiedmoa @luvkpopp @lanawyi @heerinnie @ablackbtsstan @ma-riiii @mesopret @electrobutterfly @cupidsmoons @erehkinnie30 @mulit05ho3st4n

bold ones couldn’t be tagged!

taglist open! send an ask or comment to be added!

#🎫 — kinktober!#ria:kinktober #haechan smut #donghyuck smut #nct smut #nct dream smut #nct 127 smut #haechan au #haechan x reader #haechan scenarios #nct fanfic #lee haechan smut #kpop smut

968 notes · View notes

griffinsabina · 7 months

Text

If there will be a Blades 3, i hope the love interest don't get alternative romances, except between each other. They can't give them all one, there's too many of them. If they do, I think Imtura would get one being the least popular choice. I don't want her to get the Luke Harper treatment, i hated it. It would've been fine if all four got one, but only him and Hamid possibly had one in the Christmas book. When I pushed him under the mistletoe with Annabelle's sister, he was receptive, while Ernest became uncomfortable. I'm just glad they didn't pull that shit with Griffin and Aster.

#playchoices #blades of light and shadow #blades 3 #desire and decorum #imtura tal kaelen #luke harper #mine #text post

5 notes · View notes

urscorpiosworld · 2 years

Text

this whole scene was TOO funny the way he was sO ready to beat the prince’s ass😭😭

#choices #play choices #desire and decorum choices #desire and decorum #mr. sinclaire #desire and decorum 3

13 notes · View notes

loversatthegreatdivide · 4 months

Text

Heavy Lies the Heart - Chapter 1

Masterlist // Continue Reading

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x F!OC Word Count: 2k Tropes: mutual pining, fluff, angst with a happy ending, royalty Warnings: death Summary: When two second-borns looking for direction meet by chance, can they find purpose in each other? Or will circumstance keep them apart? A/N: This starts at the beginning of season 3, but some timeline things are a bit different here than in the series. Also I'm changing history--it's fine, it's basically in an alternate universe anyway.

A new season had begun, and it was with an all too familiar sense of annoyance that Benedict Bridgerton found himself arriving once again at the Danbury ball. If not for his mother's insistence and his desire to support Francesca in her first season out, he may not have come at all.

Benedict certainly had no desire to join the mart, and he found society and it's rules disingenuous at best, insufferable at worst. It was another season. Another ball. Another night of counting down the minutes while avoiding the attentions of the more emboldened debutantes and their scheming mamas.

Then again, what else had he to do? With his exit from the academy and Anthony's return, he felt rather unmoored. Adrift with no real purpose or goal. A second son with no role to fill or any steadfast ambitions. Even his younger brother Colin seemed to have truly found himself in his time abroad.

What would it take for Benedict to feel so secure?

The ball had barely begun, yet already Benedict found himself hounded by the attentions of the young ladies of the marriage mart. He suspected this was due, in no small part, to the transformation of his younger brother. Colin seemed to rather enjoy the attention, but Benedict found he did not feel the same. At the first opportunity, he made a quick exit, escaping to the safety of the garden. He stood alone, close enough to hear the music inside but far enough to feel the weight of expectation lift. He took in a deep breath of the crisp night air, and sighed in relief.

As he enjoyed his moment of peace, he heard a commotion from inside. Given the excitement, he could only imagine that the queen was finally in attendance. Always the most anticipated guest, yet always the last to arrive. He thought to avoid the fanfare, sipping the lemonade in his hand as he enjoyed the night's sky.

Benedict spend some time just appreciating the silence, but knew he would have to return soon. With things inside having quieted somewhat, he supposed it was as good of a time as any. He was also aware that certain members of his family would likely be cross with him if he disappeared for too long. He sighed, downing the last of his drink before turning to enter the fray once more.

He set his empty glass on a nearby table as he ventured through the crowd. He looked across the room, making eye contact with both Anthony and his mother. At the very least they would know he hadn't fled the grounds altogether.

He scanned the crowd, thinking he ought to at least check in on his three remaining siblings. Instead, his eyes landed on a young woman.

She was lovely.

Her golden hair was tied up simply, with a few stray curls falling to frame a heart shaped face. Brown eyes sat below worried, upturned brows as her full, rosy lips held a nervous smile.

She stood in a crowd of young men, the lot gathering around her like circling wolves as they vied for the attentions of their pray. The young woman looked anxious as she attempted to hold fast to decorum, her smile wavered but never completely disappeared. Benedict thought perhaps he should rescue the poor girl, but as more stragglers joined the crowd, he wondered if he even could.

Before making up his mind, he saw her address the crowd with a quick word, before turning and, as swiftly as was proper, escaping into a group of debutantes. The men seem to argue with each other as they each tried to follow. But by the time they turned to do so, they had already lost sight of her.

But Benedict hadn't, his gaze following her as she weaved her way through the crowds.

She smoothly slipped between different clusters of people, clearly trying to avoid anyone's notice. Many did catch sight of her, but she quickly moved on before they could entrap her in a conversation. Soon she made it to the wall, which she followed until she had disappeared into the same door Benedict had only just entered from. It seemed he wasn't the only one who desired the calm of the garden.

He debated for a moment if he should follow. She was clearly overwhelmed, and likely didn't want another man pestering her--not to mention unchaperoned. He came up with a few shaky reasons that were in favor of it, but he knew they weren't honest ones. In truth, it was simply that his curiosity had been peaked, and he was attempting to rationalize why it was that he should follow.

Curiosity won out in the end, and Benedict once again made his way back out into the night.

He saw her sitting on a stone bench near the door, her lilac dress flowing out around her. It wasn't one that ladies would consider currently in fashion; having an hourglass shape and a full skirt rather than the more simple, straight shape of the dresses most of the ladies inside were wearing. Still, he thought it quite suited her.

She looked as if she had lept from the frame of a painting. Her face draped in moonlight as she stared up at the sky. A tear slid down her cheek, sparkling in the pale light, and Benedict suddenly felt quite ashamed of himself. He realized he had been selfish, planning to disturb the time she clearly needed to herself. He turned, intent to leave her to her thoughts. However, the scuff of his shoes was enough to get her attention and she turned suddenly. Her eyes caught his, and for a moment he stood frozen in her gaze.

Finally, he came to his senses and addressed her, his tone apologetic.

"Forgive me, miss. I did not mean to disturb you," he said quickly. She looked confused, but soon composed herself as she turned to wipe the tears from her face.

"No need to apologize sir," she began, turning to face him with a small, reassuring smile, "I was just getting some air."

Benedict took a few, small steps forward. He waited for her to object, but when she said nothing he took a few steps more. They were shoulder to shoulder, though he left a healthy amount of space between them.

"It's all rather stifling, isn't it?" he asked. He returned her smile, and she quickly turned her gaze down, running a gloved finger over the embroidered vines that decorated the bottom of her dress.

"Certainly more so than I had expected."

"Am I correct in thinking this is your first year? I don’t recall seeing you at one of these," he gestured vaguely at the manor, "before."

She looked back up at him, searching his face for a moment. Whatever she was looking for, she apparently found it. She smiled with a degree more enthusiasm.

"That's quite a skill, recalling the face of every young lady to grace such a grand event," she joked.

"I could say it was well practiced, but the truth is I would simply be unable to forget a face as lovely as yours," he replied. He could see her cheeks flush through the cool moonlight illuminating her face.

"You give compliments with such ease. Is that skill also well practiced?" she asked as she began to regain her composure.

"I may be prone to the occasional bit of flattery, but in this case I am quite sincere." She looked away in clear embarrassment, and Benedict had to look down briefly to hide the grin forming on his face. "But I have made you uncomfortable, forgive me; I shall say no more about it." Her eyes moved back to him, "I certainly wouldn't blame you for being apprehensive under such circumstances--given what I saw in the ballroom, I imagine you've had quite enough of men and their compliments."

She looked back up at him, "You mean those gentlemen who were speaking to me earlier?"

"The same. They all seemed rather...frenzied to gain your favor."

"Yes, I suppose," she agreed, looking forlorn, "though I believe their intentions were quite different than yours."

Benedict raised an eyebrow, "Oh?" He thought a moment, "If it was not your looks that drew them, was it perhaps the allure of a large dowry? Or possibly some grand title to be inherited?" She actually laughed at that, albeit more to herself than as a sign of amusement.

"Yes, I suppose you could say that," she agreed, "though they may be disappointed; they would certainly be settling for second best. It is my elder sister's family who will inevitably inherit my father's title, and sadly for those gentlemen she has already married."

Benedict was quiet for a moment, looking over her self-effacing expression with understanding and, in spite of himself, a measured degree of affection.

He smirked, "I thought there must be some reason we get on so well; I myself happen to be a second son. Maddening, isn't it? Always feeling like the spare?"

She looked at him in surprise, before relaxing into a grateful smile.

"It certainly can be," she agreed. She hesitated a moment, before deciding to continue, "I often feel as if I don't know what to do with myself. I have always existed to be my sister's replacement, should the worst happen. Now that she is married and with child, a replacement is no longer needed. So what am I, now that I'm no longer what I was born to be?"

Benedict had to think on that for a moment. He was hardly one to advise someone in the exact predicament he found himself in. Still, he hoped he could give her some degree of comfort.

"You're free," he finally answered. She looked up at him, her eyes locking with his. They stared at each other for a long, quiet moment until at last she looked away.

"If only that were true," she said softly to herself.

At that moment, the sounds from inside grew louder. The young woman looked back into the light of the ballroom. She sighed, then looked at him with a soft smile.

"I suppose I should return; I'm sure at this point I'm quite missed," she stood, smoothing out the silken fabric of her dress. "It was a pleasure to meet you, mister…?"

"Benedict. Benedict Bridgerton," he said, bowing gracefully.

"Mister Bridgerton," she repeated, "Well Mister Bridgerton, I do look forward to speaking with you again sometime."

With that she made her way towards the door. Just as she reached the threshold, she stopped. She quickly turned back to him, "Oh, and perhaps you should wait before returning indoors--it would be unfortunate if anyone came to the wrong conclusion."

She was certainly right about that. As she turned back, a sudden thought occurred to him.

"Wait a moment--" Benedict called out suddenly, his hand raised to stop her. But it was too late, she had already disappeared into the warm light of the ballroom. "--what's your name?" He asked to no one, sighing as he turned.

He wandered over and sat on the bench she had been on only moments before. Resting his palms on the cool stone and leaning back on his arms, he couldn't help but grin. He turned his face up to the moon, hoping to meet the curious young woman again soon.

---

Benedict eventually made his way inside, thinking more than enough time had past. As he walk through the ballroom, he searched the crowd. With her nowhere in sight, he accepted that she had already gone. With nothing else to keep his interest, he eventually wandered over to where his mother, Anthony, and Kate stood.

"And just where were you?" Violet asked, annoyance clear in her voice.

"We were quite sure you had run off," Anthony added, smirking. Benedict smiled, turning his face out to the dance floor.

"Not at all brother--I was simply enjoying the ball," he replied. Anthony and his mother shared a perplexed look, but Benedict didn't notice. His thoughts were otherwise occupied.

---

The young woman took the gloved hand that was offered as she carefully stepped into the opulent, golden carriage. She delicately adjusted her skirts as the queen looked her over.

"So Beatrice, tell me--did you enjoy the ball? Was it everything you had imagined?" The queen asked, amused.

"It was certainly different than what I had expected--but I did enjoy it very much," the young woman smiled, looking back at the queen, "Thank you for agreeing to bring me along, grandmama."

#benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x oc #heavy lies the heart #my writing #loversatthegreatdivide

200 notes · View notes