#might draw more when the urge to go a little feral strikes again

[saltycryptid]

Ring Fighter AU Soap and Ghost!

[biff-adventurer]

FFXIVWRITE 2022 - Prompt #2: Bolt

Previous post here

With a click and a fwip, A’vett’s bolt found its target on the head of the dummy. He purred to himself, and the end of his tail curled happily. This crossbow was an improvement on the typical archer’s shortbow, surely. It offered precision, efficiency and elegance. All things that the common bow could not accomplish unless its archer was experienced. What a waste! A little muscle and a little imagination went a long way in defending one’s honor, let alone one’s territory. Not that he cared much for the politics of Nunhs. City life was far more fascinating than prancing around in mud and straw on the sands. 

Rest in peace, ancestors. Our clan is onto better things.

He was admiring his reflection in the head of the next bolt when she put her arms around him. He recognized her scent and wrinkled his nose. Not that she could see.

“Vetty! I was hoping I’d find you here,” chirped S’dennmo, nuzzling insufferably into his back. Just between the shoulder blades, too. She was probably messing up his hair, let alone hers.

“Dennmo, darling,” he hummed, making sure to sound pleased rather than vexed. He turned toward her and took her hand in his. “Look what I’ve got.” Her buggy, blue eyes fell to the crossbow in his hands. He couldn’t help standing a little taller for it. Doubtless, she would find it fascinating, just as he did. She had simple tastes, and she liked too many colours, but her little brain marvelled at every puny thought it came across.

“I didn’t know you liked these,” she said, tilting her head. “It’s… a very nice build.”

He stared at her. What could she be thinking? Absurd, feral, little woman. It took every onze of strength in his soul to maintain his charming smile. A sweet breeze blew through his golden, blond hair, and the sun shone gold on his porcelain pale skin. Yes, he was the striking image of a man to whom she ought to attach herself. And she was smart enough to do that, at the very least.

“It’s only the best,” he shot back, pulling it away. He cleared his throat, hearing the edge in his voice. “You seem disappointed, S’dennmo. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Oh, well,” S’dennmo started, drawing her fidgeting fingers into her chest. He hated it when she did that. The obstruction it created between an onlooker and her bountiful bosoms completely compromised the picture of beauty she might have been, had she learned to move with elegance and grace. 

“Well, what, my love?” A’vett smiled wider, proud of his perfectly pearl-coloured teeth. “You don’t like tools of efficiency?”

“No, it’s not that.” She looked away, shaking her head. Her short, auburn hair shook with her. He had urged her to grow it long, but she always protested. It wasn’t the right time, she said. She would know when it was the right time. Then, finally, she spoke up once more. “I just thought you were going to work harder at the archer’s guild. You did say you would, in front of everyone.”

“Oh, that.” He waved a lazy hand and rolled his eyes. “I’ve decided to quit the archer’s guild. I’m better off on my own, as I’ve always been. But I think you could benefit from the structure it provides, hm? I’m sure it brings a much needed discipline to your life.”

“It… is nice,” she agreed, haltingly. She would not look at him. She would not protest. He hated it when she let the silence hang heavy. Why was it he who must always raise her spirits? What a silly thing to be so disappointed in, anyroad. She should have known– “I just thought, maybe, we could keep doing it together. We don’t spend as much time together lately. I only really see you in the mornings, when you’re already up and ready to go out again, and–”

“Again with that?” He couldn’t help but laugh. Easily, he tossed the crossbow on his pack and pulled her in close by the hip. His lordly, emerald eyes peered deeply into her anxious gaze. He caught his reflection in her irises and knew her heart to be overwhelmed with love for his style, grace and striking silhouette. A’vett purred. “You worry too much. You really should come do duets with me. We’d make a killing together, don’t you think? And we’d be spending all that time together. In a romantic setting?”

“W-Well–” She was practically whispering, but his magnificently fluffy ears caught every syllable. Hers that were red went back, and her tail swished between her legs. “It’s just that, we don’t really end up talking so much. All we do is sing together, and then we go drinking, and everyone really wants to talk to you, and you’re so nice about it, but–” 

“It sounds to me like you’re insecure, my sweet.” He dipped her low, over the pond behind her. The sun filtered through the foliage, painting a lovely picture of the forest canopy in the waters. S’dennmo trembled and bit her lip, searching his eyes, anxious as ever. “This is the part where you kiss me, dear.”

Suddenly, S’dennmo bared her teeth at him, adorably menacing. “Let me go! You haven’t earned a kiss!”

“Oh? But who’s holding who, my love? Say, why don’t you give me a song instead. It’s either that or I’m dropping you.”

She was growling and wiggling in his grasp. “You’re so dumb! This is so dumb!”

“Sing for me, my angel!” His voice boomed, playing the part of phantom. She loved the phantom. And, really, he needed to remember why he put up with her shenanigans. If this didn’t compel her, nothing would. “Sing, my angel of music!”

What came next was exactly what he wanted, and yet, somehow more. She belted out the powerful, soprano notes of the phantom’s obsession, a vocalizing that resonated like an agonizing scream. Yes, that voice! That sweet voice that could hit every note and could enchant any soul! He grinned impossibly wide, unable to contain his overwhelming delight, and let her back on her feet.

She tugged at his arm as he laughed. “You���re so mean! You’re so mean!”

“Yes, yes. Come with me, you silly girl. If you’re going to perform tonight, and especially with me, you absolutely must be well dressed. I’ll even help you.”

[thecleverdame]

Gods of Twilight - 24

Alpha!Werewolf!Sam x Human!Reader

Master List

Summary: You marry Sam, The King of Lebanon, as part of an alliance between two lands. You soon discover that nothing is as it appears and that your husband is hiding a secret that may end your relationship before it can begin.

Warnings: smut, dub-con, canon-level violence, domestic discipline, spanking. 

Beta:  @ilikaicalie​

*This story is complete. All 27 chapters are available on Patreon. To get access to this and many other stories, subscribe for a pledge of 2.50 per month. CLICK HERE

-

You don’t need to open your eyes to experience Sam, you’re connected in a way that’s hard to put into words. His energy vibrates through you like a lightning strike.

“Harder,” you pant against his open mouth. Bringing your knees up as far as you can you squeeze against his ribs.

He grunts, burying his face in your neck and thrusting with such force that you both move up the bed with each stroke. Ever since you woke up two weeks ago you’ve been insatiable. Every morning, every night, even some afternoons you find yourself coiled in a ball of desire. And Sam has been all too happy to ensure your satisfaction. He’s done little other than bed you for a fortnight.

One of his hands cups your backside, holding you in place as he strokes tip to base with every slide of his hips.

“I want another child,” you moan, urging him on. Both of you spurred on at the very notion of his seed taking root in your belly.

Every waking moment you’re not with Sam, you’re with your daughter. She’s a beautiful, perfect little girl who you felt an instant connection with. While you’re sad to have missed the first year of her life, you’re grateful to watch her grow into the precocious little woman that is already emerging.

He grinds forward, smiling against your mouth. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

-

You climb hundreds of stairs to the tallest part of the castle. From here you can see the entirety of the city below. With your enhanced senses comes a daily barrage of new sights and sounds, but up here it’s muted. The constant chatter and smell of everyone around you fades away and you’re able to relax. Sam has assured you that it will get better with time. You’ll learn how to block out the chaos swirling around, but right now you have to remove yourself to find peace.

For a long time, the whipping wind is your only companion. Closing your eyes you think about your daughter and husband, how different life is now. You miss Golda terribly. News of her death broke your heart and you wish you could have been with her in her final days. You can only imagine how scared she must have been, falling ill and knowing she wasn’t going to survive. You’ve made the journey to her grave weekly and keep her in your thoughts throughout each day. She was a friend you could have shared this secret with, a person to confide in. Phillip tries to be a companion and confidant, but it’s not the same. A man doesn’t understand the nuances your position requires.

Sam is on a hunt. He’s been gone for two nights but will return by morning at the latest. You miss him terribly, the draw to always be close only gotten stronger as you grow into this new version of yourself. You find that in many ways you are stronger, bolder, more confident. But when it comes to your husband, you’re weak. You long to be in his arms, to smell and touch him every waking moment of the day.

He’s all you think about...well, he’s the only person you admit to yourself.

Dean is an ever-present desire and you hate yourself for it. While he’s stayed far away, it hasn't curbed your hunger for him. Your husband’s brother is in your dreams. His smell lingers. You can walk into a room hours after he’s left and still smell his scent, feel it wrap around you.

Sam’s promised to claim you during his rut and it can’t come soon enough. Only a day or two now and you’ll be free of these unwanted desires and bonded for eternity to the man you love.

You smell her first, then your ears hone in on the sound of feet lightly walking over stone.

“Good evening, my queen,” Ruby greets you with a half bow.

“Good evening.” You return, watching her slink closer. She trails a finger down the rampart, studying you.

“They will return soon.” She stands beside you, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s beautiful, there’s no denying that. “Benjamin rode ahead. They’re only a few hours out and coming home with plenty of deer and pheasant.”

“A successful hunt.” You sneak a sideways glance. “I will feel more settled to have my husband home.”

“I’m sure.” She tucks her hair behind both ears, watching the horizon. Both her hands rub over her swollen stomach. It’s hard for you to imagine this devious little woman as a mother.  “How are you feeling?” she asks.

“Fine,” you nod. She has checked on you several times since you changed. You want to trust her as much as Sam does. You have faith in his judgment but the Omega in you won’t allow it. She’s competition and you'll never be able to see her any other way. “And you?”

“I always land on my feet.” She smiles to herself, turning to look at you. “The change is horrible, but it’s good to have a queen who understands us. What we are. The pack will always be loyal to the King’s Omega. You’re one of us now.”

“Tell me, Ruby. Will I have your loyalty and devotion?”

“You’ve had it for a long time, well before you became a wolf.” She chuckles dryly, “I tried to save your life. And I would do the same again.”

“Do you mean that?” You watch her watch you, lost in a momentary battle, eyes locked on each other.

“Yes.” She looks away, pressing her lips together. “I’m not sure I will ever have affection for you but I will always be loyal.”

“That’s something I suppose.” You look back out to the city, fighting with yourself.

Should you ask? Would she tell you? You don’t want to think that Sam would lie to you but he’s been avoiding your questions. He did admit to spending his rut with an Omega, a woman from a pack you’ve never met. You accepted this by doing your best not to think about it. He was doing everything he could for you during this last year. As king, but more importantly, a father, he couldn’t risk his life going unsatisfied.

But something about his story doesn’t ring true.

“I’m going to ask you a question and I expect you to be honest with me.” You command.

“I shall.” She’s interested, moving closer.

You look behind you to ensure the two of you are alone.

“I was gone for a year. During that time my husband went through his rut.” You swallow, pushing for the answer. “Did he spend it with you?”

She’s still and quiet. The ever-present self-satisfied smirk is gone as she looks down at the ground.

“Did you ask him?” she asks.

“I did.” You’re already annoyed, answering your question with a question in return. “He told me a tale of an Omega from the southern border.”

“You don’t believe him?”

“I asked you a question.” You hiss, eyes dropping to her stomach.

She stares at you, taking a step back.

“He loves you. His devotion to you is unmatched. He will kill me if I tell you. The man you know is gentle, but the Alpha I know is ruthless. He will kill me to protect his marriage, to be with you.”

Your heart falls out the bottom of your stomach, eyes fluttering closed as you nearly fall over. Bracing yourself on the stone you take a breath to steady yourself.  

“And your child?” You can’t look at her, awaiting an answer that never comes.

“He only wanted you. It’s always been about you. Everything he does is to keep you close to him.”

“He lied to me.” Tears prick your eyes.

“After everything that happened, can you blame him?” She looks as sad as you feel. Two women who’ve both been used to satisfy your husband’s needs.“You died. No one thought you would survive the year and yet here you are. You’ve been through more than any woman could handle. He didn’t want to hurt you.”

“And look at me now.” Wiping a cheek with your hand you stare at her pregnant belly. At your husband's child.

“Don’t take this out on him, I beg you.” She reaches out taking your hand. You hiss, pulling away from her in disgust.

“Don’t touch me.”

“He did what he had to do to be ready when you recovered. No one could expect him to tell you, not after everything that happened. After what you did to Golda. It would have been too much to-”

“What did you just say?” You reach out, taking the sleeve of her dress. “You said what I did to Golda.”

She gulps, eyes widening.

“I shouldn’t have said it. He will kill me!”

“Stop it. I won’t tell him who revealed these things. Tell me!”

“You..you were feral. Hungry. She found you locked up in the south tower and didn’t understand why you were there. When she came into your room you...you killed her. Ate her heart.”

“You’re lying!” You shout, shoving her backward. How can this be? You killed sweet Golda and Sam lied to you a second time. What else could he be keeping from you?

“I’m sorry.” She calls after you as you retreat back into the castle.

-

While you’ve always known there were aspects of Sam that he kept to himself, it never occurred to you that he might not be the man you thought him to be.

But he does have a history of this. He lied to get you here, to arrange your marriage. He’s been deceitful from the beginning. And Ruby was so afraid that he would kill her and her child. What kind of man would slaughter his own baby?

You can’t think, you have to collect yourself. Reeling with confusion and fear you pour yourself a glass of wine and drink it down, before preparing a second.

What sort of man have you been living with? It’s as if you hardly know him.

Your rational mind takes over. You need to confront him. Bringing up Ruby is out of the question. She trusted you enough to tell you the truth and in return, you will protect her anonymity. But there were others who knew about Golda, plenty of conspirators. If you validate that, you will know that Ruby is in fact truthful.

-

You can scarcely control yourself, pacing back and forth across your bedchambers while you wait on Sam’s return. This is not the time for subtlety.

He opens the door, grinning at the sight of you and untying his cloak.

“Three nights felt like three years,” he says sweetly. “Come here and let me see you.”

“I would like to stay where I am.” You remain by the fire.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“I need to talk to you. It’s of great importance.”

“Anything.” His face drops as you stare at him, refusing to move closer.

“You must not lie to me. I will know if you do,” you warn.

“What would you like to ask?” His eyes narrow, realizing the gravity of the situation.

“Did I kill Golda?”

“Y/N…” his face falls. He steps toward you with a hand extended and you retreat in tandem.

“Did I rip her heart from her chest?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he admits, shoulders falling.

“Every time you’ve ever lied to me, you’ve hurt me.” You look at him in disbelief. “What else have you lied to me about?”

“We should talk about-”

“I cannot bring myself to so much as look at you right now. You’ve betrayed me” You feel caged. This powerful new energy is throbbing inside you, making you want to lash out. You need to get away before you attack him.

“Where are you going?” Sam asks, reaching out as you skirt past him.

“I need time.”

“Please. Stay and we can talk about everything. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“I’m afraid I already know it all,” you squeak, holding back tears until you’re out of the room and running down the hall. Phillip tries to follow you but you’re too fast. You know the castle well now. You take several quick turns and push open a secret door, slipping down a hidden hallway that leads to the servants quarters.

You run. You run as fast and as far as your legs will carry you. Feet hitting the ground, muscles spurring you onward. Even in human form, you’re faster than any human should be sprinting down dark halls and out into the gardens.  

In the seclusion of the tall grass and blooming nocturnal flowers, you fall to your knees and cry out as grief racks your body. Only hours ago life held so much promise and now you’re a murderer. A murderer whose husband has impregnated the woman you despise above all others. And to top it off, your own husband has been untruthful, keeping terrible secrets.

With your head in your hands you sob, grieving for the life you thought you had. And just when the pain is at its worst a voice comes from behind you.

“What’s happened?” Dean asks, eyes shining in the dark.

[ventrue-rosary]

❛❛ Everything hurts. Being with you is the only good thing in the world anymore. ❜❜ For Amaranthe?

Thanks anon! Have some platonic familial hurt/comfort

Amaranthe holds the letter in her hands, reading its contents over and over again as though she could change its contents through sheer willpower alone. But they stubbornly remain, unchanging as the mountains.

‘Leave us.’ The words come out stoic like the mask she forces her face in to.

As soon as the doors softly close behind her, she collapses to the floor, the damned letter fluttering to the ground besides her, cursing her with its dark words.

She tries to remain silent, tries not to let her weakness show but her breath audibly hitches in her throat.

Balthazar kneels besides her, one comforting hand on her shoulder, another beneath her elbow. Gently he guides her to a seat close to the fire.

He stays kneeled before her, running his fingers gently down her arms, patiently waiting as she sits in stunned silence.

‘We have to go to them,’ he urges gently, his voice thick with suppressed emotion.

‘No…’

‘Amara—‘

She fixes her gaze on him, and see her own heartbreak reflected in his handsome features. She raises a hand to caress the side of his face.

‘There must always be a royal in the palace…’ Amaranthe trails off, glancing at the family portrait adorning the western wall. The pair of them, softly smiling with pride as the stand with their children, the embodiment of youth, innocence, perfecton. ‘Do you remember the night they came into this world?’

A soft smile forms on his features. ‘Yes. A blizzard took hold for the whole night.’

‘It was pain, pain like I never felt before,’ she whispers, still observing the sweet, innocence preserved in paint. ‘I thought I was going to die…’

‘And you did.’

‘And I did. As the healer pulled Autumn out of me. But when he put them into my arms...I would’ve died a thousand times to keep them both safe.

‘That pain doesn’t measure the pain I feel tonight.’ The words break her voice.

‘Yet still not as painful as dealing with the council and politics alone,’ Balthazar sighs.

Amaranthe laughs despite herself. Short-lived and bittersweet, but a laugh nonetheless. The moment it dies on her lips the harsh reality confronting her settles back in.

‘Bring her home,’ Balthazar pleads. ‘Bring them both home.’

The temple of Correlon stands silent as a grave. The hooded priests part and bow as she walks forward, eventually stopping when she finally comes face to face with an odd ensemble of adventures, Autumn stood on the middle.

She was still a child when she left. Yet here she stands, a woman grown.

So beautiful...Amaranthe thinks as she beholds her. A perfectly sculpted face with delicate, feminine features. Long hair, smooth and soft like spun silver. Azure coloured eyes framed by thick, and wet, lashes. Her lavender wings, drooping for them weight of grief are given life as their eyes meet. 

They stare at each for moments, estranged mother and daughter bound by grief.

Then Amaranthe looks to the open casket. She walks slowly and deliberately towards it, aware of who it holds, and wanting so desperately to delay the inevitable.

The priests whisper to her the same tired condolences she would hear for months to follow. But the words fade to obscure background noise as she beholds her dead son. Older than when they parted, taller and stronger, and so handsome it broke her heart.

Amaranthe smoothes a hand down his dark hair streaked with teal. He always had the most striking features…

‘Leave us,’ she says softly, staring down at her firstborn child, her beloved son.

‘M-my lady?’

‘Leave us,’ she repeats firmly.

‘My lady, I must insist—‘

‘GET OUT!’ The words explode out from her in a scream of feral anger she wasn’t even aware she held, festering inside of her ever since those dark wings brought her those dark words.

All the priests scramble to leave, leaving Amaranthe alone with her children. She remains with Winter, the three years of estrangement hanging silently acknowledged in the air. Autumn shuffles awkwardly behind her.

‘Come.’ Amaranthe silently stretches one arm out.

Her daughter timidly approaches, joining her at the coffin after a small eternity. Amaranthe wraps her arms around her shoulders, drawing her close to her.

Tears fall from Autumn’s eyes in increasing volume as they share the sight together. Amaranthe wipes away her tears, her own falling unattended.

Autumn’s breath hitches as she struggles to regain control. Eventually, her breathing evens out.

‘What are you doing here, mama?’

‘They sent word to me. I had to come.’ Amaranthe presses the tips of his fingers to her lips, then places them on her sons brow. He looks peaceful. One could easily be fooled into thinking he’s sleeping. What Amaranthe would give to see his beautiful golden eyes open, just one more time…

‘Mama?’

Her grip had tightened on Autumn’s shoulder to the point of discomfort. She relaxes her fingers with an apologetic smile.

‘Forgive me, my little leaf.’

‘No, I’m the one who should be asking for forgiveness. If I hadn’t left...Winter would never have come here. He would still be alive. I—‘

Amaranthe silences her with a tight hug. ‘Hush now little leaf. I will not hear anymore of this. It is not your fault, do you understand?’

‘You’re...you’re not angry with me?’ The disbelief in her voice nearly sunders her heart in two.

‘Of course not. You are blameless. And my firstborn daughter. I love you. And I want you to come home.’

Autumn slackens in her arms in silent defeat. ‘I can’t.’

‘Why not, my little leaf?’

‘I must avenge him. How can I return home and face father without avenging his son?’

The two women pull away to face each other. The sadness has fled her daughter. In its place, purpose and strength.

‘Autumn, you don’t have to…’

‘No. But I need to.’

This city claimed her son's life. And staring down at her young fierce daughter, she is terrified it might take her too. Amaranthe recalls leaving home for the first time, parting from her weeping mother as she set off into the great unknown. Now, decades later, she finally understands that fear.

‘I know that look. I had that same look when I first left home. I could not be talked out of it. So I shan’t try.’ Amaranthe feels the warm trickle of a single tear falling down her cheek. ‘The moment I read that letter...when I saw your brother…

‘Everything hurts. But being with you, seeing you for the first time in years feels like the only good thing in my life anymore. So you will return home safe. You must.’

They embrace once again, Amaranthe painfully aware it might be the last time. At least this time there would be nothing left unspoken.

‘I will return home. And I will return with the head of his murderer.’

Looking into her eyes full of vindication, Amaranthe feels the pride swell in her chest. She may have lost a child, but she also got one back.

[spideyxchelle]

hi friends! i am back and ready to roll. here is some hollywood au nsfw.

“So,” the reporter taps her pen against the fullness of her manufactured bottom lip, “Righteous Minds is being called one of the sexiest movies of the year.” Peter works to keep his expression neutral as she plows forward with the question he can see coming a mile away, “Where did you draw inspiration for your latest flick?”

“Well, uh, my writing partner, Ned Leeds, penned an excellent script. I was interested in the story he was telling, not necessarily the sexiness of it.”

“But it is sexy,” she jumps in.

His eyebrow twitches. “Yes,” he concedes, “Its a love story. And I didn’t want to disservice the reality of love, which has a physical side. Always.”

The reporter chews on his words in delight. Without any subtlety, she asks boldly, “What does your wife think of this movie?”

Peter recites the same line he has fed everyone since he started his press tour, “She supports all of my work. I’m very lucky.”

He can tell she is unsatisfied with his answers, so she breezily switches tactics, “And the content doesn’t bother her?”

The director forces an Oscar-worthy smile on his tense features, “We won’t be showing it to our three year old son, that’s for sure.”

He dislikes the energy of this woman, the entitled air she has about his private life, and he desperately wants the interview to end, but the press junket has only begun.

He slams the hotel door closed when he enters the solace of his personal suite at the end of the day. Michelle barely looks up from the script she is studying and yet she still manages to read his body language, “What’s wrong?

Peter crawls into bed beside his wife and grumbles loudly into the pressed linens, “I knew I shouldn’t have made the film so explicit.”

Michelle begins to casually scratch the back of his head, a calming gesture she adopted early in their relationship, which lightens his stormy mood. She makes him feel in touch with his body immediately. Michelle Jones-Parker is his balm from the shocking celebrity of his life. Without her, this life would be infinitely harder. “It was in Ned’s script,” she says.

“I know,” he shifts his body so his nose is squished against her shoulder. Her warmth radiates bone deep. “I just wish people would stop trying to get details about our sex life under the blanket of the movie. Ned wrote the bulk of it. I just contributed to the final draft.”

His wife shuts her script and puts it away on the bedside table. Her body twists so she can hold him tightly and soothe him all at once. “They know we have sex, Peter. We gave them proof three years ago.”

The oblique mention of his son softens Peter considerably. “Is Ben awake?”

She shakes her head, “He went down about an hour ago.” Michelle presses a patient kiss against his forehead. “Talk to me, what set this off?”

“One of the reporter’s asked if I drew from real life during that closet sex scene.”

His wife’s smile turns feral and he feels his blood heat up at once. He can see the memory— her hot, wanting hands that ripped his slacks open just enough to get at him with her back pressed against a thin closet door— forming in the pools of her eyes. He remembers the same memory, too; the way she had sobbed in his ear when he swiped her skirt up and pushed her underwear aside that night. He recalls the way she had clawed at his suit jacket and ordered him to go harder and faster to get them both there as quickly as possible. After all, she had reasoned, people were bound to notice that they were missing at the Golden Globes.

And when he had shot his new film with a deliriously sexy closet sex scene, he had known his wife would see the similarities to their own closet escapade. But the public was not entitled to those memories. Not that snooty reporter, or the kids that bomb-rushed him at every coffee house in America. What happened between he and his wife was precious and private and wholly theirs.

In their quiet hotel room, she looks at him like she could devour him whole. Michelle places her two flat palms on his shoulders and guides him on his back. Her thin leg falls over his waist and she is suddenly straddling him while her curly hair falls in wild waves around her face. He is forced to look up at her and drink in her deity-like beauty. “Michelle,” he chokes on the English language.

“Ben’s asleep.” Michelle says. “You’re here.” She observes. “And you’ve spent all day talking about your sexy movie.” He gulps as his wife drags her body across his crotch, as if to search for an erection she is now causing. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about this, hoped for it.”

Peter shakes his head, “No, I haven’t.” But his hands betray him as they tighten around the dips at her waist. He holds her firmly as if he is afraid she might float away and never return.

“Mm,” Michelle coos, rolling her hips down against his stiffening hardness, “I don’t believe you.” Peter groans and she preens, “I don’t believe you, Mr. Director. You wanna know why?”

His wife drops her mouth open slightly, the picture of delight, and he roughs out, “Why?”

“Because your dick is already hard.” She grinds her hips against his erection to serve her point.

It has been over a decade since he first touched his wife during the whirlwind of his first film, but every time is still as wondrous and dizzying as the first time. He is not sure how he became the lucky bastard that got to worship Michelle Jones-Parker’s bed, but he is eternally grateful. She makes his world technicolor. He flew over the rainbow and there she was waiting to welcome him to a high-definition world.

“I love you,” he praises.

Something behind her eyes shines with affection, “I love you, too.” And then, the temptress is back and rubbing at his erection over his jeans with her weaponized body. “Now, remind me again, Peter,” she says, sounding suspiciously the part of a reporter, “your main character in this new film loves to really give it to his girlfriend....why?”

Something primal and possessive prowls just beneath the surface of Peter’s civilized nature. He lowers the gates of his self control and flips his wife on her back, effectively pinning her to the pressed sheets of the hotel linens. She blinks up at him and then hooks her leg around his backside and presses. He does not growl, though the temptation strikes him. “She’s chatty,” he offers.

“He fucks her wild because she’s chatty?” she challenges him.

“No,” Peter hisses as he dips his head to whisper in Michelle’s ear. “He fucks her wild so the only talking she’ll be able to do is shouting his name.”

Her little body shivers under his weight, “Oh? She’s going to shout his name?”

“Yes,” he nips her earlobe. “And beg. And cry out for more.”

Michelle arches her back off the bed in an attempt to be closer to him. Her eyes flutter shut, “How do you know she’s going to do that?”

“Easy,” he replies. “It’s in the script.” His mouth crashes against her parted, demanding lips. Their kiss is not new or exploratory. It is filthy and knowledgeable. It is the servant of years and years of practice. It knows how to make his wife tremble and make his own body boil.

He does not need an hour of fumbling foreplay at their age. And neither does she. He knows how to get her wet and desperate for him. So, he rips open her blouse with his demanding hands and does not stop to apologize for the shredded fabric. She is a movie star. She can buy another fucking shirt.

Her breasts are bare and her nipples have pebbled over so he licks them into his mouth. Michelle grips the back of his shirt with one hand and cradles his head to her chest with the other. He sucks and bites at her flesh. When he bites her sensitive skin, she whimpers and urges him to bite her again. So, he does.

He remembers when she was twenty-six and shooting a film in Atlanta, a producer had called him about the bite marks. The shy man had tripped his way through a gentle request not to mark up the talent a day before she shot a nude scene.

She is not filming anything now.

Peter finds a rhythm to his attentions on her chest and it could be four minutes, an hour, or several weeks later when his wife yanks his head up and slams their mouths together. Her needy hands fly down to his zipper and begin to yank him loose.

He sits up enough to pull his own shirt over his head, but he struggles with her pajama pants. Michelle’s breathing is erratic and labored when she kicks him aside and shimmies out of them herself. He makes himself busy with his own jeans and underthings.

When they fall back together, he pins her wrists to the bed. There is a beat, a profound moment, before their coupling, when he looks down at her with her hair spilled across the white sheets and his heart thunders. Her eyes are dark but they are also deeply loving. He gazes down at his wife and inches forward to slant his mouth over hers in a chaste kiss.

Then, he sheathes himself inside of her. The warmth and tightness is all consuming. She pulses around his dick and the pair of them pause to relish the moment, the intensity, the serenity of their bodies. Michelle lifts her head to kiss him lightly and lovingly. It is almost the polar opposite of the nature of this act as he cages her to the bed.

When she drops her head back against her pillow, her eyes are lidded from the stretch of his thickness. “Fuck me, Peter,” she demands. Michelle does not ask. She takes. And takes. And takes. And her husband does his best to grant her wishes.

He lifts her backside off the bed to deepen the angle of his thrusts and begins to hammer away deep inside of her. Her sweaty, reactive body slaps against his skin. The rhythm is furious and punishing. He does not relent and she does not ask him to slow.

Instead, she cries, “Harder, Peter. Baby, harder.” Her requests trigger a base part of his brain that make him angle his body over hers and dig her wrists into the bed. She is at his mercy, she is weighing beneath his thrusting figure and her mouth is open as if every part of her was capable of taking him all at once.

“You like that?” he grunts. She nods uselessly. “Tell me you like that,” he repeats.

“I do,” she mumbles with her eyes closed tightly, as if she could hold the moment between her fingertips if she pretended it was a dream. A wonderful dream.

“Tell me why,” he groans, grinding his member deeper into her.

She sobs his name and arches upwards to search for more of him. There is nothing else to be found. He is buried inside her to the hilt. “Because,” she wanders off the road of coherence.

“Because why?”

He has to ask again before she finds her voice, “Because you’re mine. And I’m yours.”

And that is the whole of it. The sticky sweet ownership of the other’s heart. He knows if someone were to cut his chest open and peak at his heart there would be a singed brand of her name there. It is impossible to explain the relief and love of belonging to another. Peter never tries. Instead, he attempts to show her through actions. He makes her favorite tea in the morning, puts their son down to bed every other night, buys her little gifts whenever he is thinking of her as proof of his devotion. And when all else fails to express the magnitude of his love, he makes passionate love to her.

Or, he fucks her.

Her wrists wiggle under his palms. He feels her body beginning to shiver and shake under his ministrations. “Peter,” she uselessly pleads, “Peter, please.”

All at once, he lifts his body off of her and the pressure of his dick is gone. She is left empty and wanting and he watches her eyes snap open in fury, “What the he—“ But she falls hopelessly silent when he grabs her ankles and loops them up on each of his shoulders. He presses back down on her body and her knees fit snugly against her chest.

Peter reaches down between their bodies and guides himself back inside of his wife. Her head flies backward on the bed and it leaves her long neck exposed. He sucks hot kisses on her neck, greedy and wet.

His pace is growingly frantic as the peak of pleasure licks up his spine. “Peter,” she cries out. He grabs her wrists and pins them back to the bed. He knows the trust she grants him in these moments. It is like a faint whisper— I know you would never hurt me. And he never does.

His hips snap with vigor and she moans with each attack on her senses. Her hands make motions to claw at him, but she cannot reach him pinned to the bed.

There are a few high-pitched pants and begging requests. He lets those words act as kindling to his raging fire. They are dangerous words. “Harder, Peter,” she cries. “Fuck me, baby. Fuck me.”

And when she starts to lose language for some baser, like groans and whimpers, Peter’s own rhythm begins to falter. He bites her neck and she sobs from pleasure. Against that skin, he husks, “Cum for me, Em. Let me feel it.”

She nods, beyond the point of comprehension, and nods more. She keeps nodding and nodding and whining until her body snaps. Her body tightens and pulses around him and her fingers and toes curl. Michelle’s mouth opens in a soundless cry and pleasure slackens her features. She shakes. She trembles and then she relaxes into the sheet.

It nearly topples him over, too.

But he holds onto his restraint just barely and when she recovers from her orgasm, when her sparkly eyes lazily open to gaze up at him, he begins again.

She is sensitive now. He knows. And she lifts her head to fit their foreheads together. Their breathing is heavy. “Peter,” she strains.

He tightens his hold on her wrists, “Em, I’m almost there. Let me take you, again. Please.”

His wife does not have the energy to kiss him, so she brushes her mouth against his words. And nods.

There is nothing leashed about how he fucks her now. He is not the man she married at the end of the alter with tears welling in his eyes. He is not the man that stared at her dallies during their first and only film together all those years ago. He is the man she welcomed into her home and fucked on the couch like she owned him. He is the man she pinned down to her bed in her old, lofty Hollywood Hills home and rode for hours, stealing orgasms as they came and went. He is the man that he can only ever be with her permission.

And this man is desperate one.

She grunts. And groans. And, finally, with one perfectly found thrust, he topples over into a blinding orgasm. In his delirium, he hears her cry his name and feels her clench around him once more. He feels the shocking pleasure of a joint rush. He hears her little moans as her body holds his member for ransom and milks what she can from him.

He feels his own hips shudder into her a few more times, holding onto sensation. He feels how rough those last are.

And then, there is peace.

Deep and meaningful silence as their breathing slows.

Peter releases his wife’s wrists and they immediately fly to his hair to card through his floppy locks. He hides his face in her neck and she presses a smile against his brow.

“Michelle,” he manages after several moments of relishing in her body as he softens inside of her.

“Mm, yes?” she practically glows.

“I was thinking about this all day,” he admits.

She snorts, “Yeah, loser, I know.”

He smiles. The audience can think what they want about his new film. He knows what actually lies between them. And it is perfect. They are perfect.

[daggersandsparks]

💀

- Catching her Kill [accepting] -

She knew him. She knew that face. It’d been five… six years? Since she’d seen him. But she knew him.

And it was a stone dropping in her belly. The sickness filling her from her toes up until she could taste the fear and the bile biting at the back of her throat. She couldn’t swallow the taste down, no matter how hard she tried.

But he didn’t even notice her. He continued to flirt with the girl at the bar, touching her, his hand on her shoulder, moving down her arm. And the girl laughed. She didn’t know.

She couldn’t let him get her. But she needed to figure out what to do. She was frozen, waiting. Watching. She stayed in her seat, eyes peering out from the top of the glass that she wasn’t drinking.

She watched them stand, the girl clearly drunk, wobbling as he led her away. Still he didn’t notice her. She waited, counting her breaths as they stepped out of the door and into the Wasteland.                                One… [She couldn’t jump up.]                              Two… [It would look too suspicious.]                             Three… [They’d know that it was something.]                              Four… [Someone smart enough might make the connection.]                              Five… [She couldn’t make such an amateur mistake.]

She couldn’t wait anymore. And just as calmly as she could, she stood, and made her way out, stopping by the bar to set her caps on the table.

                  Twenty seconds now. [She needed to leave. She couldn’t lose them.]

She made one of her usual playful jokes to the bartender, same as always, then hiked up her rifle over her shoulder and left.

                               Thirty seconds since they’d exited and she was out the door.

And she already couldn’t see them. She resisted the urge to swear, instead straining to hear them, to see them, to figure out where they’d gone.

She heard the giggle to her right. It was down and alley. She knew that alley. It was a good choice for what he was planning to do. It was a good choice for what she was going to do as well.

She followed them quietly, her footsteps making barely a whisper as she walked. When she spotted them, they’d stopped. His hands were on her, under her clothes, his mouth at her neck. Her giggles had become nervous. She recognized the sound of that. Knew what it meant.

So forward she crept, keeping to the shadows, close to the wall. She had to get there in time. She pulled out the knife at her waist. The large khukri she’d acquired recently. She heard the girl’s first noise of panic. The beginnings of the struggle.

But she was too far away at the moment. She dashed forward, and her footsteps were loud enough to draw his attention. He looked over, noticing her. Finally. And he reacted. He drove his knife into the woman’s throat. The woman couldn’t scream. The only noise that escaped her was a bubbling, gurgling, wet moan.

That noise was too familiar.

❝I know you.❞ She hissed.

He was a slaver. He had laid his hands on her. On Tisha. He had been Scooter’s right hand man. The one who had killed more than a few of the other slave girls. The ones Scooter tired of.

❝Who the fuck are you?❞ He shouted back.

She knew him. And he didn’t even recognize her. She knew she had a unique look, so for him not to remember showed just how little he’d thought of all of them. Of her. Of the others.

Something snapped. Her rage bubbled to the surface and she lunged forward, leading with the weighted blade. It hit his shoulder and sank in deep, hitting his clavicle from the weight of it.

He sank to his knees from the strike and she pulled at the blade. But it was stuck. And he wasn’t dead.

She growled, wild and feral, and pulled her rifle from her shoulder, smashing his face with the butt of it. He fell backwards and she was on top of him in a moment.

She hit him again, right in the face.

                                                    And again. [She knew the way he had smirked when he had come to the encampment.]                                                     And again. [She knew the way he had laughed when Tisha had cried.]                                                      And again. [She knew the screams and cries that had come from his room.]                                                       And again. [She knew the bodies that he’d left in there.]                                                       And again. [She’d had to be the one to drag out more than one.]                                                        And again. [She knew the look he had given as she struggled.]                                                         And again. [She knew the–]

She heard the footsteps behind her. He wasn’t quiet. She snapped her attention to the sound, eyes wide with her anger and the memories haunting her, prepared to move, to attack. To kill whoever wanted to protect him.

It took her a moment for her mind to move through the haze and recognize who she was looking at.

❝Abner.❞ The words were distant, confused, her expression furrowing. ❝What–?❞

She stopped and looked down at the body sprawled beneath her. His head was completely caved in, his face a sunken cavern of blood and bone and brain. She stared at it, then glanced aside. The woman had fallen onto the ground, her throat open, and she stared at them. She’d died crying, her tears still staining her cheeks.

She stood, wobbling slightly as she did so. Her knuckles were white from her grip on her rifle, and she nearly tripped over him as she walked towards Abner. She stood there for a moment, unsure what to say to him, her mouth opening and closing. She glanced over her shoulder at the body and frowned.

❝I knew him.❞

[luminis-infinite]

battle hard, play hard

Kinktober day 10 - Wandplay. Credit to @wanderingnork for this idea! Tagging @funkzpiel, @headsindreams and @fantastic-beasts-smut because I know they like their Gramander. 

“Do you duel, Mr. Scamander?” There’s a tease in Mr. Graves’ voice, hidden under gravel and wit, a tease and a challenge. Newt straightens, dusting off his hands. He’s investigating mites in the Graves’ Estate’s sprawling gardens and vegetable patch, looking for anything that might cause those interesting marks on leaves. Graves levels him with a look, head cocking to the side ever so slightly, causing the sun to reflect off his neat, glossy hair. It shines the deepest black and Newt longs to run his hands through it. “Not for sport,” Newt replies, shrugging a little helplessly. When he looks, there is dirt under his nails. He tries to remove it, feeling very much like a naughty school boy caught playing in the muck, “Why do you ask?” “Your brother was telling me you’re a skilled duelist,” Graves murmurs, shoving his hands in his pockets, as if Newt’s movements have made him aware of his own. Newt cocks his head now, “Where is my brother?” “Off with the hunting party.” Newt purses his lips, eyes flickering to the woodland beyond the boundaries of the gardens. It’s ancient forest, older than the house or the gardens or either of them, as old as the hills. It’s ancient forest – full of wonders and unspeakable evils. One treads carefully in the forests around the Graves’ estate, one doesn’t dare go alone. Only the foolhardy dare to go without a Graves’ to guide them. And yet the Graves is standing in front of Newt, and not with the roaring bunch of morons probably disturbing the wildlife on horseback. “You didn’t go with them?” Graves chuckles, shrugging and shaking his head, “No. There are far more interesting things to be seen on the estate.”

Many a time, Newt has been caught in the gaze of a predator. He gets that feeling right now, staring down Graves. The man’s eyes are dark and liquid, the centers radiating outwards, threatening to swallow up his entire eye. If Newt were to catch him out of his periphery, he’d see a Wraith – impossibly pale, sharp ears and jaw and wicked teeth. Beautiful and dangerous. As he is now, in front of Graves, he sees a man with ancestry more than human, a man who wants to play. 

Newt’s wand slips from his sleeve into his palm. He grips it tightly, taking a deep breath and readies himself. Graves grins, sharp and a little feral. He assumes proper stance – probably learned while in school, and waits. So this is how it’s going to be? Newt thinks. He doesn’t want to strike first, but he knows the Director and he knows how he plays. Newt lurches forward and then goes left, firing off a crackle of blue light. Graves deflects it with a flick of his hand. His boot digs into the soft earth as he spins on his heel to track Newt, eyes locked onto prey. Already, white-purple energy crackles around his hand, flickering up over that monster of a wand like a threat. Newt knows he’s going to have to make it difficult. Moving targets are harder to hit, even for Graves. So he disapperates. He reappears behind Graves, pointing a particularly nasty hex right at the center of the man’s back. To his surprise, it rebounds and he barely has time to get out of the way. “Clever,” Graves growls, turning around again. He moves like lightning, flinging himself at Newt. The magizoologist squeaks and closes his eyes, feeling the pull and twist of apparition before he spits himself back out a few feet away, just in time to see Graves go sprawling and rolling through the tomato plants. Newt grants himself a millisecond of pride before a sweeping disk of white comes arcing at him. “Merlin’s beard, Graves!” Newt roars, throwing up a protective shield, “Are you trying to decapitate me?” Graves grins, picking himself up and shaking the dirt from his clothes. They’re both panting a little, adrenaline buzzing through their veins. Newt grits his teeth and assesses his options. He isn’t expecting Graves to bolt, running straight at him. With a squeak, Newt tries to disapparate again, only to feel a hand wrap around his wrist before he fully completes the spell. “Oof!” Two bodies go rolling across the lawn just in front of the manor. Newt has the wind driven from him by an accidental elbow, and he lies there on the grass gasping for a moment. The sun shines down so nicely, a gentle breeze against his face. Beside him, Graves groans softly, rolling over. “You absolute arse,” Newt growls, “You could have been killed! I expect that sort of recklessness from my brother, not from yo-mmf!” Graves’s lips are warm and dry and soft against Newt’s, his tongue licking into Newt’s mouth with barely a request for entry. Newt’s fingers tangle in the man’s waistcoat, gripping the fine material tight, keeping Graves close. Graves sighs and groans when Newt nips at his lower lip, drawing the flesh between his teeth to worry it. “You’re an arse,” Newt repeats. Graves, now straddling his lap, is a disheveled mess, hair falling into his eyes, chest heaving and smeared with dirt. “If you wanted a fucking, all you had to do was ask.” Graves moans. His hips come down against Newt’s groin, the swell of his ass hot and promising against Newt’s quickly thickening cock. Little sparks wash over Newt – teasing at what is to come. “It’s no fun, asking,” Graves murmurs. He twists his hands in Newt’s collar, yanking open the fabric so the buttons pop off. Newt just rolls his eyes, waving his hand and finding the fastenings on Graves’ trousers. “You wanted me to force you, hmm? Why didn’t you let me best you then, darling? Let me put you on all fours and fuck you into submission? Or is that no fun either? I know how you like to win.” As he speaks, Newt rips Percival’s trousers down powerful thighs, letting the sun warm the glorious, pale globes of the man’s ass. His cock springs free, eager and flushed and already wet at the tip. Newt curls one hand around it, the other ghosting over skin to press between cheeks. Graves’ hole is wide and wanting, slick enough for Newt to press two fingers inside. He raises a brow, massaging the velvety heat. “Did you really prep yourself and then come out here to play fight? Percival, you utter whore.” Graves’ laugh starts out as a laugh, but devolves into a moan when Newt’s hand twists viciously around the head of his cock and the clever fingers inside him catch that spot.

“Don’t tease,” he hisses, “’m ready, just fuck me.” Newt hisses back, hand and fingers stilling. Graves growls and whines, gyrating his hips backwards to fuck himself on Newt’s hand. It’s enough to make one’s head spin – naught five minutes ago, they were dueling, and now the Director is coaxing Newt into taking him on the lawn in front of his ancestral home. But Newt is good at going with unexpected twists and turns. Getting his feet under his knees, Newt throws himself upright and unbalances Percival. Graves yelps as they roll, the sky spinning, and then finds himself pinned against the soft grass with Newt at his back. The magizoologist hums and noses along that neat hairline before biting at Percival’s earlobe. “Whores don’t get to make demands,” he croons and hikes Percival’s hips high, until his ass is in the air in prefect display, “Whores take what is given to them. Especially ones who think they can come out here and disturb my research by dueling.” Newt lines the head of his cock up with Graves fluttering hole, feels the muscle clench around him, as if trying to guide him inside. The hand not steadying Graves’ hips slips over narrow flanks to splay across the man’s chest, reaching inside that expensive shirt to pluck pert nipples. Percival whimpers, pressing back into Newt, urging him deeper. When he bottoms out, Newt stills, letting the Director quiver and pant beneath him. “Newt,” Graves whines, “Move. S’not fair.” “Oh, it isn’t fair is it? You weren’t very fair, teasing me earlier. I’m afraid your actions are coming back to you, darling.��� But even as he teases, Newt gives in to Percival’s demands, digging his fingers into those thin hips, feeling the muscle and bone, and then surges forward. Thrust after brutal thrust, until Percival is a stream of noise and clawing at the ground beneath him. The air fills with his cries and the slap, slap, slap of skin on skin. Newt can just imagine the beautiful shade of pink those cheeks are turning – he longs to bite and suck and leave them purple. “That’s it, darling,” he whispers, arching forward so he can speak in Percival’s ear, “I wonder if the hunt can hear you. Maybe they’ll come back, watch their feared leader be fucked into the ground.” Percival twists his head, until Newt’s mouth is moving over the corner of his own, practically begging for a kiss. It sends a thrill through Newt, to have such a powerful figure underneath him like this, pleading for his affection. He leaves a chaste kiss on Graves’ lips before sucking back, palm against Graves’ shoulder blades and pushes Graves’ chest into the ground. Graves wails, as Newt hits his prostate over and over again, cock filling him to the brim. He clenches and jerks around the Brit, fists curling in the grass. “Newt! Newt! Oh – oh – oh Merlin… Newt!” Newt’s orgasm tears from him unexpectedly, when he glances up and finds their reflection in the glass of the library windows. He snarls, pressing into Percival one more time and spilling deep inside him. Percival cries out, hole clenching down, and goes still like a statue. His own cock hangs thick and heavy and forgotten between his legs, dripping onto the green of the grass. When the magizoologist pulls away, Graves moans, trying to follow. Newt smacks him on the ass for it, and then pinches one cheek. “Enough. Up.” He guides Percival until he’s on his knees, back to Newt’s chest. Newt wraps a hand around the man’s prick, thumb dragging across the weeping, purple head. As he begins to pump, using the man’s own pre-spend as lubricant, Newt leaves little bites and kisses across Percival’s throat. Their gazes lock in the reflection off the glass, some rendition of the way they had earlier. The hunger in Percival’s has faded into pure bliss, those dark eyes hazy with lust and pleasure. Little pants leave him now, constant cries of “agh, agh, agh”. Occasionally, he cries out Newt’s name. “Look at yourself, best duelist in America, hmm? Most powerful wizard? Brought low by a magizoologist and a foreigner at that? What would they say, if they could say, if they could see you like this? Fucking into my hand.” “Newt.” “Sometimes, I think about fucking you with my wand. You’d-“

Graves comes with a cry, hot and thick. He jerks in Newt’s arms, muscles seizing. Newt gets to watch the way his mouth stretches wide around the sound, the way those eyes clench shut and his brows furrow. Like he’s in pain. It’s glorious, absolutely beautiful. Then Graves goes limp like a rag doll. Newt has to catch him before he smashes his face off the ground.

“Easy, easy, darling.”

Newt lays him down and scrambles for his wand. It’s a few feet away from them, where it fell when they initially rolled across the grass. He cleans both of them up with a flick of it, righting their clothing before hauling Percival back up into his arms. Graves nuzzles his forehead against Newt’s throat, now much more like a domestic housecat than a jaguar looking for a meal.

“Well, that was certainly something,” Newt says, dragging his hands through Percival’s hair. The man hums, eyelashes fluttering against Newt’s skin.

“But in all seriousness, where are my brother and the rest of them?”

“Hunting, like I told you.”

“Alone? Are they still alive?”

“My grandmother is with them.”

“Darling, your grandmother may be the reason they aren’t alive. Come on now, up you come. We should find them before they get themselves into too much trouble.”

Graves groans again, but lets Newt coax him upright and drag him out into the forest. It’s dangerous to go without a Graves, after all.

[rexmajestatis]

five times kissed (if you're still up for it, dear.)

(Drabble meme | Always accepting)

@impatientraveler

The airship is silent, save for the sounds of the ship itself, the engine rumbling through the walls and the flooring. Noctis lurks by the gangplank, arms folded and shoulders rounded, as if he’s waiting for the walls to eat him.

The Chancellor is near at hand. Not saying anything, but watching Noctis in silence expectation, one shoulder leaning against the wall.

“What?” Noctis finally demands, when he can’t take that silent gaze boring into the side of his head any longer, before he sighs out a breath and lifts a hand to drag it down his face. “Sorry,” he offers shortly. “What?” he repeats, his tone more level.

“I’m simply waiting for some form of thanks, considering all I’ve done for you today,” the Chancellor answers, and he sounds as if he’s trying to sound earnest but has never actually had to do so before, and he’s only heard it described in passing.

It’s not really working for him, in short.

Noctis’s eyes narrow slightly in vague unease, suspicion mounting. He bows at the waist, offering an extravagant flourish with one hand, his other arm tucked into the small of his back. “My sincerest thanks, Chancellor,” he tacks on as he straightens up again.

Ardyn’s smile is an unpleasant, twisted thing, small and sharp. “A valiant effort, Your Highness, but not quite what I had in mind. But you’re in luck; I’ve never been one to look past a teaching moment.”

A moment later, there is a hand in Noctis’s hair, wrenching his head back, and another hand curling against the back of his neck, urging him up onto his toes. Ardyn’s mouth is warm as it presses to his, slow and coaxing but insistent until at last Noctis responds, because clearly that’s what’s being expected of him here. It’s tentative and reluctant and lasts for only a moment

He rips himself away, tripping back a step as soon as there’s a centimeter of space between them. His shoulders bump the wall and he comes to a halt. Ardyn offers only a smile, small and almost patronizingly amused, before he turns and moseys on his way.

Noctis ducks his head to one side to scrub his mouth against his sleeve.

*

Noctis is about four inches from disappearing into the mine when Ardyn calls, “A word, Your Highness? Before it slips my mind entirely.” The prince rolls his eyes emphatically but motions for Ignis and Prompto to wait at the entrance to the mine as he turns and stalks back through the ankle-deep water to the mouth of the cave.

“Chancellor,” he offers, both a greeting and a demand.

Ardyn curls a hand around the back of Noctis’s neck and yanks him close, and Noctis plants his hands on Ardyn’s chest at the last instant, stiff-arming him away.

“Ah, ah,” Ardyn tuts gently. “Just think, Your Highness. Were it not for me, you would have no way to repair your vessel, and no way to get to Altissia.”

Noctis’s nostrils flare and he opens his mouth, but before the words come out, Ardyn cuts a glance meaningfully to the side. “And do you truly wish to cause a scene with your companions so close?”

Noctis pauses, and slowly his arms go limp, falling back to his sides. He offers no resistance as Ardyn kisses him, but he backs away as soon as the grip against his neck loosens.

“Happy mining,” Ardyn calls after him, as Noctis retreats back towards the mine’s entrance.

*

The train is frigid--frozen--and nothing makes sense for the moment. Prompto is gone and Ardyn is... somewhere. Surprise, fucking surprise, Noctis lost track of him again.

There’s a footfall behind him and he turns on his heel, sword in hand as he moves, only for the blade to cut through thin air.

An elbow slams into his back, just between his shoulders, and his sword tumbles from his grasp as he pitches forward. A hand latches around his elbow, grip like a vise as it hauls him back.

A palm presses to his neck, fingers digging in beneath the edges of his jaw, and his next breath wheezes out as that hand presses down.

“Now, now,” Ardyn tuts, clicking his tongue in disappointment. Noctis’s back meets the window with enough force that the pane rattles, and only that grip around his neck keeps him from cracking his skull against the glass.

“We’ve been over this,” Ardyn sighs, wrenching Noctis’s head up to look at him. “Some simple recompense for services rendered, that’s all I ask. And I have been so helpful today, wouldn’t you agree, Noct?”

Noctis’s jaw works soundlessly, but he can’t find the air to say anything, and he can’t think of what he might say even if he could.

Ardyn looms closer, and Noctis squeezes his eyes shut.

There are lips against his and a tongue in his mouth. He can’t breathe and for a moment he just squirms fitfully, as if it’s going to help him at all. The world is starting to speckle at the edges.

magic magic magic use your magic

Static builds between his fingers, magnesium bright and stinking of ozone and rolling clouds, and when the lightning strikes, it rattles the train car. Ardyn is gone, and Noctis sucks in a shuddering breath and sags back against the window. He braces himself against the glass before he can start to slide down it. He doesn’t have time to catch his breath, and he heaves his weight away from the glass and stumbles back into motion.

*

There’s a creeping numbness crawling through him, spreading from his limbs to his torso as the crystal draws him ever deeper. There’s nowhere for Noctis to go. Nothing for him to do.

Ardyn knows as much. Seems to be relishing it, in fact. His grip on Noctis’s chin is nearly bruising, and his smile is pointed and feral.

“Your precious crystal, Your Majesty,” he all but croons. “Is it everything you thought it would be?” His grip tightens and he steps closer. “I’ve brought you this far, haven’t I?” he muses, and by now they are close enough that their lips are brushing.

When Ardyn closes that last bit of space, Noctis is unmoving, simply waiting until the numbness finishes creeping through him.

*

Regardless of the fact that he’s apparently slept for ten years, Noctis doesn’t feel like it, and he’s been on his feet and moving since he got back. He’s tired, in a bone-deep way that’s sort of foreign, but he supposes he won’t have time to get used to it.

Insomnia is little more than broken glass and the throne room reeks of rot and mold and fetid meat, and Noctis is ready to be done. He’s ready for it all to be over with.

Maybe Ardyn is, too. Noctis can’t even dredge up any surprise when their fight turns into more of a half-hearted scuffle.

One hand fists in the front of Noctis’s jacket and hauls him down. He catches himself on his forearm, and when Ardyn’s mouth crashes against his it is graceless and glancing and lasts only a moment before Noctis rears back. He plants the tip of his sword against the ground for balance and sits up, scrubbing the back of one hand across his mouth.

“Recompense for services rendered?” he asks flatly, and he is so tired, he can hardly even muster up more than some token irritation.

“My thanks,” Ardyn returns simply. “You’ve been a marvelous help.”

Noctis’s shoulders rise as he breathes in, and they sag once more, slowly, as he sighs. His grip around the sword’s hilt tightens and he sits up on his knees. He places the tip of the blade over Ardyn’s chest and heaves his weight downwards.