#fic: the silken dagger

[whatislovevavy]

Vending Machine Glow on Route 79

Jake Seresin x afab!reader

WC: 2.1k

Masterlist

Summary: Before leaving for college, you and Jake say goodbye in more ways than one on the last night of your cruel summer. 

Warnings: swearing smut (18+), angst, lots of feelings, friends to lovers to almost strangers, both reader and Jake are 18 and over.

AN: This fic is heavily inspired by Taylor Swift’s Cruel Summer. It’s been on my mind for a few months and I finally had the time and creativity to write it :) I hope you guys enjoy :)

All of my writings will be added to my writing side blog @sophs-writing-nook 

These characters are obviously not my own. This is an 18+ fanfic, so minors scoot pls. You are responsible for the media you consume. Do not copy, plagiarize, repost, or translate this fic without my explicit permission as it is my own creation. 

“What time do you have to leave tomorrow?”  

You said as you stared at the ceiling, laying on the cheap motel mattress with Jake, bare beneath the sheets. You didn’t have to ask him what time. You were mentally counting down the seconds till your best friend was leaving you. 

Your first love was leaving you. 

Jake was set to leave for Annapolis in the morning, and you were set for UT Austin in the Fall for journalism. 

“7 AM.” 

His tone lacked the usual joy and cockiness he’d started to develop in highschool. He gently reached out for your hand, running his calloused thumb along the back of it. You gently reached out to cuddle into his side. 

“I’m going to miss you.” 

Your voice choked in your throat, shifting your gaze to Jake Seresin, the farm boy next door who you’d known since you could run. The boy you used to sneak out into the fields and woods to look for frogs and snakes with. The once lanky, awkward teenage boy with braces who used knock on your screen door unannounced, now filled out his highschool football and baseball jersey and had girls batting their eyes at him. 

“I’m going to miss you too, Mooney.”

The nickname always made you smile. One summer during 8th grade, you and Jake had tried to make moonshine in the back of the Seresin farmhouse from some of the ripe strawberries on your family's farm. To say the least, you were far from successful and were both grounded for 2 months. 

But it was one of your most cherished memories with Jake. That, and sneaking off with each of your horses to go swimming in dagger lake in the hot summer months during chore time. The cherished nickname now just made the tears harder to hold back.

“Hey,” Jake soothed, “I’m here, Mooney, I'm here. I'm right here with you.” Your glassy eyes peaked up, meeting his kind, soothing ones. The pad of his thumb gently wiped away your tears. 

You sighed as he gently pulled your lips in for a soft, loving kiss. His hands clutched at your bare hips, rolling you underneath him. He sighed as your nails gently caressed and scratched at his neck and back of his head.

You tried to memorize the way his plush lips felt against your own. After all, you didn't know when you would get to feel them again. 

Jake didn't hurry with his efforts as he clutched at and caressed the slopes and edges of your body he'd always loved. 

Your soft sighs spurred him on, lathing kisses at your neck down to your breasts and areolas, your nipples taut from the friction against Jake's chest and the steady flow of chilled air from the humming AC unit in the corner.

Soft moans left your lips as he gently teased two fingers at your entrance, savoring the feeling of your silken walls around his welcomed digits. Eyes fluttering closed, fingers weaving into his hair as he gently, lovingly worked you towards your release, letting his calloused fingertips run along that extraordinary little spot that had you seeing the familiar, pretty shade of green behind your eyelids. 

He let you come down from your high, littering your lips and neck with tender kisses, like he was trying to memorize the way your skin felt against him. 

You clutched your nails into the back of his neck and flexed shoulders as he eased his cock between your smooth, soft folds, like the love-worn pages of a book that Jake couldn't get enough of. 

“Jake.”

Your sighs made his heart clench and belly stir. 

His hips moving in slow tandem with your own. Each clench of your plush walls made him moan softly, his nose running along the column of your neck, almost as if trying to memorize the soft smell of strawberries that always followed you. 

His hips moved in an uneven tempo, his release tailing your own. The soft whimpers and sighs leaving your perfectly parted lips made it more difficult to keep his pace in check. 

Your hips sputtered underneath him, thighs twitching around his lean waist. His lips crashed against yours as he felt you clutch desperately at his waist and shoulders, your release coming into the world with a cry of his name and a shudder. 

His release followed suit; his body, soul and mind lost in the feeling of you. 

Two people trying to make it in this world, intertwined as one. 

He let his forehead softly rest against your own, breaths weaving together against the cheap sheets of the motel. 

You pouted when he untangled himself from you, turning on the golden light of the bathroom to grab a washcloth. Softly smiling as he gently, lovingly wiped at your tender folds.

He always took care of you after your times together. 

But this time felt different. Off. 

The way he looked at you. He acted as if it was the last time he was going to. Like he was saying goodbye with each tender, soft touch of your body and lips. 

Your eyebrows furrowed, trying to keep your bubbling anxiety at bay. 

“Why do you keep looking at me like that ?”

His eyes didn't meet yours, instead focusing on the warm feeling of the washcloth on his palm as he continued to gently rub at your inner thighs. 

Your hand stalled his movements. 

“Jake?”

His eyes met yours. But they weren't bright or as mirthful as they had always been; they were glassy and distant.

Your heart beat was quickening by the second. 

“Please talk to me.” 

His heart clenched at your plea. He knew this was going to be one of the most difficult things he'd ever have to do in his life. 

A beat of tense silence passed. 

You swallowed, trying to lighten your tone. “you're acting like this is goodbye…forever.”

He swallowed, feeling tears brimming. 

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Mooney.” He said it so softly that if you were anywhere else, you most likely wouldn't have heard him. 

Your heart stopped and increased in density by a thousand fold. The once lively organ now consuming the life force of everything within its vicinity, your fingertips tingling. 

“I just- with the Navy and everything, and you know how my dad is. I can't come back.” His desperate tone tried to plea a winning case for why this couldn't work. 

“And long distance doesn't work out for a lot of people.” He said softly, tears falling freely now. 

Your lip quivered, body retracting from his once welcoming, warm touch. 

“So you don’t even want to try?” 

The mix of anger and sadness felt so foreign being made from something Jake did. 

He put his face in his hands, shaking it. “I don’t know, Mooney. I just don’t know.” 

You watched with parted lips, trying to find the words to say with the tears budding in your eyes like the strawberry bushes Jake would help you tend to on your family’s farm. 

“It shouldn't be this hard for you to decide what you want with me!” You borderline shouted, frustration mixing with agony like a potent toxin in your soul.

"I thought you loved me?" your wounded, defeated tone made Jake's heart clench. If you weren't so devastated, you would have caught the flinch from the boy in front of you. You knew Jake wanted to be a pilot, more than anything in the world.

But you didn’t think it would cost what you had with him. 

“I need some air, I hope you find what you're looking for because clearly you aren't going to find it with me,” you rasped out, voice thick with emotion, staggering to your feet, finding your clothes littered on the floor, and hastily putting them on.

You half expected the boy that learned to have a response for anything to say something. Anything. 

Stay.

I’m scared, too.

I love you. 

We can figure this out, together. 

But he remained silent as you slammed the door closed behind you; pleading, teary eyes following your body leave behind the cheap wooden door. He didn't even try to stop you. You hurried down the steps to the first level, finding a quiet area near the vending machines and their inviting glow, under the full moon and stars. 

You leaned against the side of the machine, looking at all the near expired, wrapped goodies inside. All the goodies that Jake would have gladly shared with you. Now you weren’t so sure they meant anything. The familiar bubble of anguish and frustration became too much. You couldn’t hold it in any longer. 

And so you cried. 

You cried for the impending loss of the boy down the dirt road. You cried for the unfairness of your too separate dreams and what would feel like a million miles separating the two of you. You cried for the stark differences in both of your lives that made itself into a wedge between you both. 

But most of all, you cried for the trying times that he didn’t want to try to fight for. 

The ring of the bell above the glass door barely announced your presence to the packed bar. You had needed a break after unpacking the last box in your new home, and if you were going to be living in America’s Finest City, you should at least try to make some new friends. Afterall, you started work at the San Diego Tribune on Monday.

You drew your attention from the packed bar to the woman taking your order at the bar top, with her kind hazel, green eyes and shoulder length brunette hair. She couldn’t have been a day after 40. 

“A rum and coke, please?”

She gave you a nod and kind smile before turning to prepare your drink. Rum and Cokes became your go to during college. Nobody sold strawberry moonshine where you settled.

It wouldn’t taste the same anyway. 

Your eyes drew to the sea of people near the back deck and around the pool tables. The sea of beige military uniforms made your lip quirk. 

Did he ever make it to flight school?

Your chest tightened at the memory of how things ended, and the realization that you hadn’t spoken in almost 15 years. Not since he was set to leave for Annapolis; you didn't show up to see him off, watching his dusty, red truck leave you as he drove away on the dirt road of his family’s ranch from your bedroom window.  The last remnant of him evaporating into the dust his tires kicked up as he left. 

Memories of a simpler time swirled in your mind like the drink in your hand. 

Your ears perked up at the steady bass playing through the speakers. 

Foghat’s "Slow Ride".

Memories of laughter and secret kisses with the farmboy down the road, whose dreams were too big for Texas. 

Too big for you. 

Your lip quirked into a frown as you sighed, taking a drink, eyes drifting to the jukebox in the corner of the bar. A well-built man leaned against it, obviously hitting on the girl with the miniskirt and tank top to his left. From where you sat, you could only make out the blush on the girl’s cheeks, not the identity of the man behind the flirtations. He looked handsome; his strong shoulders, buzzed brunette blond hair at the base of his neck. 

Jake’s hair used to gleam the same way. 

You took a drink from your glass just as the man turned around. To walk to the bar top with the girl in tow. The burning liquid stalling in your throat, your stomach clenching as his features registered. He looked older now, brow lines evident. Definitely taller and more well built than when you saw him leave. He hadn't lost that charming smile, or his handsome green eyes, or the small cluster of freckles on his neck line. Your lip quirked with a wave of intense nostalgia. 

The girl that looked like she was in her mid to late twenties settled at the bar top, separating you from the man that you hadn’t seen or touched since the motel on route 79.

His eyes focused on her, giving her the same dimple-lidden smile you loved seeing in the hayloft during thunderstorms when you both wanted to get away from your families. 

She turned towards the bartender to place her drink order. His gaze flitted from hers to Penny’s. His eyes do a double take on yours. 

His posture straightened, lips parting, eyes staying on yours. Your eyes were held in a trance, placing your glass on the bar top. Before you had time to say anything, years of memories and missed memories took control.  

“Mooney?”

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[pursuitseternal]

“Seek Me:” naughty Hide and Seek for you and your Vampire Lord in “The Rogue You Were”

Ascended Astarion x F!Reader | E | 3.4 K of predator/prey, hide and seek double smut

Summary: To fight the impending ennui of politics, you play a game, just a simple hunt, a sort of dark and perverted hide and seek. Winner claims the spoils, and the spoils are always… delicious.

CW: predator/prey dynamics, perverted hide and seek, slight exhibitionism (twice), rough sex, possessive sex, double cream pie, (surprise) carriage sex

Ao3 link | Astarion fic Masterlist

Chapter 11… Seek Me

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

Shadows stretch across the palace halls, bending and misshaping anything familiar. That creeping memory of sneaking in here years ago to stop the Rite that made you and your love what you are still niggles in your thoughts and nightmares sometimes.

Times like this, you wonder why Astarion insisted on living in such a place of past torment. Even though the decor was brighter and the crimsons more vibrant, it didn’t matter in the dark.

All looked the same cloaked in shadows and covered in night.

Your undead heart pounds, it's slow and hard as your breasts rise and fall rapidly with your breaths. Why… why did you agree to let him go first? Some little game to break the ennui. A simple game of hide and seek. But you should have known, hiding and seeking was more than that in an ancient ancestral, vampiric palace.

And it was always more than that with Astarion, your love, your sire, your husband.

You keep your eyes open for his glowing red gaze… your ears train the ground for his near silent step… he’s far more practiced at all being a vampire entails. He can hold his breath, slow his heart, move like death incarnate.

Your only advantage is that you know the palace better. All these days spent overseeing renovations as he attended council meetings and travels, you had more than a few tricks up your sleeve. As long as he didn’t catch you first.

Darting onto the balcony, you keep to the shadows and hug the wall. If you can just make it inside the hall, you’re sure he won’t find you for quite some time.

After all, it’s just a little game to play while your guests are still departing, admiring your new palace. It’s only a matter of time now before you both need to leave for some grand soirée, another of many evenings wrapped up in tedium and the boring banter of politics and power. This game is to spice up the evening ahead. And instead, it just makes your heart race.

Winner or loser, you know you’re just going to end up split on his cock, gasping and pleasured wherever you are. Wherever it is he finds you.

You just hope it’s not within earshot of these nobles…these poor, pathetic souls who wander to look at your splendorous home. You hear their voices from down below, lightening your step to go unnoticed. Muffled noises grow closer. Hands shaking, you know that hidden door is here… behind this panel, your hands skim over the ornate wallpaper, searching with fumbling touch for the switch. Noises grow louder, and suddenly you’re aware of the milling crowd on the other side of the railing. They can just catch you from the corners of their judgemental eyes, their ears just within reach enough to hear you if you were to make enough noise…

You wonder if they can also hear those footsteps approaching. Astarion. Hunting you down, seeking you in your fun and twisted game.

Trembling, ragged breaths come from your mouth as you finally hear the click of the hidden switch, the panel shifting in the wall to reveal total and utter darkness. You smile, relieved….

Until two glowing crimson eyes open to look down on you from within. Quicker than breath, he’s turned you around, dagger to your throat and arms pinning you against his chest as he laughs so quietly in your ear. “Shhhh, not a sound… my treasure.” He grinds his prominent erection on the curve of your ass through your thin silken gown. “Not if you want those Patriars and Council members to hear how much of a slut you are for your lover…”

You swallow the sound that longs to break from your throat. His hand, the one that isn’t skating the blade of his dagger tantalizingly over your neck, skates up your thigh, rucking up your skirts to reveal your bare legs and curves. Just the way he likes you.

“You want that, want to show off how much I crave you, don’t you…?” you hiss the question, pulling at his arm enough to free you, but he only retaliates with a smile on his lips.

Clutching you all the harder, he spins you both into the wall to press you into that elegant wallpaper. That dagger blade is stowed away, replaced by his hand at your neck. His laugh is laced with pure devilry—he lives for this. That hand returns to hiking up your skirt until you feel nothing but the fine, supple leather of his trousers grinding against your ass. “You question if I’d like the powerful men of this city to know that its Hero against the Netherbrain whimpers for me almost every hour of the day?” You feel his hands quickly, dexterously unlace those leathers. That thick, hot head of his cock teases against your ass, slipping beneath your thighs as he spreads you wider with his knee. “You wonder if I’m proud that my beloved longs for me always, and I for her?”

You stifle your groan against the rich and ribbed texture of the wallpaper. That cock head teasing into your entrance just enough to make you shake, to make you press against the wall harder to lift your hips more for him. A low growl shakes against your sensitive ear as he approves, that cock teasing inside you just a little bit more. “Tell me, my treasure, how hard did you try to hide from me? That couldn’t have really been your best…” he taunts you, both with that hot and blunted head in your folds and his words in your ear. “Once I’m finished claiming my victory this round, you’ll just have to try again you know…”

Shivering, you nod, your cheek rubbing that expensive paper, its lush colors too bright to have your face shoved against it. “Oh no, I was barely trying, my love,” you lie just to taunt him all the same. “I just wanted you to claim your victory, worried you’d take too long for how badly I need you.”

“Such pleasing words from my lust-driven consort,” he chuckles, quiet enough for your ear alone. “Such a slut, just for me, is that it?” he rasps as he shoves himself deep into you at last, fangs sinking into your neck all at once. “What kind of lover would I be to deny you that?”

He sucks harder at your neck, hips pistoning against your rear deliberately and smoothly. You physically bite your tongue and cheek to keep from moaning, the hard won prize of this game going to both of you, that desire flooding your bond. Thighs shaking, you know you won’t last much longer, not with the thrill of being just out of eyesight from the dozen or so guests that still mill around. “I look forward to you trying to beat me again,” he growls in your ear, words staggered and stuttered with his thrusts. “But we better finish this round before anyone suspects the Vampire Lord and his Consort of being so madly in love they can’t keep their hands or sexes off each other, hmm?”

A small whine escapes your self-imposed gag on your lips, and it makes him laugh low and dangerously in his throat. “What a good little consort,” he nips at your ear. “Just can’t help yourself. So clever to get caught…” he groans. With that thickening inside you, that gravel in his voice, you know he’s growing close.

The thought alone makes you come undone, back arching, your fangs breaking your own lip’s flesh. It takes every ounce of self-restraint to keep yourself from mewling and screaming as you burst in heat. And all the while, he’s groaning and rasping in your right ear. Shivers run down your back as he grunts harder in that sensitive spot against your neck. Erratic, hard thrusts jab deep inside you, his cock twitching as it pulses and fills you.

“That scent will make it harder for you to hide this time, you know my treasure,” he emphasizes with a deep breath right against your neck. “Your blood, my cum, your arousal… You’re such a mess, marked so well. There’s nowhere inside this palace I won’t be able to track you down, you know…”

You smirk, spinning in his arms to rest your back against the wall. “We’ll see about that…” you tease, breathless and overconfident. He just smirks, that edge of arousal and intrigue darkening the deep crimson of his narrowing eyes.

“I’m sure you’ll do your best, my darling little vampling,” he kisses your lips longingly, a little playful nip at the end, the mingling of iron on your tongues from your blood. He breaks away, eyes wide, frightening as he wraps his hand around your throat, your skin still slick from blood. “We have half an hour before we must depart for the evening, my pet. You had better not delay us, you know.”

“You wish me to let you win in that time so we remain… punctual?” you tease.

“I’m just stating the obvious,” he shakes his head very slowly as he smirks wide enough to bare his fangs, “I won’t be pleased if I have to leave without you just because you decided to be clever.”

“I… am… clever,” you taunt, tapping him on his nose with each insolent word.

Astarion pulls his hand away from your throat, eyes glinting, breath still. “Then I’ll let you get a head start, my clever girl…” he leans his fanged face into yours, “so you had better run.”

You stumble away, thighs slick as he watches you break out into the evening on the balcony again. He just laughs, your scent too strong in his nose. Voices from below call up to him, those guests wishing to impart a few more good wishes to their host before their departure for the next gathering. Astarion shoves his cock back in his trousers, perfecting his appearance before leering down at the nobles form over that thick railing. Those mortals so literally far beneath him. “A fair evening to you,” he calls with a flourish. “My lady and I will see you at the festivities anon. A few matters of home to wrap up before the evening, I’m afraid.”

He sniffs the air, the stink of these guests cloud his senses. Striding down the stairs, he tries to pick up your scent, but there are just too many bodies, too much stale wine and general stink. Once the door is shut to the palace, once he is truly alone, he tears through room after room, searching and sniffing. His mind tugs against yours. “Where are you… darling….?” he growls down your bond, but you know better than to answer. “Trying so hard to be clever, is that it?”

He sneers to himself as he sweeps silently through bedchambers and ballrooms and galleries. He presses against the walls at cracks and hidden doors to scent you within the tunnels. The clock starts to chime, and Astarion hisses in frustration. He hears the carriage rumbling outside the main doors.

“On the gods, darling,” he hisses outloud and down their bond. “If you don’t come out right now, I will be sorely disappointed.” He huffs, grabbing his gloves and cane perched neatly in the foyer. He pauses for a moment, tilting his pointed ear to listen to his palace, scanning his domain for her. “You think you’ve won?” he snips, irritated and irked as he starts out the door towards the waiting coach. It’s black paint trimmed with gold shines in the torchlight as night falls. “I assure, my darling, if you don’t come this moment to the coach for the evening’s gathering…”

He lets the threat hang in the air. Not even a tremor of a laugh from her end of their bond. Teeth grinding, he launches from the door into the gathering dark of night. He opens the carriage door with a shout for the driver to make haste. Before the door has even shut behind him, his team of raven black mares is off through the Upper City.

Astarion flops down on the elegantly cushioned seat of his coach. His cane in his hands nearly breaks in the strength of his angered grip. “How dare she…” he hisses into the dark as the carriage bumps and sways over the streets. That little window lets the wind whistle in. Usually he enjoys the breeze on his face, but now, tonight, it annoys the hells out of it. He slams it shut

Suddenly, without that breeze, a scent reaches his nose. Blood… arousal…

“Oh… my love…” your voice tickles his mind.

The couch sways around a corner, something shuffling near his feet. A hand shoots up to grab the hem of his jacket, yanking him towards the floor.

“Darling…” he purrs down at you as your eyes lock into his, your fangs must be glinting in the dim light in the carriage.

“I win,” you gloat, your body pinned beneath him on the floor of your carriage. His legs are already spreading yours, hands already roughly pulling your skirts up to your waist, yet you feel like the victor. The prey finally catches the predator in her neat little trap.

“Clever little consort, setting her snare so neatly for me to wind up between your legs…” he rasps, his body bumping and swaying against you in time with the movements of your coach. But then he begins to add a few more deliberate thrusts of his clothed and hardened cock against your already used and soaking folds. “What is the prize you wish to claim, my treasure?”

“You know my favorite prize,” you purr, catching the edge of his pointed ear in your mouth for a suck, one that deafens him for the moment from the rumble of your coach. A moan slips out from his lips far louder than would be dignified.

His ear slips from your mouth as he turns his head, a snarl in Astarion’s throat as he catches your chin. “Then it is everything you shall receive…” he growls, “when I decide to finally give it to you…” he teases you darkly, those hips grinding against your folds mercilessly. He’s heavy on your core, the bumping and jostling of the carriage stealing your breath as he sometimes times his thrusts with the unpredictable up-down. It only makes him laugh harder and capture your lips in his when he squashes you so completely.

“Maybe if you had just played the game properly, you wouldn’t be feeling so trapped like the little prey you are for me, my little treat…” he nips into your neck, just a small bite. Enough to draw blood by the mouthful for him to feast on.

“I did play, and I won,” you chuckle low in your throat, reaching between our hips to blatantly touch myself. “Maybe it’s time you paid respects to the victor this round?” You tease him, acerbic and haughty as he hears your fingers toying through your own slick.

Astarion gives that low and wicked laugh, relishing your defiant spirit. “I don’t think you want anything respectful done with you…. Do you my treasure?” He can’t stiffle a groan as he teases his own cock head through your sopping seam. Over the rattling of your wooden coach cobblestones, you hear the wet sounds of him playing inside you. It sends shivers down your spine and makes you bite your lips enough to draw your own blood to paint your lips scarlet.

You groan, the carriage lurches around a corner making you both roll to the side. A wicked laugh in your throat, you take full advantage of the surprise. Momentum swings you around, until you are the one on top, in a second, a little rise of your hips, and you sink his cock deep inside you.

Astarion bares his fangs and hisses at the sudden warmth and wet that sucks him in, his head now bouncing on the floor. You ride him mercilessly. “Such a good prize you are…” you tease him, gripping his chin to make him look at you. “Nothing like having the Vampire Ascendant at my mercy for once,” you flaunt your victory.

“You think yourself so clever and….” he starts, but you press a finger against his mouth before sticking two of them inside his mouth as you shush him.

“Hush,” you smirk, glowing in your moment of power. You swirl your fingers around his mouth, grazing over his wet and sucking tongue, pricking your skin on his razor-fangs. “Just let your clever Consort have this victory once,” you smile, pouting down at him a bit as you pull your fingers from his salivating lips.

“Very well, my darling,” he growls, “but at least you could let your loving Ascendant lord sit up so his head isn’t addled by the roads.”

You snicker, “Of course. We wouldn’t want to have your mind any more befuddled by my glorious win.” Your smirk is feral and arrogant. You ease off of him, watching with a knowing and careful eye as he slides himself up to rest against the door of the carriage.

He tosses his head, your bodies still joined perfectly, the coach still rocking with that extra, insatiable friction that moves your sexes on their own. He smirks as you ride over a massive bump, one that fairly throws you into the air to slide down his cock with more force than you can give. You gasp as it makes you land squarely on him, cock head slamming your cervix.

The grin on his face grows delightfully sadistic as it twists those sharp features. You see his ears twitching as he listens closely to the rumbles of the coach, smirk winding higher as he lifts you up in time with the coach to slam you back down as it falls….

You grit your teeth and scream through them with a smile as he fills you, sharp and suddenly. “Get riding, my clever treasure,” he chuckles as he pulls you in for a kiss, “or these roads and I will do it for you.”

You give him a glare, more amorous than angry, your mouth slack as you buck your hips with abandon. You bite your lip as you move, the vibrations of the coach send you barreling towards your bliss so quickly. Hard and fast, your hands grip into the stitching of his jacket, his breath hot at the base of your neck. His gaze burns your skin, watching the way your breasts jiggle and move right before his eyes as you are thrown around, at the mercy of the coach’s movements.

He groans, the pressure so great inside you both, you feel it searing between you and crashing down your mental bond. With one breath, you clench around him, his hands grip into your waist to keep you steady as he tries to snap his hips. It bursts inside you, the pressure and pleasure erupting through your core as you reach your peaks as one. He places a breathless kiss on the soft skin of your bosom. “I do so love when you win too, my perfect prey and equal hunter…” he pants against your flesh. “I’ll gladly let you claim your victory from me…” his left brow arches rakishly and teasing, “but only when you’ve earned it, my darling…”

“Hmmm,” you hum, irritated and yet shivering in pleasure. “Just admit, I’m just as good…”

Suddenly the carriage rumbles to a stop, and you lock eyes with Astarion. Voices approach from behind the door, and your two sets of crimson eyes flare wide a moment before the door pulls open behind him.

He grunts as he spills backward, unceremoniously dangling out the door. His head hangs over the edge of the coach, his fanged smile wide and grinning as he stares into the crow upside down, while your hands grabbing furiously at your skirts to hide your sexes still throbbing and intertwined. He laughs that low and rumbling giggle, quite the sight as other guests pause to stare at the Vampire Ascendant indulging within his own private coach. “Well,” he chortles, sitting up to give a bit of privacy as you slide off his lap, “there isn’t any use hiding our love any longer…” Astarion nips at your neck playfully as he refastesns his trousers. “If they sought a glimpse into the loving depravities of the Ascendant and his consort, they certainly found it.”

You giggle, the rush of being so on display racing through your nerves. Carefully you follow him out of the coach, both of you straightening your clothes as if nothing happened. “And you wanted to play your games thinking tonight would be boring,” you rasp into his ear.

He stops in the middle of the grave path and pulls you hard into him, his kiss all lips and fangs and tongue down your throat. Hiding nothing of your passion from the spectators. “Nothing is boring when I’m with you.”

[perseabeth]

The Promise of the Wild Sea

< this is not an official fic yet, i had this AU in my mind for a while, and now i got the time to write few parts of it. if the story was to your liking, i might get encouraged to make it an official fic. i’d like to remind you that i do not own any of the characters, as they all belong to the original myths and Rick Riordan. except for the oc Callista. however, i made some alternation in the myths that could benefit my story. i hope you like these changes. also this is a fem!percy version. enjoy reading >

- 1184 BCE, The fallen city of Troy -

Apollo stood in front of Callista’s pyre, the flames not yet lit, his gaze fixed on her lifeless face. Her once radiant beauty now drained, her cheeks no longer flushed with the color of life. Her hair, dark as the starless night, framed a visage that seemed at peace, a peace she had found only in death. Yet, she had stolen his peace with her departure, leaving him hollow and bereft.

With painstaking care, he had smoothed away every bruise, every mark of the cruelty she had endured, wishing to present her to the underworld in the full splendor of her glory. His Callista, his heart. He clutched the two drachmas in his hand, the coins a symbol of her final journey, but to him, they were a cruel reminder of his eternal separation from her. How could he consign her to the underworld, knowing he would be condemned to an eternity without her by his side?

His soul ached with a grief that seemed too vast to contain. With a trembling breath, he placed the drachmas on her closed eyes, sealing her fate, preparing her for her voyage to the underworld. She deserved a realm free from the sorrows of war and the sting of death, a place of peace and light. He swore on his immortal soul that she would find solace in Elysium.

Apollo leaned down, his tears falling like rain upon her serene face, pressing a final kiss to her cold, unresponsive forehead.

“Farewell, my Callista... until we meet again, my angel.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sun god cradled her cheeks in his trembling hands, his soy blue eyes filled with the agony of days spent pleading with his uncle, the merciless lord of death, for this moment. She was there in his embrace, radiant as the true princess she was, her beauty untouched by the shadows of the underworld. Her black hair cascaded down her back like the soft night sky, a dark tapestry embroidered with stars in silken threads. Her eyes, those mesmerizing sea-green eyes, gazed up at him—the very eyes he had yearned to kiss open one last time before cruel fate tore her away.

But nothing unfolded as he had hoped.

"My lord," Callista whispered, her eyes shining with boundless love for the man before her. She wore a white, elegant chiton that clung to her form with an ethereal grace, adorned with a delicate laurel crown—a vision of Trojan royalty. Apollo shook his head, refusing to accept the words forming on her lips. "No, you are coming with me," he implored, tears welling up in his sky-blue eyes, each drop a testament to his anguish. He was begging, pleading for her to return with him to the world of the living.

The princess before him shook her head gently, her gaze unwavering. "No, my lord, I am dead. I am happy here," she said softly. She took his palm, still cradling her cheek, and pressed a tender kiss upon it, as if sealing their fates with that simple, heartbreaking act. "You must respect the rules of death, my love. You must go on and find happiness in the lands of the living."

Her words stabbed his heart, despite the delicateness of her voice, despite the sweetness of her words, and despite the loveliness of her eyes. She was pushing him away, each word like a dagger twisting deeper.

Callista looked at him again, her gaze filled with a sorrowful resolve. "I'm with my family, and you should be with yours. Lord Zeus will not be tolerable when he hears that you brought me back from death."

Apollo tried to reason with her, desperation lacing his voice. "But Uncle Hades has already accepted," he argued, only to be met with another tender kiss on his palm from Callista.

"I'm not letting you get into an argument with your father," she replied softly. She lifted her hand and gently caressed the strand of his hair falling on his forehead. Her melodic voice continued, soothing yet heartbreaking. "You will live on. You will find happiness again, I'm sure."

"My happiness is with you only," he insisted, his voice breaking.

But Callista only shook her head with a sad smile. "That's what you're saying now, because the pain is so new. But trust me, my love... time will go on, life will go on." She looked into his eyes, her determination unyielding. He knew there was no way to change her heart. She gave him a beautiful smile that could have brightened his days if not for their situation. "You did all you could. You made sure I found my final rest in a beautiful place. Now it's your turn to let go... to move on."

Apollo's tears threatened to fall, threatening to drown his eyes. He did the only thing he could do in that moment; he planted a soft, small kiss on her lips, a goodbye kiss filled with all the sorrow of a love that could never be. It was a kiss that spoke of unending longing and the crushing weight of farewell.

He would never force her to do anything. If she was happy, he would be happy, even if it meant an immortal lifetime of his heart shattering every day he remembered that she wasn't waking up next to him.

His time in the underworld was ticking away, leaving him with precious few moments to spare in the arms of his beloved. How cruel fate is, he thought, that even time refuses to grant him a longer respite to find peace in her embrace one last time.

He kissed her forehead once more, a goodbye kiss—the same kiss he had planted on her brow the day of her pyre, the day they consigned her body to the flames in a solemn ritual of farewell. He looked into those beautiful eyes one last time. "I swear to you, I’ll always find you in the stars, in the calm oceans, in the beautiful sunlight, in the warm flames, and in the serene mountains. You will always haunt me, forever haunt my life, Callista."

This earned him a sad smile from her beloved face, and he realized he loved all her smiles except this one. "Who knows, maybe someday you will find me again, amidst the moors or maybe in the wild sea."

He nodded, a silent nod, as a single tear traced a path down his cheek. He kissed her hands one last time and turned his back, leaving his beloved, leaving his heart, leaving the bane of his soul in Elysium, where she belonged. Before he stepped away, he turned to her one last time. "Someday, I’ll find you in the wild sea."

With that, Apollo left the underworld, each step a testament to the immortal lifetime of sorrow that awaited him, a sorrow he would bear for the love he could never truly hold again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

- December, 2007. New York City-

"And now, sis. Transportation for the Hunters, you say? Good timing. I was just about ready to roll.

"These demigods will also need a ride," Artemis said, pointing to us. "Some of Chiron's campers."

"No problem!" Apollo checked us out. "Let's see... Thalia, right? I've heard all about you."

Thalia blushed. "Hi, Lord Apollo."

"Zeus's girl, yes? Makes you my half sister. Used to be a tree, didn't you? Glad you're back. I hate it when pretty girls turn into trees. Man, I remember one time—"

"Brother," Artemis said. "You should get going."

"Oh, right." Then his gaze landed on me, and his eyes widened with a mixture of shock and recognition, as if he had glimpsed a long-lost memory. The once vibrant blue of his eyes now bore golden freckles, a haunting reminder of his divine nature. "Callista?"

I met his gaze, my heart pounding with confusion and uncertainty. Was he mistaking me for someone else, someone from his past? “No. I mean... no, sir."

Calling a teenager "sir" felt awkward, but I knew better than to offend an immortal. They were known to have volatile tempers, and tended to get offended easily. Then they blew stuff up. and now Apollo seems to be on verge of blowing things up, or me perhaps.

His silence stretched on, his eyes still fixed on me, probing and searching. It was as if he was peering into my soul, unraveling the layers of my being with each passing moment.

Eventually, his gaze shifted to his sister, Artemis, who offered him a subtle shake of her head. Their silent exchange felt like a wordless, deep conversation, conveying a depth of understanding that transcended spoken words. Apollo cleared his throat, breaking the tension that hung in the air, before turning his attention back to me.

His gaze shifted abruptly from sheer confusion to a myriad of emotions I couldn't quite pinpoint. It reminded me of the way my mom once described my reaction to blue cookies or a serene beach—a mix of wonder and longing. Yet, as he looked at me, I saw something more. His eyes, now a crystal-clear sky blue, brimmed with an affection that seemed to encompass the entire world. It was a strange sensation, one that left me feeling oddly nervous, knowing that he was a god who could unleash his power at any moment. If it were anyone else, I might have blushed under their gaze. But facing a god for the first time, unsure if he was friend or foe, left me feeling unsettled rather than flustered.

"Percy Jackson," Apollo's voice cut through the tense silence like a blade. For a moment, it felt as though time itself had frozen, as if I were caught in a web of his penetrating gaze. I nodded silently. Then, without a word, he turned away, his attention shifting back to the group. The weight of his gaze that seemed to convey the burden of centuries, left me unsettled.

"Well!" he exclaimed in a cheerful voice again, as if the past few moments were nothing, breaking the silence. "We'd better load up, huh? The ride only goes one way—west. And if you miss it, you miss it."

—

i’d love to hear your opinion about this.

[takami-takami]

Cut To The Chase.

kinktober day 2: knife play

includes— hawks x reader. minors dni. smut.

warnings— afab!reader. heavy knife play. discussions of piercing, but no actual cuts. still, this is a knife play fic. be warned. gags. bullying/kinkshaming. praise kink. aftercare.

"You're shaking, dove," Keigo whispers above you. "Relax a little for me, yeah?" 

The rhythmic beat of your heart pounds in your ears. The heady bass of it hammers behind your ribs. A single drop of perspiration crawls its way down your neck like a snake might slither down a tree, hissing sharp against the searing heat of your skin. It bobs with the swallow in your throat. It glistens with your tremors as you writhe so subtly against the silken sheets.

And there’s something about the way your life rests in your partner’s steady hand that surges the adrenaline screaming within your veins. It sings a chorus through your chilling blood.

The quirk of his lips is practically audible when he speaks— infuriating, even; but his appraisal of the situation is undeniably on point.

Of course you’re staring. Twisting and gliding along the edge of your skin, just the lightest squirm away from piercing through your flesh, is the tip of something sharp, icy, and unfathomably lethal— had Keigo been in a more dangerous mood and blindfolded you, the object would feel indiscernible from the steel of a curved dagger, the crescent point pressing the slightest divot into the skin of your navel. 

Even the light reflects with a glint off his feather as if it were metal when it’s sharpened like this.

“You actually like this sort of thing?” Keigo interrogates you, raising his brows. A scoff of disbelief follows quickly behind the inquiry, the heat of his breath fogging against your neck when he noses your jaw. Achingly slow, the scarlet weapon drags up your core, crawling its way toward your utterly exposed chest. 

He could pierce you at any moment. One flick and the skin could burst, one breath and your body would become a canvas to his liking. It's a dance of trust, of control, when he plucks that velvet red feather between his thumb and forefinger as if it were merely a pen to be dipped into ink.

“Your heart rate's pickin' up. It's gonna give you away, dove,” he observes, skimming the skin at the exact spot where he can sense the beat. He drags the feather in circles, a melody in his voice when he sings, low, taunting, and dangerous: "You like this."

“Don’t even care that I could just slip it a little deeper, do you," he realizes, increasing the pressure of the feather against your hammering chest. He can barely hold the click of disappointment from his tongue when you whimper in response. 

"Nah. That’d just get you wet, wouldn’t it?”

You see the flash of reflected light under your chin before you can feel the feather against your neck— the metallic sound of the blade cutting through the air rings in your ears, louder than the hitch of your breath from the whirlwind speed of his actions.

“Oh, you like that?” 

Keigo doesn't bother to suppress the laughter that builds and erupts. Why would he? He'd place a hefty bet that someone like you would hear a condescending sound like that and feel it like electricity instead, jolting down to crackle between your poor, trembling legs.

You're so fucking predictable. You like a bit of danger, and Keigo is more than willing to indulge your little fantasies in the only way he knows how: famished, unreserved, and entirely committed to every intricacy of his role.

Besides, he'd be lying if he said this little image of you wasn't absolutely gorgeous; you, the picture of prey spread beneath him under the shadow cast by his wings, blubbering and unsure if you want to beg to be pierced by his feather or his cock.

When he slips two slicked fingers inside to scissor them, it's entirely unsurprising that your body opens easily to accept them; so unsurprising, in fact, that his eyes roll almost as immediately as yours do, though he wears a smirk rather than a slack jaw. 

The heel of his palm graciously grinds against you each time he bottoms out, the motion made with each rocking thrust expertly positioning his curled fingers upwards. Ever intentional, the heel presses firm against your throbbing core.

When he speaks, you get the impression he's moreso musing to himself than addressing you. 

"And what if I fucked you like this, huh? A cock in your pussy and a knife at your throat… Sounds like your own personal heaven, doesn't it, angel?" Keigo punctuates the last word with a mocking lilt, pouting in bastardized sympathy to match your wobbling bottom lip.

"Aww, not gonna bother answering that?" He smiles and pulls at the fabric stuffing your drooling mouth. "C'mon, speak. Wanna hear you when you break for me, 'kay?"

You swallow dry before you attempt to catch your voice, gasping in a bit of air as you arch your chest and whine some garbled words Keigo can only assume are supposed to resemble a beg. 

"Oh you're close to close," he posits through a smile, just loud enough to be heard over the noise of his drenched fingers that pump knuckle deep and curl up. "It's okay, baby. Let it out. I've got you. Cum on my fingers, c'mon baby, cum f'me, you're such a good—"

Your back bows when your world shatters. His sweet words never cease, pouring praises over your body like the heat that envelops you, over and over in trembling waves.

The first thing you feel when you float down from your high, catching you like a feather landing slowly in his palm, is a methodical barrage of kisses against your cheeks. Feather discarded, Keigo holds your face in place with cradling palms, crooning at the far-gone smile that remains etched in your expression.

"Hi, baby," he whispers, lopsided smile wide as he pulls back and thumbs the apples of your cheeks, smooshing them in little clockwise circles. "Still with me?"

"Hi, Kei'," you simply mumble, words as sluggish and limp as you are; and just like that, your partner is solid and stable once more above you. 

When words elude you, your body begins to speak instead. Your fingers crawl down his biceps and up his neck, nestling in the thickets of his hair and clutching at the scalp as if to settle your own roots there for stability; and on the inside, Keigo's heart trips over itself. Your very center is open to him, pawing at his body and swallowing everything he gives you— and he'll give it all.

Clear eyes attempt to catch your bleary ones, searching for signs of discomfort as you continue to cling to the haziness that envelops your mind. Once he's thoroughly checked for any nicks or scratches, your body is laid back against the sheets.

"C'mon, pretty bird," Keigo whispers, rubbing the highest points of your cheekbones. "Gimme a smile, yeah?" 

When you do, it's with a glaze in your eyes, gazing up at him like he's a newfound city of gold.

"That good, huh," he teases, and you yawn. There's a rich, golden butter in his voice when he speaks. It's warm like the sheets he rolls you both up in, hot like his bare chest against your back when he lays you down to cuddle. 

"I wasn't too mean, was I?" 

"You were perfect for me," you sigh.

The plush of his feathers shudders once in the corner of your vision. He rests his chin along your bare shoulder, clutching your body as close to his chest as it can go.

"You're perfect for me, too."

[jokeringcutio]

Abijah Fowler x (f) Assassin Reader Drabble [ Warnings: Smut]

AN: On popular demand, another Abijah Fowler x Reader. You are an assassin set out to kill Fowler. It doesn't go according to plan.

Warnings: Non-con/dub-con content, SMUT (not as detailed as you're used from me, sorry, I'll give the prompt a retry in the future, possibly as a consensual forbidden love fic >D ), Not beta-read. Quick Drabble. ~~ Masterlist - Request Box - Ebooks&Website - Support me on Ko-Fi ~~

You watched him through the slats of the ceiling, your heart a drumbeat in the silence. Abijah Fowler, the man with the soul of a serpent, was seated at the head of a long, dark table. Such an outlandish habit. His fingers, stained with the ink of sin, traced the lines of a map that plots downfall and destruction. The other men, shadows in the dim light, nodded and murmured their assent to his vile plans — willing puppets dancing on his twisted strings.

Corrupted souls, all of them. But they weren’t your concern.

Your grip on the hilt of your dagger tightened. You had memorized the layout of this place, moved through the corridors like a ghost, unseen, unheard. Now you hovered above them, an angel of vengeance poised to strike. Your mission was clear: end Abijah Fowler.

He was explaining something, his voice a gravelly melody that carried tales of violence and power. His strong and broad shoulders moved, dipped backward as if he tried to loosen the muscles in them. His oddly colored hair captured your attention, thinking it had been a color akin to bronze or perhaps even gold once. But streaks of grey made him seem more like the other old men in this country. If it hadn’t been for his distinct facial features, the pale color of his skin, and the large shape of his bright-colored eyes.

An angel of death you saw in him. Anyone else called him a demon.

He regaled them with stories of conquests past, painting pictures with words dipped in blood. They laughed, a chorus of discordant notes, and you felt the bitterness rise in your throat.

"Of course," Fowler's voice sliced through the laughter, "it all depends on eliminating any... unexpected threats." His eyes, predator green, suddenly fixed on you, turned upward to the ceiling and straight at your hidden person. A cold smile curled his lips. "Isn't that right?"

The room fell silent. Every muscle in your body tensed, ready to spring, to fight. But you remained still, barely breathing. There was a chance this was all just a bluff, that he hadn’t seen you. But then you saw his unwavering gaze, saw the unnatural bright green eyes that rested firmly upon you, and you knew that you were exposed, the advantage lost. You cursed inwardly, waiting for his next move, knowing the game had changed.

"Come now, don't be shy," he coaxed, his tone mocking. "Join us."

You dropped down gracefully despite the hammering in your chest. Standing before them, outnumbered but unflinching, you refused to let them show any fear. Stoically, you faced them, thinking of all the lessons and all the training you had. The men stared, their gazes ravenous, but it was Fowler who held your attention. A dangerous dance awaited, everyone could feel it in the air. But you knew his moves, knew how he could react, knew you stood little chance in a hand-on-hand combat.

Especially if he brought his demon guns.

You needed a distraction, something that could increase your chances of survival. Your heart raced, a wild drumbeat in the cavern of your chest. Words, like poisoned arrows, flew from your lips as you stepped closer to Abijah Fowler.

"I've heard tales of your prowess," you murmured, voice a silken thread designed to ensnare. "They say no man can match you in the dark arts of war and pleasure."

Fowler's green eyes glinted, a predator basking in the glow of his prey's admiration. He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling through the tension-thick room. "Flattery will get you nowhere, my dear." His words were honey-laced with venom.

One step. Another. Close enough now that you could count the lines etched into his weathered face. You felt the heat emanating from his broad frame. Fowler's hand shot out, swift as a striking snake, clasping your wrist in an iron grip. The trap snapped shut.

"Gotcha," he whispered, a taunt wrapped in a victory.

Instinct took over. Your body remembered its training before your mind caught up. You twisted, a flash of movement, wrenching against his hold. The element of surprise was on your side, for a heartbeat or two.

"Feisty," Fowler observed, almost admiringly.

The dance of death began. A ballet of blows and blocks. You lunged, struck, kicked—each move a desperate plea for freedom. Fowler countered, effortlessly, his strength overwhelming. The other men watched, wolves observing their alpha.

"Should we help?" one ventured, doubt lacing his voice.

“No, he can take her, easily,” another one guffawed.

You hated him for the comment and wanted to punch his face in, but you knew he was right. Fowler was bigger than you, broader, heavier, and more skilled in combat. You were trained to be a silent creeper, someone who brought death without being seen, a shadow of mercy, or an anger of hell.

Another heroic block of his attack, but your underarm was smarting. Pain shot through you, your body feeling sore. When he finally landed a blow that sent you staggering back, you tasted the copper tang of defeat.

"Never send a child to do a killer's job," Fowler sneered, advancing on you, the space between you charged with the promise of pain and something darker still.

Breath short, chest heaving. His presence loomed, an oppressive shadow eclipsing your tumultuous thoughts. Abijah Fowler's green eyes glinted with a predatory gleam, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a macabre grin that set your nerves on edge.

Was he studying you? The feeling that settled in the pit of your stomach was unsettling. Abijah Fowler was an attractive man, despite all his oddities. And hadn’t his character been so devilish, you might have fallen for his charm. But he was a demon. And in his eyes, you now saw demonic thoughts rise as he studied your features, eyes roaming your skin as if you were unclothed.

You felt the grip of his hands around your wrists, squeezing just a bit tighter. Felt the calloused skin of his thumb as it brushed gently past the mouse of your palm.

"Outside," he commanded, voice low and laden with dark promise. The men hesitated, exchanging leering glances that spoke volumes of their wretched character. "The lass and I need privacy."

"Seems Fowler's got himself a new plaything," one of the men chuckled, coarse laughter bubbling up from the others as they filed out, their intentions thick in the air like a miasma.

Your heart thrummed against your ribs, each beat a silent drum heralding doom. He was close now, too close; the heat from his body mingled with yours. You could kill him—if only you could reach your weapon. But he had smacked it out of your hand with the first blow, it had clunked to the wooden floor aimlessly. You couldn’t even tell where it was from where you stood. Your fingers twitched, betraying the urge.

"I'm not some doll for your amusement," you managed to say, words edged with a defiance you didn't feel.

"Oh, by the time I am done with you, you will wish I’d killed you sooner,” Fowler murmured. You could smell the odd sourness of his breath and wondered what had caused it. His grip on you tightened.

“Who sent you? And why would they send someone so young and unqualified," Fowler murmured, cruel satisfaction seeping through his tone. His breath caressed your ear, sending involuntary shivers down your spine.

The room cleared, the door clicking shut behind the last man. Silence fell heavy, punctuated only by your ragged breaths and the pounding of your pulse. Then, movement. Fowler's hands were upon you, guiding you with unwanted familiarity—a predator toying with its prey.

"Let's see what you've made of," he said, pressing you down forcefully over the table that dominated the center of the room. Your cheek met cold wood, and you flinched as the ink from the maps smeared beneath you, staining your skin with the blueprint of their vile machinations.

"Consider this a different kind of battle," Fowler whispered, his voice a serpent's hiss as he leaned over you, his weight an unspoken threat.

Fowler's hand slithered up your leg, rough fingers catching on the fabric of your clothes. A tug, a deliberate pull, and the material gave way to bare skin, your exposed calf a pale contrast against the darkness of his touch. His breath hitched ever so slightly, a sign of his burgeoning arousal not lost on you.

You struggled on instinct, but stilled when you felt the bulge against your thigh increase. This didn’t actually arouse him, did it?

"Fight me," he growled, a low rumble in his chest as you twisted beneath him, struggling for leverage. "I do love it when you struggle like that."

Your muscles coiled, ready to spring, but he was a slab of stone pinning you down. The heat of his body radiated through the thin barrier of your clothing, igniting a reluctant fire within. You hated how your body betrayed you, responding to his proximity despite the storm of loathing raging in your heart.

His hand wandered with more audacity, venturing into forbidden territory. A gasp tore from your lips, unsanctioned pleasure sparking along your nerves. Fowler chuckled, a sound laced with darkness, as if he relished in pulling these reactions from you.

"Good girl," he purred, his breath hot against your ear. "Let go, just for a moment."

You fought against the tide rising within, but the dam broke under his relentless pursuit, waves of reluctant ecstasy crashing over you. Your climax hit with the ferocity of a tempest, leaving you shuddering and vulnerable in its wake.

He wasted no time, freeing his aching long cock, the size and girth you had never seen before. A gasp tore from your lips as he sheathed himself inside of you, bottoming out with little mercy. He set a grueling pace, showing little care for your pleasure or well-being at this point. But your core was slippery, your walls fluttering around him with passion, and you had to bite your tongue to keep from moaning loudly with each and every deep thrust his foreign body gave you.

Was this how it had been for every lover he had ever taken, forced or otherwise?

A second orgasm wracked through your body. You’d find an excuse for this later on, if you were to survive this ordeal. You would find a way to condone the liquid that dripped from your core and onto the table below, the way the stained ink brushed past your nipples, the way your body pulsed with pleasure after Abijah Fowler found his release.

You felt a hot palm on your naked back, gently caressing the skin there, and heard the low hum that came from his lips. He sounded pensive, as if he were determining your fate. Your thoughts slid back to your weapons and the many ways to get your hands on them, but his body still kept you trapped underneath him.

As you lay there, trembling, Fowler's voice slithered in your ear once more. "There's a task I need done," he murmured, the words vibrating against your skin. "A certain individual who needs to be...taken care of."

His implication was clear, an order veiled as an offer. "Do this for me," he continued, "to my satisfaction, and I shall spare your life."

"My life..." you rasped, your voice laden with the weight of reality. There was no choice, only the illusion of one. You nodded, sealing a devil's pact, while inside, a lethal promise took root. Fowler had ignited a vengeful blaze, and from its ashes, you would rise—his destruction, your sole aim.

This was not the end. It was a twisted beginning, and you swore to yourself, to the silent gods of retribution, that you would have your revenge.

Abijah Fowler would pay.

~ AN: I want to do this character more justice (and the smut). But quite frankly, it is a bloody miracle I have been writing anything at all. Things don't go well health-wise, but we'll know more at the end of this month. I hope to feel good enough soon to write a better drabble for Abijah and Reader.

[bradshawsbitch]

bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw. . .

masterlist

« - denotes angst.

△ - denotes smut.

❣ - denotes fluff

�� series:

○ mise en place masterlist

↳ bradley bradshaw, the notoriously ill mannered head chef at the small franchise pub down the street, is quite content with his fast paced job. no commitments or obligations outside of his kingdom of sharp knives, pots, pans, prep work and a shot of jäger after a double. that is until a new waitress is hired, and suddenly his strict and rigid rules of no obligations or commitments starts to waver. . .

✧ one-shot:

○ i'll guide you - x reader △ NEW!

↳ amongst salt water skin and silken sheets lies insecurities and innocence, but also tenderness and a willingness to learn...

○ halo effect - x reader △

↳ Commander Bradshaw is content with his job as a Top Gun instructor and mentor, and very careful to never abuse his power...

○ songbird - x reader △

↳ bradley and you have rented a cabin for the week, how can you help when bradley has a bad day?

○ flightless bird - x reader △

↳ part 2 of songbird. after yours and bradley's week spent in the cabin, he gets deployed for the first time in quite a while. you welcome him home for valentine's with ardour.

○ free solo - bradley x bob x reader △

↳ bradley finds himself lonely and in need of releasing some tension.

○ hard hitter - x reader - △

↳ sometimes, men are easy to play... bradley included.

○ whiskey sour - x reader - ❣

↳ a look through bradley's times stationed in san diego - seen through the eyes of a lovesick bartender.

○ white christmas - x reader ❣

↳ you and bradley decide to spend christmas abroad - perhaps you'll get to see where santa actually lives?

○ of pet-names and pumpkin patches - x reader - ❣

↳ a sweet fic about pumpkin picking and tender pet-names bradley calls you.

○ difficult - x reader - △

↳ when bradley comes home from deployment, you have many ways of getting him back to you.

○ if not for you - x reader - ❣

↳ a misty november night spent on the sofa cuddling.

○ little wallflower - x hearing impaired!reader

↳ the dagger squad has seen you at the hard deck, and bradley finds you intriguing - but no one's ever spoken to you. he wonders why...

floydshaw;

○ ghosts - bob floyd x bradley « ❣ ↳ after some time of living on base, bob finally tires of the uncomfy bed and limited access to good paths to do his morning runs on. after moving in with rooster, the two of them discover an affinity for film. perhaps horror is not bradley's preferred genre though...

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

First Of Her Name

The first two chapters of my long-delayed birthday fic for @handwrittenhello are up! It's a Geraskefer warlord!Yennefer fic featuring role reversals, arranged marriages, kidnapping, and pining.

Rating: E

Warnings: graphic depictions of violence; canonical child death in prologue

Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer; Geralt/Yennefer; Jaskier/Yennefer

Summary: Fifteen years after deposing the kings of Aedirn and Lyria and being crowned the Warlord of the North, Yennefer has everything she could want: power, security, and an only moderately irritating lover, her court mage, Jaskier. But she's taken off guard when Queen Visenna of Rivia offers Yennefer her youngest son’s hand in marriage. Yennefer is skeptical, until she meets Prince Geralt and his daughter, Ciri, and is fonder of both of them than she expected.

But as they begin to plan for a wedding, it becomes increasingly clear that someone wants to stop Yennefer and Geralt’s marriage. And they’re not picky about who they need to hurt to make that happen.

You can read the prologue and the first scene of chapter one below the cut or find the entirety of the first two chapters here on AO3!

Prologue

Yennefer fucking hates portals.

Her stomach lurches as she drops to her knees in the sand, clutching the Lyrian princess to her chest. She just barely manages not to heave.

“Oh, fuck,” the Lyrian court mage says behind her as he closes the portal. “Oh, shit.”

The scent of blood is cloying and the baby in Yennefer’s arms has no heartbeat.

“Is she—” the mage—Yennefer never bothered learning his name—starts to ask.

Yennefer lowers the princess to the sand. The little face is pale and still, her silken swaddle stained with blood. “She’s gone.”

The mage curses and drops to his knees next to Yennefer, brushing her away as he places his hands over the infant and begins to chant in Elder. Yennefer sits back, catching her breath and cataloging her injuries. She has a gash in her arm from the krallach’s claws and another in her back from where the assassin’s blade barely missed burying itself between her ribs. It could have been worse, she knows. At least she’s not dead in some far away desert, like Kalis.

“Fuck.” The mage lets his hands fall away and closes his eyes. “What do we—”

Yennefer brings a blade to his throat, resting the tip of it against his Adam’s apple. “Did you know?”

He swallows hard and a bead of blood wells under the top of her dagger. “No.”

“You’re King Villem’s court mage,” Yennefer reminds him. “And you didn’t know that he was planning on killing his wife and daughter?”

“Of course not!” The mage’s heart is hammering so hard that Yennefer can’t tell if he’s lying. His sweet honeysuckle smell is shot through with lingering fear, despair, and anger. “Do you think I would just sit there while a baby was getting murdered?”

“Every Ban Ard fucker I’ve ever known would feed a baby to the Lionheaded Spider itself for power.”

“I see you’ve met Stregobor.”

Yennefer can’t help but snort.

Blue eyes open and fix on her face. “I didn’t know anything about what Villem was planning. I’ve been at his court for five years and he’s never trusted me with anything more advanced than enchanting the ceiling of the throne room. He’s never liked me, to be honest. I think he thought Kalis and I were fucking.”

“Were you?”

“No, but not from her lack of trying. I may be an idiot, but I’m not enough of an idiot to fuck the queen.” The mage smiles shakily and Yennefer wonders if he’s as young as he looks, no older than twenty-five. “If you’re still thinking about slitting my throat, I’d like to remind you that I just portaled all over the damn Continent trying to keep you alive.”

“And to keep yourself alive.”

“I won’t apologize for not wanting to get ripped apart by a giant bug.” He shudders.

Yennefer doesn’t put the knife away, but she sits back, putting space between them. His shoulders sag with relief. “I think you may need a new job,” she tells him.

The mage lets out a humorless laugh. “I definitely need a new job. That assassin was supposed to kill me too.”

“I noticed.”

“You saved my life.”

“I did.”

He wipes his bloodstained hands on his doublet. “I’m Jaskier.”

“Yennefer.”

“School of the Raven?”

“What gave it away?”

“I’ll admit, I haven’t met many witchers, but I don’t think the witchers from any of the other schools are quite so beautiful.”

Yennefer doesn’t bother hiding her eye roll. “Wait until you’re not covered in blood and ichor before you try flirting badly.”

“Badly? Madam, I’ll have you know, I’m an experienced and accomplished flirt.”

Ignoring him, Yennefer scoops the baby up in her arms, turning away.

“Where are you going?” Jaskier calls after her.

“I’m going to bury the babe,” Yennefer tells him. “And then I’m going to go back to Vengerberg, get my horse, and get the fuck out of this kingdom.”

“You should absolutely not go back to Vengerberg.”

Yennefer turns to glare at him. “And why not?”

Jaskier gives her an incredulous look. “Because do you think it was a coincidence that they hired a witcher to escort a transport with the queen and the princess when the king was planning on having his wife and daughter slaughtered?”

“It was King Virfuril who hired me,” Yennefer tells him. “Not Villem.”

“Virfuril, who is actively negotiating a treaty with Villem and just happens to have a daughter who just came of marriageable age. I would bet my left nipple that the two of them came up with this plan together. Kill the queen, the spare princess, and the inconvenient court mage, frame the witcher, and let Villem marry the young, fertile princess of Aedirn.”

Yennefer feels ice settle in her chest. It makes a terrible sort of sense. “Those fuckers.”

“If you go back to Vengerberg, all that waits for you in the gallows.” Jaskier looks at her with such sympathy that it makes her want to stab him. “I’m sorry.”

Yennefer has been on the Path for thirty years. She’s very used to the bullshit that humans throw at her and the bullshit that nobles like to throw is usually the worst. She’s been chased by angry mobs, had poison slipped into her food and her bathwater, and has been lured into more traps than she can count. But this is the first time that a royal has had it out for her.

Fuck, she never should have taken this job; she’s a witcher, not a damn royal babysitter. But a thousand crowns to escort Queen Kalis from Vengerberg to Lyria was too good to pass up. After several contracts that didn’t pay and nearly losing her arm to a wyvern last month, she needed the coin. In retrospect, it was far too cushy of a contract; she should have been suspicious from the start.

And Yennefer knows where this will go, because she’s seen it before. They won’t be able to catch her; she’ll slip out of Aedirn without discovery and then the next witcher who passes through will be hung in her stead. Probably a Wolf, since their keep is just north of here in Kaedwen. That may not be her problem, but the thought of another witcher dying in her stead leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

“You saved my life,” Jaskier says. “I owe you. Tell me where you want to go, and I’ll portal there.”

Yennefer looks down at the still, pale babe in her arms. Only a few months old, dead before she’d said her first word or taken her first step. All because a greedy fool of a king wants to marry a girl young enough to be his daughter. “Take me to Vengerberg.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen. “I thought we’d established that King Virfuril—”

Yennefer flashes him a smile, displaying her too-sharp incisors. “King Virfuril and I need to have a chat.”

***

One: Raven

Fifteen years later

It’s Jaskier who breaks the news to Yennefer as they lie together in the enormous four-poster that has never quite felt like hers, not even after all these years. She’s lying on her stomach next to him, eyes closed while he runs his fingers down her back, calloused fingertips tracing over the scars left by three decades on the Path and fifteen years as the so-called Raven of Vengerberg, Warlord of the North.

“Are you fucking joking?” Yennefer lifts her head from the pillow to gaze incredulously at him.

Jaskier is unfazed by her annoyance, as he usually is. “The Queen of Rivia wants to form a marriage alliance,” he says again, more slowly this time. “She’s offered her fourth son’s hand in marriage.”

“To me ?”

“Quite frankly, you could do better, but marriage offers aren’t exactly lining up right now.”

“I don’t consider that a problem.” Yennefer sits up, dislodging him. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with the fourth son of the queen of a vassal state?”

Jaskier smiles wickedly. “I suppose it depends on how good-looking he is.”

Yennefer throws a pillow at him. He makes it vanish in mid-air with a flick of his finger, the bastard.

“Like I was saying,” Jaskier says without missing a beat, blinking those impossibly blue eyes at her. He claims that his eyes were just as blue before his Ascension, but she’s never believed him. “Prince Geralt is thirty years old, Queen Visenna’s youngest son, known for being an avid horseman and exceptional swordsman—”

“You sound like a matchmaking aunt.”

“I feel like a matchmaking aunt, dearest.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes and grabs her dressing gown from where she discarded it on the ground earlier. She’s rarely self-conscious about her nakedness, particular in front of the man she’s been fucking for the better part of the past decade and a half, but this seems like the type of conversation best had clothed. “And why are you bringing this up now?”

“It was Tissaia’s idea. She thought the afterglow might sweeten your mood.”

“When has being in your presence ever sweetened my mood?”

“Fair point. A rare misstep on her part.” He shoots her a crooked grin and presses a kiss to her shoulder blade.

Yennefer just manages not to lean into the touch. “My empire spans Lyria, Aedirn, Kaedwen, Caingorn, and Kovir. What the fuck can this Prince Gerard—”

“Geralt.”

“What can Prince Geralt do for me?”

“Rivia’s a country that’s rich in resources,” Jaskier says. “And I think it would behoove us to start having a more… diplomatic approach to foreign relations.”

“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing with the whole not conquering those fucks in Redania, Temeria, and Cintra?”

She can feel the quirk of his lips against her skin. “I think we can do better than ‘don’t fuck up, or we’ll invade you and slaughter your nobility.’ A marriage alliance shows that you’re willing to reach out to other kingdoms. To work with them. To meet them halfway.”

“Ugh.” Yennefer hates diplomacy.

“And then there’s the matter of his first marriage.”

“Oh, so not only is he a fourth son, but I’ll be a second wife?”

“Prince Geralt’s first wife was Princess Pavetta of Cintra.”

Yennefer turns around to face her lover. “You should have led with that.”

Jaskier looks very smug, like he always does when he’s captured an audience’s attention. She often thinks that if he hadn’t become a mage, he would have ended up a traveling minstrel. Or perhaps a jester. “They caused a bit of a scandal when they ran off together. He was seventeen and she was fifteen. Calanthe had a marriage alliance all set with some jarl’s son from Skellige, but Pavetta had other plans. If it hadn’t been for the baby, Calanthe probably would have declared war on Rivia and taken the boy’s head.”

“Baby?”

“Princess Cirilla of Cintra, born only six months after her parents’ marriage. She’s twelve years old now. After Pavetta died at sea, she’s bounced back and forth between Rivia and Cintra.”

“How did I miss all this?”

“We were conquering Kovir the year Geralt and Pavetta married and there was an uprising in Lyria the year Pavetta died. You were busy with the warlording, dearest.”

Yennefer sighs. “Aren’t I always?”

Jaskier hums in acknowledgement. “Rumor has it that there’s tension between Queen Calanthe and Prince Geralt over the girl’s future.”

“I take it he doesn’t want her married off at fifteen to a Skelligan jarl?”

“I imagine that’s part of it, yes.” Jaskier leans back, reclining on the pillows like he expects a scantily-clad serving girl to come along and start feeding him grapes. “Cintra has been a thorn in our side since the start. Having the next Queen of Cintra as your stepdaughter will help us form an alliance with them once Calanthe’s shriveled heart finally gives out. And can you imagine the look on Calanthe’s face when she finds out that her former son-in-law is marrying a witcher, and a part-elf witcher to boot? That might be enough to kill her.”

Yennefer can’t stop a slow smile from creeping across her face. “I thought you wanted me to be diplomatic.”

“I do.” He nods. “But I also like the idea of you pissing off Calanthe in a way that will leave her helpless to retaliate. What is she going to do, declare war on the largest empire in the Northern Kingdoms because you married her dead daughter’s widower? It would make her look petty and vindictive, not like the Lioness of Cintra persona she’s tried so hard to build.”

It’s easy to forget sometimes that Jaskier is a Ban Ard-trained mage. He presents the image of the fop with his silly doublets, floppy hair, and ever-present lute, but he’s actually got some sense under all the peacocking. She didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him in the early days of their acquaintance. Still, she invited him into her bed because he had pretty eyes and a wicked tongue and she knew a good lay when she saw one. And by the time he threw himself between her and an assassin’s blade six months later, she knew she had his loyalty. And in the years since, it’s never wavered.

Her eyes travel to the silver ring on his pinky finger. He’s fidgeting with it, like he often does when he’s deep in thought. It looks like a plain band at first glance, but there’s a raven’s head engraved on the inside. The ring is linked to her medallion, a charm that Jaskier put in place after she was briefly captured during the conquering of Kovir. No matter where she is on the Continent, Jaskier will always be able to portal to her. There’s no one else she would trust with something like that. Peacock or no, she knows she can trust him to have her best interests at heart.

“Do you think I should do it?” she asks quietly.

Jaskier sits up, pinning her with that too-blue gaze. “I think that you’ve built yourself a vast and impressive empire here, Yennefer. You’re the most powerful person on the Continent. But you need allies, or someday, you will meet an enemy you won’t be able to take on yourself. Prince Geralt may not be that big of a catch on his own, but the potential of a future alliance with Rivia and Cintra could potentially save us a good deal of headaches in the future, especially if Emhyr starts to turn his attentions towards the Northern Kingdoms.”

Yennefer groans. She knows Nilfgaard is going to become a pain in her ass one of these days.

“And of course, have you seen Queen Visenna?” Jaskier waggles his eyebrows. “If her son is half as attractive, you should sign whatever marriage contract they put in front of you.”

Yennefer huffs in exasperation. “You’re an incorrigible lech.”

“Something you had no complaints about twenty minutes ago,” he says with a leer, then abruptly sobers. “By all accounts, he’s a good man with a steady head on his shoulders that dotes on his daughter and his horse. You could do worse.”

Yennefer hates it when he gets serious with her. It’s highly inconvenient. “I’ll think about it.”

***

Read the rest here on AO3!

[seiya-starsniper]

Last 10 fics/Writing Patterns meme

Tagged by @beauty-of-nyx and I'm going to actually combine it with a tag game I saw @queerofthedagger play!

Rules: Post the first lines of your last ten fics posted to AO3 (Sort by date posted), AND see if there's a pattern!

1. A Thousand Years of Longing

Repairing the damage done to the Dreaming during Rose Walker’s time as dream vortex is a long and arduous task for Dream.

2. first time, forever

Dream paces obsessively around the tiny bedroom, feeling both claustrophobic and too exposed at once.

3. Summer Loving

The thing was, Murphy knew that his crush on Hob Gadling was obvious.

4. A Reprieve

“You,” Dream of the Endless growls as he pins the Corinthian down to the silken sheets, the nightmare’s own dagger pressed at the edge of his throat, “are not supposed to be here, little dream.” 

5. green-eyed nightmare

Jealousy is one of humanity’s ugliest emotions.

6. In the Stars

“You know, when I told you to write new stories for yourself—this isn’t quite what I had in mind,” Theo tells Loki as he ascends the last steps of the throne room to meet the God of Stories face to face for the first time in years.

7. turn off the sun, pull the stars from the sky

Dream had always known that his life was not his own.

8. That's Just the Way You Make Me Feel

Of all the places one would have expected to lose their grip on proper behavior in public, Lucienne had put summer carnival at the very bottom of her list.

9. Begin Again

Hob Gadling has lived a long life.

10. Don't Threaten Me With a Good Time

“I am searching for some wayward creations of mine,” Dream tells Hob late in the evening of their reunion meeting.

I already know a big pattern is that I love to open a story from Dream's POV, or with dialogue from Dream, no matter what ship it is ahahaha. I have also noticed, I prefer to open fics with some sort of action taking place. Let me know if you spot anything else!

no pressure tagging @tj-dragonblade @kydrogendragon @delta-pavonis @moorishflower @softest-punk @five-and-dimes @aisalynn @rriavian @chaosheadspace @teejaystumbles, very curious to see what you guys come up with!

[aria-ashryver]

Starlight Smut Supercut - Original Sin (CH16)

Book: Immortal Desires Pairings: m!Cas x nb!MC and m!Gabe x nb!MC Ratings/Warnings: ��Explicit🔥 - smut / adult content below the cut! Words: 2.1K

Summary: The trio discuss how things might work if they begin practicing polyamory. Cas suggests an immediate, hands-on test run to see how it might work.

A/N: This is an excerpt from a much larger fic, and part of a smut supercut series. You can find further excerpts in this masterlist

Tagging: @choicesficwriterscreations

‘There’s a pretty damn immediate way to find out whether he’s alright with the idea of the two of us together, New Kid,’ he drawled, grabbing Luca roughly by the chin to tilt their face up. ‘Because we are together, regardless of what happens with him. I’m not giving you up, no matter what. You’re mine, remember? And I’m yours.’

Cas drew closer, one thumb stroking across Luca’s lower lip. Luca heard Gabriel’s sharp intake of breath from behind him as Cas ducked his head, his words skimming over Luca’s lips.

‘Tell you what,’ Cas said, his eyes flicking up to bore into Gabriel’s. ‘I can be a gentleman when I want to be. Go kiss your pretty, Golden lover boy. Then, you get back here and tell me how much better it is when it’s my mouth on yours.’

Releasing Luca with a quick nudge that was equal parts gentle and arrogant, Cas sent them stumbling toward Gabriel. Catching Luca against his chest, Gabriel stared daggers at Cas, a tangle of emotions warring on his face; anger, frustration, jealousy… want.

‘I think it should be up to Luca, who exactly they kiss and when.’

Despite his words, Luca couldn’t help but notice the way Gabriel’s gaze darted down to their lips. Once, twice, the tendons in his neck taut, the muscles of his chest tense beneath Luca’s fingertips even as his tongue darted out to wet his lower lip.

‘I… I do want to kiss you, though,’ Luca breathed.

Gabriel’s breath caught, his hands fisting in the fabric of Luca’s shirt to tug them a fraction closer.

‘Are you sure? You’re not just saying that?’

‘Oh my god, get on with it, coward!’ Cas said from behind them, leaning against the back of a pew with his arms crossed. ‘Luca’s gonna die of old age before you pluck up the courage.’

‘I—I thought I should make this… special,’ Gabriel murmured, leaning into Luca’s touch as they stroked the back of their fingers down his face.

‘It is,’ Luca said. ‘Of course it’s special. Because it's you, Gabriel. How could it not be?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Gabriel.’ Luca smiled, brushing a lock of hair away from Gabriel’s eyes to trace their fingertips down the length of his face once more. ‘I adore you. I have wanted to kiss you from the moment I first laid eyes on you, and ever since then — since I’ve come to know you? That feeling has only grown with every passing day. Yes, I want to kiss you, you idiot.’

Smiling in a way that caused a fluttering warmth to bloom in Luca’s chest, Gabriel leaned down to softly press his lips to theirs. He cupped their cheek, his hand warm and broad against the fine bones of Luca’s face, coaxing their mouth open with slow, sweet caresses. It was tender, heartbreakingly gentle, and Luca melted into the kiss.

The tension ebbed out of Gabriel’s body as he found his rhythm, sweeping his tongue against the seam of Luca’s lips so gently as they opened to him, sucking and tasting and learning the shape of Luca’s mouth with exquisite care as their tongues met; tentative at first, but rapidly blooming into something more, something deeper. Luca felt heady with a burst of dizzying lightness, as if Gabriel’s hands against his cheek, between his shoulder blades, were the only things keeping him from floating away entirely.

Gabriel’s lips were soft, and sure in their movements, his tongue painting artist’s strokes against Luca’s mouth. Gabriel kissed like Botticelli, like Watteau, like silken scenes of courtly longing and dreamy, pastoral fields; like the dip of butterfly wings and the slow spill of honey; idyllic, hazy, sensual.

All too soon, he pulled away, and Luca chased the sensation, pressing up onto the balls of his feet, wanting more, needing more. Gabriel gazed down at him with a hushed wonder on his face.

‘Luca…’ Gabriel raised a hand to his kiss-wet lips, his face reverent in the silver-blue shadows of the church.

In the quiet that followed, Cas snorted. ‘Really? That’s it? Weak.’

Pushing off the pew with feline ease, Cas stalked toward them both. He slid his fingers into Luca’s hair, tugging their head back with a firm grip that made their scalp prickle. Still caught up in Gabriel’s embrace, Luca was lost in a rush of delicious need that coursed through their navel as Cas descended upon their mouth, biting, devouring, his tongue demanding and savage against Luca’s own.

It was lucky he was pinned between Cas and Gabriel both, Luca thought, as his knees buckled, one hand reaching back to tangle in Cas’s hair.

Luca moaned into the kiss —a hotly desperate sound— utterly undone, feeling a heat building in his abdomen… and he felt the two vampires either side of him grow still.

Breaking the kiss with a gasp, Luca’s chest heaved, his fingers curling into the fabric of Gabriel’s shirt. Static crackled in the air between them as Cas and Gabriel stared each other down, the energy charged and tense. Then, they were pressing closer, crowding either side of Luca, the studs of Cas’s jacket biting into his back, Gabriel’s hips insistent against his own.

Feeling a little light-headed, Luca turned to draw Gabriel’s lips to their own once again. Gabriel’s kiss was hungrier this time, more intent in his need, and Luca felt a thrill of excitement to feel Cas’s fingers digging into their hips, kneading and caressing. Gabriel’s tongue found theirs, even as his thigh nudged Luca’s own apart to nestle closer between their legs.

Luca shifted, and it was instinct to grind down against the added friction of Gabriel’s thigh. Luca’s hips worked in slow, purposeful movements, and Gabriel gasped into their mouth.

‘Luca! Oh my god…’

Cas chuckled, his eyes hooded with desire. ‘Good to see you’re finally learning something, Golden Boy.’

Cas raked the sharps of his fangs across Luca’s neck before claiming their mouth once more. One of his hands snaked under the fabric of Luca’s shirt to draw lazy circles across their abdomen, and Luca felt it like brilliant starlight shooting across their skin.

God, but this was perfect, Luca thought, this was everything he had ever wanted and hardly dared to hope for. The idea that this was actually happening, that Cas and Gabriel both were grinding against him, pinning him deliciously between them and panting with increasingly uncontrolled bursts of air had Luca’s eyes rolling back in his head.

Luca slipped a hand behind their back to stroke across the denim of Cas’s jeans, stomach clenching pleasurably to find Cas just as hard as they were themself. Rocking into Gabriel, Luca worked their hand up and down, stroking Cas through the fabric.

‘Fuck,’ Cas breathed, pushing harder into Luca’s hand.

Gabriel’s mouth sank to Luca’s neck, licking up the heat of their throat, his tongue laving over the spot where their neck met their shoulder. Crying out when Gabriel sucked hard at their neck, a rough growl in his throat, Luca threw their head back, resting it against Cas’s shoulder.

The silver of Gabriel’s eyes gleamed brighter as he gave a choked cry. He forced his head back, his face tight with desire and something darker, wilder.

‘Cas.’ The name shuddered out of him in a laboured growl, rolling from Gabriel’s tongue like he could scarcely speak, scarcely think. ‘Cas, I need you, I need more, I can’t—’

Luca felt a hot pulse of desire spike through him, hurtling him closer to the edge at the thought that Gabriel might…

Gabriel…

Luca gasped, trying to think through the crush and glide of skin against heated skin and sweat-damp fabric. Did he want…?

Cas, however, seemed to have understood what Gabriel was asking.

He huffed a laugh, his eyes dark with lust. ‘Knew you couldn’t wait to get your hands on me, Adalhard.’

Smirking, Cas re-opened his wrist. He offered it to Gabriel, who laced his fingers hungrily with Cas’s and brought it to his mouth.

This close, Luca could see the exact moment Gabriel’s lips sealed to Cas’s skin; hear the stuttering breath he huffed through his nose as the blood hit his tongue; see the bob of his Adam’s apple and the stark line of his jaw as he swallowed.

But the sight that had Luca the most hypnotised was the way Gabriel’s silver eyes gleamed as they locked with Cas’s while he drank. Luca felt the hard throb of Cas’s cock against his hand. Gabriel pushed more intently against Luca in turn. Cas’s free hand against their hip was almost crushing in its grip.

Gabriel pulled back to lick the blood from his lips, his eyes fluttering closed and a gritted out moan escaping him as he rocked himself against the juncture of Luca’s thighs. The outline of his hardness was thick and heavy against the fabric of their jeans.

‘Luca…’ Gabriel breathed. ‘You feel so good, oh my god…’

The blood had taken the edge off; Gabriel bent his head over Luca’s neck with a new-found confidence, his tongue startlingly hot as it swirled from the corner of Luca’s jaw to their throat to their collarbone.

Gripping Luca’s chin and tilting their head further back, Cas captured their mouth in another kiss, his teeth nipping their lip, his tongue rubbing against the roof of their mouth. Skimming his fingers just below the edge of Luca’s waistband, dipping, teasing, Cas gave a hum of pleasure against Luca’s lips as he gripped their belt and jerked it.

‘You are so fucking perfect, you know that?’

The gravel of Cas’s voice combined with the friction of fabric brought Luca right up to the edge, and he whimpered, desperate for release.

‘Fuck… Cas, please,’ Luca moaned. ‘Gabriel…’

Gabriel’s head snapped up, his eyes flicking to Cas’s for a moment. He dropped a hand to Luca’s thigh, pressing him closer, changing the angle slightly, his hips grinding in slow circles, and that was enough — climax slammed into Luca in a wave that had him crying out. One of Cas’s hands came up to clamp over his mouth.

‘You gonna come for us, babe?’ Cas murmured in Luca’s ear as their body wracked with spasms. ‘Yeah, that’s it. Just like that.’

Gabriel’s eyes grew wide, a sheen of sweat across his collarbones. Sagging limply, Luca’s head fell forward to rest against Gabriel’s chest, even as his body jerked with the last vestiges of pleasure still humming in his blood. Gabriel’s fingers stroked through their hair with a breathless tenderness, even as he blinked the dazed sheen from his eyes.

Cas snorted a laugh. ‘Can I have my hand back now?’

‘Your… oh. Sorry. Thanks. Um…’

Gabriel tugged away his fingers where they were still laced with Cas’s. He’d gripped them so tight they’d turned white and bloodless around the knuckles. Gabriel’s ears promptly turned scarlet.

A shy quiet fell over Gabriel as Luca disentangled himself from between the two vampires, his eyes darting to Cas, who was rearranging his jeans with a smirk. Flustered, Gabriel yanked his shirt out of his pants, flattening the tails over his front in an attempt to lessen the obvious sight of his own erection.

He cleared his throat, his blush rising to his cheeks. ‘Is it just me, or does this strike anyone else as a tad sacrilegious?’

Cas looked pointedly at the wet stain marring the front of Luca’s jeans. ‘Bit late now, don’t you think?’

Luca snorted, and then all three of them were laughing, the tension broken before it could properly build.

‘Okay, when I invited you two out tonight, I was really not expecting you to have me coming in my pants,’ Luca laughed, before growing more serious. ‘But really… Thank you for tonight. For this, for us. For everything we talked about. It all means so much to me. All of it. I had fun.’

‘Clearly,’ Gabriel said, the blush still riding high in his cheeks.

‘Well, you know,’ Cas said, ‘they smash a bottle of champagne on boats when they first set sail or whatever. We… make questionable life decisions in old churches. Happy HMS Polycule or whatever. Let the boyfriend competition commence.’

Gabriel fought through his bashfulness long enough to throw a look of derision Cas’s way.

‘It’s not a competition, Cas.’

‘Uh, it is, and I am winning.’ Cas jabbed a finger at Gabriel. ‘Also, don’t go thinking this changes anything between us, Golden Boy. You’re still Clement trash.’

Rolling his eyes, Gabriel replied, ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

Luca stifled a laugh. ‘Hey, so, I would really like to not be wearing these pants right now — we done bickering for the night?’

‘Unlikely,’ Gabriel muttered, while Cas said ‘Nope. Never.’

Laughing, Luca kissed them both.

Cas grinned. ‘Let's get you home, babe.’

Throwing each other a dirty look which struck Luca as more performative than anything else, Cas and Gabriel fell in on either side of him as he made his way to the church door. Together, the three of them stepped out into the night.

[scaryanneee]

writing patterns tag game 🖤

thank you to @aevallare for tagging me! :)

Rules: list the first line(s) of your last 10 posted fics and see if there's a pattern!

I don't have 10 fics (not for lack of trying), but I do have 8 fics, so:

1. Pretty Things (Astarion/reader)

A soft breeze off the Chionthar placated the churning in your gut as you approached Withers’ party. But you were resolved — determined not to let him ruin your night.

2. Prodigal Son (Tavyastarion)

“Sorry, but I can’t take the job tomorrow, Vi.”

Tavya shifted her weight back and forth on the creaky floorboards of the Guildhall. While crowded as ever, the space itself had certainly seen better days.

3. Wildheart (Hellspawn)

The words were out of his mouth before he could think better of it. 

4. Think of Me (Astarion/reader)

“By all means, do something less exceptional… and think of me while you’re doing it.”

You walked away quickly, unwilling to give Astarion the satisfaction of seeing your body’s reaction to his words.

5. One Last Crooked Night (Tavyastarion)

Tavya should’ve been at home. It was late, and she had an early morning.

Early morning. She breathed a laugh to no one in particular at this unserious way of referring to her own wedding day, for gods’ sakes.

6. Gifts (f!Tav/Astarion)

As she linked arms with her companions for a rowdy celebration in the Blushing Mermaid, Aunarra couldn’t believe her luck.

7. Midnight Chimes (f!Durge/Astarion)

Astarion thumbed the pommel of his dagger anxiously as he watched the raging duel in the Temple of Bhaal. Firelight danced in Tav’s void-black eyes as she dodged and parried the shapechanger’s increasingly frustrated attacks. He had seen her in battle countless times before, of course, but this felt different.

8. Until the World Falls Down (f!Durge/Astarion)

Stretching out against the silken sheets, absorbed in the sensation of chilled skin on cool fabric, Tav allowed herself a rare moment of mental quietude.

- - -

As far as patterns, um, I guess the main one is that I really like writing about Astarion. Lmao. Also, some very exposition-packed opening sentences here, which I suppose is appropriately "former improv comedian" of me tbh

tagging @brabblesblog and @astarionfreak :)

[kumeko]

A/N: For the Goddess Messenger Zine vol 4! Look at me writing a pure romantic drama, it’s been a while. Inpsiried by AlzzziMi/status/1310535382270791680/photo/1 on twitter, one day I want to write a fic for every one of their Claudeleth pieces.

…

…

…

…

It is early dawn when Byleth wakes. She has always woken up early, the habit drilled into her from her days as a mercenary. Her father would shake her shoulder, his hand gentle as he roused her from sleep. It’s time to go, he murmured as the sun peeked through the trees. There was a contradiction in Jeralt, in how his hands were gentle with her while unflinchingly cutting down his enemies. His lips tugged into a small smile as she quietly got to her feet.

Now, though, there is no father by her bed when she stirs. Instead of a blue sky, she’s greeted by a blue canopy. The sun sneaks in through stained windows, lighting up a mansion of a bedchamber filled with luxuries that are a far cry from her days in the woods.

The greatest treasure in the room, though, is the man sleeping next to her. Byleth shifts her body slowly, trying not to wake him as she turns to watch him. Claude has always slept cat-like, easy to wake, as though he is afraid someone will come for him in his sleep. When they first slept together, she was not surprised to find a dagger under his pillow. She is certain it is from his time in Almyra. She is equally certain he will dodge the question if she asks.

She did not mind it during the war. Now, though, Byleth wishes this skill would disappear. It is rare to find Claude entirely still, his mind quiet. It is rarer still that she gets to gaze down on him uninterrupted. His dark hair splays across the pillow, his hands curling into the bedsheets. There is something almost innocent about his expression like this, like the schemes leave him when he sleeps.

Even now, with the battle behind them, there are schemes. She wonders if it will be like that when they grow old, if when the grey reaches his temples, he’ll still have a trick up his sleeve. If she’ll always catch that mind whirling with the next plan, the next step, his body trying to keep up with the grand dreams he has envisioned of the future.

It’s peaceful now. Birds trill, greeting the rising sun. Outside, bakeries and smithies start their day. Claude mercifully stays asleep. Byleth resists the urge to run a hand through his silken locks, to brush his jaw and watch him shiver. His reaction would be a temporary pleasure soon followed by the hard edge of reality.

When he wakes, they will have to return to their duties and tasks. He is the King of Almyra. She is the leader of Fódlan. Between them, there is a country to rebuild, borders to open, people to heal. There is no time to rest. There is no time to think. And there is certainly no time to lay in bed, watching the sunrise.

It is more than she expected. Claude was raised a prince and lived a Riegan, but Byleth has always just been Byleth, a commoner in every way, shape, and form. Leading a mercenary troop was all she had expected in life.

Now she is a symbol, a goddess reborn. Now she is not Byleth, never just Byleth. People look at her with expectations and dreams and hopes, people look at her as though she can change the path of history and carve out the injustices in the world.

Byleth fiddles with her ring. When she’s troubled, her fingers are drawn to its warm metal. She loves the weight of it, the way it slides across the skin, the way it reminds her of the string connecting her to Claude. When it gets too much, she just has to touch it and she is home.

A breeze picks up. The curtains billow, fluttering like wings. Byleth smells freshly baked bread and smoke. The earthy scent of the forest, the grimy smell of dust from the road. If she inhales deeply enough, she imagines smelling the salty sea. Even deeper yet, a dozen spices she doesn’t know the name of, a little piece of Almyra smuggling its way into Fódlan.

The wind travels. Byleth stretches her legs, feeling a familiar trill running through them. She has never been in one place for so long before. A wanderlust fills her, urges her to get moving. Surely, they could both take a small trip. There are plenty of competent people around them—Lorenz at the very least would enjoy the opportunity, if not the chance to one-up Claude again. It’s not like they have to go far or long.

It could work.

There’s a soft groan as Claude stirs. His eyes crack open, his gaze unfocused. Automatically, he turns to her, his hand reaching forward to tangle in hers.

“’morning,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.

“Morning.” Byleth leans forward, brushing his hair out of his face. Her own hair covers him like a curtain. She remembers the wind. “Let’s go on a trip.”

“A trip?” Claude blinks, forcing himself to wake up. His hand squeezes hers gently.

She nods. “Just the two of us.”

“That…” Claude stares at her in surprise before breaking into a smile. “That would be great.” He reaches up, his fingers tangling in her hair, his hand forcing her closer as he kisses her. The sun hits him and it’s like kissing molten gold, like the sun touching the sky.

-x-

Byleth has always surprised him. Ever since that first meeting eight years ago, Claude has been on his toes around his former professor. Her prowess in the battlefield, her strange connection to Rhea and Sothis, her abilities and hair colour—whenever he thinks he’s getting used to her, she throws him for a loop.

That hasn’t changed after they were engaged. For all of Byleth’s skill in war, she has very little in relationships, and it has been entertaining watching her bumble her way through with various degrees of success.

Or maybe it is ‘complete’ success, since he finds each fumble endearing. His life has always been teetering on the edge of perfection, on diligence. Claude has to predict as many possibilities as he can when he takes a step, when he picks a destination, when he chats with a dignitary. If Byleth fears failure, she never lets it show. If she makes a misstep, she doesn’t seem to care. Her expressions are honest, her gestures genuine, and he can only hope to one day reach her freedom.

In the meantime, he makes do with what he can. Their private movements together, their stolen kisses and lingering touches. Life is the interlude between long journeys from Almrya to Fódlan, the time spent in one royal house or the other before they must once more separate. One day, he wants to build a house right at the border, half in one country, half in the other. Byleth will probably never know how much he hungers for her, how much desire thrums under his skin like a drumbeat, but he has a lifetime to show her.

And today’s vacation is supposed to be a chance to do just that. When he had kissed Byleth, accepting her offer, he had imagined something soft, something luxurious. He had not imagined them traipsing through small villages dotting the border of their country, a work trip in the guise of a break.

Even now they’re in another nameless village. Claude is certain there isn’t a map that marks his location. A cool mountain breeze blows and he fights back a sigh as he takes in the dirt paths and wooden roofs. “This isn’t quite what I had in mind, Teach.”

Byleth frowns, looking more puzzled than upset. She fiddles with her ring, a tick he noticed she does whenever she’s trying to figure something out. “Did you want a different village?”

“It’s not the village that’s the problem.” Claude chuckles. He gestures as the official looking men and women approach them. “I thought this was a vacation.”

“Oh.” Byleth is contrite. “I thought it would be efficient. We can tour the country and check damages while also going on a trip.” She waits a beat. “It’s also a good excuse if anyone asks.”

“That’s true.” He doesn’t deny her words. It’s not a bad strategy. It just isn’t one he was prepared for. Though, in all honesty, he should have expected it. Byleth is a practical woman, after all. Even her gifts have some useful application.

Byleth picks up on his disappointment. “I thought you would like that.”

“I don’t hate it.” He carefully picks his words like a climber picks footholds. “A warning would have been nice, though.”

“Hello!” Fortunately, the town’s officials arrive, interrupting the conversation. It’s a gaggle of five elders, dressed up in their finest wools.

A woman in a grey tunic steps forward. Her eyes are sharp despite her white hair and wrinkled skin. ‘Greetings, your majesty.” She curtsies. “I’m Rosemary, the village head. It is an honour to have you here.”

“That’s fine.” Byleth shakes her head dismissively. She has never liked the trims and dressing of royalty. He wishes there were more like her. Perhaps they wouldn’t have had a war if there were.

Rosemary turns to him and curtsies once more. “Duke Riegan.”

“He is now the King of Almyra,” Byleth adds, smiling softly.

He waits, but she doesn’t add anything else. There have been barely any mentions of their engagement back in the royal palace and as far as his spies have told him, few knew of the true nature of their relationship.

The ring on his finger feels cold and heavy.

-x-

As expected, they are given the royal treatment, down to the room they stay in. The village head furnishes a guest bedroom. Every surface is covered in flowers. Candles light the room romantically, the town’s speciality in goat cheese is placed on a table in the center, and there’s a small basin filled with warm water to wash their faces.

Byleth already feels stuffy as she enters. It’s a small mercy that for once she isn’t wearing her proper robes and instead her old mercenary fatigues, she could not imagine making this trip otherwise. Her mouth is tired from pleasantries, her hand still curved in the shape of a handshake. Even during her days as a professor, she hadn’t really enjoyed social activities, but they had been bearable since her students were just as casual as she was.

Claude whistles softly as he looks around, his mood improving. “Nice digs.”

“It is.” She glances at the bed and for a moment, it’s six years ago and she’s travelling with her father. “There’s only one bed.”

A shadow flickers across his face, an expression that disappears before she can read it. His lips tug into a familiar smirk and he clasps his hands behind his back as Claude sidles close and leans toward her. “What, getting shy, Teach?”

Byleth flushes lightly. The promises in his waggling brow and sly smile drag up memories. “No, I…just old habits.”

“Oh?”

“It’s been a while since I travelled with someone.” Byleth studies his face—it’s impossible to tell he had been bothered at all. Then again, she has never been adept at that skill like he is. Brute honesty is the only way for her to get answers. “Is something wrong?”

“Nope.” He’s still smiling. It’s genuine, but not entirely. Part of her is disappointed; even now Claude likes to keep his secrets. There’s a wall between them, one that she can never quite scale or break down. She doesn’t know how.

There’s a knock on the door. He turns to open it. Rosemary steps in, her hands clasped in front of her as she bows slightly. “I’m sorry for interrupting your rest.”

“It’s fine,” Byleth replies. The only thing waiting for her are questions without answers. A distraction is more than welcome.

“What happened?” Claude asks. She can tell by his relaxed posture he already knows the problem. Of course he does.

“We’ve had trouble with a group of bandits nearby.” Rosemary’s eyes are clear as she looks at them. Byleth wonders if she’s been waiting to ask this question since they stepped foot in the town. “Unfortunately, no one here is able to handle them and they’ve been blocking off our supplies.”

Byleth doesn’t hesitate before nodding. “We’ll handle it.”

“Really? Thank you, your highnesses.” Rosemary smiles. “I’ll prepare a map in the morning with their location.”

Only when the woman leaves, the door slamming shut behind her, does Claude turn to her with a wry smile. “More work, huh?”

“I’m sorry.” Byleth sighs, her shoulders drooping. “I might not be good at planning vacations.”

“That’s an understatement.” Claude grabs her hand and pulls her close. He presses his forehead to hers and smiles. “But I don’t mind.”

She doesn’t see any shadows this time, but part of her fears he’s just gotten better at hiding it.

-x-

Claude has always been a light sleeper. In a royal household, between actual assassins and imaginary shapes in the wind, you had to be. His uncle had been killed in his sleep, throat slit. Another poisoned. Battles for the heir apparent are a constant, no matter how old or how distant the candidates are. He learned to sleep still, to keep one eye open and ear to the sky.

With Byleth, he forgets all of that. When his arms wrap around her, when his chest presses against her back, he forgets everything. Her pine scent washes over him as he falls asleep, her soft hair tickling his neck, and he’s out like a light to the sound of her heartbeat. It’s a deep sleep. His mother would be ashamed.

As soon as she leaves the safe cage of his arms, he’s back to old habits. Claude wakes up at the crack of dawn, the spot in front of him still warm. He stares at the emptiness for a second, the impression left by her body, the way his hands can still feel the smooth expanses of her skin. Ever since her disappearance during the war, he feels like he’s spent most of his life chasing Byleth’s shadow. Then he looks up to find her half-way dressed.

“Where are you going?” he asks. He doesn’t need to hear the answer, he already knows.

This isn’t the first time he’s woken to an empty bed. And despite his hopes, it won’t be the last.

“To get the bandits,” Byleth replies, her voice clipped as she snaps on her jacket. There’s military precision to her movements, an efficiency borne from years with Jeralt. Her pants slide on, then her belt. It takes only a minute and she’s already ready to leave.

Claude sits up, running a hand through his hair, chasing the sleep from his eyes. The blanket falls off his chest and pools in his lap. To her credit, she doesn’t react. “They said they’d get the map ready in the morning.”

“It is the morning.”

He laughs. “They didn’t mean this early in the morning.”

She purses her lips, annoyed. “It’s better to deal with these things quickly. They’ll catch wind and be harder to deal with later.”

He doesn’t doubt that. Her experience in this is still greater than his—a five year absence still hasn’t changed that. “You were going alone?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” She flashes a smile before glancing at the door. “So the map won’t be ready?”

That isn’t the point. Claude studies her profile: determined eyes, strong jaw, straight back. She’s a warrior at her core. The people call her a goddess, a reincarnation of Sothis, a second coming of Rhea. If she is a goddess, she is one of steel and blood. There’s a country near his where they worship such a warrior, a goddess who dances over skulls and wields a sword in each of her many hands.

He finds in Byleth the image of that goddess.

“Wait.”

But unlike that goddess, who can do her work alone, Byleth is still a human. For all of her powers, she can get injured. She can get killed.

Claude does not think he could survive that heartbreak.

“Give me a second, I’ll get ready.” He clambers out of bed. Her eyes draw lower and lower before she snaps her head away and Claude feels a brief surge of pride at the reaction. Maybe he’ll tease her a little later, see how far he can go before she pounces.

“Are you sure?” she asks, gaze pointedly away from him.

“You don’t know where to go right?” Claude grins, pulling on his pants. “I have an idea where their camp might be.”

Surprised, she turns to him, forgetting his state of undress. “You do?”

“Yeah. There were some odd signs of activity when we flew over.” He puts on his shirt, feels the hard round edge of each button before he snaps them in place. Looking down, he can’t see her expression as he says, “You can rely on me more, you know.”

Quietly, she replies. “I know. I do.”

-x-

As usual, Claude knows exactly where to go. They ambush the bandits and dispatch them quickly, springing out of nowhere like a pair of ghosts. If those ruffians didn’t pray before, they do now; quickly, silently, under their breath, in loud curses and sobbing pleads. Their skills are wanting and they fall before her sword like a pack of cards.

By the time they get back, Rosemary has already set up a celebration. They are dragged from house to house, street to street. Rings of flowers are dropped over their heads and petals float in the air. A little girl kisses Claude on the cheek. An old woman offers Byleth an apple.

Claude smiles and laughs the entire time, enthusiastically dragging Byleth with him as they are presented with all of nature’s treasures. His hand stays twined in hers, their fingers interlaced. He looks happy.

She might not be as adept as he is, but Byleth can tell that he’s partially faking it. He’s still upset about this morning, this small grievance she doesn’t entirely understand. Was it irritation that he woke up? Annoyance that he had to go out with her, since she didn’t have a map? Disappointment?

Most likely, it’s none of the above, but she can’t stop the small niggling in the corner of her mind. When she is around him, she is keenly aware of the places she lacks,

Still, even with that, there are things she can do. Claude wants her to rely on him. And she does—his strength in politics, his warmth when she’s stressed, his smiles when she’s tired. In ways big and small, he has become her rock, her center, and she feels his pull like the tide does the moon.

Byleth does lean on him—but then she remembers her father, his absent smiles, his tomorrows and next times. The words Jeralt never said, never got a chance to say. The gaps in her knowledge she has had to piece together on her own. Actions aren’t enough, sometimes. Sometimes things need to be said, experienced.

In the evening, there is a bonfire. Big and bright, it lights up the night sky. Sparks fly, small embers like fireflies into the night. Villagers pen in the town square, clapping in time with the music. Couples dance around the flames, twirling in a language she cannot even hope to replicate.

It is a language Claude knows, though. They stand side by side watching the dancers and her hand seeks his. The pads of his fingers nicked from countless arrows. His ring is warm and calming.

“Byleth?” he asks, looking down.

Sometimes Byleth forgets how much taller he is now. Her head reaches his chin. “Do you want to dance?” She rubs his ring. “I don’t know how—teach me.”

It’s more an order than a request, but his smile broadens all the same. “I get to be the teacher this time,” he teases her, pulling her along as he positions them closer to the flames.

“You’ve been the teacher for a while now,” she corrects.

He kisses her in response.

-x-

He had imagined it. That is all Claude can think of, as he spins Byleth around the fire, as she steps on his toes and apologizes before stepping on his toes once more. She’s biting her cheek, focused on the dance, but she’s smiling and she’s happy and maybe it was just in his imagination after all.

Hilda had told him, many times, that he was prone to overthinking. She’d roll her eyes, pat him on the back, and tell him maybe use that noggin of yours a little less? Sometimes things are exactly as they appear to be.

Claude still maintains that it isn’t the case, that it is better to overthink than underthink, but today he is willing to concede the point.

Byleth twirls, her green hair glowing in the firelight like a beacon. Her skirt swirls like a hurricane, pulling him toward her. It could be pitch dark and he knows his eyes would be drawn to her, that his eyes have always been drawn to her. Even when she first appeared all those years ago, impassive as a rock, he had been drawn to her like a moth to the flame.

 Her hand returns to his as she steps back into place. Byleth breathes deeply as she slows to a stop, the dance over. It’ll be a while still before the flush on her skin disappears. “Thank you,” she murmurs, giving him another one of her slight smiles, a waning moon that always appears on the edge of disappearing.

“Want another?” he asks as the music picks up again, loath to let her go.

“A drink first.” She wets her lips. “I’m parched.”

Sometimes, being human was a bother. Claude squeezed her hands once before reluctantly pulling away. “I’ll get it.”

Startled, she looks at him with wide eyes. “That’s fine, I’ll—”

“Think of it as my thanks for the dance.” Claude smiles lopsidedly. “It’ll be a minute.”

Byleth purses her lips, considering it before acquiescing. “I’ll rely on you,” she says, echoing his words from the morning.

He laughs. She’s so obvious sometimes. It’s utterly refreshing. Part of him wants to kiss her, but if he does, then no one’s getting a drink. Slipping away, Claude heads over to the long banquet tables laden with fruits, berries, entire roasted pigs, delicate chicken dishes, and more. It seems like too much for a simple ‘defeat the bandits’, but he can understand the need to celebrate.

It is the little things in life that make it worthwhile.

When he returns to the fire, Claude spots her standing by herself, her back to the fire. She’s fiddling with her ring, sliding it on and off. Part of him fears that she’s debating between taking it off or keeping it on. A bigger part of him knows that’s irrational.

At least, a bigger part until he steps closer and hears her mumble, “Was it a mistake?”

Her ring slips off.

-x-

“Claude?” Byleth’s gaze flicks between the stiff profile of her fiancé and his white-knuckled grip on her arm. This is perhaps the most emotional she’s ever seen him. No one will ever call Claude stoic, but his emotions have always been kept on a tight leash. They only see what he allows them to see, like a gardener pruning his flowers.

She’s only seen his emotions spill out of him thrice—once when she returned from her absence. Another when they finally ended the war. The third when they’d exchanged rings.

And now, a fourth time. His feelings overflow, a tempest she can feel, as Claude pulls her off the main street. It’s only when they’re finally alone that he finally stops in his tracks. His hand is still gripping her wrist tight.

“Claude?” Byleth repeats, stepping forward to look at him. It’s too dark to read his expression, especially here. There’s only a flickering lantern three houses down and it casts shadows that she can’t see past.

“I…” Claude turns to her, then away. He runs a hand through his hair. “We…”

It’s the first time she’s seen him speechless. Claude always has a word on his tongue, always has something witty to say. Yet now he fumbles like a child and something in her unravels at the sight. Gently, she pries his hand off her wrist and intertwines their fingers instead. “What is it?” she asks encouragingly.

“We…we need to talk.” He doesn’t pull away, but his hand is stiff and her heart sinks.

“About?”

“…us.” Claude looks at her now. “What was a mistake?”

“Huh?” Byleth flushes as she remembers—had he heard her then? Embarrassment fills her and she ducks her head. “That’s...”

“I understand.” She hears a shift in his voice and before she can ask, there’s a hand in front of her. “I’ll take it back.”

Byleth stares at his hand. “You’ll what?”

“You don’t have to worry about it. These things happen. I’ll take the ring back and—”

This time, she can hear the heartbreak in his voice. It echoes the sound in her chest. Immediately, she recoils, stepping as far away from his hand as possible. “What are you doing?”

She still can’t see him clearly. Maybe she never has.

“Taking the ring back.” For once, there isn’t a hint of jesting in his tone, no matter how badly she wants to hear it.

“I don’t want to give it back,” she snaps, a fury growing within her. His decisions are a mystery to her and she’s tired of it. “Why are you always like this?”

He freezes. “Always like what?”

“Making decisions on your own. Hiding your feelings.” Byleth balls her hands into tight fists, wanting nothing more than a bandit to hit. “You never explain anything. We’re not at war anymore. You don’t always need a plan! You can at least tell me what they are!”

Claude flinches. “I’m not that secretive.”

“You are.” She pleads, “I can’t tell what you’re thinking sometimes. And it scares me.”

“That…you scare me,” he replies softly. “You say I’m the one acting on my own? No, that’s you, it’s always you. You act like you’re still a mercenary, and you’re not. You act like you’re alone, and you’re not.”

She freezes.

“You’re not,” he repeats, softer now. He steps forward now and she can make out the furrow in his brow, the soft droop of his lips, the slump in his shoulders. “I’m with you. I’m always with you.”

And just like that, her fury calms. Byleth might not know Claude as well as she’d like to, but right there, right then, she knows him perfectly. She knows his fear. She knows how it mirrors her own. Years ago, his arm had wrapped around her shoulder after Jeralt’s death, a warm reminder that the universe was not as empty as she feared.

Death isn’t the only thing that can take away a person.

She steps forward, meeting him in the shadows. Her arms wrap around him, pulling him close. He flinches, startled, but doesn’t back away. Standing on the tips of her toes, Byleth presses her forehead to his. “Claude.”

“Yeah?” he breathes and she remembers that warm breeze that had started it all, the spices she could not name. She couldn’t, but he could. Whatever she couldn’t do, he could. And wherever he failed, she could give him a hand.

“You’re with me. I know that.” She closes her eyes. “I forget, sometimes, that I don’t have to do things on my own. It’s an old habit. It’s hard to stop. I’ll try.”

“You don’t—”

“For you, I’ll try. Just like I wanted to make this vacation for you.” She opens her eyes now. This close, she can just make out the lashes on his eyes, the dim light barely outlining them. “I thought I had made a mistake planning it. It’s full of work. You always seem troubled. Did I make a mistake?”

His lips part as he gasps softly and his arms go around her now, squeezing her tight. “It wasn’t. It isn’t.”

She smiles, her fears released. “I’m glad.”

“And I…” He chuckles weakly. “You’re right, old habits are hard to break. I can’t promise no more schemes but...none from you. You’ll always know what I’m thinking.”

“That’s all I need.” Byleth relaxes.

“And the ring?”

“You can pry it off my dead hands,” she replies smartly.

Claude laughs. It’s pure and honest and a wave of relief fills her. “As long as you don’t die before me, I’m game.”

“You’re not allowed to die before me either,” she murmurs.

“No, I suppose not.” There’s a pregnant pause before he looks up at her. Their foreheads are still touching, and she can almost feel his look like a physical thing, like it jumps through that connection and into her core. Electricity fills her. “Hey, Byleth, want to know what I’m thinking now?”

For once, she doesn’t need the words.

[pursuitseternal]

“Welcome Me:”Ascended Astarion x F!Reader, a fic to sate your desires, darling in “The Rogue You Were”

Ascended Astarion x Reader | E | 5.3K Vampire smut

Summary: After the ending of the storyline… After weeks apart, the blink of an eye for you immortals, Astarion returns from consolidating his rule, expecting a “warm welcome.” But you miss your charming, tortured rogue… and you will play whatever games he wants to get him to remember. To make him remember the rogue he was.

Cw: dom/sub dynamics, choking, breath play, spanking, “don’t move unless I tell you😈,” power play, biting (obviously), blood kink and drinking (vampires, duh), NSFW on so many levels.

Ao3 link | Astarion Fic Masterlist

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It is late, the candles have all gutted out, the lingering scent of smoke wafting to your nose as you wind your way through hall after hall of the Crimson Palace. Your head would be swimming, should be swimming, with the amount of potent High Fae wine you have consumed.

But you are turned, your body pulses with ascendant blood in your veins. His blood.

Even as your irritation at him burns hot, you cannot deny how your body trembles to think of your master. And even as you leave the long vacant ballroom, you sigh his name to no one but the air… Astarion. He has been so distant of late, pulled from your side all day and night, meeting with important and powerful beings. Consolidating his… your… power as you take what is yours from Baldur’s Gate. No one cuts a deal, turns a profit, threatens your security without the effects lining your pockets or without enemies ending up dead. Drained. Signs to those who oppose Astarion the Ascended. Your mind fills with that shining smirk, those glowing crimson eyes framed in lustrous pale skin.

Your heart skips a beat. For the first time in weeks you saw him tonight, mingling at the ball, turning heads all around him, persuading with words, with promises of power and gold, if not with promises of his body. No. Never that again. That body is yours as you are his. He will never whore himself out anymore. Those days are so far behind him, you must always take caution never to mention what it was for him before his ascension. That vampire rogue that trapped you between his hard, cold thighs to hold a dagger to your throat.

Love at first sight.

You shake your head. No, not love. Obsession. Fascination. His thrall long before he gave you his blood.

You pass open windows, billowing curtains of finest gauze catching in the nighttime breezes. Starlight cuts the darkness in iridescent beams, patches of brilliance flooding the shadows that cling to every corner. You lose yourself, smelling the wine on your own breath as you sigh, looking into the sky at the multitudes of stars above.

Lost and alone. Until you hear that silken voice caress your ear. “There you are…” You whip your head around, catching two glowing red eyes and shining fangs grinning at you from the closest bank of shadows. Astarion turns his head to face you fully, reclining against the wall even as you tremble visibly at the sight of him. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he purrs. That line, the one that first sank his claws deep into your heart even as he sank his cock hard between your folds for the first time— that line still makes your breath snag in your own throat.

And you love it.

Noiselessly, he crosses to you, standing in the window, bathed in the light of the stars. “What, my treasure? Not happy to see me?” His full lips turn in a saccharine pout, all a show, bait to lure you in. “I really expected a warmer welcome home than this.” His fangs glint as he draws to a stop, so close to you, the gems and beads of his velvet tunic brush against you. “Or have you grown so cold blooded since I made you mine… my consort?”

He growls his possession of you, and the blood in your veins does run cold. Chilled. Frozen even as you feel his breath whistle in the stray locks of your hair as he lowers his mouth to your neck. You turn your head on instinct, baring your neck and trembling even as his mouth descends towards your skin. Lips press, soft and attentive, trailing caresses up to the tender spot beneath your pointed ear.

“May I bite you?” He breathes the question down your neck. A lingering vestige of the sad, unsure rogue you met on the road, asking for your yes even though he thrums with power, the power to coerce your every word to assent.

That memory of his tragic eyes and wandering soul, the male that first crossed your path, it haunts you. The moment you feel his lips sneering, raising to bare his fangs ready to bite, you turn sharply. “Who said you could bite yet, my love?” you smirk in return. “Gone for weeks, and you expect such a willing, warm welcome.” You shake your head, the links and gems of your heavy, encrusted earrings jangling with the motion. “No, you tell me first I am more to you than the power you horde now that you are free, and then maybe, just maybe, you may have your fill.”

His crimson eyes narrow, displeasure darkening his expression and tinging his pale skin with ashen pools as he stares in return. “Well now, seems you have forgotten your place. Forgotten that all I do is for us, and our rule of Baldur’s Gate.” His voice is cold and exacting, his arms folding over his chest to square his chiseled shoulders.

It is the same, the same posture he once stood in so often before you. After battles, blood spattered and charming. A mirage. It is a memory, nothing more, as you see only the dark, hungry ascended being he has become.

“Our rule?” You spit, squaring your shoulders, wishing you had some weapon more than the fangs between your own lips. “Doing this… for us?” You place your hands on his chest, pressing into the decadent stitching and beading of his tunic. Hard muscles push and flex beneath your touch. “I know there is an us, you and me, bound together for all time. But, do not deceive yourself, Astarion, you crave the power for you. Not as gift for me…”

“Mmm, my pet, sharpened your claws in my absence, readying your own fangs for my neck now,” he gives a low, rapid laugh. “Simply riveting.” His head cocks back, moonlight spilling into those silver curls that fall with reckless abandon. Haphazard. Sexy. And he knows it, the way you can’t keep your eyes off of him. “Now, be a good girl,” he growls, “and welcome me home.”

You eye him for a moment, but that is all he allows for you. Resisting is futile against your maker. Even without the magic of your blood bond, he knows your heart is and always has been his. That is enough to compel you, knowing how you will cave at the first tangle of his tongue in your mouth, the first slip of his fingers into your wetness.

Faster than the lightning, he sweeps you into his arms and bolts down hall after hall, swifter than wind with his preternatural speed. His laugh tickles your ear as you cling to his shoulders, arms wrapped firmly around his neck, until he bursts through your bed chamber door.

You catch your breath with a gasp, a muffled cry ripping from your throat as he tosses you into the middle of those blood red sheets. Like you weigh nothing to him. His precious toy, his play thing. And by the gleam in his crimson eyes and the run of his tongue over his fang points, he is about to have his fill of playing with you.

Slowly, he creeps on to the bed, the mattress buckling under his hands, his knees, as he slinks closer to cover you with his body. Master of all your desires, he makes certain you feel his arousal pressing on your mound through the layers of your dress and his trousers. So hard for you, you wonder briefly why you pretend to resist. The thrill of the hunt, you suppose, letting him grind into you slowly. His knee catches under yours, insistent, pushing, spreading your legs wider as your skirt naturally rucks itself higher. A slight breeze makes you catch your breath, the chill swirling over your skin, passing the throbbing heat of your mound. And he thrusts that massive and contained cock harder, more demandingly, against you. The friction makes your mouth water, but it is nothing compared to what it is to have him inside.

“Now,” he closes in to cover you, arms bracing firmly to cage you at your shoulders. One hand lifts, fingers closing in around your throat. Not too hard, but enough to make you shiver and open your mouth for air. “I think there is something you wish to say, an invitation, an acceptance that dances on the tip of your tongue. Will you share it….” His eyes flicker to your opened mouth, slack as his fingers press just a bit harder on your windpipe, “… or will you have me pull it from your mouth with mine, my love?”

You struggle for words, your agreement and your dissent fight in equal measure. No words will suffice, and with a press of your own elbow into the bed beneath you, you force your head to lift. Your mouth claims his conceited smirking lips, even as his hold on your throat grows painful with your movement. Stars fill your eyes as you gasp into his mouth. That controlling hand instantly lifts its clutch from your windpipe, sweeping to the back of your head. Fingers tangling into the unraveled strands of your braid. His taste is more intoxicating than the wine tonight. You missed him, his taste, the way his tongue sweeps and explores your mouth. The way it dances over the points of your fangs. The commanding manner he teases your tongue between his lips to do the same. Weeks of deprivation from his passion, and you fall right back into it, letting his lust for you thrum in your veins and race like fire through your nerves. You gasp as he consumes your lips, the slightest thrust of his arousal against your body enough to nearly make you come already.

So attentive, his hands begin to loosen the laces on your bodice, deliberate but gentle as he exposes you inch by inch. What fabric does not fall away, he grabs between his two hands, tearing without even breaking from your kiss. “You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to do that all night. To get you completely bared… naked and mine. My little… treat.”

…with your cheeks all flushed…

That is him, that… was him. Your rogue. Despite the power that now consumes him, the darkness that whispers around him, that creeps into his complexion, your tortured rogue is still within him. No matter how much he tries to deny it, to bury it beneath power and wealth and sex with you.

You want to, need to, coax him out from there.

“Perhaps,” you breathe, “perhaps you need to show me you have missed me before I welcome you in, welcome you home… warmly?”

He breaks from your lips, that arrogant brow raising as his lips twist in that smirk that makes your core even more molten. “I have missed you, every moment we were apart, my love. Your blood inside me would never be enough to satisfy, not until I am inside you, and only then once we have totally…” he places a kiss on the crest of your shoulder, “…completely…” another kiss in the crook of your neck, “… spent ourselves… will we even be close to… “satisfaction.”

You shiver, your whole body shaking as he doesn’t bite, but runs those pointed fangs across your skin. You tap into your own reserves of immortal strength, threading your fingers into those unruly silver curls to pry his mouth from your flesh. “Your words are sweet, my love, but I prefer action.” Your hand pulls his pale neck within your own reach, your tongue running along the edge of his pointed ear, licking and sucking loudly, ignoring the cold metal loops and piercings as you pleasure him. He sighs, his body losing some of that rigid edge, softening under your attentions. “Let me bite you first, my love. Gain my strength as your spawn, so long deprived of her master’s power. Show me that you will put your love for me first, above your… ambitions… and just maybe I’ll let you slip inside without begging.”

“If that is what it will take,” he replies in that deep, honeyed voice of his, “then by all means, bite away, pet.”

That softness in his voice, that supple way his frame clings to yours, you know that the rogue he once was still creeps behind his ambition, his love for you still surfacing through his lust for power. You swirl your tongue over the span of his neck, the taste of his skin is a familiar blend of sweat and spice, cold to the touch as he ever has been.

Your undead lover.

Your own fangs prick his skin, gently, enough to fill your mouth with his blood. Sweet and heady, more intoxicating than wine. A bouquet that satisfies and overwhelms you in one swallow. Instantly, you feel the swirl of his power coursing through you, your limbs cramping as ascendant magic takes over. One more swallow, and you release your mouth, careful not to take too much from Astarion, let you spark his ire. His brows cant as he looks at you again, and you must look… different. More powerful? More lustful? But you can see as he gazes down at you, the trickle of his own blood running down his pale neck, that he is… impressed. Desire ignites somehow more brightly behind those crimson eyes.

You drink in his easy smirk, the soft caress of his fingers over your cheek, his thumb softly wiping away his blood from the corner of your mouth. Then he raises that thumb, his pink tongue licking his own blood from its stained pad. You feel his arousal beat as it throbs between your legs still. So pleased... but pleased with himself. His body instantly shifting to pin you back under him, bending you to his will again.

“Tch,” you make the sound that he so often makes at you, that condescending suck of your teeth. “So close my love, but I’m not through with testing your love.”

“Careful,” he hisses as his eyes narrow with danger and warning, “I bite… too.” He flashes those perfect teeth down at you. “Do not try me too hard, love,” his voice that silken growl.

“But I will try you just enough,” you dare to reply, your words earning that intrigued and sultry smirk from him. Closing your eyes, you picture the doors just beside you, garden doors that lead into the dirt and the trees of your private courtyard. His power courses in you, filling your belly and flooding your frame with your own heightened abilities. You push him off you, making him stagger to his feet on the floor. Your hands find his chest, racing with your own vampiric speed until you force him through those garden doors and into the moonlight. Your feet slip on the dirt, your dress falling off your body in the tatters he made. You stand naked, your strength making him buckle before you, making him lower his body to lie beneath you as you straddle your legs around his waist in the dust and grass and dirt.

He releases a low, feral growl, but he does not resist, letting you now press your body, bared completely to his eyes, to cover his. “Now,” his voice barely audible through the salivating hunger in his throat, “have I earned your assent at last, my pet?”

“Not until you fuck me in the dirt like the rogue you were,” you pant, fighting the urge to bring his long and cold fingers to pierce the molten slick between your thighs. You raise yourself from his chest, gripping your thighs around his waist and letting your slick soak his elegant and refined clothes. You feel him squirm beneath you, bucking his hips ever so slightly, dragging the sensation of his wet velvet breeches through your folds.

He sneers slightly, anger fluttering in that deep crimson gaze, as if you can see the memories of what he was clawing to the surface. His voice is like ice, slippery and cold. “The rogue I was is gone, my pet, but, if you wish me to be roguish, then roguish I shall be…” He barely gives you a warning, a flash of brightness in his eyes before he flips you on your back, your body slamming loudly against the dirt, knocking the wind from your lungs. His long, elegant fingers make quick work of the buttons down his chest. The bright fabric of his tunic flutters as he tosses it, not giving a shit where it lands as long as his skin finally brushes against your round, full, and swaying breasts.

He pauses a moment, kneeling over you, caging you between his cold and hard thighs. He licks his lips at you, the offering for his consumption, splayed in the dirt. Memories flicker over his eyes, a soft smile of recognition, of being here before, with you. Naked in the dirt. Your luxurious clothing crumpled, your sumptuous bed too far. If you close your eyes, you and he are as you first met, lust and love pulsing in the air, your backs covered in the grime of dust and sweat. Your hands press against those thighs that pin you, the black velvet crushed and soft as you run them higher. He smirks, approving your every little inching progress towards that straining erection. The leather ties of his band snap as you tear at them, the more they loosen, the more you can see the pale and glistening head of his cock.

He grinds his hips under your touch, the black cloth, sticky with your slick peeling away to reveal the thing you have craved for these weeks. Long and pale, engorged with his need for you, so hard every vein down its shaft is visible, his cock twitches every time you brush it as you free it.

“Mmm,” he groans to finally bare himself to you. “Just say the word, darling, and you’ll see more stars than are in the sky.” He croons, he preens, running a hand through his own hair as you take his cock in your hand. You stroke his immense length, the rises of each vein along it as familiar to you as if it were your own body.

Darling, he calls you. You run your thumb over his weeping head, spreading the pearl of cum along the ridge of his cock. Your first pet name. Not treasure, not consort, not treat…

“Call me darling again, and I’ll let you slip inside, my love,” you purr, bracing your other hand into the opening of his breeches to softly cup his balls as well.

His brow raises as he shifts himself, his hands lifting your legs one at a time until he crouches between your thighs. “Well then, I best make certain you are ready to welcome me inside…” he breaths, aiming his haughty mouth for your quaking belly before he places a kiss just above your navel, “…darling.”

His lips trail kisses lower, covering your hips, your belly, as if, for all the ascendant power flowing in veins, he can’t help but to adore your body. You moan your approval, slipping your fingers into those tantalizing silver curls, savoring every sway and lift of his head as he nestles himself lower over your mound. His breath is hot, chilling you more than the cold press of his hands as he spreads your folds open. Then, Astarion lifts his head one last time, flashing a taunting pout from between your thighs. “Please, darling,” he raises a brow, expectantly. “Just a little bite…” his fingers trace your innermost thigh, his head turning to lick you, his tongue lapping you in a single broad stroke. “You know how sweet you taste,” he purrs as he presses his nose, nuzzling that supple flesh of your inner thigh.

“Be my rogue, not my master,” you grip his hair tighter, staying him from lowering to feast on you. “Call me your darling, not your consort…” you pant, watching him lick his fang slowly, “and I’ll welcome you home to feed on me wherever you desire.”

“Darling,” he croons, slipping his long, dexterous fingers deep in your walls. “I’ll be your everything, since you are… mine.” Fingers crook inside you as he speaks, his voice low and wicked and dripping with sex, his touch catching your inner spot that makes you moan. The perfect sound of submission to his claim. To his possession of you. And you of him. “Are we… agreed?” His voice rasps against your thigh once more, mouth drooling as it hovers at the ready.

“Yes,” you breathe, you moan at last. The next instant you feel his bite, slicing into your thigh, your body trembling too much from his hooking fingers that thrust in and out of you to even notice the pain.

You feel the tug of his lips, the strong suck of his mouth around his bite marks as he drinks you. His tongue laps at your leg, his fingers ever attentive inside you as he drives you mad, salivating with every stroke and tug and thrust of his touch, every catch of your clit with his thumb.

You buck your hips, trying to catch even more friction as he pleasures you, but instantly he pulls away, taking that soaked hand from inside you to press your belly back down hard. The emptiness makes you cry his name, the strength of his hand on your hips adding a moan to it.

“Don’t move, pet,” he rasps, licking his lips to clean them of your blood. “Don’t be a bad girl, not now…”

You tremble, as he lowers his mouth again, careful to freeze, holding your breath until those mesmerizing fingers return to the demanding rhythm inside you again. You hold still, controlling even your breathing, even your eyes fluttering as you feel sucking once more. Filled with your blood for now, he runs his tongue from your thigh, tracing the distance down your leg until it slips between your folds as well.

Masterful, no tongue can sweep with more precision, more force, than his as he laps your clit. It takes but another swirl over your seam, his fangs catching slightly on your folds, to send you into the oblivion of orgasm.

Your fingers clutch at his hair wildly, clawing so hard you could draw blood if he let you. You pant, unable to say anything other than the muffled syllables of his name. And he just laughs, low and throaty as he watches you writhe in the dirt. You finally open your eyes, meeting his approving smirk, that cocky eyebrow raised in pure dark delight. “I told you not to move,” his grin widens wickedly, “so disappointing, darling.”

“But,” you grimace, groaning, but he just places a single finger over your lips, ordering your silence.

“Tch,” he sucks his teeth, teeth that still drip with your blood, “you will move when I say you can.”

“Is this how you wish to be welcomed home? You have always been fond of such games.” You smirk, watching him slip his breeches completely free from his long, pale legs.

“Mmm,” he assents, “but it will be my turn first, my pet, until you’ve earned yours.”

“Astarion,” you reply, but his finger only returns to press harder against your mouth.

“Shhh, you can speak, too, when I tell you to, darling,” that finger pushes into your mouth, wiggling over your tongue. “Now, suck, my love.”

Suck you do, cleaning his fingers of your tangy slick. He groans as you lick him clean, every swirl of your tongue driving him wild, his other hand flying to his cock as he grips that twitching, engorged length. Rubbing himself, he thrusts his hips in time with your tongue. As his breathing grows sharper, heavier, you know he’s not going to last much longer. And you bite one fang into the thick pad of his finger.

His blood caresses your tongue again, the power within him stronger, headier, as you can almost taste his arousal. He rips his finger from your mouth with a snarl. “I said suck, not bite or bleed me dry, my love.” His hands are at your knees, raising them until your ass lifts from the ground, his hand slapping firmly on your cheek. You cry aloud at the resounding spank. But he only laughs again. “Bad girl, crying when I did not say…” His hand slaps again, just the same as before, deliberate but not painful. A pleasurable punishment. And you swallow your cry this time, careful not to so much as grunt. He smiles his approval back down at you. His eyes whisper, good girl, as he sets your legs back down, positioning them just so.

Your lips purse, fluttering as you bite them to hold back your words, treading along the rules of this game as best you can. For now.

“I can see you wish to speak,” he arches one brow, “you may, until I finally sneak my little way in to start fucking you…”

He moves quickly, crawling over your body, and all you can do is pant his name, pleading with him in incoherent syllables. “A-astar-ion, p-please…”

Too late. He sheathes himself to the root in one thrust. “Ah ah,” he chides to cover you, arms wrapping tightly around your shoulders. “Now, busy your pretty, little mouth by kissing mine, and just let me fuck you, understood?”

You tremble under those eyes, your walls stretching as he already presses against the end of your channel.

“You may… nod, my love,” he taunts, a wicked tone of delight in that honeyed throat of his. You obey. “You may also touch me, your hands on my back, but nothing too rough, darling. This is about us, and our pleasure. Now… play nice, dear.” His words rush on his breath between your lips, and then he consumes you, tastes you, the mix of his blood and your slick still both on your tongue. You feel him licking it from you, making him thrust that cool, long cock all the deeper. A growl of satisfaction vibrates from his throat as he savors your mix of flavors. All his favorite things. Achingly slowly, he moves inside, dragging his length so you feel the ridge of his head, the threads of its veins, tug against your walls. Working in and out, you feel his hands behind your neck and shoulders, angling your mouth to just the perfect place for him to plunder it.

Then, his knees do the same, first one urges your left knee, taking you apart even as he keeps his slow and languorous thrusts. The other moves into place to do the same. His long legs press yours, opening you, spreading you, until he can go no deeper. His laugh, low and rumbling, tickles inside your mouth. Then, he fucks. Hard and demanding, swivels of his hips make certain he grazes his cock over that sweet, secret spot inside you. You lose yourself, the rhythm of his thrusts filling you with instant, incessant waves of pleasure.

You missed this. The games, the power plays, the wit and banter, biting with words and fangs. Now, he delves into you with abandon, no more games, no more dominance. In this moment, as he steals your breath and fucks you into the dirt, he is your rogue.

Your hands press into his ass, feeling the ripples of his muscles as he moves within you. The intoxicating beat of clench after clench, his voice growling his pleasure at your attentions. “That’s it, darling, feel how badly I’ve wanted this, wanted you… my darling… my consort…” Your hands run over the scars of his back, tracing over the shadows of his past. “That’s it,” he breathes, “I’ll allow you to…”

You smile, cutting off his words, claiming your chance to take the upper hand in the game. Knees raise to press into the hard surface of his stomach, rolling him quickly over on his back at last. “My turn,” you give a laugh, low and throaty like his. “You’ve allowed it, my love.”

“I wasn’t finished,” he snarls quietly, but you wriggle your hips, his cock still firmly sunk inside you, as you press a finger against his lips.

“Shh…” you cajole him, running your finger to trace those fleshy, arrogant, smirking lips. “You’ve had your fun, now it’s my turn, and I will not be called consort…”

“You prefer spawn…?” He taunts his hands running up your thighs, clawing into your hips. Still so reverent in his touch, even as his words throw barbs to get a rise from you.

You take the bait, splaying a hand on his chest, so hard, so pale, pushing him down as your cant your hips over his length. “Not merely consort… queen.”

“Hmmmm yes,” he purrs, flashing a smirk so twisted the starlight shines on his teeth brilliantly. “Oh… I do like the sound of that.”

Slowly you ride him, back and forth, bucking to keep his cock rolling inside you, his hands gripping at your hips. He steadies you, pushes you, thrusts up into you as your hips sink back to almost slap against his thighs. “Say it,” you pant.

“My darling…” he rasps, his breath grating in his throat as he groans with each slam of your cunt over his length.

“Not just that,” you crash back against him with a punishing force. “Not only that anymore…”

“My darling… queen,” he moans, gravel darkening his words, even as his eyes glow up at you, crimson and wonderous.

He is both things all at once, your rogue and your master, your lover in the dirt and on his throne. And as you begin to feel the final throes of your climax, hearing him grunting with each thrust, you lean down, baring your neck for his fangs one more time. He needs no further invitation or consent, the slice of his teeth into your skin pushes you over that final edge. You spasm, trembling, locked onto his lap as he thrusts up into you, mouth at your neck, cock buried deep. He hitches beneath you, face pressing against your neck as he grins in pleasure so intense, it hurts. You feel him pulsing inside you, seed spewing deep inside you adding to the slick between your thighs. You struggle to breathe, collapsed on his chest as you are now. His mouth still takes lazy sucks of your blood, even between his own gasps to catch his breath.

“That’s what I love about you,” he speaks softly, lips brushing your pointed ear. “My good girl, so eager to take the future by the balls, without losing what was the best of me before…”

“Mmm,” you breathe as you turn your head, nestling your forehead against the sharp edge of his jaw. “You can claim the world, but from time to time, you will need to fuck me in the dirt. Keep yourself… grounded.”

“Ha!” he giggles, bursting in hilarious ripples from his mouth as his arms wrap to cradle you tightly. “You sweet thing,” he purrs in silken tones again, “puns are still not beneath you, even as my... conso— as my queen. “Now ready yourself and brush off the dirt, round two in the lap of luxury I think.”

He lifts you effortlessly, pulling you by your hands back towards the palace doors, but now there is a lightness to his step, the grit of dust clinging to both your backs. You follow him in, even as he laughs and tugs you after him. Your rogue, your lord, your lover.

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

End Chapter 1 of many… see my Masterlist for more

[amaskofmanyshades-archive]

~The Descent Down Below~

(A/N - Hoooo boy. We finna be getting into the opening of this; beyond this point is proooobably gonna be the last warning: the following fic will be containing themes not suitable for a younger audience. If you are under 18, do NOT fucking traverse any further. Seriously. Here there be nasty. Here there be NSFW. In the infamous words of The Inferno by Dante Aligheri, 'Abandon hope all ye who enter.'

But for now, enjoy the next installment of The Descent Down Below! I actually will be labelling the different rings after this point, for literally my sake and yours knowing.)

-3:29 am-

With the board set out in front of her once more, she felt silly for even fishing it out again to begin with. Maybe this was a waste of time, but she knew she'd feel no better until it was certain she could do it.

After all, how else would she know until she actually did it? 

It only made sense!

Dressed in a long, silken champagne-colored nightgown that came to below the thigh, she made herself comfortable at the dining room table and straightened herself up.

"...Erm...Icarus? Icarus! Are...are you there? If you are...might you please give me a sign?"

At first, no response came from the near-blind man she'd just met during the seance. All that replied was the thin air in front of her. There was nothing...not at first.

It took another time of calling aloud his name before she eventually could get something back from him. A shiver of the air, the lights that barely illuminated the room flickered somewhat, as if to indicate the arrival of the phantom. While most would blame faulty wiring, Celeste knew for a fact this was not so much the case.

Ghost and spectral entities alike had a distinct aura to them—some benevolent...and others malignant. This, as well as the scent of the air, changed. The aroma was that of a young man's earthy cologne and sage, which was enough to comfort Celeste into believing that when Icarus’s name was called, the man in question answered her.

Still, all that remained was a deafening quiet over the room.

>I AM HERE.&lt;

Her hands gently moved over the letters, guided by another pair that were no longer visible. The force behind them was gentle, but noticeable on her skin. Warm, but enough to make her feel more comfortable with the situation. It definitely felt like the hand of a man, and not that of an undead spirit.

Now...came for the part she dreaded having to do a second time around: pricking her hand for blood. Drawing the dagger from where she sat, she pressed the metal tip to her palm and let the blade sink into her skin, drawing dark blood once more. The liquid dribbled onto the glossy wood, lighting up the engraved letters, and as soon as her hand touched the board—it was as if a connection was made.

She could see him. Clear as day, standing at the table and staring back at her. The same eerie, visionless eyes that bore deep into hers...but they belonged to him and him alone. For all their beauty, part of Celeste felt horribly unnerved by them.

Why, she wasn't entirely certain of...but she could only hold eye contact with him for maybe a few moments before needing desperately to look away from him. However, it didn't matter how she tried to look away from him, as his eyes were completely on her. However, when she looked up at him again, it was clear that after the moment had passed after he’d been summoned and made visible to her…his confusion as to what he was doing there changed to being taken aback by what she was wearing.

"...I...woman, what are you WEARING? Of all things you choose to contact me in, you pick that?!"

Faint amusement befell her features. He couldn't have been serious, right?

She was certain that Icarus was blind, or rather legally blind—meaning he could see, but it wasn't like how she or anyone with 20/20 vision viewed the world around them. So, at the most, he could see shapes and outlines, but nothing more...so it may not have been too out of line to say he knew…

It likely made sense since it was about 3 in the morning, so she would've been dressed for bed...

"It's only a nightgown, love. Y' act as if i'm completely naked! And why would ye care anyway?! Surely, ye can't see it, right?"

The man scoffed, which further surprised her. He didn’t have this level of confidence or audacity before, so why now of all times? “Vaguely, but even still! It’s only the mere principle that i’m sitting before a—”

Celeste then slammed her hands on the table in frustration and anger, now having completely enough of the sudden impudence of the other. She let out a vaguely draconic snort, narrowing her eyes in his direction. 

They glowed a vibrant shade of emerald, and she flashed her fangs at him.

She normally wouldn't have dared allow to show this to any other, but because Icarus was unlike any other (mainly because the man was dead), it wasn't entirely as though she cared much.

"Finish that sentence carefully…i guarantee ye if ye finish that sentence, ye ain’t gonna like what comes next of it…’cause i can and i WILL send ye straight back down into th’ depths of Tartarus."

With this, Icarus scrunched up in his place, staring back at the now semi-feral woman. Those words alone were enough to simmer the growing flame in him, and his mostly sightless eyes flicked away from her shamefully. 

He sighed, letting himself shrink down in his seat.

"...I was going to say 'lady'..."

"Good choice, Mr. Icarus.", and thus, Celeste did as well, gesturing for the man to take a seat before her. 

He did, pulling out the seat and sitting down before her. "So...with all that excitement out of th' way...might i offer anythin'? Tea? Wine, if that's what y' like? Anything at all? You are my guest in all'a this, i suppose it's right i make ye comfy while yer 'ere."

"No, ma'am. Thank you...i...apologize for that display. You'd be slightly disgruntled as well if you were summoned so suddenly on short notice. Like being awakened at an early hour of the morning..."

"But, of course.", she responded, "So...what was it that ye did in life?"

Icarus's eyes lit up with delight. "Spectrology and Mediumship. I studied in the paranormal and all it's workings, from harmless phantoms or poltergeists and their malignant counterparts alike; i dabbled in both, you see...but the latter appears to be how i met my end."

"As is typically th' consequence for fooling wi' means ya don't understand. Y' say it was possession tha' lead t' yer demise, no? Now, how could'ja 'ave possibly—?"

He stopped her, his answer quick and blunt, but dripping with light annoyance. "Simple. Communicating with a spirit that lied about its true nature, as i stated in our last meeting. You'd be surprised by how many demons do this just to have their way. And playing with the hearts of humans is one way to do so...betrayal is an act as old as time, Ms. Valentina."

Celeste was silent, allowing his words to sink in. To have been so passive about it earlier made her earnestly feel so guilty about it, but he was truthful. It was the oldest trick in the book, but humans—as she learned—never really learned their lesson the first time about. So, naturally, the demonically inclined would use the trick repeatedly. When humans became wiser to this was when they'd stop.

"...I see."

"And i assure you...you'll find my reasoning for my actions understandable, and not as asinine as you claim..."

"Then...go on. You've piqued my curiosity tonight..."

It was then Icarus began. He was silent at first, as if carefully trying to establish how he wanted to tell the story, like it was a game of chess and he was strategizing his next move. Or, rather, his next words...

"I...I had lost the one dearest to me two weeks prior to my demise. Scarlet fever, i believe, i can never quite remember—it was SOME type of illness...but one thing i do...was the night i attempted to contact her. With my heart shattered and nothing else to do to quell the pain, all i wanted was to have closure, Ms. Valentina; that's all i ever wanted! And this...this creature...it feigned her personality and mimicked her so flawlessly, i knew not of what i had done...", Icarus explained, voice wavering in and out of steadiness, as if he might break down and weep there before Celeste.

"She offered to 'let her in' and that 'i would never have to be alone'...a lie. What it wanted was nothing more than to have a puppet to control and cast aside once it was done with me...it...it didn't get to for very long. Whatever it was...it was strong. Before it could even get its hold upon me, i think i passed...or maybe i blacked out and something else caused my demise, I’m not too sure..."

Well, Celeste did...but she wouldn't dare explain it to him. It had to with forcible contortion of the entire body...a morbid detail that was too sickening, even to her, to explain unless she wanted to be sick at her stomach for the rest of the night.

"...It's not fair, is it...?", she began in a slow, soft tone. Her gaze turned away from him, and her brows furrowed, "T' lose th' one ye cherish...it is a pain i know all too well, my dear Icarus. Y'...ye aren't th' only soul who 'as been wounded in such a way, an'...for that, i'm sorry tha' even in death, ye must suffer like this..."

Icarus perked up, intrigued by this statement, and leaned forward to listen more to her. "Oh...? And, how...how, pray tell, do you know of this...?"

"...Because my own husband died in such a way...of course, i...only saw th' end results o' his death, an' it...w-wasn't quite as gruesome as yours, but it was cruel. He 'adn't deserved, no...but alas, Fate is a cruel bitch, she is. There's...more t' this horror tale i could ramble on f'r decades about, so i'll spare y' th' details...", Celeste quietly explained, a rising nausea filling the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, she craved a glass of wine, just to make her forget the rushing memories that flooded her head with him and HIM.

Those burning, bright red eyes that scalded deep into her soul and those hands that left bruise upon bruise on her skin if she disobeyed him, as if she was nothing more than a slave to him.

However...she was just this to him...a slave AND a trophy. Just something to look at and call his.

Her hands suddenly shook and grow cold, even numb at the fingertips. "I assure y'...i'm aware o' th' sentiment. I've seen possessions before...but never did i dream o' one day seein' th' i loved an' swore at th' altar 'Til death do us part' dead at my feet t' th' hands of a jealous demon o' a man..."

"Oh, I’m sure, Ms. Valentina...not a pleasant sight, I’d imagine. Seeing the body warped and twisted until it's nothing like it was before. I'm sure that's what the constables found of me the morning after.", Icarus chuckled, reaching a hand over to grab hers, kneading his fingers soothingly into the clammy skin. "The only thing I regret...is ever picking up that damned board to begin with. My whole life was ahead of me...and i cast it aside like it was garbage."

"P...Perhaps so...but i...i would've...n-never 'ad this opportunity t' meet...someone like you...wh-who...w-was jus'...l-like him..."

Now, his heart broke for the poor woman. Was it really that big of a deal to her just to see him, or was this for show? By the frigidity of her hands and trembling of her entire body, it didn't seem so; this type of anxiety was one that Icarus knew couldn't be faked easily. His hand squeezed hers in a slow, pulsing rhythm—in time to that of a calm heartbeat.

Maybe it would calm her down...? If it helped with his nerves when he'd become restless and nervous, perhaps it'd do the same to her...

"P...Perdoname, mio tresoro...perdoname..."

Italian...? Icarus, at least, recognized it to be this. Mixed with the woman's deep Cockney accent, it was beautiful coming from her lips, but saddening that not only did he know the context, but what it meant in her language. But, probably, what was the most hurtful to him—he felt—was watching such a regal figure of a dark Queen shrink down into a shivering, scared, and distressed mess.

It didn't feel right of her. Granted all he'd seen...but he knew it was better to let her have this moment of remembrance for the one she lost. He wanted nothing more than to comfort her properly, but there was only so much that could be done with the positions he was in.

He was dead...and she was not.

"I think...the point I’m trying to make, Ms. Valentina...was that i desire nothing more than another chance at life. As any spirit does, i'm sure...but for me, this is not an empty want; i truly wish to be among you. To walk with you. To be HERE. Is that asking too much...?", Icarus asked in a soft voice, rubbing lazy circles into her skin.

Celeste was tacit for a moment. She knew of a way to possibly make that wish so, but...she wasn't sure if the one she was thinking of would even allow her to do such a thing. To bring back a shade from the Dead, especially from Hell, was a long and arduous journey that was dangerous to most souls who were foolhardy enough to take the challenge.

Unless you possessed a strong will, were proficient enough with magical prowess, and had a clever wit to prevent the sinners and demons that lurked about from making a slave out of you, there was no chance at survival or returning alive. On top of that...only a few could actually send you down to the 'starting point' of sorts.

And Celeste knew one of those few souls that might do it, depending on if she was willing enough to do it...

"...I...I believe...th-there is...a way, dear...but...I’m...I’m unsure if she'll...go along with it..."

"You do, now? Well, that's wonderful...but enough of that. You can worry about this in the morning...i'm more concerned about you, Ms. Valent–"

"Celeste. Pl...Please, jus'...call me 'Celeste'...enough of th' formalities. You know who i am, so jus' u-use it..."

"...Celeste. My apologies.", his other hand then followed suit, now with both resting on her hands and giving a gentle squeeze.

He was certain of one thing, and that was even if she disconnected the ritual tie that allowed her to see and touch him...he would definitely continue to watch over her. He knew the curse of anxiety well. As a medium, thousands of dead voices bombarded his ears all at once in life, so as the deafening and irritating roar of sound got to be overwhelming—as did the grip that panic did over him that forced him to wall himself up in his room for days upon days.

However, he didn't always have the warm comfort of someone soothing him down from this sensory overload.

If it meant giving her the solace he didn't have whilst alive, then so be it...

-Santos Residence; 4:37 pm-

Tanned knuckles rapped gently on the massive wooden doors leading to the inside of the Santos estate.

She just only hoped that now wasn't a bad time for her to be visiting, as Mercedes was one for her space and her husband was usually out about this time of the day at work. The office was only downtown, only about 20 minutes from the mansion they owned, but most of his day was spent making sure orders came in and project deadlines were met in a timely manner.

Celeste waited, hearing the soft footsteps of another growing louder and louder until they reached the door. It pulled open, revealing the replicant; it was actually not Mercedes, but the assistant to the woman and Mr. Santos. A young, red-headed boy who couldn't have been no older than 20 in a long-sleeved red and green striped sweater and faded jeans stood before her, leaning on his cane. Bright, innocent blue eyes stared up at her, glimmering in surprise at the visitor before him, before an equally radiant smile tugged at his mouth.

"Well, i'll be damned, miss...i ain't seen ye in a while now! Wi' this stupid leg, 's been a pain in th' arse t' leave th' house. But...usually a bit o' morphine fr'm th' Ol' Yes Man does th’ trick, give or take a few sessions." 

A smile soon followed from Celeste; both knew well of Ash's work at the hospital, so it was definitely a pleasure to hear about the good doctor again. It’d been actually a while since she’d last seen or heard from him. "Come in! Mrs. Santos is actually in th' kitchen, cookin' her Mole Poblano as we speak. I'll let 'er know it's you, ah?"

"Thank ye, Gallus; that'd be wonderful...let 'er know as well i need t' speak wi' 'er, please?", Celeste responded.

"Absolutely! Though, expect th' missus t' take 'er time...once she starts 'er cookin', she won't stop 'til 's all done. I know fr'm experience; woman prides herself in her kitchen work. Enough t' make Martha Stewart fume wi' envy."

And that sadly wasn't wrong of the boy to assume, remembering all the times she'd ever helped Mercedes in the kitchen. Here, Celeste thought her kitchen was massive; Mercedes's was almost significantly bigger. Yet, it was only sensible, as she lived in a massive home that would only have the highest end appliances and decor.

The profession that Mr. Santos made a grand income, granted if the contractor he was assigned to paid him well.

A low, alto laugh bubbled forth from Celeste, "I know, Gallus. Fully aware o’ that, really. La Reina Negra ‘as always been stickler with food; as a mother, it's only second nature t' make sure the ones ye love stay fed, i assume."

"I guess. Coffee?"

"No, lovey. Thank you. Can ye let 'er 'm 'ere?"

"Aye, ma'am, i can. One moment—"

With that, she followed Gallus into the home patiently, for she knew how difficult it was for him to have to move about with that cane. Seeing that made her feel horrible that, at this point with the injury to his Achilles tendon, she could do very little for him, except maybe keep him out of pain.

The story he'd told her upon meeting her was also not too far behind in eliciting her sympathy for him: not just for his disability and limited mobility at such a young age...but the curse that came with it. As a high schooler, just shy of graduating, Gallus had been attacked and scarred to high hell by a strange dog.

Nothing that a trip to the ER and subsequently, surgeries and physical therapy to regain his ability to walk didn't fix...well, somewhat. 

To this day, he still had to have a cane, and occasionally, a wheelchair to get about with. But, this was the least of his concerns...

The next few nights a month after the attack that followed were both the strangest and most terrifying he'd ever experienced, for it was at that moment that that was not just a 'strange dog' as previously thought. On the night of a full moon, he'd go into quick bursts of pain before suddenly blacking out, only to wake up in a place he didn't recognize with an even stranger taste in his mouth and aching all over.

Celeste sat down on the couch and allowed herself to look about.

The fireplace was just next to her, and while it was fake and could've easily been taken out by a handyman, it was Mercedes's decision to keep it around. Something about having it made the home feel warm and safe to her, so Mr. Santos opted to keep it around, even if they had no practical use for it besides just decoration.

There, above the brick mantle, was a bouquet of white carnations and red roses next to the couple's wedding photo. In the golden frame stood a short Hispanic younger woman in a long, princess-like dress with a single red flower in her hand and her veil back to expose her face and eyes to the cameraman. At a distance, Mercedes's eyes were a soft hazelnut shade of brown, but as you'd approach, the eyes would change color from brown to red—as if by an illusion.

While subtle, the demonic nature and aura she gave off didn't detract from the unsettling beauty The Black Queen possessed. With features like that of a sculptor's finest work, like Pygmalion crafting Galatea, it wasn't entirely hard to understand why the likes of her husband would fall for the fallen angel's grace.

Standing beside her was a man she easily presumed to be Luciano Santos himself.

A tall man of about his early 50s, who still appeared to be in his mid-30s...as strange as that looked to most, with there being such a stark difference in age. Oh, if only one knew the reason for his almost youthful looks.

"Es hermoso...isn't it, Celeste? I remember it as if it had happened just last night..."

The dulcet, accented tone of Mercedes rang out clearly from a few feet behind her, enough to startle Celeste from her trance. The ravenette swung around from the couch to glance behind her, and there she was, just as she appeared in the picture. Instead of her long, pure white gown that she stood in for her wedding, Mercedes was dressed in a silken off-white blouse with a black and red skirt that just barely reached past her knees, all covered by a white apron.

Long, wavy hair was tied back low, and presumably out of the way so she could cook.

Arms folded before her, there was a noticeable yet soft smile from her, eyes trained on the same picture as Celeste's were.

"Yes...how long 'as it been now? 15 years?"

"Ay, has it? I can never remember...how sad is that? But alas, despite how this old woman looks, i am just that. So, dates and I have been estranged friends for many centuries...",she responded, eyes glimmering with a soft fondness, before she was then pulled back to reality as if remembering that she had a guest before her.

"But enough of this...El Perrito says you needed to see me, yes? Won't you tell me while i start the tea? I was just about to start the pot."

"Yes...you're...prob'ly th' only one who knows 'ow t' go 'bout this without lookin' at me like i'm a Looney Tune for it."

A thin, brunette brow quirked at this statement.

"With how you put it, mija...you almost make it sound like I’m going to disagree with you. Pero, adalante, por favor...you have my curiosity."

With that, Mercedes gestured for her to follow her into the kitchen, the smell of peppers and spices filling the air. Whatever she had prepared for dinner that night smelled heavenly—strong, even, but true to most foods mixed with a lot of spice, there was almost definitely going to be just as much of a kick in terms of taste.

"...I was wonderin'...since 'm sure it's possible...would ye...grant me entry into Hell t' return wi' a mortal soul?"

CLANG—!!

Mercedes almost lost her grip on the pot and plate she had in her hand, and caught it before it could shatter on her ceramic tiled floor. "Chinga tu MADRE, tu quieres hacer—", she growled in mild frustration before drawing a quick, calming breath, before allowing her eyes to fall upon the inquirer. Rather than angry, she was more addled and perturbed by the question itself.

Did Celeste even know what she was asking of her?!

"You...Celeste. Querida...you want to do WHAT? Do you have any idea the repercussions of what you're asking me to do?! You, a living being of flesh and blood, wish to traverse the depths of Hell to retrieve the soul of an individual that you just met, who—for all you are concerned—could be lying about their intentions. Lying about what happened to them! You don't even know if they're demonic and using it to illicit your sympathy! Most a sinner, with enough manipulation and charisma, can do it and have.", she retorted in a warning tone of voice, "This is no tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, amor. This is serious, and one that, if you are not careful…you will not be fortunate to walk from…"

"But...it c'n be done...right? Mercedes, when i met him...an' y' c'n even ask Lucinda an' Josie, this man...he was no demon. Not a hellish aura in his soul...his death was a fluke; don't you understand?! I...I don't think 'e was meant t' die—"

Mercedes barked a cold laugh, "Don't be silly, Celeste. Fate asks not when you want to pass, nor if it is into either arms of Him or at the feet of Lucifer. She only goes by your actions and the integrity of your soul. Only Fate decides where you go. He likely had his reasons for being in whatever Circle Minos decided for him."

Celeste was quiet for a moment, thinking over her next set of words carefully, "...Y' would to if it was for...well, him. You 'ave before...haven't ye...?"

The woman before her's eyes grew wide and angrier with the question posed. How DARE her—?

Another barrage of Spanish and demonic curses flew from her mouth, the latter causing a wave of cold to fill the air and the glass in the windows to begin cracking under the magical pressure.

"Don't you DARE bring mi esposo into this! He has nothing to do with this little 'suicide mission' of yours!"

"But it IS true...isn't it? You brought back ol' Santos from th' dead when 'is heart gave out, jus' as an added 'Fuck you' t' th' God who cast you out after you so 'ad a right t' lash out at th' fucker who was unfaithful t' you. YOU took 'im back from Death after that, no? Or are you jus' special like tha', Mercy? I dare ye t' answer 'yes' t' that. Go on. I fuckin' DARE ye."

A rise of dark aura swirled in the air, mixed with the growing anger and frustration in the other's demeanor. Mercedes tensed up like a defensive jungle cat, watching her opponents every move with vigilance, as if preparing herself to fight. But...she had made a decent point. For her to deny Celeste of what she wanted to do would only make a hypocrite of herself, for after all, the story she had told was nothing but the truth.

When Santos had passed that night, she did everything possible to regain him...even if it meant swearing herself to Lucifer as one of his courtiers.

So, for Celeste to basically sacrifice herself to wander the brimstone labyrinth that was Hell...? It was selfless AND selfish all at once. Selfish because should she fail, it would doom her to remain there for eternity, but selfless because it was an act of sacrifice true.

And, for that, Mercedes found respect in that...and it seemed very much like the Draconian woman to do anyhow.

She relaxed, narrowing her eyes in contempt, before scoffing. "Perhaps so...if you are so insistent about it...and your intentions don't appear to be of ill-intent...i'll allow it. But...not without a guide. Hell is already tricky to traverse anyhow, and most have been there so long that it would take another damned soul to even convince another to give you the correct information you'd need..."

Relief washed over her at that moment; not only did she not have to possibly fight The Black Queen (and she really didn't cherish the thought of that battle; this WAS Mercedes she was thinking about here), but now she had the woman's consent to attempt the journey into Hell.

"Thank you. Really...ye 'ave no idea what this means t' me right now, Merce. I'll pay y' back; however ye want, i'll do it."

With that, Mercedes's smile returned. "Marvillosa~...now...hopefully, you have what you need, no? This is a spell that MUST be done immediately, so please...please be certain you have what you need to make the journey. Stay on the path, and please take no offers nor deals with ANYONE you meet. To do so would be putting your soul for sale for a discount; it's tempting."

Celeste only shook her head. The bag that she had slung around her shoulder practically had most of what she needed in it. A spell book, a few magically imbued pieces of jewelry, a piece of her own clothing for tethering purposes to not lose her mind whilst down there, and some water that would hopefully last her the duration of the trip.

She only hoped that this would work...

"I...I think I’m good, Mercy. Whenever yer ready...'s all that matters."

A flash of the eyes, followed by a wicked grin upon her lips. Something about the look on her face both terrified Celeste...but enticed her further in. Upon a step forward, it was all Mercedes needed to follow—before the woman lurched forward at her. Shortly before Celeste's vision went to black, she could’ve sworn that for a moment...she saw Mercedes warp into something else.

Instead of the beautiful young woman and one of His fallen angels, who'd dare to take vengeance that she felt was so rightfully due the night her first love gave into his lust, there—staring Celeste in the face—was a tall, bat-like humanoid with a woman's shape. It had all the same curves and form of one, but it didn't look right.

It was as if she had seen the God Camazots himself morph before her and come from the House of Xibalba for her head, just as the Twin Gods had done in mythos. She couldn't scream or fight back; instead, she stood motionless as her vision warped and dissolved to nothing.

Whatever had been done to her, it left the smell of brimstone and wet earth fresh in her nose...

Had she died?

Was this Hell?

Purgatory, maybe...?

[mystic-scripture]

Have you ever considered "Cruel World" by Tommee Profitt for your The Silken Dagger fic??

No, but this is amazing! May have to commission Gloria to make a Trailer to it for me... @kcnobls I’ll hit you up. 

“So close the door, confess your sins/ Oh, when I was younger, it was on roses/ Now they're dead and gone away” 

Tell me a Song you associate with my fics or ocs! 

[sooibian]

So Let's Runaway - Prologue

photocreds @tuanzie​

Pairing: Kyungsoo x Fem!Reader ft. bff!Chanyeol

Genre / Themes: Fluff, mild angst, travel AU, road trip through Spain, travel buddies Chansoo!

Warnings: Themes of grief / loss, heartache, toxic relationships, strong language, i guess..

Description: An unlikely group of three comes together for the journey of a lifetime.

A/N: This fic is part of @supermwritersnet​ “Around the world in 31 days event”. Inspired by the Hindi movie Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara. Uploading prematurely so as to stop obsessing over the prologue and get cracking on the travelogue which requires a tonne of research. Let me know if you’d like a tag on the upcoming chapter(s) due for upload on 19th July 2021.

Word Count: 3k *unedited*

____________________________

Doh Kyungsoo had dragged his feet up the endless flight of stairs seeking solitude...not drama.

A stranger, just one misstep away from a fatal fall, was the last thing he’d expected to find on the rooftop of Seoul’s Park Hyatt at three in the morning. He slipped the rooftop access key card (that he’d borrowed from the security guard in exchange for a 50,000 won bill) in the back pocket of his trousers while simultaneously dwelling on the depths of the rot of corruption. He had half a mind to turn away and forget that he’d just seen someone contemplating their existence on the ledge of a highrise but there was something about you that rooted him to the spot. Dressed in fine evening wear, you’d stretched your arms out like wings as you looked up at the vast expanse of midnight blue, the wind kissing your wild, waist length hair. From his standpoint, you looked oddly at peace.

Kyungsoo had never been an idealist or a victim of the white knight syndrome. He wasn’t one to delve into the ethical and philosophical conundrums for most things in life because to him it was all just a waste of time. Seeing you on the parapet filled him with neither sympathy nor worry. It was your life after all and with it you could do whatever you deemed fit as long as you weren’t inconveniencing others. Scratch that.

As long as you weren’t inconveniencing him.

But right now, unbeknownst to you, you were inconveniencing Seoul’s hottest financial broker, Doh Kyungsoo.

He wasn’t invisible to the hotel’s security cameras and being labelled suspect in an abetment to suicide investigation wasn't exactly what he was looking for after the day he’d had. Albeit inebriated and heavy-eyed, he could effectively calculate the logistics involved in pulling you off the ledge with the cacophony of the omnipresent Seoul traffic drowning out the sound of his footsteps.

Bracing himself for superficial bruises from the impact of falling to the right side of the precipice with the weight of an adult human pressing down on his 173 cm high frame, he took off his custom tailored blazer (that had been flown in from Vietnam especially for that evening) and folded it in half, making sure that the lapels touched. Some habits are hard to shake. He put the blazer on the ground as a makeshift floorcloth for the rest of his belongings. With his back facing you, he allowed himself a moment's peace as he loosened his tie, languidly rolled the sleeves of his pristine white dress shirt up to his elbows, freed himself off the Rolex Cellini on his left wrist, his Bottega Veneta fine leather wallet, and the cursed Tiffany Blue Box that he simply couldn’t bear to look at anymore and neatly placed them all on the blazer.

Letting out a deep exhale, he muttered curses under his breath before turning to your silhouette only to find it...gone.

Kyungsoo’s eyes narrowed and then immediately grew into large circles as he grappled with the shocking turn of events. An inexplicable heaviness bloomed in his chest and he felt sick to the stomach which, in a state of denial, he chalked up to the dubious mixture of spirits he’d downed not too long ago.

Before he could find his bearings and figure out what to do next, a light tap on his shoulder made him jump. His jaw went slack and his heart threatened to leap out of his chest to find you casually smiling at him. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to climb onto the very same ledge and scream into the void but he simply stood there, mouth agape, wanting to say a million things but he could hardly muster a peep.

Reading the confusion painted across his sharp, well defined features, you uttered an unsure, “Hi?”

“I thought you’d jumped,” he whispered, head tilted to the side, his compelling, bloodshot eyes locked with yours.

“Says someone who’s unusually jumpy,” you jested, but your expression immediately turned solemn when you caught the tremble in his right hand. “Are you on something?”

There came about a sudden shift in his aura. Hands on hips, he deadpanned, “Why? Are you with the cops?”

“No, don’t worry,” you let out a soft chuckle and he started scrambling for his things, “How long have you been standing here?”

Hastily stuffing everything into the pocket of his well fitted trousers, he muttered something along the lines of ‘Chaos. Just chaos everywhere!’

Leaning into his frame, you quipped, “What’s that?”

Alarmed and goggle-eyed, he snapped, “Nevermind,” and turned towards the exit.

“Hey! You seem to have forgotten something!” You called out after him upon finding his blazer on the ground, the silken sheen of it reflecting a myriad of citylights.

No answer.

“I wasn’t going to jump!” You yodelled childishly but the man was long gone.

.

.

.

Seven Hours Earlier

“Natasha -” Kyungsoo huffed.

The feather light Tiffany 1873 Blue Box in his left hand had suddenly started to feel like a giant boulder weighing down on his entire being. The sparkle of the uncut diamond reflected in his misty eyes as her uncharacteristically stoic silence left him struggling for words. He searched Natasha’s face for a hint of mischief...he so desperately wished for her to crack a sly smile and pull him in for a kiss and whisper ‘Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!’ against his lips like they do in the movies, that he’d almost started to imagine it. It had to have been some sort of an ugly prank.

What reason does she have to turn me down? he wondered.

Kyungsoo breached the uncomfortable spell of silence with a desperate plea, “Say something!” the throbbing in his head intensifying by the second.

Did these three years mean nothing to you? What did I do wrong? Do you hate the ring? Is this not the kind of proposal you wished for? Is it because I left the bathroom lights on all night? Or is it because I forgot to wish your mother on her birthday? A flurry of questions spawned in Kyungsoo’s mind only to die at the tip of his tongue.

“I’m sorry, Kyungsoo, but I can’t do this. I just -” Natasha spoke finally. Gingerly shifting the weight of the box onto the ebony restaurant table, she slammed it shut as if the ring had been eyeing her lecherously.

Meeting Kyungsoo’s gaze almost defiantly, she declared, “Kyungsoo, I don’t think that I could be the kind of wife that would make you happy and I don’t think you could make me happy either.”

.

.

.

Two Weeks Later

Setting your eyes on that distinct pair of Dumbo ears, you excitedly weaved through the peak hour coffee shop crowd with an Iced Americano held firmly in one hand. Slamming the beverage down on the table, you engulfed his giant frame in a back hug and squealed, “Park Chanyeol!”

His wide eyes turned into even bigger brown circles and his mouth rounded into an ‘o’ in surprise. Grinning, he got off the uncomfortably tiny coffee shop chair and wordlessly pulled you in for what was famously known in Uni as a ‘Classic Chanyeol Hug’. You didn’t know how much you missed it until you felt your worries immediately dissipate into nothingness.

He hugged you a little tighter the moment you started to pull away before taking your hands in his and stooping down to your eye level. “Shifu, my love! You’re back in Seoul?!” Chanyeol exclaimed with all the love in the world sparking in the depths of his dark eyes.

Even after all this time, it felt as if nothing had changed….you’d suddenly been whizzed into a not-so-distant ‘Gothic architecture and coffee shops’ past in which a cotton candy haired boy, dressed in a pair of freshly ironed beige chinos and a plain white tee, smiles his sweetest smile simply at the sight of you. Chanyeol always felt like home. Funnily enough, even more so at the moment.

Giving him a good natured smile, you nodded in response, albeit cringing a little on the inside. Having been President of the martial arts club back in the days, you got stuck with an ingenious moniker “Shifu” which you clearly couldn’t shake off even after half a decade since graduation. You did a double take when your gaze veered to acknowledge the person seated opposite Chanyeol who, dressed in an ivory business suit, almost blended into the background. Just the way you could spot Chanyeol’s ears from a million miles away, you could recognize those eyes anywhere and right now they were shooting daggers at you.

“OH! Hi!”

His response to your greeting was a curt nod accompanying a vague hand movement, something between a hi and a failed facepalm.

At this Chanyeol guffawed, “You two know each other?”, his keen gaze rapidly flitting between the two of you.

“Yes -”

“No -”

While gesturing you to take a seat at their table, Chanyeol slumped into his chair and pursued the conversation in a voice laced with amusement, “So which is it?”

You gave your head a little shake, signalling Chanyeol to drop the topic since his friend had made his apprehension quite evident with an unambiguous “No” when asked if he knew you. Which...wasn’t entirely untrue. Even though Chanyeol now seemed to be on the same page as you, for good measure, you deflected his question with a polite, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“Absolutely not!” Chanyeol assured, deftly steering the conversation back to you, “We could actually use your advice on something but first, Shifu, look at you! How long has it been? Five years?”

“Five years!”

“Wahhh! What brings you back to Seoul?”

With a wistful smile, you answered, “Appa passed away in April...”

“Oh, I’m- I’m so sorry -” stuttered Chanyeol, immediately placing his hand on your arm and giving it a light squeeze. From the corner of your eye you noticed Chanyeol’s friend chewing on his bottom lip and listening to this exchange with rapt attention.

“No, no, it’s erm...we’re doing okay now, I guess-”

It had been two and a half months but every time you talked about it, a black hole burgeoned right in the middle of your chest, sucking you within itself and rendering you breathless. You still hadn’t picked up the art of condoling the “condoler”. What were you even supposed to say to the faultless “I’m sorry”? Who came up with condolence jargon, anyway?

“I’m sorry we haven’t been in touch - ”

“Oh, please. You know how it is after Uni, isn’t it,” you turned to Chanyeol’s friend to make him feel a little less left out, “what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” he answered in a clipped tone while mindlessly scrolling through his phone.

“Yah!” Chanyeol chastised him with a deathly glare before continuing with an impish smile, “He’s Doh Kyungsoo.”

“Ah! So he’s Doh Kyungsoo! I’ve heard a great deal about you!” Your enthusiasm invoked a quick cursory smile from him. Doh Kyungsoo had apparently made it his life’s mission to make this unexpected rendezvous as icky as possible, leaving you to wonder if Chanyeol had ever discussed your brief relationship with him. Ex-girlfriend meets best friend? Not an ideal scenario in any part of the world.

Chanyeol and you had gone out for a couple of weeks towards the end of freshman year until you both realized that you were much better off as friends. Despite being joined at the hip in Uni, the two of you had gone your separate ways after post-grad. While he returned to Seoul to join the family business, you’d stayed back in Milan to explore job opportunities. Messages and phone calls became few and far between and it wasn’t long before both of you had completely lost touch with each other.

And it wasn’t until you met him again that you realized how desperately you needed a friend considering everything that had been going on in your life. You selfishly wished for Kyungsoo to leave you two to catch up on all these years spent apart but clearly that was a lot to ask considering how tacitly territorial he seemed to be getting about Chanyeol.

“So what was it that you wanted to talk about?” you asked in another feeble attempt to water down the rancour.

Chanyeol’s features flared into a bashful smile but the moment he opened his mouth to speak, Kyungsoo held a hand up to him and insisted, “Allow me to spare you the blushes,” before starting to explain the situation in an uncharacteristically eager tone, “This idiot is getting married in three months -”

Boisterously thumping Chanyeol’s back, you showered him with congratulations which he accepted with a shy ‘thank you.’

Kyungsoo continued, “- and we have a road trip planned for next month. As per the pact -”

Head tilted to the side, you shot, “What pact?”

“Some stupid pact that I have no memory of - ”

“That you conveniently have no memory of!” interrupted a salty Chanyeol.

Kyungsoo grimaced. Rubbing the corner of his eye, he continued with a heavy sigh, “It was supposed to be the three of us...Chanyeol, me, and our school friend Yixing.”

“Oh, okay?”

“So Yixing fell off a tractor and broke his back -”

“Oh, my gosh!” You exclaimed.

Kyungsoo’s mouth fell open. “I wasn’t there but I’d bet my ass that’s exactly what he said at the time.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Wait, wait, slow down, why- how- a tractor?”

“He quit his CEO position to become a full time….farmer,” deadpanned Kyungsoo as if it was the stupidest thing Yixing could’ve done which rubbed you up the wrong way and coloured your otherwise neutral expression.

“He basically did what Kyungsoo doesn’t have the balls to do,” quipped Chanyeol, lips stretched into a gremlin-like grin. Kyungsoo returned his jibe with a strike to his arm causing him to let out a dramatic wail thus inviting the attention of everyone around you.

But none of it deterred Kyungsoo. He continued nonchalantly as if presenting a well crafted business proposal, “Since one of us is unavailable it only makes sense to postpone the trip and that’s exactly what I’ve been asking Chanyeol to do but he just won’t listen.”

“You’re getting married in three months and you’re taking this road trip next month. Will you be left with enough time for wedding planning?” you reasoned with Chanyeol, well aware of the kind of family he belonged to and the kind of weddings these families planned.

“Mr. Park here was way too eager,” Kyungsoo butted in.

“Shut up, Kyungsoo!”

“Wahhh you must really love her ~ ,” you sang, moon-eyed.

“Clearly. He couldn’t even wait for the rest of us to finish singing the birthday song for his Eomma.”

“What?”

“Yeah! He popped the question to Aera right in the middle of it.”

“WHAT!”

“That’s a story for another day,” replied Chanyeol in an atypically calm tone, “but you’re right, Shifu, it’s not enough time and that’s why I’ve been asking this idiot to just -”

“All reservations are for three. It logistically makes more sense to reschedule,” declared Kyungsoo with a hint of finality in his tone.

It didn’t. It definitely didn’t make more sense to reschedule but as gullible as Chanyeol was, he said nothing to counter Kyungsoo’s illogical argument.

“Are you sure your friend Yixing would be okay with it, Yeollie? I’m sure you can wait for him to get better and -”

Firmly setting his jaw, Chanyeol looked you square in the eyes and stated, “It's now or never.”

Kyungsoo stole a glance at you and cleared his throat, hesitance betraying his voice when he spoke again, “Chanyeollah, you’re only getting married stop talking like you’re terminally ill.”

Chanyeol's expression softened to convey an implicit plea causing you to tweak your suggestion, “The two of you can still go? I’m sure Yixing won’t mind.”

But Chanyeol hit you with an unexpected proposal. He asked, “Do you want to come?”, in a tone that was way too serious for a road trip.

“What? No!”

“Why not? You’re here and - “

“- and Yixing’s not,” interrupted Kyungsoo.

Ignoring the sarcasm in Kyungsoo’s voice, you turned Chanyeol down gently, “No, Yeol, it’s just- it doesn’t make sense, bub.”

“Why not? We leave in a month and that’s plenty of time to get all your travel docs in order -”

“Travel docs? You mean….insurance?” You asked hesitantly.

“Yeah! Insurance...you won’t need a visa, though.”

“Visa? Yeah, obviously I won’t be needing a visa. Why would I need a visa for a road trip?”

Chanyeol slapped his forehead and wondered aloud, “Oh, shoot! We didn’t tell her, did we?”

Kyungsoo gave his head a little shake, prompting you to ask, “Tell me what?”

“It’s a road trip through uhhh northeastern Spain -”

Chanyeol’s elaborate account of the itinerary was drowned in the whirlpool of emotions that erupted within you at the mention of the country. That part of your life you had locked away in the deepest, darkest corners of your consciousness now stared you straight in the eyes, forcing you to acknowledge a reality far too jarring for your fragile state of mind. You took a sip of your long forgotten beverage to centre yourself but it didn’t take a genius to know that something was up.

Placing a hand on your head, he asked softly, “What is it, Shifu? I understand if you can’t leave Eomma alone at this point...”

“It’s not Eomma,” you took another sip of the drink to fight the lump in your throat, “Eomma is - Eomma is in Bucheon, visiting her sister. For I don’t know how long but...long.”

“Is it work?” contributed Kyungsoo.

“I quit my job,” you answered and he looked at you as if you, a total stranger, had just asked him his body count.

Chanyeol took your hand in his and reiterated, “Come, then? You need this.”

Your gaze bounced between the two men who wore the exact same expression in expectation of two entirely different answers. And whatever you chose to say next, you were sure to disappoint one of them.

Eyes unfocussed, a deafening ringing echoing in your ears, you declared softly, “I need this,” with a million unpleasant scenarios running through your head, making you sick to the stomach.

Chanyeol pulled you in for a bear hug. Kyungsoo rolled his eyes and let out a deep, disappointed sigh.

[slightlyrebelliouswriter23]

Holy | Jurdan One Shot

Written for: Jurdan Smut Week 2020, Day 1: Dom/Sub @jurdannet​ @jurdannetrevels​

Summary: “You’re a liar. A dirty, mortal liar.”

WC: 3171

Rating: E is for Everyone be sinning in this fic

CW: EXPLICIT NSFW CONTENT. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

AO3   |   Masterlist   |   Based on this edit

“On your knees, darling,” Cardan’s voice is dangerous, silken, like the ruby red ribbon he’s holding.

It takes Jude a great deal of effort to sink obediently to the floor. She is so unused to bending at the knee, but trust is the name of the game—a game Jude needs ample practice playing.

Her palms are sweaty with anticipation, her heartbeat a riot in her chest. She is flushed and bare, kneeling before him like some kind of sinless supplicant, though this may be the biggest lie of them all.

Tonight, Jude had lied.

She’d lied to Cardan and he’d known it from the moment the words left her lips. Part of her thinks she lied just to bait him.

A bait he all too willingly took. His temper had glittered in his eyes before he’d swept them off back to the Royal Chambers, closed and bolted the doors behind them, sent the guards away.

Then, he’d undressed her, as one would a wound.

Now, Jude studies the ornate rug she kneels on, the worn leather of Cardan’s boots as he crouches before her, and thinks this is the best kind of trouble she could have possibly sought to get herself into.

And also the worst. The idea of being at the mercy of another is still a terrifying prospect to the High Queen of Elfhame. Fear, she’d found however, in the right circumstances could be quite the heady aphrodisiac.

“My queen,” Cardan says, brushing a stray hair away from her face. “Exquisite. As stardust.”

Jude can’t help but blush deeper.

Her husband’s compliments, though scarce,  were never ordinary, even after all these years. And why should they be, when they loved each other in such extremes?

Cardan takes up her hands gently in his and begins wrapping the long length of ribbon around her wrists, binding them in front so that she is not entirely in control, but not entirely without it either.

It’s funny to Jude that Cardan should be always so careful in this, considering the not-at-all-gentle treatment she is about to receive.

She doesn’t dare laugh, though. Not now.

“Do you understand why I am doing this, Jude,” he asks.

“Yes.” Her eyes flit over the sharp angles of his face. She meets Cardan’s gaze, as bravely as she can. His is calm, like black water before a storm. A storm which shimmers on the edge of the horizon between them.

Cardan stares at her bottom lip, now pulled between her teeth, as if he might bite into it too, given the chance. Jude is sure she would let him.

After a moment, Cardan lowers his gaze back to the task at hand. “And why is that?” He loops the ribbon around itself then pulls tight.

“Because I lied,” she tells him, not an ounce of remorse in her voice.

“Precisely,” he says. “And what is it you lied about?”

“I said I hated you.”

“Yes.” Cardan nods, looping the ribbon a second time. “You said you hated me—in front of the entire court.” He pins her with a glare from underneath the trellis of his lashes, and Jude is reminded of the way in which he used to look upon her frequently—with an odd coupling of ire and lust.

Jude’s heart flies to her throat. There’s no use in denying it. “I did.”

“Why is that a bad thing, sweet villain?”

“Because they might misunderstand,” Jude says. “Because they might think I hate you in earnest.”

“And why is that a bad thing?”

“Because we need to remain a united front for the sake of Elfhame.”

A small smile plays at the corners of his devastating mouth. While her answer is not technically wrong, it’s not the answer he was looking for. Cardan ties off the ribbon in a careful bow, then looks at her with one raised brow, challenging.

Jude looks down at her bound hands, because it’s still hard to admit vulnerability, even to him. Even so exposed as she is now. “Because I don’t actually hate you.” It is a half truth, at best.

Her husband grips her chin between his thumb and the crook of his forefinger, canting her face so that she must look at him.

“Prove it.” Cardan says this like a dare. Probably because it is. The sweet plum wine of his breath fans across her face, making her head spin.

“I love you,” Jude says, softly. Saying these words aloud is always the greatest submission of herself, her deepest surrender.

Cardan knows this, and looks at her like she is the one and only wonder of the world. “You love me,” he repeats, letting go of her chin. It sounds more like he is trying to convince himself of the statement, rather than confirm she answered his question to his satisfaction.

Jude raises her bound hands to cup his cheeks. His face is warm and a bit stubbly. She strokes the pad of her thumb down his jawline. “Very much,” she says.

The way he closes his eyes, leans into her touch, makes something in her heart fracture a little.

“And I, you, my formidable dagger,” Cardan says. Removing her hands from his face, he places a kiss on both her palms before rising to his feet.

Then, something in his air shifts. He circles her like prey. Jude knows she must stay still, but the urge to follow his every move is a tempting one.

“Looking at you now, I see strength and grace. A sharply honed beauty,” Cardan says from behind her. Jude feels her cheeks heat anew, and she is glad he cannot see her blooming humility.

“I also see a liar,” Cardan continues. “And for liars, there is punishment.”

She can feel the thrumming of her pulse, every inch of her alive under his gaze. “Yes, my husband.”

She hears a rumble roll through Cardan’s chest.

Jude knows full well what that particular term of endearment does to him. And since she is so compromised before him, it is only fair she assert herself where she can.

“I am going to spank you, Jude,” Cardan tells her, apparently deciding to ignore transgression. “And when that is through, I am going to take you.”

A delicious curl of desire licks Jude’s core. She shivers.

“Does that sound like fair punishment to you?” he asks.

“Yes, my husband.”

Cardan is at her ear, long fingers at her throat before she can blink. They are feather-light, tracing up the veins in her neck, feeling the pound of her pulse there. It is threatening enough that Jude is given to staying very, very still. She feels the drive of his shoulder against her back.

“If you call me that one more time, Jude,” he growls so close to her that she can feel the vibrations of his voice skitter down her spine, “I will have no choice but to bend you over and fuck you with wild abandon. I will not be concerned with your pleasure, nor will I await your release.”

Jude’s eyes widen and she draws in a sharp breath.

“This will bring me no great amount of satisfaction,” Cardan continues, “As I do so love to feel you come around me. You want to satisfy me, don’t you, Jude?”

Jude swallows and nods.

“Good,” Cardan says, stroking a hand down her hair before moving away. “You are safe, dear Jude, but you will relinquish. Now, lean forward and be still.”

Jude complies, without hesitation this time. Since her wrists are bound, she goes down on her elbows, ass raised in the air.

She is completely exposed. Vulnerable.

Cardan kneels down beside her, sidling up to her left hip. She can feel the bulge straining beneath his trousers.

She’s not sure if it’s this or the knowledge of what’s to come that makes her slick with want. But when she feels Cardan’s palm come to rest on her backside, the simple touch sends a lance of heat coursing through her.

Her thighs press together.

“So eager, my queen,” Cardan hums, steadying her with a grip of his free hand on her right hip. “One might wonder if you devised this plan from the start.”

Jude grins wickedly at the floor, but says nothing.

“Naughty thing,” he says.

Without warning, he brings his hand down against her bare flesh. It’s not a hard blow, just enough for a slight pang of pain. But the surprise of it makes her gasp.

“You’re a liar, Jude,” Cardan says, rubbing slow circles with his palm for a moment, letting her adjust to the new sensation.

She feels his hand disappear again, and braces herself. When he slaps her the second time, it’s harder, a bright shock against her skin. The sound echoes off the Royal Chamber walls.

Jude bites her lip.

The combination of sharp pain followed by Cardan’s cool, soothing ministrations is disconcerting. She shouldn’t like this as much as she does. This pain, this yielding. Everything about it goes against her very instincts. Yet, Jude grows more desperate still.

Suddenly, Cardan delivers three consecutive strokes, hard and fast.

“A dirty.” Slap. “Mortal.” Thwap. “Liar.” Smack.

Then, he swipes two wicked fingers up the length of her heat.

Jude moans, feeling herself pulse at the unexpected sensitivity. Her hips rock back of their own volition, chasing the friction she craves.

Cardan clicks his tongue at that. “I told you to be still,” he reminds her. “Do not test my patience, sweet villain.”

Jude’s fists ball up in front of her, pulling against their binds. In her head, she slings a slew of curses at him.

He is rock hard and throbbing, pressed firmly against her hip. It is a cruel kind of torture to feel his arousal and be without the power to sate it.

She wants nothing more than to be able to touch him, to clamber up his torso and peel him out of his clothes, to feel him hot against her skin, to make him tremble under her touch.

“I’ll be still,” she gasps instead. “Please. I’ll be still.”

Cardan says nothing, only resumes his soothing circles over the rawness of her backside. After a moment, he slaps her rapidly, once on her ass and once more against her swollen folds.

Jude yelps, the contact sending a shudder through her.

The effort it takes to remain unmoving is immense. Her breath is ragged in her chest. She is positively aching, and entirely unsure when or even if Cardan will give her what she desires.

“What are you?”

“A liar,” Jude chokes out.

Cardan brings his hand down hard again, and there’s a sharp spark of commingled pleasure and pain that swells in her.

“Louder.”

“I’m a liar,” she nearly shouts.

He strikes her cunt twice more. “Wrong. Try again.”

“I’m a liar!” She wails into the carpet. “A dirty, mortal liar!”

Jude is on the verge of tears now. She has experienced pain far greater than this before, but none which has held her in such agonised suspense. Such terrible denial.

The flesh of her ass is raw as roses, dripping with the evidence of her arousal between her thighs. She feels the heated prickle of shame flood her face, and yet, she remains still, gaze glued to the floor.

“Look at you,” Cardan says, wonderment in his voice. “You are breathtaking.”

He runs a slender finger up her slit before dipping down between her folds. His finger pumps and curls inside her, feeling her inner walls. The feeling is so delectable that Jude must stop herself from arching into his touch.

Cardan hums, delighted. “You’re drenched, wife,” he says, withdrawing his hand.

A frenzied heat surges through her at the loss of contact. Jude can only manage a sobbed, “Cardan.”

Relief is a balm like no other as her husband shrugs out of his shirt and positions himself behind her, spreading her legs with his own. The sound of his zipper sets her squirming.

When he finally, miraculously, slides into her, he does so in one smooth stroke, until he is buried deep, to the hilt.

Cardan hisses as he bottoms out. But, to Jude’s dismay, he does not move. Just stays there, sheathed in her completely, savouring the feeling of her warmth around him.

Jude is keening, the soft sounds muffled by the carpet as she tries her very best not to writhe against him. Because gods, does she need that ambrosial ache. Starting in her belly and lapping up her spine until every inch of her is flooded.

“Cardan,” she grits out, fingernails digging into the rug.

“Yes, my darling god?” he says, as if he doesn’t know what could possibly be wrong. As if he doesn’t know what torments her so.

Jude swallows. This terrible anticipation makes her feel like live wires twist frenetic under her skin. She hates it.

“Cardan. Please.”

“Please, what, dear Jude?”

“Move!” Her voice is taut in her throat from all of this waiting and wanting and wondering. If Jude were not held at his mercy, she would have pinned him to the floor by now.

A sudden chill sinks in her stomach before she knows exactly why. Then, Cardan has a fistful of her hair at the nape of her neck, yanking it so that she arches further into him.

He leans down over her, making her gasp. This angle is treacherously deep.

“Unfortunately,” Cardan growls low in her ear. “I don’t take commands from lying mortals.”

Jude is perplexed by the desire his words stir up. It licks her to the quick, going against everything she thought she knew about herself.

But the fact that remains is this: Jude craves the force of his arms, the moreish knowledge of his desire, his own unmooring. It is a particular tincture of power which only Cardan can give her. And for that, she must surrender.

Abruptly, he releases her hair and in within the span of a few breaths, strikes her across the ass four times.

The hits come in rapid succession, with much the same vigor as before. Only these are more intense. Her eyes snap open.

Jude, now filled to the brim with her husband’s cock, feels every slap of his palm against her flesh as if they were jolts of electricity shooting straight through her core. They leave her nerves jangled.

She cries out, clenching around Cardan’s length as each blow lands. A low rumbling sound goes through him.

“You feel,” he rasps, voice frayed from restraint, “Utterly divine, my love.”

Jude moans but is unable to form a response. For all the world, she cannot think past the moony haze of her mind, nor the heavenly pressure in her belly. After a moment, she registers the slip of Cardan’s tail coming to wrap gently around her thigh. It is both a reassurance and a question.

All Jude can think to say, the only thing to pass from her lips is, “I love you.”

With that, Cardan is moving.

The first few strokes are achingly slow, dragging all the way out before plunging back in. They strike a match within her.

Soon, Cardan is building a rhythm, thrusts picking up speed. Jude’s pulse races in tandem. That heat in her core clambouring for purchase as she’s driven again and again into the floor.

Jude thinks about the burns her knees will have tomorrow, from this carpet, and a thrill runs through her.

She can hear Cardan’s labored breathing behind her, his little gasps and groans that make her toes curl. He is deliciously hers. The thought makes her tremble in her own delight.

The slapping sounds their joining makes drive her wild. Before she knows it, she can feel the steady rise of her release. Despite her better judgement, Jude cannot help but meet him thrust for thrust.

Cardan seems too far gone to notice his wife’s efforts. He grips her hips as he pounds into her, relentless.

But when Jude turns her head to look at him, he is somewhere else. And that simply will not do. No, Jude would have him here and now, in this moment.

She slows her pace. She wishes she could reach back and pull him to the present with her touch alone. But as her hands are bound, she cannot.

“Cardan,” Jude croons.

At the sound of her voice, Cardan’s eyes snap to hers. He blinks for a moment. Then, he’s slowing his rhythm, too.

“Oh, Jude,” he soughs, scooping her up into his arms so that they are both upright and kneeling, Jude straddling his lap. She leans back against his chest. “My sweet Jude.”

His hand goes to her clit, fingers working slow circles. The added stimulation brings forth plumous mewls from Jude. She rolls her hips in time with his ministrations, feeling the novelty of this angle.

It is the stuff of gods, what they are doing.

“Tell me again,” Cardan murmurs gruffly in her ear.

Jude knows precisely what he means by this. “I love you,” she says, swirling herself over him. He thrums into her neck, nips at her earlobes. His hips begin to buck of their own accord, rutting up to meet the tidal wave of her movements.

Over and over, she tells him. “I love you. I love you. I love you.” His mouth covers hers in a searing kiss. “I love you so much that sometimes I can hardly think of anything else.”

“Gods above,” Cardan groans and, splaying his free hand on her belly, he pushes them forward once more. He’s pounding into her, fingers flying in circles over her clit until she is all sensation. Until she is screaming.

Jude is being cleaved apart. She is trembling on high. Just as it seems her wave of pleasure will rise and rise forever, finally, it breaks.

Jude cries out her release, a jumble of “I love you’s” and Cardan’s name, echoing around the Royal Chambers as she writhes beneath him.

And with that, Cardan tips over the edge, too. With a final slam, he spills into her, shouting a string of words. Her name. Only her name. Over and over against the back of her neck like a curse as he comes.

Jude is still pulsing, shaking in the aftermath when Cardan loops his arms around her waist. He brings them both to rest on their sides, not caring at all that they are on the floor. Cardan tucks Jude into his chest.

He pulls her wrists into his hands and begins unravelling the red ribbon that binds them. Jude, for her part, feels both heavy and as if she could float away on a fog.

“Jude?” Cardan’s voice sounds from behind her.

“Hmm?” She can barely muster the energy open her lids.

“Are you aware how much I love you?”

“ ‘Course I am,” she mumbles.

Cardan looses a soft chuckle. “Liar.”

Jude’s grin is so wide, she’s sure all of Elfhame can see it.

☽☽☽☽☽

AN: So this was… much softer than I intended 😅 but I really hope you enjoyed it! I had so much fun writing this one. This is just the first of a few works I’m putting out this week for Jurdan Smut Week, so look out for those. 

As always, if you have any kind comments, please do share them with me. I’m terrible at responding in a timely fashion, but I will respond to every single one. They absolutely make my day and ultimately encourage me to keep writing.

If you liked this, and would like to be added to my tag list, let me know!

Back to the forest now!

-Em 🖤💫

Tag List: @velarhysismine​ @knifewifejude​ @the-mithridatism-of-jude-duarte​ @clockworkgraystairs​ @thesirenwashere​ @courtofjurdan​ @nightbringer​ @aelin-queen-of-terrasen​ @whocares-idont​ @babycardan @sweetlyvillainous​ @aesthetics-11​ @storiesandschemes​ @jurdanhell​ @poeticbrownmermaid​ @thechainofiron​ @random-llama-socks​ @villanellevi​ @lady-thea-of-narnia​ @b00kworm​ @flowersinvegas​ @vanessa172003​ @cardanstrickytail​ @queen-of-glass​ @judiecardan​ @words-of-the-wise​ @scarznstars​ @charincharge​ @fizziefaerie​ @fateandluminary​ @tessas-herondales​ @styles-taylor​ @jyoti96​ @losssssstttttt​ @transbordeamento​ @katsemkitgostadetog @gloriouspalacebakerylawyer​ @woodsbeyond1​ @hizqueen4life​ @highqueenjudeduarte​ @m-like-magic @dorkzrul​ @whataboutmyfries​ @livelovereading123​ @queenofgreenbriar​ @ireallyshouldsleeprn​ @lifeminuspickles​ @df3ndyr​ @christalpaez @aknymph​ @iammissstark​ @st00pid231​ @disco-tits1​ @cardanslittletail​ @katexrenee​ @fandomfanatic987​ @justtryintolivemybestlife​ @hopefullyanauthor​ @junipersuns​ @curlyredqueen06​ @emmabookworm08​ @thebookish-fangirl​

Title Inspo: Holy by King Princess

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