#my collarbone chalice

[johnnyst0rm]

Pour my wine in there. Collar bone chalice.

No thoughts only this

[forcefulkitten]

eternal hell

[sukuna x fem! reader]

summary: you wished to die at the hands of Sukuna. instead, he'd rather force you to endure an eternal hell.

warnings: 18+, nsfw, mentions of death and torture, blood and injury, non-consensual sex, anal sex, rough sex, double penetration

word count: 2,861

“Oi, I’m dying of thirst here.”

As a servant of the four-armed curse, carrying out his demands were the only time you had to yourself but you didn’t have any peace while doing so.

Sukuna’s other servants were only allowed to stay within the bounds of their living and working zones, which were completely sectioned off from his shrine and living areas, where you had sole access to. They didn’t bump heads with Sukuna as long as their tasks were always completed, leaving him no reason to claim more lives unless he was just in the mood to do so. They were grateful to survive his slaughter but only because they didn’t serve him personally. Truthfully, they lived a much less troubled life than you.

You didn’t pay any mind because you weren’t like them, they were sheep and you pitied them for it. The differing in mindsets are the very reason you ended up secluded from them. Feeling gratitude towards Sukuna was something you’d never resonate with. One thing hadn’t changed since the day you were dragged here— your wish to die. You’re weren’t grateful to be alive. The thought of your bones scattered messily around his shrine, mixed in the piles of countless other victims, was a charity you dreamed of.

Your battered figure showcased the countless futile acts of rebellion against Sukuna. Bruises and scabs both new and old. Several fractured bones in different healing stages. You were a mere mangled skeleton, hanging onto life while he continuously pushed you to the brink of death. Recovery would require ample rest, a nutritionally balanced diet and free time; three luxuries of which you received the bare minimum.

Sukuna watched as you limped back to his throne. You disrobed before heading up the steps of his shrine, one of many humiliating rules you had to follow when around him. Holding the chalice out for him to grab, your other arm covered your breast from his sight.

“Here.”

He signaled for you to step closer, looking over every battered inch of your body.

“I’ll reiterate the orders you’re already aware of. Abide by keeping yourself completely uncovered in my presence.”

A calloused hand reached out to uncover you and you flinched backwards, opting to uncover your chest and avoid his touch. Utter dread and disgust flowed through you at the hum of approval he made. Much to his annoyance, you shoved the chalice closer for him to grab, triggering him to think you were testing him at this point.

Sukuna’s lower arms wrapped around your thighs and pulled you between his legs. A third hand rested on the small of your back and his last free hand grabbed the drink from you. He pushed for a reaction as he poured the frigid water over you, tossing the chalice aside afterwards. The metal clanked against the mountain of bones as it fell down. Liquid dripped down your collarbone, then between the valley of your breasts before he lapped it up. The entire time, ruby eyes never abandoned your disturbed glare, arms keeping you firmly in place. You stood frozen in complete shock being that he never showed sexual interest in you prior. He licked a drop of liquid from the curve of your breast until his mouth met your nipple, sucking harshly, not releasing when you grabbed a fistful of his hair and attempted to yank him away from you. Pulling tufts of his hair only made him growl against your skin, the powerful vibrations giving you goosebumps.

“Quit it, asshole! You’re fucking disgusting.”

Sukuna ignored your angry pleas, shushing you with firm nips against your breast, two of his hands palmed your ass and gave it a firm squeeze, his nails digging into your skin. A hand wrapped around your throat, forcing you to stare at him furiously as he forced a hand between your thighs. You began punching him with clenched fists for a moment, soon halting as the nips against your breast turned to warning bites.

His calloused fingers entered you forcefully, the grip against your throat tightening. With no slick to minimize the sting it felt like his long nails were scratching your walls. Your breathing was irregular. Eyes blinked tears away. Humiliated was truly an understatement. He curled his fingers inside you, his tongue taking turns licking and sucking each breast. At this moment you preferred for him to strike you, all you could think of was how much better it would’ve felt instead of him having his way with you. Your own body betrayed you when he spanked your cheeks again, cunt becoming slick, finally aiding him in pumping his fingers inside you. He laughed cynically, considering this a win.

“Well, that’s enough fun for one day.”

Sukuna’s arms withdrew from you completely and you fumbled backwards before gaining balance. His latest way of screwing with you left you bewildered.

“Fun?”

“It was fun for me. You’ve finally served a real purpose around here. I’ve been far too easy with you.”

“You consider this… easy?!” You shouted, gesturing to your battered condition.

He got up and stood in front of you, moving a stray hair from your face with a manipulative gentleness that caused you to feel nauseous.

“Compared to what’s coming, yes.”

Prior, the cruel beatings he gave you seemed to quell his sadistic nature. You considered yourself lucky for making it so long without being sexually tainted by his conniving hands. It was only a matter of time before that wouldn’t suffice anymore, considering he’s a heedless man, having desires that only benefitted himself.

Later that evening, you laid on the concrete beside Sukuna’s bed, head rested on a dingy pillow while you were wrapped in a thin bloodied sheet Sukuna tossed at you one night to use as a tourniquet. He laid back with his legs sprawled out, 2 arms crossed behind his head while the other two held the book he was reading. A blanket covered his groin area since he often slept unclothed. You never understood the unexplained mouth on his stomach, but it did match the oddity of the plank on half his face. His bed was overly dressed in bedding— plush blankets and an obnoxious amount of pillows; insane for a man who barely washed the blood off from his victims. You can count on one hand the times you were able to grant yourself a nap on his bed while he was out during the day. Those short lived slumbers were never enough to compensate for your overall lack of sleep, but they were still worth every minute.

You hated the pity mindset but one question always lingered. ‘Why me?’ Sukuna quite literally, in his horrific nature, had a fan-club of servants who doted over him. They’d jump at the chance to be one of his toys even considering he’d destroyed everything that mattered to them. Who knew whether it was the desire for a change in routine, Stockholm syndrome, or the need to be validated in some twisted way. Whatever the reason, you’d happily trade places with them. They had liberties you couldn’t get your hands on, as simple as raggedy blankets and bedsheets they’d found on an inventory run, or the opportunity to cook their own meals and not be watched over while they enjoyed. Sukuna could have eyes everywhere if he wanted but there was no need. In a way, he destroyed their world and rebuilt it all at once. Their price to pay was far less than yours.

When the silence of the night was replaced by Sukuna’s throaty breathing— a sign that he fell into slumber; that was your cue to crawl over and rest your head against his mattress. It was easier to deal with neck strain the following day than sleep with that poor excuse of a pillow you felt the concrete floor through. You shifted to your comfort, determined to get some rest and move back to your space before he woke up.

Atleast, that was the plan.

Sukuna normally slept like the dead. Was it the sigh of relief you briefly let out before shutting your eyes? Had you accidentally made too much movement? He sat upright and glanced over at you. There was an uncanny aura that didn’t sit right with you. You barely had a moment to shuffle away.

“What is it you’re doing?”

A lump of fear settled in your throat. Instead of talking through it, you just stared blankly at him. You realized this was the stupidest time to have been caught. After he pushed your boundaries earlier, you didn’t know what to expect.

The corners of his mouth turned upwards forming a sinister grin, his head tilting slightly. Sukuna leaned in closer, going as far as motioning with his hands for you to get up. You hesitated, the disgust of earlier setting in.

“Absolutely not.”

Sukuna cupped your jaw in his hand, painfully squeezing your cheeks.

“In case that wasn’t clear, I wasn’t asking for permission.”

You tried to fight back the tears that flooded your tear ducts, recalling the way he violated you earlier.

“NO! No, no, no no. Leave me the hell alone. I’ll go back on the floor, I only rested my head for a moment. Fuck this.”

The response wasn’t like your normal self. You panicked, over-explained, let that tough guard down and basically begged. He soaked it all in, realizing the physical aspect of humiliating you was your breaking point. Had he known this all along, he would’ve pushed you this far long ago.

He released his grip from your face and watched you expectantly. There wasn’t a justifiable reason for Sukuna to accommodate you.

“You’ve got two seconds to decide whether I break several bones before having my way with you.”

You were one knee onto the bed before he stopped you, pointing at the sheet still wrapped around your body.

“Nuh uh. You know better than to bring that dirty rag with you.”

The order of being nude in his presence was firm, the only time you were clothed was when leaving his shrine to fetch food or drinks, or on the rare occasion he brought you outside. You let go of the sheet and glanced between your spot on the floor and his bed. Sighing when you felt the fabric drape onto your feet, you climbed under the covers, keeping distance between you two.

Sukuna’s bed was plush, comfortable, and warm. It molded to your form, melting away the tension in your body. The feeling of comfort was distant but familiar— similar to hugs from your family and the recipes your mom only made during holidays. You were so foolishly desperate that you categorized this as nearly the same, turning to lay on your side to hide the softening in your features when you reminisced.

You waited… and waited patiently some more, hoping to hear Sukuna’s breathing turn ragged. There was no point in rolling over to confirm he was still awake, you followed the same routine nightly and knew when he’d fallen into a slumber. It was clear he wanted to initiate when you least expected it and although you were anxious and feeling uneasy, the pure exhaustion outweighed that.

Unaware of how much time passed, Sukuna’s heavy weight shifted quickly, waking you up as your body sunk deeper into the mattress. His arms wrapped around and pulled you flush to him, propping your lower back to flush against the disgusting mouth on his stomach. In that moment the defeat from earlier washed away. You felt repulsed again, the small nap reigniting the fight in you.

You did everything you could to fend him off while in his hold— kicking your heels into his shins, biting his forearm until he bled, even somehow managing to land an uppercut to his face after elbowing him in the ribs. Pretty impressive considering he laid behind you. These efforts barely phased him but he did opt to let you go, watching deviously as you skittered across the room, clearly out of breath already. Your eyes frantically scanned the room for anything to use against him but there wasn’t anything that would’ve assisted you in the slightest.

Sukuna scooted out the bed and to your dismay, you realized much like the rest of his body— he had additional parts, two dicks. The trepidation across your face that was to blame for why he was so hard. Clearly you had gotten too comfortable with the beatings and humiliation that you previously anticipated all his moves and prepared yourself for the worst. Today was different. His pent up energy couldn’t be ignored, he planned to fuck you until your fighting spirit was completely pulverized. Until he loathed how you’d writhe under him.

Your mind just raced in the moments leading up to him standing before you. It got worse as each day passed here. Everyday more daunting than the previous one. The devil himself wouldn’t even grant you something as simple as death, the very thing he handed out so easily.

Sukuna towered over you and his size alone was alarming. Long nails dug into your cheeks when he grabbed your chin in a cupping position, holding your mouth open. Your attempts to jerk away from his grasp only caused him to tighten his grip, causing unbearable pain against your jaw. Two fingers slipped into your mouth, coating themselves in saliva. They tasted awful, like metallic, making you gag when he pulled them out. He used your saliva to coat both the tip of his cocks in slick before coming closer— two heads poking against your abdomen.

The last thing you remembered was the grunt he made after you kneed him in the groin. It must’ve hurt even the slightest because he backed away for a moment before punching you right in the temple.

If the ringing in your head wasn’t a clear confirmation that you were knocked out, the new position definitely was. Your face grazed against the cold concrete floor with every one of Sukuna’s thrusts from behind. There were too many sensations going on and none of them were enjoyable.

The sting against your ass as he smacked it, the burning stretch in both your holes, your knees scraping against the ground. He was enjoying every moment, the noises eliciting from him almost similar to the excitement expressed when he wreaked havoc on lives. The raggedy sheet and thin pillow you used were close by. You found yourself reaching for them as your tears dripped onto the ground, alerting him that you were awake.

Sukuna pulled out and pushed your body flat against the floor. The ache between your legs was barely more comfortable than a few moments ago. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked you to the side, flipping you onto your back and pushing your knees to your shoulders. There was a sick look in his eyes that you tried to avoid, focused instead on arching your back away from the discomfort of the cold concrete that felt paralyzing.

He lined himself up with both your holes before leaning in, pushing swiftly when you tried to inch away. The way your body practically invited him back in made you wonder how much time had passed while you were knocked out before. Either he had repeatedly snuffed you out whenever you came to and had been fucking you for a while now, or he stretched your holes rough enough to accommodate him so easily. Whatever the case, you wished he was done soon. Having four arms meant he was able to firmly hold you down while continuing to please himself even if you tried to fend him off.

The need to break you kept him hard, kept him cumming inside you, across your body, time and time again, switching positions all throughout the ordeal while you gritted your teeth and took it. It wasn’t that you weren’t defeated, because you clearly were. However, Sukuna wasn’t satisfied yet because you hadn’t succumbed to behaving like a sheep. You weren’t crying in pain under him, or pleading for your life. What was the use? He wasn’t going to grant you anything and you’d like to keep the last shred of dignity you owned. This wasn’t something he came across often.

Sukuna now stood behind you, your breast pressed against the wall while he plowed into you from behind. Your knees buckled ever so often, heavy breathing also a sign you were worn out. The firm grip he had on you didn’t allow you to fall to the ground. Any pain you felt in your holes were now subdued, a great deal of slick contributed only by his cum. A sharp tug of your hair forced you to look at him from your peripheral. Sukuna tutted his teeth.

“I haven’t had this much fun in a while.”

You spit on the ground. “Fuck you, Sukuna.”

You recalled the hardship that brought you so far in life only to prove useless. What point was the fire in you when you’d never make it out of this eternal hell?

[thecampjuicebox]

I need to get this out of my head right now before I explode and the idea dies of loneliness.

NSFW CONTENT ON THE WAY

BEAR with me 😏

• The idea of being restrained by Halsin. During sex, during foreplay, when you’re just being stubborn and he can’t get you to listen otherwise.

• Wrists held above your head, probably both in one hand because his hands are big enough for that. Or pinned at your sides against a wall, the bed, THE FLOOR. Or held behind you so he’s pressed DELICIOUSLY close to your backside.

• He gets real close to your ear, maybe nibbles at it a little. Leaves bruising kisses along your jaw and neck. Presses his body against yours to stop your writhing and wiggling. You like what’s happening, but gods it’s fun to push his buttons.

• He’s always so breathy when he’s excited. Hot air trickles over your skin like the steam of a warm bath and it sends a shiver down your spine. He’s got you right where he wants you. And you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

• We all know he’s a growler. He’d press his lips to your ear, whisper little filthy things to you between growls. “Oak father preserve me, you’ll be my undoing.” “You’re being so good for me. Stay still now..”

• If both wrists are pinned with only one of his hands, he’d use the free one to explore your body. Featherlight fingertips grazing over every sensitive spot. Every curve. Every freckle and mole and vein.

• He’d kiss every part of you, aside from your lips, to tease you. Forehead, cheeks, jaw, neck, collarbones, chest, shoulders, ears, maybe even the corners of your mouth just to really drive home that he’s not giving you what you want until he’s ready.

• And when he DOES kiss your lips? He’s kissing you like he’s out of breath and you’re his only source of oxygen. Tongues fighting in a war for dominance (a war you’ll most certainly lose). Teeth clacking together, little giggles and smiles against each others lips between the desperate whimpers and moans.

• The little sounds you make would drive him crazy and he’d rut his hips against you, searching for any kind of friction he can find.

• But he’s a man of great restraint. After he’s had his fill of teasing you, he’d let you go. Watch you writhe and whine with arousal. Your begging is what excites him most. But he knows how to play the long game.

• With a gentle kiss to the top of your head, he’d walk away, cock rock solid, thoughts of you sloshing around his head like wine in a chalice. He’ll take you soon enough. When the air is quiet and nature is still and peaceful. Underneath the moonlight that so perfectly illuminates every feature of you that he adores. He plans to wear you out.

• And he has every intention of making sure everyone hears it when he does.

[verbenaa]

venus in furs

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: He’s always imagined you like this in his dreams, he thinks. Naked, dressed in rubies as red as the wine in your silver chalice, blood like pomegranate juice dripping from your lips, staining your mouth to match the red of your blood that colors his own.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: Astarion/Reader

𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: smut, 18+ only

𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 6.1k

𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: Ascended Astarion, dom Astarion, dom/sub, vaginal fingering, finger sucking, blowjobs, slight exhibitionism, slight degradation, guided masturbation, vaginal sex

𝑎/𝑛: back with another one, friends. I didn't ever think I would really write ascended Astarion, but what can I say?? I hope you all like this one, I definitely enjoyed writing it and getting out of my comfort zone a little bit! Let me know what you think! Thank you so much for reading!

MDNI, 18+ CONTENT

ao3 here

masterlist

The air of the palace is cold against your exposed skin as you walk through the halls you now own, wearing nothing but an ermine cloak and glittering jewels, your stride confident amidst the darkened hallways.

These halls were once filled with the smell of decay and the leftover dust of ages past, a distasteful reminder of the horrors that had occurred here over centuries. You had made sure upon Astarion’s ascension to rip out as much of the place as you could, making decisions with that of an aesthete’s touch, ideals of what a grand palace should look like for your lover.

Dull red carpets were hastily replaced with elegant emerald green, every oppressive drapery torn away from their rods and transformed instead into flowing brocaded silks, old and rotted furniture sent to be thrown into the river or to burn, it mattered not which end it met. Such matters of what happened to the furniture were beneath you. 

You had much loftier concerns to deal with, now.

After all, what use was being His Dark Consort, if not to wile away your now infinite hours doing whatever you so wished, consequences be damned?

You stride towards the ballroom where two thrones of gleaming gold sit side by side on a newly raised dais, not caring whether the servants you passed noticed your state of dishabille. You knew they would turn their eyes from you, they would never dare to look upon you in such a way without his express permission.

At last, you make your way to your destination; chandeliers dimly lit with tapers of dripping wax hang from the ceiling, illuminating the richly woven tapestries decorating the walls. It was a shame you still couldn’t manage to get all of the blood stains out of the floorboards from the battle with those dreadful wolves, but you supposed there were worse trophies than those of your victories. You were content to let them serve as a reminder to all those who entered this place of who it was that had eventually won the battle.

A quick step up onto the dais has you exactly where you want to be, your eyes flitting between the twin thrones, resplendent with whorls of gold crafted into scenes of animals at hunt, the seats plush with dark velvet. With naught but a minute glance towards your own throne, you instead bring your gaze upon that of Astarion’s. 

You settle into your lover’s throne and arrange your cloak around you, the blood red of the velvet sliding against your curves as you move to recline, the contrast stark against the milky fur of the oversized collar, dark dots smattered across the expanse of alabaster like drops of ink against a page. 

The jewels around your neck and in your ears shift with every movement of your body, the pear-shaped ruby of your necklace—practically the size of your palm—encrusted with crystal clear diamonds heavy as it rests upon your collarbone. 

You wait for Astarion to find you, just like this, your body on display for him in the way you know he so likes. Soft curls of anticipation settle deep within your stomach, embers of pleasure eager to transform into a wildfire. 

Astarion, thankfully, does not keep you waiting long, his muted footfalls upon the covered floors catch upon your ears soon after taking your desired place. The knowledge he is finally here and so close has you sitting up slightly straighter. 

You know he will be able smell the scent of you, the heady aroma of your slow growing excitement will lead him right to where you lay in wait for him. You arrange yourself for one moment more on the throne, a siren’s smile on your face as you await the presence of your lover.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

The last thing Astarion expects to see when he walks into the ballroom is you, lounging indolently on his throne of all places, wearing nothing but the dark red of an ermine cloak and dripping in jewels.

He has to give you credit, he supposes; when he walked in from the city after a series of decidedly droll meetings with decidedly useless patriars, finding you waiting for him like a little treat dying to be tasted did not make his list. 

How very lucky you are, it seems, that when he scented your arousal on the stairs he decided instead to investigate rather than moving on to whatever work awaits him in his office.

You had always liked playing these kinds of games, your subtle machinations something he was always happy to bear witness to with a smile on his face.

His perfect, pretty Dark Consort and her quaint little schemes. 

“And what do we have here?” Astarion arches a brow as he takes in the sight of you. 

His eyes trace your frame, from the white and black of the fur trim that rests against your naked flesh, hiding your peaked nipples from sight as your crossed legs obscure the telltale wetness he knows is forming between your thighs.

You flutter your lashes prettily at his perusal of your body, a coquettish tilt of your head at his interest.

With predatory intent, Astarion makes a slow circle around his throne with inhuman grace, his eyes never leaving you. You feel the intensity of his gaze against your skin, your hair, your lips—every part of you on display for him and him only. 

He’s always imagined you like this in his dreams, he thinks. Naked, dressed in rubies as red as the wine in your silver chalice, blood like pomegranate juice dripping from your lips, staining your mouth to match the red of your blood that colors his own.

He completes his circle and his eyes meet your own, his glowing claret gaze darkening and you know with certainty that he is pleased at your offering for him.

“Won’t you bend the knee for me, my Lord?” You feign innocence in your question, eyes roving greedily over his clothed body, taking in the fine tailoring of his intricately embroidered velvet doublet, the skin-tight fit of the finest leather pants highlighting the beginnings of his erection.

“Is that what you would like, dearest?” His eyes bore into your own, a mocking smile alighting his plush lips at such a request. 

“It’s the least you can do, don’t you think? To be greeted with such a gift like myself?” Your thighs open for him as you recline further into the velvet, your wetness glistening in the dim candlelight.

“How presumptuous of you, my sweet Consort.” despite his words, a spike of heat works its way through your body at the sight of his knees moving smoothly to the floor in front of the throne you have now made your own. 

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips absentmindedly as he comes to settle his chest between your open thighs, a wicked smile forming on his lips.

Astarion doesn’t miss the sight of your tongue brushing against your lips, and he can’t help but think of other things that your mouth is capable of. He runs his hands up and down the outside of your thighs with surprising delicacy as his eyes move to your dewy center, now exposed to him. 

“I do hope you haven’t been waiting long, pet.” His hands make their way to your waist, thumbs brushing teasing patterns against your skin as he leans in to press a kiss to the softness of your lower belly, breath catching in your throat at the closeness of his lips.

You have but a moment to relish the feeling, the hands at your waist moving to yank you out of the throne upon which you sit. You quickly find yourself chest to chest with your lover, your exposed center pressing against the growing hardness still hidden behind tied leather for mere seconds before your world is turned once more; Astarion moving you onto your knees as you now face the seat of the throne you had just occupied, a spot of your own wetness darkening the velvet cushion as your ribcage presses hard against the golden frame of the throne.

A hand makes its way from your waist to clasp against your throat, the feeling of his fingers pressing in on your windpipe exquisite. 

“Because you’ll have to wait a little longer, I’m afraid.” His words fall hot against your ear as he speaks, lips brushing against the tender skin as your face falls at the thought of being denied what you had been so sure he would give you, a small noise of discontent falling from your rouged lips.

You feel the hand still resting on your waist move up to unclasp the fur cloak from your throat, the heavy fabric falling to the floor behind you with a muted thud before Astarion moves to grab and throw it aside. He quickly presses close, eager to replace the lost warmth as his hand makes it way back south, the embroidery of his doublet pressing against your exposed back, every caress of the threads like fire against your skin. 

The hand around you neck tightens infinitesimally, the additional pressure drawing a gasp from your lips as his other hand continues making it way lower, sweeping through the curls at the apex of your thighs before coming to cup at your dripping wetness. 

“I don’t take orders from you, lover, and it would do for you to remember that.” His fingers slide through your folds, drawing a noise from both of your lips at the feeling. 

“Gods, look at you. So desperate already, and I’ve barely touched you.” His words are a whisper against your neck, reverent despite his prior condemnation. Fingers trace at your entrance, their touch light and teasing as he continues his scolding. 

“What a little tyrant you’ve become. Daring to sit in my throne and to make such demands of me.” His tone is mocking now as he presses those two fingers at your entrance, pushing in to the knuckle, leaving you no time to acclimate to the fullness. A whine falls from your lips as his fingers move deep, eyes falling shut and head lolling forwards the hand still squeezing lightly at your throat.

Astarion allows the gesture, his hand softening its hold to instead stroke at the graceful column of you neck as your head falls back to rest upon his velvet draped shoulder. 

The fingers inside you find that spot deep inside, curling to press into it with relentless intent. Moans fall from your lips as his fingers fuck into your pussy, your wetness aiding their slide in and out of your wanting body. 

“Look at how easily you cry for me, my sweet.” His words spur you on, your hips riding his hand as his fingers find their rhythm deep inside you for but a moment before he mercilessly pulls them from of your body.

Astarion’s fingers leave you empty, a whimper filling the air as he drags the hand that had been pleasuring you up your body, leaving a trail of slick across the heated skin of your stomach to the place in between your breasts. 

His wet fingers leave your body to hover in front of you, your head coming up off his shoulder. 

Astarion’s pulls his fingers apart, shining strings of your arousal clinging between the digits. The sight of it has the both of you entranced as Astarion slowly brings those fingers together again and presses them against your lips.

“Open.” The command is clear in his voice, and you open your mouth without a second thought.

He settles the fingers on your tongue and you obediently close your mouth around them and suck at your own wetness coating the digits. 

“Such a good girl, barely having to be told what to do,” His praise is like velvet running across your skin as you hollow your cheeks around the digits in your mouth, your essence heavy on your tongue. 

“You taste divine, don’t you think?” You are powerless but to nod in agreement, empty core clenching at the honey dripping from his words.

The taste of yourself in your own mouth like this is downright lewd and you know without a doubt that if the heart that sits in your chest could beat once more that your face would be flushed as red as the roses you now choose to decorate with.

You can feel Astarion��s hardness through his pants, pressing into you from his place behind you, cock twitching with every movement of your tongue. His fingers make their way out of your mouth before reaching down to tweak at a hardened nipple, your saliva coating his digits as they rub circles around the nub. 

“Do me a favor, darling, and stay on those knees of yours.” Astarion’s lips brush against the delicate skin of your ear once more, his words a seductive whisper as he rises behind you. 

You look over your shoulder as he stands at his full height, your face at eye level with the hard bulge still hidden behind leather. A corner of your mouth tilts upwards as you turn on your knees to face him fully, hands coming up to rest on his upper thighs as you look up into his eyes.

Your fingers rub the leather covering his strong legs, head moving forward to rest lightly against his covered erection.

The sight of you down on your knees is that of sin incarnate, Astarion’s breath hitching slightly before that same wicked smile creeps back onto his features.

“May I, my Lord?” Your fingertips inch upwards with your words, playing with the waistband of his pants.

“It’s the least you can do, don’t you think?” He uses your earlier words against you tauntingly, his haughty smirk deepening at the devilish raise of your brows.

You see fit not to answer him with words, instead letting your hands do the talking as they make their way to the laces covering his erection. With several quick motions of your fingers the laces fall open and you free his aching length, placing a kiss to the tip.

Astarion groans at that first brush of your lips against him, hips jumping at the touch as his cock bobs in response.

You mouth at the crown, reverent brushes of your tongue moving on the soft skin of his shaft have his head falling back with a sigh. Astarion brings his eyes back to your form on the floor beneath him, knees resting on the ground as your nipples pebble in the chilled air, lips and tongue working him with the motions you know he loves. 

You lick a stripe up a vein on his cock before taking his heat inside your mouth, cheeks hollowing against him as you suck. The action has him moaning, your lips and tongue moving to work him as you slowly begin to bob your head.

You continue your ministrations, sucking him into your mouth as your hand comes to help you touch what you can’t easily reach with your mouth, pumping him at the base as your tongue caresses the crown of his cock. 

The noises Astarion makes is like music to your ears, the sound of his carnal moans only serving to drive you to move your mouth faster and deeper.

“You can take me harder, can’t you?” His words are uncharacteristically breathless as his fingers card through your hair, gathering strands into a makeshift ponytail in his fist as his other hand brushes against the high point of your cheek.

You nod your head as much as you can with your lips wrapped around his cock, humming in confirmation as your eyes look up to meet his own gaze, glassy with lust. 

Astarion pumps his hips at your blessing, moving his cock in and out of your mouth with slow motions as your tongue brushes against him. Your lips open wider to accommodate him, hand on his thigh squeezing in encouragement.

Pleasure rushes to your core as Astarion’s hand fists harder in your hair, his hips moving faster now as he sets his pace, your moans around his cock spurring him on as he moves closer to your throat, eyes watering involuntarily with each thrust as he nears the back of your mouth. 

He hisses at the pleasure, at the sight of you letting him fuck your mouth however he pleases as your eyes flash upwards to meet his own, the beginnings of tears dusting your lashes as he pushes deeper into your warm mouth. 

Few things compare to the knowledge that Astarion is under your control like this, and you know he won’t last long as you breathe in through your nose, relaxing your throat for him to press as deep as he wants with a flutter of your lashes, stray teardrops falling onto your cheeks as you can only imagine the thoughts floating through his pleasure-addled mind. 

As Astarion looks down upon your form below him, taking him so very well, he can’t help but think that the deepest and darkest parts of him covet you like this always. Lips wrapped tight around his cock, unable to think of nothing but him as he fucks your mouth, your lips sealed around his cock. 

The beautiful blush of your lips, the crystal of your tears, the claret of your blood. 

All for him and him only.

He comes on your tongue with the thought, his spend going down your throat in hot, salty spurts. You swallow him greedily, intent on not wasting a drop as the hands in your hair tighten as Astarion’s hips buck into your mouth with abandon as you drink down his seed.

With a sigh the hand in your hair loosens as Astarion comes down from his high, your mouth still moving over his softening cock. You slowly pull off him, tongue licking at him as you go, collecting the remnants of his come off him before you let his length fall from your lips.

With one last swallow, you look up at him from your place on your knees, licking at a stray drop of his come that escapes your mouth. Astarion brushes his thumb against your closed lips, his eyes still hot with lust as your tongue darts out to lick at the fingertip.

With a nod of his head, Astarion gestures to your cloak where it lays long forgotten against the cold floors. With a coy smirk up at him, you bring your hands to the floor and crawl over towards the soft velvet. 

Astarion follows your every sway of your body as you move, and when you finally lay yourself down onto the cloak, back resting against the lush material, he follows. He wastes no time to lower himself above you, hovering, as he takes in the vision of you resting beneath him.

His Dark Consort. His blasphemous Queen.

He would do anything for you.

His eyes rove your naked form, burning the memory of the way the deep crimson of the cape highlights the color of your skin, the open yearning in your expression and complete submission to him into his mind to last the entirety of his eternal life.

Astarion finally touches your body, no longer satisfied with a simple gaze, a hand brushing back your hair from your face before making its way down your body. You let your legs fall open for him to continue his exploration, eagerly exposing your wanting center to him as he bends his head down, giving an experimental lick up your slit, collecting your wetness on his tongue.

“Do you want to come, my love?” You nod your head, a whine escaping at the promise in his voice. 

“Then I want you to make yourself come while I watch.” He releases your legs, moving to stand before making his way to his throne.

He sits down with the grace of a king, his gaze expectant on your naked body as you part your legs for him once more.

His words are unexpected but you waste no time, not willing to wait lest he decide to abandon your pleasure all together. A hand skates its way down your body, bypassing your aching breasts to go straight to your clit. You rub at your pearl with delicate fingers, your motions second nature as you let yourself fall headfirst into the feeling of pleasure as Astarion watches you from his place on his throne, his cock already hard again.

Your eyes fall shut as you continue your ministrations, head falling to the side as your pleasure drives higher and higher with every motion of your fingers. 

“Eyes on me, darling.” His words are hard, the command clear in his voice has your eyes opening fast and landing back on his form.

You watch Astarion where he sits, taking in the sight of him as your fingers continue drawing circles around your clit. He reclines back in his throne, a hand drawing lazy touches up and down his cock as his own eyes are fixated on your fingers at your most intimate area. 

With a breath your hand leaves your clit, moving further down to touch at your weeping entrance. 

If he wants a show, you will gladly give him one.

Without waiting, you plunge your fingers into yourself, pushing them as deep as you can. Your own are nothing compared to the length and elegance of his own, but they will have to do for now. You fuck yourself on your fingers, quickly adding a third in an attempt to recreate the feeling of Astarion’s own. 

Your fingers shine with your wetness, Astarion groaning at the sight of you fucking yourself like this, knowing you won’t last much longer at the rate you are going.

“Slow down, darling,” A smirk plays at his lips as he notes the shaking of your thighs. 

“You can’t come until I say so, and I’m not ready for this little performance to be over quite yet.” You whine at his command, but slow your fingers obediently, moving them inside you at a slower pace now.

Your fingers work diligently as your eyes don’t leave Astarion’s from where he sits some feet away. His attention on you only serve to drive you higher, those crimson eyes never leaving you.

Your legs widen so Astarion can better see your motions as your other hand comes up to palm at your breasts, fingers still moving in an easy rhythm that drives your higher and higher with every pass.

You know that he loves to see and watch you like this, and there is nothing you love more than leaning into that yearning, eager to let his dominance wash over you.

“A-Astarion, I can’t hold off much longer.” It takes effort to keep your eyes on him, trying to push off your orgasm as long as possible, thighs shaking once more with impending release.

“Let go, my love.” His permission feels like a balm, hand at your chest coming down to rub at your clit as the fingers inside you speed up their thrusts, intent to bring yourself to orgasm as fast as you can get there.

You had waited so long to finally be allowed to come, to get the pleasure you desired and deserved, and while you wish that it was Astarion’s hands instead of your own, you supposed beggars could not be choosers.

Your orgasm hits, limbs seizing and hips bucking against your fingers, head thrown back as a moan leaves your painted lips, back bowing with pleasure.

“Beautiful.” Astarion murmurs the words low, barely audible over your own moans as you come on your fingers, orgasm washing over you as you writhe on the floor in front of him.

Your body relaxes in the wake of your release, limbs loose against the cloak on the floor. You ease your fingers out of yourself with a slight wince, the digits soaked with your own come. You lay there for a moment, your senses coming back to you as your eyes finally open and glance back at your lover. 

“Come to me.” His words are expectant, and you force yourself to rise despite the pleasant exhaustion weighing down your limbs, walking to the throne and standing in between his knees as he spreads them to make room for you.

Astarion’s hand reaches out to grab your wrist, bringing the fingers that had filled your core to his own mouth before he wraps his mouth around them.

He licks at your come, tongue sliding against your fingers in a bid to collect all of your spend, intent on letting none go to waste. The feeling of his tongue on your fingers drives a wedge of heat right back to the spot between your legs, Astarion’s eyes never leaving your face as his tongue glides up and down your fingertips.

With one last motion, he sucks hard on your fingers before pulling his mouth away from your hand.

“Sit.” The command is simple as his hands grab at your waist, pulling you to him. 

Your knees land on either side of his hips, his cock brushing up against your empty core as Astarion’s lips finds your own.

His kiss is demanding, passion and control combined into a fiery thing that you answer with the same emotion, mouth opening to his tongue as it sweeps inside to taste.

You’re breathless when Astarion breaks this kiss, his lips moving to press kisses against your jaw.

“Turn around and face the doors, darling.” His smile is absolutely deviant as you obey his words without a second thought, excitement building at whatever he has in store for you.

Your body twists over his own, settling onto his lap as your bare back rests against his velvet doublet. His length presses against your slit like this, your come slicking the shaft. Astarion’s hands caress the curve of your waist as you lean back into him, your head turning to brush your lips over the skin of his neck in a light kiss.

The hands on your waist move further down your sides and over your legs, stopping at your knees to grip underneath each, lifting them up and over the armrests of the throne. Your breath catches in your throat at the slight burn in your thighs as your legs stretch open, every inch of your aching cunt on full display.

He bares you entirely like this, anyone who dares to walk by the open doors and look inside would see every bit of you. It’s a small blessing, you think, that any servants have long made themselves scarce once they realized the debauchery taking place.

“Such a good girl you are, darling, keeping yourself open for me like this.” The hands holding your legs move up to stroke at your thighs, before one wanders higher towards your center. Astarion drags his fingers through your wetness, fingers spreading your folds and collecting the wetness on his fingertips as he circles your clit.

His lips find the tender skin behind your ear at the moment two fingers push inside you, sliding in knuckle deep before pulling back out again.

“You put on such a good show for me, darling. I think you deserve a reward.” He kisses your neck, those fingers pushing in once more to massage at your inner walls.

Astarion is intent on building you back up to a frenzy, his years of knowledge of your body to press and rub against everywhere he knows will only bring you higher. 

He will always worship you, you who helped him rise to this new height, assisting so selflessly in handing him such power. It was the least he could do, to keep and covet you so tightly you could never want or dream of anything less than an eternity by his side.

The old Astarion could never care for you the way he does now, could never gift you such unimaginable riches—gowns of the finest silks and tulles, an endless supply of silvers and golds, jewels of unbelievable value. 

No, he couldn’t offer you even a fraction of what he can now. His poor excuse for companionship was all that he had to offer you back then.

You deserved better, and better was what he would give you.

“You’re a vision like this, darling, held open for me while I make you come.” He mouths at the skin of your neck, never slowing in his movements.

His fingers hook inside of you, pressing against your g-spot with relentless efficiency, your cries spurring on his motions. You can hear the sounds of your wetness with his every motion, can feel yourself dripping onto the soft leather of his covered thighs beneath you.

Your orgasm hits you without warning, that familiar warmth coursing through your veins Astarion’s fingers still press on the softness of your walls as your cunt constricts around them. You writhe in his lap, hips riding his hand as he presses kisses to your neck as his fingers continue their work. You whine at the sensations, body moving closer towards overstimulation after reaching your peak twice in such a short time.

Astarion grants you a moment to recover as his fingers slide out of you, hands instead moving to bring your legs down from their place over the chair as you pant listlessly against his chest, body still shaking from the pleasure he had given you.

“Please, fuck me.” Your words carry a certain softness in their desperation that has Astarion’s cock bobbing against your entrance once more as you move onto your knees above him, looking back over your shoulder to see him grabbing his cock as he positions it at your entrance.

You lower down eagerly to take him inside you in a smooth glide, ignoring the slight twinge of overstimulation as you press all the way down until your hips meet, a hiss leaving his mouth at the feeling of your warmth finally wrapped around him.

You moans fill the air together, Astarion’s hands finding your waist as you glide yourself up and down his cock, taking him deep with every motion downwards, hips grinding into his own when he bottoms out. His lips caress the skin of your spine and neck, one hand on your hip helping you move up and down him, the other buried in your hair, keeping it out of the way of his roaming lips. 

Astarion lets you move above him at your own pace, moaning into your skin as you work yourself on him, your hips undulating above him in a seductive dance as you take him deep on every slide down before gliding back up, barely keeping the head of him inside before you begin again.

Astarion’s grip on your hip tightens as he begins to guide you in harder motions that have you picking up speed, his fingers digging into your skin as the lips on your neck switch from kisses to light nips of his fangs. 

“Harder, Astarion.” Your words come out on uneven breaths as he thrusts deep, cries of pleasure falling from you open lips as he takes control. 

“Off, darling.” He pants, other hand moving to join the one at your hip as he moves you off his cock, your wetness coating it. 

On unsteady legs you move to stand by the throne as Astarion gets up behind you, his hands never leaving your body as he quickly directs you back. Your knees touch soft velvet as you move to kneel on the seat, hands grasping for purchase on the golden whorls as Astarion sheathes himself back inside you, hips sliding home on the first thrust. 

The carved gold bites into your palms as you hold on, legs widening for him to fuck you harder as his hands find their way to hold onto your hips, pulling your body back against his own as he fucks you with little delicacy.

Gone is the easy, sensuous pace of earlier, replaced by your mutual desperation for something harder. His cock is impossibly deep like this, hitting what feels like every nerve ending inside you with the pump of his hips.

A hand grips your hair and pulls your head back roughly as his teeth nip at your earlobe. 

“Is this what you wished for, my dear?” He whispers the words, hips snapping into yours. “To be fucked like a whore? On my throne, like this?”

You moan at his words, pussy clenching hard on his cock as his skin slaps into your own, the sound echoing against the elegantly carved wood ceiling.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” He chuckles into your ear as you gasp at a particularly sharp thrust, his mouth licking a stripe up your neck.

You deign not to answer him, knowing your body tells him everything he needs to know about that particular line of questioning.

His cock hits a particularly deep spot inside you, and you cry out at the sensation, pain and pleasure mixing headily in your veins. Your hands clutch harder onto the throne under you in an attempt to center yourself, efforts in vain as Astarion continues to fuck into that same spot near your cervix.

Your eyes roll back at the feeling of him so deep, wanton moans falling from your lips with abandon as pleasure streaks through body, burning brighter than the sun. 

“Will you bleed for me, sweet thing?” The words aren’t quite a question, more hypothetical in nature. You know he will take, and you are always willing to give to him, even after all these years. You nod your head regardless, as best you can with Astarion’s fingers still gripping in your hair, never mind his hard thrusts in and out of your body.

His lips fall against your neck, nose nudging against the skin there as his breath is hot where his lips caress the skin behind your ear. The hand in your hair loosens, allowing you to move your head further to side, baring more skin to his searching mouth in invitation.

He bites down, the fragile skin of your neck breaking like it has a thousand times over, your blood dripping down in rivulets as Astarion drinks you in. Your blood stains the diamonds and rubies around your neck, facets dancing with every push of Astarion’s hips against your own in the dim light.

Every suck of Astarion’s mouth against your neck brings you closer, cries falling as you both soar higher and higher towards your peak. His hips continue to move, never slowing in their rhythm as he drinks, blood continuing to drip down over the peak of your breasts before falling onto the gilded throne beneath you.

All it takes is a few more thrusts from Astarion before you come apart, body bucking against his own as he continues to suck at the flesh of your neck, every pull from his mouth bringing the pleasure higher as you crest wave after wave of our climax, white hot heat rushing over your senses. He works you through your orgasm, never slowing his pace as he fucks you through the height of it, allowing you to luxuriate in the euphoria.

Astarion follows shortly after you, the feeling of your cunt clenching hard against his own heat divine as he loses the final threads of his control. His hips press tight against your own as he empties himself inside of you with unrestrained moans as he extricates his fangs from your neck to press his brow against your shoulder, tongue licking at the spilled blood that runs down your body.

Astarion stays inside you, his cock softening as his come leaks from your joined bodies down onto the skin of your thighs, pressing kisses to your shoulder as your breathing slowly evens out. 

Finally he pulls himself from your center, helping you off the throne as he bends down to grab your discarded cape from the floor nearby. He settles it back around your shoulders as you lean against him, looking up into his eyes.

“What ever are we to do with you, darling?” He sighs the words in mock distress, a finger coming to lift your chin up towards him as he smirks.

“I suppose maybe I need to be better disciplined?” Your smile answers his own, voice coy as you toy with a button on his doublet.

“Then lead the way, pet, there’s still much I can teach you.” Your answering smirk is all the permission required as Astarion leads you to the bedroom, intent to make good on his promise before the night is done.

[papagrazza]

Syrup | NSFW LucaNeveRook oneshot

I did it, I wrote the Rook x Lucanis x Neve oneshot I’ve been thinking about. It’s nothing fancy and sorry if it’s cringe, I originally wrote something a little more tame but that was boring and going to be too long so here you lil horny brains go.

NSFW/18+ warning, this isn’t super explicit but I wouldn’t exactly read it to my mother. Enjoy

Also Rook owns a bed for the context of this fic, though it only get mentioned at the end. Can someone please buy them all proper beds?

Word count: 3697

“I’ve never seen such a colour on you before.” Neve smiles sweetly, a knuckle grazing over Rook’s cheekbone, brushing stray hair away. Her knees nuzzle comfortably up against the side of their leg, the chaise cushions sinking them into one another under their combined weight. Rook smiles behind their chalice, peeking over the rim at the pair of dark, calculating eyes that swirl with unspoken temptation. Whatever shade of pink Rook is, half of it was on Neve’s cheeks too, her lips wine stained and drawn between teeth. Her hand creeps down to their collarbone to idly fix the hem of their shirt and then rests innocently upon their shoulder. Rook had leant in a little closer without realising it.

“Does it suit me?” They ask with all the nonchalance they can muster from the bottom of their cup, sipping and swallowing and then setting it down on the nearby coffee table. Neve’s hand leaves their shoulder to rest an elbow on the back of the lounge, fingers combing through her dark hair, she hums in thought.

“It does, though I wonder how far it reaches?” She says it like Rook can’t hear her, looking away to let her eyes wander across the rest of the group. Quietly she enjoys the way Rook adjusts themself, clears their throat and rolls out their shoulders from the corner of her eye. Luring them in and then letting the line fall slack, over and over, she’d mastered the art of making Rook dizzy with this back and forth teasing all afternoon. And Rook, like a lust drunk fool, would bite the bait every time.

They sit in a cushioned nook of the dining hall, a well grazed tray of bites to eat of Harding’s design sits at the centre, half a dozen bottles of Rivaini wine strewn about, cups ever flowing, banter in abundance. Music swells up into the high ceilings and tumbles down, Emmrich’s magic suspends a couple instruments he’d pinched from the music room that had opened itself to them the day before, in the air above the dining table. An old Nevarran folk song bounds off the walls. Assan snoozes in Harding’s lap, snoring deeply in tandem with Taash who has passed out in a heap of cushions on the floor. Davrin regails stories from his early monster hunting days and Bellara, utterly fascinated, burns through questions like a certain crime scene investigator she so admires. Manfred dances elaborately with an old broom on the other side of the hall.

Rook tries desperately not to linger too long on Neve’s words, but they’d been flirting senselessly for days and it was still too early in the night to go spilling good wine in a fluster. Besides, Rook wasn’t the only one enjoying it. Lucanis had been watching the whole time, stealing glances over his own coffee mug, his contribution to group conversation coming short whenever Neve placed a cherry on Rook’s tongue, or dragged her sharp blue nails up their thigh. Originally he’d been sitting in the armchair beside Rook chatting pleasantly about their adventures, sharing stories, the closeness sweet and charming and entirely unambiguous. When Neve came and claimed the seat beside Rook the back of her legs had brushed over Lucanis’s knees and his words fell into his mouth. When she lay a hand upon Rook's thigh, who had started to shift to allow her more room, Lucanis finished his wine in a few practised gulps, set his cup aside and stood to ‘attend to the kitchen.’

“You and Lucanis are rather close, he seems quite taken by you.” Neve says quietly when he’s out of earshot, Rook offers a sheepish smile to no one in particular and rests back, one leg over the other. They take a quick breath and drink in the smell of salt and cinnamon that lingers on her hair.

“That so?” Rook ponders calmly, their eyes casting towards the kitchen where a dark silhouette leans over the counter, stirring a steaming cup of what can be assumed is coffee. His shoulders drawn and set stiffly. He seems to be muttering to himself and they could have imagined it but for a second Rook thinks they catch a pink glow emitting from him around his head.

“He’s enjoyable company. Easy to be around.”

“Or perhaps incredibly… frustrating?” Neve suggests.

Rook raises a brow at her, a smirk trying to pull at their lips. A sudden swirl of confidence warms their stomach, more than likely the effects of wine strong enough to knock out even their Qunari companion, more likelier Rook was full of Neve’s teasing and wanted to dish some back to her instead. See how much of her own work the stoic, icy detective could handle before she came undone. They turn to Neve, peering down their nose at her, enjoying the way her eyes narrow curiously and how her lips come apart like she’s eager for something. “Then again, I could say the very same of you.”

“Could you?” She purrs back and loops hair behind her ear. “Though you’ve hardly scratched the surface of how enjoyable and frustrating my company can be.”

“Then I ought to scratch a little deeper.” Rook’s leaning in again, her breath fans across their cheeks, thick as cherry syrup. Her eyes are latched on their mouth, the cushions sink even lower and Rook’s hand tentatively grazes over her hip.

“Perhaps you ought to.” She murmurs, the music fades out, the voices of the others blend into white noise, Rook can’t make out anything a foot from their peripherals, and they can’t tear their eyes away from her for the life of them. For a moment it doesn’t matter who sees them, Neve’s shirt sinks so low, enough that from this angle Rook can see the smooth skin of her stomach, the curve of her breasts, her blush seeping down her neck like it had been poured over her. Rook wants to touch her, wants to know how far she’ll let them. When they reach out to try a shadow moves into place beside them, shielding their line of sight from the others. Rook’s hand withdraws back into their lap in a flash, a thwarted sigh and a tender laugh from Neve give way to a gruff cough that steals their attention off one another. Neve leans back comfortably in her seat like she wasn’t as committed to the moment as Rook, and they’re promptly reminded of their little game. Perhaps Rook had read too finely between the lines after all? And Neve really was just stirring them on for the fun of it? She’s been doing it since Rook at let slip of a particular fantasy they’d had one evening in the dim of the library while the pair had enjoyed each others silence over their respective novels. Rook had read something scandalous and Neve had looked at them in a different light since, or at this rate they could have just been imagining it this whole time. They try not to be too disappointed by any of it.

A familiar hand grasps a bottle, another expertly cradles three smaller glass goblets. Lucanis looks down over them with a whole new air about him, like he’d dunked his head in cold water and recollected himself.

“Pardon my interruption, as enlightening as three glasses of Qunari wine have been, I think it’s an appropriate time in the night to crack open something a little more… passionate in its profile.” He says to them, brandishing the bottle for Rook to look at. A thick bodied, plum coloured bottle, carefully corked and waxed shut, stamped with the sigil of a crow. Rook nods, the wine Taash had supplied went down well enough, but it had the structure of a cup of hot rocks, and the lingering burn threatened to toss away one inhibition after the other with every mouthful. And Rook was about ten mouthfuls tossed. “I had this Antivan port stashed for a quiet moment but it’s much better shared, and I thought you two would particularly enjoy it.”

“Generous of you. You sold me at passionate.” Neve tells him and pats the seat he’d once been occupying, encouraging him to get close. For a moment Lucanis hesitates, something flickering in his eyes and Rook can’t tell if it’s candlelight, a glint of spiteful pink or simply something a little more ulterior. He pauses and it's like he’s chewing on his next words, his earlier suavity seeming to have already started to melt away again. Rook nudges the side of his leg with their knee, his eyes flick to theirs like he’d been electrified at the touch. Rook smiles.

“You sold me at a quiet moment.”

•

“Do you cut your own hair, Lucanis?” Rook asks, watching Neve smooth back the soft black hair, choppy and uneven in places, down the side of his head. Lucanis hums in thought, his eyes shut and head leant back, chest rising and falling steadily, a hefty redness has made its home across his cheeks and his little glass goblet, empty for the second time, he holds atop his thigh. He sits on the floor and rests back against the lounge in Rook’s room. They’d pushed it in a little closer to the far back wall so they have their own little private nook, not that anyone was likely going to come looking for them at this hour. Neve, sitting upon the lounge above him carefully refills his glass from the plum coloured bottle, swiping a small spill dribbling down the side with her thumb and sucks it clean. Rook takes a sharp breath and repositions themselves to sit cross legged with their back against the wall below the aquarium. Tender blue light bathes them, the shimmering off the rippling water has been the only movement for a while. All the booze they’ve consumed has lulled them into a dreamy, languid state. Rook eyes the bottle, they’ve made a significant dent in it, candlelight through the back of the cloudy glass reveals it to be half-empty. Its missing contents now fill them with a slurry of giggles, caressing warmth they can’t seem to not share with one another, and the quiet longing to be closer still.

“I do, though it’s been a while since I did some upkeep on it.” Lucanis tells them, reaching up to roll a tuft of his beard between his fingers. Rook's eyes are sticky on his hands, his defined knuckles, signs of past scuff still mark his skin, a vein runs up his arm, clearer whenever he flexes. His fingernails are short and well groomed and enough buttons of his shirt have come undone to reveal the hair across his firm chest. When Rook’s eyes travel back up to his face they find him already watching them closely, the hint of a knowing smile plays at his lips. “I hope the scruffy look isn’t too displeasing.”

“You and ‘displeasing’ are not a pair of words that go together in my vocabulary.” Rook tells them with a low voice, allowing their eyes to hang there on his when they normally would have averted for feeling bashful. “I quite like the rugged look, it’s… stirring.”

“Stirring?” He replies softly, his foot affectionately brushing across Rook’s leg. “You’re too kind.”

“Lucanis,” Neve cuts in, shooting Rook a look that somehow suggests that she’s plotting against their better interest, or for it. Lucanis turns his attention to her. “May I ask something a little… intimate?”

A beat passes as Lucanis either ponders this or steels himself for whatever’s to come, he sits up a little straighter, so does Rook and he smirks, resting an arm up on the lounge. Rook can’t help but feel like they’re the only one who can’t command the atmosphere the way they do, Neve is a master at playing the scene, and Lucanis, who is probably trained to respond to her advances in a similar likeness, has done rather well to hold his own. But Rook? They were hardly holding themself together, the copious amount of wine in their brain was doing them no wonders. After all, they’d been copping Neves charms all afternoon, now they were alone and Lucanis was here, Lucanis who had been dousing them in desire with every look he sent their way. Aside from that this was the exact situation they’d been dreaming up for weeks.

Perhaps they were still dreaming, this was the Fade after all. Or maybe they’d already succumbed to the liquor and passed out and Solas, fed up with all of Rook’s desperately pathetic pining, was messing with his head.

Whatever it was, all they could do was what they were told.

“Is that not what you’ve been setting up this whole evening for?” He quipped and over a smile she rolls her eyes. “But of course, we’re among friends, no?” He looks to Rook who can do nothing else but nod. Neve steals a short glance their way, then she throws her legs over the side of the lounge, her golden cobra peg rings out a lingering sound as it meets the cobbled floor. She says nothing as she saunters over to Rook and offers her hands for them to take and stand. Lucanis observes silently and swirls the wine around his goblet, letting the sweetness spread across his tongue. Rook, helpless to her whims, goes where they’re put, their back pressed up against the cool aquarium glass, her knee slots comfortably between theirs and their breath is hooked out of their throat on that lure she’s been dangling in front of them all night again. She kisses their throat, just twice, but it’s enough to stoke the fires.

“Neve…” Rook manages through hot air, wanting to ask for more, wanting permission to give in. She looks over her shoulder to Lucanis who has perched himself in the spot she’d once been sitting, leant forward elbow to knee and is staring with an intentful expression. One practically begging to be invited.

“When you look at Rook, writhing and red, what are you thinking?” Neve asks him, she leans in so that her chest presses flat against Rooks, her bare skin could burn through Rook’s shirt and char them raw and they’d thank her for it. Gods, one touch from her and they were utterly useless, so much for being their steadfast, unshakeable leader. They could face a thousand blighted Darkspawn with their bare hands but when Neve touches them with such tenderness and Lucanis’s stare refuses to falter, Rook gives in to them immediately.

“Well, I enjoy it. I’ve never seen them like that.” Lucanis’s hands cradle his cup below his nose, shielding his mouth and whatever expression fights to show. His gaze is heavy as lead and Rook has to look away for fear of coming apart.

“And when I touch them like this?” Her hand slithers up the side of Rook’s thigh, her nails hooking in over the hem of their pants and tugging down an inch or two to show him the smooth skin of their abdomen. Rook seethes through grit teeth but holds their hands at their sides, latched for dear life on the rivets around the glass for something to keep them grounded.

“I… like it.”

“You don’t want to rip my hands away?”

“I don’t…” Lucanis starts and stops, there seems to be a thousand racing thoughts behind his eyes. Then his face scrunches as though a deep pain overcomes him and he groans. When the discomfort subsides a different expression has found him, a devious pink glow falls on his lashes. “He wants to touch. Touch both! RIP CLOTHES!”

“Spite?” Rook gets out, Neve moves back a bit when the demon’s voice croaks through, caught off guard by his sudden appearance. Lucanis shakes his head like he’s wrestling for control and he succeeds, but not before Spite can get out quickly: “wants Rook. Wants Neve. So bad! Shut up! Go away.”

“How interesting.” Neve says to herself. a pleased smugness weaves through her tone, she turns back to Rook. “There, now you know. So what should we do?”

“What? You’re… asking me?” Rook mutters out when Neve steps away and they have to push their strength back into their weak legs to keep themself upright. Neve’s movements are slow but precise, she circles around the back of Lucanis, who after fighting for control over his own body is breathing a little heavier, among other reasons. “Of course, you’re the star of this show. You may be easy to toy with, Rook, but I wouldn’t play you for no reason.”

“Is this what you want?” Rook asks to one and both in the same, Neve nods without any hesitation. Lucanis seems to need a few more seconds to think about it. “And don’t just say yes because Spite threw you under the bus.”

“Although if you didn’t and I misread all the clues you’ve been giving us, I’d have to seriously review my skill of deduction.” Neve jokes. “But they’re right, you’re under no obligation to stay just because I lured you here.”

“Everything is always measured with you isn’t it, Neve Gallus?” Lucanis says with a tired drawl, running his hand down over his face like tomorrow's hangover was already becoming him. Rook still stands where they’d ended up earlier, dishevelled and afraid and painfully turned on. “But yes, I won’t lie, it's been on my mind.”

“We haven’t even gotten to the fun part and you’re already uttering my full name?” Neve says and puts her hands on her hips. “I’m pleased you’re on board, Rook hasn’t stopped fantasising about this since your little coffee date.”

“That long? And I only caught on now?” Lucanis’s brows rise high in awe. “Mierda.”

“Not everyone can be as quick to the chase as some of us.” She throws him a sweet smile and Lucanis opens his mouth to retaliate when Rook cuts him short.

“Guys,” they shift their weight to one leg, letting their head fall back against the glass, exposing their chest where their shirt will allow as well as the rash-like blush that spills from their cheeks, to their ears, down their neck and along their collar bone. Lucanis and Neve fall silent. “All night you’ve done nothing but drive me mad, so if one or both of you don’t do something about this I’ll go and jump from the top of the lighthouse.”

“Sorry. I’ve made you suffer, haven’t I?” Neve’s laugh is lulling and she reaches out a hand for Rook to take and tug on roughly. She falls into their embrace with a surprise yelp and it quickly thaws into a barely restrained moan when Rook’s lips find her neck and kiss at her skin feverishly. Rook’s hands clamber down and claw across her lower back, untucking her shirt from her belt and sneaking up to finally feel her warmth. She’s cooler to the touch than Rook had anticipated, but with these hot coals she’s been prodding at the last few hours it brings a much needed reprieve to the heat in their belly. Rook raises a hand up to gently cup her jaw and bring her even closer but before they can steal the chance to plant their lips on hers she draws herself back. Then with one quick, expert maneuver she’s placed herself in Rook’s spot. “As much as I enjoy having you to myself, I did intend to share.”

“Lucanis.” Rook huffs feeling a warm presence suddenly looming like a thick shadow behind them, the smell of coffee and the syrupy scents from the port fill what little space is left between them all. Rook looks down and feels the hands they’d been gaping at earlier slide around the sides of their waist. His fingers digging and searing wherever they touch. Lucanis’s chest is full flush against Rook’s back, his cheek grazes over theirs as he leans in to dot kisses along the curve of their shoulder and Neve breathes out contentedly while she watches.

Her hands travel down Rook’s arms to hold their hands in hers, then she brings them slowly to her chest and allows them to cup the soft skin there. Rook sighs heavily and finally Neve pulls them in with a hand on the back of their neck, her fingers tangling into their hair. She kisses them long and deeply, her lips slick and soft and her hot air fills their mouth. The port stains her tongue and her taste intoxicates Rook like nothing else they’ve consumed tonight. They sink into her, their hands crawl across her bracing skin and in turn Lucanis’s grasp at their hips hard.

A soft growl escapes him when he presses himself into Rook’s ass and though they can’t see his face properly Rook assumes he might be fending off Spite again. “Lucanis?” They call breathlessly and look over their shoulder. Neve busies herself with unbuttoning her blouse and undoing the clasp of Rook’s pants.

“Sorry, he’s fighting me for you. Give me a second.” Lucanis grunts as Spite visibly flashes across his face. Rook throws a glance at Neve.

“They’re fighting over you Rook, I don’t know about you but that’s incredibly hot.” She says with a shrug and her top falls to the floor. “I’m not worried. The more the merrier.”

“I never knew you were so…” Rook trails off, their eyes uncontrollably trailing down over her bare breasts. Her skin is smooth and unblemished save for a few minor scars, Rook’s fingers run over her lower stomach and Neve smiles, then grabs their shoulders and turns them around so that they face Lucanis.

“Inclined to a more adventurous sexual nature? Or utterly irresistible?” Neve finishes, her nails clawing into the soft skin of Rook’s hips and pulling them back into her, slotting together like their bodies were designed for one another. “How long have we been practically getting off on one another's scent alone? Besides, you’re the one that put this bright idea in my head.”

“Rook.” Lucanis says drawing their attention back onto him. Rook lips come apart to tell him it’s okay if he wants to stop but before any of the words can find their tongue he does. When he kisses them it’s with half as much reservation and twice as much need as Neve, and he cups their neck with one hand and their upper thigh with the other and squashes the space between them. His foot perches itself on one of the steps beneath the aquarium and his thigh digs softly into Rook's groin, pulling a pleasurable moan up from their chest. At the same time Neve’s hand has sunk below the waistline of their open pants and sweeps across the heat with careful, practised strokes. Rook has to rely on the two of them to keep them upright, as the strength in their legs starts to falter.

“You guys don’t understand-” Another moan. “How bad I’ve needed this. Needed you.”

“Are you listening, Lucanis?” Neve asks over Rook’s shoulder, her hand ventures lower, wet and warm and the talon only grunts into Rook’s mouth in response. Rook’s hands paw at the mound in his pants. “We’ve really spoilt our precious leader, we’ll never sleep peacefully again.”

Lucanis musters up a brittle laugh, one that crumbles into a series of breathless moans when Rook finally manages to get past the elaborate buckle of his belt and dive down beyond his own waistline. Every noise that comes out of him is sweet and invigorating, and Rook has to latch onto him to drink up and savour his every moan. “Or maybe, at last, we will.”

“Then we best move this to the bed.”

End

[dnangelic]

create something in my workshop

a chalice.

the cup is made to be passed between hands, shaped to be drunk from, well-suited for rituals of all kinds. sharing. sacrifice. when you hand it away, it is never empty; the chalice enters the hand of another and without fail it is brimming full. you feel lightheaded. you hand it to someone else, intending to share, giving them something to drink; you feel suddenly, horribly dizzy. you hand it off again. it’s only when you see the liquid spill from the corner of someone’s mouth that you recognize the blood inside the cup. it’s only when you give it to someone else, yet again, when the faintness rushes over you like a wave, that you realize where the blood is coming from. the people around you are still thirsty. you hand the chalice away again.

a necklace.

you’ve crafted a beautiful piece of jewelry, one that gleams in the sun and glitters in the low light, one that draws attention and admiration and glowing words. you step out into the world and the world turns to you. eyes are caught by the shimmer. hands reach out to touch. gasps fall from mouths at the very sight of you. you feel like the center of the world until you realize that what people are really looking at is the necklace. you haven’t made eye contact with another person in weeks. this thing that you’ve made is gorgeous. it should be a point of pride for you, a a glow of achievement over your chest. with it glimmering across your collarbones, nobody has even noticed that you’re there.

tagged by: @starwonderz tysm!! steal if u want!

[discordapples]

PT. 1 - The Sallow Twins (Sebastian POV)

Word count: 1.8k (8 mins read)

Characters: Sebastian Sallow, Anne Sallow, Solomon Sallow.

Summary

The shy August wind needles through the greenery, but to Sebastian Sallow, it is the irksome tick of a clock. A year, that's how long he has to find a way to cure his sister's curse. A powerful relic, the Promissum Mortis, is hidden in Hogwarts' Room of Requirement, and Sebastian is desperate to find it.

Read (or listen to) the first chapter below. 🎧

TW: Nudity, mild allusions to a taboo relationship, drug use.

Sebastian | Feldcroft, Late August, 1893.

Curls of steams slink over the bathtub's lid. The heady aroma of wisterias reels Sebastian Sallow out of his daze.

He blinks once, twice, and his mother's warmth winnows away.

The washroom's air is thick with moisture. The wooden floorboards drink the flood water avidly.

With an irritated sigh, Sebastian dispels the Everstream Chalice and catches it before it falls to the floor.

Beneath a blanket of mist, his twin sister, Anne, sleeps soundly. She must've dozed off as he hummed the lullaby their mother used to sing:

Under the willow, where thrushes peep;

I will lay your heart to sleep.

Under the elm, where dreams take flight;

I will guard you through the night.

In this enchanted, moonlit glen;

Rest, my loves, till morn again.

Has he been gone for long?

His mouth is pasty with thirst, his mind, cottony with confusion.

Again, Malisect warped his sense of time despite Garreth Weasley's promises. The red-head's words swim up Sebastian's mind.

Some memories are more worthwhile than others, wouldn't you agree? What's sacrificing the gestation period of the Thestrals for another taste of your first kiss?

It isn't his first kiss, Sebastian revisits over and over again. It's the feeling of his mother's arms around his shoulders as they rode the carriage back from Hogsmeade.

Under the grip of Malisect, he can smell the dust sidling through the heap of books his mother hoarded in the compartment, he can sense the calidity of the summer dusk tease a lash of sweat on his nape, he can breathe the Plumeria and orange blossom fragrance of the oil his mother rubs into her hair, he can feel her heart pulse steadily against the boning of her corset.

She is alive.

Her scent grows, her warmth eddies, her research rattles in the compartment with each tremor of the wheel.

In this version of reality, she still has a future, no matter how immediate and limited it is.

It is so easy to sacrifice your own to give the dead a moment of respite from the permanent stillness.

Maybe his mother, too, can revisit these moments when he does.

The swirls of mist clear little by little, and Sebastian looks at his sister.

Anne's hair tendrils around her face; strands of golden brown locks that make her look every bit like an angel. Beneath the water, her lithe frame is immobile, frozen in time.

Sebastian hikes on his knees without a care for the damp circles the water-logged planks leave on his trousers.

She is beautiful in the clutch of slumber.

She is free.

No blustering pain, no spiny curse gnawing its way into her navel or noosing around her neck.

She is like a princess of yore, locked in her glass coffin, and perhaps Sebastian should award her this small mercy.

He palms his wand; the tip stopping inches away from the steaming surface.

"Avada—"

The incantation calcifies in his throat.

He has to mean it; he knows.

How many vials of Malisect would he need to swallow to relive moments with her if she was gone?

Weasley would have to slave in the potion's class for the brunt of his life if he hoped to satiate Sebastian's cravings.

No.

Anne needs to live.

And full of life she is, despite her peaceful inertia.

From where he stands, Sebastian can make the soft veer of her chest, the tiny ripples it sends along the surface, the whorls of steam she pushes away with her breath.

He lets his eyes wander to the slants and valleys of her body, to the pit of her sharp collarbone, constellated with freckles, the outline of her small, flecked breasts, the pinkish blooms of her nipples, and he stops his course there, wondering if any boy has rolled them between his fingers or sucked them between his lips.

Heart caroming against his ribs, Sebastian ventures a look across the white, silky expanse of her abdomen. His gaze beaches, for a while, on the reef of her hip. It catches in the nest of curls between her thighs, and his mind teems with images that aren't his to conjure.

He imagines a faceless boy dragging his thumb against her navel, then drawing circles in the crux of her hip, bound ever lower until he lands where the heat simmers. A finger slips inside, and the boy feeds her knuckles until her breath hitches. Then he pushes some more, wearing her tattered while her nails dig away into his back.

A loud thud resounds outside, and ripples churn the vision away. Sebastian gasps out of his trance as Anne startles awake.

"The towel," she says, panic bleeding through her eyes. She stands and Sebastian wraps it around her, rubbing her shoulders with his hands. "Sebastian..."

"What?"

Her eyes ream with white. "Leave. Now. Before uncle Solomon sees you."

Sighing, he grabs his wand and scrambles for his empty vials of Malisect before stuffing them into his pockets, then throws the door open. The mildewed air of the cottage claws its way into his throat.

Solomon is in the garden, wrestling with the water pump, and judging by the ruckus, he is in a despicable mood.

A single apple rests on the chopping block, its skin flecked with bruises. Sebastian cuts it in quarters, then sets it on a plate. In a cupboard, amidst a colony of breadcrumbs, he finds a dusty preserves jar of beets; wrapped in a linen rag, spoils a wedge of hard cheese. All of it, Sebastian arranges in a miserly pantomime of a dinner.

Soon, his last school year at Hogwarts will begin.

Soon, he'll be able to treat his sister to a proper meal, but for now, it'll have to do.

When Anne joins him in the kitchen, he is sitting at the table, before the silverware his parents used to dust for the Yule feast, the one his uncle Solomon still hasn't sold for a handful of Galleons.

He will soon enough, Sebastian knows it. His uncle has appraised most of his parents' heirlooms.

Anne gives a surprised smile. "What's all this for?"

Sebastian shrugs. "Can't say I never did anything nice for you."

A brow hikes up her forehead. "Practicing your good deeds for the House cup, brother?"

"The House cup is for star-eyed first years. I've long outgrown this childish competition."

Anne sits at the table, a smirk etched on her chin. "Have you outgrown Quidditch, too? I sure would enjoy to be spared from your whining every time Slytherin takes a bashing."

"Don't you get it, Anne?" He asks with a feigned offense. "I have to pretend like I care about Quidditch. Finding common interests is how you make friends, and having friends is like... Well... I guess it means you're a likeable person."

"Sure, Sebastian."

Sebastian says nothing else, careful not to err too close to all the things she misses so painfully.

She eats in silence, her gaze set on an invisible point in front of her. Through the fabric of her slip, Sebastian spies the shape of her breasts.

Will she ever know the youthful thrills he has?

Staying out past curfew, the lick of rebellion curling up your spine? Drinking until the walls shiver and the stars dip and the ground soars to meet you? Sliding your tongue past someone's lips to taste the sweetness of young love and feel like the world has stopped to take a breath?

The door swings open and Solomon drops a bundle of firewood next to the entryway with a groan.

His coal-black eyes hook on Sebastian, basting through each of his sutures in search of malice.

Sebastian raises a brow. "Need a hand?"

"Shouldn't you be on your way to Hogwarts?" Solomon asks curtly. "It's a long way on foot. You'll miss your ceremony."

"I've attended seven already. They're always the same."

"I heard there's a new student," Anne says. "An eighth year."

And a transfer from Kyiv's Winter College at that, but Sebastian has kept it under wraps, to avoid flaunting it in his sister's face.

He knows she has long resigned herself to her fate, but as his last year looms upon him, he knows it casts a taller shadow on his sister.

She will never attend graduation now. Next year, she will be far too old for it.

Knife in hand, Solomon endeavors to cut the branches from the logs and Sebastian rises to help him.

The vials clink in his pocket.

Enough to arouse his uncle's suspicions who unspools his spine slowly.

"Sebastian, is it what I think it is?"

Sebastian's palm closes around his pocket. "Galleons, that's all. I saved up for a new alembic after Ominis broke mine."

Color leaches from Anne's cheeks. She knows it's a lie, of course, but she says nothing.

"Don't lie to me," Solomon says, inching closer. "Turn out your pockets. Show me what's in them."

Sebastian angles out of his uncle's grasp, nearing the door.

Solomon's eyes are two pits of ire. "You've been using Malisect again?"

"You forgot to feed us most nights," Sebastian rasps. "I don't know why you care what I ingest."

Solomon presses forward, his knuckles blanching around the hilt of his knife. "Don't speak to me like this!"

"And don't pretend like you have a say in what I do," Sebastian hisses. "You kicked me out, remember? I was only here to look after Anne while you were gone. You shouldn't leave her alone for so long."

His cheeks burn. He wants to feel his wand between his fingers. He itches to speak the words, to see his uncle hit the ground, his lips noiseless forever.

But he thinks of Anne, who stares at them, utterly terrorized.

Solomon creeps closer. "I warned you not to use while you were under my roof."

In response, Sebastian rears until he stands under the watery sunlight. "Well, I'm no longer under your roof. Happy?"

"If I see a vial near my house, I'll report you to the headmaster. Am I clear?"

Sebastian doesn't even return the compliment of acknowledging his uncle's threat. Instead he whirls away, jaw clenched, and begins to walk toward the center of Feldcroft until he hears the door slam.

Feldcroft is silent, the villagers slowly retiring to their houses. Streamlets of smoke purl from chimneys and the scent of meat braids through the air. A shy August wind needles through the shrubbery. The stench of stale waters wings up from the well.

Sebastian hates this place.

After this year, he will become someone. An Auror, perhaps. Or a researcher, like his parents. He will spirit Anne away from this miserly village and live with her where nothing can touch her.

Something squeezes inside his chest.

He has a year to find what he seeks in Hogwarts. Nine months, and not one more, to find the Promissum Mortis—Death's Promise—and whisk Anne away from Solomon.

As the wind picks up, it carries the smells of September along with it.

Sebastian sets to walking.

The vials of Malisect chink softly in his pockets.

His mother will have to wait.

Anne, too.

Time is a merciless master and Sebastian, its most piteous slave.

--- 

Key concepts

Malisect: Malisect is a drug that enables the user to visit their fondest memories by holding onto a memento. For some users, this memento can take the form of a nursery rhyme, a scent, the feel of an object, etc. Malisect has been invented by Garreth Weasley, in 1891, when he was a sixth year student at Hogwarts.

Author notes

Since it doesn't sit right with me to write very dark stuff about minors, I decided to introduce an eighth year at Hogwarts. Therefore, all the characters are eighteen of age, which is the age of majority (at least in my country).

Don't hesitate to let me know what you thought of this first chapter.

Much love, 

Discord Apples

[tabletennis20]

(NSFW) Godrick x Tarnished

Heavily edited to fix dialogue and characterization. Thank you to everyone who's been supportive of my writing so far! I usually don't post my work, but it's been fun :) Godrick needs more love.

Summary: Godrick is eager to show his consort all they've missed once they arrive back at Stormveil.

Thanks to @tarnussy for encouraging horny Godrick thoughts.

“Well,” Godrick drawled, one of his auxiliary hands lazily swirling a nearly empty chalice of wine. “Finally, my consort cometh to service me.” A relieved smile crept onto his face at the sight of them, as it marked the end of their absence. The Lord of Limgrave sat reclined upon his throne, legs kicked out as his gaze slowly trailed up the Tarnished’s form, pausing at every sliver of revealed skin. He made a show of his approval, tongue snaking over his crooked teeth as a bony finger beckoned them closer.

The Tarnished loosened the strings of their tunic as they strolled towards the foot of the throne, no stranger to Godrick’s typical lusts. The light fabric blew from their shoulders in the constant draft, baring their chest. “What is it you need, my lord?” they asked once they reached him, their hand tracing delicate shapes on his thigh.

Muscles quivering under the Tarnished’s gentle touch, Godrick reached down to caress them in turn, one of his thumbs brushing over their exposed collarbone. “All of thee,” he said, squeezing their shoulder to assure himself of their presence. “I found myself aching for thy touch during the late hours of the night in a way mine own hand couldst not temper. Thou wouldst be quite cruel indeed to deny me relief.”

“Aching, hmm? Sounds dire,” the Tarnished said, smiling coyly and patting Godrick’s leg before slipping their arm under his robes to teasingly rake their nails against his inner thigh.

Too impatient for foreplay, Godrick grabbed the Tarnished around their torso and lifted them effortlessly, pinning their arms to their sides and smirking as he squeezed a gasp out of them. He took a moment to savor how perfectly they fit within his left hand, their frame shuddering in his grip as they took a deep breath ragged with quickly building arousal. Bringing them to his lap, he sat up straight and grinned. “How puny thou’rt.”

As Godrick craned his neck down to kiss the Tarnished’s lips possessively, the scent of wine filled their nostrils. The taste soon followed as he ineloquently shoved his tongue into their mouth, rich hints of something above their class dancing across their pallet. They felt fingers card through their hair, curling harshly into their scalp once they gently bit down.

“Enjoying your drink I see,” the Tarnished purred into Godrick’s ear as they broke apart. Hands wrapped around their legs at their honeyed voice, a gnarled finger prodding incessantly at their entrance through their pants. Up close, the Tarnished easily caught onto the hungry, tipsy mess Godrick had gotten himself into prior to their arrival. A light pink hue dusted his face, his eyes blown wide and breath heavy with greed. Already he throbbed beneath them, beginning to stiffen enough to lift his waistcloth.

The Tarnished shifted in Godrick’s hold until it loosened enough for them to wiggle their arms free, placing their hands upon his to dance teasing touches around his knuckles as they ground their hips down firmly into his groin. It never took much to rile him up, a trait worsened by his intoxication. Simply rubbing themselves against their lord caused his grafted legs to tense wildly in excitement.

With a starved groan, Godrick tugged his robes up enough to free his lengths. Precum beaded from their slits as they struggled to rise against their own weight. “So eager, Lord Godrick,” the Tarnished said, reaching down to stroke his dual cocks with both hands. The heads were already exposed and ruddy, the skin of his shafts feverishly hot compared to their own. His pulse beat against their palms from where they gripped him.

A low, animalistic growl echoed from Godrick’s chest, and he brought the chalice to his lips, tilting his head back to drain it before tossing it to the side where the metal resonated off the cold floor. The Tarnished looked from where the last drops of wine stained the floor to Godrick’s eyes, which appeared even foggier than usual in his fervor. They raised an eyebrow and hummed their approval as his hand released them to skate across their chest, groping at random.

“I hast been left waiting since thy latest adventure took thee far beyond my castle,” Godrick complained, roughly tugging on the Tarnished’s tunic until it ripped clear of their body. Thumbs quickly found their nipples, rubbing hasty loops around them. “I demand the warm embrace of thy body, lest I perish on the spot. A lord’s appetite should never be left unsated, be it food, drink, or flesh.”

The Tarnished sighed pleasurably as calloused fingers toyed with their nipples until they hardened into sensitive nubs. “Well, you’ve had plenty to drink,” they said, watching one of Godrick’s auxiliary hands fist into his hair to tug at it. Truly insatiable. “I also trust the cooks have been filling your stomachs. Should I be so flattered as to assume your current state is my doing? After only a handful of days?”

“Aye!” Godrick snapped, his drunken mind confused as to why his swollen cocks were not yet stuffed in his consort. He lifted the Tarnished again to rid them of the rest of their clothes, uncaring as the threadbare cloth tore. Keeping them trapped among his many hands, he sucked on the two middle fingers of his left hand and cupped their ass as the spit-slicked digits plunged into their hole.

The prompt sensation of being filled wrenched a moan from the Tarnished’s lips, and they dutifully tilted their hips to meet Godrick’s fingers, each one as thick as a human’s cock. Truthfully, once the patrolling knights had told the Tarnished upon their return to Stormveil of their lord’s desire to see them immediately, they knew little time would be spent preparing. Godrick’s demands were never to be taken lightly. “Ah, Lord Godrick,” they gasped, thighs quaking as his fingers curled deep within them.

“Ha!” The demigod grinned and added a third digit to the Tarnished’s steadily-loosening hole. “Thou shall be begging for my seed, and I shall give thee more than thou canst bear, since thou hast been away for so long.”

The Tarnished could only squirm and choke back noises as Godrick’s many hands assailed their body, groping and caressing their skin. The sensation of such a large variety of touches overwhelmed them, some worn from rough work and others almost soft and unblemished in comparison to the rest of him. They would be forced to imagine a group of people descending upon them if not for Godrick’s possessive mouth.

“Mine,” he snarled simply before biting the join between the Tarnished’s neck and collar. He broke skin instantly and his tongue swiped across the shallow wounds before he pulled back, looking pleased with himself. “There,” he said, licking the blood off his teeth. “Marked with mine affection.”

The bite stung mildly in the cool air, and the Tarnished panted softly. Trapped among Godrick’s arms, they were acutely reminded of their drastic different in size. Their arousal kept them tense, and they yanked one of Godrick’s hands to their genitals to get relief from the mounting pressure.

“Mmm, thou’rt right,” Godrick said, giggling and rubbing his consort enthusiastically. “We ought to skip to the fun bit.” He slid his fingers out with a wet squelch and spread the Tarnished wide as he gripped one of his shafts, nudging the leaking tip against their resisting entrance. “Yield for thy lord,” he urged, voice trembling with drunken anticipation.

“O-oil!” they yelped, digging their nails into his skin. Surely he brought some alongside his intentions. It would be slow and painful otherwise.

Though Godrick wished to simply have his way, he only muttered his frustrations and blindly searched beside the throne for a moment before producing a large pot of olive oil. He haphazardly coated his lengths as his hands shook, oil spilling across his robes in his rush. “Thou’rt satisfied?” he asked, not bothering to hide his irritation.

“Yes,” the Tarnished replied. “I know you ache. Let my body ease your suffering, Lord Godrick.” Before they could do anything else, his slick cock jammed its way into them, forcing past any resistance and knocking the air out of their lungs.

“Aye, finally!” Godrick cried, nearly sobbing and not wasting a second before rocking his hips. His shaft sunk deep into the wet warmth, but he found it difficult to thrust while sitting. Unsatisfied with his limited movement, he gripped the Tarnished as one would a toy, bouncing them on his lap with ease. “There!” he exclaimed, throwing his head back as the Tarnished’s twinging hole rekindled the need in his cock.

The Tarnished watched Godrick fuck them open with bleary eyes, unable to focus on anything but the firm stretch of him. “Praise me,” came the simple demand from above them, and they let out a breathless laugh. Pulling Godrick down by his braids, they met his searching expression and pressed their lips to his, moving a hand to cradle the back of his head.

“You’ve been so patient for me, Godrick,” the Tarnished murmured as they broke apart only enough to breathe. “Waiting for me to return. Defending Limgrave in my absence. Such devoted lords deserve rewards without comparison.”

Godrick rumbled his approval, thrusting harder as the Tarnished’s words sent his mind reeling. “Continue.”

“S-so big, Lord Godrick,” they gasped, grabbing onto his arms to steady themselves as pleasure shot along their spine. “It’s so good. You’re so good, so big, fuck—!” They quickly deteriorated into babbling and closed their eyes.

When Godrick’s cock left them without reaching its release they groaned inwardly, realizing the demigod’s lusts would not be easily sated. As expected, the full feeling returned after a moment as Godrick pushed his other shaft inside, fresh noises tumbling from his mouth as though their coupling had just begun. The stretch of him sent pleasure scorching down their nerves, and a delicious warmth slowly radiated throughout their body as he resumed pounding their insides. They flushed as his thorough fucking pushed obscenely wet noises from their hole.

A level of desperation came over Godrick as he continued to alternate which shaft he rammed into the Tarnished, struggling to enter them smoothly each time in his haste. They knew the solution to his urgency before he did. His golden stare caught theirs, wild with frustration before he suddenly beamed as he came to the same conclusion as his consort. He lifted the Tarnished off his cock, their hole only left gaping for a moment before he pressed both of him to their entrance. “G-Godrick—,” they started, wondering if he could be persuaded in a different direction as he began to truly push against their abused hole. They wiggled for a moment to try and escape the sharp pain before giving up and gritting their teeth together to brace themselves. The gentle sensation of Godrick petting their skull was barely discernible next to the boorish jerking of his hips as he forced himself in by the inch.

“Still thyself,” Godrick crooned as his lengths roughly spread the Tarnished apart. “Thou hast only taken the heads.”

“Only?” they managed, insulted. “You—ah—you complain thrice as much taking an average girth.”

Godrick had the decency to look embarrassed, scowling as the Tarnished gave him a smug look. Having nothing to say in response, he thrust up harshly. “Silence. Thou’rt lucky thy honeyed words and stubborn affections charmed thy lord into being wed to thee.”

Shaking under the strain, the Tarnished cried out as Godrick worked them viciously on his cocks, wishing they could humble him further. Each plunge he made into them gradually became easier until finally his hairy sack brushed their skin. His relieved groan resonated in their head, their own pleasure building rapidly in the absence of raw discomfort.

When the Tarnished finally glanced up at Godrick’s face, an amused snort escaped from between their choked gasps. Their lord’s head was tossed back in bliss, his eyes firmly shut and his jaw hanging open as he panted helplessly. Already, the shafts crammed into them twitched noticeably. “Are you close, Lord Godrick?” they asked, starting to slowly roll their hips as their body stretched to accommodate the massive intrusions. The pain had turned to pleasure surprisingly quickly, the oil and Godrick’s generous amount of precum easing the way. 

A long, drawn-out moan was the only answer they got at first, the demigod’s whole body trembling through waves of pleasure as the Tarnished moved atop him. “Aye,” he gasped, overwhelmed by the hot vice around his lengths. “Thy tight heat matches the radiance of the Order itself,” he said reverently, drunk off both wine and lust. “Taking both of thy lord’s shafts to the hilt as though thou wert created for me.”

The Tarnished’s heart hammered loudly in their ears as Godrick began to rock his hips, the sheer pressure of his cockheads pressing much deeper than they should causing flecks to dance in their vision. With each push forward, they felt as though he would pierce their body entirely, ending them in a bizarre fashion, and every pull back out tugged their loose walls with him, ruining them from within. Between the excruciating pleasure of Godrick hollowing them out and the unsightly bulge his thick shafts created in their gut, their peak rapidly approached. Talking proved an impossibility as Godrick sped up his thrusts, effectively keeping them breathless. They could only cry out in a raising pitch as he fucked them towards orgasm. Boneless in his hand, they craned their neck to watch his slack-jawed expression, his drunken body mindlessly pursuing bliss.

The Tarnished’s climax hit all at once, their hole fluttering weakly around Godrick as they groaned his name. They could only wheeze as it enticed him to double his efforts, his eager thrusts lifting his hips to the point where he was no longer sitting on his throne. “Prithee!” he whined openly, his balls slapping against the Tarnished’s skin.

Beginning to truly sweat, Godrick desperately tried to push himself over the edge. A few perilous seconds passed before his breath hitched and his whole body stiffened, bruising the Tarnished’s skin beneath his grip. The moan that ripped its way out of his chest bordered on a scream, and his hands desperately clutched onto the Tarnished as though they could anchor him. His cocks jerked deep within them before filling them with enough of his warm spend to round their stomach out slightly, each pulse accompanied by his relieved noises.

“Oh, aye,” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut again as he rode out the last of his high. “Thou servest me so well, my consort, taking all of me to the base. Such a wonderful harlot.”

A tired laugh came from the Tarnished, and they leaned against Godrick as they shifted enough to let his softening cocks slide out. Cum ran between their legs as it poured out of their ruined hole, staining Godrick’s waistcloth and dripping onto the throne. One of his arms wrapped around their shoulders to hold them close to his chest, and they settled into his form.

“Do you have any more of that wine?” they asked after a quiet moment, idly playing with the patchy hair on his grafted chest. Surprisingly, there was no response, and they nearly asked again before they heard a low snore.

Ah. They would ask again in a couple of hours.

[wheretheforgottenthingslive]

The King and the Star: The Corridor of Echoes

The oldest wing of the palace—once a hunting lodge, now a place no one visits. The stone walls are dark with age, and tapestries hang like forgotten memories. The torches here are ancient, and the floor is uneven. Alexander walks alone, not with purpose, but with a sense of need. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, yet every word is heavy, like truth poured from a cracked chalice.

His feet are blistered, but he doesn’t care. He turns a corner slowly, one hand trailing along the stone wall, his breath fogging in the cold air. Above him, carved into the lintel, he sees the name: PHILIPPOS.

This is a hunting room, a war room—once a place where his father laughed. Now, it lies in dust. Alexander steps beneath it, letting his fingers graze the old carved boar tusks. He whispers, “Are you proud of me?”

The room does not answer, but something shifts; a torch flares slightly, or maybe it’s just the air.

“I did what you didn’t. I took the east. I took the cities. I made them chant my name like thunder in languages you never even heard. I loved no woman more than I loved war—until her.” His voice cracks as he sits slowly on the stone bench where his father once oiled a blade.

“You questioned if I was your son. You told my mother I was born of gods because you could not bear the thought of me growing past you. And now I… I did worse.” He leans forward, hands between his knees, and his voice drops. “I made a child and abandoned her before her first breath—not through absence but through hubris. I thought I could bind fate around her like armor. Instead, I wrapped her in shadow.”

He looks up, addressing the empty air and the godless rafters. “You taught me how to win kingdoms, but not how to keep a heart.” He presses his palms to the floor, eyes shut.

When he speaks again, it is not to Philip, but to the gods—any of them, all of them. “If she’s marked, let it be by me. If fire follows her, let me walk in it first. Don’t make her carry the war I wore like skin. Let her choose her own myth.”

His hands are shaking now, and the mark at his collarbone throbs again, faintly. But no voice answers him, no divine whisper. Only the rustle of a woolen tapestry settling, the flicker of a torch guttering, only his breath, and the knowledge that when he rises from this bench, he will still be the man left behind.

[acolddayonpluto]

NaPoWriMo #8

I always wanted a beautiful death

The kind that lingers

The way a cup of tea goes cold

Like smoke on a clear day

Silt suspended in clear water

I want bluebonnets to grow along the edges of my jaw bone

I want rabbits to build a nest in my rib cage

I want everything I was to become the beams

That build a future somebody needs

I want

To be more than all the things I failed to do

I hope you see me in the way light scatters in the morning mist

And not in the emptiness beneath my collarbone

I wish I could give you all the wonderful things I saw

Pour the joy and awe into a chalice

And keep the pain close

Like dirt in the linings of my teeth

Shadows between the discs of my spine

Instead I’ll lose it all

All this pain I’m holding

Without a place for it to go

And the love too

We can know

From the smallest finger bone

That a person lived

If you find mine

I hope they’re useful to you

You'll never know how what I loved

The wind before a storm

Fresh raspberries

My brother’s laugh

But you can turn my hip bone into the handle of a knife

And when you saw through crusty bread

Or the tough rind of an old cheese

I'll be reaching through the walls of time to love you too

I always wanted a beautiful death

I won’t get it

But I hope I get the bluebonnets

[russiansinglesinyourarea]

[midwest death]

AM I CRYING OR PRAYING?

MY COLLARBONE IS POKING

THROUGH HIS T-SHIRT

MY SEVERED WISHBONE

ON THE FLOOR OF THE LAKE

MY SUNBURN TATTOOED

LET IT NEVER RECEDE

I NEED HIM LIKE HEAVEN &

VODKA ON A SUNDAY NIGHT

AFTER WRINGING MY BODY

OVER THE CHALICE TO BIRTH

SWEET WINE I AM FINE

I SWEAR BABY I AM SO FINE

WITH DYING IN ILLINOIS

TONIGHT EVERYTHING IS

PROEM TO YOUR POETIC

VOMIT LET ME PATCH IT

YOUR HEMATEMESIS

IS MINE IF WE EXCHANGE

IVORY & WISDOM TEETH

WORSHIP BRUISES INDIGO

BENEATH ALL OF HIM

A BEDSIDE BOOK-STACK

WITH TOO MUCH TO SAY

SKIN IS NOT ENOUGH I NEED

SUSTENANCE FROM HIS VITALS

EULOGIA A TONGUE RITUAL

I WEEP AT THE ALTAR

HE HAS SAILED MY VOID

HIS SILVER STALLION

DROWNING IN MY HIPS EVERY

TONIGHT IS A FUNERAL

EUTHANIZE MY SOUL &

ADORN MY CORPSE IN YOUR

COTTON YOUR SALTWATER

YOUR WHEATEN NOOSE.

[hopes-memorial]

Create something in my workshop

Stolen

Steal it, too

a doll: Amai, Daisuke

you’ve made it to be as approachable as you can. a comely face, a soft body, made to be held and be played with and be loved. it looks a bit like you; the way that all things look like their creators, you suppose. you offer it to someone else. they smile with a polite amount of teeth and no warmth when they decline your offer. you give it away. you find it on your doorstep again, days later, slightly damaged. stepped on. no matter who you hand it to, no matter who you entrust with it, it ends up in your arms again, worse for wear every time. that is the conclusion that you have to come to. you are the only one who will hold it gently. the only one who will keep it. but even you don’t really want it anymore, do you? you resent it and feel your heart break for it all at the same time. it’s hard to love a thing that nobody else will. it’s hard not to think that there’s a reason it continues to be discarded. you know this better than you know how to say.

a statue: Ayane, Sumire

bit by bit, you carve away the shape of a person, a figure that starts to feel more real the more material that you cut from around it. you make the legs, the arms, the torso, the head; this is your masterwork, your galatea. as you are carving the face, something slips; your hand, maybe, or a fault in the material, a defect in your tool. it leaves a slight chip across the figure’s smooth cheekbone. it has already been carved. it cannot be removed. you finish the rest of the statue. it is wonderful, by all accounts; if you can muster the ability to show it to others, they tell you that it’s a beautiful piece of art. you can’t take your eyes off the chip, though. the mark. no matter where you are in the room, your gaze finds it again, unerringly. you stare at it for hours. you dream of it at night. no matter how lovely the figure may be, no matter how beautiful the face, the imperfection haunts you. you start to hate what you’ve made. hate the mark. hate the figure as a whole. when you are alone with the piece, your fingers start to twitch. when you look down at a pile of smashed stone, you can’t tell if you are still caught in one of your desperate dreams. one of your hopeful nightmares. in the rubble, you can see a piece of the face. the chip still remains.

a sword: Botan, Masao, Yotsuba

it’s a beautiful thing, truly. the edge shines, razor-sharp, and the hilt gleams with polish. it looks like something that only you could have created. it looks like a part of you, made metal and melted into a blade. every detail and decoration along the hilt makes it really and truly yours. when you use it, it works just as any sword should, right up until the final hit; and then it fails. the final stroke through the dragon’s neck. the final strike against the chains. the final slice through an enemy. right as you need it, truly, it slips. or it catches against something. or it breaks. it fails you, in the end, and through the disaster, you’re not sure if you’re glad to see the dreadful thing finally shatter or heartbroken that it couldn’t stay.

a necklace: Elodie

you’ve crafted a beautiful piece of jewelry, one that gleams in the sun and glitters in the low light, one that draws attention and admiration and glowing words. you step out into the world and the world turns to you. eyes are caught by the shimmer. hands reach out to touch. gasps fall from mouths at the very sight of you. you feel like the center of the world until you realize that what people are really looking at is the necklace. you haven’t made eye contact with another person in weeks. this thing that you’ve made is gorgeous. it should be a point of pride for you, a a glow of achievement over your chest. with it glimmering across your collarbones, nobody has even noticed that you’re there.

a chalice: Haruka, Reiichi

the cup is made to be passed between hands, shaped to be drunk from, well-suited for rituals of all kinds. sharing. sacrifice. when you hand it away, it is never empty; the chalice enters the hand of another and without fail it is brimming full. you feel lightheaded. you hand it to someone else, intending to share, giving them something to drink; you feel suddenly, horribly dizzy. you hand it off again. it’s only when you see the liquid spill from the corner of someone’s mouth that you recognize the blood inside the cup. it’s only when you give it to someone else, yet again, when the faintness rushes over you like a wave, that you realize where the blood is coming from. the people around you are still thirsty. you hand the chalice away again.

a ring: Kanai, Shirou

you’ve made the band simple and beautiful, and inlaid just the details needed to make it special. not too gaudy, not too plain. it’s a ring meant to last forever, meant to be worn forever; when you put it on someone, it wraps around their finger perfectly, delights them. you’ve tried to make it something that people will keep. you needn’t have worried: no matter who you put it on, with time, it starts to wrap tighter around their finger. starts to cling. starts to constrict. you can’t take it off of them, when they beg you to get them free; their skin starts to redden, to bruise, to go black. the only time they manage to get it off is when the finger goes with it. as a sign of devotion, it leaves a strong impression. nobody that you pledge yourself to leaves without a mark.

a mirror: Matsuri, Takara, Yukihiko

the reflective surface shines like a placid lake, beautifully still. the mirror itself is a rare case of creative success, every detail exactly as you imagined it, just as gorgeous as you wanted and still more. when you look into it, it shows you many beautiful things: visions of beautiful futures, beautiful presents, lovely pasts; fleeting images of your most treasured dreams; versions of you that are wonderful, are beautiful, are strong; versions of you that have what you want; versions of you as you think that you should be. it’s something different every time that you look at it, but one thing remains constant. you can change a thousand things around you, fulfill a thousand dreams, but the mirror—this mirror that shows you things as they should be—will never show you yourself.

a puppet: Mei

your piece may be simplistic, but it is no doubt a skilled and precise creation. every detail of its costume is just as you meant it to be. every one of the strings is tied neatly, perfectly measured, responsive and resilient. the puppet’s limbs move with an ease that is a pleasure to watch. when you control it, it dances just as it does in your head: all of your impulses made material. at least, it does for a while. the more it dances, the more it seems to have a mind of its own. that’s how you rationalize it, when the puppet starts to jerk and stall at inopportune moments, when its limbs catch on each other, when it tangles itself in its strings. nobody else seems to see it. nobody else believes you, when you tell them that the puppet is moving itself, but there’s no other explanation. there’s no other reason that it shouldn’t respond to you. you had control. you should still have control. your friends tell you that they’re worried about you, but there are bigger problems at hand. you bounce between wanting to destroy the puppet, wanting to freeze it in resin, wanting to rebuild it entirely. your increasing desperation presses that something has to be done. this is something you’re supposed to be able to control. you don’t know what to do if you lose that.

[eddiebabygirldiaz]

Hey Ryan. Can you expand on the tattoos you have and are planning to get? 🫶🏻

ohh man i have quite a few in both categories asdfghjkl

as for the ones i have: my nana's first and middle name on the back of my shoulder. a honeycomb pattern with a sword plunging through it and a bee on my right bicep. a michelangelo quote on my right forearm. 3m 17s on my right wrist. ive got a half sleeve on my left arm from elbow to wrist with an open book and quill, a dragonfly in amber, lilies and ink spilling out of a bottle, and a bunch of leaves and floral and geometric patterns in between. ive got some mountains and a night sky surrounded by moonflowers on my left bicep. a crow clutching onto a chalice on my left shoulder. a geometric and honeycomb pattern with 4 bees on my right thigh. a cecropia moth on the side of my right calf. two sea urchins, one wearing a viking helmet and one wearing a cowboy hat, on my left ankle. and uhhh i think that's it.

the ones i currently have plans to get: two hands covered in vines reaching toward each other, one of them skeletal, underneath my collar bones. the evenstar from lotr on the inside of my left bicep. a skeletal moth beneath the one i already have. "to the core" near my right wrist. bat wings on one of my knees. a tiny wyvern near my collarbone. and possibly a vambrace on my right forearm.

[inardescere]

A flame flickers in the dimly lit hall of the massive chapel.

The young God kneels in front of the chalice holding the flickering flame, its tendrils flicking light to every edge of the room without a sound. There was no crackle like firewood, nor was there a specific sound of it dancing in the wind. It was silent, persistent, and brightly burning as Rafayel continued to channel his energy through the entirety of the empty chamber, no other person in sight. The elders had excused themselves while Rafayel continued to do "rituals" that supposedly kept the flame from burning out despite the passed date for its inevitable perishment. Forehead pressed against his enclapsed hands, his robes pooled around him like a pool of its own with its aqua tones and hints of purple, a small thrum of power licks the flames that grows as the day moves on and the light passes through the windows overhead, shining into his eyes. Rafayel blinks his eyes open as his hands turn warm, tilting his head up and letting out a soft breath.

Getting up on his feet, he grunts as his knees ache from his weight pressed on the hard floor, straightening his back for a stretch. That should be enough for a while, he decides, and makes his way silently through the path between towering pillars, until he reaches the front gates. The light outside is blinding, but he doesn't bother to hide from it and instead tilts his head up to make sure it looks alright, nothing amiss, his gaze going from the line of the 'sun' down to the city. A soft smile is on his lips at the peace and light shining down on his city, and it widens with light glimmering in his eyes when he sees a certain someone pushing himself off the railings, walking up to him with a warm smile that has his insides twist with excitement and more. The Lemurian closes the gate behind him before he slowly walks towards him till he's an arm's length away.

"Glowing? Did this mortal gain the power of perception by spending too much time in Lemuria?" he jokes back with a shake of his head, laughing through his nose before he steps forward, closing the distance. But when he sees Caleb's arms closing in, he slips out of his grasp just before he can wrap them around him, laughing joyously at his successful prank before he gives a little hop, crashing into the other's arms and wrapping his arms around Caleb's shoulders, trusting the man to catch him. Tucking his face into his chest, nose against his collarbone, his long lashes flutter and tickle his neck. His hands grip the back of his new clothes, fabric soft and silken under his fingers, pulling him close to share warmth. He releases a content sigh. Just a while back, Rafayel lived without reason or expectations, without Caleb's presence next to him. Yet this short period, and he had gotten so used to his company, the lack of it left him feeling antsy, now eased by the mere touch of his hand on his waist and hearing his soft breath on the top of his head. "This God permits thee to hug at any hour of the day. It eases mine soul." He plays along, pulling his head away with his hands still holding his back.

"You can come into the chapel, you know." He reaches up and bops his nose, a gesture of affection he learned from Caleb. The man did it to him each time he seemed to find something cute or silly, and Rafayel started learning and mirroring those actions as he spent more time with him. "You could use it as a way to get away from the lively city. Not always, but if the front doors aren't locked, you're free to come and go. The chapel itself isn't a restricted area-- my people avoid it out of respect." We don't want to get in the way of your rituals, they would say. He also supposed that it got boring after a few times when he did nothing but kneel in front of the chalice, the only change being the power that thrums from him and through the room. A clear, crisp taste in his mouth as warmth spreads throughout the room. 

the soft water of whalefall city could be seen through the window, a constant reminder of how the impossible became real in a spawn of seconds. caleb lays sprawled on his bed, his notebook open but untouched beside him. the edges of his vision blurred with fatigue, his legs aching from walking the length of whalefall city more times than he could count today. the endless stream of small, everyday requests that piled up like a weight on his shoulders. helping miss moirai carry her groceries up three flights of stairs because the elevator in her block was down again, fixing a stubborn door latch for a family, helping a group of kids in the plaza untangle the net they'd accidentally knotted up during their game. several tasks that he couldn't go into detail as everyone in the city seemed to really like his presence. it's been a while since he first arrived here, creating new bonds across the city and becoming some sort of celebrity among the lemurians. 'oh the human could help you with his powers!', it's a phrase he often heard around, and he couldn't refuse, really. the smile on their faces and how amicable they were with him was enough for him to avoid placing boundaries and show he needed rest.

caleb rubs his hand over his face, willing himself to focus on reading the books he found and taking noted that were now scattered across his desk. this was supposed to be his time, so he tries to focus on something else, staring at the window, watching as school of fishes swim across, or bubbles forming out of nowhere. but the silence is not soothing at all, as it just keeps pulling his thoughts to the one thing he couldn't push out of his mind. rafayel. he is mostly waiting for him to finish whatever responsibility he had. he knows he couldn't steal him away all day, there are things a god needs to do, rituals he vaguely understands yet doesn't question at all. it's not fair. it's totally not fair how rafayel could occupy every corner of his head without even trying. caleb had spent the entire day running himself ragged for the city’s citizens, but somehow, every flicker of bioluminescent light outside reminded him of the way rafayel’s eyes caught the glow. every brush of water through the pipes echoed the low, melodic hum of rafayel’s voice when he teased him.

a sigh leaves his lips, realizing how deep down all he wants is to run to the chapel and interrupt any kind of ritual being done there. as the artificial afternoon settles over whalefall, caleb finds himself walking without purpose, his tired legs carrying him towards the upper plaza near the temple, hoping to casually find that one person who might help him breathe again. a little dramatic, really, as they were together just the day before, though, waiting an entire morning to see him simply appears to be an eternity according to the restless energy pumping in his chest. caleb leans against the railing of the plaza, one boot propped up on the lower bar as he continuously scans the temple's entrance, and when finally the heavy doors creak open, he straightens up on his feet, fixing his newly made clothes that rafayel asked for him not a while ago, pretending to be cool and that it is just a casualty, even though it's pretty obvious he has been waiting for a while now. he notices as rafayel emerges in his usual calm grace, his robes flowing like the water itself as he steps on the stone path. he even swears he can see a faint glow around him, perhaps an aftereffect of the rituals he had been performing, or simply his longing affecting his vision as he walks. whatever it is, it makes him look ethereal.

"oh, what a coincidence! i was just passing by, didn't expect my timing was this good." as if he didn't keep track of rafayel's schedule by now. but a man gotta keep it cool. "got a second for a mere mortal?" he steps forward, spreading his arms wide with an exaggerated flourish, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as it turns into something more... mischievous. "or wait— better question. can a mere mortal get a hug right now? you're looking all holy and glowy, what's your secret?" he keeps his arms open, his stance playful as he attempts to hide the excitement of seeing him again.

@inardescere / rafayel

[logicaldreamer]

the limitations of putting language to emotion are so vast. perhaps this is the leap of faith, the thread that binds us. how do I ever know if I love you feels the same when it comes from your lips? when I say I love you, the words hook in my chest, dragging me to you. I’ve surrendered to the small of your back and the pooling water in your collarbones. when I say I love you, I mean that my knees ache to fit between yours. that my mumblings lean toward you & my body choreographs to the rhythm of your breath. I give you all my crossed-out poems, my most shameful music taste, my horribly under-seasoned cooking. I love you from the deepest kneeler and the most shallow chalice. I promise to kill all the bugs and to scream while I do it. I promise to hold you in the dark and in the light. I promise to trust the words as they fall from your mouth. I’ll be the wind if you let me. the road of my heart bends toward you.

g.t.e. // I don't plan on getting married, but if I did these would be my vows

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Get Down pt. 2

The final installment of Get Down.

It’s smutty! There’s smut! 18+ please! Be responsible!

bottom Geralt / top Jaskier

---

“What brings you to my humble estate?” Jaskier asked, taking a slow sip from his silver chalice. He didn’t fail to notice the way Geralt’s eyes were trained on his wine-red lips as he spoke. “From the way you handled yourself in the throne room I suppose you were expecting my father.”

“Yes, Milord,” Geralt nodded. “For a moment I had forgotten your full title. My apologies.”

“Nothing to apologize for, good Sir Witcher. I hope that your dinner is satisfactory.” 

The young nobleman snapped his fingers again and food appeared rather suddenly before them. Geralt’s stomach rumbled audibly when he caught a whiff of how good it smelled and he blushed furiously, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Milord.”

When he looked up again, Jaskier’s face showed nothing but concern. His Lordly air hadn’t disappeared in the slightest but his bard-like tendencies and his protectiveness of Geralt were showing more clearly. “When was the last time you ate something?”

Geralt blushed a deeper shade of pink and looked down at his plate. “Two days ago.”

Jaskier stood suddenly and made his way to the valet nearest the door. He spoke to the young man in hushed but urgent whispers, too fast and quiet for even Geralt to understand, before taking his seat again and dipping his head in respectful apology.  “Please, let us eat.”

“Thank you, Milord, for your food and your hospitality.”

“I like the garb that Susan chose for you this evening. Blue seems to bring out your hair and your eyes; you should wear it more often.”

“Thank you, Milord. I shall try,” Geralt nodded, the apples of his cheeks going another shade darker.

Jaskier was enthralled. He’d never seen Geralt blush so frequently before; was it his status as a Lord? Was it the air of authority he’d assumed? Was it the outfit? The bard wasn’t sure exactly what had captured Geralt’s attention so thoroughly, but he was happy about the results regardless. 

They finished their meal in relative silence. Geralt was given a significantly larger second portion than Jaskier and neither of them cared to mention it aloud. That was probably why he’d talked to the servant, the Witcher figured. Best to just thank him later when we’re back on the Path and he’s acting like...himself.

“Shall we retire to the sitting room for the evening?” the young noble asked, standing from his seat. Geralt followed him dutifully, moving as silently as a cat between the dining room and the unusually cozy sitting room of Pankratz Castle. “Pardon my intimacy, Sir Witcher, but this is my family’s private sitting room. I find it easier to keep warm than the formal sitting room down the hall.”

“I am honored,” Geralt bowed his head. He wanted more than anything to hear Jaskier say his first name again. He didn’t like the way Sir Witcher sat heavy and formal on the bard’s spry tongue. He missed the happy, lilting tune of Jaskier’s giddy “Geralt!” 

Jaskier laid himself out across the chaise lounge and gestured for Geralt to take the armchair opposite him. The Witcher balanced precariously on the edge of the cushion, always ready to flee if necessary.

“So, Sir Witcher, what adventures did you have during winter?”

“Not many I’m afraid, Milord. I spent the season sequestered at Kaer Morhen with my brothers and my mentor.”

“How are your brothers faring? I think often of their health.”

“They are well, thank you.”

Geralt didn’t like having to play word games the way Jaskier did. Every sentence was carefully constructed and executed in the same way that he would consider a dangerous thrust or parry when dueling. Any sign of disrespect or any misplaced Milord could have him throne from the room (and the keep) in a second. All Jaskier would have to do was snap his fingers. 

“And you, Sir Witcher?”

“I’m afraid I have not slept as well as normal. My bed has been as empty as my heart,” the Witcher admitted. “If I may say so in polite company.”

Jaskier’s heart was fluttering in his chest, “You may.”

He stood rather suddenly from the chaise and reached out a hand for Geralt.

“Milord?”

“I can offer you rest, sweet Sir Witcher. Come with me. There is much to discuss.”

---

Jaskier pulled the velvet curtains around his bed closed on either side, leaving only the firelight to illuminate them from across the room. Kneeling over him like this, with his shining chestnut hair all mussed and wild and the fire blazing behind him, the young Lord looked like some kind of avenging angel. Geralt bit his lip and did his best not to wiggle in impatience. 

“Sir Witcher,” the nobleman smirked. “I’ve often dreamed of seeing you like this; laid out before me in my bed, blushing and shy.”

“Wh-What?”

“You must have known,” Jaskier chuckled lowly. He moved his hands to rest on either side of the Witcher’s head and leaned forward, close enough for his breath to tickle the skin of Geralt’s neck. “You must have known how much I wanted you. All those nights crammed together on shitty straw mattresses at podunk inns. All those baths and all those vials of chamomile oil so lovingly pressed into your tensest muscles...”

“I...I thought-”

“I’m sure you did,” Jaskier cooed. His teeth worried a mark into the skin of Geralt’s throat and the Witcher shuddered. “You can’t seem to stop thinking, is the problem. Stop letting your busy mind run away with you and just feel something for me, Geralt.”

“Finally, Jaskier,” the Witcher groaned, surging up to kiss his bard. He’d been waiting to hear the other man call him by name all night and it felt almost like a form of permission; however, Jaskier’s hand tangled in the front of Geralt’s borrowed shirt and the surprisingly strong young man slammed him back down against the soft bed cover. The Witcher made a startled noise and his eyes went wide. His white hair had formed a halo around his head at the impact and he saw lust flash clearly through Jaskier’s eyes.

“You will refer to me as Milord,” the younger man asserted. His pupils were large and dark; Geralt’s breath caught in his throat and he nodded silently in agreement. “Much better, pet.”

“Milord, please,” the Witcher gasped. Jaskier bit and sucked languidly at the skin above Geralt’s collarbone, somehow radiating a sense of laziness and ease despite the harsh movements of his tongue and teeth. The hickey was dark and throbbing when the Viscount finally pulled away. He traced his handiwork with the tip of his pointer finger and Geralt hissed at the contact. It tingled sensationally and the Witcher felt like he might vibrate out of his skin with anticipation. He wanted to be touched. He wanted to be taken. By Jaskier and only Jaskier. His bard. His little Lord. His love.

“Do you want me like this, Geralt?”

“Gods, yes!”

Jaskier waited for a beat and the Witcher realized his mistake.

“I want you, Milord. Take me, please.”

“I’m glad to hear that you feel this way because I want you, too, my darling. Probably twice as badly.”

“Twice?”

The young Lord grabbed a fistful of Geralt’s glorious ass and squeezed, smirking like the nobility he was. “Twice.”

“Jaskier,” the Witcher whined. The bard’s mouth was suddenly making its way down towards the laces of his half-open shirt and Geralt felt his breath coming in quick little pants. He moaned quietly when those clever fingers undid the tie in his trousers and began to ease them down and off his legs. The Viscount’s lips were still plastered to his chest, biting and kissing whatever skin he could reach. “Fuck, Jaskier. C’mon.”

“Are you making demands of me, peasant?” Jaskier clucked disappointedly. “Don’t you know your place by now?”

Geralt nearly choked on his tongue. His pants were gone, his shirt had been rucked up to reveal the muscled expanse of his abdomen, and his bard was licking across his hip-bone. All he could do was whine and shudder and take it. He wanted to lay there and take whatever Jaskier was willing to give. Torture like this? Well worth it, in the Witcher’s opinion. 

“Jaskier, please.”

“Naughty Witchers don’t get what they’re after,” Jaskier shook his head. “You’ll just have to learn the hard way.”

Geralt was about to ask what exactly his bard had meant by ‘the hard way’ but every thought imaginable flew from his head as soon as Jaskier’s lips closed over the head of his recently-freed cock. “Shit!”

The noble smirked from between the Witcher’s legs and pushed himself further, taking as much of Geralt as he could back into his throat. He pressed his hands down over the Witcher’s hips, holding him flat against the mattress in an incredibly show of strength, and hummed. 

“Oh! Oh Jas- fuck Jaskier,” the man beneath him gasped. Jaskier bobbed his head a few times before pulling back with a soft pop and a grin. Geralt was trembling, his hands fisted tightly into the bedclothes. “Milord?”

“Geralt,” the bard sighed, sitting up and leaning over the Witcher once again. He ran the back of his knuckles across his companion’s lightly stubbled cheek and smiled softly. “May I take you apart, my love?”

“L-love?”

“Of course.” Jaskier leaned down slowly, letting Geralt take a little bit of control back for himself. The Witcher breathed in once, slowly, and exhaled just as carefully. He closed the distance between them and gave his beloved bard a soft and caring embrace. Jaskier wasn’t the kind of person to tell falsehoods. Embellish the truth for a song or a good story? Of course. But outright lying? That would have infuriated the bard. 

“I love you...too.”

“Excellent. Now that we’ve settled things,” the brunette wiggled his eyebrows mischievously and Geralt watched as he turned instantly from Lord Julian Alfred Pankratz to Jaskier the Bard. He watched Jaskier’s hand as it snaked down between them and Geralt found himself awash in pleasure once again, “I’m going to ruin you, Witcher!”

Geralt groaned and tossed his head back against the pillows. 

Jaskier never lied.

---

“Fuck!” Jaskier thrust harder and curled his body over Geralt’s. He could feel the damp curls of his chest hair sliding against the skin of the Witcher’s back, already sweat-slick from their first round of lovemaking. 

It had been loving and tender and surprisingly gymnastic; but after a few minutes of snuggling and continued kissing in the afterglow, Geralt had levered himself onto his elbows and knees and arched his spine so fucking temptingly that Jaskier had bitten his knuckle close to bloody in an effort to keep from screaming aloud and scaring the castle guards. Again, Geralt had ordered. 

Jaskier was loath to disobey.

“Oh! Jask-Jaskier!”

“Yeah?” the bard laughed triumphantly. He snapped his hips forward again at the same angle and Geralt bowed beneath him. The Witcher had his glorious pecs buried in the mattress and his hands fisted in the sheets above his head. He looked like a godsdamned feast and Jaskier was taking his fill while he could. The Viscount pushed in again, aiming carefully, and Geralt released another shuddering moan.

“Jaskier, please can-”

“Oh, my love,” the bard moved one hand from its place at Geralt’s hip to the front side of his body. He took hold of the Witcher’s glorious cock and tugged a few times in rhythm with his thrusts. It didn’t take much to work his overstimulated lover through a second orgasm. “You feel incredible, Geralt.”

“Jaskier,” the Witcher sighed, lax and jelly-like beneath his bard. “I love you.”

“I love you too, darling. Now let’s get cleaned up and talk about how this experience has changed our relationship for the better, yeah?”

Geralt nodded, no longer scared of losing Jaskier.

Not after that. 

Not after all the love and power and self-confidence the bard had shown him here tonight; Jaskier could take care of himself. They were more than ready for this. Geralt was more than ready for this. He reached out, cupping the bard’s soft face in his large, calloused hand. “As long as you promise to stay by my side, my love, I’m ready for anything.”