#i want to protect him under my bosom

[justmeinadaze]

I'm in an angsty hurt with comfort Gator mood. Why? I do not know.

[bunnylovesani]

An Arrangement

Summary: You’re a princess taken from your home planet and forced to marry Darth Vader. Turns out life on the Death Star isn’t as bad as everyone makes out. Based on the prompt shared with @luminoustarlight !

Content warnings: p in v sex, degradation, sub dynamics, begging, some violence, slow burn smut

WC: 9.3k

You stare out the grand palatial window in the coronation room, passively observing the flames swallowing the city of your home planet Onderon. Unintelligible screams flood the background, soon mercilessly silenced by the thuds and cracks of brusquely operated laser guns. 

So this is how you were to meet your end: powerless at the mercy of the imperial army. You’d been trained for such a scenario before and you always carried a vial of poison in the event of capture; you’d rather die than be made to serve the Empire’s twisted interests.

“Princess, you need to take cover, follow my men into the vault below!” Your faithful attendant, Silas called out in panic.

“No, Silas. I will not cower in the basement waiting for them to breach our walls. I will remain here and eagerly await them.” 

“But Your Grace-!”

“Enough.” You bark back. “It’s over. You have been discharged from duty, run while you still can. Thank you for all your years of service, I pray that our paths might cross again in another life.” You turn from him, tears flowing down your stiffeningly cold cheeks.

“May the Maker keep and protect you, Princess. You are our only hope.” He replies solemnly, before fleeing through the stony back passage of the palace.

You chuckle mirthlessly at the futility of his words and reach into your bosom where the corset of your gown has a sewn-in compartment. You extract the compact glass ampule of viper venom, so toxic that one drop is enough to send you into an eternal sleep, and fiddle with the intricate bottle for a few moments. With a heavy sigh, you tuck it under your sleeve; you decided you wanted to gaze into the eyes of your captors before you bid farewell to life. 

With a resounding crash, the barricaded gate before you falls and the imperial army- donning armour plastered in dust and foreign blood- swarm into the great hall of the palace. You force the knot in your throat down with a gulp and turn on your heel to face the brutes responsible for the massacre of your people. 

“Ah Princess, excellent. We thought you’d be grovelling underground with your father but you’ve just made our job a whole lot easier.” A masked figure that you presume is the Commander of the battalion addresses you. “Grab her. But keep her alive, she’s got a special purpose to fulfil.” 

Hearing the ominous plans they have in store for you, you rush to reach for the poison in your sleeve but are hindered by the stampede of soldiers hurtling at you, slapping the vial out of your hand and shattering it all over the nitid marble floor. 

‘Ah, ah, ah. Don’t even think about it.” The unnaturally deep voice of the commander booms. “You’ve been specially requested at the behest of the Emperor.” Dread consumes you as you’re roughly cuffed and dragged out of the safety of your childhood home. The soldiers marching comes to a sudden halt and you’re made to turn around and stare at the palace, a deadly silence hanging in the air. 

“Burn it.” 

Triggered by the commander’s words, a roaring blaze fulminates, the building being crushed in an instant by the force of the explosion. All you can see is the reflection of smouldering flickers through the thick veil of tears filling your eyes. 

The commander smugly trudges over to you, sharply inhaling. “Ah, there’s nothing better than the smell of a coward’s smouldering corpse.” He hisses, words dripping with venom. “Wouldn’t you agree?” 

Your heart burned at the injustice, at the innocent civilians decimated- but you couldn’t fool yourself into pretending that scorn extended to your dearly departed father. 

Refusing to reply to his provocation with anything other than an expectorated glob of spit aimed at his helmet, he takes the barrel of his gun and pummels it with brute force against your temple. You’re instantly rendered unconscious and your limp body is packed into the nearest starfighter, chained up and ready to make the journey from Onderon to the Death Star.  

The first thing you do as you’re rudely awoken is cradle your aching head- a wave of nausea overtaking you and the electric pain behind your eyes knocking the air out of your lungs. 

“Rise ’n shine, Onderon whore.” One of the soldiers grabbing you by the elbow spat and you stumbled to your feet like a newborn foal. After being dragged through a fortified steel tunnel, you were harshly thrown to the floor in a cold control room before two cloaked men, one of whom wore black combat boots- no doubt robust and heavy enough to crack open a skull. The light in the battle station glowed painfully bright and you lifted your head as best you could to observe the squabbling figures through squinted eyes.

“Here she is, my young Lord. I think she’ll do nicely, yes?” The ominously raspy voice croaked and you knew at once it was none other than Emperor Sheev Palpatine.

“She’s shivering.” The monotonous voice of the other cloaked figure stated callously and only then did you notice how your body was trembling- whether it was from the cold or the fear, you weren’t sure. 

“You’ll have plenty of opportunity to warm her up on your wedding night.” He cackles wickedly but is met with silence from the man opposite him. The last thing you remember before it all went black was the light reflecting off of the quiet man’s helmet, and wondering what might be lurking underneath. 

“Tskk poor thing, look at this cut on your head.” You flutter your eyes open to see a woman in a billowed white cloak tutting and fussing over you. “Good morning, princess.”

“Who are you?” You scowl, trying to get up and immediately being knocked back down by the overwhelming pain.

“Whoa, easy now! Nice ’n slow.” The woman puts her arm around your waist and helps you to sit up. “I’m Sabe, a royal handmaiden. Your handmaiden, to be exact.”

“Where am I?” You croak, uncertain you wanted to know.

“You’re on the Death Star, ma’am.” 

Bile rises in your throat at the realisation that none of it was a dream- your recollection of the last 24 hours starts flooding in and your chest seizes in panic. The fire, the cloaked men, the people in the vault. 

“You’re all right, just breathe. No harm is going to come to you. He’s made sure of that.” Sabe spouts and your head snaps at her.

“He?”

“Oh yes, Lord Vader gave orders for your protection. Under penalty of death. If you ask me, he just needs a woman’s touch to soften him up and he’d finally succeed in shaking that leech of an emperor off. Suppose that’s where you come in!”

“Me?” You screech, wondering when you’d say something not in the form of a question.  

“Oh, you poor thing, you don’t know…the Emperor is arranging a wedding between his young protegee and a princess from a seized planet. The princess being you, if that’s not clear.” She continued chattering incessantly. 

“Yes, I got that.” You snap. “And when is this supposed union meant to be taking place?”

“Tonight.” 

You choose to remain quiet, rather than parroting back her last word in the form of yet another question. 

After your handmaiden assists in bathing and dressing you in clean robes, you still can’t seem to escape the dull throbbing of the headache that permeates every cell of your body, leaving you in persistent agony. You beg Sabe to find something to help, knowing that you yourself weren’t allowed to leave the confines of the east wing. Stepping out onto the enclosed observatory space by your chambers, you stare out into the stars surrounding the vessel. You wished you could break beyond the thick glass enclave and just glide away, joining the stars and freeing yourself from the pain. 

“Who hurt you?” A raspy voice questions and you turn around to the sight of Lord Vader, enveloped in his armour and mask. 

“Uh, whoever the commander of the battalion was.” You reply, startled.

“He will be dealt with. Now come here.” He reaches his gloved hand out, signalling for you to grab it. With a great deal of uncertainty, you approached him, timidly giving him your hand. He takes it into his palm and holds it firmly to his chest. As if some force had siphoned the contusions and swelling out of you, you felt your agony slowly subside- until there was nothing at all in its wake. 

“H-how did you do that?” You took a step back from him, holding your fingers up to your temple in disbelief. You’d heard of force healing before but assumed it was either a myth or a nearly lost practice only wielded by the most masterly of Jedi.

“Go back to your chambers and rest. You have a long ordeal ahead of you.” He leaves your question unanswered and marches out of the observatory as quickly as he entered it. 

You’re compelled to follow his commands so you retreat to your chambers, forcing yourself to drink the healing tea Sabe concocted after having decided it was easier than explaining the bizarre experience you’d had. That was the dark Sith Lord that struck terror into the hearts of everyone who faced him? Ruthless, soulless, devoid of all human compassion- and channelling force healing to ease your headache? You spent all afternoon writhing in confusion, all the way up until a neatly packaged box was left on the doorstep of your assigned room. Upon closer inspection, the box contained an intricate white lace dress, paired with a beaded, scallop hemmed headpiece. A wedding outfit.

Standing at the forefront of the cold metallic arena, you twiddled with the sleeves on your dress- the material itching terribly and making your skin crawl. In a way, you were glad to have something occupy your mind beyond the impending prospect of marrying a Sith brute. You wondered why he wore that clunky helmet- is he so hideously deformed he has to hide behind it lest people faint at the sight? 

A frightened-looking man you can only assume is the officiator of this sham of a wedding is escorted through the heavily guarded gates and takes his place before you, not daring to make eye contact. Your body fills with dread at the familiar sound of heavy boots dragging along the steel plates of the floor. He doesn’t spare you a passing glance for even a moment, despite your stubborn resolution to face him for the entirety of the ceremony- you wanted to look deep into the supposedly merciless eyes of your new husband. There aren’t any vows, there’s no exchange of rings, no kiss to celebrate the union- just some legal jargon and a couple of witnesses. Although you can’t see him, you can feel Palpatine’s snake eyes burning into you, no doubt observing from another room to ensure his mysterious plan came to fruition. 

“Follow me.” A stormtrooper orders you and begins to head back in the direction of your chambers. Confused, you allow him to escort you out of the hall as you see a cloaked figure approach Lord Vader out of the corner of your eye. You just about hear the Emperor’s gravelly voice hiss out the word “consummate” before the doors shut behind you and you’re carried away to the bedroom. For some reason, the thought of sex hadn’t crossed your mind- you assumed villains like him had interests that surpassed such blunt mortal affairs - but now standing in front of your 4-poster bed, waiting for the sound of his heavy footsteps again, reality sunk in. You swallowed the thick lump in your throat and lay on the bed, removing the first layer of your dress and remaining in a white negligee. “Just lie back and think of Onderon.” You thought.

Your whole body tensed as you observed him enter your joint chambers, completely walking past you and going to the connecting bathroom, door left ajar. 

“I’m ready, Lord Vader.” You stiffly announce, hoping to get it over with as soon as possible. 

Hearing your words, he peers out of the doorway and although you can’t see his face, his body language seems perplexed. 

“What are you doing?” He remarks accusingly. 

“I-I’m…waiting for you to consummate our marriage. Like Palpatine wishes.” He scoffs at your comment- laughs even- and goes back into the bathroom. 

“I will do nothing of the sort.” You hear him say.

Sitting up on the bed and dragging the covers over your exposed body, you’re bewildered. 

“Oh, c-can Sith Lords not…?” You stutter, searching for an explanation.

“I assure you I’m perfectly capable.” He snaps back. “I just have no desire for the task.” 

Although relief floods your body, you feel slightly offended at the presumption that lovemaking with you should be a task. 

Just then, you hear a steamy hissing sound, followed by a loud thud. The figure emerges, back facing you without his layers of armour- donning a simple black shirt and black trousers. He wanders over to the window at the far end of the room, staring out into space. 

“I’m sorry about your father.” He grunts after a while and you finally hear his voice- free from robotic static, with no menacing growl - just him, and it sounds beautiful.

“Don’t be.” You say sincerely, fixated on the back of his head. You notice he has dark blonde curls, gathering in tufts at the nape of his neck. “Come on, turn around.” You think, bracing yourself for what you might find. 

“Alright, if you insist.” He remarks and you scowl in confusion- you didn’t say that out loud, did you? 

He pivots round to face you and you feel as though someone has knocked the air from your lungs: he glares at you with mesmerising cobalt-blue eyes, embellished by abundantly thick lashes and even thicker eyebrows sitting atop his handsomely chiselled face. His cheekbones stand at attention, enhanced by his sculpted jawline, which works in perfect harmony with the rest of his body- even his collarbones are perfect. He’s full of sprightly vigour, he’s young even. You are floored and contemplate how anyone could hide such a face away in that clunky helmet.

“Not what you were expecting, huh?” He speaks, sensing the utter shock his appearance has inflicted on you. 

“You…you’re-” You stutter.

“Not hideously deformed?”

“-beautiful.” 

He raises his bushy eyebrows disapprovingly and you scold yourself for being so forthright. He may be devilishly handsome, but that doesn’t mean you can swoon over him. He’s a monster, remember? Sure, he has the most seductive pair of lips you’d ever seen on a man - all plump and the perfect shade of pink- and sure, he’s sparked a desire within you that you don’t think you’d ever felt before but…where were you going with this? 

“I’m going to sleep in the adjoining room, you can take my chambers.” You’re snapped out of your dreamy haze by his velvety voice as he begins to walk away.

“Wait! Y-you don’t have to, I’m sure the bed is uncomfortable over there.” 

“No, it’s perfectly fine.” He continues marching away. 

“Wait! The bed here is more than big enough for the both of us, we wouldn’t even touch.” You stumble over your words, melting under the scrutiny of his gaze. 

“Do you want me to sleep with you, Princess?” His movement comes to a halt and you’re rendered speechless. “Because that really would be something. Captured and brutalised after all that you hold dear is set alight, forced to marry a servant of evil- and then you request his company in your bed? That would be deranged. You’re not deranged now, are you Princess?”  

Your mouth goes dry at the snarky way in which he’s talking to you- you admit it sounds mad out loud but the situation is more complicated than he thinks. 

“N-no.” You mutter, barely above a whisper. 

“Good, I wouldn’t want to find out I’ve married damaged goods.” He remarks impertinently. “I’m retiring for the evening- and I am not to be disturbed.” With that, he slams the door between you shut and you slide down your headboard, consumed by embarrassment, shame, desire. His dastardly good looks have really thrown a spanner into the works. 

You barely managed to get any sleep that night, much like every night the week following the wedding. Your dreams were plagued by visions- of your father, of your captors, of your husband. Before your seizure, you already knew your future would hold a forced marriage; although an even less desirable one. Your father had plans to marry you off to your cousin, a brainless specimen by the name of Fester who was too dim-witted to even realise he was being used as a pawn in the family’s bloodline feud.

Despite your many attempts to plead and beg your way out of this union, your father dismissed you entirely- even going so far as to sanction you to the confines of your stuffy quarters, striking you remorselessly when you defied his orders. 

You’d spent a lifetime dreamily peering out of your windows, waiting to be liberated by a saviour that never came- at least not in the way you thought. 

Lord Vader was never present, aside from a very brief juncture in the evenings, when he would pass through your chambers on the way to his bedroom. You tried to make conversation but he either stared at you with dead, unamused eyes or flat-out ignored you. Asking him what he did during his working hours was not one of the things you tried to speak about- much preferring to stay in ignorant bliss- and he was more than happy to not be at the receiving end of your questions for once. 

Growing increasingly tired of questioning your purpose on this wretched behemoth of a ship, you took the liberty of posting yourself outside his bedroom that night, waiting to block his exit until he at least acknowledged your existence. You’re ashamed to admit that you selected your nightwear especially for him- tonight choosing to wear the thinnest of slip dresses in the pathetic hopes that he might be drawn in by your pert chest. 

As is routine, you hear the doors to your chambers swing open and are greeted with the welcome sight of the young Lord, who strides over to you intimidatingly. Removing his helmet and towering before you, you gulp at not just the height difference- but the sheer broadness of his shoulders compared to your slender ones. 

“Move.” He states, glaring at you unaffectedly. 

“No. I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me.” You stubbornly huff and you think you spot a glint of amusement in his eyes. 

“You don’t give the orders around here, Princess.” He asserts as he lifts you up by the waist with ease and drops you out of his way like you were a meagre traffic obstruction. You’re filled with disbelief as he enters his room, shutting the door in your face. “At least he didn’t slam it tonight.” You ponder.

Slouching down the door defeatedly, you pout as you hear him undress, desperately in need of an explanation. 

“Please.” You plead pitiably, not expecting him to hear you. 

You almost fall to the floor as your backrest swings open, and you lift your head to see him, sighing above you. 

“What is it?”

“I-I just wanna know some things.” You mutter, cradling your knees on the floor. 

“Then talk.” He taps his foot impatiently. 

“Well uh- for starters, why am I here?” You rise from the floor to face him. “Why did Palpatine want you to marry me?”

“He wants me to sire a son- to ensure his plans can be carried out should I be otherwise indisposed.” He looks away coldly. 

“I don’t understa-“

“Palpatine will live into his 200s. I am only human. If I am killed, he wants another apprentice to bend to his will, one just as strong with the force.” 

“So why haven’t you attempted to do any siring yet?” He looks at you with a look of intense shock, disgust even. Of all the things he’s said, you take issue with his lack of action in the bedroom. 

“I refuse to participate in this charade. He’ll see that you’re barren after a while- and we’ll dispose of you accordingly.” 

“But I’m not barren.” You interject, dismissing the latter part of his sentence. 

“It would be in your best interests to pretend you are.” You’re beguiled by his smooth voice and find yourself yearning to hear it all night. “I’ve brought someone to keep you company, hopefully with them in attendance you’ll be less inclined to seek my attention.” 

“Another handmaiden? Ah, spare me- the current one is more than irritating enough on her own.” You shudder at the thought of 2 Sabes, prattling in your ear all day. 

“No, I’ve ordered for the capture of your former attendant. I believe you were quite fond of him- Silas, is it?” 

Your heart seizes, he’s alive? More importantly, he’s being brought to you? You stare at the scowling face of your husband, who looks afraid you might try to do something overly affectionate. 

“A purely self-indulgent measure. To prevent any future ambushes like the one tonight.” He backtracks, attempting to impose some distance but you disregard it entirely. “If that’s not enough to keep you occupied, you can also have access to my private library - Silas will be waiting for you there tomorrow.” 

“Thank you, my Lord,” You whisper, throwing caution to the wind and wrapping your arms against his waist, face snugly pressed into his firm chest. You feel him tense up at the intrusion, but he relaxes ever so slightly with an exhale, hovering his arms above your own- careful not to let them touch lest he give you the impression he’s embracing you back. 

“Call me Anakin.” He mumbles softly. 

You wake up the next day, your chest feeling lighter than it has in years. Bounding out of bed, you instil deep confusion in Sabe, who enters your room with fresh clothes. 

“Having a good morning?” She asks.

“I think actually, yes. Yes, I am.” You reply resolutely, allowing her to dress you without your usual complaints as she tightens your corset. 

“Might this have anything to do with Lord Vader?” She raises an eyebrow, consumed with curiosity. 

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I see that my new life might not be so bad after all. I believe I have someone waiting for me, you’re dismissed for now, Sabe.” You waltz out of your chambers to the library that Anakin mentioned you were granted entrance to. 

You enter the room and stare in wonder at the rows upon rows of polished shelves, furnished with all kinds of large, leather-bound books. Among the volumes of publications is a tall, spindly man- standing with his back turned. 

“Silas!” You cry out and dart towards him, colliding against him in a tight embrace. 

“Princess! Let me look at you, are you hurt?” He grabs your face, inspecting it for any cuts or bruises. 

“No, no I’m perfectly fine!” You smile. 

“How could you possibly be fine? I heard about the wedding- it’s a scandal, it’s a disgrace! The intergalactic senate will hear about this- I promise I will get you out!“

“Silas, it’s okay, I’m being treated well here.” Your reply sends him into a stunned silence. 

“You’ve been married to a Sith Lord. A princess of the purest blood made to intermingle with the lap dog of the Emperor. I don’t even want to think about what you’ve been forced to do here to survive.” He shudders.

“I haven’t been made to do anything. And Anakin really isn’t that bad once you get to know him a little.”

“Anakin?” Silas almost breaks out in hives at what he’s hearing. 

“Yeah, that’s his real name. And oh, Silas, he’s so handsome!” You clamber on, reading the titles off a nearby bookshelf and digging for something that might take your fancy.

“I don’t believe this. One week under captivity and you’ve been brainwashed already.” He takes his head into his hands.

“I haven’t been brainwashed.” You chuckle. “Anakin is the one who brought you here. Just for me. And he lets me have the nicest quarters on the ship- and I’m allowed private access to the whole library!” You gush.

“So he’s built you a very pleasant cage. Fantastic. Just because your prison has a nice interior doesn’t make it your home.”

“Well, it’s no less of a prison than Onderon was. At least in this one, my marriage isn’t incestuous.” Silas’s eyes widen beyond measure at the boldness of your statement and he takes a seat before he collapses. 

“He used the force to heal me when I was in pain.” 

“And what caused you to be hurt in the first place?” He snaps back accusingly.

“Silas, listen to me.” You kneel beside him, taking his hand into your own. “I’ve spent too many years worrying about the fate of my future, cursing the Maker for how little control I had over my own destiny. No more. I can only take life as it comes in small waves- I have relinquished control. This is my new home now.”

With a heavy sigh, Silas nods- looking away as if unable to process your revelation. 

“Come on, there’s someone I want you to meet.” You say, mischievous twinkle in your eye.

The remainder of the day is spent flicking through various books, amassing a pile of them in your bedroom so high that you could barely see Sabe’s head poking through when she entered.

“Um, m’lady? If you won’t be requiring anything else for the night, can I retire? Silas and I were thinking of wandering down to the observatory by my quarters…”

“Of course, Sabe, enjoy.” You chuckle as she meekly smiles and exits your room. You knew they’d hit it off, one perennial chatterbox with another. Flicking through the last page of the first edition volume of The Tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise, you hummed discontentedly. “What a terrible ending.” You thought as you inspected the piles on your floor for the second volume. You suspect you must’ve left it in the library when you were packing your books onto the trolley so you wrap a thin robe around yourself and march down the hall. You notice the lights already burning as you enter the library cautiously, peering your head through to see Anakin, sitting on an armchair and reading something out of a thick, metal-encased manual. 

“What’s your book about?” You query as you approach him slowly.

“It’s a story about a very naughty princess who loves to go looking for trouble.” He sneers, lip curling up into the shadow of a smile. 

“No, it’s not!” You titter as you pry over the bind, seeing various starfighter diagrams and mechanical cross-sections. 

“What do you want now?” He shuts the book promptly.

“I just came to collect something I left behind.” You reply innocently. 

“I trust you’re enjoying my collection, then.” He looks up at you for the first time and your breath catches in your throat at the sight of his dreamy eyes.

“Oh yes, it’s very impressive. I didn’t think Sith Lords read so much.”

“They don’t.” He gets up from his chair, sauntering over to a nearby shelf and picking out a specific book. “Try this, I think you’ll like it.” He throws the book in your direction and you catch it; observing the cover, you speculate it’s some kind of historical tale about a lost civilisation. 

“Thank you, I’ll be sure to read it.” You tuck it under your arm. “Are you retiring for the night yet?” 

“Yes, I’ll leave the library to you.” He gets up to leave but you stand in front of him. 

“I was only here to get something, escort me back?” You ask and he looks you up and down before making a low grunting sound, something you can only assume is a sign of acceptance. He heads out the door and you follow, trailing behind him like a lost puppy. 

“I never got to thank you.” You say as you enter your chambers, seizing the short moment you have to converse before he disappears into his bedroom. 

“What could you possibly have to thank me for?” He rolls his eyes.

“For rescuing me.” You reach out to touch him by the arm but back down, courage failing you. 

“You’ve lost your mind.” 

“No, really. My circumstances back home were…less than ideal.” You stare down at your feet.

“I admit I find it peculiar that you don’t seem to be in mourning.” He notes, more intrigue in his tone than you’re used to.

“Would you be in mourning over a man who oppressed and rebuked you at every turn?”

“I see. I suppose that explains your…unorthodox behaviour.” For the very first time, he takes a seat on the chaise lounge by your bed- does he actually want to have this conversation with you?

“I guess you could say that. After he locked me up in the palace and forced me to accept my cousin’s betrothal, I abandoned all hope for the future and resigned myself to perpetual misery. And then you came along.” He squints his eyes, looking almost frustrated with your positivity.

“Are you sure you understand the situation you’ve found yourself in? You’re aware you’ve been abducted- forced to spend every day locked up here, never to see your planet or familiars again? Forced to play wife to me?” He gawks incredulously.

“You’re not as bad as you make out.” You smile at him. “And you’re certainly very easy on the eyes.” You look for changes in his demeanour but it remains unaffected. “Would you have preferred it if I was terrified and unwilling to go near you?” 

“Terrified? Of course not, the thought of it sickened me. Unwilling to go near me? I’m not sure I’d mind.” He states and you wonder if that was his way of making a joke. “I regret that you’ve been ensnared into this. I wish it could’ve been different.” 

“I don’t.” You pluck up the courage to sit beside him, placing your hand on his leg. “I can see there’s goodness within you. It’s almost tangible in the way you treat me.” 

“Clearly I’ve given you the wrong impression.” He mutters gruffly, visibly uncomfortable. “And you can stop wearing those little dresses around me. All you’re going to succeed in doing is get frostbite.” He pushes your hand off him.

“Do you find me that repulsive?” You question sharply, tired of being made to feel undesirable. “I’ve been told my looks rival that of some of the fairest Princesses in the galaxy. Is a man like yourself so completely cold to the affections of women?”

“I fail to see how that is relevant.” He dismisses.

“It’s relevant because I’m tired of my bed being cold. You chose to marry me, now act like a husband!” 

“What choice? I had no choice!” He shouts back and your blood runs cold when he stands towering over you.

“That makes two of us. But I fail to see what good can come from sulking about it.” You lower your tone.

“You’re that desperate, huh?” He sneers condescendingly.

“So what if I am?” You throw caution to the wind, fully aware of the way you’re debasing yourself right now; after the breadcrumbs of affection he’d been giving you, you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Fine.” He says, making his way over to the bed, ripping off his shirt. 

“W-what are you doing?” You murmur as he undresses and positions himself in the middle of your stately bed. 

“I’m ready, Princess.” He mocks, parroting what you’d said to him on your wedding night. “You wanted to fuck me, right? Well here I am. At your royal disposal.” 

“N-not like this.” You mutter, trying not to stare at his firm pecs or chiselled abdomen. 

“What’s the matter? You’ve been prancing around in those little dresses all week, practically begging me to give you a scrap of my attention and now I’m in our marital bed, you’re too scared?” 

“I’m not scared, I just don’t want to feel like I’m forcing myself on you.” You mutter quietly, drained of all confidence. 

“You’re worried about all the wrong things. Palpatine told me to brutalise you to within an inch of your life, you know that? To take all my anger out on you and make you pay for the sins of your family. And you’re worried about whether you’re taking advantage of me. I fear I have been too soft. You seem to forget who you’re speaking to.” 

“But you didn’t.” You sniffle.

“What?”

“But you didn’t do those things. You’re a good man, Anakin.” Your voice softens and you climb up the bed to join him, allowing your gaze to linger on the small line of blonde curling hair starting from his belly button, travelling down to what lay underneath his underwear. 

“No. I haven’t quite lost all my humanity.” He breathes heavily, seemingly noticing your staring. 

“Let me show you my appreciation.” You bit your lip and bravely met his intense gaze. He doesn’t respond, the only noticeable reaction being his eyes wandering down to your breasts, thin material doing little to conceal your pert nipples. 

“Do you wish to see me?” You ask, fingers toying with the straps as he huffs slightly, acting as though this were beneath him- but still remaining silent. You shrug the material off, revealing your round, perky breasts to him. You think you can see something twitching in his boxers but you can’t be sure. 

“Can I?” You ask, gesturing to sit on his lap but he remains speechless. “Please, my Lord, I need to hear you-“ 

“Yes.” 

A grin spreads across your face as you mount him, completely bare. Putting your hands on his chest, you move your hips a little to feel him. Not that you were expecting any less for a man of his stature, but you felt yourself getting soaked at his formidable size; he was surely 8 inches, and just as satisfyingly thick. Your eyes fall to his pretty face and you’re overcome with the urge to kiss him all over. Reaching down to plant small kisses over his temple and cheeks, you feel him stiffen even more. 

“What are you doing?” He grumbles.

“Shut up and kiss me.” You pant as you capture his lips in a soft kiss, brushing them against each other. You can feel him almost fighting the urge to hold you so you take the initiative and grab him by the jaw, kissing him deeply and passionately. You think you hear a moan slip out of his mouth but when you pull away, he’s still got the same cold expression on his beautiful face- brows slightly furrowed and lips pursed in disaffection. 

“If you’re waiting for me to make a move, it’s not going to happen.” He sighs, looking fatigued. A quiet rage simmers within you. You’ve had suitors lining up at the palace gates since you were a teenager and now this glorified servant is behaving as though he is the prize. You craved the chance to teach him not to underestimate you, to make him see you were special. “On another occasion, perhaps.” You thought. Tonight, you just wanted to make him writhe beneath you. 

“If you’re going to be making snarky comments all evening, I’m going to stuff my panties in your mouth to silence you.” 

“What panties? You didn’t wear any.” He grins and your chest sets alight. However brief it was, it’s the first time you’ve seen a genuine smile. His teeth were pearly and straight, and his smile broad enough to reach across his whole face in a bright, radiant flash. You felt like your day had gotten better just by being witness to it. 

“Why do you always do that?” He breaks your trance.

“Huh, do what?”

“Disassociate. You stare right through me when you do it.” 

“M’sorry. I can’t help it.” You feel a fierce shyness overcome you. 

“You find me that handsome?”

“Yes.” You whisper. You have no idea why you’re admitting to it. 

“Is that why you don’t mind being married to me?” He continues and you’re confused by the volume of questions coming your way- it’s more than he’s talked to you all week.

“Partly.” He smirks a little at the ego boost and places his hands on the back of his neck, arm muscles flexing as they’re extended. You trail a line from the centre of his chest down to his abdomen with the tip of your index finger, stopping as you reach the band of his boxers. You look up at him and he raises an eyebrow at you, almost daring you to go further. Toying with the band for a little while, you steel yourself and pull them down in one prompt motion. You have to hold in a wince as you take it in- in all its thick, veiny glory. With a shuddery breath, you savour the view before you: his strong, toned arms trailed down to his athletic torso, v-line achingly defined and sloping down to his large, pink-tipped member. “Even his dick is pretty.” You mentally cursed. His smirking, confident simper never faltered, not feeling a fragment of insecurity for even a moment. 

Knowing you weren’t going to get any warming up from him, you lifted your hips and angled yourself up, tip kissing your entrance. Maintaining eye contact, you slowly sunk down on him, lowering yourself gradually until your bare skin brushed against the curls around the base of his cock. He shuts his eyes for a moment and exhales lightly, pretty lips forming into a small o shape. You try to subdue the overwhelming feeling of being filled so deeply, not wanting to stroke his ego even more than you already have. You begin to move, riding him very slowly and focusing on his chest as it rises and falls, eyes watering at the sensation of being stretched out. Worrying that he’s going to question why you’re going so slow, you begin to speed up even though it aches. 

“Slow down.” He speaks softly. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“As if you care.” You huff.

“Don’t get on my bad side, Princess.” He shoots you a deadly glance and you slow back down, knowing better than to disobey him. It takes you a good while to accommodate to his size, oo’s and aa’s escaping your mouth every time you straighten up and sink down on his cock a little too deeply- but after the adjustment period, you start to ride him confidently. Your tits bounce with a hypnotising jiggle as you smack the flesh of your ass against his thighs, wetness drenching you both. Noticing how his arms lay by his side, you grab him by the wrist and lay them on your hips. He grips onto them slightly for a moment, but quickly releases and lets them fall back down to his sides. You whine a little, starved of affection. You were bouncing on his cock yet you still felt like you weren’t close.

“Please?” You moan. 

“You wanted this, not me. I said I’m not participating, didn’t I?” His voice rings out, completely unaffected while you were a panting mess.

“Don’t pretend like you’re not- ah- enjoying it. F-feels good, doesn’t it?” You stutter, feeling his tip prodding that spongy spot within you that threatens to be your undoing. 

“It’s fine.” He replies, still refusing to engage in any meaningful way.

“Oh come on, Anakin! Give me something.” You feel like you’re one snarky comment away from resorting to begging. 

“I’ve given you my cock. What more do you want out of me?” 

“I want you to talk to me, I want you to touch me. To be present!” 

“And I want for my wife to not be such a whore.” Your mouth gapes open at his harsh words, but you continue bouncing, getting too close to stop now. “I mean seriously, you’re being held hostage and all you can think about is getting fucked? There’s nothing in that little brain of yours other than visions of me fucking you, is there? I’ve seen them.”

You moan at his degrading words- if you weren’t so cock drunk, you might be ashamed of the way you’re allowing him to speak to you. 

“Oh my God, are you gonna cum from me talking down to you? Does me calling you a stupid whore get you off?” He rambles and you can’t stop yourself from turning into a whimpering mess, moans spilling out at every turn and unintelligible groans flooding the room as you bounce on his cock.

He reaches up towards you and you think he might be pulling you in for a kiss but instead, he hooks his fingers into the corners of your mouth, stretching it out. You babble out disjointed syllables, too overwhelmed to establish a rhythm that isn’t completely sloppy.

“The fuck are you even saying right now?” He laughs and oh god, there’s that smile again- if his cock wasn’t enough, now his grin is making your legs feel like jelly.

“What are these dumb little sounds you’re spluttering out? You sound like an idiot.” The lewd squelching noises increase in intensity as you fall apart on top of him in a sudden climax- pleasure hitting you like a truck and nearly knocking you out. You pant on top of him, trying to catch your breath with your head resting on his chest. He clears his throat after a minute and you shuffle off him, laying your head on the nearby pillow instead. 

“Wow. That was…did you not cum?” It occurs to you that you’d just used him for your own pleasure.

“Of course not.” He gruffly responds, legs still spread and cock exposed, glistening with your arousal. “I have self control.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask and he turns to face you.

“You’re like a bitch in heat. It’s not very princess-like of you.” 

“Well, I’m not a princess anymore. I’m a Sith Lord’s wife.” You counter.

“Wives don’t ride like that.” You know he didn’t mean it as a compliment but you chose to take it as one anyway. 

“Aren’t you going to cover up?” You point at his exposed body while you clutch the crisp white sheets around yourself.

“Why should I?” He snaps back and you’re taken aback by his show of confidence. And you certainly weren’t complaining.

“Yeah, I bet you aren’t.”

“Okay, you’ve got to stop doing that! It’s unnatural.” You complain.

“I don’t ordinarily pay such close attention to these things but your mind is so dirty.” 

“Oh yeah? What have I been thinking about in the last couple minutes then?”

“You’ve been wondering how I’m both a shower and a grower, how you’ve never been so wet before - oh, and how you want to fuck me again.” Your cheeks redden at his painfully accurate observations- and you feel his vulgarity plant a renewed desire within you. 

“Really, you want another round? Fine. Hop on.” He sighs, tapping his thigh. You stare at him affectionately with a smile as if to say “really?” and you clamber over him again. You only have to press your dripping body against him once and he quickly hardens again, tip oozing with precum. You waste no time impaling yourself, pussy swallowing him greedily- slightly sore but still stretched out enough to take him with ease. 

“Anakin, please.” You mumble, reaching for his hands- needing to feel them on your skin. 

“What do you want?” He replies breathily. 

“Please, touch me.” You slide up and down his shaft, body racked with delirious pleasure. “Pleasepleaseplease - please Anakin!” He scoffs smilingly at how you’ve been reduced to a needy mess before he’s even put an ounce of effort in. “Do you want me to beg? I’ll get on my knees and beg- please, touch me just a little, please Ani-“

“Alright, alright, enough!” He stops you and you wince at his harsh tone, wishing that just for once, he’d be gentle with you. 

“I’m sorry, it’s okay. I’m right here.” He reaches out and wraps his hands around your dainty waist, right arm gradually trailing up your body. His knuckles brush against your cheek tenderly before he wraps his strong hand around your jaw and pulls you in for a kiss. You squeak in shock at the unexpected affection as your breasts press against his chest, one hand squishing your soft flesh and the other wrapped up in your hair. 

“Mmm, Ani.” You hum, your deepest craving finally quelled.

“No one’s called me that in a really long time.” He mumbles into the kiss, sliding both hands down to your ass cheeks and gripping them firmly. 

“Is this what you wanted?” He asks as he slides you on and off him, commanding your movements with his strong grasp. 

“Oh God yes, fuck Ani- ah.” You gasped as he began lifting his hips and fucking his cock into you, fingernails digging into your hips. “‘m not gonna last much longer if you keep go -oh, just like th- aah.” 

“You don’t need to.” He whines, finally allowing himself to utter his own sweet sounds. 

“Nuh uh, I-I want you to cum with me.” You whimper in his ear as you wrap your arms around his neck. Cradling you, he wraps one arm around your back and rests his other hand on the back of your head while drilling you with such vigour you almost black out. 

“Shh, baby, shh- ’s okay.” He moans and your walls flutter at the heavenly sound. Try as you may, you can’t stop the drool that streams out of your mouth, fucked so dumb that you’re losing control over your senses. 

“You’re close, can feel you gripping me.” He sputters, barely audible over the sound of your squeals. “You want the whole ship to hear you, huh?”

“I want them all to know who I belong to.” You manage to get out clearly, trying to get a handle on your faculties. Rising up from being tucked into his neck, you start bouncing on him with the excitement of a little bunny, so desperate to bring him to his release. You look down at him, eyes screwed shut, gnawing on his bottom lip and you feel how furiously his eager cock throbs inside you.

“Want you to fill me up.” You warble, dropping your hands to lay on either side of his face, soft locks brushing against your wrists. “I wanna be yours.” You stare into his eyes, which have just fluttered open, eyebrows knitted close together.

“You’re already mine.” He whispers, grabbing you by the waist and turning you over in one swift motion, your back hitting the plumpness of the bed. Before you can take a breath, he slams into you again and your back arches from the overstimulation. 

Hooking his arms around your thighs and pulling you deeper into him, he roughly pounds against you, cock gliding into your sensitive core. You try to focus yourself, gnawing on your lip and mentally repeating: “You can’t cum this quickly again.”

“Oh yes, you can.” He asserts mischievously, speeding up his sloppy strokes until your eyes roll to the back of your head. You grip the sheets around you, trying desperately to hold on for just a few seconds longer.

“Don’t you dare.” He growls, slapping against you roughly. Beads of sweat trickle down his defined pecs, down to the creamy mess where your bodies meet. With one final gloopy thrust, you scream out his name and collapse entirely, body convulsing with pleasure as he moans at the sight, burying his face into your thigh. 

“Goddamn…” You hear him mutter as he continues using your body like a toy, dragging you onto him in a way that you don’t even notice in your cock drunk stupor. You hear a glorious groan escape his lips as he pulls out, painting your body with his creamy white cum. 

“Why’d you pull out?” You whine, completely spent and feeling woefully empty now that your bodies weren’t connected anymore. 

“You know why.” He exhales as his head hits the pillow beside you. “I refuse to let a child come into this.” You huff a little but feel too exhausted to argue.

Shuffling over, you test his boundaries by leaning your head against his shoulder. When he noticeably stiffens and backs away a little, you sit up hastily to face him. 

“Really, Anakin? You’re still not comfortable around me?” 

“I’m as comfortable as I need to be.” He murmurs and you let out a fussy whine. 

“I’ve just given myself to you entirely and you can’t even hold me after? Please, Ani, you’re making me feel really-“

“Fine! If it’ll get you to be quiet.” He pulls you in swiftly, his strong arm wrapped around you protectively and you let out a satisfied hum while he shakes his head- no doubt wondering how he got stuck with such a petulant child.

The days that followed were full of you waltzing around the ship, lost in your daydreams. Anakin had been dispatched to a different system for a mission and much to your displeasure, wouldn’t return for several days yet; you never knew exactly how long his journeys would last, you only knew they were doubtlessly too long. You missed him dearly - and if the way he hugged you back before he left was any indication- you were growing on him too. 

After enthusiastically getting through the book Anakin recommended, he told you that he’d left a stack out by his desk in the library- a personally hand-picked selection that he believed you’d enjoy. Your heart fluttered at the thought and you felt yourself keenly gliding over to it. You reminisced fondly about the way his soft hair felt when it brushed through your hands, how his dreamy eyes made you weak at the knees- how he had the prettiest cock you’d ever seen. You didn’t realise it was possible for someone to be so perfect- so what if he had an unsavoury pastime? It was a flaw you were willing to overlook if it meant you got to wake up next to that face. 

Entering the library, you hum a chirpy song and float over to the desk where you find a neat pile of books in varying colours and sizes. Just as you were about to pick the first one out of the stack, Silas rushes in- scruffy and disorganised, looking over his shoulder.

“Princess! Princess, you must hurry. They’re here- they’re finally here.” He sputters, grabbing onto your wrist like a madman and leading you out. 

“Slow down! What’s going on?” You question, wondering why you were running along with him. 

“Oh but we must be quick, the stormtroopers can only be held off for so long! Sabe is leading the distraction-“

“What are you talking about?” 

“Word finally reached them, they’re finally here!”

“Who? Who’s here?” You shout back, brain spinning in confusion.

“The Senate has sent an army - a rescue team for you!” Silas stares at you with crazed eyes, sweating with anxiety. “We can finally go home!” 

“W-what?” You stutter, allowing him to lead you out to the docking bay where you can see a battleship undoubtedly belonging to the Galactic Republic- suspended midair awaiting boarding.

“Wait, wait, no.” You backtrack but the grip Silas has around your wrist is too strong to easily break from. 

“You don’t mean to tell me you wish to stay here with that brute?” He glances back at you, face painted with disgust as he pushes on for the last few metres left until you reach the ship. “He doesn’t care about you.”

“That’s not true!” You shout, propellers buzzing over you with a furious intensity. 

“Is that so? Then why isn’t he putting up a fight right now?” He gestures behind you and you turn around to where the observatory window is. There he is, standing behind the glass, looking at you calmly. 

“Do you see? He doesn’t even care enough to stop you!” Silas digs his fingernails into your wrist as you reach the ship, doors unloading with a steamy hiss. “Get in!” He yells, pushing you forward with all his might. 

He’s letting you go. He’s letting you leave.

“No!” You fight back, striking Silas across the face and sprinting out of his reach as soon as his grasp on you loosens.

“You idiot! Stay here and rot with those Sith devils!” He curses, clambering up the stairs and smacking the handle, signalling for them to shut. Tears course roughly down your face as you stand back and see the ship ascending before darting off into the distance in a beaming flash. Turning around, you run as fast as your feet will carry you, scrambling up to the observatory to the man you’d just abandoned life as you knew it for.

Throwing the doors open, you see him: mouth parted, eyebrows raised and a singular tear rolling down his cheekbone. You jump into his arms, colliding and entangling yourself with him.

“Why did you do that, huh?!” He grabs your face with both hands, kissing you desperately. “Why would you do something so stupid?” You break out into a sob as he mumbles against your lips. “I would’ve let you go, you could’ve left.”

“I know, that’s why I stayed.” You wrap your hands around his own, still in a firm grip around your face. “I love you, Ani.” You gaze up at him with such adoration he feels his cold heart bursting. 

“I love you too.” 

As soon as the words leave his beautiful lips, you leap to kiss them- trying desperately to memorise every detail and every sensation that belonged to this moment. 

“I-I thought you would’ve surely left if you could.” He murmurs, struggling to break away from your lips. “Thought you were jus’ making the most out of a bad situation.” 

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” You say sincerely, hoping he could feel the love you have for him pouring out of you. 

“I don’t believe my eyes.” A dreaded raspy voice resonates across the room. “The Princess has fallen in love with my apprentice. And he seems to love her back? Now this is just precious.” Anakin stands in front of you protectively, pushing you back. 

“She will prove to be useful in the future.” The Emperor hisses, glaring at you with an empty hunger in his eyes. “Now that she has demonstrated her loyalty.”

“It’s the last show of loyalty you’ll ever see.” Anakin spits as he draws his lightsaber from the left belt hook on his robes and strikes Palpatine, beheading him in one swift motion before he can even register what’s struck him. 

“He always taught me that even the most powerful of enemies can be defeated-“ He turns to face you, retracting his glowing lightsaber. “with the element of surprise.” 

A twisted grin creeps up on your face as he swoops you up like a true bride- lifting you with a firm hold and carrying you out of the room while you wrap your arms around his neck, planting kisses all over.

“I think it’s high time me and my wife got some privacy, don’t you think?” He gestures at the incoming stormtroopers, who confusedly back away after spotting Palpatine’s decapitated body. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

You giggle as he carries you to your chambers, throwing you onto the bed and peering out of the large doors one last time before shutting them with a loud clamber- ah, free from disturbance at last.

@erinkeifer @crazy4men @mortalheartache @arzua10

[cameronspecial]

I Will Make You Forget, Rafe

Pairing: Frat!Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: SMUT At The End.

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 0.5K

Summary: Rafe gets really bad nightmares and Y/N has one way to make him forget.

Masterlist

Rafe can get pretty bad nightmares. About the death of his mom. About Y/N getting hurt. About Y/N dying. It all contributes to his insomnia and keeps him up at night. Years of being with Rafe means that Y/N is used to being woken up by his screams. Just like tonight. Her eyes peel open at the thrashing coming from beside her. She turns from under his hold to feel Rafe kicking his legs and his arms flinging about like a crazy man. Her hands cup his face and her thumb caresses his cheek. “Shh. Shh. Rafe, wake up. It’s only a dream. I’m right here,” she soothes, kissing each of his cheeks for good measure. He jerks up and his eyes fling open. His head finds her chest, resting against the warmth of her bosom. “It was only a dream, Rafe. It’s okay,” she reassures. Her hands run through his hair, scratching his scalp to calm him down. She presses a kiss to his sweaty forehead. His heavy breaths hit her skin and she lets him calm down for a minute. Once his breathing evens out, she takes it as a sign that the conversation can move forward. “Do you want to talk about your dream?” she whispers with her lips pressed against his head. He gives a small nod, “They were going to hurt you. I couldn’t protect you and they were going to hurt you.” “You know that has never happened before. You have always been there to protect me,” she reminds him. 

“They had a knife to your neck and they were going to drive it through your neck,” he recounts, tears pouring from his eyes at the reminder of what had him so terrified. Her mouth presses against his ear, “But look at me right now. I’m okay. No knife in my neck. No men trying to hurt me. I’m right here in front of you. Happy. Healthy. And incredibly in love with you.” He looks up at her and examines every inch of her to see if it is true. It is. Yet, the images in his mind still creep up and his breath starts to quicken again. “I just can’t forget what happened,” he tells her. She frowns at his words, “I will make you forget, Rafe.” She moves from under him, so he gently falls to his pillow. She straddles his hips and he watches as she shimmies down his body so her face is aligned with his crotch. She places a kiss on the growing bulge under his pants. Her hand finds the top of his bottoms and tugs them down his legs to reveal his hard dick. She takes his length in her hand, pressing a kiss to the tip before pulling away. “Now, whenever you think about that awful dream, I want you to think back to this moment. Okay. Can you do that?” His head bobs up and she takes him into her mouth, doing exactly as she promised. His pants of fear turn to ones of pleasure and this makes the bad images go away. 

Taglist: @loves0phelia @thelomlisrafecameron @wickedlovely121 @thepatriarchykeychain @drewsmusee @starkowswife @maybankslover @forstarkey @loving-and-dreaming

[nanamimizz]

tags: 18+ minors dni, fem reader, virgin reader, takes place in act 3 of wyll’s romance, thigh riding, tit sucking, reader is inexperienced and very sensitive, wyll is a little desperate and perverted. let me know if i missed something !

author’s note: this is so very self indulgent. my b.

Wyll thinks he should be kinder. In fact, he knows he should - it’s your first time, with him, with anyone ever. And he should be kinder for it but the Blade of Frontiers finds that he can’t help but bare his steel even now. Wyll has you in ways he’s often thought of when the only company he could find was of his slick palm around the bulge of his cock. You’re on your back, on top of his coat and your evening wear; a simple but thick nightgown that stopped at your ankles now finds itself rucked up to your hips. There’s a greed to his touch, Wyll seeks to consume you, to devour you tonight just as in the smut the writers in Sharess’s Caress pedal out.

Your skirt is wrinkled and bunched up, your thighs spread around his knee that he’s had pressed up against the gusset of your panties. His devil eye, as red as sin, drinks in the wet spot on the light blue fabric that protects your modesty from his hungry gaze and thinks of pocketing the sweet fabric for later. If this was before, before this journey and before being touched by the Hells Wyll would have blushed and stuttered at his thoughts but he has wanted and waited and now he finds himself at the precipice of his desire.

Wyll finds that he can’t wait any longer, cock twitching in his trousers at the way you gasp when a little bit more pressure is put on the oasis between your thighs that Wyll is so lucky to be the first to drink from.

“You are so beautiful,” Wyll mutters, lost in the way the skin of your stomach breaks into goosebumps when he lets his hands grip your form. His thumb rubs at the cute little birthmark you have under your belly button and he thinks that he’s completely and utterly in love with you. You gasp his name, voice trembling and high as your own hands - still so timid grips the front of his shirt. He hums, lost in the beauty of your body.

The good gods must have all had a part in making you. Sune, the goddess of beauty doesn’t hold a candle to you Wyll thinks as he lets his hand go up to drag down the top of your nightgown, until the hardened peak of your breasts are bared before him. The chill makes them hard and the heat of his mouth makes you whine as high as you can when he begins to suck at them. Your hands go from his shirt to grace his horns with your touch as you rock your hips against his knee. Your garments sodden and you squeal when it becomes too much - Wyll’s hands had come to grip at your hips to rock you at his pace rather than yours.

The fabric of his pants is rough against the sweet little fabric of your panties, your cries spilling like a river from your lips as you leak and leak down to your thighs from the bumping of your clit against his knee. It makes Wyll’s head spin, to know you could be so sensitive that you could come apart just like this and it makes him want just that. He moves from one nipple to the other, letting his teeth nip at the bud enough to entice a withered whine as his thumbs trace your hip bones lovingly.

“Wyll, Wyll, Wyll,” you repeat his name like a mantra, a prayer so breathless it sounds like it floats on the wind to his ears. Dual colored eyes look at you from your bosom, taking in the heat on your face and small drops of drool that collect on the tip of your lax tongue in your gasping mouth. He lets one hand slip down, letting his nails stroke across the skin of your stomach just to watch you gasp and seize at the ticklish sensation. You’re tense, back a bow ready to be released and Wyll is slick enough to let a finger slip in from the side of your panties. You’re wet enough that a single finger can slide in without problem and you freeze up - coming so sweetly for him with a love confession half said on your wet lips as you cum pressed up against his knee and with his index finger inside of you.

He lets go of your nipple, lets his other thumb come up and soothe at the poor, puffy thing with clever tenderness as you gasp and whine his name again and again until you come down from your pleasurable height. Wyll zero’s in on how your tongue hangs out the tiniest bit and the smallest drop of drool that collects on its tip. His thumb from the hand that slipped down your body to your cunt comes to cup your chin. You can smell your slick on his finger and it makes you whine, you clench around nothing when you hear his chuckle. Slick sticks to your panties when you can hear how it's the smallest bit mocking and mean when he says,

“That’s a cute little habit you have. Panting like you're in heat when there’s a little pleasure in your blood.”

You whine his name and he laughs, all good natured and adoring but even your innocent addled mind can hear how he adores to have you in this state. His hand, his warm, big hand that can easily hook and keep you still soothes at the trembling in your thigh. Wyll kisses you like he loves you, like he wants you raw and completely his before he breaks away with his red eye glinting in the moonlight.

“I’ll give you some time. We’ll go again when you are ready my love.”

[sayafics]

Envious Cravings

This is my first time writing smut, so I hope I did okay :)

Criston Cole x Targaryen!OC x voyeur!Daemon Targaryen

Part 2

Masterlist

Daemon walked leisurely down the corridor, his footsteps echoing down the empty halls. He had left Rhaenyra asleep, too worn out by the ordeals of the night - their dinner had been a failure, Aemond and Aegon had riled up Jace and Luke and then humiliated them as though they were nothing but the scum on the bottom of their shoes.

Daemon let his thoughts wander for a moment, past his obsessions, and past his loyalties - the boys were bastards, yes. But they were Rhaenyra's sons.

They were also unskilled and untrained.

They fell into submission under the brutal hands of Aemond and the drunken grasp of Aegon with ease.

These boys claimed to be dragons, but the wavering bravery of sheep ran through their blood instead.

He bit his cheek in frustration, unsure of where he was going as he deliberated such realisations.

Rhaenyra's children were bethrothed to his own, and so if they were to unite as one, then one day, Daemon's blood would sit upon the throne of the Seven Kingdoms and become Lord of the Tides.

It seemed like everything he had always wanted. It seemed like the desires that had set him alight all those decades ago were slowly becoming true.

And yet, in the light of who his children would marry - weak and spineless boys in comparison to the fair-headed Hightower spawns - he found himself swamped with bother and doubt.

How would they fair as a King and as a Lord?

How would they fare as a husband? As a father? As a protector?

They fail to protect even their own reputations, they allow their names to become sullied by the whispers of the Kingdom and refute to take a stance against them - hiding behind their mother's full figure like babes who still suck upon a bosom, instead of the men they ought to be.

There was a sour taste upon his tongue as he reluctantly admitted to himself that the Hightower boys had the power Rhaenyra's children did not.

Although they were all half-blooded Targaryens, the dragon's breath ran strong through the Hightower heirs.

And yet the throne would go to Rhaenyra, and though pure-blooded she may be, her children were not.

At least not the ones she shared with a long and dead Ser Harwin Strong.

He clicked his teeth, mind reeling as a puddle of confusion and frustration began to pool over.

Daemon looked around him, eyes frantic in search for a distraction - for something, someone he could let his frustrations out upon.

Perhaps a knight he could duel and bury the hilt of his sword within.

Perhaps a maiden he could roughen and have his way with.

Little guilt washed over him at that point, his mind fogged with the prospects of his future. Of the future of his daughters, in the hands of boys instead of men.

Daemon came across an empty corridor, vast and deep leading down into his old chambers from his days as a young man when his father was still brazen and breathing.

He looked upon the hall in sadness now, a melancholic hue that melted into confusion as he realised the halls rang empty of life - of knights.

Did no one live amongst these corridors any longer? Still, with the vast size of the Keep, all halls should remain occupied - for the safety of the King.

He wandered down the corridor, wanting to see how dismal the place had become in his absence. Wanting to see if the disease of the Seven had reached his chambers and swamped them over.

Daemon searched for a twinge of life within the corridor, a whisper of a being, a shadow of a creature.

But the corridor was quiet and bare, as though Alicent had deemed it unworthy of dignifying with her banners and trinkets.

Dsemon scoffed under his breath at the thought, but the sound was cut off by another - shallow and soft.

It sounded again, now desperate against the silence which echoed around him.

And again.

And again.

A woman. A young woman, who seems to have been on the brink of pleasure.

The sound rang again, breathy and rasped as though she had been screaming for hours now in search of an insatiable pleasure.

Daemon felt his cock twitch at the sound, the desperate moans causing him to reel further in search of the source.

He came to a stop in front of a familiar set of doors - his old chambers.

He thinks he should be angry, digusted that a maid or servant would use his room and sully it with their lust in his absence. But he simply holds his breath as he leans closer towards the door.

The moans are clearer now, as are the frenzied whispers of the girl- "please. Ple- don't stop~ oh, more."

In between such sinful pleas, Daemon hears the drawn-out groans of a man - was this a maiden and a knight? Sneaking away from their nightly duties to bask in the pleasures of a nefarious act?

Oh, how he could barge through those doors right now. How he could send fear shooting down their spines and have their faces flush with shame instead of pleasure. How he could join the knight in his wicked games and make the quiet maid come undone with his deft fingers, skillful tongue and thick cock.

Oh, how he could.

But Rhaenyra.

He clenches his eyes shut against the thought - what little guilt he believed existed alone now began to build.

Fine.

He would not join.

But what was the harm in watching.

Daemon steps back from the door, his footfalls soft and his moves almost silent. He makes his way to a ridge within the walls he knows too well, prying them open with practised ease.

He slips into the dark embrace of the tunnels who welcome him with glee, as though he had only now returned home.

Daemon makes his way through the tunnels, following the path he memorised during his youth. It did not take long before he heard the moans in earnest, heard the girl become desperate and frantic under the relentless possession of a man starved.

Daemon's hand brushed against the border of the painting, which concealed the tunnels from the chambers that were once his.

He pushed it open carefully, the slow and whining creak barely audible over the sound of the girl's mewls and the man's praises.

His eyes scanned the room first, making sure no others were about whom could warn the vivacious lovers of his ill-attention.

The first thought that washed over him was how different his old chambers looked now - splattered in such a feminine touch that it had almost lost every essence to which made the chambers Daemon's.

Lavish furs and pillows, drapes of satins and silk, carpentry made of the rarest of materials and most expensive paints and polishes.

This was not the room Daemon recalled - not the childhood he had left.

A drawn-out wail pulled his attention away, his eyes now landing on the bed.

Amusement flickered across his features, a laugh of incredulity almost escaping him as he watched the scene unfold in front of him.

Laying on a bed of ivory fur, her figure nude and her hair laid astrewn, was his young niece - Visenya Targaryen.

But that was not what had surprised him - after all, he had pursued Rhaenyra in her youth. Should he have seen Aemond or Aegon ravishing her beneath her satin sheets, he would not have blinked an eye.

But no.

Instead, laying contently between her legs and feasting upon her sweet cunt was the Queen's most trusted Shield - Ser Criston Cole.

Daemon almost laughed, he wanted to walk into the room and humiliate the pair. But his cock twitched painfully at the sight in front of him - he hardened within his pants as he watched the pair with shallow breaths.

Visenya had her legs thrown over the knight's shoulders, thighs almost crushing his head as her fingers tugged at his dark locks.

Criston was almost as desperate in his movements as she was in her sounds, her hips rising with every swipe and lick as he held her down, his fingers pressing harshly into the softness of her thighs.

Criston's eyes were closed in bliss, his tongue laving through her folds and he circled her clit and suckled upon it. Visenya bit her lip, tears streaming down her face as she ground her bare cunt across Criston's fluttering tongue.

Criston lifted his head from between her thighs, littering kisses across her thighs - "fuck, you taste so good Princess."

He trailed kisses up her form, her arousal coating his lips and chin as he presses a firm kiss upon her lips. Visenya moans at the tangy taste, pushing her tongue into his mouth and drinking him in.

Daemon's hand brushed over his covered cock, touching himself from his hidden place.

Criston's fingers skimmed down her waist, fingers hovering over her cunt as she canted towards him, whines slipping past her lips.

"Please, touch me. I need you."

Daemon's hands slipped into his breaches, her breathy whines more than enough to have his cock begin to leak all over his hands. He swiped at the pre-cum, gathering it to spread across his twitching cock as he held it in a vice grip. He tugged at his length, his moves slow as he imagined his cock in the place of Criston's hand.

Criston gave into her fervored whispers, his fingers meeting her weeping cunt as he swiped across her entrance to her clit. He circled her clit lightly as Visenya clenched her eyes in frustration, she reached a hand down to pull him closer but Criston was stronger.

He placed fervent kisses across her neck, tracing his way across her body to her breasts. He mouthed at them, kissing and biting as his fingers began to circle her clit faster.

Visenya's back arched from the bed, her hands finding Criston's locks with aching desperation as she pulled him back towards her - "I need more."

Criston placed his head against hers, sighing softly into her parted lips, "my love, you know I cannot."

"You can. You simply do not wish to."

Her whispers sounded hurt, and for a moment, Criston stopped his gentle touches to sit back on his haunches and look at the girl.

"I do. You know I do. I would take you now if I could, but I would not risk your life like that."

Visenya sat up on the bed, eyes stinging as she spoke - "you mean, you would not risk my value. For what gain does a princess hold, if her cunt has been used by another."

Daemon rolled his eyes at that, his hand still within his breaches, and his body still tingling with pleasure as he watched the scene unfold in burning disinterest.

"Do not say that. You are worth more than anything- than anyone. You are all I seek, all I need."

"Then why will you not have me?"

Tears had welled up within her eyes now, trailing softly down her flushed cheeks as she looked at him pleadingly.

Daemon's brows quirked in interest, now this was fascinating. How the knight so easily denied the Princess' wishes, he did not know.

Daemon was sure if he had been there, feasting upon the delight between her thighs, he would have granted her every wish and every desire with no thought of the consequences.

Criston wanted to reach out, brush away her tears, and hold her tightly within his arms. But he was bound by his duties, and he was already spitting upon the vows he had made.

He had made his vows to Alicent, had promised his allegience to the Queen, and yet here he was struggling to not give all of himself to her daughter.

"Because I am not good enough for you. I am not worth something so precious and so pure. Because I am tainted and you are not."

"Then ruin me."

It was a whisper. An order. A demand and a plea.

Princesses did not beg, but perhaps this was the closest Visenya would get.

Criston looked into her eyes, searching for the assurance he needed. But he did not have much time to deliberate, as the shy and timid princess became coy as she crawled across the bed and into his lap.

She threw her legs onto either side of his hips, fingers dancing over his bare arms and watching gooseflesh break under her touch. Visenya dragged her nails across the flesh of his shoulders, admiring the way his eyes closed as he tried to hold himself back, the way his head tilted back and his breaths came to a whining stop.

For a moment, Daemon wished it was him sat under the girl. Wished that it was his skin marked by her, his pleas groaned into her ear, his hands upon her waist.

For a moment, Daemon forgot all about Rhaenyra and found himself lusting after Visenya.

"I cannot. If your mother was to find out, she-"

"She will not. It is only us here. Our secret. Our promise."

"I cannot."

"Criston."

His name was a pretty whine from her lips, and his eyes opened to meet her own that were wide and dark with lust. He leaned close to her, his lips brushing over her own as they gasped into each other - "one day."

"Today."

"One day. Soon, my love. I promise."

Visenya gave in, as she always did. Hot tears were tracking down her face as she kissed Criston with all the passion and love she was forced to hide from lingering eyes and suspicious gazes.

Criston grasped her face, his wretched desires making him so desperate to touch her, to hold her, to know that she is here within his arms and has not been shipped away to another Lord in a city too far to reach.

Visenya shifted, she gasped a delighted sound into the space between Criston's tender lips as her hips ground against his.

Criston threw his head back with a groan, "yes, that's a good girl. You're doing so good - so perfect, feels so good."

He nuzzled his head into the crook of her neck, biting and suckling the flesh there as his hands gripped her hips tightly and ground them against his.

From his place in the shadows, Daemon's desires began to burn once more as Visenya let out endless moans, wrapping her arms around Criston's neck as she moved in earnest.

There was no materials between them now, her bare cunt brushed against his hardened cock until there was a puddle of arousal settled between them. Still, they paid the mess no mind - lost in the gratification they felt in that moment.

Daemon's hand tightened around his length once more, pumping faster and harder as he watched Visenya come closer to the edge. He panted into the darkness, sweat beading on the back of his neck as he forced his eyes to stay focused on the trembling and whining girl.

"That's it," Criston whispered, "come on, cum for me, sweet girl. I know you can. Cum for me, just for me."

It seems those words were enough to throw her over the edge, wrapping her arms tighter around Criston's neck as a sharp cry escaped her.

Criston's moves became sloppy, his hips rutting up to meet hers and grinding against her flesh as he chased his own climax. He came with a rough groan, softly grinding their hips together as they rode out their orgasm.

Visenya whimpered, feeling sensitive but not wanting the shocks of pleasure that rumbled through her to stop.

She was about to pull away from Criston, ready to fall back in her bed and pull his body towards hers so he could hold her until dawn.

Instead, a quiet groan caught her attention - one that did not come from the distracted man beneath her, rather directly ahead of her.

In the cracks of the shadows, she could see the tell-tale flash of a fair-headed Targaryen. Her shoulders stiffened, hands reaching to pet Criston's hair as he whimpered against her flesh and rutted against her in seek of another climax.

Was this Aegon? Perhaps it was Aemond?

If so, surely they would not reveal her dalliances to the Court? To their mother?

But then she saw a slip of skin - a hardened jaw, an angled face, a mischevious grin.

Something that could only belong to one person.

Daemon.

Daemon knew he was caught, but he was so deep - so close to the brink of release, he could not stop.

His eyes clenched shut, teeth gritted to stop his groans escaping him and informing the knight of his presence too.

His cock was pulled out of his breaches, his hand pumping faster and tighter and he rutted into his own palm and imagined Visenya's tight and virgin hole in its place.

His head hit the wall next to the painting with a silent thud, white streaks splattering across his hands and out of the tunnel to paint the luscious rugs beneath him with his essence.

He panted like a dog, one so starved and so hungry, as his violet eyes met the scared and timid gaze of his niece.

Criston had stopped his ministrations now, his head laying contently in the valley of her breasts as he rubbed circles into the flesh of her waist. She continued to pet his hair, but her horrified glare was fixed upon the gap behind the painted frame.

Daemon knows.

Daemon saw.

And Daemon had pleasured himself at the sight.

She was not sure what her next move should be.

What his next move could be.

But she knew she would have to fix this. Otherwise, she could lose the man she held gently in her arms so quickly.

Taglist: @marihoneywk @hangmanscoming

[crimsonedquill]

Their reaction to your battle scars during Steamy Time (Pt. 1) (Hogwarts Legacy)

Soft smut makes my heart melt, so here's more of it. Part 2 coming soon 🖤

Content warning: NSFW (18+)

Poppy Sweeting 🦡

Ah, sweet Poppy. She’s as least as nervous about things to happen as you are, which makes your own anxiety at least a little easier to bear. You start off slow, like always, kissing and tenderly caressing each other through your clothes, though the desire of your touch soon has you wanting more. You have been taking your time with each other, pushing the boundaries of your comfort a little further each time, though you knew the moment had arrived to take the leap.

“I suppose we should –” She pauses, her words lost in a silent breath as the boldness of her own thoughts catches her by surprise. “Relieve ourselves… of our clothes now?”

“We don’t need to,” you haste to assure her. You realise you are merely making a desperate attempt to disguise your trepidation with chivalry, though the tremble in your voice betrays you.

Poppy looks up at you. “It’s… it’s all right. I wish for this to happen. I want… to be closer to you.”

You knew this moment would come, and yet you feel your mask inevitably falling away, revealing the visage of fear underneath. You try to avert your gaze, but Poppy’s hands have already found yours. Within moments, she’s forgotten her own hesitation, solely focusing on her concern for you. “What is the matter?” she asks, her kindness touching you in ways fingers never could.

“I… I fear you won’t look at me in the same way once you’ve seen me,” you finally confess.

She doesn’t say anything at first, only rubbing your palms with her thumbs as her thoughts flow in silence. Then, before the realisation strikes you, she’s moving. Buttons are loosened, naked skin is slowly revealed, and then there she is, your sweet Poppy, baring herself to you in all her innocent glory.

“Poppy –” you gasp, the shock lost to the sudden daze enveloping you as you drink in every inch, every dusting of freckles on her chest and shoulders.

“You taught me to be brave,” she says, her voice calm and confident as her fingers work themselves under your jumper. “Now, let me help you.”

You fail to resist as she works the piece of clothing up your torso. Feeling strengthened by her courage, you let out a shaky sigh and muster all of your will to rid yourself of the last protective layer, not able to resist the urge to shield your body from her wandering eyes as soon as the jumper is gone.

Her fingers reach out and explore you with delicate curiosity, touching you as if you were a sculpted piece of art. You can feel her studying the markings in your skin, wondering how you got each one, what unspeakable circumstances you must have survived to be permanently marked like this.

Eventually, her brown eyes meet yours and she takes your right palm, gently placing it on her bosom. You feel the steady beating of her heart through her bare skin.

“Do you feel that?” she asks. “My heart is beating just as fast for you as it was a few minutes ago.”

You fail to find the words to speak your thoughts as she shuffles and mounts your lap, wrapping her arms around your neck, her delicate frame so agonisingly close to yours.

“I love you,” she says, her words barely above a whisper. “Please, make me yours.”

There is nothing else she needs to say. Every shadow of hesitation and fear melts away as you seal your love, worshipping each other without doubt or shame until you fall asleep safely wrapped in each other’s embrace.

Ominis Gaunt 🐍

You’ve always been a little ashamed to admit that you view Ominis’ blindness more as a blessing than a curse. You cherish the bond you share, but you’ve never been able to spend a minute without worrying about his potential reaction if he ever were to place his hands on you, to feel what you truly look like. It is why every suggestion of intimacy is always met with hesitation; why you always request more time, assuring him that it is not his fault, but yours.

He is always understanding, gentlemanly as he is, though despite your assurances you cannot shake the feeling that he secretly blames himself. Wondering if he is good enough for you, whether his lack of sight will always remain an impediment to your relationship. It shatters your heart to even imagine that he feels that way, but you simply cannot bear the risk of baring yourself to him, knowing that it would fundamentally change his view of you.

This night, however, is different.

You don’t know why you didn’t call for a pause at your usual opportunities, or why you are so eager to indulge him. Your inhibitions have given way to an intoxicating sense of lust, one perhaps brought on by the glass of Firewhisky you’d shared earlier. All you feel are his hands running over your body and his lips on your face, placing soft kisses around your mouth that leave you gasping for his name. You would’ve lost yourself to the pleasure if his hand hadn’t been so cold that you instantly felt it when he attempted to work his way under your jumper, his nails razing across your naked skin.

“W-wait –” you gasp, instantly freezing as you grab his wrist. He immediately withdraws, his brow furrowing in tender concern. “I apologise, was I too… forward?”

“No – yes, I don’t know.” You sigh, finding yourself in no position to make up a coherent response. The truth is that you want him to continue, yet you fail to resist that small little gnawing monster in the back of your mind. You sit up, feeling his hand move to the small of your back to comfort you.

“May I pose you an honest question, and ask for a response in kind?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say, making no effort to mask the guilt in your voice.

“Is it… me? Do you feel that I’m not able to adequately meet your standards? That I can’t give you the same sense of fulfilment an able person could?”

You look up to meet his milky gaze, horror clamping your heart like an iron glove. “N-no, Ominis, that’s not it at all. It’s not you. It’s never been you.”

“Then tell me the truth. It pains me to know that you’re hurting and that I’m not able to do anything about it.”

You figure there is no plausible excuse you can give him even if you wanted to. So instead, you draw a deep breath. “I… I have fought a lot of battles, Ominis. My body serves as a reminder of that every day. I suppose… I didn’t want you to find out…”

Your voice trails off as the shame of lying catches up to you at last. You wouldn’t blame Ominis if he were to scold you at that moment, but of course, passing judgement on you had never even been on his mind.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

“Y-yes…”

“Then let me feel you.”

The tone of his voice – kind and yet dominant – sends an involuntary shiver down your spine. It leaves you defenceless to his charm as you strip yourself of your jumper, feeling naked and vulnerable. You tense up as his fingers slide across your skin. He tenderly explores every bare inch, taking the time to familiarise himself with every crude line, every memory of a battle fought and won.

“Ominis –” you breathe, but he hushes you, bringing his face closer to yours so that his lips brush along your ear as his fingers work past your navel. “My love, I would never judge you for what you look like. Do you understand?”

His fingers move further down, coming ever so closer to where you need him the most. You barely manage to whisper a soft ‘yes’ as his teeth graze the flesh of your lobe.

“Do you promise to never hide yourself from me again?” he insists. “To share your beauty with me always?”

You are only capable of uttering a groan as you buck your hips, wanting, needing him to reward you with your much-needed release. You can feel the corners of his mouth curling.

“Good,” he chuckles, and any sensible thought is lost in the stars filling your vision as you surrender to his touch.

Natsai Onai 🦁

If there’s one thing that still takes some getting used to with Natty, it’s her straightforwardness. You’ve at least gotten accustomed to her flirtations in class, the way she never passes up an opportunity to brush up against you during duelling or play footsie with you under the desk, but to this day you still don’t understand how it takes her less than a minute to get you from the door into bed.

You are barely capable of getting any word in as the weight of her body presses down on yours, her hands keeping your arms tightly locked above your head. Your tongues are interlocking in a feverish dance as she starts to grind herself on your thigh, the friction driving you both insane despite the inconvenience of your clothing. Natty’s breath feels hot on your lips as she withdraws to offer you both a brief moment of respite, her fingers carefully brushing the hair away from your face.

“You are so beautiful, my beloved,” she whispers.

“Natty –” you sigh, and then her mouth is on yours again, stifling your moans with a primal lust that catches you entirely by surprise even now. You shudder at the thought of the things she’s capable of doing to you, all the numerous ways in which she’ll push you and your body to the absolute limits of pleasure.

You are completely lost to the sensation of her riding your thigh, the way she kisses down your neck and caresses your body with an intoxicating eagerness. You don’t feel her hands helping themselves to your camisole, pushing it up to your chest. You do feel her lips withdrawing from your skin and her weight shifting on your leg as she sits up, a palpable silence falling between you.

Your cheeks flush crimson as you realised how exposed you are. Too frozen by the shock to act, you lie there, fearing her judgement as you feel her eyes tracing the contours of your stomach, examining every time-carved mark.

Eventually, her brown eyes look up at you. “My beloved,” she says, her voice weighted with that strange delicate tone that leaves you wondering just precisely what she’s thinking, “you never told me,”

Your throat is dry as you croak, “I’m sorry, I feared –”

But the answer eludes you, simply leaving you to struggle as her fingers trace the embroidery of healed wounds etched into your flesh.

“You are a warrior,” she says almost to herself, before looking at you again. “For a good cause?”

You nod slowly, biting down on your lip as you gingerly await her next words. But instead, she shifts further back and then hunches forward, softly blowing on your stomach before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your wounded skin.

You fail to stifle the moan escaping your mouth. She revels in your reaction, letting out a chuckle as she places more soft kisses on your various scars. She only briefly stops to hook her fingers into your trousers, instructing you in a gentle but clear tone, “Help me out here, my dear,”

There is no choice but to oblige, though there is hardly any part of you that doesn’t want this to happen. You lift your hips and she pulls your trousers further down, exposing you to her in all your naked vulnerability.

She takes her time with you, continuing to kiss all the markings on your thighs as you hold your breath. You can feel her slowly nearing your moist core, however, and you feel your lower body completely tensing up in anticipation of the things about to happen, the reward she’s about to offer you as she reaches your inner thigh. She places her hands on the inside of both your thighs and pushes them further apart, her gaze shooting up to meet yours once more. You want to say something to her, but there are no words to describe the need you’re feeling right now.

“Try not to tear the sheets, my beloved,” she whispers, her gentle smile robbing you of the last of your sanity.

[misc-obeyme]

if nobody else has, may I politely request the dateables curing cat!mc?

Hi there!

Okay technically my requests are closed, so I was going to wait to do this until they were open again... buuuut I had some time, so here we are! I couldn't really resist because the cat!MC request was so fun and I love the dateables so much.

I did Luke, too, but once again his only requires a counter curse lol.

Thank you for the request!

GN!MC turns into a cat and the dateables must cure them with true love's kiss

Warnings: none

Diavolo

He has no idea how this cat got into his office at RAD, but he's delighted. Doesn't recognize you right away. Eventually realizes that there's a lot of magic going on with you, though, and that's when he figures it out. Oh dear, MC! You appear to have been turned into a cat. Don't worry, he'll figure out how to turn you back. But first he's going to take a bunch of pictures.

Picks you up carefully and carries you around while he makes inquiries of his most trusted advisers on how to turn you back. Barbatos probably has practical advise, but all Lucifer cares about is keeping the cat version of you away from Satan. Diavolo is pretty protective of you in this form, so there's really no need to be concerned. He won't let you out of his arms, let alone out of his sight. You can't complain. You don't mind being held against that particular chest all day.

He will take you under his care for as long as you're in kitty form. Won't entrust you to the brothers and takes you back to the castle instead. Let's be real, he's not really doing anything to find the cure. Barbatos is hard at work trying to figure out what happened to you. In the meantime, Diavolo is pampering you.

Eventually, Barbatos tells him he needs to use true love's kiss. Once again, he's thrilled. Takes you into his room where he cuddles you against his chest one last time before kissing the top of your head. You come back to yourself fully sitting in his lap, face pressed against that beautiful bosom. He's so happy to have you in his arms. He liked you in cat form, but this is much more preferable. Won't be able to stop himself from kissing you again.

Barbatos

Recognizes you instantly. Whether he finds you at RAD, the House of Lamentation, or wandering the halls of the Demon Lord's Castle, he knows it's you the moment he sees you. He's not sure how you got yourself into such a predicament, but he's prepared to help you return to your normal self. Chances are Barbatos already knows what needs to be done. He's likely seen stuff like this before.

He will take you into his care, bringing you to the castle where he can watch over you properly. He doesn't trust anyone else to care for you in this form and he needs to make sure he's got the right cure before he tries anything. He surprises you with how much he pampers you. While you're in residence, he likes to have you sit on a fancy cushion that he then carries around from room to room. Sometimes makes the Little Ds carry your cushion around. They don't seem to mind, you guys actually get along pretty well.

When he's not busy working or looking into the cure, he's going to want to hold you himself. Keeps you on his lap while he pets you or brushes out your fur. Talks to you like you're already back to normal and can keep up with your side of the conversation even though all you do is meow. Reassures you that he's working on bringing you back to normal.

Once he's confirmed what he knew all along, that it's true love's kiss you need, he will place you and your cushion on a chair before kissing one of your paws. You turn back into yourself sitting in front of him in the chair, your hand still in his. He pulls you up into his arms and kisses you for real. Welcome back, MC. You must forgive him for being so overjoyed to see you back in your usual form. You can be sure he's not going to let you go anywhere for a while.

Simeon

Oh, MC, you're adorable as a cat, but how did this happen? Most likely you went looking for him because you need help and you know you can count on him not to mess with you too much. Simeon does indeed take charge immediately upon your arrival. He enlists the help of all the demons and Solomon because he's not messing around. It's important that you return to normal as fast as possible, especially since you're the only one who can actually keep the brothers in line at all.

While he dictates to everyone else, he's making sure that he's taking care of you. Cooks you a bunch of special cat-friendly food. Makes you little fish shaped cat treats. Makes sure to get all the information on any classes you're missing while in cat form. Makes you a little place to sleep on his bed using pillows and blankets.

He doesn't make you stay in any one place, but he's always following along behind you if you decide to leave the room. He's worried about you. You're small now and you're used to being a human and what if you get into trouble? He wants to be there to make sure you're always okay. It's too risky to let you go wandering off on your own.

Eventually someone figures out that it's true love's kiss that will bring you back to yourself. He might think it's one of the brothers you need for this, so you'll have to do something to make sure he understands. Sit in his lap and purr. Butt your head into him and lick his cheek until he gets the message. He'll laugh and then kiss your whiskery cheek. You turn back into yourself and he can't help but wrap his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. He's just so happy that you're back.

Solomon

Assuming you've come to him because you're a cat now and you want someone to change you back, Solomon probably doesn't even notice you at first. He's too busy with whatever magical experiment he's got going on. He's going to get confused about a random cat showing up in his room. He's too distracted to do anything about it, though, and instead starts lecturing you about magic. He still thinks he's talking to a regular cat, but when you start to respond with well placed meows or by pawing at certain things on his table, he's going to figure it out. This cat is too smart to be an actual cat.

MC? Is that you? Ahaha! It is you! Sorry he didn't recognize you sooner! What in the world happened to you? He's probably going to make fun of you for a little bit because it's kind of precious that you're like this. He thinks you're so cute, he can't help but act like he's just going to leave you that way. Starts talking about magic again like he's actually teaching you something.

Meow in protest. He's going to pretend he thinks you're responding to his magic lecture. Hiss at him. Depending on how far he's willing to take it, you might have to actually bite him. He'll give in after that, laughing the whole time. Okay okay, he'll fix you! But you know he'll probably take a few pictures first.

He already knows it's true love's kiss that will fix you. He puts you in front of him on the table he's sitting at and kisses your nose. You come back to yourself sitting on the table. He immediately puts his arms around your waist and leans his head on your stomach. He was teasing you a lot, but he never would've actually left you like that. He much prefers you in this form and he's going to want you to stay the night so he can prove it.

Luke

Doesn't recognize you at all. What's this random cat doing here? This is the response whether you're at RAD, Purgatory Hall, or anywhere else you might encounter him. Unless you're in a place where cats normally are, he's confused about your presence. Won't figure it out until someone else (probably Simeon) tells him that it's actually you.

Okay, now he's freaking out. MC! How did this happen! Was it one of those demon brothers?! Calm him down by purring at him. Rub against his ankles and he'll pick you up. He won't let you just wander around like this! Takes you to Purgatory Hall (unless you're already there) and gets his various father figures to help him change you back.

Absolutely bakes you all the cat shaped treats while you're in cat form. Makes some that are extra small so you can actually eat them with your tiny mouth. Makes plenty more for when you're back to your usual size because he's pretty sure you're going to be traumatized from this experience and sweet things always make him feel better.

In the end, someone finds the counter curse, which is cast upon you as quickly as possible. The little angel is still somewhat distressed about the fact that you were cursed, even if it was kind of cute. Cheer him up by eating all the things he stress-baked for you. If you're enjoying his baked goods, then you must be feeling okay despite your ordeal. Just make sure to be more careful around demons!

masterlist | part 1 with the brothers | Thank you for reading!

[handwrittenhello]

might've been a nightmare

“Ugh, you and your contracts,” Jaskier complained. “Surely an hour or two won’t hurt?” “And when someone dies because of that hour’s delay,” Geralt said placidly, “will you be the one to tell the family? Or shall I?�� Jaskier grimaced. “Yes, alright, I get it. A witcher’s work never rests, et cetera et cetera.” “Hmm.” “Don’t you ever want it, though?” Jaskier asked, plucking at his sweat-soaked shirt. “You know, a life lived without a little selfishness here and then is hardly a life worth living at all.” Geralt snorted. “They teach you that at Oxenfurt? Or does it come from being a noble by birth?” “Neither. It comes from the heart, my dear friend, a heart that has lived a long and experienced life.” “Jaskier, you’re twenty-three.”

Geralt takes on a contract that will force him to answer one question: will he choose the fate of one, or the fate of many?

Rating: M Word Count: 9134 Tags: Horror, Suspense, Case Fic, Monster of the Week, Angst, Injury, Developing Relationship, Mystery, set nebulously s1, POV Geralt of Rivia, Fluff, Humor, Banter, Soft Geralt of Rivia, (believe it or not despite those first few tags there ARE soft moments in this), Protective Geralt of Rivia, Self-Sacrifice, Jaskier Whump, Hurt Jaskier

read below, or here on ao3!

It was a swelteringly hot day. The height of summer in Velen was rarely pleasant, but a heat wave had been gripping the area for a few days now. Geralt subtly adjusted his armor in an attempt to allow a breeze to cool the sweat collecting on his back, but the air was deader than a necrophage’s dinner.

Any sane person would have long since abandoned their work in favor of taking a dip in a nearby pond, or napping under some shady trees. Geralt could afford no such luxury—there was always work to be done, and quickly in the summer, lest rotting corpses draw even more monsters to fight.

Jaskier, plodding along beside Roach, wiped sweat off his brow with a deep sigh. “Melitele’s heaving bosom, I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” he groused. “What do you say to a break? Let the sun use up the worst of its ire while we regain some energy? Perhaps cool off in a nice stream?” he finished hopefully. His cheeks and tips of his ears were pink with the beginnings of a sunburn.

“There’s a contract waiting in Mulbrydale,” Geralt reminded him. “We can’t delay.”

“Ugh, you and your contracts,” Jaskier complained. “Surely an hour or two won’t hurt?”

“And when someone dies because of that hour’s delay,” Geralt said placidly, “will you be the one to tell the family? Or shall I?”

Jaskier grimaced. “Yes, alright, I get it. A witcher’s work never rests, et cetera et cetera.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t you ever want it, though?” Jaskier asked, plucking at his sweat-soaked shirt. “You know, a life lived without a little selfishness here and then is hardly a life worth living at all.”

Geralt snorted. “They teach you that at Oxenfurt? Or does it come from being a noble by birth?”

“Neither. It comes from the heart, my dear friend, a heart that has lived a long and experienced life.”

“Jaskier, you’re twenty-three.”

“So that’s twenty-three more years of experience enjoying life than you!” Jaskier paused to drain his waterskin, wrinkling his nose at the tepidity. “Blech. Anyway.”

“Anyway.”

“I’ll get you to be more selfish yet.” Jaskier wagged his finger at Geralt threateningly. “We’ll start small, and then before you know it you’ll have dropped the witchers-don’t-deserve-good-things act. Who knows, you might even dare to enjoy yourself now and then!”

Geralt only rewarded this with another hmm and handed Jaskier his own waterskin. Jaskier accepted, drinking deeply and wiping his mouth on his sleeve after.

“It’s a good thing I’m here to take care of you,” he finished, recapping the skin and handing it back to Geralt.

--

By the time they reached Mulbrydale, the sun had finally hidden itself behind the treetops, golden where it filtered through the leaves. Outside the town gates, a man hung lanterns to guide travelers in the coming darkness. “Ho, travelers!” he shouted when he saw them, raising a hand.

“Good evening, my good gentleman!” Jaskier cried back, as easy as breathing. Geralt would never know how he was able to flit among strangers so easily, how he fit in anywhere he went.

“Not as good as that, I’m afraid,” the man replied, drawing the gates open for them. “Best ye get a room at the inn and settle in quick, you hear?”

“What’s wrong?” Geralt rumbled, swinging his leg over Roach’s saddle and dismounting. He was quick to grab his swords as well, his palms itching in anticipation.

The man shook his head. “Couldn’t rightly put a name to it. People’re anxious, on edge. Won’t take too kindly to strangers making waves.”

Jaskier slung his lute case over to the side so the man could see it. “Ah, but do they know that the White Wolf has come to slay their beast? And that his loyal barker will regale them with the tale all night long should they wish? Come now, surely a little entertainment wouldn’t go amiss.”

The man shook his head. “I doubt you’d get more than sour looks out of this crowd, but on your own head be it.” He stepped aside to let them pass into town, and latched the gates closed after them.

Despite the early hour, not many people were out in the streets. There were no shrieks of children’s laughter, no wives gossiping over their washing, no farmers hauling home the day’s harvest.

“Lively place,” Jaskier muttered, kicking at a rock and sending it skidding down the dirt road. “What, did they all die of heatstroke today?”

Geralt didn’t answer. Jaskier was right—a town like this, though small, should have shown some signs of life. Spirits were usually high around midsummer—there ought to be festival preparations, or traders passing through, or even hog-wrestling competitions planned. Anything besides… this.

A dog came sniffing around the corner, nose pressed to the ground, ears back. When it saw them, walking along in its direction, it raised its head and growled, baring its teeth.

“Whoa there,” Jaskier laughed, throwing his hands up palms-forward. “What a good boy guarding his home,” he cooed. “We’re just passing by, don’t worry.”

The dog didn’t look convinced. It remained tense in its posture, hackles raised as they walked by—giving it a wide berth—and Geralt prepared to cast Axii should it attack.

It made no move towards them, and they were allowed to pass without incident.

“I’m normally good with animals,” Jaskier commented as they continued towards the inn, the Cock and Crow. It was lit brightly from within, the dull roar of overlapping voices drifting over on the wind—finally, a sign of life. “Maybe the poor thing’s been mistreated. That must be it.”

“I’ve seen you nearly get a hand taken off by the Baron of Vergen’s prized poodle,” Geralt remarked dryly. “You don’t remember?”

Jaskier flapped a hand. “Again, an anomaly. That thing was a vicious beast, Geralt, out for blood. Besides, you’re one to talk, Mr. Cats Hate Me.”

“It’s the mutations,” Geralt replied wearily, as he did every time the topic cropped up in conversation. “They can sense it.”

“They can sense you’re a sourpuss, you mean,” Jaskier teased. “You and that big scary face of yours.”

Geralt glowered.

“Ooh, yeah, that one.”

Geralt glowered harder.

Jaskier cackled and ran ahead, bursting into the inn with a flourish. Geralt followed at a more sedate pace, taking Roach to the stables, and arriving just in time to see Jaskier shaking hands with the innkeeper. She tilted her head and Jaskier took the stage, launching into one of his newer songs almost immediately.

A few heads turned to look at the source of noise, but by and large the patrons largely ignored him. Jaskier, never one to let a tough crowd bother him, pressed on.

Geralt turned to the innkeep. “Two rooms, please.” With the pay from the contract coming, they could afford it.

She clicked her tongue. “I’m afraid we only have the one. Two beds, though, if you like.”

“Fine.” He counted out the requisite coin onto the rough wood of the countertop. “And two meals, please, and a pitcher of ale.”

She took the payment, biting on a coin to ensure it was real—which stung a little, as it always did, these reminders of their distrust in him—but accepted it without complaint, handing over a brass key hung on a leather cord.

“First room on the left up the stairs,” she directed him, “and Magda will have your meals in just a tick. Magda!” she shouted, and a young woman poked her head out from the back room. “Two meals, quick as you please.”

“Got it, Sal,” Magda replied, wiping her hands on her apron. Geralt sat at the bar to wait.

Jaskier had since transitioned to some of his older work, likely in hopes of winning the crowd over with tried-and-true hits, but still didn’t seem to be making much progress. His lute case, propped open on the floor in front of him, had naught but a few coppers in it. Geralt would describe the overall mood of the crowd as annoyed at best.

Underneath the din of Jaskier’s playing, Geralt caught a few murmurs with his superior hearing—fucking twit, awful noise, can’t he just fuck off. He frowned. Jaskier hadn’t met with a crowd this bad in years, not since gaining popularity by Geralt’s side.

Sal placed two plates in front of him, interrupting his thoughts. “Here you are,” she said, following it with a large pitcher of ale. “Bring the plates back to the kitchen when you’re done, Magda’s off for the night.”

Geralt nodded his thanks, digging into his food while it was still hot. It was alright—chicken with rosemary and garlic, spices he rarely found while foraging, but overcooked and dry. The potatoes were too salty for his taste, and the carrots not cooked enough.

But any food that he didn’t have to prepare himself was a luxury, so he ate it without complaint and until there was hardly a morsel left on his plate.

He restrained himself from sucking the marrow out of the chicken bones, too, aware that anyone who saw would be rightly disgusted. He was content, anyway, since food hadn’t been too hard to come by lately, not with the land so glutted in summer.

He nursed his ale while Jaskier sang, in a rare good mood for once, contrary to the atmosphere of the other patrons. He wouldn’t say he was disappointed, exactly, when Jaskier packed up early and joined him at the bar, but he supposed he could’ve borne a few more verses without complaint.

“Don’t know what has gotten into everyone,” Jaskier muttered under his breath, sliding onto a stool, just loud enough that only Geralt could hear him. “Is it me? Have I got something on my face?” He looked at Geralt so earnestly, painfully young in that moment.

“Spinach in your teeth,” Geralt said, instead of voicing any of that. Jaskier of course had no such thing—they hadn’t even eaten any spinach in the last few days—but Jaskier still spent an embarrassing amount of time fretting and trying to catch a glimpse of his reflection in the inn’s spoons.

Geralt left him to his meal and went to go brush down Roach. He really ought to have done it earlier, but the extra half hour or so of waiting wouldn’t kill her.

The process was soothing, almost as good as meditation at centering himself and winding down for the day. He left her with plenty of feed and fresh water and went back into the inn.

To his surprise, he was greeted with dark looks from a few of the patrons, though none dared to make a move against him. Unsettled, Geralt retreated quickly to their room, where he found Jaskier already unpacking.

“Geralt, have you seen my quill?” Jaskier asked him, without turning around. “I swear I left it in the same pocket as my notebook, but…” he trailed off, digging around in his pack.

“No. Keep track of your own shit, bard,” Geralt grunted, sitting down on the furthest bed and pulling off his boots. His socks reeked after a day sweating in the sun, so he quickly shoved them in his pack and pulled on a new pair. What he wouldn’t give for a wash, but it was too late for that, probably. He’d have one tomorrow, after completing the promised contract, anyway.

Jaskier puttered about for a good bit more, still looking for his quill, before Geralt sighed and relented to helping him. He wasn’t tired yet, anyway, and didn’t feel like uselessly sharpening his swords or sorting his already-sorted elixirs.

The sneaky quill was hiding exactly where Geralt suspected it would be, in Jaskier’s own pack, though of course he only found it after Geralt had emptied his entire pack too.

Jaskier smiled sheepishly and accepted it, rolling it between his fingers, and set immediately to scribbling in his notebook. He hadn’t even sat down properly, perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed with one leg half underneath him, boots shedding dirt and dust onto the blankets. Geralt sighed.

The scratching of Jaskier’s quill was almost soothing, Geralt long since used to the sound of it in the background. He doused one candle, leaving the other for Jaskier to see by, and undressed and climbed into bed. A full night’s sleep was invaluable when preparing for a hunt, and Geralt was eager to take advantage of it.

With the light of the rising moon filtering in between the shutters, and Jaskier’s breathless humming serenading him, Geralt dropped off to sleep.

--

The call of roosters at dawn roused him, his eyes opening easily and smoothly as if he’d simply been waiting to wake up. Jaskier, of course, slept right through it, as he was able to sleep through most anything, snoring away despite how he insisted I don’t snore, Geralt!

Geralt sighed and dressed, pulling his hair back into a tie to keep it out of his face. He really ought to have brushed it, to get some of the dirt and oils out and lessen the chances of a snarling tangle later, but couldn’t find the effort. Jaskier seemed to have made it his personal mission to take care of Geralt’s hair, anyway, and Geralt expected a thorough washing and maybe even a lecture later, regardless of if he brushed it or not.

He splashed cool water on his face from the basin against the wall, not bothering to pat it dry with a towel. He enjoyed the way it evaporated on his skin in the humid morning air. That done, he wandered downstairs to the kitchens, where Magda was stirring a large pot of oats over the hearth. “Morning, sir witcher,” she greeted him, wiping her brow dry with a cloth. “Breakfast’ll be ready in a few minutes, if you’d like.”

“Thanks,” Geralt said, stopping in the doorway. “Anything I can help with?”

“Mm, I’m almost done, but if you fancy any nuts or berries with it, there’s some in the cellar.” She nodded her head towards a trapdoor set into the floor.

Geralt climbed down into the cellar’s cool dryness, a welcome respite from the heat of the kitchen. The cellar was truly full to bursting, the village apparently having had a prosperous season so far, but it didn’t take too long to locate a jar of preserved peaches, Jaskier’s favorite, and a sack of walnuts. Prizes in hand, he returned to Magda, who was ladling a few spoonfuls of oatmeal each into bowls.

She added the fruit and nuts and handed two bowls to Geralt, who handed over a few coins in return. When Geralt opened the door to their room, Jaskier finally roused, though that was probably more the fault of the oats’ cinnamony aroma than anything else. “Mmph, is that breakfast I smell?” Jaskier mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

Geralt handed him his bowl, sitting down on his own bed to eat. The food was good, and filling. Jaskier yawned his way through his own bowl, still waking up, but by the time Geralt was done, he had revived a little. “What were you doing up so late?” Geralt asked neutrally. It was no business of his when Jaskier went to sleep, but normally the bard was more conscious of the time when he knew he would be coming along on a contract the next day.

“It wasn’t that late,” Jaskier protested. “Just didn’t sleep well, I suppose. We can’t all wake up at the crack of dawn looking fresh as a daisy, Geralt.”

Geralt, who had notably never resembled a daisy in his life, gave Jaskier a flat look. Jaskier grinned.

“Be ready to leave in ten minutes,” Geralt ordered, snatching up Jaskier’s empty bowl. Jaskier got ready for the day—spending twice as much time doing his hair than anything else—while Geralt checked over his swords and elixirs.

When Jaskier finally declared himself fit for company—as if the workers at the quarry would care if his doublet were green or red—they set out on foot, leaving Roach behind for the day. Geralt was loath to work her harder than he had to in the summer heat.

The quarry was only a few miles from Mulbrydale, anyway, and it gave Geralt a chance to stretch his legs and warm up for the fight.

Jaskier walked beside him, composing some silly ode about the day—Geralt didn’t see any mares two abreast in the golden fields or orchards dripping with the ambrosia of summer, but they made it into his song anyway.

“Hoping to impress the miners?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier fiddled with the tuning pegs of his lute. “Maybe. They can’t be a worse crowd than last night,” he scoffed. “Besides, I find that the common folk appreciate songs that reflect the world they live in. It’s about finding beauty in one’s surroundings. I had a professor once who swore…”

Jaskier launched into a story, something about pastorals and creative license and natural rhyme schemes. Geralt let the words wash over him and trekked on.

The sun had fully risen by the time the tall spiked fence surrounding the quarry came into view. “That’s suitably menacing,” Jaskier commented. “Do you think it’s to keep something out, or to keep something in?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Wild dogs roam these parts,” Geralt answered.

Jaskier scowled. “Oh, you’re no fun.”

“It’s not my job to entertain.” Geralt threw a pointed look at Jaskier. “Now come on.” He pushed open the gates, creaking on their hinges.

The quarry was a hive of activity, concentric rings of stone jutting down into the earth at lower and lower heights. Ladders and platforms adorned the quarry at odd intervals, with workers scurrying up and down and to and fro. It was a hive of activity, buoyed by the sounds of picks striking stone and echoing calls shouted among the miners.

Their arrival drew the attention of a grey-haired man stationed in a tall watchtower off of the main path. “Witcher!” he called, descending the ladder. “Thank the gods you’re here. I’m Eryk, the foreman of this quarry, and I’m mighty glad to have ye here.”

“You have a contract for me?” Geralt asked.

“Yessir. Come on, I’ll show ye.” Eryk gestured for them to follow. He led them down the spiraling path, descending deeper and deeper into the quarry, climbing up and down ladders with ease that belied his age.

As they passed, miners would stop their work and openly stare. Geralt, long since used to it, ignored it, though their gazes burned on the back of his neck.

“We’ve been hearin’ noises, you see,” Eryk said, hardly out of breath. “Always at night, after work ends for the day. We think they’re comin’ from the old shaft at the bottom of the pit.”

“Delightful,” Jaskier muttered. Geralt fought a small smile.

“Can you describe them?”

“It’s a howling of sorts, though I’ve lived in this area me whole life, and t’ain’t no dogs nor wolves sound like that.”

“Hmm. Seen any tracks, any evidence of a beast nearby? Maybe fur or droppings?”

Eryk shook his head. “Nothing, though I reckon ye’ve better eyes than us.”

“I’ll take a look,” Geralt promised.

They were almost to the bottom, now, the walls of the quarry towering high above them. Down here, the echoes of pickaxes and shovels were amplified, ringing in Geralt’s ears like an avalanche. Dust covered everything in a thin layer, raining down softly like snow.

“And to think I’d just washed my hair,” Jaskier mourned, ruffling it and undoing all the effort he’d put in that morning styling it. A small cloud of dust rained to the ground. “Just watch, soon I’ll—”

He cut off as a bit of the rock shelf fell away beneath him, sending him scrambling to the side in a bid to escape a nasty fall over the edge. Geralt wasn’t quick enough to catch him before his foot landed wrong, sliding on a piece of shale and wrenching his ankle the wrong direction. “Gah! Fuck!” Jaskier yelled, pinwheeling his arms to stay upright.

Geralt lurched forward, snagging him around the waist and setting him down on more solid ground. “Fuck,” Jaskier cursed again, leaning forward to pull off his boot. “That hurt,” he groused, poking at his ankle, which was already starting to swell up.

Geralt crouched down next to him and grabbed his ankle, pulling off his sock as he did.

“Stop, that hurts,” Jaskier complained, ineffectually batting Geralt’s prodding hands away. Geralt felt no bones out of place, no grinding of cartilage or sharp fragments.

“Just a sprain,” he said, setting Jaskier’s foot back down. “We’ll wrap it, though there’s no snow or ice nearby to slow the swelling.”

“Nonsense, I’m fine,” Jaskier protested, struggling to pull his sock and boot back on. He levered himself up to standing despite Geralt’s attempts to keep him seated, bracing himself on the witcher’s broad shoulder.

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled.

“It’s fine!” Jaskier insisted, waving both him and Eryk off, who had noticed the commotion and doubled back.

“I swear, this place must be cursed,” he said, shaking his head. “First Davy almost took an arm off. Then it was Niklas, with that concussion, and now this.”

Geralt frowned. “Cursed?” Could that explain the strange howls at night? “Have you noticed any magical effects?” His medallion wasn’t humming, but there could be any number of reasons for that…

“Ach, ‘twas only an expression. Truly, I think some beastie must haunt our mine. The rest is just plain bad luck.”

“Lady Luck can be a cruel mistress indeed,” Jaskier chimed in, limping forward. Geralt fought off a headache at the sight. “I’ve always been clumsy, though, my good friend here can attest to that—”

“Will you stop moving?” Geralt growled, catching Jaskier by the shoulder. “You have a sprained ankle. You need to sit or it’ll get worse.”

“And I told you I’m fine,” Jaskier snapped, whirling on Geralt. “Just because I’m human doesn’t mean I’m a fragile doll, Master Witcher.” The vitriol in Jaskier’s words surprised Geralt. He pushed past Eryk and stomped off down the slope.

Geralt followed, and they soon arrived at the bottom of the pit. There was a small camp of sorts, with tents pitched in the middle surrounding a firepit, ringed by barrels and crates of supplies. Geralt counted seven smaller tents, and one bigger, sturdier structure behind the ring, tucked underneath some scaffolding. The ground was cracked and dry, though were it to rain, the dirt would quickly turn to sticky, sucking mud. There were planks of wood laid across the ground to walk on, uneven and rough.

Set against the nearest quarry face was the shaft Eryk had mentioned. It was barred with two doors made of wooden planks nailed sloppily together, which creaked on their hinges as Eryk unlocked and swung them open.

Inside was a typical mineshaft, dark, damp, and smelling slightly of burnt rock dust. But underneath, there was definitely the undercurrent of something rotting. Necrophages, definitely.

“I’m going in. Lock the doors behind me. They’ll be agitated, and you don’t want one getting out,” Geralt instructed, pulling a vial of Cat from his bag. He downed it in one, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline through his veins as his vision sharpened and the shadows brightened. “Stay here.”

“Geralt—” Jaskier began, as if to follow Geralt.

“No,” Geralt growled. “It’ll be too dark to see anything, and you won’t get very far on that ankle. Stay. Here.”

Without waiting for an answer, he strode forth into the mineshaft, drawing his silver sword. The doors creaked shut behind him, plunging the mine into shadow.

Geralt kept his senses primed as he ventured forth, listening for any scrape of claws on stone or any scent of rotten meat. The tunnel split into two paths ahead; following his gut, Geralt took the left, which showed more condensation on the walls and sloped slightly downward.

The ground was worn smooth underneath his boots by years of miners treading over it, but when he concentrated, Geralt could pick out thin notches scored into the stone. Four deep furrows and a fifth shallow one set apart—the typical pattern of an alghoul’s claws.

And caught in patches here and there on the walls, little tufts of fur—dark, fully mature. Fuck. Alghouls were even more dangerous than garden-variety ghouls, their venom more potent and able to pierce a Quen shield easily with the ridge of spines on their backs.

Geralt dug in his pack for another vial, pulling out necrophage oil. He dripped it along his blade, coating the metal to weaken and poison the beasts. As prepared as he could be, Geralt crept forward down the tunnel.

As he rounded a final corner, he heard it: the rumbling growls of a sleeping alghoul. Its nest was up ahead. Geralt didn’t dare hope for an easy fight, but perhaps he could gain the advantage of surprise.

The alghoul didn’t rouse at his cautious approach—a good sign. It had gotten complacent down here, untouched by predators. Geralt raised his sword to strike.

Then—behind him. A slight shuffling, a small scrape of claws on stone was all the warning Geralt got as a second alghoul launched itself at him, a screaming growl tearing its way out of its maw.

Geralt swung his sword up just in time to deflect vicious claws slashing at his throat. He threw out an Aard with his dominant hand, knocking it backwards into the wall, stunning it just long enough for Geralt to whirl around again.

The other alghoul had been woken by the commotion, and attacked him with no less ferocity. One alghoul was difficult enough, but fending off two would be a challenge Geralt hadn’t had in a long while.

The fight was a blur. Geralt fell into rote patterns of slashing, blocking, dodging. What made it more difficult was fighting in such a confined space—there was scarcely ten feet of space between the walls of the tunnel, and the rocky ceiling wasn’t much taller than him. He had to be conscious of every single move, every foot he placed and every attack he made.

One lucky strike caught the female of the pair in the throat. Hot, sticky ichor burst forth from the wound, staining the ground and walls black. It shrieked and gurgled in pain, lashing out with the rage of a wild animal, but its strength rapidly failed.

The second one, enraged by the death of the first, redoubled its attacks. Geralt cast Quen right before its spines caught him in the face. His shield exploded and he got away with only a small nick over his eyebrow, and it gave him the opening to thrust his sword out and up into its soft belly, rending it open from groin to skull.

Its steaming innards billowed out, the stench of death rapidly filling the cavern. Geralt caught his breath, wiping sweat off his brow—the fight had been long, and even deep in here the heat of summer still penetrated.

He cut off the front claws of the two beasts as proof of his kill, then set about destroying their nest. A gruesome sight greeted him: a pile of bones, some animal, some human, most with bits of flesh still hanging off of them. It reeked like all necrophage dens did, and Geralt held his breath as he kicked away bones and set everything aflame with Igni.

His work done, Geralt hiked out of the mineshaft, his eyes slowly adjusting to the searing light of outside. Cat wore off shortly before he exited, a rare blessing not to have to fight off a headache as he talked to the contract giver.

Eryk and Jaskier were still waiting outside when he pushed the doors open, and had been joined by a small group of miners. All were sitting on assorted crates and boxes, dragged over to form a half-circle.

Jaskier, ever the entertainer, was in the middle of a story, complete with wild gestures and probably more than a few tall tales. As soon as Geralt approached, though, he paused, greeting him with a joyous “Geralt!”

“You shouldn’t be standing on that ankle,” Geralt huffed, throwing the alghoul claws at Eryk’s feet. “I killed the beasts. Two alghouls made a nest in the western tunnel. Shouldn’t be a problem anymore.”

“Ye killed ‘em already, Master Witcher? My, ye work fast!” Eryk crowed, picking up the claws with interest and examining them. “Vicious beasties, they had to be, with knives like these!”

Either Eryk was genuinely impressed, which was exceedingly rare, or he was trying to stiff Geralt on payment and hoped that compliments would ease the sting. “We didn’t agree on a price beforehand.”

Eryk dropped the claws. “No. I didn’t think ye’d kill ‘em so fast, to be honest. What’s the going rate?”

Geralt hummed, tilting his head. “Normally I’d charge one-fifty for necrophages.”

“But?” Eryk prompted, savvy to the kind of hard bargain men on the Continent drove.

“But alghouls are much more dangerous, especially in pairs.” Geralt paused. “Three hundred.”

“I don’t have that kind of coin, Master Witcher, not with business so slow. Two hundred.”

“Two fifty,” Geralt acquiesced, which was what he’d been hoping for anyway.

“Deal.” They shook on it, Eryk grimacing slightly as some ichor rubbed off on him. He wiped his hand on his pants. “Thing is, though…”

Geralt sighed. “You don’t have the coin.” Of course.

“But I will!” Eryk promised. “There’s a shipment pickup tomorrow morning, a big order from Novigrad. Come by tomorrow and I’ll have yer coin for ye.”

As if Geralt had any other choice. And he’d so been looking forward to a hot bath paid for with his newfound wealth. “Fine,” he growled. “Tomorrow morning.” He turned to Jaskier. “Come on, bard.”

Jaskier limped his way over to Geralt. There was no way he could walk all the way back to the inn like that, and Geralt had little stamina left to carry him. Not to mention the indignity of it all, which Jaskier would surely protest.

An idea struck Geralt. “May he borrow a horse for the way back? He can’t walk on that.” Plus it would be insurance, an incentive to pay Geralt what he was owed the next day.

“Geralt, I’m fine—” interrupted Jaskier. Geralt ignored him.

Eryk frowned. “I’ve got but an old nag, not fit for much carryin’.”

“It’s not far. A few miles.”

“Fine, fine, but I’m not payin’ for ye to stable her.” He led Geralt and Jaskier to the side of the large cabin, where four horses were stabled. He had her saddled up quickly, and Geralt helped Jaskier into the saddle despite his protests. Once settled, he did look happier to be off his ankle. Geralt resolutely didn’t say I told you so.

Geralt led her up and out of the quarry while Jaskier rode, throwing goodbyes out to the miners. He’d made fast friends, it seemed.

It was late afternoon, nearly evening, by the time they arrived back at the inn, both their stomachs rumbling. In the excitement they’d both forgotten to eat lunch. When they got close to the inn, Jaskier dismounted, despite Geralt’s attempts to keep him on the horse. “I’ll see about a meal,” he said, shooing Geralt off to the stables.

Geralt hurriedly got the old nag settled and followed Jaskier into the Cock and Crow.

And just in time, because Jaskier, always pushing himself too far, reached his limit as he started up the stairs. “Shit,” he cursed as his leg buckled beneath him. Geralt caught him underneath the armpits and swung him up into a carry, ignoring his wriggling. “I can walk,” he said mulishly, just for appearance’s sake, because he very clearly could not.

“You shouldn’t,” Geralt returned bluntly, pushing open the door to their room and setting him on his bed.

He knelt and pulled off Jaskier’s boot, ignoring the way he pouted. It was a good thing Geralt had brought his pack with him; he reached in and pulled out some old but clean bandages.

“Aren’t you always telling me to be more careful with myself?” Geralt lectured as he wrapped Jaskier’s ankle. Jaskier crossed his arms with a huff.

“That’s different. You hunt monsters; I apparently have trouble even walking right.”

“It’s not,” Geralt argued. “A sprained ankle isn’t nothing, especially if you don’t treat it properly.” Surely Jaskier knew the dangers—permanent damage, or worse. And for a bard that made his living by walking around the Continent after Geralt… “What’s this about?”

Jaskier sighed and hung his head, caught out. “I didn’t want to be left behind,” he admitted. “I desperately need new material, especially if I’m to please such a fickle crowd as the one here.”

“Material for your songs? That’s why you’re being so stubborn?” Geralt could hardly believe it. He knew Jaskier went above and beyond for his craft, but this…

The thing was, Geralt was realizing, was that Jaskier wanted. He wanted to the point of idiocy sometimes, beyond all logic. He would injure himself further in a heartbeat, just to follow Geralt into dark places.

Selfish.

Geralt held his tongue and began wrapping Jaskier’s ankle, firm but gentle with his movements, despite how he wanted to shake some sense into the bard. Jaskier, in a rare show of wisdom, kept quiet, even when Geralt accidentally pulled too hard and jarred his ankle. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“’S okay,” Jaskier replied. “Thanks.”

“Keep your weight off it,” Geralt instructed, standing and brushing off his knees. “It’s the wrong season for ice or snow to bring the swelling down, but I may have enough herbs for a salve.”

“You don’t have to do that, it doesn’t hurt,” Jaskier said quickly.

Geralt gave him a flat look.

“Alright, it doesn’t hurt much,” he amended. “Besides, you need those for your potions and whatnot.”

Geralt ignored him—he was doing a lot of that lately, he realized—and rifled through his pack until he found the herbs he needed. Jaskier scribbled in his notebook as Geralt ground them up into a paste, tasting it himself afterwards to be sure he’d gotten the proportions correct. Then he scooped it up into a small tin he’d recently emptied out, screwing the lid on and tossing it into Jaskier’s lap after.

The bard fumbled to catch it, almost upturning his inkpot onto the bedcovers in the process. With a yelp he barely managed to catch both, throwing a look at Geralt that suggested he was unamused. Geralt grinned back.

He left Jaskier to his songwriting while he went downstairs to talk to Sal. She was running plates out to the patrons, looking thoroughly harried in the rush of the dinner hour. Geralt had wanted a bath, but decided to risk her ire by interrupting just then, and instead sat down at the bar to order a flagon of ale.

He let the scents of the kitchen and the noise of the crowd wash over him, sipping calmly at his ale almost as if in meditation. Normally a crowd like this would welcome Jaskier’s playing—Geralt wondered if he would risk facing them again tonight.

Likely not without new material, Geralt concluded, and ordered another ale.

In the corner, two men suddenly leapt to their feet. “You cheatin’ bastard!” yelled one, face red with rage, almost the same shade as his hair. “I want my money back!”

“Cheating? You’re the one that cheated, you lying fuck!” Saying so, he pulled his fist back and slugged the redheaded man in the nose. Geralt grimaced, his advanced hearing picking up the sound of cartilage breaking under the blow. Blood spurted forth.

Geralt made as if to get up, but was beaten by a broad-shouldered farmer intervening in the fight. “Stop it, you two! Brendan!” he hollered, catching another swing that was aimed for the redhead’s face. “What would your da say?”

Brendan shrugged the farmer off. “He wouldn’t say shit, because you”—he pointed an accusing finger at the redhead—“got him killed!” He lunged forward again, was only barely pulled back this time.

“That weren’t me, it were an accident!” the redhead protested, muffled through his hand covering his nose and mouth. “He just fell—”

“He worked at that quarry for fifteen years,” Brendan snarled. “He knew the paths like the back of his hand! He could climb them in his sleep!”

The quarry again. Eryk had mentioned accidents earlier, and Jaskier spraining his ankle… Geralt’s blood ran cold. Was it possible there was something more going on than just the alghoul infestation?

It was too late to return to the quarry, the sun already setting. When he went back tomorrow morning to return the nag and collect his payment, he would inquire further into these accidents, see if there actually was a curse laid on the place.

For now, he went back upstairs to join Jaskier for dinner, turning the day’s events over and over in his mind. Jaskier plucked away at his lute, shaping a new melody, bouncing lyrics off of Geralt, who honestly couldn’t tell the difference between most of the choices Jaskier offered. He lay on his bed and pretended to sleep.

Jaskier shook his head in response to Geralt’s grunts and scribbled notes in his notebook, before finally declaring his masterpiece complete.

“I couldn’t find very good rhymes for alghouls, so I don’t want to hear any criticism about my wordplay,” Jaskier warned, strumming the opening chords on his lute.

The song was catchy, Geralt had to admit. Even though he hadn’t seen the fight in the tunnel, Jaskier painted an exciting picture of Geralt slaying the ‘dual alghouls’, resulting in his glorious victory after only six verses.

“Bit too long,” Geralt offered when Jaskier was done.

“How would you know,” Jaskier grouched, cracking his fingers. “Thought you didn’t like music. Or my music, at least.”

“You said it, not me.”

“Bastard!” Jaskier yelped, throwing a pillow at Geralt’s head. “Take it back.”

“No,” Geralt grinned, easily dodging the pillow and the second one that followed.

“Take it back! Tell me my songs are the loveliest you’ve ever heard!” Jaskier insisted, clambering on top of Geralt and pinning him down by the shoulders.

Geralt deftly rolled them over, switching their positions so that Jaskier was beneath him and he had the advantage. “What are you gonna do now?”

“This,” Jaskier cried, craning his neck to lick Geralt’s hand.

Geralt didn’t react. He’d seen much, much worse. “Oh no,” he replied, deadpan. “Saliva. Disgusting. Whatever will I do.”

Jaskier slumped. “You could at least pretend I have some power over you. I deserve to win sometimes.”

“I’ll let you win when you earn it,” Geralt suggested, letting Jaskier up. “That’s better than a hollow victory.”

Jaskier snatched his pillows up off the ground, dusting them off imperiously. “Just wait, Geralt of Rivia. You won’t even see it coming,” he threatened.

“I live in fear every day of when it will happen.”

“Good,” Jaskier replied, then yawned. “I’m going to bed. Songwriting takes it right out of me.”

Geralt wished him a good night, not quite ready to go to bed himself just yet. He meditated to the sounds of Jaskier changing out of his doublet and trousers into sleep clothes and bedding down for the night, softening into his quiet snores.

Without meaning to, Geralt was soon lulled to sleep himself, still thinking about the quarry and its mishaps.

--

Jaskier claimed to be feeling much better in the morning, especially after applying some of Geralt’s salve and rewrapping his ankle.

Geralt wasn’t able to convince him to stay at the inn, despite his best efforts, and so Jaskier rode Roach back to the quarry while Geralt led the old nag. The heat had broken somewhat, and it was a pleasant morning for a walk.

Before they even reached the quarry, however, they were met with a man coming the opposite direction. When he saw them he stopped and waited for them to catch up. As they drew closer Geralt realized it was one of the men from the mines, a younger one—Tomas, he remembered.

“Good thing you’re here, witcher. I was sent to find you,” Tomas said, motioning for them to continue back to the quarry with him.

Somehow Geralt knew this was about more than simply his pay. “What happened?” he growled, spurring Roach into a faster walk.

“Ronan went missing last night. All his things are still here, but there’s no sign of him.”

“You checked inside the mine?”

The miner shook his head. “Folk’re too scared. There’s talk—accusations that you missed one yesterday.”

“I didn’t,” Geralt said stubbornly. He was sure of it, and even if he had, the nest was still destroyed. “Sure he didn’t just run off?”

“Ronan wouldn’t. He’s kept this job for ten years, almost. Longer ‘n I’ve been around, for sure. I can’t see why he’d give it up, especially without telling anyone.”

Ever eager to save Geralt’s reputation where he could, Jaskier leapt in. “I’m sure there’s an explanation for all of it! And I know Geralt. He won’t stop until he gets to the bottom of it. Like a dog with a bone, that one. Or more of a wolf, really,” he cracked, winking. “In fact, you can tell your foreman that we won’t be accepting any form of payment until this is solved.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warned, as neutrally as he dared.

“Yes?” Jaskier blinked innocently at him.

Geralt sighed. “Take Roach and go back to the inn.” When Jaskier looked as if he were going to argue, Geralt cut him off. “I don’t want her anywhere near this.” Or you, he didn’t add, because Jaskier would get into a snit about Geralt patronizing him. “You want to help? This will help.”

Jaskier huffed, but dismounted and swapped horses with Geralt. “This won’t work every time, I hope you know,” he warned, slinging his lute onto his back. “I’m only agreeing to this because I’ve already gotten a song out of it.”

“Duly noted.” Geralt slapped Roach’s hind flank, sending her back down the road the way they’d come. He hoped the pit in his stomach that formed at seeing them go meant nothing.

He turned to the miner. “Show me where Ronan was last seen.”

--

Ronan bunked with his mining partner of six years, Marik, underneath a sturdy tarp against the western wall of the quarry. The men’s belongings were scattered in the manner of one without a permanent home but with too many possessions to keep tidy.

Tools in need of repair rested atop a barrel littered with candle stubs that sat between the two paillasses. Marik, it seemed, had a habit of whittling, judging by the small wood shavings that littered the corners and the row of small figurines that were displayed proudly on a small table to the side. Ronan’s side of the tent looked as if he’d just stepped out for a moment—blankets crumpled, a pair of dirty boots slumped beside the entrance.

“Marik would have seen him last,” Tomas volunteered. “I think he’s working on the south wall today—I can get him, if you like.”

“Please,” Geralt requested. There were very few clues here as to where Ronan could have gone. For all intents and purposes, it looked like he’d simply stepped out to piss in the middle of the night and never come back.

Tomas ran off. Geralt examined the dirt in front of the tent, keen witcher eyes searching for tracks that might tell him where the occupants had gone—but the quarry was a well-trafficked area, and the soil was too sandy and fine to hold tracks for long.

Tomas returned shortly with a red-haired man behind him, wiping sweat off his brow as he ducked under the tarp. “Master Witcher,” Marik greeted, dropping his pickaxe with a dull thud. “You can find Ronan, then? Or avenge the beastie what killed him?”

“I’ll try,” Geralt promised. “Tell me what happened last night.”

“Not much other’n usual, honestly. Went to bed ‘round when the moon was high, both of us. I dunno what time it were when I heard him get up, but it were late, I know that. Not a hint of light in the sky. I thought he were takin’ care of business, y’know, and tried to fall back asleep. But then I heard a scream—and it were no fox, no matter what they say. I know foxes, and it were no fox.”

Geralt frowned. Was it foolish to hope that he’d simply been dreaming? Or that Ronan had misstepped in the dark, twisted his ankle, and was waiting to be found somewhere unharmed?

“Did you see anything? Go looking for Ronan?”

Marik hung his head, skin coloring pink. “No,” he admitted, “too scared, I was. Thought it might come and get me if I moved.”

“It’s alright,” Geralt said awkwardly. “Can’t blame you.”

“I should’ve,” Marik moaned, and to Geralt’s horror, started to weep. Tomas pulled him close, guiding his head onto his shoulder. “I should’ve gone after him. He were my partner,” Marik sobbed.

Geralt gave them privacy and exited the tent, heading towards the tunnels. He cursed himself for not preparing more potions—he hadn’t expected another fight so soon, but any witcher worth his medallion should have been more prepared. He would have to make do with his swords.

Inside the mine there was no evidence of recent alghoul activity. No fresh claw marks, no pungent scent of rot, no picked-clean bones. The nest still lay destroyed, nothing more than burnt ashes. He nosed around the site for a few more minutes before giving up. Whatever had taken Ronan wasn’t around right now.

He hiked back out into sunlight, where he found Eryk waiting for him. The foreman wore a grimace and held a pouch in his hands, bulging with coin. Geralt’s eyes narrowed.

“Witcher,” he greeted wearily. “More ghouls, then?” He shifted on his feet, coin purse clinking.

“Don’t see any necrophage activity. Nest’s still destroyed.”

“I can’t rightly pay two hundred and fifty crowns for a job not done.”

“Nor would I ask you to. How about half now—I need to restock on potion ingredients, pay for another night at the inn for me and my companion. I’ll see the job done, find whatever took Ronan, I swear by my guild.”

“You’re an honorable man, witcher. Here.” He measured out half the promised pay for Geralt, pocketing the other half. “Will ye stay tonight? We could use a watchman. And maybe yer eyes would catch things in the dark we can’t see.”

“Let me go back to town and prepare. I’ll be back by sundown,” Geralt agreed. He had already been planning to keep watch overnight, hoping his presence would prevent another man vanishing.

“Aye,” Eryk said, and left. His head was bowed, heavy with the weight of the situation. Geralt wished he could do more.

After leaving the quarry, he headed back to town, to the marketplace. He bought some more common herbs and ingredients there, counting out a good amount of Eryk’s coin. It was enough to make several elixirs, as long as he supplemented it with a few things from his own stores.

As he left the market, a sweet smell caught his nose, and he followed it to a squat building with a sign labeled BERELDA’S BREADS. A bakery.

Geralt hesitated, weighing the coin purse in his hand for a moment. “You know, a life lived without a little selfishness here and then is hardly a life worth living at all.” Jaskier’s words echoed in his head.

He ended up buying two sweet rolls, and a pouch of a half-dozen balls of fried dough when Berelda offered them at a discount, given it was so late in the day. “I’ll only throw them out tomorrow, better you have them,” she reasoned. He popped one in his mouth on his way back to the inn, savoring the way the sugar melted on his tongue and flooded his mouth with sweetness.

He wasn’t sure what had him in such a good mood—perhaps the fine weather, and the promise of a good mystery to mull over? Either way, it was dashed as soon as he got back to their shared room. He’d been—anticipating Jaskier’s reaction, almost eager to face both his endless questions about what he’d missed and his joy at being gifted a treat. And maybe a little bit of vindication, too, see, bard, I do know how to enjoy myself.

But when he pushed open the door and saw only Jaskier’s unmoving form tucked into bed, his stomach sank to the floor. No overexcited reaction to be found here.

Moreover, it was still light out—barely suppertime, by his reckoning. And the bard wasn’t usually one for naps.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, walking over to the bed and gently shaking his shoulder. His body jostled limply with the movement. Was he—? No, he was still breathing, just deeply asleep. Geralt checked, just to make sure. “Jaskier,” he called again, a little bit louder, and this time Jaskier groaned and buried his head into his pillow.

“What?” he asked, muffled by cloth.

“Are you feeling alright?”

“No,” he answered, and Geralt’s heart skipped a beat. “I was just woken rather rudely. What time ‘s it?” Oh. Just dramatic, as always.

“A couple hours to sundown. Why were you napping?”

“Dunno, I was just tired,” Jaskier answered irritably, finally rolling over and rubbing at his eyes. He looked decidedly rumpled, with sheet prints all up and down his face and neck and his hair rather unflatteringly sticking out on one side. And his eyes had dark circles under them, when Geralt looked. “Will you let me sleep in peace now?”

“Have you eaten?” Geralt persisted. He suddenly felt foolish—he wasn’t some stupid idiot courting a lover, bringing home sweets in hopes of wooing his beloved. Witchers didn’t do things like that. “I bought bread,” he said lamely.

Jaskier didn’t answer, and instead threw an arm over his face. Fine. If he wanted to go without eating, Geralt would let him wake in the middle of the night starving. He was grown and could make his own decisions. Even if those decisions pointed to something more worrying than simply a cranky companion.

“I’m going back to the quarry tonight,” Geralt informed him, sitting down at the table with his potion ingredients. Silence followed. “You shouldn’t come.”

Still no answer. Either he was already asleep again, or he was ignoring Geralt. Whatever. Geralt set to brewing a few doses of Swallow, a healthy amount of Cat, and while those were simmering, he distilled some blade oils.

He fell into a light meditation until sundown, when he would return to the quarry. But when he opened his eyes, he was greeted with the sight of Jaskier, out of bed now, standing in front of the window looking out.

“Stop walking on that ankle,” Geralt growled, fed up with the bard’s behavior.

He expected a reply of but the setting sun is so beautiful, such an alluring sight for a poet such as myself! or something equally inane, but Jaskier didn’t reply.

“The silent treatment? Really?” Geralt asked, standing up with the intent to make Jaskier sit down. But when he got closer, he realized that the bard wasn’t truly awake, his eyes half-lidded and unseeing. He swayed gently where he stood, uncaring of his swollen ankle or the cool breeze that skimmed along his collarbone and ruffled his hair.

Jaskier didn’t nap, nor did he sleepwalk, not in the five years Geralt had traveled with him. Something was very wrong. Geralt seized him by the shoulders. “Jaskier, wake up!” he almost shouted. Urgency curdled deep in his stomach.

Jaskier blinked slowly, once, twice, and then his eyes began to gain a little more life. “Hmm? Geralt?” he asked, coming fully awake. “Oh, fuck,” he cursed, and stumbled into Geralt, his ankle making its displeasure known.

Geralt caught him beneath the elbows, supporting his weight with ease. “Sit down,” he ordered, lowering Jaskier back onto the bed and kneeling in front of him.

“Was I… asleep?” Jaskier asked, having to clear his throat a couple times to get the grogginess out of his voice.

“You tell me,” Geralt replied, lifting Jaskier’s foot to check on his ankle. The bandage was loose, a swollen swath of black and blue peeking up around the edges. “Unless you thought this”—he held up Jaskier’s foot higher so he could see—“was a good idea?”

He winced. “Ow. No, I was dreaming…” he trailed off. His eyes were distant, unseeing. He sucked in a sudden breath as Geralt pressed too hard on a tender spot.

“Have you been applying your salve?”

“This morning, yes. Probably could do with another application.” He reached over to the table by the bedside, grabbing the tin of salve. He held still as Geralt unwound the bandage and spread some of the thick grease over the swollen area, finishing by redoing the bandage tightly. “Thank you. I honestly don’t know what came over me.”

“Dreaming of running from jealous spouses?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier huffed out a small laugh. “No, I don’t remember. It was dark, I think? It’s sort of fuzzy. I don’t really remember.”

Geralt wished he hadn’t promised to spend the night watching over the quarry. Someone should be here at the inn to make sure Jaskier didn’t go diving headfirst through any open windows while asleep.

“You know, I might go play. I’m feeling much better after that nap,” Jaskier proclaimed, as if he could read Geralt’s mind. “Oh, don’t give me that look. No dancing on tabletops for me. I’ll stay put in my seat, don’t worry.”

Geralt still doubted Jaskier’s ability to give a lowkey performance, but it wasn’t as if he could forbid the bard from playing. “Alright. I’m headed back to the quarry to keep watch overnight.”

“I hope that includes a significant increase in pay due to overtime. Oh, who am I kidding, you probably offered to do it for free. I know how you get with contracts like these.”

Geralt sighed. “I’ll be back in the morning. Lock the door and window tonight in case you get up again.”

“Yes, mother,” Jaskier sighed. “Now help me up?”

***

link to chapter 2 will be added here soon!

[asbestos4president]

Hamuel Burger and the American Dream episode 3 Transcript

Episode title: Asbestos Saves Lives!

Asbestos (low energy, bored): … I am coming to you live from the floor, which I refuse to move from until somebody gives me attention. It has been ten days since we started the stream. The ship has moved approximately one American metre. The AC is broken. Abraham refuses to play "I Spy" with me anymore after losing the past seven games. Stanley is on strike until I learn to appreciate him not as a source of cheap labour but as the leading mixed media artist of his generation, which, of course, he communicated via a tear-jerking harmonica rendition of Dolly Parton's "Nine to Five". 

Chat: Are we there yet?

Asbestos: I spy with my little eye, something with a W.

Ham: If it's Worthless Earthling again, I'm turning this spaceship around. 

Asbestos: Fine. I spy with my little eye, something beginning with U. 

Ham: Useless human peasant?

Asbestos (genuinely impressed): Damn, you're good at this. Okay, your turn.

Ham: Could you please stop distracting me while I'm driving?

Asbestos : But I'm bored! This is boring! What's wrong with you, Abraham Nothingburger? You're sitting in a spaceship with an alien worrying about the traffic code. Does the excitement of having every galaxy in the universe at your literal fingertips pale in comparison to the myriad wonders of Bumfuck Nowhere, Idaho? What am I doing wrong?

Chat: I need to pee.

Asbestos: You should have gone before we left!

Chat: If I needed to go before we left, I would have gone before we left. Idiot.

Ham: That's it. If you don't know how to be nice to each other, I'm taking us all back to Idaho.

Asbestos: Wait wait wait wait no no no no! We can be quiet! We can be so quiet! 

Ham: Should have discovered that skill earlier! 

(Doing a bad Asbestos impression) 

Abraham, I'm bored. Make the ship do a barrel roll. Can't you go faster? No, go slower, I saw a cow out the window and I wanna get a picture! Never mind, it was just bigfoot. Haha, made you look! It's too hot in here. It's too cold in here! I ran out of snacks, can you get me some more? 

You're just lucky I'm not dropping you off on the side of the road and making you walk back to your home planet, you no-good-individual! 

[noise an engine shouldn't make]

Was that the engine? I think that was the engine. 

Asbestos: Everybody, stay calm. I have the situation under control. I'm sure you've all noticed this about me, but just for the viewers at home, I'm super masc and handsome and muscular and I totally look like someone who could fix an engine. I'll just use this… What is this?

Chat: That's a spoon.

Asbestos: Right. A screwdriver. I'll just use this screwdriver to, uh… What exactly is it for?

Chat: You use it to fry eggs.

Asbestos: Driving screws! Remarkable. So which end is for whisking and which end is for stapling?

Ham: The engine made a scary noise and we're all gonna die and I never got to say goodbye to my mum!

Asbestos: Don't be so dramatic. It's just a minor technical-

[another even more concerning spaceship noise]

The engine made a scary noise and we're all gonna die and I never got to say goodbye to my mom! Hold me, Abraham! Though we lived as bitter rivals, let us part as bosom friends!

Ham: I don't really want to be friends with anyone's bosom, if you don't mind! 

[harmonica]

What?

Asbestos: I'd like to spend my last moments of life thanking the sponsor of this channel, Gourd VPN. If you're like me, you're always having to parry pernicious pumpkin pirates, stab sinful squash stealers and murder malicious melon marauders. But what if I told you it didn't have to be this way? With Gourd VPN, you can protect your gourds from home without the need for high security vaults, armed bodyguards or begging for your life at knifepoint. That's not all! You can also use Gourd VPN to access varieties of gourd from all over the world, even when they don't usually grow in your climate. Want to grow cucumbers in drought season or bitter gourd in a snowstorm? Look no further than Gourd VPN for all your gourd-related needs. To grab this exclusive deal, just go to gourdvpn.com/asbestos4prez where you can get 0.05% off your three year subscription today. Gourd VPN: when there's a gourd, you're never bored! Terms and conditions apply. Ask your parents before going online. Why aren't we dead yet?

Ham: I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is those noises weren't the engine giving out. The bad news is that Stanley was keeping his homemade kombucha in your fridge and it just exploded everywhere. I found a mop, but it's made of steak. The fridge is also made of steak. Why is everything on your ship made of steak?

Asbestos: Look at that, Asbestos nation! Thanks to my powerful engineering skills, we didn't die! Can I get a W in the chat?

[chorus of Ls from chat]

Chat (diff voice): I still need to pee. 

Asbestos: Alright. We'll stop at the nearest town to recover from our near death experience. Most likely there will be a cafe we can visit. If the president's there, we can poison his soup! I love a good poisoning.

[cut to cafe]

Ham (on phone): Hey, mum! This is [bassoon sound effect]. I'm okay, I'm just at a diner with my friends.

[answering bassoon]

Stanley's here! You like Stanley!

[further bassoon]

Yes, they have gluten-free options.

[just unprecedented levels of bassoonery happening here]

No, I won't eat anything with potassium in it. Or olives. Or boiled plums. Or anything French. 

[bassoon]

Yes, I know goat liver is bad for your skin.

[irritated bassoon]

I'm sorry.

[scornful bassoon]

I'll definitely do it when I get home.

[disbelieving bassoon]

I know. I'm sorry.

[enquiring bassoon]

Hang on, I'll ask.

Asbestos, do you think you can drop me back home by five? It's really important.

Asbestos: Pass me the phone.

[glass smashing sound effect]

That's better!

Ham: Oh, my goodness gracious! For crying out loud, Asbestos Margaret Le Guin! What did you go and do that for?

Chat: Damn. He's so mad at you that he gave you a middle name! 

37. Asbestos

You should be thanking me. You know the government can track you on those things. I think I'll order the potassium, boiled plum, and goat liver special. Extra French, if you please.

Waitress: We're all outta French.

Asbestos: Belgian is fine.

Waitress: We're all outta Belgian!

Asbestos: Canadian?

Waitress: Don't come into my diner with your foul language!

Ham: Stanley, what are you planning on getting?

[harmonica noises]

Waitress: We're all outta [harmonica noises]!

Asbestos: Is there anything you do have?

Waitress: We can't afford ingredients because everyone's been paying us in political flyers!

Asbestos:  Let me see that!

(reading)

Bribera Berry for president 2024. A vote for Bribera is a vote to go in the draw to win one of five cars. 

How come I never thought of making pamphlets? No, too small. Posters. A billboard! Abraham, listen. I need my face plastered on every available surface. I need my name written in blinking lights 50 feet above the highway with a witty yet thought-provoking slogan such as "Asbestos Saves Lives!" or "Kids Love Asbestos!" I need to become the leading cause of traffic accidents in America because people were too busy looking at my sick sign to pay attention to the road!

Ham: I always got the impression you were too caught up in causing mass extinction events to ever show much interest in graphic design. 

Asbestos: You're right. Murder should have always been my priority, but I was distracted by the lure of political advertising, that sultry little minx. It may happen again. Now, where can we find this Barbara Barry? 

Waitress: She's doing a charity event to raise funds for the poor. I doubt they'll let you in.

Asbestos: Why not?

Waitress: It's only open to the very rich, the very famous and the very beautiful. You, on the other hand, are wearing a… What is that?

Asbestos (proudly): It's goth!

Waitress: It looks like a lung from an anti-smoking campaign. I didn't know those came in turquoise.

Asbestos: I got it on Temu! Me and my companions here are already the very famous and the very beautiful, but as for the very rich… Abraham! I need some fundraising solutions!

Ham: Start a lemonade stand. Found a pyramid scheme. Sell a few of your more redundant organs. Rob a bank. I don't care. Stanley, come with me. We're going home.

[scene change. they are outside now]

So that's the long and convoluted story of how I ended up working at this lemonade stand. Would you like a straw with that?

Passerby: Oh, I'm not buying. I was just making sure this here suspicious looking individual wasn't holding you hostage in violation of child labour laws and common human decency. 

Ham: I'm nineteen!

Passerby: Good job counting that high, kiddo. Are you sure you don't need me to call the police?

Asbestos: Lemonade! Lemonade! Come getcher ice cold legally acquired lemonade! Only fifty bucks a cup! Or more if you look like you have a lot of money. Hey, you! You're a sad and dehydrated individual. I'll give you half a lemon peel for the low low price of everything you've ever loved!

Passerby 2: Uh, I only have these Bribera Berry election fliers. Do you accept those as payment? This one is signed!

Asbestos: No the hell we do not, punk! Fuck your fliers! Besides, that signature is clearly forged.

Passerby 2: It is?!

Asbestos: New tactic. Pyramids! Pyramids! Come getcher ice cold legally acquired pyramids! And if you recruit two others to help us sell these, you win the chance to lose time and money!

Passerby 1: It's a deal! How many fliers for three pyramids?

Asbestos: None! We accept cash, we accept card, we don't accept excuses! New tactic. Organs! Organs! Come getcher ice-cold legally acquired organs! 

(quieter)

Abraham, you don't smoke or drink, right?

Passerby 2: I'll take his liver for fifty fliers!

Asbestos: Godammit. Well, I didn't want to do this (yes I did) but you've left me no choice (there are innumerable other choices that I'm discounting right now). There's one place in this town guaranteed to have money, and that's…

Ham: The swimming pool?

Asbestos: No.

Ham: The local kindergarten!

Asbestos: Nuh uh.

Ham: The library?

Asbestos: Are you kidding?

Ham: Um… Can I get a hint?

Wait, you don't mean- No no no, we're not doing this. Stanley, tell her to stop. Stanley!

[suspenseful music]

Trailer voiceover: This summer… Three friends will attempt the heist of the century, but only three will survive! Starring Asbestos Le Guin as a badboy with a sensitive side!

Asbestos: Robber? I hardly know 'er!

Trailer voiceover: Hamuel Burger as her quirky animal sidekick!

Ham: Please get me out of here! I don't want to go to jail!

Trailer voiceover: And Stanley Knife as a warrior space cowgirl! I'm not entirely sure how that fits in with the group's cover story, but he just seemed so excited to dress up that we didn't have the heart to say no. Garfield Five: The Beast Within! Coming to cinemas August 29th. Wait, that can't be the right title. Can I do a retake? 

[trailer music ends]

[scene change. we're at the bank.] 

Bank Teller: Welcome to the Bank of America, ma'am. Sir? Um, you with the shapely antennae. Would you like to make a deposit?

Asbestos: Yeah, I'm just having a slight issue. We actually came here to rob this bank, but I've cracked open every vault and there doesn't seem to be any money inside. Do you have any idea where we can find it? And I come from a noble warrior/poet race known as "the streamers". You may address me as such.

Bank Teller: Sorry, Mr. the Streamer, I'm afraid there's none left. Ever since Bribera Berry began her campaign, everyone in the town withdrew their life's savings to buy her political fliers. I'm not sure if you've noticed, but they've become a kind of de facto currency around here.

Asbestos: Oh, we've noticed. We've noticed. Thanks anyway.

This is it, chat. This is the end. What kind of a streamer am I if I can't even scam my way into a charity event to kill my opponent? Although I suppose I could try just blowing up the building from the outside… No, even the explosives in this town are probably made of fliers. What about sneaking in disguised as a waiter? No, my zest for life and optimistic outlook render me unable to make a convincing hospitality worker. Alright, I'm taking suggestions from the floor.

Chat: I think if you just keep killing people, eventually it'll all work out. #istandwithasbestos #asbestosdidnothingwrong 

Chat (diff voice): That's right, keep encouraging her. I'm taking bets on how deep of a hole she can dig herself into.

Chat (diff voice): 6 feet.

Chat (diff voice): 100 feet. 

Chat (diff voice): Hahahahaheeheehoohoo. You said feet.

Ham: Well, it was nice meeting you, but it looks like your presidential campaign has come to an end. No need to give us a lift back to Idaho, there's a bus we can catch that leaves in 15 minutes. Stanley and I wish you the best in your future endeavours. Goodbye forever!

[harmonica]

I'm not telling her that.

[harmonica]

No, stop encouraging her!

Asbestos: What is it?

Ham: Stanley was just remarking on how we left the diner without finishing our food. He's hungry, Asbestos! You're contributing to the harmful romanticisation of the starving artist by denying a growing boy his food!

Asbestos: It's unamerican to lie, Abraham Nothingburger. I see your famous nickname, "Honest Abe", was nothing but jest. I bet the thing about doing your homework on the back of a coal shovel was a falsehood as well! What about you is real, young man? Nothing? Nothing at all? You disappoint me. 

Ham: For the last time, my name isn't Abraham!

Asbestos: See? Even his name is a lie! I know your mother didn't raise you like this, kid. What did Stanley really say?

Ham: He didn't say anything!

Asbestos: That's interesting, because I distinctly heard royalty free jaunty harmonica sound effect 5 dot mp3. Are you telling me I was hallucinating?

[royalty free jaunty harmonica sound effect 5 dot mp3]

There it is again! Are you telling me that wasn't royalty free jaunty harmonica sound effect 5 dot mp3?

Ham: Fine. Stanley says that if the people in this town want fliers so much, we should just sell them fliers. 

Asbestos: Why the hell didn't I think of that? Fliers! Fliers! Come getcher ice-cold legally acquired fliers! 

[commotion]

Passerby 1: I'll take a thousand in exchange for my house, my dog, my dignity, half my lifespan… Nay, my whole lifespan, for my existence dwindles to nought in comparison to a signed, limited edition Bribera Berry flier!

Asbestos: I'll just take your money, if that's okay. Put that kidney back where it belongs! Ew! Ew! Stop trying to give me your firstborn children, this thing isn't even authentic! I forged the signature myself, see? It's written in glitter pen! I made eight spelling errors!

Passerby 1: Even better! Once Presidential Candidate Bribera Berry sees that I would lay down my life for the chance to grasp even a pale mockery of her grace, she shall surely reply to my fanmail! I've sent her three marriage proposals and still haven't heard back. Do you think they got lost in the mail?

Ham: They're buying the fliers faster than we can print them! The copy machine almost tore my arm off!

Asbestos: Well, put a bandaid on the stump and keep working! If you have time to bleed, you have time to fuel capitalist greed!

Herald: Make way! Make way! I come bearing a message from her supreme graciousness lady Bribera Berry of the United States! Are you disgraced streamer Asbestos le Guin? Ah, you must be. I can tell from your swagless aura and general lack of redeeming qualities. The lady Bribera has heard that, despite being her greatest rival in this race to kill the- I mean, become the president, you have been handing out political fliers endorsing her for the position. She just thinks it's so nice to see women in politics supporting each other and invites you to attend her charity event so that you may speak face to face. 

Asbestos: Women in politics? Women in politics? I'm a woman in severe mental distress and a man badly in need of a drink. Abraham! Fetch me my apple juice!

Ham: Would you like ice with that?

Asbestos: And a little umbrella. I'm feeling distinctly tropical.

Credits

Asbestos: Podcast! Podcast! Come get your ice cold legally acquired podcast! May contain traces of lemons squeezed by Bulk, a bucket of sugar poured in by Spikes, a few cups of water added by Rawlyx, ice cubes frozen by Devyn Boer, a bottle of three in one shampoo snuck in by Lumi Oakes, a few teeth lost by Dan Mac, ten drops of red dye 40 contributed by N. V. May, and the last remaining scrap of hope for humanity that Maddie Girouard possessed. The Asbestos Le Guin corporation will not be held liable for any deaths resulting from the consumption of this fun and fizzy beverage. Drink at your own risk.

[what-if-nct]

Johnny: Jungwoo please get off of her.

Jungwoo: Why? So you and thunder from down under over there can seduce her?

Bangchan: I really wish that wasn't my legacy.

Felix: I personally wish everyone called me thunder from down under all the time.

Johnny: Well what about Hyunjin, doesn't he hate you?

Hyunjin: I do but I have more questions about you and thunder from down under.

Bangchan: You strip once or twice or ten times and you can't live it down.

Jungwoo: They were offended you called them harmless and have been trying to steal her away from you. Meanwhile I have been resting my head on her bosom as she plays with my hair and calls me a pretty boy. While I protect the baby in her tummy.

Johnny: He's basically a pet at this point.

Hyunjin: Well well well, I just want to let you know that you're not very good dads.

Johnny: That hurts.

Chan: Especially from you Hyunjin. I'm sorry.

Hyunjin: Don't apologize to me, apologize to the very confused pregnant woman who's petting Jungwoo.

Johnny: We're sorry.

Chan: We didn't mean you any harm.

Changbin: Wait she's pregnant again and everyone but me knew. I thought we were cool.

Hyunjin: I don't want to talk about it right now. Let's go honey it's getting late. And Jungwoo you can sleep at the foot of the bed.

Changbin: Babe you knew too why didn't you tell me? I know but. I know, I know don't make it about myself I won't. I'll be good.

Chan: Sweetie just take him home. Han too.

Han: Mom, can I get a happy meal? Yay! I call shotgun!

Changbin: But I always ride shot....fine, is this punishment for biting Doyoung?

[mylenapony11]

Drew a thing, ramble under cut

the piece is almost biblical in nature.

How they’re positioned is important. Her holding him while he hides in her bosom. This places Esp in a superior position, the protective one.

And with the lighting she’s mostly lit up, he in the dark. She’s the light, the focus. His goddess and savior.

The background is the night, a large tree seen. Representative of her forest and goddess.

The way they both stare into the camera, her eyes that cold and icy gaze she always has, almost uninterested. His gaze is tired, almost as if annoyed by the viewer.

The “nudity”? Well I just forgot clothes on my sketch and then went, nah I want this as part of the piece.

It’s symbolic too. Esp spends most of her time in her kingdom nude. She’s the ruler of the forbidden forest, one with nature and the cycle of life. Born of the Moon goddess’s will (since the moon goddess rules over dark magic thus all undead are considered beings of her creation). It plays into the Ancient Greek and Roman depiction of gods, to not hide themselves for they are perfect.

This Esp, the most loyal and loved disciple of the moon, is perfect. Born of fae, death, and tragedy, she is darkness and gluttony.

[auburniivenus]

If only that was the case …

Death had come for many, over seven thousand souls had been found, gathered, sealed away and then, offered up in his place to make the payment. It was a harsh and cruel thing, well it would be if he cared, but they where going to die anyway, little mortals, like cattle within his eyes, how short there time was and how he was kind enough to extend it longer for them, giving them more time to live, did it matter that it was under the city, within a golden cage, starved and left alone within the darkness, well to him it was a great improvement to how they where living within the gutter, he gave them two hundred years of life, and then he had taken it all away from them.

“No, you are alive, and so am I, my offering was accepted, I got everything that I could have wanted and then some.”

As he hummed softly as he sat there within the tavern, the light of day shinning through the windows, lunchtime as well, something he had never been able to do before, nothing other than a foolish little dream to risk ever coming to a place like this and burning alive because of it, but now, well now as you can see as he moved his hand forward, into the ray of sunlight that shines upon the table between them, how his fingers spread, how he turns his hand around to catch the golden rays between his fingers and show her, how he has changed and those that are with him, loyal to him, remain devoted, will share in the bounty as he reached forward and would take her hand.

“Watch …” As he smirked. “… and witness.”

A pull forward, from the darkness and safety of the shadows that she was within, as he moved her hand forward, up from the table and into the light and removed his own hand to show her, nothing. Her hand did not ache, her hand did not itch, her hand did not sizzle nor did it burst into flames, she wished to know all those decades ago if she had made the right choice with siding with him, in taking his offering, in allowing him to make her into something more than what she could have ever become on her own, there it was right before her very eyes, and it was marvellous. @fallesto

In   the   penumbrae   of   a   cosmos   where   ebon   dominion   reigns   and   sepulchral   laments   entwine   the   nocturnal   zephyrs,   there   she   abides—a   paragon   of   sempiternal   grace,   her   quintessence   never   sullied   by   Tempus’s   ceaseless   maw.   Progeny   of   Chronos,   her   essence   is   the   frame   of   perpetuity   itself,   her   allure   an   ode   to   deathless   osculation.   Amidst   a   firmament   where   mortals   quaver   and   the   crepuscular   breath   unveils   ancient   arcana,   in   the   cradle   of   a   vampire's   sovereignty,   she   comes   across   her   sanctuary;   this   potentate   whose   will   commands   creation,   compelling   even   ethereal   bodies   to   conform   to   his   relentless   volition.

The   sphere   'round   them   exsanguinates—a   fresco   incarnadine   authored   by   rebel   palms   which   prompted   his   decrees.   Ocular   witness   has   she   been   to   torment   and   hope's   eclipse;   spirits   rent   beneath   his   omniscient   scrutiny.   Yet   within   her   bosom’s   cavity   storms   wrestle   asunder,   for   her   formerly   tender   spirit,   pristine   and   unblemished,   has   been   tempered   into   exquisite   vision—a   magnum   opus   within   his   regard,   enchained   with   liens   that   not   even   æons   could   corrode.   For   him   alone   does   she   dance   at   perdition’s   brim,   her   voice   a   susurrus   amidst   gloaming;   her   magical   abilities   a   chaos   warping   the   plane's   web   to   protect   him   from   peril.   Draculine   shieldmaid   is   she,   both   anchor   and   blade—her   arcane   influence   an   undertone   of   his   own   unfathomable   force,   albeit   suffused   with   its   singular   character.   A   dirge   is   hers   for   lives   extinguished   too   preemptively;   still   comfort   she   stumbles   upon   in   musings   that   maybe   hence,   in   life   anew,   clemency   could   have   been   hers   to   impart.

“Is   this   then,   the   result   of   the   pact   of   which   you   spoke?”   Queries,   euphonic   timbre   pirouetting   within   the   hush;   eyes   upon   him   fixed   with   incandescence   that   might   outshine   even   Celestia's   jewels.   Such   tranquillity,   as   if   eternity’s   onuses   had   themselves   been   purged   from   his   essence—eclipsing   reality’s   brutish   crassness.   “To   thrive   outside   death’s   clutching   grasp,   to   brandish   omnipotent   sway   whilst   clinging   still   to   man's   fragmentary   visage—was   this   your   most   fervent   aspiration?”   Thus   she   expresses   her   reflections   aloud;   attempts   to   decode   the   conundrum   embodied   by   her   sovereign.   Mayhap   he   seeks   reclamation   for   purloined   fate.

Sheltered   they   repose   from   diurnal   glare;   her   entire   form   a   monument   unto   nightfall’s   sovereignty.   Yet   beholding his   palm   basking   in   Sol’s   tenderness   strains   curiosity   and   astonishment   within   her—the   solar   caress,   once   lethal   to   their   ilk,   now   frolics   upon   epidermis   unharmed.   With   timorous   resolve   and   seduced   by   his   conviction,   she   proffers   her   own   hand.   Astral   ardor   graces   her   pallor,   a   sensation   long   banished   to   the   crypts   of   memory,   now   rousing   within   her   enthusiasm   so   intense   it   is   manifested   in   a   smile   gleaming   with   revelation—a   visage   heralding   wonders   and   an   amour   that   crests   over   the   chasm   between   crepuscule   and   dawn.   "A   miracle."   Utters   in   tones   laced   with   reverence.   "I’ll   always   be   beside   you.   You   gave   me   a   new   opportunity   to   live   under   the   sun."   Their   digits   intertwined,   ensigns   of   an   allegiance   unfaltering   beneath   the   sun's   munificent   perusal.   "Denka,   anata   wa   ima   shiawasedesuka?"   (Are   you   happy   now,   my   liege?)

[pyode-luar-ke]

carnation | part ii | poly!yautja x reader

A/N: it’s part twwoooo!!~~~ and somebody special makes an appearance!! and you learn a lil more about her!!! if you haven’t read my fics storm season and no woman, no cry, you may be a bit out of the loop, but they really aren’t necessary to read to understand. most things are implied anyhow.

btdubs, imma just say the next part is going to be the birth scene, so that’s what coming next. just a heads up for people who may be uncomfortable with that. part four (the final) will be just some newborn shenanigans and an epilogue of sorts. stay tuned lol

summary: the visitor comes with advice.

word count: 4,696

content: 18+, smut, fem!afab!reader, polyamorous relationship (F/M/M/M/M/M), reverse harem, pregnant!reader, pregnancy, girlie talks!!, discussion of childbirth/labor, mention of death, breeding kink strikes back

← part i part iii → (out now)

—

The female didn’t even introduce herself. She disembarked her ship and immediately threatened your mates.

She told Ap-tui none-too-kindly that she desired to hunt on these hunting grounds, and that she hadn’t been aware a party had already established themselves on the planet. Understandable, considering the hunting ship is cloaked, and your mates hadn’t exactly contacted the clanship to let them know where you were.

The reason being well... you.

Ap-tui and his hunting brothers, while not entirely neglecting to tell the clan matriarch and clan leader about your existence (they knew you were their oomani-di), hadn’t disclosed yet the fact you were expecting. That was a hurdle that was something of an unspoken agreement. It would be... complicated, to say the least.

The Yautja female didn’t seem to care, nor did she intend to spill secret for you and your mates. She only wished to hunt on the grounds, which Ap-tui agreed to, in spite of Th’chi’s objections. He didn’t like the idea of sharing.

He silenced himself when she threatened to remove his spine.

And then her attentions turned to you.

—

“You mated with an oomani-di?! They are so small and weak!” The Yautja female chortles, though her tone lacks any maliciousness in her words. It’s more as if she teases the males, trying to poke fun at their— admittedly— strange choice of mating partner.

The jab makes Ta’kaa stiffen, but he holds his tongue. Smart male. You don’t really want to see this absolute powerhouse rip him in half.

“She is strong in spirit. Brave and honorable enough to carry a Yautja pup.” Bokei replies, pounding a fist on his chest then pointing to you. You offer him a soft smile, patting your round belly. You carry a Firstborn Yautja pup, and it is honorable.

“Hm!” The female chuffs, and then her stare zeroes in on you. It’s different than before, when she had stared in aghast amazement. This time, her expression is completely unreadable, making you feel nervous under her intense violet eyes. You practically feel it as she roams you up and down.

It makes you protectively cover your middle with your arms. Any honorable Yautja would never harm an unarmed, pregnant female— regardless of species— but you can’t attest to the character of this Yautja. Your mates sense your unease, and Van’chaa who stands closest to you begins to purr softly. She seemingly ignores him.

“What is your name, oomani-di?” She asks, and you have to swallow with a dry throat before tentatively giving it to her. She rolls your name on her tongue a couple times, trying it out and clicking her long tusks together as she does. 

“I am Ni’ja.” She stands taller, her waist length, dark green tresses swaying like devil’s ivy, their tubular lengths decorated in metals of all sorts. In particular, your eye catches a band of what looks like rose gold near her temple. It has a green gem in its center. She pounds a fist against her chest, above the twin bumps of her bosom.

You know Yautja females are similar in their anatomy to humans, but something about seeing such a... large woman feels surreal. And Ni’ja is very recognizably female, her wide hips and tapered waistline can attest to that. Though like her male counterparts, she’s incredibly muscular— You can see the power of her in the corded muscles of her legs and arms.

Briefly, you think of your own body and its lack of definition in favor of squishy flesh. Bhu’kei tells you that he and the rest of your mates find you exotic. Any thought of negatively comparing yourself to Ni’ja flies out the window.

“This is your first pup, is it not?” Ni’ja asks, crossing her arms over her chest. You pull yourself from your thoughts and nod, rubbing a hand up and down your belly. The pup inside your womb kicks in response, as always.

“Yes. It’s Ap-tui’s.” You reply softly, still wary of this visitor despite the fact she’s not attempted to maim you. Yet. You shake the thought from your head. 

“No. The pup is yours. The male is only a means to an end.” Ni’ja states firmly, waving a dismissive hand in the direction of Ap-tui. To your surprise, he doesn’t respond in the way you think he’d would— a snarl and maybe a harsh quip back— instead, your mate only bows his head.

Huh, you think, glancing around and seeing your other mates are likewise morose. All of them are a relatively wide distance from Ni’ja, heads bowed and gazes lowered. It’s like her very presence is something to be revered and respected. Maybe even feared.

You think about all that they’ve told you about Yautja females, the matriarchy, and the honor and deference males must pay to females. It’s like you finally understand the culture after seeing it in action. Yautja males really do keel to the females.

“I have experience in birthing and rearing pups.” Ni’ja says, her loud voice carrying in the air. She whips her head to shoot Ap-tui a challenging glare then says, “I will remain here to hunt and teach the oomani-di my knowledge.”

It is not a question, but a command. Ap-tui only nods.

You gulp.

—

The first handful of days is tense. Ni’ja runs the camp like a dictator. You’re equal parts impressed and worried.

Eventually, your mates find themselves and start retaliating to Ni’ja. She does not take it well. Fights occur and Ta’kaa ends up with a broken arm. That’s when you decided to step in: Enough was enough.

“Ni’ja!” You bellow, and catch the attention of the seething female. She gives Th’chi’s neck one last squeeze before she drops him to the ground. Your mate coughs, sputtering for air. Ni’ja stomps up to you, violet eyes blazing, and she looks almost as though she’d 

But she stops. You are pregnant. She will not touch you. She cannot touch you.

“I’ve had enough of this. Do not boss around or fight or harm any of my mates any longer.” You hiss, trying to look as intimidating as possible, though you know you’re probably failing severely. It’s tough to make yourself look scary when you’re half naked in a net suit with leaking tits and huge belly. Not to mention your balance, you nearly tip over when Ni’ja gets in your face.

“They are your males? You keep them?” She asks, mandibles clicking with thought. The questions are a bit... perturbing, but you don’t think you have much of a choice when you answer firmly, “Yes.”

Ni’ja whickers low in her throat, straightening to her full height. A thoughtful expression settles on her face, and her clawed fingers come up and scratch at her chin. You nearly grin at the almost human mannerism.

“I also keep a male. He is called Rath’ju-dha,” She ponders and you think the situation has blown over until she continues cheerily, “So I will not challenge you for yours!”

Deep down, you understand fully what she meant, but the thought makes you feel ill. It’s not uncommon for Yautja females to fight one another over mates, much like males. The difference being that Yautja females near exclusively fight for the lifemates of other Yautja females. They are the only ones allowed to do so.

“My mates are mine. This is my camp.” You say firmly, and your voice only wavers a little bit, mostly from withheld anger. Ni’ja is both infuriating and marvelous. You want to punch her in the jaw as much as you want to gush over her.

Ni’ja meets your glare with amused eyes. She takes your demand lightly, which should infuriate you more but you just can’t find it in you. All the fighting has led to you missing dinner at a reasonable time, so now you’re hungry. And your feet hurt. And the pup is kicking at your bladder again.

Ni’ja stands down with a click of laughter.

—

After your stand-off with Ni’ja, if you can even call it that, she toned down her attitude towards your mates. All she really wanted to do was hunt. The grounds were appealing to her, so she no longer lingered around the camp ordering the males around.

Your mates were not pleased whenever she would reappear after a day or two with a large catch in her claws. It didn’t help that she flaunted her kill and skinned it right in front of them. Van’chaa nearly challenged her when she gloated about the pristine whiteness of her new th’syra.

Oddly enough, the company of another female after being surrounded by so much testosterone (or whatever the Yautja equivalent is) was much needed. You hadn’t realized how desensitized you had gotten to a bunch of rowdy, unruly men until Ni’ja was there to set them straight. Her energy was also much more relatable, regardless of her different species.

And the fact she was over 9 feet tall. It’s really more the principle of it all.

She never told you directly, but part of you caught on that she might feel a similar way. From what you’ve gathered, Yautja females tend to lead even more solitary lives: Often staying away from the clanship, hunting alone, and only really having stable company if they were rearing a pup. In fact, most Yautja females only acquainted themselves with the males during mating season.

You assumed Ni’ja was much the same, though her mention of this Rath’ju-dha character had piqued your interest. Though you never got to ask her much about him, as she was always more focused on pounding the knowledge about Yautja pups, 

—

“... Pups are wily and uncontrollable. Corporal punishment is necessary. Don’t be swayed from cuffing them or tugging their tresses.” Ni’ja has been droning on for so long that you’re brain’s started to ache. She went through practically every aspect of rearing a Yautja pup, from birth to early childhood and even into adolescence.

Apparently, labor and birth is virtually the same as a human’s. As is bonding with and nursing the newborn. You dreaded the idea of pushing out the big pup inside you from your very underprepared cunt, but you also wanted so desperately to hold them close to your chest. The idea of finally ridding yourself of milk in a productive way through nursing also appealed to you and your aching tits as well.

“How many pups have you had?” You decide to butt in, desperate to just change the flow of the conversation, even if it’s minutely. Your head is stuffed so full of information, you need the relief. Besides, your pup is doing flips in your womb again, so the question was definitely influenced.

Ni’ja narrows her eyes and regards you with interest. She thinks you may be challenging her on her knowledge, perhaps seeking to know the number of pups she’s born to assess if she really knows what she speaks of. Ni’ja chuffs.

“I have born 11 successful sucklings; 8 males and 3 females. Only 5 survived their Chiva. I am proud of my warriors.” And when Ni’ja said that, you could tell. Her violet eyes lit up with a passion, obviously very pleased that a handful of her pups survived long enough to become Blooded. 

Even if that handful is less than half.

You wonder about her… approach to motherhood in the privacy of your head. Part of you wants to press on the other six of Ni’ja’s pups (Does she miss them? Did she love them?), but you feel that asking would be inappropriate, maybe even disrespectful. Instead, you ask about other practical things.

“About delivery... is it, like, really bad? Should I be preparing myself?” You inquire, looking down at the massive dome of your belly and internally shivering at how big your pup is gonna be when they decide to come out. The answer is, obviously, yes, but you want to hear it from the perspective of someone who’s had kids before.

“The pain is great, but ultimately unimportant.” Ni’ja waves a dismissive hand, a gesture you’ve noticed she favors, “The payoff of a healthy pup is worth it.”

When she says that last bit, something in Ni’ja’s eyes shadows. Like the shutters slam shut, if only for the briefest of moments. Though before you can comment on it, she snaps back to her usual tough, authoritative self.

“I think that’s something humans have in common with Yautja; Most mothers only ask that their baby be healthy, and that labor is worth it in the end.” You smile at her, and she chuffs, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Indeed.” Ni’ja rumbles, sharply dipping her head. For the first time since Ni’ja pulled you aside to start your “mothering lessons”, a silence befalls you both. It’s comfortable, though you watch Ni’ja’s firm expression be overtaken by a pensive look. Her violet eyes look... sad. Almost. Some foreign Yautja emotion equivalent.

“Always prepare yourself for the worse.” She states, and she says it like she’s admitting a confession, her voice so quiet that you almost have to strain to understand her. Ni’ja doesn’t look at you when she continues, “Paya is sometimes cruel.”

The ache in her voice is blatant, tangible. You swallow thickly, unsure of what to say or do. You know offering comfort will probably be interpreted as you recognizing her “weakness” and be met with anger, but your heart bleeds at how melancholic Ni’ja sounds.

You wouldn’t really consider her a friend, but she probably just confided something so secret in you that you feel almost honored. Yautja are not ones to speak so delicately to another. Nor are they emotional creatures.

“Thus is the rule of the nature.” You agree carefully and solemnly, shifting slightly on your pile of furs. The position you’ve sat in for so long has started to make your hips hurt. Even though you’re not looking at her— purposefully messing around with your seat in order not to— Ni’ja’s heavy gaze bores into the side of your skull.

Silence, again.

“Oh!” You jump when Ni’ja suddenly thunders, “I have almost forgotten something!”

Curious, you look back up at her and she seems to be back to normal. Her violet eyes are bright, and she lifts a hand and causes her long tresses to sway again. She points an accusatory finger at you.

“Your pup will be greedy. He will desire milk without regard for your time: Be prepared to not relinquish your breasts for weeks.” Ni’ja chortles, then leans in and pokes one of your tits, causing you to yelp and jolt back. Ni’ja seems to jump back as well, straightening to her full height in shock. Then her surprise morphs into amusement.

“So soft! Oomani-di are so weak!” And as Ni’ja begins to laugh, you do too.

—

Ni’ja takes her leave after four weeks. Over that time, you imagine she’s taken plenty more th’syra to line the walls of her trophy room. She doesn’t even say goodbye, but you manage to wake up in time to see her ship dart out from the planet’s atmosphere, then disappear as it’s cloak engages.

Your mates are elated, though they don’t say it out loud. It’s quite amusing.

By this time though, the new main focus became the fact that you surpassed 10 months of gestation. Ni’ja’s visit and occupation had really made you forget that your pregnancy is very close to nearing the end. Easily, you are further along than most human females ever get, though for Yautja gestation, you still technically have 2 more months to go.

The original plan was induction. At 10 months, the number was gaged to be a safe golden area in which the pup has stayed as long as it could in your womb, while also being safe (for them and you) to be removed. The pup would then be 2 months premature, which Bhu’kei admitted may result in some growth deficiencies later on, although he’d be completely fine otherwise. 

Though 10 months rolled around and there were no new cries of help from your body, and scans revealed the pup to be still growing and with a strong quad-heartbeat. You didn’t want to induce. You could hold out.

—

“I’ve been fine for 10 months now, what’s the issue with only a couple more?” You cross your arms over the swell of your belly, trying to pry a real answer out of Ap-tui. He growls, spreading his mandibles and shaking his head. His tresses swing wild over his shoulders, metal adornments clicking together.

“It’s not wise. Inducing now would be safer.” He hisses, roughly bring the whetting stone down on his dagger’s blade, causing sparks to fly. You blow a raspberry— Childish, you know— and narrow your eyes at your mate.

“Bhu’kei said it was okay!” You crow insistently, pointing to where said Yautja converses with Van’chaa. In all honesty, that was an opinion that you had to whittle out of the resident healer as well. At first, Bhu’kei had been just as opposed to the idea of not inducing labor, but you pointed out that you were doing fine and had no new negative symptoms either.

In fact, you felt better than ever. Sure you still ached, but it was overpowered by a stronger sense of empowerment you felt. You could carry your pup for the next 2 months, you were sure of it. 

“Bhu’kei is hulij-bpe and a kha’bj-te.” Ap-tui snarls as tosses down both the blade and stone. He follows the trail of your finger only to send his cousin a deadly glare. You roll your eyes, a grin that you can’t help sprawls across your face. Yautja males and their hardheadedness.

“First, be nice. Second, I have shown no negative symptoms— aside from the usual ones— this entire pregnancy. Clearly, my body can handle it.” You don’t mean to, but a very clear pout settles on your face. Ap-tui glances back at you, takes in your frustrated expression and round middle, then chuffs.

“Fine, female, it’s your decision.” He has the gall to roll his eyes at you, so before he can stand and leave, your hand shoots out and grabs a crimson tress. Fingers wrap tight and unforgiving around the tendril like appendage, and Ap-tui growls when you pull. His nerve endings ignite from pain and pleasure.

Rarely do you resort to a more Yautja method of winning an argument, but Ni’ja may have taught you a thing or two about “taming your males”. Pulling on the tresses acted as a very good persuader. You grin wider, keeping Ap-tui’s tress pulled taut.

He snarls as he’s forced to lower to his knees, glaring daggers at you. You giggle softly, stepping closer to place your other hand on his shoulder. His body heaves under your touch, his mandibles flaring as he pants. His pupils consume his blazing irises.

“Good boy.” You purr, finally releasing his tress and kissing the sloped crown of his head. Ap-tui whickers, his beefy arms coming up and wrapping around you. He marvels at how his hands nearly span the width of your back. You kiss his mahogany scales and quietly say, “It’ll be okay, y’know? I’m your little sain’ja, aren’t I?”

Ap-tui clicks his tusks together in mirth, relenting and nuzzling the column of your neck. You sigh as his mandibles run down to your collarbones, sensually grazing your delicate skin. Ap-tui, forever gracious, treats you to soft nibbles along your shoulders, then lower to your chest.

“Ap-tui.” You say his name as his long, forked tongue teases a nipple. One of his paws grabs a fistful of your ass and thigh, the other holds your waist. He secures you against him, mindful of your swollen belly, bearing all your weight for you. You grip his shoulders, then paw at his tresses, wringing your hands deeply within them until you grab near the base of his skull.

You tug, and Ap-tui roars and devolves into rolling clicks. You’ve struck the sensitive nerves at the bases of his tresses, forced him to release his dia-shui. You catch his scent and moan, eyes fluttering shut as Ap-tui begins to purr.

“Little mate.” He rumbles, lowering you until you lay sprawl beneath his muscled frame. Ap-tui clicks as he mounts you, shoving apart your plush thighs with his knees. You’re not able to look down and see past your rack or belly, but your suspicions are confirmed when the telltale stiff hotness of his cock presses against your dripping core.

Even though the session’s just started, you’re already wet beyond belief. Hell, you have been for months now. The near constant fucking and pregnancy hormones sets your body into hyperdrive with need.

Ap-tui squeezes one of your fat tits and you gasp, bucking your hips. He kneads it, careful of his claws, rolling his thumb in fast, tight circles over your sensitive nipple. Pleasure runs rampant all over your body, shooting bursts straight to your core. You wish you were able to reach around your belly and rub at your throbbing clit.

“You light my blood on fire, little mate.” Ap-tui hisses, sensing from your gyrating hips and whines that the special bud above your slit needs attention. He obliges, and his other paw dips between the apex of your thighs to press at your clit. You moan, strangled, when he presses down. Ap-tui notes that your core is drenched, your slit and labia glistening and raw and leaking slick.

He also notices your cunt bulges. You are so heavy with his pup your body strains to keep it in. Ap-tui almost loses his composure and seeds himself.

“I will take you now. You tempt me too powerfully.” Ap-tui states, and you barely process what he says when the thick girth of his cock sinks home. You wail, pussy stretching wonderfully around his length. You mate snarls, and sets a brutal pace that has his ballsack smacking wetly against your ass. He uses one hand to lift your hips and drives down.

The squelching is obscene, loud, and the yurt’s door is open to let in the nice breeze, so everyone is able to hear it. Ta’kaa is the first to show up at the door, leaning against the frame, but Ap-tui roars at him and your mate leaves. Not before flaring in mandibles in anger, however.

You wail and moan and grab at Ap-tui, fingers catching the quills on his chest, the flexing muscles of his forearms. Eyes bleary from tears, you grab a tress and pull, setting Ap-tui off yet again into a roar and rabid clicking. His pace picks up— brutal, unrelenting— hips pistoning his fat cock deep into your core. The tip kisses the gummy nodes of your cervix, causing you to shriek like a mad woman.

“Fuck! Ap-tui! Ap-tui!~” You cry his name, back arching, and you take your neglected breast in hand to toy with yourself. When your shaky fingers brush your nipple, you find it puffy and wet. You’re lactating. Your fat breasts bounce and milk is being spilled out of them. Ap-tui leans in and licks the milk away. You scream his name.

“Good little mate. Making milk for my pup. You will feed it with your swaying bosom nicely.” Ap-tui growls the dirtiest things in your ear, starts telling you how excited you breastfeeding will be, that he’d want to take you again and again whenever your milk overflows. It’s all so dirty, but so sexy. You want it. You want it bad. You’ll be a good little lou-dte kale for your mates.

You feel your orgasm approaching, steady and quickly. Your cunt shivers and clenches around Ap-tui’s cock and he feels it— Hard. He has to center himself and focus, lest he seed you before he wishes to. Ap-tui increases his efforts, thrusts like he’s fucking for his life, palming your breast and child-swollen belly, and rubs even tighter circles on your sensitive bud.

It’s enough, and your orgasm seizes you, making you see stars. Your high pitched wail resonates the walls, and carries out the door. Ap-tui keeps your high prolonged as he doesn’t relent, roaring and snarling at the sight of your squirt gushing around his cock, escaping your stretch hole each time he pulls back.

Your a mess of your own fluids, your release and milk, and after several long, drawn out pumps of his cock, Ap-tui feels his balls pull up and he roars. His spend shoots liquid hot against the opening of your womb, painting your insides with his seed. He pistons through it all, mandibles flaring and muscles flexing, all while releasing spurt after spurt of his sticky spend.

Once he’s finished, your body goes lax. Your mind is blank. All you can do is pant to catch your breath and feel the hot wetness of your cum, milk, and Ap-tui’s cum between your thighs. Some of it even splattered up onto the underside of your massive belly.

“Good little mate. Little sain’ja.” Ap-tui begins to purr, and he pulls back, cock springing from your too-tight hole. You whimper, your cunt’s been rendered raw, swollen, and sore. But the good type of sore. You almost seek more of it. Ap-tui cages himself above you, boxing you in. It’s then you realize your eyes have been squeezed shut.

You open them. Ap-tui is directly over you, his tresses fall around your face like a curtain. You blink back tears, and they roll down your temples. Your hair is plastered to your face and neck with sweat. Ap-tui purrs louder. He enjoys making a mess of you.

“Perhaps induction can be saved for a later date.” He rumbles, placing a heavy yet gentle hand on the bump of your belly. Ap-tui’s paw his warm against the drum taut skin, and you smile tiredly when he traces a stretchmark with a fingertip. The pup kicks then, and you groan softly as Ap-tui chuffs.

“I enjoy this feature on you far too much to give it up so soon.” Ap-tui clarifies, and you give him an incredulous look. He clicks in laughter, his eyes reflect mischievousness like his hunting brothers, then he shrugs.

“We like seeing you fat with pup, waddling around because you are so heavy.” He chortles as he lies down next to you, propped up on an elbow. Your cheeks warm and with some effort you manage to turn yourself onto your side to face him. You smack at his chest.

“Ap-tui!” You scold, but laughter laces your words, “Seriously?!”

“Of course.” Your mates replies simply, lilting his head and continuing, “Part of our enjoyment comes from watching your belly weigh you and breasts swing.”

You think back to all the times you’ve taken walks with your mates. It was to keep as active as you can so that you don’t lose too much strength from being too sedentary. 

Even before your pregnancy, the Yautja, with their long legs and enhanced speed, easily left you in the dust. They’d often either walk slower or wait for you. Now, with you slowed to a very stereotypical pregnant waddle by the heavy baby in your womb, their intermittent waits became more frequent, and much longer. 

It clicked now when you realize that they put greater distances between them and yourself just to watch your body jiggle with each step. And they’d done it, because they liked seeing you heavily pregnant.

Often, the walks ended in a quick fuck on the forest floor, where your Yautja mates would snarl and growl from above you as they took you like a dog. Their paws never leave your belly. It all makes sense.

And, God, you enjoy it too. 

“Ap-tui...” You start, cheeks hot, meeting his sharp gaze with lustful eyes. Your chest heaves, breasts rising and falling. Ap-tui watches as you purposely move your arms in a way that squishes them together, creating an impressive cleavage line. His purrs drop an octave and his claws dig into the furs below you.

“Fuck me.” You command, rolling onto your back and spreading your legs again.

Ap-tui descends upon you.

—

yautja translations

Chiva →  the trial of which a Youngblood Yautja is Blooded should they succeed in killing a kiande amedha (Xenomorph) dia-shui → musk, specifically that of a male hulij-bpe → crazy kha’bj-te → maniac, also means restless lou-dte kale → child maker (derogatory) ooman / oomani-di → human / human female Paya → Yautja creation goddess sain’ja → warrior th’syra → skull/s

—

(also, special shout outs to @coffee-love-alltheabove and @floralfi you both specifically asked to be tagged, so here ya go! hope you enjoyed!~ 😘)

[extremelyblackandwhite]

toxic | steve kemp

pairing: steve kemp x dark!reader

summary: steve kemp has found his match.

warnings: smut (18+), hand job, dirty talk, swearing, mentions of murder, poisoning, drugging, dark themes, fresh spoilers

with the taste of your lips i’m on a ride, you’re toxic i’m slipping under ...

Y/N was Steve’s favourite. She was ... different, and he did realise how anti climatic and cliché it was for him to say she was different, yet she was. He couldn’t exactly remember where he’d met her, he frequented many places, but he did remember her being the first one to speak, such a soft voice asking him to grab a packet of biscuits from the upper shelf. He’d usually do his homework before starting to charm someone but there was something about her, how she smiled, her cheeks raised as she took the packet of biscuits from him like a little, helpless bunny. Luckily for him, after a few dates, he did do his homework. It appeared she was a regular white collar employee, working as a law firm secretary, with not a lot of friends. Not only was she cute, she was a perfect target. What a shame he’d have to get rid of her but maybe this was a way to protect her from all the bad in the world. If she were dead, she wouldn’t have to suffer. Steve didn’t want her to suffer; she was so sweet, wanting love and somebody to love her unconditionally.

He took his time before inviting her to the home. He enjoyed being around her, listening to her talk or to her sing early in the morning while in the shower after a night with him. Eventually they did schedule it. He had put on his best look, her favourite cologne and even set some of her favourite songs on the radio. She always liked to listen to Ella Fitzgerald whenever he went to her place.  It was later in the afternoon when the door bell rang. He wiped his hands on his trousers before opening the door and there she was, the most innocent woman in the world dressed in a baby blue dress with white flowers embroidered on the edge of the fabric.

     - You look beautiful, baby. - he leaned down to kiss her, the taste of her strawberry gloss mixing with the scotch he’d had earlier. She smiled at him, stepping inside his house, inside the trap, like the little adorable bunny she was. 

     - I brought dinner. - she rose up a lunch bag. 

     - You shouldn’t have, sweetheart. I told you I was gonna cook.

     - I know but it’s my mum’s recipe. - she walked further into his home, placing the lunch bag on the top of his kitchen counter. - She cooked it for my father for their first date and they’ve been married for 35 years.

     - Is it a good luck thing?

     - Call it superstition.  

He watched as she took out the foiled containers and although he didn’t like straying away from his plans; the smell coming from them was much to enticing for him to not at least be curious. Moreover, how could he say no to her when she leaned down to set the table, her beautiful legs on display which merely seemed to be further highlighted by her soft white heels. He was gonna miss spending nights between them. 

    - I’m gonna pour us some wine, beautiful. - his hand smoothed over her upper thigh before resting on her waist. - Which one do you want?

    - Red wine is always good with pasta. - she smiled, placing a small and short kiss on his lips.

He’d done this many, many times. It was second nature and she had made it so much more easy by requesting red wine; he’d had some issues before with some girls preferring rosé and white over red. He knew she was his favourite for a reason. He walked back to the table, stopping by the door to stare at her, her little smile and shy nature which almost outshone the collar of her dress which made her bosom the centre of attention. God, she was breath taking. What a shame, he thought to himself. If he didn’t have a wife maybe he could persuade her, after all, everything is possible when you deprive someone. Nevertheless, he didn’t want to make her suffer. 

He kissed her temple before placing her glass by her plate and taking his seat. It did look appetising, he could still appreciate that. A nice dish of pasta with fragrant sauté mushrooms and a mushroom sauce. He was the first to take a bite, going through the dish and discussing with her some mundane things about his and her job until he felt something. His whole body felt hot and his skin was wet with sweat droplets forming at the top of his forehead. His stomach dropped and hurt settled around his abdominal area. 

   - Steve, are you okay? - she questioned as he wiped his mouth.

   - Sorry, babe.

He rushed to the bathroom, his hands gripping the marbled stone as he saw his reflection in the mirror. He looked awful, all the colour had drained from his face and he felt sick, his stomach turning and twisting. It didn’t take long for him to be hugging the toilet bowl. 

   - Steve? - her soft voice echoed in the bathroom as she kneeled next to him, holding a glass of water. - You don’t look very good. 

   - It’s fine, I’m fine. - he drank the whole content of the water glass.

His arms rested against the brim of the toilet bowl, trying to gather himself back when he felt his head pound. It was almost as if someone was squeezing his head and soon his vision was blurry. He turned to face her yet she just looked at him nonchalantly, her hands folded on top of her legs. 

   - I’m sorry, honey. - he heard her voice but it sounded far, far away and that gripping pressure soon exploded and darkness overtook him. 

(...)

He didn’t know he had been unconscious, he couldn’t remember and when his eyes opened, it took him a while to figure out where he was. As he turned his head, he saw his reflection in the wall of mirrors. His wall of mirrors. He was still in his home, she was still in his home. Y/N ... fuck, he thought to himself. He attempted to get up from the floor only to fall back down. Looking down rope was wrapped around his ankles and his wrists were equally bound behind his back. He looked around, his breathing quickened as he his mind puzzled her last words. 

    - Y/N! - he yelled out, his face red as he continued to shout her name.

He knew it was pointless, he knew the room was soundproof, he had ensured it was when he had it built never thinking he’d be the one ending up tied in here. He kicked the mirrors, attempting anything and everything but he knew how pointless it was. Anger settled in his features as he heard the faint echo sounds of Dream a Little Dream of Me playing. He could almost picture her, her eyes shut as she danced around like she did. What a stupid, dumb bunny, he thought to himself. However, it appeared the stupid, dumb bunny was the one not tied and drugged in his operating room. He banged his head against the mirror, the anger and pure helplessness settling. Stupid, stupid bunny.

A few more hours must’ve passed, the songs still echoing in the back when he heard the small echoey sound of her heels clicking against the ground and then the lock turn right. His senses were heightened as the majority of the light entered the room and so did she, looking as innocent as she did. 

    - You’re looking better, honey. - she locked the door behind her. He didn’t say anything, merely following her with his eyes as she sat atop his metal operating table. Her eyebrows rose as she looked at him, that innocence mixed with pure cockiness was something that did suit her. - Aw, c’mon, now you don’t wanna say anything? 

    - You like playing rough, baby? - he spat the words at her. - Just you wait. 

    - And what? - she jumped off the table, walking up to him and picking his chin, raising his head. - What are you gonna do, honey? In case you haven’t noticed, much to your surprise, I’m not the one tied in your fucking basement. 

    - Don’t be bitchy, baby. Doesn’t suit you. 

    - I think it’s only fair considering you were gonna drug me yourself. - she let go of his chin, walking a few steps from him before turning. - Killing me? I would say that’s crazy but eating me? Borderline. 

    - Now you’re just making stuff up, baby. 

    - Either that or you’re a morbid collector of autopsy remains. Yet again, that wouldn’t explain what’s in your fridge which as an MD you should know better about contamination and infection issues. I’m disappointed in you. 

    - And what you know about it, baby? I don’t think it takes an MD to be some lousy secretary. 

    - Oh, I’m not a secretary. - she smiled. - Mum always said it’s dangerous to tell strangers where you work. I’m a neuroscientist. 

He stayed silent. He should’ve gone to visit her at work. 

    - Who comes prepared to drug someone?

    - I wasn’t gonna drug you but then I saw you trying to drug me so I thought it was only fair. 

   - The food?

   - Amanita Muscaria mushrooms. I got suspicious of you when you kept trying to have me here in the middle of nowhere rather than going somewhere else besides if you did have good intentions, it would’ve just made you sick. Couldn’t point it on me. 

   - What are you gonna do? Call the police?

   - Call the police? Oh god no, that’s too messy. - she cocked her head to the side. - Although, I do not know what I’m going to do with you. 

   - Don’t be dumb, baby. Be a good girl and untie me. - her smile dropped as she walked back to him, putting herself on her knees and looking at him with a small pout. - Good girl.

   - I really am. - she grabbed the surgical tape from the floor, ripping a piece off before placing it over his mouth. She smiled at his surprise before kissing him over the tape. - Just not yours. 

She flipped her hair behind her back, smiling at him like she did whenever he came to visit her at home or when they woke up together before walking back to the door, her hand resting on the door knob.

  - Y/N! - his temper broke and his voice came back muffled but she was unbothered, merely walking out and locking the door behind her. - Y/N! 

The music got even louder with Paul Anka’s Put Your Head on My Shoulder playing in a loop that felt like three hours. His mind raced about what she could do. Was she going to kill him? Was she toying with him and was going to deliver him the police? She didn’t have to do much, he had all the evidence there for people to see and he didn’t think he could charm himself out of that. He threw his head back in surrender. Dumb smart bunny, dumb, smart, beautiful sexy bunny. He couldn’t have done it better if he thought about it himself. 

The music continued for hours, from Etta James to Louis Armstrong and Frank Sinatra. He wondered what she was doing for all that time, yet couldn’t particularly complain about the music. He’d been lulled almost into hypnosis by the songs until the shattering sound of silence filled the air. She had decided he had been by himself for too long and while it was pretty much impossible for him to free himself, it was always good to prevent rather than have to face off against him. She went down the stairs, unlocking the door to see him where she had left him. 

   - Having fun? - she closed the door behind her. Steve ignored her even as she went near him. - It’s really rude for you not to speak to me. You know, I really thought you were a good one. 

He rolled his eyes, the action clearly upsetting her as she ripped the tape off like it was a bandaid. The sting settled around his lips and he thought about cursing at her. Yet, how could he? It appeared the more she did this, the more she became his favourite. 

   - So did I, baby. - he moved and rubbed his lips, trying to appease the stinging sensation. - You had such a good fucking pussy. 

   - You know. - she grabbed a fistful of his hair. - I kinda do want to take your brain and see what caused you to be this fucked up.

   - Dirty talk, baby? This early? 

   - Don’t feel very lucky, Steve. I am still deciding if I will kill you or just torture you until I’m bored of it. 

   - You don’t need to further state your case, baby. - he chuckled. - You’re already my favourite. 

   - Shut up. 

   - But if you do kill me, who’s gonna eat that pussy, baby? You’re gonna get someone else to get you to moan like a little whore? You’re gonna get someone better than me?

   - I said shut up. 

   - I know you’re gonna miss bouncing on my dick. I always liked how you looked, baby. So fucking cock drunk, bouncing on it like your life depended on it. That, that is fucking heaven. 

She clenched her fist looking away from him to collect herself before looking back but instead of being mad or uncomfortable, he was just smirking at him. She didn’t know what she wanted to do, she didn’t know why but she ended up kissing him. Her lips were on his, both fighting for dominance and even though he was bound, he ended up winning, bitting of her lip and slowly pulling back, his teeth leaving a mark to be remembered on her lip. Her hands moved to unbutton his trousers, moving them down as much as he could. 

  - I know you like me, baby. - he chuckled, a throaty moan leaving his lips as she wrapped her hand around his cock. 

  - I could kill you right now. - she said, her hand slowly pumping his cock. - You would be surprised at how I could do this and make it look like an accident. 

  - Fucking minx. - he threw his head back. She could help but moan at how he looked, with his lips parted and eyes closed. He looked like a vision. - You could but ... fuck, baby ... you won’t. Because no one is gonna fuck you as ... fucking hell, baby ... no one is gonna fuck you as well as me. 

Her warm hand left his cock, her eyes looking down at him as she got up, her little blue dress raising up as she pulled her underwear down. He hoped she’d leave it behind, he could add it to the ones he’d already stolen. 

  - Look at you in that little cock tease of the dress. Come on, baby. If you’re gonna kill me, at least bounce on my dick one more time. 

She put her legs over each side of him before easily slipping into him. Her mouth opened a few moans escaping her lips as she held her hands against the mirrors. Anywhere she looked, she could see herself, sat on top of the cock of the man she had tied in his own basement. He kissed her neck, slightly moving his hips to encourage her to start moving which she did.

She rose slightly up before going down, the feel of his veiny cock inside her enough to leave a mark she would remember until tomorrow. She continued to bounce on him, her hands dropping to his shoulders as the mirrors fogged. 

  - That’s it. My little cock drunk bunny, riding me so fucking well. - he bit her shoulder as she continued to bounce on him as if she had been possessed by some force which made her only want to have his cock inside of her. - Fuck, you fuck me so well, baby. You’re so good.

  - Steve ... - she moaned, her walls starting to contract more and more around him. - Fuck!

  - Go on, you little cock slut. You like that? - he kissed up her neck, leaving a few harsh bites. Nothing would look better than his bruises and her little blue dress. - You like bouncing on my cock, baby? You like being fucked by a dangerous man? Is that it? Bored and it turns you on? 

Her walls wrapped tightly around him, the pressure in her abdomen loosening as she dropped her head onto his shoulder. He too came, his cum stuffed inside of her and falling onto his own leg. As her breath calmed down, she looked up at him, both with an appearance which would be sinful enough singular but in various mirrors? It was erotica. 

  - Come on, baby. Untie me so I can lick that sweet pussy of yours.

  - Nice proposition. - she slipped off him, standing up and straightening her dress down before leaning down to pick up her panties. 

  - Yeah? Why don’t you let me fuck you in my bed then, baby? - he smiled which she retributed. She kneeled near him, her hand caressing his face for a while before she grabbed his face. 

  - I am still mad at you, honey. - she balled her panties and gagged him with them. - Goodnight, Steve.

[moonmeg]

Caleb is ever going to find out who the culprit was?

"It's six or seven years in the past. I- I'm over it.", Caleb wiped away the tears forming in his eyes, quietly adding a "more or less." to his previous statement.

Catherine jumped up from the dinner table to embrace her husband. Sitting down on his laps she wrapped her arms around him and held his head to her bosom.

"Over it? You're everything but over it!", she said slowly stroking through his hair.

"I- I don't know why I'm so emotional about it I- I thought I was over it.", Caleb tried to laugh over the sudden tears in his eyes. The topic of Elizabeth and her death was one he thought similar to his parents: something he can talk about without crying. That he was wrong about this surprised him. Why was this still so painful to him?

He let out a sob, his head falling more into his wife's bosom. His arms firmly hugged her, holding her close to him.

With his beloved wife on his laps, her heartbeat under his ear, her head resting on his and her long nails brushing through his hair, he was quick to catch himself again. He took a deep breath to calm down and wiped the last tears from his eyes once again.

Catherine, while silently allowing Caleb to let our all the pain he seemingly held in for so long first, took a checking look at Caleb once he seemed to have let it out.

"Have you ever talked about this to anyone?", she asked quietly.

"No one mourns an alleged witch. And me being hurt by her death and openly showing so? The people of my home village wouldn't have liked that."

"Oh for Titan's-", Catherine pulled her head and chest away to catch Caleb's eyes better, "do the people of your home village hate everything? Every time you tell me something about earth and how you grew up it's one terrible story after the other!".

The calm in her voice changed for a mixture of a frustrated and indignant tone. She was always interested in the stories her father told her about this mysterious human realm that was always mumbled about between the people and towns with it's curiosities as a child. Whatever Caleb told her about it though now, this human realm turned more and more into a place she would never want to set a foot into.

"Why do you think I wanted to escape it so badly...".

Caleb blankly stared at the dining table before him, remembering his life on earth himself. Remembering how much he went through, how cold the people were, how much of his dark thoughts and feelings he had to bury and keep hidden from everyone, how so often he not only prayed for things to turn better but also to be delivered from his misery permanently.

"I'm sorry for your loss.", he heard his wife tell him in a quiet, pitying voice.

"Just one of many", he thought and stayed silent. Just one of many he lived through.

"She wasn't a witch, was she?"

"No."

He already was certain six years ago Betty was never a witch and was torn from life as someone falsely accused. But now, he knew she couldn't have been one. Witches ears are pointy au contraire to humans' round ones.

Betty had round ears.

Innocent. She was innocent.

"And you have not even a clue who might be responsible for it?", Catherine asked confused. From what she knew the village her husband grew up in was rather small - everyone knew each other - and gossips and rumors spread around like a fire.

"Nobody knew. Not even Philip. And he usually always knew or had an idea. But not this time.", he replied frustrated.

Catherine's heart skipped a beat upon the mention of Philip. A dark idea started to form in her mind. An idea she was hesitant to reveal to Caleb. She knew he cared for Philip, no matter how much Caleb was hurt by him.

But as much as she wanted to keep him safe and protect him, it felt wrong to keep this possible truth from him. Honesty was important to both of them in this relationship and marriage.

She took the courage to slowly address her idea.

"Say, sweetheart... I hate to go this direction but... did Philip know about the marriage suggestion she made you?", she asked carefully, knowing well that if she accuses Philip of this now, it would pierce through his heart and cause more pain than he already feels regarding his brother.

"Yes. Yes, of course he did.", Caleb let out a small chuckle of confusion. He lived with his brother and shared almost everything that was on his mind with him. Obviously he would tell him about Betty's unofficial proposal.

"Let me guess: he did not like it?"

"Well, he wasn't happy about it, he never liked it when I wasn't giving him my full attention or had other people around me but I told him right away that I refused her for now!", he replied not understanding what Catherine was trying to do here. Until he finally looked at her face and saw her concerned look, suddenly realizing what she was implying.

"You don't think that-", he furrowed his brows and lightly shook his head with a whispery "No..."

"No, no, no, he-he wouldn't-", the denying head shake intensified and the whisper got louder with every "no".

He softly pushed Catherine away to stand up from the chair. It couldn't be. As much as he loved Catherine, this simply couldn't be.

"I'm afraid he would. And without second thought.", Catherine tried to pull Caleb out of his naivety towards his brother. She could imagine how Elizabeth was treated by Philip perfectly. She could imagine all the ways Philip tried to keep Caleb away from her. She could imagine it all perfectly due to own experience.

Caleb stood there with his back to her, his hand covering his mouth, his eyes staring at the floor thoughtfully. Nothing could put in words what was going on in his mind now. Of course he knew how Philip reacted whenever there was someone between the brothers but surely this is a method that goes too far, even for Philip. For his little brother he so deeply loved.

"Kitty- I- I know you don't like him but accusing him of this now?"

"Caleb, dear, think about it!", Catherine walked up to him and turned on her foot to face her husband again once she was at his side. She looked up to him, trying to get his eye contact.

"He treats you like he owns you! He doesn't want you to be with anyone else other than him! Think of how he acted whenever he saw you with me! She was getting too close to you in his eyes and so he...", she paused trying to find a phrasing not too painful.

There was no way to put it lightly she quickly noticed.

"...he had to get rid of her."

Caleb shut his eyes in pain upon hearing that and turned his face away from his wife. He refused to believe this.

Catherine looked at him with worry. She tried to take his hand to give him comfort like she always did. Like she's done so many times before.

"Stop.", he jerked his hand away and stepped back from her, widening the gap between them. He didn't want her to hold his hand now. He didn't want her to be around him now. No matter how much sense this theory she presented made and how much a small part of his inner voice knew Catherine probably was right, he didn't want it to be right. Even just possibly be right.

"I... I'm sorry, I... need to be alone now.", he said and walked out of the drawing room without giving Catherine just a glance. Even pushing Flapjack off his shoulder before exiting, leaving the little cardinal confused.

She stood there, her eyes following him until he was out of sight. She stood there as if out of stone. Not moving an inch. Flapjack and Opal chirped and curred worriedly, trying to get Catherine's attention. But it was like she didn't hear.

If only she hadn't been curious about his past.

If only she wouldn't have told him the possibility of Philip being the responsible person for this innocent woman dying.

[youryanderedaddy]

War prize

Summary: You get taken as a war prize once the barbarians take over your homeland.

Tw: nsfw, non - con, mentions of blood, slight corruption kink, size difference, slavery, deregatory language, degradation, possessive behavior, minor character death, spanking, mention of war

There is now part 2

Yoo guys, don’t worry if you voted for the other two options, I will write for them too soon enough. Anyways, enjoy.  

You weren’t supposed to be here right now with your legs covered in heavy metal chains and a dirty cloth shoved up in your mouth. Your friends weren’t supposed to be either captured or dead. Your side wasn’t supposed to lose against the barbaric tribe. So many things weren’t supposed to happen tonight and you were slowly getting used to the fact that your supreme leaders had failed, the army had raised the white flag high and you were currently in the enemy territory with slim chances of escape, with absolutely no memories of how you got there in the first place.

You could hear his heavy prolonged footsteps, the way the sharp heel of his boot dug into the rich soil and stomped all over the daisies and weeds just like he had done with your own people hours ago. He was getting closer to the tent by the minute and his shadow was growing bigger and bigger until the soldier finally pulled back the curtain-like fabric to the side and entered the tiny space you were forced into.

He was very tall, unnaturally so, nothing like the men in your tribe who, despite being strong and capable, were born on the shorter side. His face was rough and raw, his features symmetrical and fierce in their cold perfection, deep charcoal eyes, dark lips and a straight nose. The knight fancied his long black hair free and wild, letting it fall against his muscular shoulders softly, shiny, silky and healthy. In these territories the warriors wore very little clothing, finding anything covering their chest or ankles to be too distracting and suffocating during a battle. You tried to look away from his half – naked form but his upper body was sweaty and smooth, caramel in color, making it hard to look at anything else. In return the male simply stared at you for a few moments, grinning in amusement or maybe even satisfaction, and kneeled down next to the mat you laid on.  

“Hello, my little captive.” His voice was throaty and deep when he finally called out to you, a cunning smirk adorning his lips, giving him a sly foxy expression. The man reached out to cup your cheek and wipe away a tear slowly falling down, causing you to squirm away from his touch as if he held a hot iron against your face.

“Don’t touch me, you brute!” You shouted out before you had the chance to reconsider your poor choice of wording. The knight simply chuckled in respond and grabbed your hips roughly, making sure to dig his nails deep into the clothed skin before pulling you closer to his naked chest. You couldn’t help but turn red when forced to take in the warmth and firmness of his body – you had never been so close with a man before, much less your commune’s arch enemy.

“I will do so much more than that, sweet girl.” Raven whispered against your ear and kissed your neck softly, pulling your hair down so you would arch your back and whine miserably. “I won you fair and square, little slave.” He growled against your collarbone and bit down hard on the soft part of your throat. You couldn’t stand the hot wet sensations and you desperately wanted to get away from the warrior’s cruel grip, but you were helpless in your struggles, and even if you weren’t thoroughly tied up, you were still too scared to put up a fight against the barbaric male twice your size.

“You are so small and fragile, so vulnerable underneath me. I’ve always wanted something soft and pretty to warm my bed at night.” Raven admitted huskily as he tore apart your white satin robe, revealing your chest to the lingering glittering light coming from the gaslight above. Your pitiful whimpers were muffled by his lips slamming on yours and his wet slippery tongue forcing his way deep down your throat. The warrior was caressing your bosom, squeezing and fondling at it shamelessly, pinching and licking your nipples until they stood at attention red and swollen like cherries. “Such a pretty little slut, tied down at my mercy.” The knight moaned and slapped your breast lightly, enjoying the sheer look of horror on your beautiful face, twisted in panic. “I’m gonna make your tits bounce while I take you like a bitch in heat.” The man mumbled sadistically and slapped your other breast, this time using more force. “ I’m gonna make you my whore.” He cursed under his breath and lowered his head to suck on your neck once again.

Soon Raven got bored of playing with your tits and moved on to spread your legs wide open, pulling your panties down to your ankles. The sight of your sweet tight pussy exposed and displayed so wantonly was mouth-watering to the barbarian, and he could already feel his member harden painfully against your slit. You pleaded silently with your eyes to be spared, muttering quiet pleas, “no’s”, sobbing and clutching to the last bit of hope for mercy. Unfortunately, the warrior couldn’t hear a word, too fascinated by your luscious body and his own wild hunger.

“My beautiful little prize, all mine.” The man whispered almost affectionately, kissing you nice and slow this time, with his throbbing erection pressed on your entrance, inches away from your untouched virgin hole. “I saw you earlier today while you were tending to your parents��� wounds, pet.” He spoke suddenly, his length teasing your folds by slowly sliding in between your soft thighs. “You looked so precious in your desperate attempt to save them during the final fight.” The warrior continued, one hand coming up to stroke your hair in a sick yet comforting manner. “A sweet little thing like you shouldn’t be on the battlefield.” Raven kept going while rubbing slow circles on the palm he had forced you to open when you were clenching your fist tight. “You look so much better by my side, pretty girl.” The soldier placed a small peck on your temple, the lingering gentleness of his actions and the cruelty of his words making you sick to your core. You felt tired and overwhelmed yet the worst was still in store.

“I will tell you a little secret, slave.” The dark-haired male snarled at you and raised your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his cold black eyes. “I killed your father and took you all for myself.” He confessed in a low vicious voice, his scarred fingers tightening around your throat. The wet fury in your heart tangled together with the pain and grief of your loss, but the deadly grip around your neck forced you in place, still and lifeless like a doll. You wished you were dead just like your family so you wouldn’t have to suffer the humiliation of entertaining the enemy and his twisted desired any longer. “Now I am going to steal your innocence and make you mine, little bird.” Your face froze in terror and agony, having realized that, by the end of his words, the man had already pushed his manhood into your tight heat, piercing through your body, unprepared for the shock and the pain. “Sing for me, slave.” The barbarian hissed under his breath and moved roughly in and out of you, each new thrust sharper and deeper than the last one. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing you broken down so easily, but you needed a way to cope with the harsh reality, so you cried out for him. You chocked on your pitiful sobs, screamed in pain and whimpered miserably just to survive another second of this meaningless torture.

Raven looked ecstatic, enticed by your lovely moans and whines, your sweet despair delicious on his tongue while he claimed your lips and explored your throat. Your tight pussy squeezed hard on his length, milking every bit of pleasure out of it. His eyes were blacker than the night sky, filled with lust and thirst for blood, unquenched even after hours of slaying the innocent souls determined to protect their land. Laying down on the cold ground, sweaty, violated and stripped of your pride, you wondered whether you were just another conquest to the warrior, perhaps ruining your purity was his way of proving that he and his people were the new rulers of the territory.

“What a sweet little virgin you were, and now you are bleeding on my cock while I take you, pet.” The barbarian cooed at you cruelly, choking you lightly, not tight enough to put your life in danger, but enough to keep you motionless and complacent, just a hole for him to fuck into. “I am going to cum in your cunt now, slave, and you are going to stay there and take it.” The man announced sternly and kept shoving his manhood down your channel roughly, pounding into you relentlessly until he came with a growl and released his seed deep inside you, painting your walls white. Your pussy felt raw and puffy, pulsating in pain around the cock still buried in. He wasn’t pulling out of you.

“Oh, little bird, did you really think that I would be satisfied with having you just once?” Raven taunted you gleefully, a sadistic gleam in his dark eyes as he took in the panic on your face, drinking it like a glass of honey mead. “I fought for you after all, precious.” The warrior muttered slowly, mere inches away from your swollen lips, bruised and red from all the biting and rough kisses. “I am going to savor you little by little.” He paused to catch your gaze and held it for a moment too long before focusing on your mouth again.

“You’re mine now, don’t you ever forget it.”