#my collarbone chalice

[berilynzoe]

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.

[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.

[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.”

[alecmagnuslwb]

Time Doesn’t Love You Anymore

Read on AO3

Day One

“I got the magic in me, every time I touch that track it turns into gold!” his phone rings out from the makeshift nightstand that’s actually just a stack of old yellow pages.  

Zatanna groans reaching out in an attempt to silence the damn thing, not even lifting her head from under the covers. She pushes out a little too hard dislodging one of the yellow pages from its Tetris style stack nearly knocking them all to the floor. Sometimes she really hates staying in one of John’s so-called safehouses.

Above her she hears a deep sleep addled chuckle and feels the warm press of skin against her back as John stretches for the phone. The motion moves the covers down past her shoulders and she grumbles as the sunlight rudely hits her eyes.

“What?” John says answering the phone, she grumbles again moving her pillow from under her head to over her ears. The conversation goes muffled after that until she hears the distinct snap of John closing his ridiculous drug dealer flip phone.

“Zee?” he says rubbing a warm hand up slowly up the back of her oversized Star City tourist t-shirt. With his other hand he slowly pulls the pillow from her grasp she only yields when his fingers start trailing up and down her spine slowly, a touch she always just melts right into.

She flips over and John’s hand stays put on her skin resting on her stomach. “What?” she says finally opening her eyes to look up at him.

“That was Chas, a friend of a friend gave him a tip on that cup Midnite’s been after,” he says slowly moving his thumb back and forth against the delicate skin of her abs. Zatanna hums in response. “It seems it’s right here in New Orleans and in a mausoleum not far from here.”

“Good for it,” she says and pulls the blankets up over her head again. John chuckles again tugging at the covers a bit just enough to uncover her eyes again.

“We should go check it out, last thing anyone needs is for Midnite to get his hands on yet another magical artifact to hold over everyone else,” he says. Zatanna sighs cracking open her eyes once again and lifting herself up to lean on her elbow mirroring John’s position.

She concedes his point, any chance to have something over Midnite and actually be able to bargain with is a good thing. Especially for her boyfriend, he’s always getting himself into tangled deals with the man.

That being said she has no intentions of leaving this bed just yet, they were out far too late last night dealing with some League business that had been floated her way by Diana. She was happy to do it, she’s has to keep that Justice League membership card up somehow, but that doesn’t mean she’s not going to catch up on her sleep in the aftermath of it.

She trails her fingers along his collarbone and starts traveling down, down, down until her fingers trail through the dusting of hair on his chest.

“Okay, but five more minutes here,” she says trailing her finger and eyes lower and lower.

John’s breath catches when her fingers move the cover even further down and she reaches his belly button.

“Your hand gets much lower and it’s gonna be a hell of a lot more than five minutes,” he says not trying to stop her in any way.

Zatanna shrugs lifting her eyes up to his and showing him an innocent little smile. “And that’s a bad thing?”

John lets out another stuttering breath as her fingers stop their path downwards bypassing the spot he wants them most. She trails to the side lingering back and forth at the top of one of his thighs.

“And everyone thinks I’m the devil in this relationship,” he says with a smile shifting so that her back is pressed into the mattress. He situates himself so that he’s comfortable between her legs and she smiles lifting a hand to run through his hair.

“Not my fault you’re such a sucker for me,” she says cupping his cheek with her hand and running her thumb along his lower lip. John moves just a bit taking the digit into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it slowly once, twice. Zatanna’s breath hitches this time.

Slowly he releases her finger and her hand drops as John leans down placing slow open-mouthed kisses on her neck trailing a line down, down, down.

He doesn’t mention going to a mausoleum for a long, long while.

It’s the latter half of sunset by the time they reach the mausoleum, the bright summer sun low in the sky minutes away from welcoming night. The outside of the crypt is warded, but not too heavily at all; John places one sigil on the weather worn stone and it all drops.

Inside there’s not a single protection, Zatanna steps in first and waves a hand across the air forming a trail of glowing lights along the ceiling to illuminate the space. The place is largely barren, no caskets empty or filled, nothing but some broken down old gates and a few hundred cobwebs.

And there in the center sits the cup nothing special or seemingly magical about it. It looks like a normal silver chalice, worn and aged by however many years it’s been sitting in the same exact spot for. There’s not a whiff of magic in the air, unusual for any corner of the entire city.

“That’s it?” Zatanna says scrutinizing the thing, her arms crossed.

John shrugs stepping closer to the stand where it rests, “Chas says it is.”

Zatanna hums, Chas is usually right and despite its outward appearance and its lack of any sort of energy signature this wouldn’t mark the first time Zatanna has seen great power come from something so mundane.

“What’s it supposed to do?” she asks.

“Supposedly drinking from it will grant one powers unknown,” he says continuing towards it. “Sounds like a bunch of shite to me, but Midnite doesn’t think it is and I’m always happy to have one up on Mr. chose no sides himself.”

He tilts his head and smirks over his shoulder at her before he takes the final step right up to the stand.

John doesn’t even touch the cup, just hovers in its space his foot still a full inch from the base of the stand but before he so much as lifts a hand fully over it, before Zatanna can even say a single backward word John goes up in flames. The sick crackling of skin and the unnatural falling into ash happens in an instant, he doesn’t even have the chance to scream.

Zatanna rushes to his side but it’s far too late not even a full second has passed and as soon as her fingers reach him she brushes through ash drifting in the air, his bones shattering to the ground with a loud crack in the quiet echo of the empty mausoleum.

Zatanna falls on her knees to the floor alongside what’s left of him eyes wide, breath heavy, she’s fairly certain she feels the track of wet tears from her eyes, but mostly she just feels nothing. She feels vacant, like she’s not even here like this isn’t even real, like this is some horrible nightmare she’ll wake up from at any moment. She digs her hands hard into the cobbled stone beneath her the ash of the man she loves, loved, seeping underneath her fingernails.

She’s not sure how long she stays there, she’s not sure how much time passes, but eventually she’s not alone. Doctor Fate settles by her side taking off his helmet and then it’s just her friend Khalid settling a heavy sorrowful hand on her shoulder. She’s so out of body she’s not certain if he asks her what happened or just figures it out for himself, she vaguely hears him say something about feeling a surge of magical energy and tracing it to her, but none of it truly registers.

A dark gloved hand that belongs to some bat settles on her shoulder in passing and she replays the morning when everything had been okay. A red cape flits past the corner of her eyes and she thinks about how she should have not let him step inside this place without checking it more thoroughly. A ghostly energy with a flash of red hovers around her tentative and frantic at the same time and she finds herself replaying the last milliseconds of John’s life and hollowing out a little more when she realizes just how similar it is to when her father burnt to a crisp in her arms as well.

Another pair of fishnets kneel down beside her before leaning in and placing strong arms around her shoulders, blonde hair brushes against her cheek and that’s what breaks her from her semi-catatonic state, the proverbial dam breaks and she just sobs and wails and she’s certain it’s a horrible sounding affair.

Eventually between the trauma, crying and dehydration she tires herself out passing out between one last hiccupping sob and the next.

 Day Two

“I got the magic in me, every time I touch that track it turns into gold!” his phone rings out and Zatanna twists and bolts upright. She looks at her hands first, clean and not marred with the ashes of the man she loves. To her left the covers rustle and John curves an arm around her gripping the phone with is fingertips and flipping it open.

“What?” he says his voice muffled by his face still buried half in her pillow. Zatanna just looks at him as he talks to whoever’s on the other end of the line waves of shock and relief washing over her. He slowly sits up as he talks noticing the way she’s staring at him; he raises an eyebrow moving the conversation along before shutting the phone and dropping it somewhere in the tangled sheets around them.

“Love?” he starts and she doesn’t even give him a chance to breathe before she’s on him, the kiss is a little desperate and John hesitates to return it at first, no doubt a little worried about her sudden reaction but between one press and the next he gets with the program responding to every movement.

She pulls back after a few more beats and touches her forehead to his.

“Whew,” he says and she feels the puff of his breath against her lips still so close, warm and real and alive. “What was that for?”

Zatanna just shakes her head. “Bad dream,” she says raising one had to rest over his heart, happy to feel the steady beat underneath her fingertips. “Very bad dream.”

Because that’s what it was, no matter how real it felt, she’s had some doozy dreams like it before so she’s not unfamiliar with the feeling. She lingers close for a few moments coming down from the shock of the nightmare before pulling back.

“You gonna be okay?” John asks quietly reaching out to brush the hair that’s fallen into her face away. She nods feeling the tension that the nightmare left behind exit her body, her shoulders loosen. “Want to talk about it?”

She shakes her head and gives him a small reassuring smile. Maybe later, right now she just needs the distraction of seeing him right in front of her.

John smiles one of those rare bright smiles he lets out and kisses her on the cheek.

“So, what was that phone call about it?” she asks.

“Chas has a lead on that artifact Midnite has been after, right here in the city,” he says and starts going on about it. Zatanna listens carefully and a little worried, it’s exactly the same thing that led to that horrible nightmare.

It’s a coincidence though, definitely. He’s been talking about this cup a lot lately so of course it was on her mind, of course her dream latched on to a thing that’s been near the top of their to do list for weeks now. It’s purely coincidental.

But just to ease her mind Zatanna plays things out differently, she doesn’t talk him into lingering in bed. John makes them a late breakfast; she puts on a completely different outfit than the one that ended up covered in ash and convinces him to walk through the city to the mausoleum instead of portaling over.

There’s a weird air of deja-vu around it all, a weird lingering of the nightmare at the edges of her mind. Everything is playing out differently than the dream, but only because she made it that way and when the mausoleum comes into view her uneasiness grows. It looks exactly like it did in her nightmare and she’s certain she’s never seen it before.

They get in just as easily, there’s still barely any sort of magical signature around it. John puts one sigil on the stone and it falls away like there was never a thing in the way in the first place. It’s the same as it was in her dream she just doesn’t brush it off this time.

“Wait,” she says tugging John’s coat before he can step inside of the crypt. John raises an eyebrow in question. “I’ve got a bad feeling, my bad dream it was just like this and it didn’t end pretty.”

“How not pretty?”

“Like you dead not pretty,” she says eyes lingering over his shoulder looking into the mausoleum, it’s just as dark but she’d bet money that cup is sitting in the exact same spot on the exact same pedestal.  

“You think it was a prophetic kind of dream?” he asks turning fully towards her his hands on her shoulders.

“I mean that’s not usually my thing, but it’s way too similar,” she says reaching up and holding his forearms a sense of urgency in her voice. She does not want him going inside of there.

“Okay, then I won’t go in,” he says easily. Occasionally stubborn as he can be sometimes he just listens to her and she’s never been more grateful for those moments until now.

She breathes out a sigh of relief tugging him further back from the entrance.

“Let’s run a few more spells over it, make sure nothing’s off,” she says hand already outstretched to start a few more scans.

John nods his head. “Alright, I’ll take the back you take the front,” he says with a wink as he turns back to shut the mausoleum gate he’d easily broken into. He shuts the gate fully and winces.

“John?” she says turning back to him and he pulls his hand away and looks down.

Flames crackles at his skin and not the bright orange ones she’s familiar with him carrying.

“Shit,” he says and just like in her nightmare they take him over completely.

This time she screams his name when his body succumbs to the flames to the ashes, she screams because this time there’s no way it’s not real; this time she won’t wake up and it’s a nightmare, maybe it never was in the first place.

When Khalid shows up this time she’s sitting with her back to the mausoleum her fingers gripping into the grass tightly. She’s crying still when he leans down and reaches an arm out to comfort her, crying because she could have stopped this, she saw this coming. Something out there gave her the foresight and she brushed it off as a dream. She knows better than to ignore something like that, goddammit she knows better.

She knows better and now John’s dead because she didn’t listen to it.

When Khalid takes off his helmet Zatanna can’t bear the look of sorrow, of pity on his face so she shuts her eyes tightly and curls her fingers even tighter into the grass.

 Day Three

“I got the magic in me, every time I touch that track it turns into gold!”

Zatanna sits upright in an instant watching as John stretches out behind her for his phone clumsily.

“What?” he answers it and Zatanna snatches it from his hand.

“Chas?” she says confirming it for herself.

“Hey, Zee,” he starts and she cuts him off hanging up the phone immediately. She moves to throw it to the end of the bed, but changes her mind flipping the phone over and taking the battery out for good measure. Her phone is somewhere around here and she vaults from the bed to give it the same treatment for when Chas inevitably tries her next.

She can’t blame him if he does after that display of panic she just provided, but she has good reason to be in a panic.

She finds her phone in a pile of last night’s clothes and dismantles it as well. She lets out a breath as she tosses the battery to the other side of the room.

“Um, Zee?” John says voice filled with concern and confusion. She turns standing to a full height to look at him, him alive and well at least for now.

“I think I’m stuck in a time loop, and that cup you’ve been trying to find, well Chas found it and it started this whole thing,” she says running a frustrated hand through her hair.

John runs a hand across the stubble on his jaw and nods as he works to get out of bed himself.

She’s not sure if it’s the worry in her voice, the no doubt look of fear on her face or just his unstoppable faith in her, but he doesn’t question it, doesn’t second guess it or think she’s crazy for a beat. He just simply says, “Tell me about it.”

So she does, she settles down at the kitchen island a cup of coffee in her hand grounding her to the now and not to the what could be and tells him everything about her past two Wednesdays.

“So we don’t go to the mausoleum,” he says easily when she’s done. He curls a hand around her wrist stroking the skin lightly.

“John I don’t think that’ll work, it’s all connected to there, so there is where answers might be,” she says moving her hand to link their fingers together.

“It is, but the only way to know if breaking it is just not going is to not go,” he says. “I don’t die maybe it’s over.”

Zatanna shakes her head. “You know it’s not that easy, it’s never that easy.”

John shrugs, “Maybe just this once it will be.” It sounds borderline optimistic which means it must be really bad, she’s the optimist not him.

“But the day doesn’t reset when you die, trust me I have to live with it for a while,” her voice cracks a little when she says the last part. John shakes his head and rounds the counter pulling her into his arms.

“I know this is gonna be hard, but it’s the only way to know for sure that it’s not this easy,” John says. He presses a kiss into her hair. “If the day starts over again whether I make it through today or not then you tell me all about it again and we figure it out together.”

She pulls her arms around his middle tightly and takes a deep breath.

“We need to look up more about that cup, I need to know everything I can about it no matter what,” she says pulling back and looking up into those deep blue eyes she’s seen burn up right before her twice now. She can’t stomach seeing it again.

They spend the day buried in a few hundred books she conjures up from every library she has access to and a few she doesn’t but can’t be bothered to ask permission for right now. This is a time sensitive situation she can deal with the fallout if the day doesn’t restart.

The cup has barely made a peep in its years of existence, most of what they find correlates with the vague knowledge that John had given her on the first day.

It’s surrounded by myth more than fact. No one’s ever had it in their presence for longer than a few minutes. It’s powers, if any are largely unknown. Most of the accounts even the ones from some of the greatest magical minds in history have chalked it up to nothing more than a totem of luck at best. She disagrees, she’s had the opposite of luck since they came into contact with it.

She hovers over him a bit more than she should brushing her fingers across his skin or through his hair every time he passes by. They make it all the way to 11:50 without incident and for a bright hopeful moment she thinks that maybe he was right, maybe this will be easy to get through.

So of course, just as she thinks that it all goes to shit. They’re sitting on the couch surrounded by books and Chinese takeout boxes John has a cigarette hanging from his lips his focus on an old weathered book when the window rattles. Zatanna notices it not eager to brush it off as something as simple as the wind. She stretches out her hands magic already brewing at her fingertips.

The weather picks up lightning strikes and thunder rolls, the window shatters and Zatanna ducks. The last thing she hears is John shout.

 Day Four

“I got the magic in me, every time I touch that track it turns into gold!”

Zatanna groans into her pillow and reaches out an arm shoving over the entire makeshift nightstand. She doesn’t know what the fuck happened last night, or this night last night, whatever the hell it is, but she’s pretty sure John wasn’t going to survive or if he had midnight was going to trigger a restart one way or another.

“Damn luv,” John groans leaning over to look at the tossed about stack of yellow pages and his phone. She lifts herself up and flips over rubbing a frustrated hand over face as she looks at the ceiling staring angrily at the crack that’s streaking along the discolored white paint.

She turns her head looking him in the eyes with a sigh. “We need to talk,” she says praying to someone that this will be the last go around.

This time they decide they have to go to the mausoleum, staying at home didn’t achieve much. They scan and spell and do a million little ward checks and safety sigils on John before they even get within a hundred yards of the place.

This time he makes it all the way in, even picks up the cup, only to end in ashes and flames.

***

Ten days pass much in the same way. She wakes up, screams bloody murder at John’s phone, tells him everything and then they get to work. For ten days they call friends for leads, friends of friends, even a few friends of friends of friends much to no avail. Very little new information comes their way about the cup itself and as for time loop well every time loop spell is different every time loop spell has its own eccentricities and lessons to be learned.

Every day she watches him die, sometimes it’s just like the first time, sometimes like the second, every now and then they don’t even get inside and he still bursts into flames. Once they spend the whole day going through the entire graveyard, checking for anything that might have a connection to their mausoleum and somehow a zombie pack rises from a corner of graves tearing into John’s flesh and hers before midnight even hits.

Every day that passes she feels a little more broken, a little less hopeful.

 Day Fifteen  

She doesn’t even stand a chance this time, John’s dead before breakfast. She ignores the phone ringing; she just stays in bed and lets John kiss her and slip out the door by himself this time. She doesn’t feel like explaining the time loop, she doesn’t have it in her to watch him burn today.

Just one day, she needs just one day to try the one thing she hasn’t, to reach out to the one person she hasn’t yet.

Tracking down Doctor Fate is never an easy thing to do and he never appreciates when people just summon him up without warning, but she’s beyond caring about that now. She gets dressed quickly and pulls her hair into a ponytail and moves the couch and coffee table out of the way to draw the sigil to summon him on the living room floor all while trying not to think about John dying alone.

She says the words and the sigil lights up gold and blue with an angry Doctor Fate floating in the center, or she assumes he’s angry it’s not like he has facial expressions.

“You know I don’t like to be summoned this way Miss Zatara,” the voice inside the golden helmet booms. “I have no-“

Zatanna raises a hand, her eyes cold and hard cutting him off.

“Listen, you can give me the whole respecting the laws of my magic and interference speech later,” she says knowing there won’t be a later. “I don’t need the all-knowing Doctor Fate to tell me he can’t tell me things right now; I need my friend Khalid. So, if you could drop the helmet and let me talk to him that’d be great.”

Fate tilts his head in consideration. “That’s quite demanding of you,” he says his feet finally settling to the ground.

“Yeah well I tend to feel pretty demanding when Constantine keeps dying,” she says frustrated, she doesn’t have time to argue or listen to his philosophy.

The glow around him settles and finally the helmet comes off at that. Khalid looks at her concern overtaking his young features. She’s seen that look on a lot of faces lately and suddenly she’s missing the unfeeling glow of a golden helmet instead.

“Keeps dying?” he asks stepping outside of the sigil and placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Time loop,” she says and tells him everything, well not everything, there’s a lot of useless information she’s learned over the last few days. He listens to it all and she’s pretty sure the helmet does too.

“You’ve learned a lot,” he says when she’s done. “And you’re certain no one has specifically placed this curse on you, it’s the cup?”

She nods. She’s already gone through the list of usual suspects; Midnite stays neutral so it can’t be him even if he wants to get his hands on the cup, Nick is locked away tight, Faust isn’t clever enough for something like this and anyone she’s fought with the League is preoccupied with trying to destroy other League members or the world at large not just fucking with her.

Khalid is thoughtful for a moment his arms crossed, the helmet glows from where he’s sat it on the coffee table.

“I don’t have any answers that you haven’t already found, but he might,” he says gesturing to the helmet. Zatanna sighs, Fate tends to be more ominous than helpful, but she relents.

Khalid puts his hand on her shoulder one more time giving a comforting squeeze before he puts the helmet back on. A burst of light and Fate is once again floating before her.

“You know as well as anyone, that sometimes you cannot fight magic. Sometimes you must let it take its course,” he says and with another burst of light he’s gone. She shields her eyes as he goes, dropping her arm when the bright white light fades.

She huffs angrily at the space where he’d been.

“That’s all he’s got, let it take its course,” she says flopping down onto the couch. “Fuck that.”

Letting it takes its course will get John killed and she’s not about to let that stick anytime soon.

***

The days start bleeding into one another from there. She can’t remember what number day things happen on, but she remembers every excruciating detail. She tries to act like she doesn’t know just how many days it’s been on the ones where she decides to tell John what’s been happening, but she can tell he sees right through her.

She knows exactly how many days it’s been; she knows exactly how many times she’s watched John die. She remembers when the hellhound showed up and tore him to shreds, she remembers every flame that’s burned him away, she remembers the day he slipped in the shower and cracked his head open bleeding out and she didn’t even know it and for as long as she lives she won’t ever be able to forget the sight of him taking a magical lance to the heart to save her from another Faust scheme.

Every day she’s given some new horrific memory that if she ever does manage to get out of this will haunt her for years to come.

 Day Twenty-Five

She feels stuck, he always dies and it’s not always the cup anymore. Today she lets it happen doesn’t even fight him to stay in bed a moment longer he picks up the cup and he’s gone just like that. She doesn’t scream or cry this time; she just freezes and clenches her fists so hard that she feels the skin break and blood drip down through her fingertips.

She turns her phone off and covers herself in enough glamours that no one will be able to find her unless she wants to be found.

She wanders through the city, aimless and uncertain for hours, blood drying on her hands. She just walks and walks until her legs are as tired as the rest of her. She falls heavily onto a bench and watches the people pass by. Couples hand in hand pass her and she wishes so desperately that could be her and John. Today, the first today, should have been an easy day off in a city with good food and instead it’s become all this.  

A girl in all black and a boy in a trench coat pass by her and it’s too much, she opens up a portal, not even caring if anyone sees and rushes through. She doesn’t realize where she’s sending herself until her feet land on cobbled sidewalk and she literally walks right into a familiar yellow cab.

Chas must hear the thump of her running into it from the driver’s seat because he’s out of his seat in an instant, already standing before her.

“Zatanna!” he says happily, that big smile of his she’s always glad to see. He wraps her up in his arms in a big bear hug that she easily returns lifting her off the ground a little. She smiles a little sadly wishing she could be just as happy to see him. He’s always been, and always will be, her favorite of John’s seedy friends. He’s a good man, maybe the best man she knows choosing to help and stay good even if he’s not really superpowered in any way.

Any other day she’d smile right back, she’d ask him about Renee and Geraldine and they’d laugh about whatever new stupid thing John’s gotten himself into. But today something about his warmth about his joy makes her break immediately.

It’s been quite a few days since she let herself have a good cry she guesses it was inevitable the dam would break again. She sobs into his chest as he settles her back down on the ground, his arms go around her a little tighter.

“Woah, Zatanna, you’re okay,” he says reaching his hand up to brush against her hair soothingly. “You’re okay.”

She’s not sure how long she stands there crying into Chas’ flannel shirt making it a mess of tears, fading makeup and snot. She calms down eventually pulling back a little but he keeps her close his hands rubbing up and down her arms comfortingly.

His face isn’t pitying, she’s gotten a lot of that over the days, it’s just kindness and care.

“I’m fine,” she says hastily wiping the tears from her face.

“You’re not,” he says lifting her head up with a gentle knock under her chin and a smile. “And that’s okay.”

“I should tell you,” she starts sounding the most tired she thinks she’s ever sounded.

Chas shakes his head. “Only if you want to, you sound tired darlin’ and you sound like you don’t want to have to say it all right now and that’s fine.”

Zatanna smiles gratefully brushing a hand uselessly across the damp spots on his shirt.

“Sorry I ruined your nice shirt.”

Chas snorts looking down at it for a moment, “I think being with John all these years has made you forget what a nice shirt on a man looks like.”

Zatanna starts to laugh, but it comes out with a small sob. Just the mention of John gets to her now, especially from someone who loves him as much as she does. She’s glad he’s okay with her not talking, she doesn’t have it in her to break his heart too.

He notices the slip and reaches out again taking one of her hands between his own.

“Hey, so what do you need? Need to cry some more or would punching me in the face relieve some of that heaviness you’re carrying even, I’ll let you have three good hits for free,” he says and Zatanna smiles a little. “Or maybe we can take a drive and just be, I’ll only charge you for half on the meter even.”

Zatanna laughs at that a real genuine one.

“A drive sounds good,” she says and he squeezes her hand once before walking her over to the passenger seat. He opens the door for her and she soaks in the familiar comfort of his cab while he gets in. He turns on the radio, some oldies station that he’s obsessed with and they just drive.

He doesn’t push her for answers about her behavior he just hums along with every song that’s on and drives.

“I’m totally not paying the meter,” she says long into their drive, the sun has gone down and she’s starting to nod off. Being comfortable like this she’s staring to wonder how much sleep she’s actually gotten through all this, if she’s gotten any.

Chas chuckles warmly and that’s the last thing she hears before drifting off with her head against window. When midnight comes she doesn’t know not until she wakes to the loud ringing of John’s damn phone the next morning.

 Day Thirty-One

She beats him to the phone; it’s been a month, a full month and she’s so tired. She’s tired of losing him, tired of fighting to stop it for it to only happen no matter what she does. She’s tired of going to everyone she knows for help and coming up empty on answers. She feels powerless, like her magic is a waste of time and space right now, like she’s just a waste of time and space. What good is magic and being a supposedly all-powerful witch if she can’t even save the person she loves most in the world.

She talks to Chas longing for the day she had with him where she didn’t have to go through explaining all this to someone; she nods and agrees with what he says at the right spots leaning far enough away that John can’t hear a single thing he says on the other line. She parts with a cheery goodbye and lies straight to John’s face making up some story about his cab that won’t get John moving to go anywhere.

She wants to make the most of this day, it’s a depressing time loop anniversary for her and she wants to forget for a little while, forget with him.

They waste away the morning in bed, if the sex feels a little more desperate than usual, a little more intense John doesn’t say a thing. They have breakfast in bed, feeding each other in the sappiest ways. She glamours a book that has some stories about the cup into the latest novel in a mystery series she’s been into and sits on the couch all afternoon. John lingers reading something of his own and giving up eventually choosing instead to rest his head in her lap with a cigarette in his mouth. She runs a free hand through his hair tickles of sparkling blue magic playing across her fingertips. They walk down the street to a little bar that makes a damn good veggie burger for dinner and she pulls him back into the bedroom as soon as they’re in the door.

Soon enough he falls asleep. She watches him sleep for a while, his sandy hair tousled, the eyeliner he fell asleep in from the night before still smudged under his eyes and only half his nails painted black. She wants to sear this into her memories, not the horrific visual of him burning to a crisp in her arms.

He shuffles in his sleep a bit, instinctually rolling just a little bit closer to her. She reaches out running her fingers through his hair slowly before she glances at the phone that has become her greatest enemy seeing that the time still gives her an hour till midnight. She slips from bed quietly and waves her hand over John letting some sparkles of peaceful sleep fall all over him to make certain he doesn’t wake.

She gives him one last lingering look as she slips out of the room, he may not remember each day but if there’s any lingering pain when all is said and done at least this time she hopes he won’t even wake up to feel whatever takes him from her this time.

She goes to the mausoleum alone, she shouts backwards words and walks in without a single check, she steps up to the cup and just stares at it.

Nothing happens. No fire, no brimstone. At least not to her, maybe she unknowingly just lit her boyfriend on fire in bed which feels and sounds terrible even if she’ll get another day to stop it.

“What do you want from me?” she shouts at it the sound echoing into the empty mausoleum. Nothing, it just sits there like a boring old cup.

She picks it up from its stand curling the stem hard in her hand.

“Tlem yawa dna ekat lla ruoy cigam htiw uoy,” she snarls at it and nothing happens her magic just fizzles out around the cup. It’s not the first time she’s tried something of this nature, but it’s the first time she’s been here alone.

She lets out a frustrated shout and tosses the cup into the nearest wall hard, it doesn’t even crumple. That’s not new to her either, she’s tossed it into walls, sidewalks and everything in between. It doesn’t even seem to care if she takes it out of this mausoleum the same thing always happens and it never even bends. She picks it up tossing it again and again until her arms are tired, until she feels her phone vibrate in her pocket the five-minute warning till midnight she’s started setting each morning letting her know her time is up.

She uses it wisely taking her frustrations out on the cup again and again and again.

***

She tries to save him every day and fails.

So one day she just leaves. The phone rings and she’s up out of the bed in an instant, tossing on the first pair of pants she can find. John chases after her ignoring the phone that keeps on playing that same damn song.

“Love, where are you going?” John asks hastily following her. She’s barely dressed and she’s already halfway out the door, she just has to get out of here.

She sighs pressing her forehead to the half-opened door before turning back to him.

“I just need to get out of here,” she says and it comes out a little more desperate than she intended.

“Alright, well just give me a minute and we’ll leave town if you want,” he says already turning to get ready and get the hell out of dodge with her. She appreciates his unwavering loyalty to follow along with her no matter what more than he’ll ever know, but she just can’t be with him today.

“No, John, I just need to go alone,” she says grabbing his hands that are reaching for his own discarded pants from the night before. He looks at her his face a mask of worry.

She steps closer and cups his face in both of her hands.

“I swear I’ll explain everything when I get back,” she says knowing that she won’t be coming back and even if she did he won’t be here when she does. She leans in kissing him soft and slow, she savors them all a little more these days, fearful that one will become the last.

“Just trust me, okay?” she says when she pulls back from his lips. He lifts his arms up holding her wrists and rubbing his thumbs into her skin.

“Alright,” he says letting her go. She slowly runs her hand down from his cheek and along his chest before she turns away.

“I love you,” John says. He doesn’t say it a lot, but when he does he pours everything into it and it breaks her heart and pieces it back together at the same time.

She turns quickly to meet his eyes, making sure he knows she means it just as much. “I love you too. I evol uoy oot.”

She catches sight of a small raised smile at the corner of his lips before she shuts the door behind her. She portals to San Francisco, smashes her phone into a hundred tiny little pieces, puts up a glamour spell to protect her from being found and spends the whole day in her old bed. She doesn’t know if it’s the cup or something else that kills him that day, she doesn’t want to know.

She stares at the bright red numbers on the clock beside the bed until it turns to midnight and the day starts all over again.

 Day Fifty

“What if it’s me?” she asks studying the ash underneath her fingertips. It was the cup again this time, just far earlier in the day than usual. She ran before any Justice Leaguer could show up not needing to once again see and feel their sadness and pity alongside her own.

She still had four hours till midnight so she’d wandered and wandered until she ended up here in the House of Mystery leaning back against the bed that’s sometimes theirs, a bed she hasn’t gotten to wake up in in fifty days.

Boston found her there about two hours ago and settled down beside her the best he can. He hasn’t said a word, he’s just listened as she’s spilled out the condensed version of the past fifty days to him.

“What if what’s you?” he asks.

She sighs dropping her hands between her knees. “What if it’s me, what if I’m the one who’s supposed to die?” she wonders, it’s not the first time it’s crossed her mind. Aside from the zombie incident she’s never even been physically scathed on any of the days so maybe it’s her. “Maybe if I die, he doesn’t. Maybe this finally fucking stops.”

She’s so tired, so fucking tired.

“Tanna,” Boston says with so much pain in his voice. John’s his friend and he’s dead and here she is talking about her own death so casually. Just because everyone else gets to start over every single day with no memory of this doesn’t mean they don’t still hurt in the moment.

“He’d never want that, he’d never want you to die for him,” he says. He reaches out hovering his hand over one of hers, the closest to a touch he can muster in this form.

“He’d die for me,” she says and she feels the tears coming, she keeps thinking she’ll run out, but she never does.

“Yeah, well the bastard is a hypocrite that way,” he says with a chuckle and for a moment Zatanna smiles. “Plus on a selfish note, I’d miss you.” She turns her head to look at him, his white eyes look serious and caring.

It’s a good reminder that she has friends in all this, even if she feels completely alone.

“No dying okay,” he says holding her eyes. “You’ll sort this, or the universe will or something, you’ve never been beat and you never will be.”

Zatanna smiles a sad smile his way and lifts up her hand her palm hovering under his, very nearly holding hands.

“No dying,” she says as she leans her head back onto the bed keeping her hand steady beneath her friends. She stays put like that till midnight feeling a little bit lighter just for having him there.

 Day Fifty-Six

She’s decided that this is hell. Knowing the fate that awaits someone you love and not being able to do a damn thing to stop it. Despite the pickup of Boston’s optimism days ago, she still feels too defeated. She’s done a few thousand spells, played the day out fifty-six different ways and she’s still got all that’s left of John under her fingernails.

She’s sitting in a bar on the far side of New Orleans well on her way to finishing a bottle of whiskey the bartender has kindly left for her.

She doesn’t even flinch anymore at the bit of ash at her fingertips she catches sight of as she tosses back her latest glass, she’s becoming more and more numb to it all which is more than concerning. Problem is there’s no one to be concerned about her anymore, anyone who is will just forget to be when the clock strikes midnight.

“Hey, gorgeous,” a voice beside her says sliding into the stool next to her like he belongs there. Zatanna eyes him, he looks like his name is Chad and she’s instantly annoyed by his presence.

“You look lonely, maybe I can help,” he goes on and yeah she may have infinite time these days, but she doesn’t have time for this. Her patience is thin at best fifty-six days into the same day.

She gives the man a fake joyful smile and for a moment she can see he thinks he has a chance.

“The love of my life has died in front of me fifty-four times and this bottle here,” she pauses pouring herself another glass. “Isn’t for sharing.”

He looks like a deer in the headlights and opens his mouth surely about to say something that will just make her more annoyed.

“Og yawa,” she says flicking her fingers in his direction. A blasting magical wind takes hold of him flinging him across the bar and out the door. Everyone in the bar freezes and stares, she ignores them turning back to her bottle and sliding an extra twenty towards the bartender for his troubles. He just shrugs pocketing the money and moving along.

Slowly the other people in the bar decide she’s not a threat to them and go back to their own business. She slowly sips on her refill until someone else slips into the stool she just flung Chad from.

“Well that was quite the show,” Papa Midnite says tapping the bar once signaling the bartender. He slides a drink in front of him without hesitation.

She hums in agreement, she’s not surprised to see him, this is his bar after all.

It's the second time she’s seen Midnite since all this started, the first time had been confrontational Zatanna still holding on to some little bit of hope around day twenty. She’d confronted him fast and violent with John’s blood still drying on her hands from where he’d been mugged of all things. She’d held magic flames close to his face, a thing she usually wouldn’t do, and forced answers out of him about why he wanted this cup so bad.

“Because I like the illusion of power, even if it’s just an illusion,” he’d said. He knew less about it than she did at that point. Whatever that damn thing is it’s not an illusion of power at all she knows that all too well now.

This time though she’s not here to fight him she’s just here to drink.

“Don’t worry I won’t throw you out a door too,” she says taking another sip and looking at him from the corner of her eye. He raises his glass to her in appreciation.

They sit side by side quietly for a few beats before he puts down his drink and turns to her.

“So, where is your lesser half?” he asks.

Zatanna swallows the last of her drink hard. “Dead,” she says feeling her heart lurch at the word.

Midnite’s head drops a little and he hums. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he says running his hand over his goatee. His tone is surprisingly genuine, so much so that she has to turn and look him in the eyes. He looks genuinely sorry, maybe even a little sad with the glow of the bar lights in his eyes.

“He was a right bastard,” he continues on raising his glass and tipping it to her empty one still tight in her grip on the bar. “But he always kept things interesting for me.”

He takes a sip of his drink before turning back to face forward.

“You don’t want to know what happened?” she says refilling her glass.

Midnite shakes his head and waves a hand dismissingly in her direction. “Why bother, you’ll find a way to fix it.”

Zatanna snorts. She wishes she had the same belief in herself that Midnite seems to have.

“Not this time I don’t think,” she sighs running her fingers along her glass, a bit of the ash slips into her drink and she feels bile rise in her throat pushing the glass away from her fast.

Midnite laughs a deep, smooth thing that sounds like how French press coffee would if it could chuckle.

“Bullshit,” he says. He twists a ring on his finger and hovers his hand over Zatanna’s glass. It disappears in a cloudy whisp replaced with another fresh clean one already filled for her.

“Stubbornness is the thing you two have always shared in common,” he says tilting his head thoughtfully. “You show it in different ways, different reactions, but when it comes to each other it’s the same. He’s slipped through hell for you and you’ve put a beat back in his heart against the better wishes of the universes magic, he’ll be back annoying me soon enough.”

Zatanna shakes her head gulping down the new drink in one go. He will be back, that’s true, but it won’t matter because it’ll just end the same way it always does again and again. She doesn’t have to tell him all that though, she doesn’t have the energy too, so she just deflects.

“Is the neutral party encouraging necromancy?” she says trying to make it sound teasing, but it falls flat. This time loop has beat all the humor from her.

Midnite lets out another low chuckle. “Not encouraging, just being smart enough to know to stay out of your way if you choose it.”

He downs the last of his drink and pushes up and away from the bar leaving her to it. She’s drunk enough this time to not even realize when midnight comes.

***

For a brief unexpected run of days, she’s given some new fight. Somehow encouraging though without context words from someone who’s not a friend gives her new drive to fight.

But that drive turns into anger eventually.

One day she just snaps and the only person around to take it out on is the person she’s trying to save. The phone rings and she tosses it against the wall immediately shattering it into a hundred pieces.

John looks at her like she’s gone crazy and before he can even so much as question her she’s railing into him.

She doesn’t know why, it’s not like he planned this, it’s not like she blames him, but she’s just so angry.

Angry at the world, angry at this curse she can’t seem to break, angry at Midnite and Chas and everyone who’s ever mentioned this cup. Angry at John for dying. Angry at herself for not solving this yet. So she picks a fight, yelling at the cup isn’t cutting it anymore evidently, she doesn’t even know what she says first to provoke it, but it’s something harsh enough it stuns John silent. She shouts and says things she doesn’t mean and walks out eventually with a loud slam of the door.

It hurts her to hurt him, but she’s just so damn angry.

The upside is tomorrow she’ll get another shot. She’s not worried about running out of chances to redo this anymore, she can say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, act as out of character as she wants because tomorrow she’ll be the only one who remembers it, the only one who has to live with it.

She’s out of fight, she’s out of answers, she’s just out. So when the phone rings the next morning she’s determined to just make the most of every second even if it means she’ll lose him again before midnight strikes no matter how hard she tries not to.

 Day Seventy-Eight

Seventy-eight days, seventy-eight deaths most of which she’s seen and she’s finally decided to listen to what Doctor Fate said to her what feels like a lifetime ago.

She lets the magic takes it course. She’s done everything she could think of, she’s altered every course she could and the result is always the same. So this time she just lets the magic dictate the day.

She just accepts fate, destiny whatever the fuck it wants to call itself, she accepts she can’t save him even if it breaks her heart.

The day goes much like the first had just with a few different bumps and changes here and there. She doesn’t fight anything, she doesn’t argue. She just takes it all in in ways that she hasn’t allowed herself to on any of these repeats.

She doesn’t bother checking the time on her phone, she slips it in her pocket out of sight and out of mind. She just keeps her fingers twined with his and listens to him rattle on about finally having an upper-hand against Midnite the next time they have to see him.

She soaks in every word, every bit of his accent, the way he says her name and the way his chuckle sounds when a cigarette is dangling from his lips.

She just soaks it in, accepts whatever this day brings. She’s done being reckless, she’s done fighting. This day has been the closest to the original one yet and she’s letting it go.

It’s a little closer to midnight than usual since they decided to shower together after breakfast when they finally walk into the mausoleum, easy breezy just like it always is.

She lights the place up and feels her minutes to midnight reminder vibrate in her pocket. She ignores it, silencing it quickly as John investigates the space. He steps up to the cup and Zatanna closes her eyes, just because she’s accepted what’s inevitable doesn’t mean she has to watch it.

There’s no sound. No shouts or screams, no sick burning flesh, no ash floating in the air. Just the sound of John making the start of a humming sound.

She opens her eyes as John touches the cup and nothing happens, just nothing. He picks it up and passes it around between his hands back and forth, back and forth like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s breathing, he’s whole and he’s humming a fucking Metallica song under his breath tossing an ancient magical artifact around like it’s a tennis ball.

She pulls her phone from her pocket and there in bold letters across a picture of her and John from that day they borrowed the Wayne mansion pool for themselves is the time.

12:01 A.M.

It’s a new day, it’s Thursday.

She doesn’t know if she should scream or cry or laugh, but evidently her body chooses for her, chooses the thing it thinks will be the most cathartic for her. She laughs, hard and loud and frankly maniacal. She feels like the final girl at the end of a horror movie, like she’s riding off in a stranger’s truck as a man with a chainsaw can’t quite catch up, like a girl who just watched the rich bastards who spent all night trying to kill her explode one by one. She won, she fucking won and she doesn’t have a clue how and it feels impossible, but she did and all she can do is laugh.

She probably looks and sounds crazy, cackling like the witch she is, tears of joy? Relief? She’s not sure which, streaming down her face. John freezes with the cup in hand staring at her a look of worry on his face. Something about the look on his face makes her double over in laughter even more, she crouches closer to the ground head down and hands on her knees.

John comes over to her side a gentle hand on her back.

“Luv, you alright?” he says sitting the cup down on the ground. She catches sight of it and falls further to the ground flat on her butt, her legs kicked out on the ground purposefully kicking the cup away from them.

“I’m fine,” she says through hiccupping laughs as she finally starts to calm down. John settles down beside her a hand on her thigh. “Best I’ve been in seventy-eight days.” She giggles a little lifting her head to the ceiling. She wipes under her eyes clearing her face of the tears that fell during her unexpected laughter.

She curls a leg under herself and turns to him lifting her hands to his shoulders.

“I need to tell you something,” she says shaking her head in disbelief.

And tell him she does, everything. She tells him all the little details from day one to day seventy-eight. She tells him the good, the bad and every bit in between. She tells him about the days she didn’t handle it well and the days she made the most of.

She tells him the things she regrets, even if he doesn’t remember them. She even tells him about the day Boston talked her out of letting herself die to save him and he holds her hands a little tighter. She lets it all pour out, seventy-eight days of heartache, frustration and anger and he takes in every word.

It’s well after midnight by the time she runs out of steam, runs out of things to tell him and he pulls her in close. He presses a soft gentle kiss to her forehead.

“You are the strongest woman I know, strongest person I know,” he says his eyes looking a little glassy. “I never could have survived all that, I never could have handled losing you so many times.”

He’s said that before, he doesn’t remember of course, but it’s more comforting and fulfilling today than it was before. Because today he’s alive and she won’t have to go through this same damned day again.

“Let’s go home,” he says rising from the floor. He holds out his hands that she accepts immediately and pulls her up alongside him. “Forget this cup ever existed.”

The cup. Yeah she’s not leaving without dealing with it first.

She drops his hands and raises one of her own putting a protective wall around John. He opens his mouth to argue about it and she silences him.

“Nope, this thing has killed you, so bubble boy it for a minute for my peace of mind,” she says turning and picking up the cup from the ground. She doesn’t bother with trying to destroy it, it’s never worked before and she has an inkling it won’t today either.

She sits it back where it started and closes her eyes. She twists her hands in a complex movement and speaks loudly echoing across the mausoleum.

“Dnes siht raf yawa dna reven tel enoemos eb deppart nihtiw s’ti sehctulc niaga!”

A swirl of her magic, a kaleidoscope of colors swirl around the cup and lift it into the air and in the next second it’s gone puffed out of existence, or at least her existence, in an instance.

She breathes out a sigh of relief waving a hand to drop the protective bubble from around John. She walks over to him and wraps her arms around his waist.

“Home now?” he says rubbing his hands up and down her back. “You need some rest.”

She nods her head into his chest, her nods matching up with the beat of his heart.

 Day Seventy-Nine (aka Thursday)

“I got the magic in me, every time I touch that track it turns into gold!”

Zatanna shoots up immediately from where she’d been curled comfortably in bed her head against John’s chest. No, this can’t be happening.

No, no, no, no, no.

She saw the time, it passed midnight, John’s alive. It’s a new day and this can’t be happening.

John grabs his phone from his own nightstand, not hers where it usually sits, and silences it quickly.

“Sorry, luv, I should have changed it, I didn’t think,” he says reaching out and putting a tentative hand on her shoulder. She deflates with his words and his touch, reaching up to curl her fingers around his.

“Never use that ringtone again,” she says turning towards him. “I never want to hear that song for the rest of my life.”

“Consider it done,” he says moving their joined hands to his lips and kissing the back of hers softly.

 Day Eighty (aka Friday)

She spends more of Thursday, Thursday god isn’t that a nice thing to be able to say, than necessary trying to work out what exactly it is that broke the time loop.

John never leaves her side as she pours over her memory and over the books she’s already memorized but nothing quite adds up. All she can chalk it up to is the cup protecting itself, why it cursed her instead of John who got closest first she’s not certain, but it’s the best she’s got. Hopefully the spell she cast on it will keep it from ever putting someone else through what she went through.

She eventually decides to settle on what Doctor Fate said all along, sometimes you can’t fight magic. And maybe when she finally stopped fighting the fight stopped for her.

She wakes on Friday to a normal alarm and John’s arms around her. He presses kisses across her shoulders, he indulges her need to be a little more cautious and her occasionally overprotective moments as they come one by one.

He definitely doesn’t complain when they shower together and only snorts a little every time she bubble boys him. He even doesn’t bat an eye when she won’t let him use the toaster. She already saw that electrocute him once and she’s good without witnessing that again.

John’s in the kitchen now flipping some stir fry in a pan over the oven’s open flame. Zatanna had only flinched a little when he lit it and the protection spell she sent his way when he did, well it was a small one.

She uncurls herself from the couch and joins him slipping her hands up under his barely buttoned shirt. She warms her hands rubbing them slowly across the light trail of hair on his chest. His skin is always borderline fiery and it’s soothing against her cold hands. She’s so glad she won’t have to go without this anytime soon. So glad he’s breathing and still just as hot blooded as he’s always been.

She drags her nails just above his waistband and his breath hitches a bit.

“So handsy,” he says with a wink over his shoulder to her his focus still on the food in front of him. She shrugs, she’s going to be very tactile for the foreseeable future just to remind herself this is real.

She’s also going to need to make a few of those therapy sessions she’s been skipping up, but that’s a job for Monday. Because there actually will be a Monday, and every day of the week after that. It just feels refreshing to think about.  

A few minutes later their food is done and she backs away from him slowly still trailing her hands across his back. They curl up comfortably on the couch with their plates in hand and some cheesy Godzilla movie on tv, Zatanna’s legs thrown across John’s lap.

When she’s done she leans over to sit her empty plate on the table alongside John’s just as a flame appears on the coffee table. She pulls her hand back quickly and John’s grip on her thigh tightens as the flame dies out a piece of crisp burnt at the edges paper appearing in its place.

Zatanna grabs it slowly and brings it up so that she and John can both read it.

The note is written in delicate, old style cursive that she doesn’t recognize.

‘Thanks for getting that cup for me, New Orleans and its superstitions happen to be all too true for me. Too much hallowed ground and all that, especially with an artifact so shrouded in mystery. Sorry, the process had to be so daunting, they do say that cup can be unpredictable, but hey acceptance is important, right? – your favorite enemy, Circe.’

A second piece of the flaming paper appears on the table as they finish reading the first and she snatches it up.

‘P.S. I’ll let you know if I figure out what it does, or if it’s really good you’ll just hear about it ;)’  

Zatanna turns from the notes in her hand and meets John’s eyes.

“Midnite never did say where he heard about the cup from did he?” John says. He takes the notes from her hand where she’s started to grip them a little too tight. He crumples them up and tosses them into his half-filled glass of water.

“She whispered in his ear and he didn’t even know it, she knew you’d find out and want to beat him to it and she knew that I’d help, she knew we would make it safer for her,” Zatanna says gritting her teeth. This whole time she’d been so angry at so many things and it never crossed her mind that Circe would want something so inconsequential. A cup that for all intents and purposes is nothing more than a trap.

“I’m gonna kill her next time she makes her way to this dimension for putting you through that,” John snarls.

“Imprisonment seems more fitting,” she says in response drifting her hand up and into his hair. She moves her fingers along his scalp and feels his anger simmer down just a bit.

John turns from where he’d been staring at the soaked notes in the glass and looks into her eyes. He leans in and kisses her hard.

“I’ll hunt her down,” he says fiercely pressing another quick kiss to her lips.

Zatanna smiles resting her hand at the base of his neck. “Okay, but can you do that tomorrow?” she says because the word tomorrow won’t lose its novelty any time soon. “I just want to keep basking in your aliveness for now.”

“Tomorrow,” he whispers into the space between their lips. Tomorrow. Isn’t that a beautiful thing?

[wlfkssd]

The Way You Flirt

based on a combination of prompts sent in by @issadoragreen <3​

summary : aethelred comments on hvitserk’s flirting and they end up having sex in the maze in the gardens that surround rollo’s castle in frankia. (set in the When in Frankia au)

pairing : hvitserk x aethelred

words : 2,790

warnings : (a probably) poor attempt at SMUT in the latter half of the piece. aethelred giving, hvitserk receiving. fingering. butt stuff. 

"The way you flirt is shameless." Aethelred admonishes, quietly, steely eyes piercing into Hvitserk beside him. Both know it has everything to do with the plump, dark red grape being held as daintly as possible between thumb and forefinger. It's an offering. From one prince to another. Whether or not Aethelred chooses to accept it; that's entirely to come.

Hvitserk laughs, gaze fixed upon the face close to his own. "You think this is shameless?" He asks, wasting no time in popping the small, round fruit into his own mouth and crushing it between his back teeth. "One day, I will take you to Uppsala. Then you will see what shameless is."

Nimble fingers pick another grape from the bunch on the large silver platter in front of them and offer it up. This time, Aethelred considers before he leans in, opening his mouth just enough to allow the fruit inside. His tongue is practiced at staying put, flat, and his expression holds nothing but indifference.

Yet. Hvitserk can see the way the Saxon's cheeks flush as rough digits pass the threshold of his warm, pink entrance. A flush that's just as deep as it had been when tongues found themselves locking in a battle as furious and seemingly ancient as that of their two cultures. A flush that Hvitserk knows spreads just as beautifully down, past Aethelred's collarbones and onto his chest.

The exchange is short lived in real time but, for the pair of them, moments like this last forever. And, when it's finally time for those fingers to withdraw, Hvitserk finds himself taking them both in, savouring whatever taste he can of the most forbidden fruit of all.

"Uppsala. What's that?" Their gazes fall from one another as Aethelred makes short work of the grape and leans across to pick up his cup of wine. He's really enjoying the Frankish vintage. Perhaps a few barrels will have to come home with him to Wessex in the new year. He drinks, still chewing.

"We travel there to make sacrifices to the Gods every nine years. My father never really talked about it, and I've only been there once, but it's a place where anything is possible." Hvitserk explains, tongue pressing into his cheek as it searches out the remnants of food, leftover from his last mouthful. "I could feed you as many grapes as I wanted there and nobody would care. You could feed me whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted."

That sounds far more like an offer not to be fulfilled in the future, but now, and along with the look Hvitserk's clear eyes give, it's fairly obvious that's the point.

"Whatever I wanted. Whenever I wanted to, hm?"

Understanding dawns as the two stare one another down. Yet, gone is the animosity that may once have pitted them against one another and Aethelred's throat bobs as he brings the chalice up to take another drink, swallowing almost audibly even in the crowded dining hall.

"Yes." Comes the reply and this time Hvitserk's tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip as if in invitation. He blinks. He's holding his breath.

"Perhaps, then, we might meet in the gardens in an hour, Prince Hvitserk." The tone Aethelred takes is formal but there's a mischief in his heavy-set eyes. One that's lost as soon as he turns to make conversation with the diplomat to the other side of him.

***********

An hour later, roughly, of course, Rollo having kept his nephew a while to ask questions about his budding friendship with the prince from England, Hvitserk bolts down the side steps of the tower and into the gardens as promised. The sun has set and now the night air touches his face with a gentle kiss of cold; kinder than the frozen lake where he fell as a child in Kattegat.

"Aethelred?" He whispers, peering about as he takes a few steps forward. Arms bring his dark cloak in around him.

Beside the long shadow of the tallest tree in the grounds, the Saxon waits. His gaze is turned upwards, towards the moon and his figure is still as a statue. His shadow, too, is long, cast just as beautifully as nature intended upon the grass beneath both their feet.

Hvitserk approaches and comes to stand beside him.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Blue eyes don't turn away from the shining orb, high in the dark sky and all Hvitserk can do is agree. "I sometimes wonder how many times you and I have gazed upon her, unaware of each other's existence."

"Her?"

It's now that Aethelred looks down, bringing his eyes and thoughts from the Heavens, allowing them to rest easily upon more Earthly delights. "The moon. She's a woman. A saintly one who sees every sin beneath her, committed under the veil of darkness, and says nothing to the rising sun that follows."

"I like-" Hvitserk is allowed no more than that as, whatever he might say is first stifled, pushed back down his throat and then, a second later, coaxed out in the form of a soft, short moan. Aethelred's mouth on his is divine; every time perfectly explaining the meaning of a miracle but without words. This near-silent exchange sees their hands, having learned and remembered one another's bodies, touching.

Aethelred lays warm palms to Hvitserk's cheeks, holding his face in a steady grasp as they kiss. It's surprising for the Saxon to initiate such a thing but Hvitserk won't stop him now. That would be pure madness when he knows all he has to do is part his lips and he'll be invaded just as easily as the Mediterranean had been; conquered just as easily as England.

Some may call him weak but Hvitserk feels himself melt. Thoughts leave his mind as feelings build in his chest - his own hands finding their rightful place at Aethelred's waist, fingertips tightening into the soft material of his long robe.

Breathlessly, they part after a long moment. Lungs gasp and burn as their chests rise and fall in unison. Yet still they come back together, Hvitserk giving in and opening his mouth to greet Aethelred's exploring tongue with his own. The touch is familiar by now and confident, rough pads scraping alongside one another as teeth bite softly into plump lips; fuller now, heated and throbbing.

Another lifetime passes in the moonlight and a fox cries in the darkness.

"We should go. I want you but not here." Aethelred barely moves away, breath mixing beautifully with the cloud puffed from Hvitserk's mouth so closely aligned with his own.

"I know where we can go."

The words are no sooner out of Hvitserk's mouth than he takes Aethelred's hand and leads him quickly to the north side of the tower. Before them; a maze of tall hedges. It's secretive and sure to be safe at this time of night.

Safe for lovers.

"Come on." Biting his lip, Hvitserk smiles and lets his fingers entwine with those of the Saxon now, where before only their palms touched. "Nobody will find us here." He starts to walk backwards, eyes as much a lure as the way his cloak falls open, revealing how hard he is inside his leather trousers.

"Hvitserk," Aethelred's protests fall silent against the vision of the Viking's desire for him and he takes a breath of cold air in, steadying himself. "There may be other lovers in there."

"So what. I don't care. You want me and I want you; that's all I care about. And besides, anyone who has to sneak around at night to have sex won't say anything about us if we don't say anything about them."

The reasoning makes sense and, for once, Aethelred finds himself throwing caution to the wind as his feet carry him into the very same footfalls as Hvitserk, making them appear to be one to the naked eye.

Once inside the maze, the moonlight is more a hinderance than a help. Shadows are heavy and hit every angle, making it almost impossible to see. Yet, the hold upon his hand gives Aethelred all the reassurance he needs. He is not alone.

A few times along the way, they stop to kiss against the prim, cut hedges, and more than once Hvitserk loses his hand between them, palm almost cool against the throbbing warmth their bodies provide in anticipation. Aethelred is harder than he is. He's heavier too, Hvitserk knows, and even the thought of that has his hips pushing forward, begging for friction; just a touch if nothing else.

"Do you want me here?" Hvitserk's lidded eyes draw Aethelred in as needy hands do, pulling the Saxon flush against him, drawing a sharp and satisfying hiss from them both. One that slides into a sigh and then a laugh.

"I want you here."

Whatever shame may have been felt before now dissipates with those four, short words. Whatever feelings Hvitserk might have of needing to be in control or dominant - simply because each of his brothers is - vanish. Giving himself to a Saxon might be seen as weak by some, a betrayal by others, but it's all he wants.

Just to feel full and wanted.

Nudging Aethelred away, but holding onto his gaze, Hvitserk pulls the cord of his cloak, allowing it to drop from his shoulders, into a heap at his side. He instantly feels the cold but knowing what's to come keeps him warm enough. Hands slowly find their way to the waist of his trousers and deliberately, he hooks his thumbs inside. In one movement then, he's exposed as leather trousers cling to his thighs and his cock softly slaps back up against the skin of his stomach, hidden a little by his green tunic. One practiced hand lifts the hem of that tunic as the other wraps itself loosely into a fist around his hardness. He strokes it as he tilts his chin up, eyes darker.

"Then have me here, Prince Aethelred."

No note of shyness invades Hvitserk's voice as he finds himself turned and bent at the waist. In the darkness, it feels as though this should be wrong but, if anything, finally being taken this way is what makes having to hide all-the-more worth it.

Strong hands guide Hvitserk's legs, spreading them by the thighs - a little wider. Strong but gentle hands. And that makes the Viking gasp and shudder. Because he knows Aethelred will take care of him. The touch to his lower back, beneath his tunic, grounds him and the shifting he can't see soon falls silent but for the slickening of fingers from Aethelred's own mouth.

And then the blunt press he knows all-too-well.

It's uncomfortable at first, despite only being one or two digits, and Hvitserk tries his best not to flinch or give any indication that he doesn't like it. Because he knows full-well what this sharp sensation will turn into with careful ministrations. A hiss and his toes curl but Aethelred's hand soothes him, rubbing full and so very there at his lower back.

"Do you want me to stop?" Aethelred asks, even as two of his fingers seek to sink deeper into the tight, warm entrance. He will stop if Hvitserk tells him to.

"No. No, don't." Even now, Hvitserk can hear he sounds desperate. It's almost embarrassing - or probably would be to anyone else. But he glances over his shoulder and Aethelred catches his eye. "Just kiss me."

It's the softest command and Aethelred doesn't need to be told twice. As he steps closer, the action only reiterating the fact that two digits are fully seated now, a slow rhythm forming in and out, the prince gives as much heat to the kiss as he can as distraction. His second hand even comes up, reflexively taking hold firmly around Hvitserk's throat to hold him still. Tongues clash in a sloppy, wet way and neither can tell by the end whose mouth is filled more lovingly with the moans of the other.

For that is how they give and take; in moans. In the vibrations Aethelred can feel straining against his palm as his hold only tightens when he feels Hvitserk clench around him.

Aethelred pulls back, easing away with a last small touch of their mouths. It's a gauged tease followed very soon by the loss of touch altogether and Hvitserk, for a moment, fears that perhaps he's gone too far. That perhaps his bite that's almost drawn blood on the Saxon has brought this moment to a crashing halt.

But he's wrong.

The retreat of fingers makes way for the beading head of Aethelred's heavy cock at his entrance and the warmth is unmistakable.

Hvitserk shivers in the night and barely controls his body as it begs to push back; stopped only by a determined hold on his hips. This is to be done at a pace not his own. That much is very clear. No matter how desperately he wants relief.

"What's the matter, Saxon?" He breathes out, panting really, one hand still between his legs, stroking his hard cock. He curves his spine beautifully. "Losing your nerve?"

Aethelred laughs behind him. Not the kind of laugh that he used much before he came to Frankia but one that's become all-too-familiar since. He shakes his head - not that Hvitserk can see. "Hardly. I'm just more used to being taken by you but I suppose it's time that came to an end."

The yes and the please are lost somewhere in the breath that's punched out of Hvitserk's chest in the moment that follows. A silent gasp drops from his mouth; jaw agape with painful pleasure.

Inch by inch slides in - a new sound accompanying each as it's hit and passed - until Aethelred's hips are pressed flush. Skin on skin. The feeling, according to Hvitserk, is better than being with a woman. He can believe it now but it makes the realisation of his future seem all the more unsatisfying. If he knows sex won't ever feel like this again, as though he's a little closer to his God, despite the sin, then what's the point? A family will come to be sure but this tight heat is one of a kind. One he's sad to know he'll have to give up soon.

"Do you like it? Do you like being conquered, Hvitserk?"

That's all he wishes now. To have Aethelred lay waste to him in the best way. Take everything from him; his senses, his mind, his speech. Everything. He longs to be consumed with desire and devoured by his lover.

Bringing the hand up from between his legs, Hvitserk blindly reaches behind and finds Aethelred's hand there to meet his. He takes it and guides it down, wrapping it, along with his own fingers, back around himself.

"I like it. Take anything you want. I'm yours."

Slowly, the rhythm between hands and hips begins. The slow drag that falls in line with the slow push. The slow twist of a wrist that brings about the clench and the quake. Over and over and over again, each thrust gaining in power and speed until the night's silence is indefinitely broken by their shared, unbridled passion.

Few words are exchanged. Instead, the air is filled with the growing repetition of each other's names. Aethelred's whispered out through moans and the slick sound of sex, and Hvitserk's very much the same. Both breaking in crescendo as bodies tense, jointly, in orgasm, before relaxing into one another. The weight of the Saxon prince is heavy as he all-but collapses against Hvitserk, boneless now.

Aethelred's hips still twitch as he releases the last of his seed and Hvitserk is, at least at first, reluctant to let go of his hand - now sticky along with the Viking's own. Gradually though, they recover and part. Hvitserk turns, leaning back into the forgiving hedge and grins, feeling the soreness already beginning but ignoring it in place of the thick, wet warmth left deliberately to soothe it. His face is flushed and the darkness now does little to hide it.

"So?" Hvitserk croaks out, not bothering to dress for a moment but choosing to watch Aethelred tuck himself back in, instead. "Are you going to think of me when you're bedding your wife in the future?"

"Mmm," Aethelred mirrors with a lazy smile. His eyes blink even more heavily than before, if that's possible, and he steps in close again. "Perhaps. But I don't think you should think so highly of yourself, Pagan." He laughs and leans in to claim Hvitserk's mouth in a hot, open kiss; a thin line of saliva connecting them even as they break. "It gives you a bitter taste."

Just as Hvitserk did before, at the dining table, Aethelred holds his gaze and raises his own fingers to his lips. His thumb slips between them and the cooling mess left behind is consumed. Fingers follow systematically and such a thing makes both their cocks twitch.

Perhaps grapes should become a staple from now on.

[queenxxxsupreme]

angst 14 with dettlaff please?

A/N: first of all I need to thank my lovely husband Aerin @writingawaymylife for helping me with this!! He helped me so much with just making this little fic sooooo much more intense. You are the absolute best and I’d be so lost without you<3 And second, this makes me soft for sad Dettlaff :(

14. “Should you be drinking that much?”

Your fingers trailed along the wall as you made your way slowly down the hallway. 

Your home was silent, save for the sound of thunder rumbling quietly in the sky and rain tapping against the roof. 

You shivered. The house was chilly. The fire in your room and the main room managed to die sometime after you went to sleep. 

The hallway ended and you found yourself gazing into the pitch black that was the main room of your home. 

Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the room. 

You spotted the dark figure at the table, hunched over with his elbows on his knees and a chalice in hand. Lightning came again, and you were able to see the bottles of liquor that were scattered about the table. 

With a little flick of your wrist, the burning embers in the hearth grew into a fire, lighting up the room. This gave you a better look at the figure sitting at your kitchen table. 

His hair was dark with strands of silvery white hair here and there. The locks aren't nearly as neat as he usually kept them. Instead, a few fell across his forehead. The off lighting in the room made the centuries old vampire appear even older, made the lines in his brow from years of scowling appear deeper. 

His eyes didn’t lift from the chalice in his hand. He said nothing, though you knew he was aware of your presence. 

You rubbed your hands together and moved towards the fire, wanting to warm up your toes and fingers. Your eyes left his as you turned to face the fire, hands sticking out in front of you and fingers wiggling. 

You let out a small shaky breath, relieved that there was finally warmth. 

“Why aren’t you in bed?” You asked, turning your head to the side so you could focus better on the man behind you. 

“I am not tired.” He answered quietly, his voice deep and enchanting. 

You sighed softly. 

“You haven’t slept in two weeks, Dettlaff.”

He said nothing to you. 

You turned to face the man you had opened your home to. 

“Why?”

Again, he was silent.

You crossed the room, inspecting the liquor bottles. Your lips pressed together in a firm line. He’d found your stash hidden in the back of a cabinet. 

“Should you be drinking this much?” You moved around the table, counting seven empty bottles. 

“Your human liquor does little to beings such as myself.”

“Then why would you drink this much if you know it wouldn’t work?”

“I figured it would be better to try this than to go out and slaughter someone to get the outcome I want.”

Your brows drew together as you stopped in front of him. 

“What is wrong, Dettlaff?”

“I wish to be left in peace, darling.” He leaned back in his chair, placing the chalice on the table and resting his hands along the tops of his thighs. “If I wanted to discuss my troubles, I would have stayed in bed with you.”

A breath escaped your lips, shoulders slumping just slightly, but you didn’t let his words get to you. 

You noticed his eyes were focused on something in his hand, something silver and round. At first, you thought it was a coin he was fiddling with. But a quick flash of lightning flooded the room and you were able to see what it truly was. 

Circular and engraved with words, the pendant paused between his index and middle fingers before being flicked into his palm. His fingers, long and slender, closed around it, hiding it from your gaze unintentionally. 

Your stomach twisted into knots, a storm brewing within you. 

It was Syanna’s, something he had gotten her during their time together, a time when you two had been apart, when you lost contact with him. You didn’t understand why he kept it, even after all this time, why he’d keep something so tiny and meaningless. It was gifted to her. 

Why would he want to keep it? 

Perhaps it was because it reminded him of her, of the lesson he wanted to remember. How humans could be deceiving and manipulative. How he needed to be more cautious with who he let in. 

Part of you felt guilty for what happened. There was a fight, stupid and pointless now that you looked back on it. It led to you both taking time for yourselves, a needed break. 

Syanna found him when he was down, when he was weakened. She slipped into his head, faking any feelings she claimed to have for him, and used him to get back at her sister. 

You were angry with him at first, angry with what he had done, with the destruction and terror he had caused throughout Beauclair. But when you found him collapsed on your doorstep, the anger melted away. He was broken, fragmented. He wasn’t the man you remembered. 

As he explained everything to you, the anger returned, this time directed at the woman who hurt him, who ripped his chest open, tore his heart out, and left him bleeding.

You sighed heavily through your nose and turned to go to your room. Once you were at the edge of the hallway, you turned back to him, your hand finding the wall as you leaned against it.

“You know, it would be lovely to see the man I fell in love with once in a while.” Your words were quiet whispers, but you knew he could hear just fine. 

Blue eyes finally flickered up to meet your gaze. His jaw ticked. 

“I haven’t seen him for a while.” You added, shaking your head softly as you looked down at the ring on your left finger. It was expensive and old, golden with a red ruby stone. “If you…. If you see him, tell him that he’s missed.”

“Ever so dramatic you are, my dear.” Dettlaff let out a heavy breath. His voice was smooth and low, a pleasant elegant timbre.

Your breath caught in your throat, eyes widened as an ache found its way into your chest. His words took a little longer to process, the bluntness and audacity was abrupt, something you weren’t used to from the man you loved so dearly. The aching pain was quick to turn into anger upon realizing what he said. The anger festered in your veins, bubbling and burning as you took a step towards him. 

“Dramatic? For wishing that the man I married would quit relishing the past? Quit dwelling on things that cannot be changed? For wanting him to look to the future where he has control over his actions rather than trying to change the past?” Your voice turned cold and bitter. 

Narrowed eyes dug into his, breaths coming out harsh and quick as you waited for him to say something.

His gaze hardened as he looked at you. 

“I’m going to bed.” You waved a hand dismissively at him. If he wasn’t willing to open up to you, to let you help him, then there was nothing you could do to aid him in healing. 

•*•*•

You weren’t sure how long you were there laying in bed listening to the rain tap against your bedroom window. 

Too many thoughts were racing through your head. 

Would this be the end of your marriage with Dettlaff van der Eretin? 

You heard the bedroom door creak open but you didn’t dare to look at him. You were still upset and irritated with how cold he had been. 

There was quiet moving around before there was silence. 

“Y/N?”

“Yes, Dettlaff?”

“I-I’m-I’m sorry.” His whispered, his timbre voice trembling slightly. 

You turned over, brushing your hair out of your eyes. He stood on his side of the bed, broad shoulders slumped and head tilted down. 

“I’m so sorry for-for everything.” He brought his hands up to cover his face, ashamed. 

Seeing the man you loved break down, shoulders shaking and tears running down his face, broke your heart. He was always strong and composed. Very rarely did he let his emotions be known to the outside world, especially after what happened with Syanna. He became masterful at keeping his emotions hidden, locked away safely in the confines of his mind. After Syanna, the fear of becoming vulnerable to someone again was deeply rooted into his heart.  

It seemed, now, however, that the weight of his troubles was too much to bear. He could no longer hide the pain from you. 

You crawled over to the edge of the bed. 

“Come here, my love.” You beckoned him toward you with one hand, sitting up on your knees. 

Long and slender arms wrapped around you, holding you so tightly that breathing wasn’t easy, his face finding comfort in the crook of your neck. 

Your arms slipped around his broad shoulders, one hand resting between his shoulder blades while the other cradled his head to you. 

Warm tears dampened your skin. His shoulders shook with every quiet sob that racked his body. 

“I don’t want to lose you. Not again.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Dettlaff.” You assured him, turning to kiss the space behind his ear. “I just…. I need you to not be afraid of opening up to me. I know your reasoning for being carefully guarded, but I’ve been with you for the better half of two centuries. I was here long before she ever came into your life. I’ve never given you a reason to doubt me or my intentions.”

He squeezed you just a little tighter, his lips pressing kisses into your collarbone. 

You held him for a while as he calmed down, until all he did was hold you close and sniffle every now and again. 

“Let’s get this coat off of you so you can sleep properly, my love.” You suggested, pulling away hesitantly. 

He nodded, keeping his head bowed as you worked to undo the buckles on his coat. Once they were undone, you pushed the coat off of his shoulders and then began to untuck the dark gray tunic he wore beneath the coat. He allowed you to pull it off of him and toss it aside. 

You hooked two fingers underneath his chin, tilting his head up so that you could see his icy blue eyes. They were teary and red. 

The pad of your thumb swiped across his cheek, brushing away a stray tear.

“I love you, Dettlaff.”

He nodded once again, unable to use his voice. 

You moved away from him, getting comfortable on the bed before Dettlaff joined you. 

He laid with his face buried in your chest, long and slender form spread out across the bed diagonally.

You did your best to cover him, but he didn’t seem too concerned about it. 

You combed your fingers through his dark hair, humming softly in hopes that he’d drift off to sleep. 

“I love you.” The words were hushed, muffled by his mouth being pressed against the skin of your chest. But you heard them, and smiled softly.

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[behindthestrings]

He needs a toxic and intimate touch so he leans against the Espada, lips buried in his neck, craving closeness as his body is almost too weak to stand straight.

@seistark Thank you for this delicious scene....

Szayel's eyes roll up into his skull as tender lips kiss at his neck, skin even more sensitive in this form, the lust that had wrought his Vasto Lorde theme now seeping deeply into his Hellborne body. He can't help what he is, and this man knows that, infinite compassion drawing Szayel like a lightening rod of comfort.

But Szayel's no longer hollow, he's more.

The hand that still bears flesh finds purchase in moonbeam-bright hair, and his easy sensuality comes second nature, rubbing at the skin of his scalp.

"Mmmm..." His voice is guttural, spoken breathily into his ear before nipping at it, sucking at the lobe, releasing it with a soft tug. "Jushiro..."

The skeletal hand gives support around his back and he leans against the wall, holding the man who's sought solace in him. Jushiro's broken beauty pulls at the seeds of the soft nurturing instincts that once had overflowing; soul a chalice of life. His hips press into him, unable to contain urges even more pronounced in him now.

He repays him handsomely, his own lips now hungrily caressing a pulse point, feeling the blood beat strong in his carotid under his lips. He licks from collarbone to jaw before culminating it in a passionate gesture, kissing right under, into the space under the jaw junction, then drawing skin to teeth and marking him there.

"You seem tired, my dear." His honeyed tone is playful. "If you can't stand...I may as well take you to bed."