#it's brass with gold fill

[sweaterkittensahoy]

Went out for Sean's birthday brunch, came home with new wedding bands.

We've been wanting new ones for awhile. My first set doesn't fit, and Sean's ring went missing ages ago, so getting my set resized doesn't make sense.

Checked out a local jeweler near the brunch spot, and bam. Perfection. Very happy.

[faaun]

she says my heart is yours, from the caspian shores.

[esouliie]

… you should stay in my good graces⋆𐙚₊

(actress!wanda x fem!reader)

tags | romantic asf, a little hurt/comfort, wanda maximoff needs a hug, reader is a reassuring simp, together? they’re both gross horny freaks :3 (18+)

It’s late, around 9 PM, and the room is dimly lit, casting long shadows that dance along the walls. You’re lounging on the couch of the hotel suite, feeling the gentle buzz of the wine you’ve been sipping. She’s there with you, still dressed in her suit for her upcoming movie’s press junket. Her hair, now a shade of molten chocolate, falls loosely around her face, with random pieces tucked behind her ears. She’s wearing minimal makeup, despite her lips being coated in a subtle reddish oil, and her eyes shimmer gold with every bat of her lashes.

The evening has been easygoing since arriving back, a perfect blend of quiet conversation and shared silences as your girlfriend winds down from being social. You watch her as she took another sip of her wine, her eyes glinting in the soft light. Suddenly, she sets her glass down and rises from the couch with a playful glint in her eye. "I want to play a song for you," she announces with a smile.

You watch as she heads for the old record player tucked in the corner, a vintage piece that had caught her eye the moment you checked in last night. The suite modern charm was evident in every detail, from the heated floors to the spacious kitchen, but the record player, with its polished wood and brass accents, seemed to be the centerpiece of the room. Wanda had been drawn to it immediately, her fingers tracing the smooth surface, a look of nostalgia softening her features.

She flips through the small collection of vinyl records stacked beside it, her brow furrowing in concentration as she searches for the perfect track. After a moment, she lets out a triumphant little sound, pulling out a record with an old, faded cover. The worn label reveals the artist: Sam Cooke. She handles it with reverence, lowering it onto the turntable with a practiced hand. There's a small, satisfied hum as she brings the needle down, and the soft crackle that follows fills the room like the first breath of life. For a moment, everything is still, suspended in the quiet, until the first sweet, soulful notes of "Cupid" drift into the air.

The melody is timeless, a rich cascade of sound that wraps around you like an old, familiar blanket. You recognise the tune, though it's been years since you last heard it. The notes are tender and full of emotion, evoking memories of a time long past yet strangely present in this moment. The room, bathed in the warm glow of the lamps adorned around the space, seems to swell with the sound, the music curling around the furniture, the walls, and finally, the two of you, as if drawing you closer together.

Wanda turns back to you, her eyes bright with anticipation, waiting for your reaction. She knows you love this song, and she loves it too, perhaps even more.

“I love this song.” She reaches out a hand, gesturing for you to join her. You stand, taking it without hesitation, feeling the warmth of her fingers intertwining with yours. The music flows between you like a current, and Wanda begins to sway, drawing you into the rhythm. Her voice, soft and unguarded, rises to meet the melody as she sings along with Cooke:

“Cupid, draw back your bow...”

With her eyes locked on yours, the world around you fades into the background. The record spins, the music lilting through the room as you both begin to dance, a slow, easy movement that feels as natural as breathing.

You follow her lead, letting the song guide your steps. Wanda’s voice, sweet and slightly off-key, weaves through the music, adding her own touch to the tune. There's something so intimate, so pure in the way she sings to you, for you, her voice a quiet confession wrapped in melody.

“You know," she murmurs, her voice a soft whisper against the instruments, "I've never felt like this with anyone before."

"I feel the same, Wands. Every time I'm with you, it's like the world finally makes sense."

She tilts her head down slightly, her eyes searching yours. "Do you ever wonder if this is too good to be true? Like, maybe we're dreaming, and one day we'll wake up, and it’ll all be gone?"

You stop swaying for a moment, cupping her face gently in your hands. "No, Wanda. This is real. We’re real." You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, feeling her relax into your touch, “You’re never getting rid of me, baby.”

Her hands move to your back, pulling you closer, as if she needs to feel you, to confirm that you’re really here. "Promise me," she whispers, her voice trembling just slightly.

You press your lips to hers again, a gentle, lingering kiss that holds all the promises you can’t yet put into words. “I promise,” you whisper against her, “let me show you.”

Her worries melt away, replaced by a deepening trust as your hands run through her hair, pulling her impossibly closer. The pressure of your lips increases, growing bolder as you feel her responding to you, her own lips parting slightly, inviting you to explore further. A soft sigh escapes her, and it echoes in the stillness around you, a sound that sends a shiver of warmth through your entire body.

The kiss grows, building from that initial, tender connection into something more passionate, more urgent. You can feel the tension in your chest, a yearning that rises and swells with every heartbeat, driving you to close any remaining distance between you. Your other hand slides to the small of her back, pulling her closer. Unable to feel the heat of her body through the thick suit jacket, your hands trail inside the material, mapping the thin waist of the taller woman.

She’s wearing nothing underneath.

You deepen the kiss further, your tongue brushing against her lower lip, seeking entrance, a silent request that she grants as her lips part further, allowing you in. Her hands find their way to your shoulders, gripping lightly as she leans in. The kiss is no longer just gentle; it’s filled with a fervent need, an unspoken desire that’s been building between you since the beginning of the night. Since you first saw her in this outfit. She’s kissing you back with equal intensity, every movements matching yours, the both of you lost in this moment, hands groping all and everything you can.

“I want these off,” Wanda husks, pupils blown entirely, as she hurriedly pulls at the zip of your jeans, “… now.”

You don’t bother helping the older woman, as you fling your arms around her to pull the jacket off her toned shoulders, a swift competition to see who can undress who first. You managed to discard the jacket before she can shove her hand down your pants, your fingers already groping at her chest. Your lips making their way down from her neck down to her breasts, lapping at the pebbled nipples before you.

With her hand finally between your legs, stroking ever so languidly, she guides you back towards the couch. You’re too distracted to notice the change until you’re on your back and she’s on top of you. Her tongue forces its way into your mouth before you could protest, hips doing most of the work appeasing you, as she thrusts ever so slowly. Giving up, your legs fall open, calves wrapping around the brunette as if to keep her flush against you.

The kiss comes to an end, much to your dismay, with a singular strand of saliva hanging between you both.

“You’re such a brat. You joke, hands smoothing over her ass, pulling forward.

“Says the one who was racing to undress me first.” She immediately retorts, and you push your luck, retaliating by smacking her ass. She gasps before cutting you a sharp look. Grinding harder against you, her head bends to kiss along your pulse. Her canines sink into the soft skin, a sharp sting following closely before her warm tongue laps along the bruised skin.

“Do that again and I won’t fuck you.”

Your mouth opens a few times, but you weren't sure what to say. You only managed a please, which felt pathetic even to your own ears. The laughing quirk of her lips revealed how little Wanda takes you seriously, and why would she? You were already trembling, unable to form a single thought.

So easy.

Turning your head so she could press her lips against yours, she was licking into your mouth, just separating enough so you didn't suffocate, and even then, it did nothing to help the threads of spit remaining between you both.

But it didn't appear that she was going to stop anytime soon, as her fingers trail up your thigh until she reaches your underwear. Her lips twist into a smile at the feeling of the damp fabric, molding to you. Lithe digits sneak inside, spreading your lips, grazing just under your clit and then down low. “This all for me, baby?”

The feeling so overwhelming, you’re unable to reply. Wanda merely laughs before pressing into you, revelling in how easily you swallowed her fingers, hips moving in time with her. The rooms fills with sounds of breathless moans and her fingers fucking you, her other hand snaked under your top to pinch at your nipples.

“Feels so good.” You manage to stutter out, and bring her down to your lips. Once again, locked in another fervent kiss, moans spilling into her mouth.

A knock on the door jolts you out of your reverie, lips smacking as you pull away, eyes drawn towards the source. Panic surges in your chest as you remember earlier Wanda had invited some of her cast mates to your suite for a games night. Helplessly, you attempt to get your girlfriend to stop, your hand curling around her wrist pumping into you, but she didn’t. Instead, she speeds up, fingers now sliding in at a bruising pace in comparison to her earlier slower one. Your knees were trembling, cunt pulsing around her rigid knuckles, as her thumb circles your clit desperately.

“Gotta be quick, baby,” She huffs, energy depleting with each thrust, whispering terms of endearment as you convulsed, muffling your sounds of pleasure into her neck. Her chest heaves, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on her skin as she hovers over you.

You couldn't help the way your body shudders, so sensitive, every nerve ending screaming for her to stop and yet for her to continue. Trembling a little less now, her fingers slip out of you cautiously, soothing along your flushed skin despite being coated in you. She studies the room accessing the damage before turning back towards you, noticing you’re already looking up at her, the buzz of your orgasm fading away slightly.

To be honest, you didn’t want games night to happen.

You wanted to spend the rest of your night wrapped up in your girlfriend’s arms, listening to her steady heartbeat as she held you close. But you knew Wanda was shy, and in this industry, she struggled to make friends. It was a hard world to navigate, full of people who wanted something from her or who couldn’t look past her fame to see the wonderful person she was beneath it all. You didn’t want to get in the way of that, all because you were feeling needy and wanting her sole attention. It was her night. Wanda deserved to have friends, people she could laugh with, people who would remind her that not everyone wanted something from her. So, despite the ache in your chest, you pushed your feelings aside, biting down on your lip, trying to suppress the soft whimper that threatens to escape, but she notices.

She always notices.

“Shh, it’s okay,” she coos, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, and then your cheek, and then your nose. Her lips were warm, comforting, grounding you back to the present. “You did so well, sweetheart.” She leans down placing one last kiss – this time upon your lips, “You know I love you, right?”

You nod, a shy smile curling at the corner of your mouth. “I love you too.”

“Good,” she hums softly, her voice carrying a note of finality. “Now, come on,” her hand behind your back guiding you to your feet, “help me tidy up?”

You groan playfully, your muscles protesting as you try to follow her lead. You wobble when you stand, a reminder of just how thoroughly she’d loved you, and she chuckles, steadying you with a hand on your waist

“Easy there.” She teases, holding tight to your waist. You feel her breath tickle the top of your head, and then, with a gentleness that contrasts the intensity of earlier, she places a chaste kiss upon your tousled hair, before collecting her jacket and buttoning it up around herself like before.

"Oh, Tony’s gonna have a field day when he sees you," she murmurs, the amusement in her voice impossible to miss. You can almost picture it now—Tony’s raised eyebrows, the sly grin that would stretch across his face when he spots the two of you looking disheveled as ever, and the sex joke already bursting free from his smart ass mouth.

“Whatever, Maximoff.” You push her away and in the direction of the door, “go let them in.”

[florencemtrash]

The Artificer: Part I - Azriel x Reader

Warnings: None

✨Based on this ask ✨

Masterlist of Masterlists

"Azriel flipped through the information in his mind like a picture book: She specializes in crafting fae-bonded weapons using autoimmune magic. Brilliant, capable, and loyal - only a fool would underestimate her."

The air burned with unknown magic, mingled with the heady smell of smoke and metal and something else… something sweet and clean. Azriel couldn’t put his finger on it as he followed behind his brothers, weaving through the packed, but homey workshop. 

Bookshelves filled with carefully attended tomes on woodworking, metallurgy, glassblowing, and more lined one of the walls, some faint traces of magic keeping them safe from the dust and soot that tended to accumulate in the corners. 

The other wall was decorated with an assortment of keys - brass, gold, silver, steel, even glass twinkled in the faelight, like a hundred pairs of eyes winking. When Cassian reached for one, the metal began to glow and spark, spitting out thin bursts of magic that smarted until the Illyrian had the sense to pull away.  

When Helion first offered your weapon-smithing services to Rhys, he had sung your praises so loudly that Nyx had awoken from his nap, whining incessantly for his father to rock him back to sleep.

Originally born to noble parents in the Dawn Court. She moved to Day thirty years before Amarantha’s rule to escape an ill-suited marriage and has been quietly designing weapons for Helion ever since. She specializes in crafting fae-bonded weapons using autoimmune magic. Brilliant, capable, and loyal - only a fool would underestimate her.

Azriel flipped through the information in his mind like a picture book, cycling through the lines Helion had spoken and his own independent research. He could recite your birthday, the names of your parents, your grandparents, your older brother who’d been killed in the war against Hybern, and the day you graduated university. He even knew the planned date of your wedding to some pompous Lordling from Summer. 

What he didn’t know was what you looked like, and he wasn’t sure what to expect. 

Perhaps he’d expected someone more refined and regal - you were of noble blood after all… but then they rounded the corner and your soot-stained face popped out from beneath the workbench, purple lens goggles magnifying your eyes to vibrant proportions. 

You flipped the goggles up, resting them on your head like a crown.

Azriel blinked. 

Strands of hair curled around your fire-blown eyes, framed by soft skin that had been spared the worst of the soot by your goggles. You looked like you had stepped out of a flame - strong and resilient as steel.

You were absolutely breathtaking.

“Oh shit.” You quietly cursed, bouncing to your feet. 

You chucked the gloves to the side, hastily wiping away at your cheeks before dipping into a perfect curtsy. You were an actress caught in the spotlights after an ill-timed curtain opening, and you needed to make up for the poor first impression. You hastily slapped on the costume of the High Born Lady, feeling every etiquette lesson your mother had hammered into you slide over your limbs until you were a puppet on strings. 

“My apologies, my Lords. I lost track of time.” The words rolled out automatically, perfectly timed and perfectly pleasant, “Forgive me.”

Azriel frowned. He didn’t like the change that had just taken place. 

You held one hand artfully over your chest, the other flowing out to the side as you remained frozen in your bow. His eyes traced over the curve of your neck, catching on the sliver of skin that peeked out from beneath your work shirt, then down the slope of your sturdy shoulders and arms - strong and limber after decades of hammering away at glass and steel. 

The High Lord of the Night Court waved off the comment, a charming smile brightening his face as he hoisted you out of your curtsy. If he cared about getting soot on his fine clothes, he didn’t show it.

“There’s no need for any apologies. It’s a pleasure to meet you Y/n. Helion’s told me much about you.”  

You blushed, subtly brushing back the hair that stuck to your forehead and wishing you’d taken the time to clean yourself up… maybe wash your face properly and change into cleaner clothes.

“My brothers-” The High Lord swung his arm out in a slash of Night Court velvet, “Cassian and Azriel.” 

You had to keep yourself from sighing. They were all terribly attractive. It almost wasn’t fair.

“The pleasure is all mine, High Lord,” You curtsied again, “And Lords.” You appended gracefully.

The High Lord was as sensual and charismatic as everyone said with his twinkling violet eyes and perfect smirk - the kind of smirk that announced to the world that he was very aware of the effect he had on males and females alike. 

Your eyes flickered down to the tailored velvet suit. It clung to his body impeccably, carving out his broad shoulders and trim waist. How he wasn’t stifling in the heat was beyond you. The furnace roared a little louder, as if to push the point. 

The Lord of Bloodshed - Cassian as he was called - possessed a wilder beauty. He was all hard-cut lines and cords of muscle with a faint brush of stubble along his jaw that suited him well. 

But the Shadowsinger. He was the one you had trouble dragging your eyes away from. There was something heartbreakingly solemn about him, like a hero plucked out of a fairytale bound to end in tragedy. The same boyish joy that touched his brothers seemed to have skipped over him, and you couldn’t help but wonder why. In fact he seemed… displeased, and your heart began to beat a little faster.

“Call me Rhys.” The High Lord winked, drawing your attention away from the dark and silent Shadowsinger, “Any friend of Helion’s is a friend of mine, and I like my friends to call me Rhys. It keeps me humble.” 

Cassian snorted, “Sure it does.” 

He shoved past his brother, settling into a comically wide stance. You tried to disguise your surprise and confusion when he leaned down further to be eye level with you. His eyes twinkled with mischief, as if he’d caught onto the slip in your perfectly tailored costume and he wanted to rip it off and burn it to the ground.

“The name’s Cassian,” He held out his hand for you to shake, “Or Cass,” He tilted his head to the side, deep in thought, “Or Bastard brute, as my wife so lovingly calls me.” 

You snorted, then froze in horror, one hand flying up to slap over your mouth. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-” 

Cassian tipped his head back and roared with laughter. It was the kind of sound powerful enough to fill a tavern and made you feel as giddy as three glasses of wine.

Azriel tamped down the jealousy that flared to life in his chest upon seeing that Cassian was the first to make you laugh. Not that he would have been able to make you laugh as easily as breathing… but he could dream. 

Your eyes were blown wide, confusion racking your body as every etiquette lesson crumbled into a pile of dust. Your mother had warned you of what to do with males that were too forward, too cold, too dramatic, too charming. But Cassian was a different breed entirely - he was too casual, too friendly and normal. It took you aback.

Rhys rolled his eyes. Leave it to Cassian to make a High Born Lady crack as easily as fresh ice on the Sidra. 

Cassian tapped his chest, looking quite satisfied with himself, “There’s no need for bowing or Court pleasantries. Rhysand’s the only one of us with any real house training anyhow. Prissy little Lordling.” 

“Hey.”

“You know it’s true, Rhys. You’re wearing fucking velvet.” 

Rhys snorted, “Don’t attack me because I have some sense of style.”

You swiveled between the two of them, uncertain of how to continue. “Well I-” You stammered, taking a step back and straightening your shoulders. 

Your mother’s words rang through your mind: Don’t slouch. 

“Apologies, for my… manners.” You finished lamely. 

“Good manners are wasted on Cassian,” Azriel said. Gods, even his voice was tragically beautiful, like the sound of rain drumming against a window, or the crisp call of wind when Autumn sighs its last breath and gives way to Winter. “And Rhysand too, actually.” He added, ignoring the sounds of protest from Rhys and Cassian. 

His heartbeat picked up when your eyes fell on him completely.

“Are they wasted on you?” If they were going to act so… uncouth, perhaps that gave you a pass, “Or did I suffer through endless hours preparing for my debutante ball for nothing?” 

Azriel tilted his head. He tried to imagine you as a debutante, paraded around to various suitors in a puffy dress like the gods-awful one Feyre had been shoved into for her first wedding, and it left a sour taste in his mouth. But when he tried imagining you in Night Court attire - something blue - he couldn’t help but find that he quite liked the scene he’d conjured up for himself. He smiled - a faint and quiet smile that made your heart go still.

Cassian and Rhys gaped when their brother quietly closed the distance between you two and bowed. He was the picture of grace - deadly, beautiful grace.

Azriel took your hand in his, reveling in the feeling of your calloused fingertips against his scarred palm, and gently brushed his lips against your skin. 

“No.” He murmured, casting his eyes up at you. You melted, falling into the molten sea of his hazel eyes, and it wasn’t because of the heat, “Good manners are not wasted on me.” He finished, straightening up and taking a step back.  

He didn’t look disappointed anymore. If anything he looked… amused and… at ease. 

You tried to imagine him smiling - a true smile full of teeth and unburdened joy - and found you quite liked the image you’d crafted for yourself.

You tilted your head to the side, trying to disguise just how much he’d affected you. One kiss and a look and you were a goner. How silly of you. 

“That was quite good. I’ll give you that.” 

Azriel tipped his head in a subtle bow, “Thank you, My Lady.” 

You scoffed. No one had called you by any proper title in centuries. 

“Shall we begin with you, High Lord?” You asked him first out of propriety, missing the faint frown on Azriel’s face. 

He knew he shouldn’t take anything personally. This was a business meeting first and foremost, but that didn’t stop the flicker of jealousy from budding in his stomach whenever you laughed at Rhysand’s teasing or whenever he leaned just a little too close to look at the sketches you drew. The only moment of satisfaction he felt was when you slapped Rhysand’s hand away from the wall, choosing to pull the samples from the chestnut shelves yourself before taking notes on the styles he preferred. 

Are you ok? Rhysand asked, raising his eyebrows. It was Cassian’s turn now and The Lord of Bloodshed sat beside you, carefully watching your hand drawn sketches come to life.

I’m fine.

You don’t look fine, brother. Rhys said with a smirk, You look like you want to murder Cass. 

Azriel wiped the faintest hints of emotion from his face, turning away from Rhys to look around the workroom. 

Everything was warm and coated in soft orange light from the raging forge. It felt like the moment before the sun sinks into the horizon, when the world is as syrupy and comforting as caramel. Chestnut bookshelves lined the wall, filled with as many trinkets, plates of armour, and weapons as books. A long workbench ran the length of the room, neat stacks of paper punctuated by gleaming blades of obsidian, moonstone, and steel. It was where you currently sat, outlined by the fire like some angel sent down from the heavens.

Azriel’s eyes stuck on one blade in particular, carefully laid out on a bolt of midnight blue velvet. Its bronze handle gave away to gold threaded steel sharp enough to cut light and shadow. The sheets had been folded over and hammered so many times that thin rivers of radiance twisted and turned down the blade, mirroring the runes that had been painstakingly etched along its spine.

“Lord Azriel?” His head snapped to the side, following your lyrical voice. You’d soundlessly made your way around the table without him noticing and now stood at his side, “Do you like anything you see?” 

Azriel froze. From this close up he could see the faintest gold flecks in your eyes, as though a forge was burning there too, some piece of you always hammering away at an anvil… but maybe that was just the hammering of his heart.

Cassian coughed. Loudly. Rhysand smirked, elbowing his brother, but Cassian was successful. Whatever spell had come over the Shadowsinger broke and color dusted his cheeks.

“It’s just Azriel - or Az. Either works.” He was technically a Lord… emphasis on technically. “Could you tell me about this one?” He pointed to the brilliant blade, hating the sight of his ruined hand so close to it. 

You picked it up with ease, spinning it around your body with a strong grace that made Azriel’s breath catch. You weren’t the most skilled swordsman by any means, but you knew enough. After all, if you were going to spend your life making swords you’d be damned if you couldn’t wield one properly.

“This one,” You said with a smile full of pride, “Is Sunseeker.” The blade began to glow, content to once again be in the hands of its master, “It took me decades to figure out how to bind weapons to one master, but once I did - well - I thought if anyone should have that kind of weapon first it should be me.” 

To your surprise, a faint smile graced Azriel’s lips. It was such a minor display, but it brightened the air around him. Even his shadows began to emerge, wrapping around his arms and inching towards you like a moth to a flame.

Sunseeker truly was a work of art, beautiful and deadly in equal measure. 

Cass whistled low, coming closer to admire it. “How does weapon binding work?” He asked curiously. 

Your eyes lit up mischievously, “Would you like me to demonstrate?” 

Cassian had just enough time to say “yes” and stretch out his hands before you handed him the blade and he dropped like a stone. 

“CAULDRON FUCK ME!” 

Rhysand sputtered, doubling over in laughter. Azriel snorted, a hand flying up to cover his mouth in surprise. They watched Cassian fall to his knees on the floor, grasping the handle of the blade that felt two thousand pounds heavier in his hands. 

You looked rather pleased with yourself. 

Cassian growled, bracing his feet on the floor and pulling up so hard Azriel could see the veins pop out of his neck. “Fucking hell.” He said through gritted teeth.

“Come on, Cass. Get up.” Rhysand teased, shoving his brother with the toe of his boot.

Cassian kicked him in the knee, but from his position the blow didn’t land properly, “I would if I could, you son of a b-”

“Don’t talk about my mother like that.”

“Fuck you.” 

“Just. Get. Up.” 

“I. Can’t. You piece of shit. I can’t let go of this gods-damned sword.” 

Azriel shifted closer to you, heavily amused as Rhys leaned down and grabbed hold of the hilt. His signature charming smile slid off his face.

“What the fuck-” He pulled once. Twice. Tried to pry his fingers off the hilt, but he couldn’t let go no matter how hard he tried. It was as though he’d been glued to a boulder.

Cassian smirked, “I told you.” 

You smiled up at the Shadowsinger as the pair continued to bicker, stretching up on your toes to whisper in his ear, “Hardly anyone knows about what I do so I have my fun when I can.” 

He fought not to shiver, feeling your breath curl around him as intimately as his shadows. Azriel chuckled - a low rumble in his chest that reverberated through your bones. 

“And how many have fallen victim to your tricks?” He asked. His voice was as smooth as butter and honey to your ears. “Just three. Your brothers and Helion.” 

“Helion?”

You nodded.

“I would have paid good money to see that.”

You grinned, leaning closer to him. Without a second thought, Azriel leaned in as well, as if he were a light-starved flower and you were the sun.

“Sunseeker is bound to me - tied to my magical signature and my blood. To me, she’s as light as a feather. To anyone else, she may as well be a mountain.” 

“And why can’t they let go?” 

“It’s another trick. If anyone tries to go for my weapon, they’ll be brought down to the ground and I’ll have enough time to kill them first.” You cleared your throat, “Not that I’m a naturally violent person but… well it doesn’t hurt to be smart about it.” 

“I would agree with you.” Az smiled once again, “Incredible.” He whispered, looking you in the eye, “You’re incredible.” 

You shifted on your feet, clasping your hands behind your back and looking away so he wouldn’t see how much his praise affected you.

“If you two are done flirting with one another, can you please help us?” Cassian grumbled. Rhys and Cass had both given up, opting to sit cross legged on the floor like a pair of scolded children.

You hurried over, muttering sheepish apologies. You’d overstepped and you knew it but… well they just seemed so casual with one another and with you that you’d forgotten they were highly powerful fae first, and your clients second.

The spell broke the moment you touched the sword, Cass and Rhys groaning in relief and jumping to their feet. You polished off the sword and placed it back on the table. 

“Ta da.” You wiggled your fingers. Cass huffed and Rhys cleaned off his clothes with a sweep of his hand. 

Az leaned down and spoke in your ear, hazel eyes glowing, “I think it’s my turn now.” 

You shivered, feeling both small and powerful under the weight of his gaze. Azriel decided to forgo the chair, choosing instead to kneel beside you. One arm rested on the back of your seat, hovering dangerously close to your shoulder blades as you repeated the same questions you’d asked Cassian and Rhys.

You jotted down notes diligently and Azriel took the time to admire your neat and simple handwriting. Your hand stilled over the paper as a tendril of darkness curled around your fingers. Azriel sat so close that your head swam with his scent. He smelled like winter mountains after rainfall - crisp and clean like a breath of fresh air. His shadows had similarly begun to wrap around you like an Autumn breeze, slipping through your hair and around your neck like they wanted to feel the pulse of your beating heart. 

Azriel swore under his breath, pulling them back as quickly as he could, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-” 

“I like them.” You said quietly, registering the shock in Azriel’s hazel eyes. You quickly went back to your sketch, “They remind me of home.” 

As a final step you took their measurements - the length of their arm, shoulder width, the distance between their hips and knees. Measuring Cassian and Rhysand went without incident, although they did poke fun when you pulled out a stepladder.

“It’s not my fault you’re all so ridiculously tall,” You grumbled, stretching out the tape across Azriel’s shoulders, “Did your mother fuck a tree?” 

The Illyrian snorted, “I wish.” He flinched once the words left his mouth, his smile twisting into a grimace.

“Hmmm?” You hummed curiously. Azriel felt your breath brush against the nape of his neck and shivered. 

“A tree might have treated her better than my…” Azriel trailed off. 

You’d been too young to attend Court when you still lived with your parents in Dawn. But even so, whispers of the Night Court were always followed by discussions of Amarantha’s whore and the Illyrian bastards.

His wings drooped and from the corner of your eye you saw Cassian’s gaze fall to the ground. Even Rhys bristled, the charisma sliding off his skin and replaced by something colder.

He loved his brothers more than himself, and the lack of a blood connection had never minimized the fact that they were his family - his legitimate family. He liked you, but one wrong word about his brothers and he would take his business elsewhere, no matter how talented you might be.

Azriel dared to glance at you, wondering if some part of you believed in the truth - that they were bastards unworthy of attention and respect in the eyes of true high fae nobles, or anyone for that matter. Even in your mussed up clothes you were radiant, carrying yourself with a confidence and grace that came from birth as much as it came from upbringing. 

You were royalty… and Azriel suddenly didn’t seem worthy of your attention, even though he was craving it right now.

Your lips tightened into a flat line, anger flaring up in your deep eyes, but you swallowed that anger and channeled the energy into making the brothers laugh once again, “Well I’ll go down on a limb and tell you trees are fantastic lovers.” You said, followed by a cheeky wink. 

Cassian turned to look at you, absolutely dumbfounded. Rhys was similarly shocked, violet eyes twinkling and mouth twisting into a smile. But it was Azriel who broke the silence first, tipping his head back and laughing so hard that his shoulders shook from the effort. The sound rang through the workshop, like the sound of rain falling. Cassian and Rhysand joined soon after, clutching their stomachs and leaning against chairs and tables for support. 

You bowed dramatically, arms sweeping to the sides like a tropical bird, “Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all evening.” 

And Azriel took that very seriously. After the sketches were finalized and the blood samples were collected to be bound to metal, Azriel hung close to you, quietly begging Rhys with his eyes to stay longer. They wouldn’t be back for another six months after this. 

Rhysand raised his eyebrow knowingly at Cassian and The Lord of Bloodshed smirked. 

“Y/n,” Rhys said, voice dripping with persuasion, “Are you hungry? Perhaps you’d like to join my family for dinner?” 

You blushed at the invitation, “That is very kind of you, but I think I’ll stay here and work on these further.” You shook the papers in your hand, “I don’t want to forget anything.”

“At least let us bring you food then,” Cassian jumped in quickly, “Az! Why don’t you keep our favorite artificer company until we come back.”

Azriel blanched, stiffening up like a board. He could admire you in the company of his brothers when you were distracted, but he would be hopeless if left alone. “Cass, I don’t think-”

“Oh, I don’t want to take up-” You stammered.

“What a wonderful idea,” Rhys clapped Cassian on the back, all but shoving him back the way they’d originally came, “We’ll be back soon!” 

The door hissed closed behind them and you blushed, daring to glance over at the Shadowsinger. At least he also looked flustered. You could find comfort and hope in that. 

“I guess it’s just us now.” You murmured. 

His eyes softened, taking in your figure, “I guess so.” 

You spent hours talking with him that night, both of you leaning over the tables as you discussed your work and what your life in Dawn had been like. Your parents’ marriage had been arranged in haste after a drunken one-sight stand resulted in your brother’s conception. There was little love to begin with, but after his still-birth, whatever affection had existed between them vanished into thin air. You’d been born seventy-three years later - a true born noble in name only. Your parents never hated you, although sometimes you wished they did. Their indifference was a unique pain that you’d never been able to shake off.

But Azriel… Azriel was anything but indifferent. He hung onto every word like it was liquid gold dripping from your lips, and you did the same. Clutching what he said like pearls and committing them to memory. 

You couldn’t hide your disappointment when Cassian and Rhys finally reappeared four hours later. “Oh.” You whispered, pulling your hands away from where they brushed against his on the table. 

“Apologies, it took so long.” Rhys grinned. 

He didn’t look sorry at all. In fact, he looked very pleased to see you and Az pressed together, sharing the same seat despite the empty chairs scattered about the room.

Azriel was less pleased and Rhys didn’t miss the faint frown on his brother’s lips as you begrudgingly reclaimed a seat of your own, nestled between Azriel and Cassian. He also didn’t miss when one of Azriel’s shadows curled around the leg of your chair and tugged you closer to him. 

You listened to the brothers talk. Rhys and Cassian carried the weight of the conversation, as they usually did, bickering over lunch leftovers and proudly discussing the progress their mates were making with their respective projects - Feyre with her art studio and Nesta with her Valkyries. Azriel’s shadows shrank away, a glint in his eye dimming when the subject came up. 

You stole a glance, watching him carefully. When he caught you staring you smiled and some of that glimmer came back. 

“Can I see you again?” Azriel asked quietly once you’d finished eating. Rhys had already cleaned up the food scraps with a snap of his fingers and now lingered by the door, speaking with Cassian.

You looked puzzled, “Won’t you be here when the swords are ready? It shouldn’t take longer than six months. Maybe less. And I can still make adjustments then, if you don’t find it to your liking.”

Azriel shook his head, smiling softly, “No I meant before that.” He glanced at his brothers - his lovingly overbearing, nosy, matchmaking brothers, “Just us again.” 

Your heart skipped a beat, tempo quickening after the momentary stillness. “Oh.” You breathed, “I would like that. I would like that very much.” 

“Good.” Azriel took your hands in his, feeling the rough calluses of your palm against his scarred skin. He pressed a kiss to both hands, then looked at you, “Until next time then.” 

Azriel could never regret meeting you that day, nor could he completely regret seeing you the next week… and the week after that… and the week after that. He burrowed underground with you, sought after the warmth of your home and of your heart like a moth to a flame, daring to brush closer and closer with every beat of his wings. 

But it had been a mistake to visit you so often, and so brazenly. Here, in the safety of your workshop, he forgot there were fires that were not so nurturing and lovely. And he forgot that there were others who sought your power and not just your company.

Next Chapter ->

[the-modern-typewriter]

The Blue Key

On her first night in her new home, after a lavish dessert of strawberry cheesecake and cream, her new husband handed her a clinking set of keys across the dining room table.

“You can go anywhere in the house,” her husband told her, “except the basement.”

He showed her the key to the basement. It was midnight blue.

“Why? Is the basement where you keep the bodies?” she asked, with half a smile.

He didn’t smile back. “Do you promise me?”

She studied him carefully, feeling the weight of the basement key in her hand.

There were many keys to the house - hefty ornate keys for their front and back doors, a pretty gold one for their bedroom, a dozen little silver and brass ones for any other lock in the house that she might come across. Windows and cabinets and the like.

The basement key was almost insubstantial against her palm. Negligible. The sort of key that was easily lost, that looked like it might belong to a doll house more than a proper estate.

She couldn’t read his expression.

“You can’t tell me what’s in there?”

“I will know if you open the door,” he said, “and everything that we are will end.”

She laughed again, uncertainly, because the words were surely absurd and certainly not like him. He could have simply told her it was dangerous and so best avoided, or not given her the key to the basement in the first place. She doubted she would have given it all that much thought among all the other rooms.

Yet, his words instead piqued curiosity.

Once again, he did not smile. He stared at her solemnly, with a hint of something haunted that she had only caught flickers of during their courtship.

The laughter died in her throat.

He had been like something from a fairy tale from the moment they met; Prince Charming to pluck her out of the ashes of her drab life, even if she knew he had been married before. Everyone knew. Just as none of them had expected him to pick her. She had no experience in the running of manor houses, and no especially outstanding beauty nor fortune of her own to make up for that fault. In short, she was nothing like his first wife.

But, she had made him laugh, and she had liked him. God, how she had liked him – and liked him still – with such blushing ferocity that it almost made her dizzy.

Her new home was enormous, and beautiful, and filled with the kind of impossible luxuries that she had never even dared to dream of having. It was filled with him. She was nothing, and nobody, and he had given her the keys to be something and somebody else. Someone better. What was one small forbidden key against all that?

She knew the preciousness of privacy. Sometimes a secret could be the only thing that was really yours.

“Okay.” She bit her lip, and started to unhook the key from the ring. “Would you like it back, then? Just to be sure.”

He recoiled as if she’d drawn a knife on him and shook his head.

“Keep it,” he rasped. “Keep it safe. Keep it locked. Let it be forgotten.”

But from that moment on, though, she never really forgot about the blue key for a moment.

***

The library was probably her favourite room in her new home. It was astonishing to be able to have an actual personal library, stocked from soft-carpet and gleaming hardwood floor to cavernous ceiling with walls upon walls of books of every kind. The orphanage had maybe three books, worn and ancient, each crumbling a little more with every reading.

There were lots of stories in her husband’s books about girls with keys, girls with curiosity, heroes with something they were not supposed to look at under the pain of death or something worse.

Psyche with Eros, who was told without explanation not to look upon her perfect and mysterious host, for there could be no love without trust.

Orpheus, forbidden to glance back at his love, lest he lose her for good.

Pandora, with her strange once unopened box of evils and hope, told it was hers.

Eve, with her curiosity, with her knowledge, lured into plucking that shining forbidden fruit.

Bluebeard too, of course, with his many murdered wives, all told not to seek out their bloody predecessors behind his secret door, because – why?

Because it was a game of female obedience? Because it gave a predator an excuse to do what he did best, when he knew from the first instance that his victims would have to know? He chose them, after all. And why did they look, those wives, against all warning?

Because the uncertainty was unbearable? Because it was their home too? Because they loved the man they married and wanted to know everything there was to know of him? Maybe they wanted to save him. It was never cruelty.

The two of them were happy, her husband and her, as blissful as newlyweds were want to be.

In the evenings they would cuddle before the roaring fires, night caressing the windows, and he would read aloud from his favourite passages or play music. In the days he would work, or leave on some business or other, and she would wander the labyrinthian corridors alone and explore the many treasures tucked away behind his many locked doors.

The library could have lasted her years, but she found a room with a ceiling made of magnifying glass by which to observe the stars, a swimming pool built into the rock beneath the entrance hall, a lush garden bursting with colour that she could tend to in the sunshine.

There were servants to take care of the day-to-day running of the building, and so he did not seem to desire any particular purpose of her except to be his wife. Except for her to live in his home, in their home, and enjoy his easy company and the gifts he gave her. She found ways to keep busy. To contribute.

Thus, it took her many months to walk down towards the basement, to first look upon the door that she was not allowed to open. Spring had turned to the first icy breaths of winter.

The door was painted the same midnight blue as the key, and immaculate in condition. The lock was tiny. A dark slither, a crack, in something otherwise quite lovely.

She pressed her hand against the door and the wood was warm compared to the cool, slightly stale, underground air that filled her chest.

She dropped a hand into her pocket, fingers closing unerringly around the blue key. She tried not to touch it, not to think about it, but she had come to know it instantly by shape and feel alone. It was simply so odd to have a key so small. She had half expected the door would be in miniature too.

How could he possibly know, if she opened it? In some tales it was magic. The key would betray her. He would know by seeing it. But her husband did not want to look upon the key, he had never even mentioned it once after their first dinner.

What then was in the basement? Something so terrible that she could no longer love him? Or perhaps it was empty. Perhaps it was structurally unsound. Perhaps it was simply a test on if she would allow him that one thing that was his and his only.

She leaned down, and pressed her eye to the keyhole with a hammering heart. She didn’t know what she expected to see inside, exactly – a skeleton, or some ghoul staring back at her, or some hidden vault even. There was only darkness. Nothing to see. She straightened again, unsure if the painful feeling in her lungs was breathless relief or airless disappointment.

She walked back up the stairs.

She turned over the pages of stories in the library, and turned the key over and over in her palm, and wondered which of those many tales she was in.

***

“I think,” she said one night, as they lay in bed. “That it bothers me more that you will not tell me, than anything that could possibly be in the basement.”

He stiffened on the mattress next to her.

“Is there something I could do,” she rolled onto her side to face him, “so that you would know you could trust me with the truth?”

His expression was half-hidden in the dim light, his body made unfamiliar by slashes of moonshine slicing through the curtains. His blue eyes were open, staring up, away from her.

“You promised me that you would not dwell on the door.”

“No.” She reached out, tracing her fingers gently along the curve of his jaw, coaxing him to meet her searching gaze. “I promised I wouldn’t open it. There’s a difference.”

He snorted, but tipped his head towards her hand, planting a kiss to her knuckles.

“Can you at least narrow down the possibilities?” She pressed into the silence, because kisses were sweet but they were not an answer. “Is it something I shouldn’t see? That you don’t want me to see? Something that – I don’t know – can’t be let out? Are you the secret guardian of a nightmare world?” She attempted another smile, but it wobbled shaky. “Just give me something, and I’ll leave it alone. I just want to know. I need to know. Whatever it is – whatever it could possibly be – you don’t have to carry it alone. We’re supposed to be a team. That’s what marriage is.”

“Is my word not enough for you?” He sounded tired. “Is everything I have given you not enough?”

She scrunched up her nose at him. “You’d be happily blind, if it were you?”

“Ignorance can be bliss.”

“If you wanted me ignorant, why tell me about the key in the first place? You know me.”

They’d met on account of her curiosity, of her straying to places that she wasn’t supposed to be. He’d been visiting the library of one of the great colleges, reserved for great men like him, and she’d snuck in aching for a glimpse of the world.

Her husband said nothing.

“When you first gave me the key…” She swallowed. “You looked scared.” Her fingers, which had often brushed his in the library stacks once upon a time, grazed his pulse. It was racing. “I would fight monsters for you. Even if you’re the monster.”

As the silence stretched, she thought he might say nothing again, until the silence had grown so large that they might never reach each other across the abyss of it.

“I love you,” he said. His voice cracked. He caught her hand, entwining their fingers together, and squeezed. “Goodnight.”

The seconds ticked by into minutes, into she didn’t know how long.

“Is it a curse?” she whispered, into the dark. “If you’re not allowed or able to tell me, squeeze my hand twice.”

“Oh my god.” His voice was muffled, then, as he pulled a pillow over his face and wrenched free of her. “It’s two in the morning, darling. Go to sleep.”

***

She watched the door diligently for about a month. She didn’t think her husband had some poor creature locked up in the basement, but if he did then one would assume that either he would have to visit, or have the servants visit, in order to provide his victim some form of sustenance.

Nobody visited the basement door except her. There could not be anything living on the other side.

At least, not unless there was some other second secret door and tunnel system, hidden somewhere on the grounds. She didn’t see anyone vanish to one of those either, though. Would she, if it wasn’t on the grounds? How large a conspiracy could a little blue key possibly hold?

Would it count as ‘opening the door’ if she made a hole in the wall next to the door? 

She remembered her husband, in the college library the first time they met, spying the collection of ghost stories she’d been straining to reach. He’d grabbed it off the top shelf for her, easily, a glimmer of amusement curling his lips.

“I never really got these stories,” he’d mused. “If it were me, I would simply not have gone into the haunted house in the first place. Or, one look at a ghost and – no, no thank you. Goodbye! Have a nice life.”

She’d gaped at him.

He’d shrugged at her, and handed her the book. “But I can see that you’re a braver soul than me,” he said. “Sneaking into a place like this uninvited.”

She’d accepted the volume, clutching it protectively to her chest.

“Well,” she’d managed. “People like you are already invited everywhere, aren’t they? So you don’t have to be brave.”

He’d startled into a laugh.

She’d wondered if he would expose her to security, wondered if she should have denied it, wondered how he’d seen through her so swiftly and –

“Don’t worry.” He’d already been turning away, with a last lingering glance at her. “I can keep a secret.”

She’d only learned later who he was, and that it had been a month since his wife had died.

How, exactly, had his first wife died? The papers had said ‘tragic accident’, but there had been no witnesses. He didn’t talk about it, or about her.

No. She was being ridiculous. Maybe she had only imagined the flicker of terror on her husband’s face, the way he had flinched from the key, the rough urgency in his voice. Whatever it was, whatever it could possibly be, was not worth sacrificing what they had. There were other rooms; a dozen of them!

She buried the damn key in the garden. Out of sight, out of mind. Better that than completely losing her mind over something that probably had a completely rational explanation. Love was a leap of faith. 

She woke up the next morning to find the blue key back on the key ring, still covered with a fine sprinkling of dirt.

***

Her least favourite stories in the library were the ones about fate.

Maybe some people found such notions encouraging, comforting even in their reassurance that all of the suffering in the world was for a reason and that people could have some incredible purpose laid out for them. She’d always found the idea to be like quicksand beneath her feet, sucking her down down down trapped.

For, if it was fate, there could be no real escape. No chance. No hope.

She kept returning to the story of Bluebeard, tracing variations and retelling with the blue teeth of her blue key.

Maybe, if she was Bluebeard’s final wife, she would open the door and ultimately inherit a grand fortune, and recover from the trauma of falling in love with someone who wasn’t what they said they were.

What if she was only the second wife though, or the metaphorical third? What if her fate was to be some dead thing written only to add background colour to someone else’s happy ending?

It was all well and good of her husband to claim he would never go into a haunted house, but such declarations only really worked if one knew they were in a horror story instead of something else.

“Do you think, maybe,” she asked her husband as winter turned back to spring, “that we could go away somewhere?”

They strolled through the gardens, his arm wrapped protectively around her frail shoulders. Ever since the key incident she had found it difficult to sleep, to eat, to not find herself worrying about the door like worrying a hangnail until she tore off bloodied scraps of her own skin.   

The house, which had once seemed so large to her, had turned into something suffocating. She had no friends in the area, and however far she went along the grounds in the lonely hours of her husband’s working, the door would always be there for her and the key would always be in her pocket. The questions, the creeping doubts, would buzz in her brain like flies swarming a corpse.

“Go away?” He seemed surprised. “Is there something else that you need?”

She had tried simply hiding the key, then stayed up all night staring at the key ring laying on her bedside to try and catch the culprit who’d dug it up from beneath the roses.  One of the servants must have brought the damn thing back, right? Perhaps, the housekeeper? She got the impression that the severe woman had never really approved of her, never liked her. She was not as impressive and perfect a candidate as his first wife had been.

She had seen nothing, but when she fell finally into an exhausted slumber, the key had been waiting for her.

“I just thought it might be nice for us both to get away for a while,” she said. “A holiday. You’ve been so busy with your work.”

She had tried burning the key. It did not burn.

“There is a lot to do,” he said. “This is a large estate. It takes – management, a lot of care.”

“Perhaps I could help you?”

“It is not your burden, darling.”

“But it’s yours? A burden?”

The key, whatever it was, had to be of some supernatural origin. Of that she was increasingly certain. Well, the ghosts were in the house, so to speak, and he wasn’t leaving! He wouldn’t look at her, his attention fastened on the first snowdrops shoving their heads from beneath the hard earth.

“Tell me,” she said. “Or come away with me, please.”

He glanced at her, then.

She reached into her pocket and held up the blue key.

He turned away, quickening his pace as if he couldn’t wait to get away from it too.

“Where,” he said the next morning, “would you like to go, love?”

At the sea side, she tossed the key into the water when he wasn’t looking. If it was the servants, if there was any chance that something in the house was messing with her, with them, then even its evil reach could surely not reach beyond the borders of the property?

It was better for a while, after that. They were both lighter on holiday, away from his family home, with all of its history and responsibility.

The house on their return, waiting for them as it always was and would be, felt new and full of possibility again. They kept laughing over their first dinner back and fell asleep still high on love and freedom and everything they were supposed to be.

The next morning, impossibly, the blue key was on the key ring again.

She started to cry.

“I’m sorry,” her husband said. The colour had leached, stricken, from his handsome face. He looked older. Exhausted, too. His eyes were dark. “I wish—” He fell silent. He reached out to her, and she recoiled. “I’m sorry.”

“You wish what?” It came out whip sharp.

He said nothing. 

She shook her head, the laugh on her breath not really a laugh at all. Of course, he would still not tell her.

“If you don’t tell me,” she said, “everything that we are will end. You understand that, don’t you?” She fumbled the key off the ring and hurled it onto the sheets between them. It sat there, so disgustingly innocuous looking, a glint of blue among the white. “This isn’t fair. This is – sick. Take it back.”

“I know.” He folded his arms, less great man, more frightened child hugging himself. He stared down the key like an old enemy. “I know.”

“Or,” she said. A plea edged into her tone. “We could leave. For good. Let this house, let that door, be forgotten. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

He shook his head, less ‘no’ and more ‘I can’t’ and more ‘I’m sorry’.

She squared her shoulders, even as his slumped. “Tell me, at least, if I should go. You love me, right? If there was something rotten in that basement, you would want to protect me from it, wouldn’t you?”

“You can go,” he said. “If that’s what you want. That’s always been your choice.”

She stared at him.

He looked haunted, hunted, and he had known all along that the key would always end up back on the ring, hadn’t he? That was why he hadn’t simply taken it off when he first gave them to her. She would have thought he didn’t trust her if he’d never given her the keys to her own home at all too, wouldn’t she?

She debated leaving him. She debated walking out the house and – what?  

He looked so broken.

She sighed, the defiant fury sluicing off her shoulders too. She rounded the bed and craned up on her toes to kiss the lost furrow of his forehead.

“Just ignore it,” he said, clutching her hands. “Just ignore the door, and we can be happy.”

“Darling,” she said. “You don’t seem happy here.”

She kissed his lips, like packing up a suitcase, and snatched the blue key back up off the sheets.

Then she went down to the basement and opened the door.

[morgaseus]

Thinking about slow dancing with sunday…

Contains slight spoilers for the Penacony quest. Set before the nameless arrived in Penacony.

“Do you know how to dance?”

The scratching of a pen suddenly stopped, he lifted his head, pen hovering above the parchment for a moment, before finally being laid down beside it. Your voice echoed throughout his study, breaking the silence between you two.

“Oh? Where did that suddenly come from?" His gaze drifted towards you. Moonlight spilled through the windows, tracing silver lines across your face. You were always beautiful but basked in the moonlight's glow, you looked absolutely breathtaking, as delicate as the forget-me-not's in his garden.

“I was thinking” you trailed off, slowly walking towards the gramophone resting beside the bookshelf. Your fingers trailed along the smooth brass surface of the gramophone, before finally reaching for the record tucked beside it. And with a click, a slow, but familiar melody filled in the air. “How about a dance?” You turned to him with a smile.

You needn't say anymore. He rose from his chair, his leather shoes creating a soft thud along the carpet as he walked towards you. The moonlight that filtered through the window bathed him in an ethereal glow. It danced across his features, casting a faint glow to his golden halo. His dull gray hair shimmered, the moonlight painting it silver. It emphasized the sharp, yet, soft angles of his face. His feathery soft wings, pierced with golden studs. You wonder how he got that, whenever you asked, he’d always changed the subject. You let out a faint smile. Everything about him was captivating but it was his eyes that drew you in. His golden eyes, full of secrets, held a warmth that enveloped you. You could get lost in them forever. Ahhh. truly, he looked like a being that fell from the heavens. Befitting his title as “the most handsome man in Penacony.” 

As he reached you, his hand extended, palm open and inviting. A soft smile present in his face, his gaze never leaving yours. “Well, then, would you care for a dance, m’lady?”

You gladly took his hand and slipped into his embrace, swaying together to the rhythm of the melody. In this moment, he could lose himself entirely. Whenever you’re with him, time seems to slow down, the world fading into a blur.

The weight of the Oak family’s legacy - the 106,366 oak family members - loomed over him like a dark cloud. And with the Charmony Festival looming, a single misstep could shatter generations of aspirations. He'd been preparing for this ever since the dreammaster whispered words of promises in his ear. Every moment led to that one, final performance. 

No longer would Robin have the need to go on a “tour” and risk her life to bring harmony. No longer would everyone have to suffer and endure mortal pain. No longer would everyone have to tear down each other's throat for a mere sliver of gold. He will bring order and utopia to everyone. Yes, he will be their salvation, not a tyrant, not a conqueror, but a shepherd ushering his flock to a new dawn. 

Yet, for a moment, under the soft glow of the moon, he allowed himself to forget. In your arms, the crushing weight seemed to ease.

For now, it was just you and him.

[pinksturniolo]

the star room

a one shot from the switch universe

summary: it's a typical saturday night at cherry bomb with your partners, matt and chris. except this time, it's your turn to make them cry and beg.

content warnings: smut, threesome (sort of?) (no male on male/incest) dom!reader x sub!matt and chris, bdsm, blindfolding, slapping, masturbation, face sitting, teasing, edging

a/n: if you haven’t read switch i suggest reading that first bc it explains a lot lol but this story is centered around bdsm and if that is something you’re not comfortable with, pls don’t read <3 love u guys

the red room ✔︎

the star room ✔︎ (now viewing)

the candy room ◷...

the flower room ◷...

In the dimly lit confines of your mind, fantasies had been a whispered promise—a secret garden you’ve longed to tread with authoritative steps. The last few times you had been with Chris and Matt, you had seen those hushed desires bloom into audacious intent. They took their turns controlling you sexually in almost every room of this club, leaving you with tear-stained cheeks and purplish-blue marks on various areas of your body.

There was no denying how much you thoroughly enjoyed it. But recently, your desires have taken on a whole different need. You wanted nothing more than to be the one delivering the pain, the power. And your wishes were again granted as you embraced the call of dominance that thrummed through your veins. With Matt and Chris, willing subjects to your budding command, you had decided it was time to unfurl the petals of power within the sanctum of the star room.

As you cross the threshold into those opulent and pink shiny walls of the room, your silhouette floats like a siren’s song. Each stride was measured, deliberate—the click of heels like a metronome to the racing pulses of the men who awaited you. Clad in nothing but shadows and the sheerest of lingerie, the curves of your body were lovingly caressed by the ambient light that danced through the room.

The air was thick with expectation, a heady mix of musk and desire that wrapped around the three of you like a silken shroud. Your eyes, dark pools of commanding allure, swept over Matt and Chris, drinking in their rapt attention. You could feel the weight of their gazes upon you, an almost tangible caress that beckoned you forward.

"Good evening." You purred, voice laced with the honeyed venom of control.

Confidence rolled off you in waves, a potent aura that filled the room with the electric buzz of anticipation. As you stood before them, the embodiment of sensuality and power, it was clear that the stars themselves had conspired to give birth to this moment—the night they would orbit your whim, lost in the gravity of your will.

Your gaze settles on the plush bed, its covers smooth and inviting, a perfect canvas for the night's artistry, with silk sheets matching the pink hue of the walls. Your heart thrums with exhilaration. With a swivel of your hips, you pointed to the bed, voice dripping with authority.

"Sit," You command, your tone leaving no room for disobedience. "Backs against the headboard."

Matt and Chris moved as if in a trance, their bodies responding to your command with an eagerness that betrayed their simmering excitement. They positioned themselves obediently, the muscles in their backs straining against the fabric of their shirts as they anticipated your next move. The gold brass of the headboard stood tall and firm behind them, a symbol of their own impending submission.

Their chests rose and fell, breaths becoming shallow as you approached, your fingers dancing along the collection of silk blindfolds resting on the nearby dresser. You selected two with care, the fabric gliding between your fingers like liquid shadows.

"Close your eyes," you whispered, your words a caress against their skin.

With deliberate slowness, you approached Matt first, standing close enough that he could feel the heat radiating from your body. His nostrils flared slightly, drawing in your scent—a mix of jasmine and the underlying trace of your arousal. You lifted the blindfold and placed it gently over his eager eyes, tying it securely at the back of his head. Matt's world went dark, his other senses immediately sharpening, attuned to your every shift and rustle.

Chris watched with bated breath, a coil of anticipation winding tight in his stomach. His turn came swiftly, and as the soft fabric enveloped his vision, a shiver of vulnerability coursed through him. Rendered sightless, both men were now acutely aware of the subtlest sounds: the whisper of fabric against skin, the quiet inhale of breath, the faintest brush of fingertips along their arms.

They sat in darkness, the absence of sight amplifying every sensation that followed. Their hearts hammered in tandem, echoing the rhythm of their unspoken desires. In this realm of shadowed sensation, you gained control.

The star room had transformed under your dominion into a theater of sensual exploration—an arena where you would test the limits of pleasure and obedience.

Silence settled over like a delicate shroud, as you let them adjust to their sight taken away. And then your voice cut through the quiet, establishing your command with an undeniable edge.

"Remember boys," you began, circling the bed, "silence is golden, and your hands are to be kept to yourself. If you disobey, I’ll restrain you against the headboard. And I’ll be the only one getting off tonight."

Your words hung heavy in the air, a sweet threat that made Matt's pulse quicken and Chris stiffen with a mix of fear and longing. They knew better than to challenge you; your authority was absolute in this dance of dark desires.

You savored the power you held, allowing it to seep into the sinews of your confidence. You approached Matt first, your form barely concealed by the sheer lingerie that hugged your body like a second skin. Your fingers danced lightly over his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles. You felt him shudder beneath your touch, a sculpture coming to life under your caress.

You allowed your hand to drift lower, your fingertips brushing the bulge that betrayed Matt's arousal. Through the fabric of his pants, you teased him, applying just enough pressure to elicit a low moan that he quickly swallowed, remembering your decree of silence. The sound only spurred you on, your movements growing bolder as you rest your leg on him lightly and ground your knee against him, feeling his erection straining for release.

A moment of weakness had Matt's hand twitching, the urge to touch you overwhelming. He’s still adjusting to your dominance over him and he can’t control his emotions when he starts to become a little annoyed at the fact you’ve already started to torture him so painfully.

He’s shamelessly hard as you continue to rub him through his pants and he’s desperate for more friction as he grips your hips and pulls you against him harder. But no sooner had his fingers grazed your waist than you pulled back, a sharp crack resounding through the room as your palm met his cheek. His breath hitched, not from pain, but from the surge of desire that followed your reprimand.

"Bad boy," you chided, your tone laced with admonishment, allure and anger. The slap, far from deterring him, ignited something within Matt—a flame fanned by each word you spoke, each touch you granted or withheld. He wanted more, to feel the sting of your control and the softness of your dominance mingling into an intoxicating contradiction.

“If you do that again, you’ll regret it.” You whisper in his ear. “Hands to yourself.”

He simply nods, breathless as you shove him back against the headboard. You sit fully on his lap now, your arousal soaking onto his pants. Despite his disobedience, your own growing need is hard to ignore. You can’t help but moan out as you grind against him harshly.

“I’m so… fucking… wet..”

Every syllable is pronounced clearly and with such desperation that Matt whines, but continues to keep his self-control in check.

He swallows hard and takes in a shaky breath, his heart racing as he feels exactly how wet you are when you take his hand softly and run it down your chest, his fingers grazing over your cleavage that spills out of your bra, trailing down over your stomach and lowering to the hem of your panties where you allow him to slip his fingertips inside the soaked fabric, and caress your incredibly slick folds.

“Fuuuuck..” He groans, his cock straining against his jeans when he feels you. Now he’s becoming all too desperate and practically panting as you continue to allow him to slide his fingers through your pussy for a few more seconds before grabbing his wrist and yanking his hand out of your underwear.

He grits his jaw with frustration and holds back words of defiance.

A quiet but insistent whine is heard next to you.

Chris moves impatiently in his spot on the bed, his sense of heightened hearing picking up on the sound of how wet you are as Matt touched you. The sound is all too enticing, and he huffs in annoyance at the fact that he’s not the direct cause of your arousal and that’s he’s not the one you have your current attention on.

Chris is also a switch as you’ve come to know in the past few times you’ve been with him. But unlike matt, he really enjoys being submissive to you more. He would let you do anything to him, as long as it was causing you pleasure.

"I really don't appreciate your impatience, Chris," You scolded lightly, your voice carrying a hint of playfulness. "Only good boys who are patient and listen get what they want. Right, Matt?" You grip Matt’s jaw in your hand harshly and tilt his head towards you. He nods eagerly, his teeth grazing against his bottom lip. "Hm?" You pressed further, wanting to hear him say it. "Yes ma'am," he replied obediently.

You hold his face in your hands, your thumbs running over the stubble of his beard. His lips part as your fingertips brushes over them, and you softly insert them into his mouth, pressing them against his wet tongue. You’re throbbing from the feeling and moaning aloud again. “Good boy.” Matt’s hips shift ever so slightly underneath you from the praise and you smirk.

Chris, though sightless, could sense the charged atmosphere, the ebb and flow of power and submission between you and Matt. He ached to be part of it, to be the canvas upon which you painted your pleasure. And as your laughter, light and teasing, filled the room, he knew his turn would come—when you decided he had waited long enough.

You turned your attention to Chris, the air practically humming with anticipation. With a smile that promised both pleasure and torment, you climbed off Matt and approached him. Chris's breath hitched, his heart hammering against his ribcage as he waited for your touch, for the sensation he had been denied while feeling and hearing you and Matt’s exchange.

"Good boys get rewards," you murmured. You traced a single finger down Chris's chest, over the taut muscles that quivered beneath your touch. "Do you want to be rewarded, Chris?"

"Y-Yes," he whispered, remembering your command for silence. He swallowed hard, desperate to maintain control, to prove himself worthy of your favor.

"Then you will follow my instructions without hesitation." Your words were a velvet caress, wrapping around him, binding him more securely than any rope could.

You guided his hands from where they rested obediently at his sides, bringing them up to the curves of your waist. The heat of your skin seeped into his palms, and despite the blindfold obscuring his vision, he saw you in his mind's eye—resplendent, commanding, an empress of sensuality.

"Feel me," you commanded, and he did, his fingers exploring the softness of your flesh, the lace that clung to your form. He wanted to pull you closer, to bury himself in the warmth of your body, but he held back, knowing that any transgression would cost him this exquisite privilege.

As you reveled in the power you wielded, a thrill coursed through you. The control was intoxicating, the sight of these two men—so strong, so willing to submit—fueling a fire within you. You felt their desire like a palpable force, their need to be touched and taken by your hand alone.

"Please," Chris's voice broke through the silence, hoarse with desperation. "I need you."

"Patience," you whispered, though your own body trembled with the effort it took to deny them. The power you held was a double-edged sword, cutting into your resolve just as keenly as it tested theirs.

Chris's hands moved with hesitant reverence, as though he was afraid you would vanish if he pressed too hard, if he dared to grasp rather than caress. But oh, how he wanted to—to claim, to possess, to worship at the altar of your pleasure.

"Good boy," you praised, and he shuddered beneath your touch, the simple words a benediction that promised salvation in the form of your approval.

The room filled with the sounds of ragged breathing and whispered entreaties, a heady mix that lingered on the edge of fulfillment.

Your own desire mounted, spiraling higher with every second you remained in command. You fed off their eagerness, their unspoken pleas for release, knowing that when you finally allowed them their climax, it would be all the sweeter for the wait.

"Keep begging," you instructed, your tone laced with dark promise. "It only makes me want you more."

"Y/N. You know how bad I need you." he breathed, his voice a velvet caress that sent shivers down your spine, "I want more… please."

With a deft movement, you shifted, straddling his face, the scant fabric of your lingerie a tantalizing barrier. The blindfold rendered him sightless, amplifying every touch, every sound. He inhaled deeply, the scent of your arousal a heady perfume that promised ecstasy.

"Please," he repeated into the darkness, his voice muffled against the softness of your thighs.

"Shut up," you chastised gently, yet firmly. "Only your tongue can speak now." You commanded, spurring him into action.

His lips found the delicate lace, tracing the outline of your heat through the thin barrier. With deliberate slowness, you rocked your hips, guiding him in the dance of pleasure. When his tongue finally brushed against you, you allowed yourself a soft moan, a reward for his obedience. Each flick and swirl drew a symphony of sensation from deep within you, notes of pleasure that spiraled upward, seeking release.

Matt, bound by your earlier command to keep his hands to himself, could only listen to the intoxicating sounds, the wetness of Chris's efforts, and your soft cries of delight. His own need throbbed, insistent, but he knew better than to seek relief without permission. His blue eyes, hidden beneath the blindfold, ached to witness the scene unfolding before him.

"So good, baby…" you gasped, your control fraying at the edges as Chris’s ministrations grew more persistent.

But the moment was yours to prolong, and with a reluctant sigh, you lifted yourself from Chris’s eager mouth. Ignoring his groan of protest, you trailed your fingers down your own body, teasing yourself through the dampened lace.

"Patience," you reminded them both, though the word was a balm to no one. You removed your lingerie with a fluid motion, baring yourself to their obscured view. You lay your head on Chris’s lap and drape the lower half of your body over Matt’s. Your fingers replaced where Chris’s lips had been, circling and dipping with precision that spoke of intimate knowledge of your own body.

They both groan in frustration. You knew this particular form of teasing was absolute torture.

As you pleasured herself, your breathing became labored, your movements more urgent. The sound of your slick fingers moving rhythmically filled the room, a visceral reminder of the denied gratification that hung heavy in the air.

"Are you both thinking of how I feel?" you asked, your voice strained with desire. "Can you imagine the warmth, the wetness?"

"God, yes," Chris whispered, his restraint near breaking. You can hear Matt silently cursing to himself under his breath.

"Imagine it's you inside me," you continued, your tone laced with seduction and cruelty in equal measure. "But not yet. You haven't earned it."

The denial was torture, exquisite and calculated, pushing them all to the precipice of sanity. You arched into your touch, your climax building like a storm on the horizon—powerful, inevitable, and utterly consuming.

Your body trembled on the crest of your own release, but you withheld your satisfaction for a final act of domination. With a breathless command, you reached out and removed the blindfold from Matt’s eager eyes, granting him the first glimpse of you in all your glory: curves glistening with the sheen of desire, hair tousled in wild abandon.

"Look at me," you ordered, and Matt’s eyes snapped from his hypnotized gaze on your wet core to your flushed face like iron filings to a magnet. His eyes were pools of hunger and adoration, reflecting your image as though you were a goddess descended. You positioned herself above him, straddling his hips with an authority that sent shivers down his spine.

"You want to be inside me, Matt?" You asked.

"Yes baby, please." he breathed, the ache in his voice mirroring the throbbing need between his legs.

"Then be a good boy and let me use you." With that, you sank onto him in one fluid motion, enveloping him in your warmth. Matt gasped, his hands flexing at his sides, aching to touch you but remembering your edict of obedience.

Chris sat beside him, still blindfolded, every sound amplified in the darkness behind his eyelids—the slick slide of skin against skin, your needy moans and rhythmic breathing.

You rode Matt with calculated movements, each roll of your hips a stroke of artistry designed to draw out his pleasure—and his torment. You watched his face contort with the struggle to remain silent, to obey, to please you. When his hands twitched, reaching up only to fall back helplessly, you smiled with cruel satisfaction.

"Keep your hands to yourself," you reminded him sweetly, even as you leaned down to brush your lips against his ear. "Or you'll lose even this."

Matt nodded, biting back a groan as you increased your pace. You moaned loudly, burying your face into his neck as your hands gripped his shoulders, the feeling of him inside you so satisfying.

“Fuck, Matt, you feel so fucking good. I can feel you deep inside me...” You babbled, your own pleasure taking over.

He could feel himself spiraling, the pressure building to a pinnacle he could no longer resist. With a choked cry, he pleaded for permission.

"Come for me," You whispered, and it was both command and allowance. Matt’s world shattered, pleasure seizing him in an iron grasp as he climaxed, his essence spilling into you in waves of surrender.

As his tremors subsided, you dismounted, catching your breath. You then turned your attention to Chris, who had been a silent (but weakening) sentinel throughout your conquest. Carefully, you reached out and removed his blindfold as well, allowing him to see you—flushed, triumphant… finally now his.

"Your turn." You spoke, your voice softened now with an intimate tenderness.

Chris’s blue eyes locked with yours, and there was a momentary flicker of something deeper, more profound than simple lust. You joined him on his side of the large pink bed, your bodies aligning with a familiarity born of many shared secrets.

Your coupling was a stark contrast to the earlier display of control. Where the experience had been a spectacle of your dominance before, now it was about connection. As you moved together, the outside world faded; there was only the feeling of him filling you completely as he pinned you down, in missionary, the sound of your combined sighs, the taste of your kisses.

The rhythm was unhurried, each movement a deliberate exploration. Chris’s hands roamed over your body with reverence, as he thrust into you, pausing only to feel the bulge in your stomach from how deep he was. Matt watched you and only you, lost in the pleasure that Chris was now giving you.

"Come here," you beckoned gently, your voice a whisper that seemed to caress the air itself.

Matt moved closer, his movements tentative, as if he was still under the spell of the blindfold, unsure of your tenderness that stood in stark contrast to the dominance you had wielded earlier.

His hands that you had once demanded to stay away from you, now roamed freely through your hair, stroking with a care that spoke of an intimacy far beyond the physical realm they had just traversed. He brushed away the damp tendrils stuck to your forehead, the gesture full of reverence and quiet adoration. It was a small act, yet it only spurred your building climax as Chris dug his fingers into the flesh of your hips, rocking against you, feeling your walls tighten around him.

It wasn’t long before you were moaning Chris’s name aloud as he made you orgasm, his fingers that had caused marks on your hips now circling your clit. He followed closely after, his mouth ajar as he came inside you and then pulled out a few moments later after catching his breath, watching his seed spill out of you and down your inner thigh.

"Thank you," you murmured to both of them, your voice almost inaudible. It wasn't clear whether you thanked them for their obedience or for their willingness to explore the shadowy corners of their passions together. Maybe it was for both—or for something more profound that words could scarcely capture.

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@sturniolopepsi @tillies33ssss @whicked-hazlatwhore @riasturns @christhopersturniolo @junnniiieee07 @sturnsjtop @seahorsie11 @inveigledvex @mattslolita @certifiednatelover @glassesmattsbae @eryismum @sturncakez @wh0resstuff @ribread03 @sturniololoco @75sturn @mattscoquette @jnkvivi @h3arts4harry @chrizznmetswife @bambi-slxt @streamermattsgf @mattspolitank

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Hidden Treasure 1

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

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

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

Summary: your quiet life is interrupted by a tempestuous man. (reader is Blair from Follow You Anywhere)

Characters: Thor

Note: I just did it, okay?

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You lay out the hand-sewn coin purses along the left side of the table, completing the array of your hand-made and repurposed goods. It’s a good day to sell, sunny but not too hot, the early days of spring when people are eager to get out. At least it should be. Despite your selection, you’re not the most personable vendor along the square. 

The last detail is the hand-painted wood sign. You did it yourself; an antique frame you added a gold hue to and filled with a thin sheet of board. It isn’t much but it tells people what they’re looking at; handmade and renewed goods. 

You fold your hands and hover behind your table. You’re a one-person operation. It’s your own table, your own money, your own everything. It brings in enough for you to live. Just you and your cluttered apartment. 

The coin purses and the sleepers you sew by hand are the more popular sellers. Anything for children goes first, you notice. Everyone seems to be having them. The older crowd radiate towards the old candlesticks you polished to a shine or the glass-shaded lamps you tediously re-wired. Most try to haggle but your prices are fair enough. 

You peer around at the produce stands, the soap and candle makers, and the crocheted stuffies of your fellow sellers. You do a bit of window shopping but never follow through on your wandering eyes. You don’t need to waste the money on the pretty new things, you have lots of lovely old things. 

The traffic picks up and you busy yourself with the browsers. A woman with a stroller buys several of the infant dresses and headband, a group of older ladies peruse the aged hardcovers and pick out a few, while a couple comments on the brass-based lamp with the dangling chain. You do your best to smile through the transactions. 

The rises higher in the sky towards its apex. The steady flow keeps you busy, with some time in-between to work on fixing the binding of one of the old editions. You like to keep yourself distracted, thinking can be dangerous. With how much time you spend alone, it’s hard to avoid. 

As you lock up the cash box and tuck it back under the table, a shadow passes over, large than any other. For a moment, you think a cloud’s passing over the sun. You look up at the sky as a broad figure stands across from you.  

You don’t know how you didn’t see the man’s approach. He’s huge. Tall and wide. He doesn’t seem the type to be interested in your selection. Still, he leans in to eye the embroidered coin purses and gives a rumbling hum that sounds like distant thunder. 

He picks up one with primroses sewn into it. His thick thumb brushes the threaded design and his large hand makes the coin purse look even smaller. You tap your fingers on the table as his eyes flick up and meet yours. 

“Hi, uh, how can I help you?” You whittle out of your tight throat. It’s not often a lone man finds interest in your things. You cater to a more femme audience. 

“This is nice,” he remarks, “do you make these?” 

“Uh, yes, I do,” you give a tight-lipped smile, “I just embroider old used purses.” 

“Just? That’s splendid work,” he brings it closer to his face and looks down his nose at the little flowers and leaves, “my mother would love this... mother’s day is coming, eh?” 

“Oh, um, yes, I suppose,” you agree. “It’s five dollars. Cash only.” 

“Mm,” he traces his thumb over the metal clasp as he taps his back pocket with his other hand, “don’t think I’ve any on me. Could you hold this for me?” He offers the coin purse, “I’ll find the ATM.” 

“Sure, I could do that.” 

You take the coin purse, fingers brushing his rough skin, and you set it aside. 

“Thank you,” he smiles broadly, blue eyes twinkling as lines creases around them and across his forehead. 

He reluctantly trails away and you watch him go. His golden hair is longer than most, twisted into a low bun behind his hand as a few strands dangle freely around his face. He wears a denim jacket over dark red tee and grey jeans, along with a pair of scuffed brown boots. He stands out even in his casual attire. 

You shrug off the encounter and turn to your next customers. More baby clothes. The women chat about a baby show and you point them to the newborn sizes, telling them about the fabrics you use for each. They buy a few bibs along with the sleepers and diaper covers. 

You back up and sit in the folding chair, drinking deeply from your bottle of water. You don’t know if it’s the interactions or the sun making you dizzy. It’s close to noon. You always start to feel it around this time.  

The hours surrounded by strange faces and buzzing voices are clustering in your head and chest. Only a little longer; the market only runs until two. If the world didn’t require money to survive, you might never leave your apartment. Yet your table is the only means you have to keep walls around you. 

You sit a bit longer and get up again. You’re okay. You should’ve eaten before you left the apartment. How silly of you to forget the overnight oats you had put in the fridge just the night before. You do forget quite a few things. 

The market thrums with the late morning rush and you brace yourself for the final stretch. If you can clear off half the table, you might not have to come back next weekend. You’d be all too content to stay in your own little world, the one beyond is too loud and too bright. 

🕰️

You fold your table up and push the hook around the peg to keep it shut. You fold up the chair as well and lean both with your boxes. As the market clears out, you pull up your small two-door and load your wares into the back hatch. 

You peer over at the other vendors and their vans and trucks. Crews of half a dozen or more pack away goods and chatter just as loud as the previous crowds. It’s an isolating moment. You don’t mind going unnoticed but sometimes you feel so small. 

As you put a box in the back of the car, your keys slip off your finger. You bend and feel around the tire to retrieve them and sense a shadow above you. You clasp your hand around the keyring and stand-up suddenly, turning to face the figure behind you. There’s no one there. 

You peer around but find nothing out of the ordinary. You return to your task and pause. You don’t remember putting that box away yet... 

You shake your head. You’re just tired and forgetful. Your cardinal vices. Your mind wanders too much to rest, too much to keep order. 

You put the last box away and close the hatch. You get in the driver’s seat and turn the engine. It putters softly but it runs well enough. The old car has gotten you through the years just fine. There was a time that tiny thing was your home. 

You pull away down the lane parallel to the edge of the market square and pull out into traffic. You drive without seeing, led by habit as you stop at signs along the way, turning around corners mindlessly. You stop and wait to pull into your building’s lot and notice the large storm grey jeep behind you. It strikes you as peculiar; you enter from a back street to avoid the rush. 

You steer into the lot and the jeep continues down the street past the building. You forget it as quickly as it rolls beyond the faded brick. You find your spot, parking pass dangling from the mirror, and shut off the engine. You linger and take a breath. You're hungry and tired. 

You leave your things in the car and go upstairs. You slow as you pass your neighbour’s door. You saw her yesterday, she was in trouble about something. The police came as she hid from her boyfriend in your apartment. You didn’t even know she had one. You tried not to be nosy but she seemed real upset. 

Your cheeks tinge as you stare at the numbers on her door. She’s the only person who’s ever been inside your apartment. You don’t welcome people in, not into your home or your life. You hadn’t meant to let her in but you were so tired and confused, you couldn’t stop her. 

You cringe and continue down to your door with one last glance over your shoulder. You put the key in the slot and turn with a grind. You scurry inside and quickly lock the door, afraid she might once more emerge and follow you inside. Or that man, the big one with the beard. 

You twist the latch back into place and put your keys in the tray on the cramped shelf. The apartment is dark, the windows shrouded in black fabric, and you flip on the overhead light to guide you down the hallway. The walls are made tighter as their lined with endless shelves and tables, all filled with your collection of curiosities. 

You go to the fridge and take out the mason jar of steeped oats. You sit and eat the soft, pasty oats and the berries. You didn’t add enough cinnamon. It doesn’t matter, your stomach greedily mulches it. You put the kettle on and wait for it to steam. 

As you pace around, you hear a loud rumble. An engine. You don’t think much of it but you go to the window to peek out around the dark fabric. A woman walks a large dog past a grey jeep parked along the curb. Is it the same one you saw before? 

The question doesn’t pique your mind much. That’s the way of the world, you find. It’s a lot smaller than it seems, yet to you, it’s inexorably vast. It’s too fast, too unpredictable. You retreat as the kettle whistles. 

Your apartment is small and warm and safe. The world can’t follow you back here. Not if you don’t let it in and you won’t be doing that again. 

-🕰️

You decide, against your better instincts, to go to market. The weather is nice and it wouldn’t be so bad add a few extra bucks to your nest egg. You never know what might come up, or what you might find! Too many times you stumbled upon an antique you just couldn’t afford. 

You go through your usual ritual. You set up the table and the chair, and arrange your things in the same way around the wooden sign. As you put your boxes to the side, you hear a rattle at the bottom of one. You look into the crate and notice the silver ring. How’d that get in there? You didn’t bring any jewelry. 

You put down the box and reach inside. You take out the ring and turn it. You’ve never seen it before. There’s a strange stick symbol on the flat face. Maybe another language or a run of some type. You turn it in your hand and tuck it in your pocket. You’ll have to give a closer look at home. 

It’s early and a few stragglers trickle in, but they all walk by your table without pause. 

You sit and take out the jar of oats. You remembered today. You’d woken up with a hunger so deep, you almost ate before you left. You know better than to eat too early. Instead, you had your tea and got yourself moving. 

You stir the blueberries in and eat slowly, trying to measure your bites so you don’t feel sick after. You watch the other vendors, some still setting up, and lazily swallow down the thick oatmeal. It feels like it might rain after all, there’s a touch of damp in the air. 

You finish up and put the jar away. As you wipe your mouth with your sleeve, a woman’s voice trills and pricks your ears. Silver hair with a few wisps of gold peak out from her silk headscarf. The teal fabric matches the pattern of her blouse, tucking into a finely pressed skirt. She’s not alone, she has her arm hooked through another. 

Her companion is younger than her. His golden hair is pulled half up at the crown of his head as he towers over her lithe frame. You squint, they might be related. As they approach, you get a whiff of deja vu. 

“Yes, it was this one, mother,” the man’s voice is deep. 

“How lovely, look at all these treasures,” she slips her arm free as she approaches, “hello, dear, is this all yours?” 

“Mhmm, yes,” you stand up, “are you looking for something in particular?” 

“I think we’re just browsing,” she smiles brightly, her lips painted a gentle shade of rose. 

“A coin purse,” the man says, “with prim rose? Do you recall?” 

You look at him. Faces aren’t easy for you but his voice strikes something in your mind, and his size. You haven’t seen a lot of men that big, only the one in your neighbour’s apartment. You think you remember holding something but the customer never came back. 

“This one,” you point to the coin purse, set back in the row. 

“Yes, that was me,” he chimes, “mother,” he pulls the primrose purse to the top. She takes it and he looks back to you, “I apologise that I didn’t return, there was an emergency and I had to be off.” 

“It’s okay,” you shrug, folding your hands together. 

The woman is looking at you. There’s something in her gaze that makes you squirm. Her eyes linger just a bit longer before she aims them at the purse, admiring the embroidery as she feels it beneath her thumb. 

“Yes, I do like this one,” she says. 

“I brought cash this time,” the man booms and reaches into his pocket, “five, I believe you said.” 

“Yes,” you accept the bill from him, his skin rough as his fingertips touch yours, “thanks. Erm, did you need a bag?” 

“For this? No,” she wiggles the purse playfully and reaches for the man, her son, with other hand. She caresses his knuckles as she faces him, “you were right. Very beautiful.” 

He smiles broadly, proudly almost. It’s just a purse. You hide your discomfort as you grip your arm at your elbow. 

“Thank you,” the woman chirps back at you, sending another grin in your direction, “you might see us again.” 

She hooks her arm once more through her son’s and leads him to the next booth. You peer after them as her attention clings to the purse as she continues to feel it between her fingers. She leans into his arm as she speaks to him quietly. They seem close, it’s sweet. Your own mother had never been so affectionate. 

You look away before the scene can pluck in your chest. It doesn’t matter. You’re grown up now. That’s all behind you. 

[seabirdtxt]

man idk why but i just kinda want to make creator! reader's backstory SAD like they were tortured (?) just to keep the rest of humanity/teyvat safe.. like i am a SUCKER for sad/traumatic backstories!! just a little brainrot i need to get out!!

i'll keep this short and sweet i told myself. lmao. i forgot i'm a sucker for easy angst

Blood of God

Notes: Sagau cult au, cut-based injuries, blood sacrifice. bunch of fun stuff. Reader is the Creator, golden blood, etc. read at your own discretion

WC. 976

----- ⚘ -----

When you first descended into Teyvat, You were initially met with praise and celebration. Countless festivals were held in Your name. Your beloved characters, Your acolytes, were the first ones in line to beg for Your blessings.

That's when everything started to go downhill.

With the realization that Your physical presence in the world meant no more divine guidance, Your acolytes grew desperate for Your blessings. Blessings that You, as a mortal human being, could not grant. Not to the same degree that You used to, when You played the game and bestowed buffs and upgrades aplenty to all Your teams, and generously ascended even those You didn’t have plans for.

But now, even as You stand before them in flesh and blood, Your godlike abilities have been reduced to mere party tricks. You spoke to the animals, and twisted the breeze. You made flames dance with a single gesture, and grew pretty flowers in your footsteps. None of this helped the acolytes, though.

Interest in Your well-being, in You, dwindled. Your acolytes wished You well, the rare few even questioning Your divinity, and sent You on your merry way.

Abandoned and unarmed in a world full of hostile creatures, You took up jobs with the Adventurers Guild. First, it was fetching and delivering goods for the city citizens. Then, it was carrying messages across the countryside from town to town. Lastly, it was picking off monster camps that strayed too close to civilization.

This is where a few of your acolytes found You, injured and bleeding brass-coloured ichor into the dirt and swinging wildly with Your adventurer’s sword.

Deity or not, Your acolytes were not ones to stand idle while another was put in harm’s way. Into the fray they jumped, and fought by Your side despite their reservations about You.

In the heat of the battle, the acolytes noticed something strange. Those sprayed with Your blood were given increased strength and capability for a short while, until the stain dried and wore off.

Encouraged, they investigated further. Using some of Your blood as war paints extended the duration of the blessing by nearly double, coating their weapons with it would increase the effectiveness of their strikes, and a brave few discovered that ingesting it would boost them all-around for the entirety of the day.

Harken, and rejoice! For irrefutable proof of the Creator’s benevolent presence has been revealed! And You, desperate for their love and acceptance, gave it to them without question.

A beautiful, elaborate temple was built in Your honour, with ceremonial blades scattered throughout the decor and deep channels filled with ever-flowing ambrosia running across the floor. As Your holy blood continued to be spilled, the hue of it began to run a shimmering gold.

Those who sought Your blessings need only visit you in Your temple, bringing offerings of kill trophies and unearthed relics. Then, they would partake of Your divinity by their choice of method, dipping their reverent hands in the rivers of ichor that pulse across the temple grounds.

You haven’t stopped bleeding in months.

It was bearable at first, when the first time the channels were filled You were pleased to discover that they would not run dry for some time. When the acolytes came for lessings, you would only need to refill the trenches every few days.

You asked if they could bring You softer offerings, of sweet foods and thoughtful bouquets. Such shows of softness were dismissed with a laugh. What need did you have for plants, when the strength you gave them could afford you even the rarest and most difficult trophies to obtain?

But the Abyss came. Celestia’s wrathful gaze descended. Your acolytes were fighting a war on two fronts.

They came on their hands and knees, emptying your stores quicker than you could refill them. Eventually, you took to sitting in the golden throne with your preferred blade, sluggishly carving yourself open to ensure the continued survival of your beloved acolytes.

It wasn’t enough.

Please, they begged. Give us the strength You once were able to grant. Show us the stars in your eyes and in your blood once more, that we might fight and win in Your name.

Filled with fear, and hurt, and love, you gave them everything you had left.

Their lips and teeth stained with brilliant auric gore, they took to the fields once again. The Abyss fell before them, the cursed beasts of the land fell into disarray and fled into the winds. Celestia conceded victory.

The acolytes cheered and danced in the aftermath of their slaughter. Eager to show their renewed devotion, they returned home to You.

But Your temple had crumbled, and the deep wells that once held Your pulse have turned to dust. Your blessing was but glittering sand in their mouths as they sort through the rubble to find any traces of You.

There was no way to know who broke first. Your acolytes realized too late the price for Your continued generosity, and squandered Your love on chasing strength and war.

Your temple was rebuilt with petals replacing every blade. The grooves filled with the soil that was steeped with the blood of the fallen, and flowers of all shades of vibrant, terribly human red grew there.

Dendrobium and Mourning flowers. Even the azure Sea ganoderma bloomed in rare patches where water pooled deeper.

Had they loved You as a human and not as a seemingly bottomless resource, would You have stayed? The thought of such a question shamed them. You asked for their love and they’d given You their blades. You asked for sweets and they’d brought you the bones of their enemies.

And yet, You wanted to stay. Even as they literally bled You dry, You had only ever wanted their happiness, no matter the cost.

And heavy was the cost.

[autumnshighlady]

I've Always Liked to Play With Fire (part 29)

NESTA ARCHERON X ERIS VANSERRA X FEMALE!READER

summary: wedding night... activities

warnings: PURE SMUT!!! literally filth, i have no excuse. threesome, oral sex (F receiving), spanking, dom!Nesta, orgasm denial, face sitting, everything basically. slight talk of past trauma but that's it (seriously when y'all write threesomes why do your characters never discuss limits beforehand smh)

word count: 8.3k

DO NOT REPOST ANYWHERE

a/n: sorry i fell off the face of the earth... again..... i got super depressed and forgot how to write but i'm back now! rip to the person who requested neris x reader smut and had to wait 28 chapters for it lol

DISCLAIMER: none of this is proofread and i WAS drunk when i wrote it so it's a disaster but it's smutty so feast away

part 1 // part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12 / part 13 / part 14 / part 15 / part 16 / part 17 / part 18 / part 19 / part 20 / part 21 / part 22 / part 23 / part 24 / part 25 / part 26 / part 27 / part 28 / part 29 / part 30

read on ao3

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Your jaw hit the floor as you entered the unfamiliar room. Against the wall to your left was the biggest four poster bed you had ever seen, enough to fit at least 4 people with room for limbs to be spread but not touching. It was covered in a thick green blanket, with cream pillows and a knitted throw at the base. Almost-sheer gold curtains were wrapped from the top frame of the bed posters, held back by brass loops. There was a large, arching wall of flowers and branches surrounding a shelf behind the bed’s headboard. A few trinkets had already been strewn across the shelves – books, jewellery, a knife, all objects you had seen Eris possess. The floor was dark wood and elegant, with a large, red rug in front of the bed, offset by the most comfortable-looking, plushy chairs and couch you had ever seen. 

But what caught your eye the most was the expertly carved cinquefoil arches and pillars on the other side of the room that lead to a balcony. There were no windows between the pillars, but the room remained devoid of the chill of the night air. It was spelled, judging by the thin sheen of magic between the spaces. You couldn’t see the view at this hour, but you knew it would take your breath away.

Angling your head in amazement, you noticed two open doors on the right side. One led to what looked like a massive walk-in closet, while the other led to the bathroom. You followed the second door, peering in to see the largest bathing room you had ever seen. An enormous tub was carved into the floor at one end, a small fountain spurting from one end with dragon’s heads carved into it. Across from the tub was a spacious shower, with various faucets and shower heads at all angles and three shelves with different soaps and oils on them. Amazed, you stepped back into the main bedroom, too stunned to speak.

“So,” Eris smirked, sauntering up behind you and placing his hands on your waist. “What do you think, my love?”

Slack-jawed, you couldn’t find the words for a moment. You glanced at Nesta, who had come up beside you. Her eyes were wide, her soft lips parted ever so slightly in wonder. Everything in this room was perfect, down to the last detail. “Is this…” You tried to speak but your voice trailed off.

“Our room.” Nesta finished your sentence for you, her voice filled with awe.

You asked, “wait, did you know?”

Eris squeezed your sides gently. “She knew this was going to be my gift to you both. Unfortunately I had to tell her, as I needed her input in the construction of the shower. But this is the first time you have both seen it. It was originally a storage room, but I had it redone and it has been worked on for the past two months.”

You baulked. “Eris, I…” Once again, your voice trailed off. The scale of the room, the attention to detail, everything was specifically designed for you, Eris, and Nesta to live together without feeling cramped. Eris had done all of this for you, for Nesta. Even during those dark days where it seemed everything had gone awry, he had kept hope aflame with the building of this room. “I don’t even know what to say, this is incredible.”

Eris chuckled, resting his chin on your shoulder and letting his lips graze your ear as he murmured, “You don’t have to say anything. You both deserve it, and I am beyond thrilled that I have the honour of spoiling you like this. It is the least I can do, and it is just one of many endless ways I intend on proving my devotion.”

Instantly, your blood heated at the sensation and you let out a breath. You shivered slightly, face flushing at having your mate’s lips so close to your neck. The action did not go unnoticed. Nesta turned her head towards you, pupils widening with lust at the breath that escaped your lips. Eris simply moved even closer, his fingers stretching up your ribs ever so slightly. Even through the thick fabric of your wedding dress, your skin tingled where his fingers brushed and you sucked in a breath.

“My, my,” Nesta cooed, cocking her head and surveying you up and down like a dragon staring at her prey. The way her head tilted slowly, eyes aflame and each movement possessing a serpent-like quality reminded you of Athariel’s mannerisms – rider and beast, slowly morphing into a unified being. “Somebody is flustered easily.”

“That’s good,” Eris said smoothly, his voice like silk. “It means she listened when I told her she had to wait until the night of the wedding for her desires to be satisfied.”

“You really think I had time for any of that amidst the wedding chaos?” You tried to snap back, but your voice was breathy and weak. All you could think about was Eris’s hands on your sides and Nesta’s blue-grey eyes sizing you up. Your heart thumped louder in your chest as you realised your fantasies were going to be brought to fruition. All those weeks of having to suppress your urges were finally at an end. The sensation of your mates’ desire through the mating bond was almost overwhelming, igniting every nerve in your body.

Eris dragged his lips up and down the side of your neck, chuckling darkly at the shudder your body involuntarily made at the sensation. “Fair enough, we have been rather busy, haven’t we? I’m surprised you’ve made it this long.”

Nesta gracefully took a step closer to you, her rich, warm scent enveloping your senses as she gently removed the crown from your head, setting it down on the dresser a few feet away. “Oh please, take what Eris says with a grain of salt,” she rolled her eyes. “He’s been struggling to hold back just as much as we have. He’s desperate too.”

The High Lord paused his movements along your neck, amber eyes narrowing at her. “Careful, Nesta.” He purred. “I had planned on being generous to my mates tonight, I’d hate for it to turn into an evening of punishment and teaching that smart mouth of yours a lesson.”

Nesta bit the corner of her lip,and you couldn’t help but notice the sudden shift in the position of her thighs. She shot Eris a glare, lifting her chin with a challenge. “You wish.”

Before Eris could reply, you let out a snort of laughter at her boldness. A mistake, it seemed, as both your mates whipped their heads sharply towards you. Your stomach fluttered with a delicious fear, one that sent heat between your legs. 

“Is something funny?” Nesta asked, a hint of a smirk behind her lips.

You shook your head, resisting the urge to chuckle again. Truthfully, you were impressed with the self-restraint of your mates. For so many, the snapping of the mating bond ignited a weeks long frenzy of fucking. But even after the bond snapped between you, Nesta, and Eris, there had been next to no sexual touching. Every ounce of your being desired to ravage your mates, but Eris’s wishes to refrain until the wedding were the string that held you together. No, your male mate liked control. It was something you had always known about him, something that often made your imagination run wild with other types of control he would enjoy exercising. While you certainly liked your fair share of being in charge, you craved Eris’s approval that came with doing what he asked… after a good amount of mouthing off, that is.

Nesta had held herself together almost as well as Eris, refusing to give into your sly attempts to find a loophole in his command the last few weeks. She shared very little of what her and Cassian had done together, but you were itching to find out what she liked. To explore what buttons you could push, the sounds you could draw out from her plush lips…

Your thoughts were abruptly cut off as Eris’s hand found its way into the locks of hair by your scalp, expertly tugging and pulling your head back against his solid chest. The moan that escaped you was completely involuntary, your body going haywire at the simple action of your mate. 

“Nesta asked you a question,” Eris said sternly, forcing you to look up at him. Your breath caught in your throat as he tilted your head back enough for him to stare down at you. His amber eyes were dark with lust, the crown upon his head and the smug look on his face painting the perfect picture of royal arrogance. “It would do you well to answer it.”

This time you managed to catch the whimper in your throat as Eris tilted your head to the side so you were upright and facing Nesta again. The way he moved your body around as if you were a piece of chess on his playing board sent a new wave of arousal through you. You felt torn in two, part of you wanting to submit and let him use you as he pleased while the other part wanted to challenge him and face the consequences he would no doubt dole out.

Nesta’s arms were crossed, pushing up her breasts ever so slightly, which your hungry eyes noticed right away. She raised a groomed eyebrow, “well?”

Deciding to give both of them what they wanted for now, you answered. “What’s funny is I thought you’d be more submissive, Nesta. Your remark caught me off guard. After all, I know how badly you want to please Eris.” The first sentence was entirely untrue, something all three of you knew. But you couldn’t help but add kindling to the fire. The masochistic part of your brain wanted to see how you’d be punished, and if it’d be enough to break you into submission.

“Brave words for somebody who’s about to be at her mercy.” Eris’s voice was low and smooth, his lips returning to your ear. 

Nesta simply stared you down evenly, wicked cunningness lurking behind her eyes. “Pathetic, she wants us to not be nice to her and is trying to goad us into doing what she wants.”

You shook your head, but excitement ran through your veins. You heard Eris chuckle from behind you, and Nesta let out an exhale. With the mating bond still so fresh and the three of you in such close proximity, you knew they had felt your body’s every reaction as if it were their own. Despite the chill autumn breeze, the room felt stiflingly hot.

Eris’s hands moved higher on your hips, fingers spreading and ever so slightly grazing the underside of your breast through the fabric of your dress. Nesta stepped forward as well, so close you could smell the honey-lemon tart she ate for dessert on her breath. Her cheeks were flushed with desire, but her eyes still donned that stern expression that drove you crazy. Before you could say anything, her slender fingers reached down and brushed against the inside of your legs through your skirts. An icy hot shiver went up your spine at the contact, and you couldn’t help but arch into Eris, who at this point was responsible for holding you upright.

“So, it seems that you have a choice to make, my dear,” Eris said in your ear, rubbing agonisingly slow circles along your sides with his fingers. “How do you want this night to go? Do you want me to be nice and focus on making you both feel good, hm?” With those last few words, Eris gave your hair another pull, tilting your head further to the right and exposing more of your neck. You cried out as his lips and teeth finally found your skin, gently kissing and biting with the perfect amount of pressure. Instantly, your breathing became uneven, your body desperate for more.

After a few moments of pleasuring the sensitive skin on your neck, Eris removed his lips and continued. “Or perhaps, you want something a little different, for me to be mean and turn you into more of a desperate mess than you already are.”

Suddenly, the gentle strokes of his lips and tongue from before were replaced with sharp canines sinking into your skin. You gasped, a new wave of arousal rushing through you like the waves of a storm. His teeth stung in the most delicious way, mixing with the pleasure arising in your body and making your head spin.

“I think we have our answer.” Nesta chuckled, moving her hands to rest on your hip bones just below Eris’s. “But I want to hear her say it.”

“I…” You stuttered, world reeling from the whispers of touches from Nesta’s hands on your hips mixed with the harsh biting at your neck from your other mate behind you. “I want you to do your worst.”

“Masochistic little fox.” Eris purred. “If you need us to stop, please speak up at any point. This may not be the traditional coupling of mates, but I want you to enjoy it.”

“Nothing about us is traditional.” You couldn’t help but chuckle.

“That is true.” Nesta added. As if she couldn’t take the close proximity anymore, she crashed her lips into yours, squeezing your hips as she did so. Immediately, you placed your hands on her biceps, pulling her closer and moaning into the contact. Her mouth was soft yet all-consuming, and wetness almost immediately pooled between your legs. Nesta’s kisses have always turned you on in the several that you shared, but this was different. Before, they had been tender and longing, like a prayer echoing through an abandoned church. 

There was nothing tender about the way she was kissing you now. If her previous kisses were like a gentle creek flowing through the woods, this kiss was a tsunami. It bewitched your body and soul, her lips bold and claiming you wholly. You were hers, and she was yours – that’s all her kiss told you. You pulled her even closer, her chest brushing up against yours as Eris’s hands explored further, grazing your breasts more and more with each movement. You shuddered between them, lifting a hand and bringing it around Nesta’s neck, squeezing the back of it. She let out a moan, and you used the opportunity of her slack jaw to slip your tongue into her mouth, brushing her lips and tasting every inch of her.

After several minutes of being utterly consumed by the female, you felt her pull away. You let out a whine that was cut off abruptly as you were spun around to face Eris. His green cloak and dazzling crown had been discarded already, leaving him in his red and gold robes. Even without the royal symbols, there was no mistaking his power and status. It sent a thrill through you as you stared up at the male. Chuckling, Eris’s hand wove into your hair again as he pulled you forward, pressing his lips into yours. He was rougher than Nesta, a different kind of dominance, one that was nearly overwhelming. His lips were firm against yours, commanding every ounce of your attention, and you gladly gave it to him. The hand in your hair kept you immobile, unable to resist any which way Eris chose to move you.

You felt Nesta stir behind you, and after a few moments the strings trying together the back of the dress began to loosen. Her fingers expertly undid the material, and you eagerly pulled your arms from the long sleeves while keeping your lips glued to Eris. A shiver came over your body as Nesta’s fingers grazed your newly exposed skin, pulling the soft white and red fabric down your body and letting it fall to a heap on the floor before delicately removing the emerald necklace. Nesta also reached out and pulled the remaining few bobby pins out of your hair, releasing it from the previous mess of an updo it had become. 

You stood there in your underwear, skin covered in a thin layer of sweat from the evening’s festivities. You did not feel the urge to shy away and cover yourself as you had when getting undressed with previous lovers. Even as Eris pulled away and took a step back to drink in your naked form, you did not cower. You were his equal, and he yours. He would come to know your body like the back of his hand, there was no use in trying to hide it.

His amber eyes went from lustful to angry as they found the scar below your belly button, that cursed letter ‘M’ that his brother had carved into your skin. You bit your lip, pushing back memories of those awful encounters with Malgorm. 

“I hate the gods for letting this happen.” Eris muttered angrily, staring at the scar as if enough willpower could wash it away. “I am so sorry–”

You took a step forward, pressing your fingers against his lips to shush him. “What’s done is done,” You murmured. “We cannot change the past. We can find a way to permanently glamour the scar, as I do not wish for it to be on my body any more than you wish to gaze upon it, my love. Let’s not worry about it for now, okay?”

A slender hand on your shoulder made you turn to face Nesta. She had removed her crown and dress as well, leaving her just as naked as you. But her face was serious, breaking the teasing tension of the room as she spoke. “Are you sure this is okay? After everything that has happened, we don’t have to do this right away. We can wait.”

You shook your head. “No,” You said firmly. “I want this. I want you both. If I was unsure I would have said so. I trust you.”

Nesta’s voice was soft. “Okay. But is there anything off limits that might cause you to become… discomforted?”

You thought for a moment, hating the memories that flashed through your mind. But you endured it. Nesta was right – before anything happened, boundaries needed to be stated. “My neck…” You said slowly, remembering how hard Malgorm had grabbed you. “I don’t want pressure on my neck, please.”

Nesta nodded with understanding. You turned around to face Eris, whose gaze had softened. “I can work with that.” He said gently.

“What about you, Nesta?” You asked, facing your female mate once again. “What’s off limits for you?”

At first, the female visibly tensed, as if fighting off the urge to put those walls back up that she had so firmly in place when you first met her. Getting Nesta to be vulnerable with sex would be a journey, that much you knew. After how she described her couplings with Cassian and other males, this discussion of limits seemed new to her. She blinked slowly, and you could see the wheels in her mind turning. 

“Take your time,” you said softly, grabbing Eris’s hand and squeezing it reassuringly.

“My head…” Nesta said quietly after a moment, her eyes slightly glazed over as if reliving memories. “I would appreciate it if my head was not held down or restricted.”

Immediately, your mind thought of all the instances that explained this. The kelpie, the Cauldron, the human male who assaulted her, it all made sense. You nodded, then faced Eris once again to take the pressure off of Nesta. “And what about you, husband? Anything off limits?”

Eris scoffed half heartedly. “Nope. I am content with anything.”

You elbowed him lightly in the stomach, rolling your eyes. “You’re not funny. We’re trying to have a discussion here and you ruined it.”

The male made a noise of agreement, his eyes sobering up for a second before he sighed, removing the crown from his head and moving his fingers to unlace his robes. Nesta came up to stand beside you, her hand sliding into yours but her eyes fixed on Eris. Both of you stared as the male removed his robes and unlaced his tunic. You felt Nesta’s breath catch as Eris’s bare torso was revealed. Slender muscles were covered in faint scars. They looked to be from some sort of burning lashes – Beron’s doing, no doubt. Bile rose in your throat at the sight before you, at the thought of how bad these injuries must have been to still be scarred centuries later.

“My father liked to use his own fire on me,” Eris said slowly. “The wounds from the beatings disappeared fast, but my…. harsher punishments involved fire. I think in a way, he wanted me to fear our fire. But like many things in life, he failed.” He let out a hoarse laugh. “For this reason, I do not wish for pain to be inflicted upon me during sex. While I will inflict it if it’s something you want, I am firmly against being on the receiving end of it.”

“I understand.” You said, and Nesta murmured in agreement. Even with the scars, your body still heated up at the sight of Eris shirtless. They marked his skin like stars in the night sky, glowing in the candlelight. He was strikingly beautiful, every inch of him. From the way Nesta’s breathing changed beside you, he was having the same effect on her, too.

Finally, the arrogant smirk returned to Eris’s face. “Excellent, now that we are all in agreement…” His amber gaze fell upon you, making your knees weak as he spoke with lethal command, “Get on the bed.”

You rolled your eyes at him, but obliged, giving Nesta a quick kiss on the cheek on your way over. The mattress was soft and plushy as you sank down onto it, and you briefly wondered if you even wanted to know how much it had cost. 

All distracting thoughts vanished from your head as Nesta strode over, prowling like a dragon approaching a lost sheep. The silver light from the moon and the golden light from the candles illuminated her soft curves in an otherworldly way, the coronet now evolved into a simple loose, messy braid coming over her shoulder. She smirked as you leaned up to kiss her from your sitting position. Before your lips could reach hers, she chuckled and abruptly pushed you back so you were laying down. The yelp you let out as you unexpectedly fell back was cut off by a kiss, her mouth swallowing any noise you made as you melted beneath her. The rich scent of your combined arousals flooded the room, filling your senses.

Nesta’s thighs straddled you as she pressed her body into yours, her creamy skin brushing against you and making your nerves go haywire as she shifted her mouth to your throat, planting gentle kisses there before sliding further down your body. You reached down to try and pull her back up so you could touch her, but two silver flames appeared around your wrists, gently guiding them up over your head and twining into the bedframe, leaving your hands tied. You whimpered in complaint, causing Nesta to stop her kisses just above your breast. 

“I’m sorry, did you want to touch me?” She asked huskily, eyes dark. Her lips moved just above your nipple, her breath sending the bud into a peak.

“Yes.” You said breathily, trying to keep the desperate tone out of your voice.

Nesta gave your nipple a quick lick, causing your entire body to twitch before she continued. “Too bad, you have to earn it.”

“And how do I do that?” You snapped in frustration, unable to stop yourself. 

As quick as a snake, Nesta reached under your thigh and hoisted your hips off the mattress. With her other hand, she reached underneath and slapped your ass. Hard. Instinctively, you moaned loudly, pain and pleasure coursing through your body and creating even more wetness between your legs. Through half-open eyes, you saw Nesta blink in surprise then smile wickedly. She turned to Eris, who had discarded his bottoms and was palming himself through his underwear. A silent conversation passed between them, and you shivered with anticipation before Nesta turned back towards you. “Lose the attitude, love,” she said.

You huffed, but tried to force the attitude out of your voice. “Boring. What do I have to do to earn it?”

“You’ll have to beg us to let you cum, and you’ll ask permission to do so.”

“I don’t beg.”

“Oh but you will,” Eris chimed in, gently gliding his fingers down Nesta’s spine as she took your nipple in her mouth, causing you to moan. “And you’ll love every second of it.”

You couldn’t deny that. All you could focus on was Nesta’s mouth on you, her other hand fondling the other breast. All the squirming in the world was useless against those silver flame restraints, which was unyielding. Finally, Nesta shuffled down so she was kneeling on the ground with her upper body between your thighs. Involuntarily, your legs automatically widened as she settled in, which did not go unnoticed.

“Wow, you are desperate for me, aren’t you?” Nesta teased, running a finger up your inner thigh. “The lightest of touches have you soaked through your underwear, I can’t imagine how you’ll react when I get my mouth on you.”

You whimpered at her words that washed over you like warm water. You had never been this wet, this aching to be touched. Nesta was smug as her finger ghosted over your clothed slit, feeling the wetness of the thin material. Your hips jolted at the sensation, electric shock wracking your nerves. 

Your mates were going to be the death of you. Every instinct screamed to find a way out of the restraints and pounce on Nesta and Eris, but your desire to please them overpowered it.

“My, my, she’s sensitive,” Eris mocked. “I don’t think she’ll be able to handle what we’ve got planned.”

“She will,” Nesta said sternly before glancing up at you. “Won’t you?”

You nodded in blind agreement, the anticipation of not knowing what was coming next both exciting and terrifying you. “Good girl,” Nesta replied before grabbing your panties and tearing them in two, revealing your soaking wet pussy. She moaned at the sight of your exposed core, making you pool even further. Every sound she made, every look she gave you was enough to drive you crazy. Your thighs were near trembling as she lightly touched your clit, the contact with the sensitive bundle of nerves making you jump and your thighs twitch.

“Look how wet she is,” Eris said. “And we haven’t even done anything…”

Your eyes snapped open fully when you realised he had removed his underwear and was stroking his cock. Your mouth practically watered at the sight of the male with his hand wrapped around his long cock, a smug expression on his face as he stared down at you like you were a piece of meat served up on a platter. “See something you like?” He said arrogantly as he noted your expression.

“Mother above, do I ever,” You replied breathlessly. “My brain doesn’t even know where to focus.”

Nesta said, “I think I can remedy that.” Without another word, the female’s head dove between your thighs, her tongue sliding up from your entrance to your clit before wrapping her lips around the bud and sucking. Bursting with pleasure, your back arched off the bed, hands angrily pulling against the restraints begging to touch Nesta. She repeated the pattern, licking and sucking in all the right spots and making your eyes roll back in your head. 

Cursing under your breath, you let out moans as Nesta ate you out. Her hands were wrapped around your thighs, burying herself as far into you as she could. You could feel her enjoyment and desire through the mating bond, which intensified the experience tenfold. Never before had you been this turned on this fast. Nesta had already figured out what made your body sing and was playing it like a violin. Eris was kneeling behind Nesta, pressing kisses all over her back. The sight of it turned you on even more.

You could pinpoint the exact moment Eris’s fingers found Nesta’s pussy. The female let out a moan that sent vibrations into your core, making your moan echo off of hers. The room was filled with the wet sounds of Nesta’s mouth on you and Eris’s fingers rubbing Nesta’s clit. Her face was screwed up with pleasure and a focused determination, her tongue never relenting against you.

“Isn’t she making you feel so good?” Eris asked you. “Nesta seems like she’s already doing very good with her mouth, I can’t wait to test it out myself.”

“So fucking good…” You murmured, causing Nesta to moan in approval between your legs.

The sounds between Nesta’s thighs intensified as Eris slipped a finger into her, curling it in a way that had her squirming in between you two. “Do you know how many nights I’ve had to get myself off to refrain from storming into your rooms and dragging both of you into my bed to be fucked senseless? I’ve had so many fantasies about what I want to do to you two, even with an eternity ahead of us I don’t know if we’ll have time to complete them all…” The male continued, cocking his head and pushing his hips forward, letting his cock rub against Nesta’s ass. “Is this everything you dreamed of, my love, hmm?”

“Yes!” You exclaimed, hands gripping onto the headboard as you writhed underneath Nesta’s mouth. The pleasure was almost overwhelming, coupled with the sight of Eris behind Nesta’s kneeling form with his knuckles buried inside her, you felt yourself approaching the journey to your climax within ten minutes, a new record for you.​ Your mate between your legs whimpered as Eris’s movements seemingly sped up, but she kept her blue-grey eyes open and looking up at you. Incoherent noises escaped your throat as you began to plead. “Please…” you begged. “I’m getting close…”

“Close to what?” Eris asked mockingly, his voice perfectly even as if he wasn’t curling his fingers inside Nesta so tactfully that she was shaking slightly. “You have to use your words, my love.”

You felt your orgasm building at a rapid pace, coming crashing towards you like a tidal wave. “Please… I’m gonna–” Your words were abruptly cut off as you were unable to hold back the inevitable. Like water overflowing a cup, your orgasm washed over you, spreading that warm electric sensation through your nerve endings. Nesta groaned with pleasure as your hips bucked against her face, grinding into it as you rode out your high. The world went silent around you in those few, stretched out seconds. It was an orgasm unlike any you had ever experienced.

With shaking legs you caught your breath and Nesta finally removed her tongue from your cunt. You watched through hooded lids as she leaned her head back, and Eris bent down and kissed her hungrily, lapping up your juices. One of his hands grabbed her breast, squeezing it in his fingers and making her moan into his mouth. They were like two gods in a painting before you, one you would happily stare at for the rest of your life.

The silver flames around your wrists vanished, and you eagerly brought your arms back down to stretch them out. When Nesta and Eris eventually separated, they turned their gazes towards you. And you knew you were fucked from the wicked look in their eyes.

“I’m sorry–” You began apologising, but Eris cut you off.

“We asked you to do one thing, and you couldn’t even do it…” He said with gleeful disappointment. “A shame, I had such a lovely reward in mind for you if you had just been a good girl.”

Nesta scoffed. “I think she wanted the punishment.”

“She will regret that very soon.” Eris stood up and strode over to your side of the bed, grabbing a fistful of your hair and forcing you to look up at him. “Did we say you could cum?”

You shook your head, earning you another harsh tug that elicited a moan. “I asked you a question,” Eris hissed. “Did we say you could cum?”

“No…” You stuttered weakly, shrinking beneath his and Nesta’s gazes.

“Then why did you?”

“It felt too good, I couldn’t stop it.”

“Do you think flattery will keep you from punishment?”

You sheepishly shrugged. “A girl can dream, right?”

Eris barked out a laugh, grabbing you gently by the hands and guiding you off the bed. Your legs still felt weak, and had it not been for Eris you would have surely stumbled in your first few steps. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Nesta smugly smirking at her handiwork, her cheeks flushed. 

But Eris’s hand grasped your chin, turning your focus to him as you met his gaze. “Go to the empty space on the wall,” He said slowly. “And place your hands on it and spread your legs.”

You baulked, eyes widening. The evil grin on his face sent chills up your spine. Despite your recent orgasm, your body began to heat up again. Knowing better than to protest this time, you did as you were told. The sound of your footsteps echoed throughout the large bedroom as you walked over to the gap in the wall between the fireplace and the corner area. Taking a deep breath, you faced the wall and placed your hands on the smooth wood. It was cold beneath your touch, a soothing sensation against your sweating palms. You mentally cursed your body at how quickly it was recovering and ready for a second round. The mating bond was thick with desire so palpable you could feel it.

You heard footsteps coming up behind you, and you knew without looking that it was Eris. His presence could be felt creeping up on you as if it were your own shadow. You flinched as he put his hands on your waist, pressing his chest into your back. His cock rubbed against your ass as it did with Nesta’s, causing you to suck in a sharp breath. “If you want something, you have to ask for it,” Eris murmured in your ear. “Those are my rules, and you have already broken them. I am going to spank you ten times, and you’re going to fucking take it. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Eris.” You whimpered. Behind you, his cock twitched at the moaning of his name and the male groaned. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Nesta take a seat in the nearby chair with a glass of white wine in hand. She had run a comb through her hair, and when she caught your gaze she raised an eyebrow. “Don’t look at me for help,” she chided. “You’ve done this to yourself. I will not get you out of this.”

You sighed, trembling in anticipation and waiting with bated breath for the first strike. Wasting no time, it came seconds later. Eris’s hand came down on your right ass cheek, hard. From your throat came a guttural cry, one you didn’t know you were capable of making. It was a cross between a scream and a moan, crossing into the latter as the impact from the initial sting melted into a white hot pleasure. You barely had time to recover before the second one came on the other cheek this time, drawing out the same response.

“Good girl…” Eris murmured, rubbing your ass and pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades. You sighed beneath his touch, melting into it. 

But the tenderness didn’t last long. By the seventh spank, tears pricked the corners of your eyes. 

“Aw, look at her, Eris,” Nesta spoke up. “You’ve made her cry.”

Your laboured breaths drowned out his response as you pressed your forehead into your arms, which you had valiantly kept pressed against the wall. Your ass stung and sweat dripped down your forehead. But the cherry on top was your dripping cunt. Wetness had seeped down your thighs, glistening in the candlelight of the room on display for everyone to see.

You felt Eris’s hand brush some stray hairs out of your face, and he leaned in close to murmur into your ear, “Are you okay?”

“Mhm,” You whispered, nodding feverishly. 

There was no teasing in your mate’s voice as he spoke. “Do we need to stop?”

“No,” You insisted. “I can handle three more, I promise.”

You felt Eris nod against you before pulling away and continuing to rub your ass, which already donned the formations of several dark bruises. You turned your head towards Nesta, who was watching the scene with lust in her eyes. “You’re doing so well, my love,” she said tenderly. “You can do it.”

With a newfound determination, you forced your body to relax as Eris’s hand came down again with a loud smack, making you wince and grow wetter at the same time. Then again, and again. Finally, after the tenth smack, you collapsed your head into your arms again, panting. Your legs felt as weak as a newborn deer, gangly and unstable. You didn’t even have the energy to react as Eris swiped his fingers through your slip, sampling the wetness gathered there. 

He chuckled darkly. “My, my, somebody sure enjoyed that.”

“I’m not surprised, given her reaction to my one slap earlier.” Nesta said, placing her wine glass on the table next to her before standing up and making her way over to where you and Eris were standing. She wiped some sweat from your brow with a cloth and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Well done.”

“Is my punishment over?” You asked weakly.

“Not quite,” Eris responded, gently guiding you over to the chair Nesta had been seated in. “You’ve demonstrated a lack of patience, which is unacceptable. So you are going to learn to be patient, and you are going to sit here and watch me fuck Nesta.”

“And you’re not allowed to touch yourself,” Nesta added sternly as Eris pushed you into the chair, which was now turned to face the bed and had a glass of water next to it. Truthfully, your body was relieved at the idea of getting a break. Your muscles ached from the trembling, and the idea of watching your mates fuck each other made your body heat up. So you nodded, getting a kiss on the cheek from each of your mates before they made their way to the bed. After taking a sip of the ice cold water, you leaned back in the plushy chair.

Nesta knelt on the bed, her long locks cascading down her back as she looked up at Eris. He stood before her at the edge of the bed like an altar she was worshipping, his lean muscles illuminated by the moon. He bent down and kissed Nesta as if she contained the last molecules of air left in this universe, his lips moulding into hers perfectly. You couldn’t help but bite your lip as you watched her shoulders relax as she melted into his kiss. Desire began to build in you once again, just by watching your mates share a heated kiss.

With a shove on the shoulder, Eris pushed Nesta into the bed so she was laying down. He wasted no time crawling over her body and pressing heated kisses across her chest. As his mouth came to her nipple, Nesta moaned and wound a hand in the male’s red locks, arching her back into his touch. Your palms itched with the urge to go over there and help, but the soreness of your ass reminded you to stay in your seat. 

“Fuck, these are gorgeous…” Eris murmured before switching to her other breast. He groaned into the mound of flesh as Nesta’s grip in his hair tightened, the animalistic sound echoing throughout the chamber.

Don’t touch yourself, you reminded yourself. No matter how hot the scene before you was, and despite the fact you normally loved being punished, you knew your mates were the type to only be so forgiving.

Grabbing one of Nesta’s long legs, Eris placed a kiss on the inside of her calf, working his way down. Nesta’s breathing shifted, her hips squirming to try and meet his face, but the male swerved every time and kissed her thigh instead. More arousal pooled between your legs as you watched Nesta squirm beneath Eris.

“Please, Eris…” Nesta breathed, her cheeks red and eyes half closed with desire.

The red haired male stopped, his lips centimetres above her pussy. “Please what?”

“Please use your mouth on me…”

Nesta’s pleas made you whimper. All you wanted to do was go over there and satisfy her, to have her clamp her thighs around your head until the world crumbled into ash before you. Eris turned his head to face you, where you were gripping the arms of the chair. “See how she asked nicely?” He said to you, “Now she’s going to get what she wants. It’s that simple.”

His pale fingers gripped Nesta’s hips tightly, pinning them down to the mattress as he brought his face between her legs and began his work. Immediately, Nesta let out a loud moan – she was much more vocal than you, letting her noises out shamelessly as she was pinned down. After several minutes, Eris easily slid two fingers into Nesta, stretching her out yet still keeping her hips still with only one hand. 

“Oh, fuck…” Nesta cried out as Eris curled his fingers inside her, one of her hands gripping the sheets while the other palmed her breast. Her eyes fluttered closed, and it was only minutes later when Eris pulled away. Nesta whined at the loss of contact, and he let out a growl, grabbing her leg and hitching it up against his waist. You watched with a slack jaw and clenched legs as Eris lined his cock up with Nesta’s entrance before slowly pushing it in. 

Nesta’s face contorted, her eyes squeezing shut and mouth opening in pleasure as Eris pushed himself to the hilt. His head tilted back, and his jaw clenched with pleasure. You dug your fingernails into the palms of your hand so hard it almost bled, the sensation of watching your mates’ blissed out expressions almost overpowering.

Eris leaned over Nesta, one hand on her thigh keeping it up against his hip while the other planted itself beside her shoulder. It only took a few minutes for him to pound in and out of Nesta, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room and drowning out Nesta’s moans. Eris was fucking Nesta hard, her toes visible curling with each thrust.

As Nesta’s legs began to tremble not ten minutes later, Eris slowed down his thrusts, making her whine. He turned his head towards you, a devilish grin on face. “So, my dear,” he said to you. “Do you think Nesta deserves to cum?”

Surprise flickered in you, and seemingly in Nesta too, for she turned her head sharply to look at you with wide eyes as Eris’s hand rubbed her clit. “P…please…” she begged you, desperation written all across your face.

You were torn in two. You wanted nothing more than to see Nesta cum, to watch her writhe underneath Eris as she rode out a blissful high. But the sinister part of you wanted to show her that you weren’t the only one who could take charge.

After a minute, you came to your decision. “No.”

“What?!” Nesta sputtered angrily as Eris pulled out of her, chuckling. Her hair was stuck to her face, her lips swollen from kissing and her cheeks red. Her grey eyes shot you a  furious glare.

“That’s my devilish little fox,” Eris purred, beckoning you over with a finger. “You took your punishment very well, and I think it’s time for a reward.”

“Please,” you begged pathetically as you laid down on the bed beside Nesta, desperate for any physical contact. 

Sensing that, Eris gave you a quick kiss before grabbing your hips and spreading your legs with his knees. You were so soaking wet that after checking your comfort with two fingers, Eris lined himself up with your entrance and slammed into you with ease. The breath was knocked out of your lungs at the impact, the delicious stinging pain of the stretch quickly melting into pleasure as it had with the spanks. He gave you no time to adjust before pounding into you, his soft grunts filling the air.

Beside you, Nesta sat up, a playful look in her eyes replacing the furious one. She grabbed your hair just as Eris had, forcing you to look at her. “Since you decided to be a brat and not let me finish after I was so nice to you, I’m going to sit on that pretty face of yours to shut you up and use you to finish myself off. Got it?”

About to burst with happiness that your plan worked, you nodded eagerly, shifting your shoulders to get more comfortable. Seeing the smugness on your face, Nesta rolled her eyes but released her hair, spinning her hips to face Eris. She then swung her leg over your face, leaning forward to place her hands on your breasts and play with them as she lowered herself down.

You moaned into her pussy, tasting the mixture of her and Eris on your tongue, eagerly lapping it up. You used the tip of your tongue to flick her clit, making her legs twitch around your head. Repeating patterns of licking and sucking, you gripped Nesta’s hips tightly as she grinded herself into your face.

Eris’s thrusts had somehow gotten more powerful, making you whimper into Nesta. Your wife let out a moan at the vibration, then Eris’s fingers found your clit. You were oversensitive, and as a result moaned repeatedly between Nesta’s thighs. Her legs began to shake around you, her hands squeezing your breasts as she panted, “Can I please cum?”

“Yes.” Eris grunted, his own thrusts getting sloppier as he chased his own release. Seconds later, Nesta moaned wantonly, her legs clenching your head and shaking like an earthquake as you sucked on her clit, drawing out her release. She cried out, her orgasm wracking her body as she grinded her hips into your face even more. You happily took it, whimpering as her moans spurred both you and Eris on towards your own release. 

As Nesta dragged her trembling self off of your body, she flopped down beside you. Her fingers quickly took Eris’s hand’s place at your clit, rubbing back and forth harshly. You nearly screamed at the sudden pressure, white hot pleasure pooling in your gut ready to burst.

“Come for me, my love,” Nesta purred in your ear.

That was all it took to send you over the edge. Your muscles clenched as your release shot through you, and you gasped with the sudden wave of pleasure. Nesta murmured praises in your ear as you rode your high, and Eris let out a growling moan as his hips sputtered, your clenching around his cock spurring on his orgasm. You cried out as his cum shot into you, the sensation almost overwhelming and prolonging your high. 

Finally, the ironclad grip on your hips released and Eris slowly pulled himself out of you. Your legs twitched, all three of you panting in an attempt to catch your breath. Deep down, you felt whole, as if the mating bond had somehow grown even stronger since before the wedding. It was as if a piece of you had been missing before you met Nesta and Eris, and they were slowly filling that void with pieces of their own.

“Does anyone fancy joining me for a shower? I’ll have someone deliver our favourite snacks afterwards,” Eris asked, standing up and holding his hands out for you and Nesta. Eagerly, you both took his extended hands and headed towards the newly built bathing room.

As the three of you stood under the multiple shower heads, tenderly washing each other when needed, you felt happy tears prick your eyes. The Nesta you met six months ago was a shell of herself, angry, with walls as high as Ramiel that refused to be crumbled by anyone. She was an object in another male’s court, a pawn in the games he played. An aggressive animal that was to be locked in a cage and only lured out when they had use for her. That Nesta never would have let anyone wash her hair, or cuddle beside her in bed. The Nesta standing beneath the shower with you was a changed female, one who knew her value and was now finally free to make her own choices without threats being made at every corner. She laughed freely, smiled more often, and the life had returned to her eyes.

Eris was a male who you never thought would tenderly kiss your forehead, or kneel before you to help you wash your legs. To be raised in an environment as harsh as Beron’s shadow, you knew how lucky you truly were that his heart stayed good. No matter how often he would deny it, you knew he was a good male.

And so all of the horrors you had faced in the last six months washed away with your happy tears in the shower, your wife and your husband beside you to hold you up no matter what.

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[violettduchess]

A/N: I am so happy to be able to share my gift for the lovely @ikeromantic 💜 A deep dive into your blog told me you love AUs as much as I do so I was so happy to create one for our favorite Lelouchian.

Thank you to @ikemenlibrary and @sunnyikemen for hosting and for being supportive, accommodating and all-around superstars. 💜

Clavis x Emma

Magic AU, Soulmates AU, First Kiss, Enemies to Lovers

WC: ~2k

The sun is glowing a bright lemon-yellow as Emma closes the wooden door to her shop. It’s a beautiful door, made of dark walnut and decorated with silvery moons and stars. Across the top, the words “Belle Magie” are etched into the hard wood. At night, the lettering glows a soft gold. Humming to herself, she wraps her free hand around the ornate brass doorknob and a subtle, warm orange glow emanates from her fingertips. The moons and stars flash once and she hears a satisfying, soft whoosh of magic. The door to her shop is now locked via enchantment and no one except Emma will be able to enter and poke around at all the treasures that line her shelves and counters.

Smoothing down her ochre and black robes, she carefully makes her way across the cobblestone street to the shop that is literally across from hers. Her nose wrinkles at the sign that hangs above the wooden door: “Lelouchian Enchantments” written in swirling, silver lettering that she would say is barely legible. His note, written in the same dizzying writing, is clutched tightly in her hand as she pushes open the lavender-colored door with a celestial design nearly identical to her own. But that is where the similarity ends.

Whereas Emma’s shop is neat, organized by ingredients, everything with its own place and labeled in her own very careful handwriting, his is a gigantic explosion of almost anything one can imagine. Bottles filled with liquids of all colors and bottles with questionable things floating in them, dried herbs and seeds in pots and packets, a whole section of plants that bite anyone who comes near them, not to mention odd gemstones, vibrant powders, paints and feathers. She ducks underneath the silver vines that have wrapped themselves around the wooden ceiling beams, ignoring the way they contract and rustle their leaves at her, and approaches the counter where she finds Clavis himself, carefully sorting what looks like glittery kidney beans.

“I got your missive. I believe it broke in through my window in order to deliver itself.”

At the sound of her voice, he turns, golden eyes gleaming like copper in sunlight. He wipes his hands on the folds of his pale lavender robes, grinning slowly. She is forced to admit to herself for the millionth time that Clavis is hardly unpleasant to look at, per say. But oh, how he irks her, with his smooth words, flamboyant personality and flashy enchantments. 

“Oh dearie me, when I said it was urgent, I suppose that gave it permission to cause destruction. I apologize.”

She bats away several tiny golden motes that have taken an interest in her chestnut hair and Clavis lifts his hand, wiggling his fingers in invitation. The golden pinpricks of light float towards him, circling his wrist and then solidify into a gold bracelet.

Refusing to be distracted by his tricks, she unscrolls his letter and lays it on the counter.

“Well? Where is it?”

“So impatient,” he tuts as he kneels down, lifting an ornate silver box from under the counter. It’s about the size of his hand and she can’t help but watch the way he trails his fingertips over the decorative embellishments. He has such elegant hands.

One brow arches slowly as she crosses her arms, shoving that thought away and burying it in annoyance.. “Well…..are you going to open it….?”

He sighs theatrically. “Some people have no sense of showmanship.”

Her lips quirk into a small, involuntary grin. “I’m not one of the poor suckers who come in here for your tricks and potions, Lelouch. Now open the box.”

He tilts his head, clearly enjoying how much she is trying to hide her curiosity. His hand rests on the lid of the box but doesn’t move.

“Don’t you want to know the story of how I acquired such a treasure? Why, it’s a tale of mighty heroics the likes of-”

“No. No, I do not.”

He pretends to be offended but the light in his eyes gives away the truth. 

“But it involves a goblin merchant from Benitoite and a heartsick wizard from the Jade Forest and-”

“And a dragon and a sea witch and a bloody one-eyed pegasus. Clavis, just open the box!” 

He laughs and it is the needle deflating the balloon of irritation that had overtaken her. She’s never met anyone with a laugh quite like his. It’s almost musical, but in the way of the inviting, simple melody of a children’s song. Something that stays with her, imprinting itself on her mind.

“Such an impatient pumpkin.”

“Don’t call me pumpkin.” The response is automatic, a reflex built over the long while she has known him. The first time Clavis had seen her do magic and seen the yellow-orange glow her magic emanates, he had bestowed her with that aggravating nickname.

Nimble fingers curl over the lid of the box and then he lifts it, revealing a round, milky-white stone nestled into a bed of black velvet. It reminds her immediately of the moon against a starless night sky.

She tilts her head quizzically. “This is the all-power Amor Lapis?” She had imagined something called the “Love Stone” being far more ostentatious, something pink or red and wild with sparkles. Something that would take her breath away. This stone, while pretty in its own way, looks rather ordinary.

“Such a skeptic.” He lifts the stone from its box, holding it in the palm of his hand. “It will only glow when two soulmates have found each other.” He lifts his gaze to her, his smile playful. “Know any perfect couples?”

She rolls her eyes, reaching out to touch the stone. “There’s no such thing as a perfect-” Her fingers brush Clavis’s palm and suddenly, the middle of the white stone begins to brighten, a soft glow radiating out from the center.

She jerks her hand away even as he nearly drops it. Her heart roars to life, knocking wildly around inside her chest.

Neither of them move and then, at the same time they both do, Clavis uncharacteristically fumbling to put the stone back in its box and she taking several steps back, one hand curling into the velvet folds of her cloak.

“It’s broken! It’s clearly defective!” Why does her voice sound just a bit shrill to her ears?

He clears his throat. She’s rarely seen him so rattled.

“It….oh dear…..maybe it is.” He frowns, staring down at the stone, at the dull, cream color of it, no glow to be seen. Then he draws in a breath, one that even she can hear shaking and looks at her. There is something unfamiliar in the depths of his sunrise eyes.

“We should try that again.”

“Try what again, exactly?”

“Touching.”

She should be balking at the very suggestion. 

She should already be halfway out of his crazy shop. 

She shouldn’t be stepping closer again, her gaze jumping from the stone back to him and then back again. 

And she really really should not be saying-

“Alright. To-to prove its deficiency.”

The smooth, dark counter is a barrier between them, one that feels like armor, something that will protect her although what she needs protecting from is uncertain, some nebulous thing forming on the edges of her consciousness, some unknown dream rising from the shadows of slumber.

Clavis then holds out his hand, palm up, his gaze meeting hers. Her heartbeat drums wildly through her veins, a rhythm she has never known before. Slowly she lifts her hand and places it in his. His skin is cool and smooth, soft in a way she would not have expected. Emma can feel his magic just here, flowing through him. It feels shockingly calm, not the wild chaos she thought it might be but soothing, like the scent of lavender, the soft pastels of the sky at sundown. She can feel her own magic responding, warming as it flows through her.

Beneath their joined hands, the Amor Lapis begins glowing again, a soft white light like a tiny flame igniting inside the stone. Her heartbeat roaring in her ears, she slowly withdraws her hand from his and watches as the glow dims and then, when they are no longer touching, winks off like a tiny candle snuffed out by a breeze. When Emma has gathered enough courage, she raises her gaze from the milky-colored stone to Clavis and her heart trips over its own beat. His eyes rival the glow of the stone, something new burning in their golden depths. The light of revelation. The light of truth. The light of desire.

When he finally speaks, his voice sounds soft, breathy in a way that causes Emma to bite the inside of her lip at the sound.

“Dearie me,” he murmurs, his gaze locked with hers, bright with an intensity that feels almost physical. “If that happens when we touch hands, imagine what might happen if we actually kiss.”

The word lingers between them, shimmering in the air like desert heat over sand dunes. Emma unconsciously licks her lips and Clavis’s gaze drops there, fast as quicksilver. His own lips part slightly as he stares at the full curve of her lower lip, the sweet bow of the top. His own voice, his own words, echo like thunder between them. 

….if we actually…..

….kiss….

Emma hasn't moved, hasn’t said a word, her soft eyes wide as a deer’s startled by a sudden, unexpected sound. And then he realizes what he said, what he has actually suggested and shame floods him, a tsunami of embarrassment that washes away the glimmer of hope, the clouds of desire that had overtaken him. 

What the hell was he thinking, talking like that? As if someone like her, someone so intelligent and kind and talented, someone beautiful inside and out, would ever be soulmates with someone like him. Forget soulmates, she doesn’t even like him. 

He hangs in head, soft twilight locks falling across his forehead, his knuckles white as he grips the counter with trembling hands. Stupid. Idiot. Never good enough. Never smart enough. Never ever would he be enough for someone else.

“Nevermind, I lost myself for a moment.” The words are acrid on his tongue and he feels the hot wash of color staining his cheeks and neck. “Obviously, there’s no way–”

Her hands are suddenly gripping those warm cheeks, pulling him towards her, forcing him to lean over the counter, above the stone, where she presses her lips to his. The Amor Lapis explodes with radiance, a tiny supernova encased by smooth stone. Even with closed eyes, Emma notices the brightening of the light but right now, she does not care. Because right now, she is holding Clavis’s face in her hands, and she is falling falling falling into kissing him.

At first he freezes, shock turning his blood to ice water in his veins. But then he realizes her mouth is really there, pressed against his, and then the burst of light automatically closes his eyes and the shock begins to thaw.

Now all he feels is the warmth of her kiss, the tentative movement of her lips and he gasps, reaching across the counter to touch her. Cradling each other’s face, they kiss, at first slowly, drinking in the fragile newness of the sensation, the unveiling of the truth that has been growing in both their hearts, quietly. Steadily. And then novelty slowly turns to pleasure, to desire. He grows bolder, sliding a hand down to the nape of her neck, holding her there so he can part her lips and sink into the sweet taste of her. If this is a dream, may he never wake up.

Emma sighs against him, a sound that echoes the twinkling of diamond-bright stars in a black velvet sky. All this time….all this time she’s been falling in love and never even realized it.

Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. Neither of them can say when they finally pull away from one another. Breathless, light-headed, floating, they both glance down at the Amor Lapis. The stone is luminous, glowing like a tiny moon dropped from the heavens. 

And it will continue to give off its beautiful light, for the rest of their days.

Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @portrait-ninja @ikesimpleton @mastering-procrastinating @namine-somebodies-nobody @queen-dahlia @scorchieart @nightghoul381 @bubblexly

[nonasuch]

Can I ask how much the cameos you got at the antiques store were? I've inherited an ENORMOUS cameo collection and don't even know where to start selling off the hundreds I don't want to keep.

oh, what a good problem to have!

The main factors in pricing cameos are a) what the setting is made of and b) the quality of the carving. More unusual subjects (ie not the standard lady in profile) will also add to value.

The prices I paid for the cameos I just posted don’t really reflect retail pricing, because I was buying a big batch of jewelry all at once at dealer prices. If you’re selling to a dealer, expect to get 1/3 to 1/2 of retail; if you decide to sell them yourself online, you can try for full retail pricing but expect it to take a long time.

Just to give you a sense of the possible range, I priced the largest cameo of the batch I posted, which is large and very well-carved and has an 18k setting, at $210. The smaller profile cameos in sterling and gold fill will be $40-60. The smallest coral-colored cameo is pressed glass in a brass setting (but it’s also Victorian), so I’ll price it around $25.

[peaches2217]

There’s a door on the right wall of Peach and Mario’s bedroom, just a few meters from the entryway. It’s an entirely unremarkable door, really; it matches the doors to both the private chambers and the restroom, white with gold trimmings and a polished brass doorknob. Such a door normally wouldn’t give Peach any pause whatsoever.

There is, however, one strange thing about this door in particular: it wasn’t there this morning.

She repeatedly looks from the door to her husband, who’s casually unlacing his boots by the dresser. The door to her husband, who’s rummaging through the third drawer down. The door back to her husband, who’s unhooking his overalls and kicking them onto the plush carpet floor. If he’s aware of this anomaly in an otherwise familiar setting, he’s not showing it.

“Mario.”

Mario hums lazily, not even looking at her as he pulls on his softest, most worn nightshirt, its red cotton faded and fraying. Peach is almost certain she’s dreaming right now. She was so certain she had been awake just minutes ago, laughing with friends and family over dinner, cheerfully accompanying her husband to bed after a long and eventful day of baby shopping with her best friend (though it's still a bit early to be buying any clothes, she’d tried saying a few times, statements that Daisy had immediately brushed off). But everything suddenly feels far too… off.

“What is that?” she finally chances, gesturing to the alien door. Mario finishes peeling off his socks and gloves before looking to where she’s gesturing, regarding it with all the mundanity he might regard any other door.

“It’s a door,” he answers easily, giving her a patented I have no clue what you’re getting at but I love you and cherish the words that come from your mouth anyway grin.

Peach sucks in an uneasy breath. Maybe this is that Pregnancy Brain thing she’s read about? Perhaps her memories are being rearranged, her senses tricked? Toadessa did warn her that she might become increasingly forgetful as the months progressed. It’s a more logical explanation than any other she can conjure up. If something were truly amiss, then surely Mario would notice too. Right?

“I… don’t remember it being there this morning,” she confesses, a blush creeping into her cheeks. She remembers, or at least thinks she remembers, that there was once a small storage unit just behind that door, filled with old broken halberds and spears and other assorted equipment that was too valuable to trash but too broken to repair. Yes, she remembers it now with greater confidence; she had been terrified of that dark, cluttered room, unable to sleep for fear of whatever monsters might be lurking within, and so Toadsworth had ordered it sealed when she was age seven or so.

Or maybe he hadn’t?

Mario chuckles, and though the corners of his eyes crease in good humor and his smile is filled with warmth, her face burns hotter still. “Fog’s already setting in, huh?” He taps a finger to his temple to hammer home what he’s implying, and though Peach knows his words hold no malice, the teasing still fans an unpleasant flame in her chest; she can’t help but cross arms in front of her and huff, half in hopes of exhaling that flame, half to make her displeasure known.

Suddenly Mario’s face reads a bit less amused and a bit more ashamed, and that just makes her feel even worse.

“No,” he croons, approaching her with his hands loosely extended, “tesoro mio, I’m so sorry. That was mean.” His tone doesn’t quite match his words. He’s clearly sorry to have provoked such a reaction, Peach doesn’t doubt his sincerity there, but there’s nevertheless a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, like there’s still something terribly amusing about her predicament.

So this is the thanks I get for carrying your child, she considers pouting, but something in Mario’s eyes sparkles so brightly that she feels her annoyance melting away, like an icicle brought into the sunlight. Damn him. She sighs and unfolds her arms to take his hands; for her silent pardon, he brings her knuckles to his lips and kisses them one by one, and suddenly she’s overcome with the urge to giggle like a lovestruck schoolgirl.

She resists, if only to spite him one last time, then she lets the grudge slide from her shoulders.

“You know,” Mario says once he’s done with his ministrations, his thumbs rubbing little circles into the backs of her hands, “I don’t have any right to poke fun. I don’t even remember what’s behind that door, either.”

Peach blinks. No, okay, now she knows she’s dreaming. This entire scenario is making less and less sense by the moment.

But before she can pinch herself awake, Mario’s guiding her towards the unfamiliar door, letting go of her hands and drifting behind her. Almost like he’s pushing her forward, she feels.

“Maybe we should check it out,” he suggests all too innocently, and if not for the way he lingers behind her, she might not find the suggestion too strange. But Mario always insists on taking the lead any time there’s unfamiliar terrain to be trekked. He would never let her be the first in the line of fire, no matter how mundane said terrain might appear on the surface, especially not in her present condition.

Unless, of course, he knows what she's stepping into.

Staring at the white and gold door, reason begins to resettle in Peach’s head. How had he known she was referring specifically to the door itself? If she were to gesture to the bathroom door and say "What is that?", he wouldn’t say “That’s a door,” he would say “That’s the bathroom.” 

She’s not dreaming, nor is she going crazy. There is definitely something going on. Some sort of conspiracy that he’s in on and she’s not.

Unaccustomed to being left in the dark by her own husband, she grasps the doorknob, takes a breath, opens the door… and gasps.

The room behind the door is, in fact, the room she remembers, or is at least roughly the same size. But where she remembers dingy stone, there’s now carpet, luxuriously plush like the carpet in the bedroom. The sterile gray walls that once spooked her are now a soft and lovely blue, decorated with empty floating shelves and cheerful paintings of Biddybuds and Fire Flowers and scenes from familiar mushroom forests.

There's no trace of the broken weapons that once littered the room. There's instead a dresser flush to the wall, and a tall table of some sort, and a small chest in the opposite corner... and in the center of the room, on a round and ornate rug, are two pieces of furniture on smooth, curved rockers. One is a chair, adult human-sized; the other is much smaller, a horizontal hollow contained within smooth, round bars. A cradle.

“Oh yeah,” Mario chimes in somewhere behind her, “now I remember! I knew there was a reason I asked Daisy to keep you out of the castle today.”

His words slowly sink in as Peach approaches the rocking chair, reaching out to brush her fingers over the dark red wood. Cedar. The whole room is filled with the dry and resinous aroma of fresh cedar, a scent she typically associates with the workshop in the castle's western wing. The workshop where Mario tinkers with metal and wood whenever he tires of royal monotony and needs to keep his hands occupied.

The workshop that's been suspiciously locked every time she's approached it the past couple of months, even when she could hear saws cutting through raw materials and the tap-tap-tap of chisels in experienced hands within.

All pretense is gone. When she turns back to Mario, she finds him bristling with pride, that teasing smile wider than before.

"You did this?" She looks back to the chair, fastened with fluffy pink silk cushions, and the cradle, a matching cushion tied to its bars and emblazoned with the royal mushroom emblem on its headboard, an emblem that's been carved into the chest a few steps away as well. Something in her throat feels impossibly tight. "All of this?"

Mario finally leaves the doorway, his hand brushing against her back as he steps past her. "Well, not all of it, no. Just the furniture." He taps his right foot a few times against the statement rug beneath their feet. "Weeg handled the layout and the decorations and the swatches and all that fancy stuff. He's got a better eye for that sorta thing! Then he helped me get everything moved in and set up and the door re-installed while you and Daisy were out shopping. Of course Toadsworth's the one who told me about this little room in the first place, so he helped us get it unsealed, and Daisy—" He laughs now, scratching the back of his neck. “Actually, she wasn’t even part of it originally! She just barged in one day — I had the door locked, Peachy, but she just waltzed right on in! I don’t know if she had a key or if she just forced it open with her bare hands — and she said the only way she’d keep quiet was if she got to be involved and take credit for her part in the whole ordeal, so that’s how that happened, and—”

His face grows darker as he prattles on, until at last he’s forced to take in a sharp gasp, his color returning to normal as oxygen once more fills his lungs. “But! The rest of it! Yeah, that was all me! Looky here—” His fingers curl around the bars of the cradle, giving it a few demonstrative rocks. “Remember that night you called me into the bathroom and I thought you were hurt and I panicked but actually you were just excited because you could finally see a little baby bump in the mirror? I couldn’t sleep at all that night because suddenly it all felt so real, so I spent the whole next day making this! 

“And then I thought, ‘Well, we’ve got a place for them to sleep, but where are we gonna change their diapers? And where are we gonna put all the diapers and wipes and all that good stuff anyway?’ And that’s how I got started on that one!” He darts now to the table against the wall, gesticulating around it with the enthusiasm of a used kart salesman. “Perfect little platform, plenty of storage space, I’ve been thinking about making a mobile to put over it too in case she gets fussy, because the last thing we need is a dirty diaper and a fussy baby, right? And then—”

And this continues on for a good few minutes, Mario darting around the room to show off each hand-crafted piece of their new nursery. The dresser to store non-diapers, things like blankets and onesies and a few changes of clothes for both of them because babies are messy and ruined clothes are inevitable, and the chest to store everything else, like toys — he throws the lid open and shows Peach a few delicately carved wooden blocks and dolls, because what's a toy chest without any toys?

The information comes at Peach too quickly to absorb any of it, because an excitable Mario is a Mario at full steam that won’t stop for anything or anyone, so she blindly follows him, brushing her fingers against each piece’s cool cedar, examining the smooth-gliding drawers, dragging her thumb nail over the ridges in each toy she’s handed.

“And then the bookshelf! I’m… still working on that one.” He scratches his neck again with a nervous chuckle. “But I couldn’t wait any longer! Gimme a few days and it’ll go in that corner right over there. Weegee’s already got a whole library lined up for her, so we should have enough books to last us a while at least. And then I was thinking we could put some flowers and vases on the shelves, maybe? So they look sad and empty now, but pretty soon they’ll…”

Peach dutifully admires one such shelf on the wall, right next to a painting of a Fire Flower field in full bloom. Yes, a live Fire Flower on the adjacent shelf to compliment the painting. It’s certainly a good idea. She’s so caught up in the automatic thought process that, as soon as it runs its course, she turns to take on whatever bit of information Mario throws at her next, effortless and thoughtless.

Only then does she realize he’s gone silent.

“...You okay, Peachy?” Suddenly there’s no bravado in his voice. It’s softer, gentler, quieter. He closes their distance and takes her hands in his, warm and strong. “Sorry, I… I know this is a lot. Of course, if there’s any part of it you don’t like, you can tell me! You know I won’t take it personally. Well, not too personally.” He couples this statement with a playful wink.

Another automatic thought crosses Peach’s mind: how could she ever criticize any of this? He’s made an entire nursery with his own two hands for their child. She could never…

And for the first time since she opened that strange new door, it hits Peach. Not in words, but in images: Mario in his workshop, wiping sweat and sawdust from his forehead as he consults his blueprints, making certain his vision is coming to life exactly as he’s planned. Mario crammed into a booth at Tayce T.’s with his brother, thick brows knit in confusion as Luigi gives him a crash course on color theory and interior design. Mario in a football-style huddle with Peach’s steward and brother-in-law and best friend, giving everyone their roles sometime late last night or early this morning while she still lay blissfully unaware in bed.

Mario kneeling beside the completed cradle, rocking it a few times with a peaceful smile, staring down at the plush pink cushion and imagining a little blonde or brunette bundle of blankets sleeping soundly within.

The stagnant tightness in Peach’s throat erupts in the form of a sob, a rush of raw hormones heightening her every emotion until it almost hurts, and once she starts, it’s impossible to stop.

“Ah— Peachy—!” She hears Mario offer a few uncertain words of comfort beneath her shrill breathing, and he starts to pull her in some equally uncertain direction (uncertain to her, anyway, because her tears are falling too hard and too fast to make out anything other than abstract shapes). She lets him guide her steps, until suddenly he hoists her into his arms and lowers both of them. He’s settled in the rocking chair, she realizes from the way they both jolt as he adjusts her in his lap.

Her belly is larger now than it was the night she called him into the bathroom, though not so large that she can’t wrap her arms around him and hold him tightly, burying her face into the crown of his head. Even his hair smells of cedar, a fine dust that tickles her nose, and laughter bubbles in her chest alongside the tears.

“You’re amazing,” she manages to choke out. Her Mario, her thoughtful Mario, her hard-working and mind-bendingly devoted Mario. He cradles her, his left hand against her outer thigh, his opposite arm supporting her back, his right hand stroking the side of her belly ever so gently.

“So,” he says into her chest, and she can feel him smile against her, “does this, uh, does this make up for the teasing earlier?”

Peach sniffles and laughs again, drawing him in closer. Even if she hasn’t forgiven him (which she has, she’d like to believe she’s not that petty), she supposes drenching his hair with tears and mucus is payback enough. Maybe they can shower together tonight. Maybe she can wash his hair, and he’ll press kisses to her sternum the whole time, like he always does.

Though for now, she’s equally content to remain right where she’s at, secure in his arms in this cozy little nursery, their baby nestled safely between their bodies. It’ll still be a few more months before this space is put to proper use, after all. What’s the rush?

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Sampling - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

A journalist finds themselves on the Eye of Zaun's platter...

(Run, you idiot. Run.)

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

"Have you considered," you dared, as you both resumed your seats, now side-by-side, "finding a companion to share the burden with?"

"Companion? I trust you don't mean a spouse?"

Your cheeks flamed. "Are there so few suitable candidates in Zaun?"

"Suitable? Oh, plenty."

You found yourself leaning in. "But no one special?"

"Special..." He rolled the word on his tongue: languorously, as if savoring a peculiar delicacy. "In a manner of speaking."

He eyed the decanter, and seemed to debate whether or not to pour a second shot. He settled for a single finger. Yours, too, was devotedly filled. The atmosphere was beginning to warm: a clandestine coziness of blue-and-gold.

You'd not realized how much heat the Chancellor radiated, until he was a scant distance away. The shared settee felt like a private sauna.

"Who, then?" Your voice, coming from somewhere deep, had grown husky. "What sort of person could entice you?"

"Oh, a rarity. But Zaun has no shortage of those. We're a spirited folk, Mx. Goode. Our passions, our ambitions... they are not bound by convention." A hand lifted; sherry swirled in the glass. "They are not, in fact, bound at all."

You took a shaky sip from your own. "You seek, then, an equal match."

"A balance, not a scale." His chuckle rasped up your spine like a lit matchstick. "I'll admit I'm no catch. My faults are many. A temper to shame Shurima's blistering sands, and a stubbornness to rival their stone colossi. I'm prone to jealousy, and far too accustomed to getting my way. Then there's my taste for strong liquor and late hours." He tipped his head back, and downed the shot. You watched the tendons in his throat flex sinuously. "But, whatever else, I keep my vices within legal bounds." Wry: "Even if those bounds are elastic."

Your own glass was nearly empty. Your head spun: from the sherry, or the man, you couldn't say. "I have heard... rumors."

"The world's full of them."

"Your, ah, tastes. Are said to be eclectic. And your carte du monde..."

"Broad, as they say, beyond the pale." That low laugh. "You're curious?"

Breathless, you answered, "Very."

"I'm afraid, then, I must disappoint. Some secrets are best kept secret." A sidelong smile. His front teeth were finely serrated, and chipped at the center. Why did that strike you as attractive? It was mystifying. "I will say this. A wide platter is no promise of a full belly. Especially—" A pair of canines bared their twinkling points. "If one’s palate is discriminating."

The temperature had jumped several degrees. You felt, in a trance, your glass being taken from your hand. Heard the clink of the two, set aside.

When his attention returned, he was closer than before. You noticed the creases at the corners of his eyes, and the scar notching his left temple in its trajectory down to the jaggedly seamed flesh of his cheekbone. His mouth, too, had a scar: a tiny white nick near the upper lip. It was not unattractive. In fact, the violence in the topography of his flesh seemed only to enhance his appeal.

The imperfections were signs of a life lived fully. With passion. With vigor.

A Zaunite life.

"Surely," you licked your lips, and tasted the sherry, "you've sampled everything the city has to offer."

"I've sampled." He tipped a shoulder. "And been satisfied."

"But not fulfilled?"

Again, that equivocal shrug. "I'll be blunt. The city has a surplus of beauty, and no a shortage of brilliance. But it is the rare find whose value cannot be gauged. The Noxian boys, not to stereotype, are always greedy to prove themselves. Too greedy, in my estimation. Bilgewater's wenches are bold as brass, but insufferably spiteful. Ionians, I've a soft spot for. A study of elegance, in their way. But tender hearts can be fickle. And Demacians..." He gusted a sigh. "A pretty passel, but heads as empty as eggshells. If I crack one, its contents will likely ooze." A grin. "Unless it's a good fuck, in which case, I won't complain."

It was the first time he'd uttered a profanity in your presence. And his delivery—the way his lips lingered on the f and cut like a knife through the k—was undeniably filthy.

The heat spiked into a flare. Your skin felt slick, your pulse wild. His stare, that lazy-lidded blue eye, took in the effects.

There was the faintest of smiles, and no tell. His poker face was perfect.

"Have you considered," you fumbled, "searching closer to home?"

"Indeed, I have." Then, to your dismay: "The local Vekauran enclave, in fact."

"I—really?"

"I've no prejudice. They're a fine-looking folk. Lithe and lovely and dark as dusk. Their cuisine, especially, is a godsend. Have you tasted payasam, Mx. Goode? I detest sweets, but their use of jaggery is pure genius."

"Their dishes," you heard the pique in your own tone, "are a bit too spicy for my taste."

"Spicy?" The smile slipped into a smirk. "Or hot?"

"Is there a difference?"

"There is in Zaun. Spice has layers of flavor. It can be bitter, or sweet, or sour. But its essence is its bite." He lounged back, and his knee brushed yours. The blue and red eyes snared you with hypnotic intensity. "Hot, on the other hand, is a lasting potency. Does it sear, or scald, or swallow you whole? Only a brave tongue can tell."

You swallowed. The parlor was an oven. His knee, kissing yours, a branding-iron.

"Is that what suits your palate," you managed. "A little spice?"

"A little. Never too much. Just enough to get the blood flowing." His arm draped the back of the settee. You felt his thumb skim your nape. Gooseflesh bloomed. "Anyway, Vekauran beauties are best enjoyed at a distance. Praise one by saying she belongs in the kitchen, and she'll chop off your tongue and feed it to you raw."

You voice was nearly a shiver. "You seem... well-versed."

"I am, indeed." Another brush against the nape. You tried not to arch. "And I prefer my tongue in working order."

 "For business...?"

"That, too." And, slowly, his thumb stroked down to the hollow between your neck and shoulder. "Speaking of which, are you enjoying yours?"

The words—the touch—were a dousing of heat. Your eyes fluttered shut. You were on the verge of a slip down scandal and into the inferno. A part of you screamed to abort, and flee to the safety of your suite. To cool down, and return to Piltover with a full report, and an intact reputation.

The rest of you—the real you—melted like candlewax under a flame.

You'd played with fire before. But never one as scorching as this.

"I think," you breathed, "we've done enough talking."

The Chancellor, smiling, closed the last scant inches.

[trekmupf]

maybe the way we treat mentally ill people and prisoners is still not fixed huh

Pro

Super suspicious package is suspicious of becoming plot relevant

McCoy hanging out on the bridge again. Also he is absolutely incapable of standing without holding onto something in this episode (did I make a screenshot collection? Of course)

The way Kirk handles Van Gelder with the weapon on the bridge

McCoy being a good doctor! Also gives further insight into his character: scientific curiosity, gut feeling, good patient care. Also his close ups are so beautiful, He's so expressive, 10/10 Bone's face

Kirk and McCoy dynamic! McCoy having him investigate, Kirk implying he doesn't have great psych personnel, McCoy sending a woman he has history with to annoy him and it absolutely working

That weird dove, hand and rainbow sign screams danger cult

So many scenes between Spock and McCoy. When they properly work together it's beautiful (jk they're always beautiful even whenthey're verbally bashing each other's heads in)

Van Gelder's pain and suffering while trying to tell them what's going on is terrifying and sad, but it tells us a lot about who he is

Kirk like I can totally try the crazy people device on myself!

At first voluntarily but who could have known, it escalades

Dr. Noel is great! She has things to do, is a good doctor in her field, an actual character with ethics and a moral compass (not letting Kirk kiss her as he's not himself despite clearly being into him), and she gets shit done! I'd argue so far the most a female character gets to actually do in an episode

Spock's face when he sees them kissing is gold (also Spock's face when Noel first says “We've met”);

Another “he's dead, captain” by McCoy

Love the last conversation between McCoy and Kirk

More of Kirk's character: Is a very mentally strong person who to a degree can shake out of the machines manipulation twice, and is very resilient – it's that this trauma is still with him, McCoy and Spock are worried and he reassures them he WILL be fine with a slight smile (but he isn't yet) (Shatner's acting is SO good here)

The horrors of psychiatry / mind manipulation (conversion therapy, shock therapy, forced medication comes to mind), in the 60's extremely relevant but looking around now, still relevant today (sadly)

Van Gelder calling out Kirk: “You smug, button-pushing brass hat! Wash your hands of it. Is that your system?” is a great callout to the people in power ignoring the people in the system

The absolute horrific death of the bad guy by his own device – even though it was his own design, instead of turning the narrative towards “he deserved this” it's made clear that this was a terrible death that no one deserves. Shatner's acting of grief here is great, and this mood stays until the end of the episode

The set up of Dr. Adams being a great man in his field who revolutionized health care for the better having turned to the dark, experimental side and being dangerous – achieving great things or doing good should never stop people from questioning what a (famous) person is doing later on and McCoy was right to do so

Introduction of the Mind meld!

The tension and pacing of the episode are excellent; especially the scenes with the machine are horrific and hard to watch

I cannot overstate how much I love everyone's acting in this episode, but especially Morgan Woodward's depiction of pain, mental illness & urgency and Shatner's suffering & pain at the end

Cons:

Noel making Kirk think they had sex when he was vulnerable was and uncomfortable ( I think it can be sooort of excused by neither of them taking the machine seriously and her having to think of something they both know didn't happen - she clearly wouldn't have taken advantage)

Counter: Fake womanizer Kirk (non con due to hypnosis) Quote: "To all mankind, may we never find space so vast, planets so cold, heart and mind so empty that... that we cannot fill them with love and warmth" - Dr. Adams

Moment: When Kirk uses the mashine for the first time and the viewer realizes how invasive and terrifying this is – he doesn't even know it happened Summary: Great episode with an open political commentary still relevant today, interesting and well acted one time characters and more characterbuilding for the trio – Kirk as Captain putting himself front of the line to find out the truth while Spock and McCoy support him from the ship and swoop in when he needs them to (and them teasing each other a lot!)

Previous Episode - Next Episode - All TOS Reviews

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Across The Darkened Room {5}

Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader || Modern AU Summary: The Targaryen family dinner gives you a deeper insight into Aemond and why he needs the control that comes with being a dom. Warnings: 18+ only, NSFW, smut, almost safe word use WC: 3.2k

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six ||

You felt like a princess in the long gossamer gown made from thin layers of black lace over an emerald green shift that let the different shades shine through with each step. Aemond wore emerald cufflinks with his suit and a matching tie so that he complimented you as he stepped up behind you in the mirror. 

You turned with a frown as you found a leather patch covering his sapphire and gently traced the dragon emblem embossed into the material. “Do you always cover it when you see your family?”

“No,” he laughed softly. “Cardinal rule of fashion; blue and green must never be seen.”

That made more sense than thinking he was hiding a piece of himself. 

“Turn around,” Aemond ordered and you spun back to the mirror as he reached into his pocket to pull out a large teardrop emerald hanging on a thin gold chain. He draped the necklace around you and the gem was cool and heavy against your skin as he clasped it before letting it slip further into your cleavage. “Beautiful.”

You lifted the gem up and smiled at how the light danced off each facet before turning and wrapping your arms around his narrow waist. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” he replied softly. “It has been a long time since I went to a family dinner, I don’t think I could face it alone.”

“Why’s that?” you asked but he just smiled ruefully and shook his head.

At the highest point of King’s Landing was the original Red Keep, but the red brick building had turned to ruin a long time ago and had been replaced with a modern mansion that still held the formidable presence of the old keep you had seen in museum paintings. There was even an archway that Aemond drove beneath to reach a courtyard with a beautiful fountain in the centre where a valet was waiting to take the keys to his car. 

“So this is where you grew up,” you uttered in amazement as you looked up at the towering walls. 

Aemond laced his fingers into yours and stepped towards the enormous wooden doors that swung open with the help of two footmen. He lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles as he gently murmured, “It may look nice on the outside but don’t let it fool you.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the ominous tone and you wanted to ask more but he tugged your hand and towed you into the heart of the mansion. You expected to hear his family as he navigated through the halls but if anything the sounds in the home grew quieter. It wasn’t until he reached a staircase and led the way down that you voiced your concern.

“I know you grew up here, Aemond, but this place is huge. We aren’t lost are we?”

He grabbed a brass door handle and turned it with a chuckle of amusement. “I need to get a little lost before I face what’s waiting in there.”

Your lips parted to find out what he meant when he pulled you into the dimly lit room and crashed his lips to yours. You cast your arms out to stabilise you as he backed you to the wall and you found dozens of wine bottlenecks pressing into you. The breath in your lungs was lost to a blissful sigh when he grazed his teeth over your racing pulse and pulled the skirt of your dress over your hips. 

You were grateful that the doctor had given your test results yesterday as you knew for a fact there was no condom in your clutch and Aemond had left his wallet in his car. It meant there was nothing hindering him from pulling the delicate lace panties aside and filling you with his cock.

You both moaned as he hooked your leg over his hip and slipped inside you with no preparation, the sweet burn of the stretch tipping your head back with a mewling cry. The shelves rattled and the bottles tinkled with every hard thrust and you felt the bruises already forming from each cork that dug into your back. It was a far cry from the controlled sexual experience you had received so far. 

“Shhh,” he whispered as he pressed his forefinger to his lips with a smile.

Your hands roamed under Aemond’s untucked shirt and he growled as your nails clawed him closer, you were not used to being able to touch him when your hands were normally restrained. The touch seemed to unleash him as he threw his head back and fucked you harder, until the pain in your back no longer danced with pleasure and the safe word came to mind. 

Aemond froze as saw you wince and his mind came crashing back to his body, almost like he had lost himself to the feeling of being buried inside you. “Shit, shit, Sweetpea, I’m sorry,” he muttered as he pulled out and left you empty. 

He turned you around and unzipped your dress to see the many cork circles across your back. His lips were cold against the marks that were growing hotter and he kissed each one until you were squirming for more and the ebbing pain was once more pleasurable. Your hips had a mind of their own as they pushed back in search of friction. 

“Please, Aemond,” you whined.

His voice was strained as he gripped your hips and kept them from touching him as he warned you, “I’m not in control.” 

You turned and placed a hand on his chest as you looked up at his closed eye. The eye peeked open as you pushed him back to a leather chair that was tucked into the corner of the room by a tasting rack. “Then let me take control.”

He looked wary as he fell back into the seat but he let you straddle his hips and he bit his lip as you impaled yourself on his cock. You gripped the headrest beside him and rolled your hips, riding him as he held the armrests in a death grip. His nails carved half moons into the leather and you could see the strain in his whiteknuckles as he fought to keep his hands there and to not mark your skin. 

You pushed the long sleeves of your dress back and placed his hand on the soft flesh of your forearm in silent permission. His hips bucked as he drew his nails down the skin and you cried out at the bolt of lightning that slammed into your core, clenching around him. 

Your walls began to flutter as you bounced on his cock and he fought the dress away so he could press the pad of his thumb to your clit. The added pressure of his thumb was all you needed to fall over the edge when his other hand clamped over your mouth to silence the cries that erupted. 

“Fuck,” Aemond grunted as your teeth closed around his hand in the throes of your orgasm and he came with a curse, the heat of his seed filling your cunt. “You bit me.”

You dipped your head with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I’m used to biting leather.”

He tipped your chin back and kissed your pouting lips. “I liked it.”

After a quick trip to the bathroom to freshen up, Aemond finally led you to the large reception room where his family were gathered around a bar. There were more people than he had said there would be and you looked at him nervously, forgetting most of the names you had tried so hard to remember on the way over. 

Your own concern was lost as you saw the colour drain from his face and his graceful walk stopped midstep. A flash of some dark horror flitted across his face before all emotion was void and his fingers tightened around yours as his family turned to face him. 

“I didn’t realise he would be here,” a woman hissed as her fingers threatened to snap the stem of the crystal wine glass in her hand. “Daemon, children, let’s go.”

You looked between the woman and Aemond, recognising the familial traits in their hair and eyes. His fingers tightened around yours even more and you suppressed the groan that was building as you watched his jaw tick and his teeth clench together. 

“This is Aemond’s home, Rhaenyra, of course he would be here,” Alicent said as she stood up and reached for her son’s other hand. 

Rhaenyra turned to the large fireplace adorned by stone dragons as she spoke quietly, “It used to be mine.” She turned back with a hardness in her eyes and waved her hand to her four children and her husband standing together. “It was a mistake to come here, it’s still too soon.”

The family swept from the room and Daemon ran his hand along the suit jacket he wore. You had seen enough concealed guns in Flea Bottom to know the lines that appeared in the material were not the work of a poor seamstress. A streak of fear had you inching behind Aemond’s back and he switched hands so you could still hold him as he turned until everyone was out of sight.

The tension seemed to be released with a burst as the doors closed behind the other guests and you sagged against Aemond’s back with relief. It was short lived as he stepped aside and you were face to face with his mother. 

Your mouth was dry and you licked your lips quickly before holding your hand out to introduce yourself, “I’m -”

“I know exactly who you are,” Alicent said with a sigh. “You are the reason my son has foolishly hired a group of street criminals, from what I understand. He must care for you a great deal.”

“I tried to stop him,” you said with a grimace, “but he can be quite…”

“Stubborn?” Alicent offered with a small smile. “Yes, I know my son well. Which is why I know you must be something special, he’s never brought a girl home before.”

You looked to Aemond with a cocked brow but he just smirked and took two flutes of champagne from the sommelier that brought them over.

You looked to Aemond with a cocked brow but he just smirked and took two flutes of champagne from the sommelier that brought them over. He handed one to you without a comment and drifted off to greet his sister, his smile encouraging you as he went. 

“I’m sorry that our first meeting didn’t exactly go to plan,” Alicent said as she looked at the closed door. “Things have been strained between Aemond and his half sister for some time. I was hoping they could break bread tonight.”

“What happened between them?” you asked after taking a sip of the bitter bubbles and glancing at Aemond across the room. 

“That is not my story to tell, I’m afraid.” She placed her hand on your forearm and you almost flinched as she touched the claw marks her son had left behind. “Now if you will excuse me, I need to let the maids know to remove some place settings for dinner. I look forward to getting to know you better.”

She had barely moved two steps when a pair of familiar hands fell upon your hips and his lips pressed to the curve of your jaw with a rather sedate kiss as he whispered, “That went well.”

“Did it?” you asked nervously before turning to the butler as he rang a bell and announced dinner was ready. “I don’t think I can stomach food right now.”

Aemond’s hands travelled up your back until he reached your shoulders and massaged the tightness away. “You have to eat something, Sweetpea. I’m more than happy to find some way to entice you.”

You felt the rich timber of his voice all the way to your core and shivered at the devilish thoughts of just how he might do that. “I guess I could eat something.”

You took a seat on Aemond’s right and smiled at each of his siblings as you were officially introduced. Aegon grinned like a cheshire cat as he reached over from the other side of Aemond to shake hands. You gasped in surprise when he shoved your sleeve back and saw the four raised bumps the width of Aemond’s nails.

“My, my,” he teased as his brother pushed him back into his seat. “Not exactly the track marks I was looking for.” Aegon turned to Aemond and raised his glass. “She is addicted to something else entirely.”

“Aegon,” Alicent chided, though she sighed with the exhaustion of a mother who had been repeating herself for years. Aemond’s mother did glance back at your arms a few times with concern as you slipped your hands under the table and planted them on your lap. 

“Excuse me,” you murmured after the second course of tiny portions was cleared. Aemond rose with you but you shook your head as you assured him, “I can remember my way to the ladies, if not I have Maps on my phone.”

Helaena giggled behind her napkin and Aemond settled back in his chair but you felt his eye on you until the dining room door closed behind you.

You took your time in the bathroom, checking your makeup and delaying the inevitable, when the door opened and Alicent strolled in. She closed the door behind her and leant against it with a heavy sigh.

“Did my son do that to you?” she asked so quietly you almost couldn’t hear her and she covered her mouth with a sob. “Oh god.”

“I, I don’t know what you mean.”

She pushed off the door and pulled your sleeve back, exposing the marks as tears fell over her thick lashes. “You poor thing. Come, I’ll get you somewhere safe - away from here and him.”“No! No, that’s not necessary,” you said as you fought against the hold on your wrist. “Really, it’s not like that. He’s not abusing me.”

“I’m not blind,” she said, pointing to your arm that you had already hidden once more. “I don’t know what he’s promised you to keep quiet and I don’t care, you don’t have to live like this.”

“I know, Alicent.” You scratched your neck nervously at the thought of having to explain how you received the wounds. “It’s really not what you think. Aemond and I just get a little too passionate, if you know what I mean. He really is the kindest, most generous man I have ever met and would never do anything I didn’t want to do.”

Alicent reeled back in realisation and she clutched the medallion hanging over her chest. “Oh, oh heavens. So, you and he…I don’t need to call my contact at Women’s Refuge?”

“God no, please don’t,” you said with a laugh that eased her tension further. “I’ve never been happier than when I’m with Aemond.”

“That's a relief, though I have questions I don’t think I want to know the answers to.”

You nodded in agreement and she wiped her eyes before she opened the door just as Aemond arrived ready to knock. He looked between his mother and you twice before he dared to ask, “Everything alright?”

You didn’t trust your voice as you squeaked a ‘mhmm’ and stepped out of the bathroom, into his arms. 

“We were just getting to know one another,” Alicent said with a smile. “In fact, you should come to high tea on Sunday, it’s just us ladies and we could do with fresh blood.”

The invitation made Aemond smile so you couldn’t help but tentatively accept. “I work Sundays but I’ll see if I can get some time off.”

She seemed a little thrown that you worked a day job, as if she momentarily forgot that although you wore the designer dress and expensive necklace you were not a lady of leisure or a trust fund baby. Imposter syndrome came hurtling back as you took your seat at the table and found your appetite had evaporated like the woodsmoke that the chef had poured over the platter of cheeses.

Aemond’s hand found yours under the table and you clutched it like a life raft in the vast ocean. You only started to relax when his thumb drew soothing circles and he waved his free hand to the waiter to top up your glass.

“You’re doing great, Sweetpea. Not much longer and we can get out of here.”

—

The valet pulled around the fountain and you frowned as the night lights hit his Mercedes, something was off with the perfect paint. Only it wasn’t perfect anymore.

Murderer.

The word has been scratched deep into the paint and you gasped at the sight. Aemond had frozen in place, his eye fixed on the ruined door panel as the valet apologised profusely. He had no idea who did it or how it had happened but swore security could check the garage cameras.

“Don’t bother,” Aemond all but growled as he swiped his keys from the young man. “I know exactly who it was.”

After he closed your door he walked back around to his side, his eye boring into the word spread across his door. You tried to read the myriad of emotions that washed over his face but they were too quick to dissect. Finally, he ripped his door open and shoved the key in the ignition.

The silence was tense as he drove south of King’s Landing and along the coastal highway that led to the city of Storm’s End. After miles of winding roads you couldn’t take it anymore.

“What was that about?” you asked, but he remained quiet as he gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Aemond, can you please explain what happened tonight?”

His lips pressed into a thin line and you weren’t sure that he would ever give you an answer but then they parted with a deep inhale.

“The men in my family have always been competitive, even as boys. It was how I lost my eye to begin with, a play fight between children that just…escalated. I never forgave Luke for it, not entirely, but we were still family.” He sighed and pulled over at a car park to one of the many lookouts over the cliffs. “When he got his licence, I challenged him to race.”

He unbuckled his seat and stepped out into the night as you rushed around to meet him at the safety rail that was supposed to keep cars from falling over the cliff face. In the dark you couldn’t see how far down the sea was but you could hear the waves crashing upon the rocks below.

“Two adolescents with million dollar sports cars, what could possibly have gone wrong?” he asked bitterly before turning to you and pulling his eyepatch off and tossing it into the abyss. “I just wanted to win. Nobody was supposed to get hurt.”

“Oh, Aemond,” you said softly as you took his hand.

“I lost control,” he whispered to the night. “I lost control and he died because of it. My own nephew died because of me.”

You lifted his hand to your face and pressed your lips to his knuckles as you cupped his damp cheek in the other. “It was an accident, Aemond. You are not a murderer. Trust me, murderers ran the streets where I grew up and you are nothing like them. Nothing, you hear me. You are too kind and good.”

You reached into his pocket and took the keys, gripping them tighter when he reached for them. “It has been an emotional day. Please, let me drive you home. Let me take care of you.”

Click here for chapter six.

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