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strangererotica · 4 months ago

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EXPLICIT CONTENT • MINORS DNI

Joel Miller x Reader • oral (f receiving) • p in v sex

Thanks to everyone who voted! ♥️

The kitchen in the cabin you shared with Joel smelled of pancakes and maple syrup. He’d just finished preparing breakfast for two, as he did every Sunday morning. The remaining oil in the skillet sizzled as Joel switched off the stove. His hands were dirty with batter; he reached for a clean towel on the counter and wiped them, before turning the corner to the hallway.

Joel lingered in the bedroom doorway a moment, watching you sleep. It was mostly quiet, with only the distant sound of birds chirping outside. A few strands of amber sunshine peeked through the beige curtains on the window, touching the thick quilt that covered you. Joel’s lips pulled into a grin as he observed you in silence. He wondered for a moment how after all the mistakes he’d made in his life, the universe had somehow allowed him the gift of redemption, in the form of a beautiful young woman like you…

It was a gift Joel didn’t believe he deserved. He was dedicated to making sure he earned your love and trust in him every day he was lucky enough to have with you. Because as Joel had been made painfully aware, the things we cherish most can be taken away in an instant. A moment never passed without Joel being grateful for the gift of you in his life.

He approached the bed quietly, not wanting to wake you just yet. There was something so sweet about the way you were sleeping, one hand cupping your cheek, the other laying against the pillow. Joel knelt down beside the bed, resting his elbow on his knee. He carefully brushed back a few strands of hair from your forehead. You stirred slightly, a soft sigh leaving your parted lips.

Joel stroked your cheek gently with the back of his hand. “Hey honey,” he whispered. “It’s time to get up.”

You groaned slightly, smiling a little at hearing Joel’s voice, even in your sleep. He waited a moment before trying again. “Sweetheart. Breakfast’s ready. Come on, let me see those pretty eyes.”

Your grin deepened as you began to wake, eyes fluttering open. “Five more minutes,” you protested through a voice gravelly with sleep. Joel’s fingers were still on your cheek. He stroked you gently as if guiding you awake. “No no no, sleepyhead,” he patiently insisted. “Syrup’s already on the pancakes. They’re gonna be soggy ‘n cold by the time you eat ‘em if I give you those five extra minutes…”

You pursed your lips and frowned, closing your eyes again in protest. “Well what if I like cold, soggy pancakes?” you teased, snuggling into the pillow. Joel sighed, but there was no frustration in it. He leaned closer, pressing a tender kiss to your bare shoulder. “I know for a fact,” Joel said. “That you do not like cold, soggy pancakes. I know that because nobody does…”

You scrunched your nose, eyes still shut tight. “When did you get so smart?” you asked, to which Joel shrugged. “Have to be,” he replied. “To keep up with you.” He nuzzled his nose against your shoulder and gave it another kiss. You pointed to your cheek, and Joel obligingly placed a kiss there as well. Your fingertip trailed to your neck; Joel’s mouth followed, each kiss a little slower, deeper. Joel’s cock stiffened against the mattress, his chest hovering over yours as he nestled into your shoulder.

Here, in the soft warmth of the bed, he could smell the scent of your shampoo on the pillow; and as the quilt over your body shifted, the subtle hint of your scent beneath it stirred up to meet Joel’s nostrils. Now his eyes closed as well, Joel’s senses being filled with you: the taste of your skin on his tongue, the scent of your cunt drawn into his lungs. Joel caught himself grinding lightly into the mattress without realizing it.

“Joel,” you whimpered, your eyes still closed. “More…”

He chuckled into your neck, warm breath coasting your skin. His jeans felt like they were getting tighter by the second. “Y’smell so good, darlin,” Joel murmured at your ear. “Makes me hungry for somethin’ else…” You opened your eyes, glancing down at the quilt covering you. Joel followed, his gaze washing over the shape of your breasts rounded under the fabric. He gently cupped your breast through the quilt, his mouth finding yours. Your lips parted, the tip of your tongue licking between Joel’s lips. He exhaled, a low growl pulling up from his chest.

His fingers slid over the edge of the quilt at your neck. As his tongue explored the wet heat of your mouth, Joel pulled the quilt downward. Your body shivered from the sudden cold. “Aww darlin,” Joel cooed. “Are you cold? I can fix that.” He stood beside the bed and tugged his t-shirt off, enjoying the way your eyes raked hungrily over his exposed chest and belly, focusing on the dark trail of hair peppered with gray trailing beneath his jeans. Joel unbuckled his belt and tugged it through the loops, folded it and placed it on the nightstand beside the bed. He undid his jeans but didn’t remove them yet. Joel climbed over you on the bed, resting his weight on his elbows as he lowered his chest onto yours.

“Y’just need some body heat, is all,” Joel said, his hands roaming up your sides. He placed soft kisses between your breasts through your nightgown, cupping both mounds in his hands. Joel’s fingers slipped under the neckline of your nightgown, which was softly rising and falling over your breasts as you breathed. He carefully pulled it down, your breasts popping over the fabric, your soft skin meeting the scruff of Joel’s stubble. His tongue swept over your exposed skin, circling your left nipple before his lips latched over it.

You moaned softly as Joel massaged your breast in his mouth. The pad of his tongue rolled over your left nipple, the right twisted gently between Joel’s thumb and forefinger. You keened into Joel’s mouth, your back lifting off the mattress. He stayed at your breasts a moment longer, before shifting down the bed and nestling between your thighs. Joel lifted the edge of your nightgown, letting the fabric settle on your stomach. Your legs were spread already, pussy ripe and wet like a peach, waiting just inches from his lips.

Joel was overwhelmed with the need to devour you as your scent consumed him. His hands wrapped around your thighs, holding them like a frame around his face. He closed his eyes and nuzzled against your lips, catching your slick on the end of his nose. Your hips shifted, a silent request for more. Joel could never deny you anything, and certainly not when it meant he got to taste you. His big hands held your thighs apart, dark eyes taking in the bounty before him, like a man preparing to feast.

He flattened his tongue against your cunt, sloppily spreading your lips apart. The warmth of his breath against your clit made you shiver again. He closed his lips over your clit, sucking the tiny bud between them. Your legs jerked, a breathy giggle escaping your lungs. Joel’s grip tightened on your thighs as he looked up at you from between them. “Gotta make sure you stay put, sweetheart,” he said, a dark twinkle in his eyes. “You try buckin’ me off again like that, I’m gonna have to make you mind…”

Joel buried his face against your cunt, making you whimper in relief and need. As many times as you’d felt this before, it always felt like the first time. Joel knew exactly what you wanted, where you needed his mouth to be. The thick pressure of his tongue massaging your clit was so perfect it almost hurt, but you’d never tell him to stop. It felt too good, too intense, like you were either going to come or piss or both. Your body jolted again, which earned you a hard growl from Joel, the vibration from his mouth making your clit throb even harder. He forced your legs wider apart, pinning them to the mattress. You wriggled under his hold, but Joel’s strength far surpassed your own. In less than a minute you were coming, your body writhing under Joel, his shoulders braced as he held you still.

When you finished shaking, Joel relaxed his hold on you, letting you rest. He climbed up between your legs till his face was above yours, a line of slick hanging from his chin. “That’s a good girl,” he said, guiding one of your weak, pliant legs around his waist and holding it there. “You just relax now darlin, ‘n let me do all the work.” Joel reached between your bodies and took hold of his cock, rubbing his tip between your lips, massaging your wet, warm entrance. He grinned when your small hole puckered against him expectantly, eager. Joel lowered his tip just inside you, groaning as your walls spread around him. He bit his lip, forcing himself to go slow, to make this moment last. Five more minutes, you’d said. Those five minutes he’d allowed you had stretched to twenty, but at this point, Joel wanted them to go on forever.

“Joel,” you squeaked, your fingers groping at his back. He knew what you needed, something he was more than willing to give you. Joel sank his hips forward, filling you completely. The breath you’d been holding spilled from your lungs, your head landing back against the pillow. Joel rut into you forcefully, his hips meeting yours in rapid, hard thrusts. He gripped the sides of your pillow in his fists, pulling you closer. Your forehead pressed against Joel’s chest as he took you, pumping his cock inside the tight, slick grip of your body.

His lips parted in a breathy moan, teeth grazing your shoulder as he came. You wrapped your arms around Joel’s back, feeling his muscles shudder and tense. He pulsed inside you, warm semen spilling between your walls and oozing out around Joel’s cock. He stayed inside you, both your breath and his filling the room in ragged, grateful pants. The mattress was soaked beneath your ass, your cum and Joel’s spilling onto the sheets. When your bodies finally separated, it wasn’t for long. Because Joel pulled you into his arms and held you, making sure you stayed warm, just as he always did. And when you’d both recovered, he made fresh pancakes for you, and served them in the same bed he’d had his breakfast in…

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f3mme-f4tale · 1 year ago

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which witch

part one

word count: 4k potential warnings: potential depictions of violence, sexual content, fingering (r! receiving) adult themes (explicit language), tension, angst, world building, more to come... pairing: rebel!ellie x princess!reader (categorized within the knight!ellie aesthetic)

authors note: there are some influences from game of thrones! :))

A cloud of gray smoke lingered above the vine-infested concrete walls of the booming city, machinery roaring to life and wildering conversations floating in the thick air. A war was looming over the Sovereign City, an invading force from the south eagerly plowing through the skin-biting tundra. The hundreds of guilds within the city's walls fed the economy, although some whisper that underground trading of magic folk is what really fuels the financial state. A spy for the rebellion circled the local market, running her hands over the bruised fruit and eyeing the common folk cautiously, trying her best to go undetected. The city center was preparing for the Sun Festival, ironic given the smog that shielded nearly all sunlight.

A local fruit stand was at the center of the market, an older gentleman staffing the exotic fruit from outside the city walls. Bright, intricate starfruit and jelly-filled strawberry papayas littered the concrete mosaic ground. A small goat with a blue bell was tied haphazardly to a post, the yarn fraying with every slight tug from the animal. A group of children dressed in muted shades of brown and green played a game of dice on the other side of the courtyard, daring each other to steal blackberries. The butcher’s son was pushing a small wagon of discarded meat and small fish bones towards an alley, likely to discard the leftovers.

The spy was adorned in local fabrics, muted mismatched stitching holding together a quilt-like material that resembled a shawl. Her deep maple hair cascaded down her neck with a simple silver pin holding some pieces out of her face. Her fingertips were stained with nightshade, her left-hand concealing a small dagger. The weapon was known for immediately striking down any foe, its metal laced with poison. Magic folk and creatures were no exception, despite their enchantments. An abstract fox decorated the handle, a symbol of the rebellion against the empire. On her hip was a small satchel containing various assortments of herbs, sliced plum mushrooms, and powdered oleander seeds. Being a spy, a magic one at that, had its benefits.

The spy detected a woman pocketing something from a guard across the courtyard. She watched her scurry away down an alley, not before stealing a fig from one of the stands. With the day being as slow as it had been, she reasoned that any mischief became her mischief. As she made her way towards where the other woman went, her grip tightened on the weapon. Upon turning down the alley, she seemingly vanished. It was not often that the spy’s prey escaped her sight, not since she was a child at least. At the last possible moment, a speck of red disappeared through a doorway fifty feet in front of her. Swallowing a sigh, she followed.

Inside was a desolate old factory, broken machinery sprawled across the floor and spray paint covering the walls. Sigils were marked on the concrete ground – emblems and allegories from The Blackmoor Book. She questioned how someone within the walls could have such knowledge, risking the high court finding such symbolism.

What was this place?

She did not dwindle on this apprehension long, sinking into the shadows and scanning the place for that woman. A crackly, high-pitched laugh erupted from the other side of the room. Before thinking twice, the spy was across the room in mere seconds, her knife pressed firmly against the mystery woman’s throat, as if in reflex.

“Ya know for as skilled as you are, I figured you’d recognize me,” the woman pestered, her dialect thick. The spy could place the voice, but the face was distant from her mind. The blade stayed against her throat, the pressure never wavering.

“Ellie,” she cooed, “it’s me.”

There was nothing I could do. My feet were lodged between the large stones that decorated the bottom of the fast river, the murky sand blinding my vision and setting my lungs on fire. I was becoming weak, fighting a losing battle with the force of the water. I wanted to give up, to let the depths swallow me whole and my mind run blank. My fingers just barely reached the surface, scratching at the sliver of life that was never fully mine. The anxiety was bubbling up from my stomach and began to make me tremble with complete fear; I wasn’t getting out of this.

Once, when I was young, I would swim in streams and small rivers just like this one. Uncle would be back at the village, father out with the council. My older foster brother would often join me, teaching me how to catch the fish and which plants could be used for medicine. When it was a quiet day, we would read books to the frogs and small insects. Now, at the precipice of death, I can only focus on the day he showed me how to fashion an arrowhead. On how his fingers made sharp movements and the glimmer in his eyes was its purest. He was the mouth of God; I took his words as religion. But he wasn’t there.

My arms grew numb, my body losing sensation. This was it. This was how I was finally going. I screamed against the current and inhaled the river. As my vision darkened and I began to accept defeat, I remembered the reason I was trying to traverse across in the first place; the heaviness of the guilt weighing me down. I made a promise, I swore to him. They were going to die, and it was all my fault. It was a mistake to think I could perform this journey alone, inexperienced.

And then I could breathe again. My fingers dug at my chest, eagerly gasping for air. My eyes burned from the sunlight, my right ankle adorning a jagged cut from the rock that once imprisoned me. My savior hovered above me, breathing just as heavily as I was. Where did they come from?

“T-thank you,” I managed to get out once the anxiety subsided, my throat still burning.

Hesitantly, I glanced up in their direction. They were drenched in luminance, a godliness highlighting their physique, black paint dancing across their nose. Meeting their enticing eyes, I realized I recognized them. A local girl a year older than me from the village, her hair tied tight against her head and half of her body soaking wet. She offered me a curt nod, adjusting the straps on her satchel and securing a few stray pieces of hair. The outfit she wore was jarring, nothing like the large tunics the women wore at home. The breeches and sleek overcoat were skin-tight, a throwing knife strapped securely to her thigh. She did not say anything back, leaving me as fast as she appeared.

“Dina,” Ellie mumbled, her voice rough against the soothing nature of Dina’s. Her eyes scanned the other's face, the memories of her childhood friend rushing back to her like a tidal wave. The same black paint was decorated across her nose, symbolizing her coven. Ellie let her guard down, the blade dropping to her side. The sigils made sense then – she grew up in the same village beyond this city within the Withering Woods, learned from the same potions master, and drank the same Mistmoor river water. Their village Jackson’s Crossing, surrounded by the White Mountains and often disregarded on official cartographer maps, was a cloister of small families from varied ethnicities.

Dina’s fingers were also stained a dark purple – evidence of witchcraft. The last time they had seen each other was years prior, back when Ellie was recruited to fight against the tyranny of the High Ruler, who came into power with varying degrees of support from the public. The last she heard of Dina was that she had joined a coven, practicing magic in secret.

She had grown a lot since their last encounter, her scarlet hair now many inches longer and herself several inches taller. They spared each other the formalities in catching up, Ellie reaching for the item Dina snatched from the unsuspecting general just beyond the door. She let her, Ellie’s mind working through possibilities as she brought the ring of keys closer. She should have known; such an item was predictable. Although, what did Dina need them for?

“Trying to sneak someone out of the dungeons, hmm?” she finally spoke, placing her dagger back into the depths of her clothing. Dina smiled at Ellie again, raising her eyebrows and letting her face do the talking. “Ah, well, sneaking into prison seems more your speed anyways.”

“The council has been very unyielding in my request for an audience,” she began, walking a few steps away from Ellie. “So, I’ve had to find my own ways.”

“Why do you wish to speak to them?” Ellie questioned, puzzled as to what her companion could want with them. Dina’s gaze meant nothing but trickery, her smile growing wider and wider. Whatever her intentions, Ellie considered leeching on, her own assignment from the Rebellion creating a need to be inside those palace walls – although for a quite different reason.

“Remember Jesse?” she smirks, running a hand through her locks. Ellie snorts at this – because of course she remembers Jesse, how could she not? They were practically joined at the hip before Ellie left Jackson.

“He’s gotta learn to keep his mouth shut in front of the guards. He’s so pretty, but he can be pretty thick headed sometimes,” Dina scolds, shaking her head. “So, naturally, they’ve finally decided to sentence him after years of causing mayhem.”

“Well, I want in,” Ellie says coldly, adjusting with the fabric that covers her shoulder. Dina squints at her friend, questioning her motivations. “I’ve got orders to relocate a member of the royal family, per the Rebellion's bequest.”

Deep viridian ivy covers the cobblestones and beige pillars of the courtyard, dark shadows stretching up the walls. Rain litters the ground, the damp air an inviting aroma. Billowing clouds darken the sky, the thunder a welcoming presence.

You’re sitting at a desk, candlelight framing your face as you attempt to read the book in your hands. It’s no use however, as your mind is swirling with a million different thoughts. The betrayal of your father cuts deep; all that remains is the stark reality of your pain. You trace the outline of the candle's flame with trembling fingers, its flickering dance mirroring your thundering heartbeat.

A knock at the door interrupts your spiral, haphazardly setting down your book and the weight of the chair creaking as you stand. A woman is on the other side, her curly black hair cascading down her back. The servant's uniform does her no justice, her figure cloaked in a tunic two sizes too big. You raise an eyebrow, questioning the intruder at such a late hour.

“Yes?” you ask, voice wavering slightly. You know she can see the dismay in your face, your eyes all too forgiving. You instinctively hunch your shoulders, nails pushing into the meat of your palm, knuckles turning white.

“Lord David sent me to draw you a bath, my lady. He wants you to be clean and fresh for your engagement tomorrow,” she responds, bowing her head. She holds clean linens and a sponge in her hand, a slight look of sorrow crossing her face that you almost miss. You step aside begrudgingly, letting her through.

Large buckets of water make their rounds over the fire as the servant works to untie the laces of your bodice, making quick work of the material. The cool air filtering through the partially opened window makes your skin grow cold, the woman helping you out your chemise, body bare to her wandering gaze. Her hands were warm, a stir emerging within your gut. You always disliked having other people bath you, yet you found yourself straightening your back, showing off. She made eye contact with you, half slitted pupils devouring your form. You welcomed this, using your left hand to remove a pin that was keeping your braids in place. She steps behind you to begin dumping the contents of the bucket into a metal tub.

And then suddenly the servant is several inches away, hands agonizingly tracing your shoulders, her breath hot on your neck. She places a small kiss just underneath your ear, a shudder escaping your lips as you tentatively close your eyes. You’d never had someone approach you this way, not unless you count the several forty-something year old male suitors that you had declined since you turned sixteen years ago.

The servant uses one hand to pull your hair over to one shoulder as the other palms your bare stomach. You suck in a breath, not pushing her away. You knew this was wrong, save for the fact that she was another woman. What would your father say? What would the maids whisper to each other when they thought no one was looking?

Despite protests shouting against your very core, you remained still, leaning into her frame. You could feel her breasts pressing into your back, her right hand dancing dangerously close to the space between your legs. Her left hand dragged across your chest, fingers grazing and pulling. When her right hand plunged into your slick, you leaned your head back against her shoulder.

“Lay down, my lady,” she murmured, gently moving your already wrecked body towards the bed in the corner. You obliged, sitting on the edge. She pushed you down, immediately dropping down to her knees. You were new to this, not even daring to touch yourself. Her mouth felt foreign on your pelvis, but you bucked up into her face regardless.

Her tongue slid across you, pink bud becoming raw from the friction. When she pushed two fingers inside of you, a borderline scream escaped your delicate lips. The swell of your breasts bounced as she began to pick up her pace, rocking your body against the frame of the bed and adding another slender digit. Her tongue continues its assault on your clit, forcing you to take it, to take all of it.

It’s over before you realize, her face covered in you. You pull her up by the collar of her uniform, forcing her lips against yours. She’s taken aback at first, but then melts into the embrace. She’s sticking her tongue into your mouth, the taste of you invading and arousing.

“As much as I’d love to continue Princess,” the woman says suddenly, breaking the kiss. “I did come here to bathe you.” You nod, suddenly extremely aware of your surroundings and how easily you folded under her touch – a woman’s touch.

As she dumped another bucket of hot water into the metal tub, you gazed off absentmindedly. Her coarse fingers work through your locks, detangling the pieces that frame your face.

“You’re so beautiful, but you have to keep him happy. He gets bored easily.”

You glance over at her, noticing the way the fireplace behind her makes her skin glow.

“I don’t want you to end up, well, like the others,” she sighs, moving to grab a rag to clean your skin with. You were so used to the mindless handling of your body that sometimes you forgot how vulnerable you could be.

“W-what others?” you croaked, tension once again creeping up your spine and through your fingers. You felt her movements stiffen, realizing she spoke out of turn.

“Oh, I shouldn’t, it’s all hearsay. I apologize, my lady,” she replies, her actions becoming more disorderly. You watch her closely, her sudden discomfort adding another layer of unease to the already heavy atmosphere. Despite her attempt to backtrack, your curiosity is piqued, and you press further.

"No, please, tell me," you insist, your voice barely above a whisper. She hesitates, torn between loyalty to her lord and a desire to warn you. Finally, she speaks, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire.

"There have been others before you," she begins, her words careful and measured. "Women who were... chosen, like you." Your heart pounds in your chest, the implications of her words sinking in. You swallow hard, pushing down the rising sense of dread threatening to overwhelm you.

"What happened to them?" you ask, your voice trembling despite your efforts to remain composed. She hesitates again, her gaze dropping to the floor as if unable to meet your eyes.

"They... disappeared," she murmurs, her voice barely audible. "Some say that he grows tired of his playthings, discarding them when they no longer amuse him, banished to distant lands never to return. Others whisper darker tales of rituals and… well," she clarifies, her hands shaking as she runs her nimble fingers through your hair once more.

You struggle to process the implications of her revelation, the realization dawning on you with sickening clarity. "You mean... they're dead?" you whisper, the words feeling foreign and surreal on your tongue. You turn to her fully, putting on a show of false confidence. “This is my home. He can’t frighten me.”

“Of course, my lady. Forgive me.”

You nod, still reeling from her earlier words. As she finishes bathing you, you're left alone with your thoughts once more. The warmth of the water does little to soothe the chill in your bones, the weight of impending responsibilities pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket.

“Will I see you again?” You mumble, eyes pleading with the woman as she’s half way out of your chamber, a robe now draped around your figure. A frown catches her lips, a sigh is all the answer you need.

“I’m afraid not,” she finally answers, yet doesn’t move from her place at the door. You feel your stomach drop, reaching out to catch her lips in a kiss once more. This one is less aggressive, a plea for more. She cups your cheek softly, kissing you back. “It’s not safe. We live in a world where desires are often sacrificed for duty.”

As she finally steps away, you watch her silhouette fade into the dimly lit corridor beyond your chamber. A sense of loss washes over you, as you're left in the silence of your chambers. The flames of the candles flicker ominously, casting dancing shadows on the walls. You try to shake off the unease settling in your chest, but the seed of doubt planted by the woman’s words grows with each passing moment.

You know you should rest, to prepare yourself for the challenges that lie ahead, but sleep eludes you. Instead, you find yourself pacing the room, the echoes of your footsteps mingling with the whispers of your own fears.

This union is a death sentence, a promise made to satisfy your fathers requests. Your older sister was the next in line to rule, your brother already married off to a Duchess in the East. You would never sit on the throne; the pressure of said title always out of reach but forever a taunt. You could taste the longing for power – a snake wrapping around your heart, squeezing.

By marrying Lord David, you help ease the emerging tensions between the East and South kingdoms within the empire. It had long been kept secret that you were a bastard, a lie living a life of luxury. Guilt ate away at you from every inch of your skin, your real mother a ghost of your past. Of course, maids and servants talked. That said, the effort to uphold the ruler's dignity and honor reigned supreme; Those who were caught gossiping would meet a punishment worse than castration.

You understand the importance of maintaining stability within the empire, of ensuring peace between rival factions. But on the other hand, there's the gnawing fear that grips you, the fear of being trapped in a loveless marriage, of becoming just another casualty in the game of power and ambition.

You remember the stories you heard as a child, tales of kings and queens whose lives were dictated by duty rather than desire. You used to dream of a different fate for yourself, of finding love and happiness on your own terms. But now, as the reality of your situation sinks in, those dreams seem like distant echoes of a naive past.

Tomorrow, you will be betrothed to a man you hardly know; a union forged by politics and alliances. When morning comes, you will rise with a sense of resignation, steeling yourself for the path laid out before you.

Dawn breaks upon a canvas of melancholy, the sky adorned in swathes of slate-hued clouds. You dress in a gown of regal elegance, each layer of silk and lace feeling like a shroud closing in around you. Your reflection in the mirror is a stranger's face, masked behind a facade of composure that belies the turmoil within. As you fasten the intricate clasps of your necklace – a delicate chain of platinum interwoven with strands of glistening rhodonite and sunstone – you can't help but wonder if you're adorning yourself for a wedding or a funeral.

Downstairs, guests mingle in clusters of polished nobility. Their smiles are as artificial as the flowers adorning the tables, masking the alliances and rivalries that simmer beneath the surface. You navigate the crowd with practiced grace, exchanging pleasantries and feigned enthusiasm.

In the grand hall, where sunlight filters through stained glass, illuminating the opulence of the surroundings, you stand amidst a sea of faces, each one a mask concealing clandestine desires. At the center of it all stands Lord David, a towering figure of authority and ambition. His gaze finds yours across the room, a flicker of something unreadable passing between you before he turns to greet another guest.

His eyes, like shards of obsidian, pierce through the veneer of social niceties. As he acknowledges your presence with a nod of his head, you offer a polite smile, concealing the turmoil churning within your breast. His lips curve in response, but there is a hardness in his gaze. With unspoken haste, the sea of guests transitioned into the next room, organizing into rows.

Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns of color upon the assembled guests. The delicate lace of your veil cascaded like a waterfall around you, framing your face in a halo of soft radiance. Lord David, regal and imposing, awaited you at the altar.

As you drew near, the murmurs of the crowd fell silent, and all that remained was the steady rhythm of your heartbeat echoing in your ears. With each step, you felt the weight of expectation pressing down upon you, the gravity of the moment settling like a cloak upon your shoulders.

At last, you stood face to face with Lord David, your hands trembling slightly as you clasped his in yours. The officiant's voice filled the air, the solemn words of the vows binding you together. His grip tightened at your wrists, thumb pressing into your pressure point. You fought against the sinking feeling in your chest, the fear washing over your features.

Concealed behind a pillar, at the room's farthest edge, stood a guest with a blade, its hilt adorned with an abstract fox; A silent sentinel amidst the opulent chaos. Their gaze, like a river's current, flows over your form, lingering on each curve and contour with a cautious reverence. The bodice of the gown hugs your frame, accentuating the gentle curve of your waist before giving way to a voluminous skirt that pools around your feet in a sea of soft fabric. Layers upon layers of tulle and organza lend an air of weightless beauty to the ensemble, each fold and pleat catching the light in a mesmerizing dance.

The spy stole a final glance at the princess, and for a brief moment, she could've sworn she saw a glimmer of fear entrenched in your gaze. Rancorously, Ellie envisioned taking a blade to Lord David's throat and smiling as the congealed mess of his arteries betrayed him. She shoved the wrinkled piece of parchment into the confines of her satchel. Her mission began.

Secure the youngest daughter of the sovereign.

taglist: @seraphicsentences @onlinelesbo @yumimak @elliewilliamsblunt @bready101

#tlou2 #ellie williams #fanfic #lesbian #tlou #ellie x reader #wlw #ellie x fem reader #free palestine #ellie williams fic

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