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tragedybunny · 1 year ago

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Something Like Love - Astarion x F!Reader

Astarion has failed to seduce you, but even so, a bond has begun to grow between the two of you. It all comes to a head when Astarion almost loses you.

You infuriated Astarion. At first it was because stopping to help every person you happened upon was delaying dealing with his problems. Now that you had been traveling together for some time, not only were these little side adventures a delay, but you didn’t seem to be careful about how much they took out of you and how tired they left you. Even your other companions didn’t seem to care, letting you agree to solve every problem that you came upon and even adding to the pile.

But not him. Astarion was always right there at your side with a glare and a snapping refusal, which you’d usually brush off, but at least he tried. The rest of them just smiled and nodded, without noticing the circles under your eyes, or how slow you moved some mornings, or how thin you’d gotten. Protector wasn’t a position he normally found himself in, but you were different, you were kind to him, without expecting anything in return, as far as he could tell anyway. The two of you hadn’t even slept together, not for lack of trying on his part. The couple times he’d tried you firmly refused, and yet somehow you stayed kind to him, even still offering him your blood. In fact you didn’t seem to want anyone in camp. That was also exasperating. How could he expect your continued kindness, and protection which he desperately needed, without repayment? And what was he better at than sex?

So he resolved he’d give you whatever small gestures he could. Whenever you tore an item of clothing, he’d mend it at first chance. When the group made camp for the night, he always made sure your tent was up first, in whatever spot you wanted, and helped you pack when it was time to move on. Every battle, he stood at the backline with you while you cast spells, aiming arrows at anyone who got too close to you, his first priority keeping you safe. And he still tried to keep you from overextending yourself, despite no one ever listening to him. Which had led to the shouting match with Halsin earlier. Well it wasn’t really a shouting match, the Druid had remained frustratingly placid in the face of Astarion’s blustering. He’d already been vocally unhappy about looking for this Thaniel or whatever, but you’d found him, and still Halsin asked more. “We need to worry about Thorm, we don’t have time to keep bothering with this!”

“Curing the land could help break Thorm’s hold. I know you all don’t owe it to me.” Gods why did he ask like that, all humble and dissembling. You would cave to that for sure,

“You’re right, we don’t.”

“But…”

“Hells, can’t you see how much all of this is taking out of her!” Astarion had exploded, voice loud enough that some of your other companions jumped.

“It’s fine Astarion,” you’d gently placed a hand on his arm, “let’s finish this.”

With a frustrated growl, he’d yanked his arm away, regretting the hurt on your face. “Fine.”

That all led to this moment, you’d fended off the creatures summoned by the corrupted spirit, and Astarion watches as you calmly approach it. Speaking softly, your words soothe it, and he could see it starting to trust you. As always, you amaze him with your ability to solve things with your words, but he feels a twinge of something else, a want for something like those kind words that fell from your lips so easily. The spirit vanishes and Astarion finally feels a bit of relief it seems over. That is until your knees give way and you collapse to the jagged paving stones beneath you.

He's at your side instantly, a scream tearing itself from his throat. “Somebody fucking help her.”

Shadowheart js the first to respond, hands peeling away the light armor you wear, revealing gashes left by one of those shadow creatures that had gotten close. Teeth bite down into his lip to hold back a sob, he hadn’t even noticed, he’d failed the one duty he had. That ire finds a new target easy enough though, as Halsin attempts to join Shadowheart in tending to you. He’s barely started to kneel next to you when Astarion lunges, hissing and fangs flashing. “No you stay the fuck away from her, this is your fault!” For a second his face falls with guilt, but Astarion is in no state for empathy, all blame now on the Druid in his mind.

Hands fight to grab hold of him, to get close enough to tear his thick throat out. A pair of strong arms wraps around his waist, pulling him back from his murderous goal. “Easy Fangs, she’ll be alright,” Karlach tries to reassure him.

He struggles against her iron hold, still flinging curses and furious words. “That’s not the point, this shouldn’t have happened. But no one wanted to listen to me, none of you selfish idiots care when you’re asking too much!”

That was it, they’d all turn on him now, especially without you aware enough to defend him. To his surprise, Karlach just holds him slightly tighter, and keeps whispering that it was going to be fine. Wyll comes over to lay a hand on his shoulder, face stoic. "Shadowheart has this.”

At least Halsin has stepped back, expression troubled. Good, let him suffer. A spell glows in Shadowheart’s hands, suturing back together your skin, and your eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, for a moment before closing again. Karlach wisely releases him, leaving him free to hover over you and ward off Halsin as he takes a hesitant step toward you. He’d be damned if anyone else was carrying you, the lot of them were untrustworthy. Reverently, he leans down, taking you in his arms, and lifting you from the ground. Gods, you were so small, there was almost nothing to you. How did you seem so imposing most of the time?

Silently, the group makes it’s way back to camp, Astarion holding tightly to you the whole way. When they reach the cluster of tents, he goes straight to yours to lay you down gently in your blankets. Turning back to the rest of the party he snarls in their direction. "All of you better stay the hells out of this tent until she's properly healed," he snaps the tent flap shut and wishes he had a door to slam on their faces.

Sitting down next to you, he pulls your hand into his and tried to forget about the stinging in his eyes. "You're going to be alright Darling. You have to be."

For hours he sits there, hand holding yours, waiting, watching your chest rise and fall, the reassurance he hadn’t lost you. Losing you, he can’t even fathom it. His protector, companion, he'd even go so far as to say friend. Even if you didn't notice how he was always at your side whenever you stayed up to launder your clothes, or how you never took a turn to cook alone, or how he was always walking right next to you on the road.

You sigh in your sleep and he feels a tug in that place that sometimes wonders if you could be more than friends. Which was stupid, you hadn't even wanted sex with him. Besides, what you already gave him was more than he deserved considering what he had been planning after sleeping with you.

Finally, exhausted, he drifts into meditation, still holding onto you, until your sleep heavy voice pulls him out of it. "Astarion?"

His eyes are wide immediately and without a second thought, he throws himself into your arms, nuzzling into your neck. "You're awake." Then he starts crying like an idiot; ugly, undignified sobs against your skin. "I was worried," he tries to explain leaping on you and his ridiculous tears.

"I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you." You put your arms around him, accepting him without question, like always.

"You silly, silly girl, you were the one that almost died. Don't apologize to me." He's trying desperately to stop bawling uncontrollably.

"I know, but I don't like to see you upset." Ever so lightly, he can feel your hand brushing through his hair.

"Why," he's managed to get himself somewhat under control, but doesn't move from where you've let him lay. "Why are you like this? Always giving, even when it's too much for you?"

You hesitate for a moment. "Because I care about you."

"You do," he asks, unwilling to let himself believe what he's heard.

"Well, I care about everyone," of course he should've realized, "but I care about you a very great deal, Astarion."

Astarion freezes, the words leaving warmth in that secret place inside that he's been trying to keep from himself and you. "I don't understand."

"I see you. I see how hard you try and how far you've come, and how much you try to do for me." There's a smile in your voice and impossibly he thinks it has something to do with him.

"Why didn't you say anything?" His hand searches yours out and your fingers interwine.

"I didn't think you were ready to hear it. But today it was almost too late to tell you." You've placed both of your hands over your chest and he can feel your heartbeat.

"I…I don't know how I feel." Inwardly, he quails, worried that will drive you. "But this is nice."

"It's alright Astarion, there's no rush to this." Impulsively, he leans up to leave a feather light kiss on your cheek, grateful for you in ways he can't understand.

#Astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x female reader #x reader #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #my fanfic #my writing

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lokisgoodgirl · 5 months ago

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The Rite: Consequence (VI)

A link to The Rite Masterlist is here A link to my regular Masterlist is here Summary: (6) It's the day of The Rite 🙈And whether Loki succeeds or fails in capturing your pleasure (and your heart) - there will be consequences. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Mild angst. Asgardians behaving badly. Smut. I am begging, pleading for your trust. (w/c 5.6k)

Loki blocked the fall of the blade with a hanging guard, catching his brother’s wild stare through the angle of his arm.

Dust scraped across his eyes from the training ring, but he blinked it away. They both glistened with mid-afternoon sweat - muscles straining; all hard veins and gritted teeth.

Loki licked his lips, tasting salt, and his arm began to quiver beneath the press of his brother’s blade – but he wouldn’t relent. He never did.

The Rite was only hours away.

It began at sundown. He wasn’t allowed to see you, and beating his brother into the dirt was as good a distraction as any. Better than the ones I’m used to.

And besides, after the two of you had talked until sunrise – about everything and anything that avoided the question of love – there was nothing more to be done.

If Fandral had told you about the second part of The Rite, he was glad you hadn’t raised it. He didn’t think he could bear knowing its outcome in advance. Better the short, sharp shock of shame than its clammy shadow. Better to whisper in your ear and devour your lips and feel your hand searching the angles of him until he was sick with painful desire.

“Yield,” Loki grit. A thick strand of hair had come loose, trailing over his vision. The furrow of Thor’s frown grew deeper.

“Why would I? I have you on the run, little brother.” A soft grunt broke in Loki’s throat. He flexed his shoulder and parried Thor’s sword to the side with force, kicking the blonde’s left foot from under him in the same movement. Thor slammed down into the sand; sprawling and sword clattered against the stone beneath.

“You don’t fight fair, Loki” “Maybe you should fight better.” Thor scrambled to his feet, sand sticking in clumps to the sweat gathered on his chest. “I am the greatest warrior this realm has ever known because I fight with honour.” Loki rolled his eyes. “Honour,” he spat. “At least you shan’t have your ill-gotten reputation in the histories as its greatest lover for much longer.” Thor hacked a wad of dust-gritted saliva and spat it to his feet. He looked up with a twisted smile. “I don’t know about that, Loki. Of the two of us you’ve always been seen as the bigger whore. A talented one for certain, but a whore all the same. And soon enough, your Rite partner will join the throng; be forgotten like the rest.” Before he knew it, Loki’s dagger was at Thor’s throat.

His vision flashed white, and behind him came the jangle of armoured guards, circling them with their spears readied. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thor’s hands rise to steady them.

“Brother…” Thor said slowly, “I know you’re nervous, but killing me really would remove any chance you have at the succession—”

“—I won’t take insult from those who wax lyrical about honour and leave their loin’s fruit to the vultures.” Thor frowned. “What are you talking about?” He tried to look down at the blade glinting by his thorax and only succeeded in nicking his skin. “Ow.” Loki released a withering sigh, flipping the dagger away and kicking Thor’s foot from beneath him. The other one, this time. His brother crumpled like a wet towel. He turned, seeing several of the guards’ facial expressions flinch between the gaps in their helmets.

“Disperse,” he muttered, striding past them and wondering mildly how long it would be until Odin found out. He needed to bathe. He needed to be alone. I need to be with her. But he couldn’t have that; so alone, it would be.

“Don’t worry brother,” he said dryly as he scraped sweat-soaked hair off his face. “I’m sure none of father’s spies will impart that you were bested by a whore.” Thor’s blustering protestations made a smirk curl the corner of his mouth. He must remember to tell you about this, when all was said and done: when the succession was set in stone, when the home for abandoned children was secured, when he knew that you loved him. And as he exited the training ring, Loki realised with horrifying clarity that one of those possibilities hung around his neck like a millstone: heavier than the others – threatening to collapse him to his knees.

If she loves me, he re-worded in his mind, beginning to walk a little quicker to the safety of solitude.

You’d been woken in late morning and bustled with minimal ceremony to the private baths on the upper floors of the palace.

Once there, your day-gown had been stripped by a flurry of exquisitely beautiful maids; each dressed in blue fabric as thin as gauze, hair like pure, precious metals. How you hated them.

You hadn’t realised you wouldn’t see Loki until The Rite itself until he’d told you last night before you parted ways. You’d kissed him so roughly against the wall, fingers digging into his scalp, that you’d almost passed out from lack of oxygen.

And now…here, with the most impossibly beautiful nymphs in all of Asgard – it felt like there was no time. You need to be near him. Isn’t that how love works? But then, you wouldn’t know. You suddenly wondered if absence before the ceremony was really part of the tradition, or if Odin and the rest of them were trying to keep you apart. Hoping he’ll fail. —Stop being so paranoid.

Steam rose from the hot spring, undulating like flame as one of the nymphs massaged your shoulders. I wonder what Loki’s doing. Does he miss me? Is he nervous…? You lifted one calf out of the water where you’d perched at the edge of the baths, the scent of orange oil thick in your nostrils. Suddenly the fingers stopped working, and she leant down. “Loki’s very good, you know. Everyone knows it’s his favourite thing to do to a woman, or a man. You’re so lucky.” She giggled, and your stomach tightened with a wave of inexplicable anger. “I’m jealous. They say he does this thing with his tongue that—" “—Oh hush, Mavor.” You winced as Frigga’s chide sparked like a lit match. She settled, dangling her feet in the pool beside yours. “Leave the poor girl alone, I’m sure the past few days have been much to contend with.”

You turned fractionally, almost blinded by the golden assault of her sunlit hair. She’s staring at you, faint crows-feet scrunched from the vaguely discomforting smile on her lips. “What happened last night with Fandral was improper. What must you think of us?” “I don’t think it of you,” you lied, memories of the sick little girl cinching tight around your mind; the fact that Fandral and all the other court-wankers had no clue that Loki was the one clearing up their mess, doing any real good. But it was a secret, and a secret it would remain.

And then you remembered what Lagertha said when the nurse had thanked the gods. ‘Not the gods,’ she’d said, beaming with pride as Loki blushed. ‘This one’s the only one worth having.’

Frigga’s close-lipped smile grew. “We can’t blame Fandral for being in love with Loki, even if his methods were…”

Your eyebrow rose. “Petty? Spiteful? Unforgiveable?”

Frigga laughed: a practiced, twinkling chirp. “When you live as long as we do, dear…nothing is truly unforgivable.”

You frowned, vision blurring as you stifled an eyeroll and Freya continued. “Perhaps you understand how he feels…now that you’ve gotten to know my second son a little better.” “You want to know if I love him, is that it? Well, I don't know.”

Shame swelled under your thin bathing gown, and Frigga inhaled quietly. “I of all people in this palace understand that words matter less than what we feel in here-” she said, pressing a fan of fingers to her chest. “You may think our customs strange, but they were born from centuries of upheaval and selfishness of our rulers. Markers needed to be set. It’s important that the general populace knows nothing of the second requirement of The Rite. It’s sacred.” You let out a petulant sigh. Don’t sass the queen, you willed, staring ahead at the water spilling over the edge of the balcony to a waterfall below.

Frigga cleared her throat. “The Rite ensures that those in line for succession can put another before themselves, represented through giving pleasure – and can capture their heart, their love—” “—Yes…I know that now,” you spat, eyes blazing towards her. “No thanks to any of you. Fandral had to tell me, of all people. Couldn’t resist rubbing it in my face that I’d fail Loki.”

Frigga’s face fell. But now you’d started, you couldn’t stop.

“And besides…Odin, Thor…they cheated the system, didn’t they? You and Odin were engaged! Sif was pretty much raised on a diet of Thor-infatuation.” You shook your head, heat flushing up your neck. “I didn’t say it was perfect,” Frigga said. “But the succession cannot be risked. And despite your current ingratiation, you are an outsider; you cannot understand these things.” “Oh,” you said, choosing to ignore her honey-drenched barb. “It can’t be risked, I see…unless it’s Loki, the one no one cares about?”

Despite her mask of diplomacy, irritation rippled on Frigga’s face.

“He had many options, and every opportunity,” she said through perfectly straight, gritted, teeth. “And he squandered every one of them. But something’s changed these past centuries in him. Something in these past weeks, too. A mystery, certainly.”

She stood, and the wet length of her glittering gown slopped across the floor. “Although I’m pleased to see you feel so strongly in his defence – it bodes well for his performance. Perhaps he’ll succeed after all.”

Your snorted. “And if I fail him, Fandral can step in: problem solved.” Frigga sighed, waving away an approaching nymph who skittered gratefully backwards.

“That’s not how it works,” Frigga said with a cloying sweetness, "- Loki would fail you: he would have failed to bring you pleasure, and capture your heart in a meaningful way. He only has one chance at fulfilling The Rite, at joining the succession. I did urge him to wait another 500 years but..."

She gave a delicate shrug. "And besides, in his haste to tarnish you…Fandral excluded himself from ever being eligible. The arousal of a god touched his skin. You should have seen his face when he realised he’d neglected to don the gloves in his pocket: pompous little oaf.”

A whirl of butterflies erupted in your gut. “So, you see, my dear…” Frigga tipped your chin up to meet her eyes. “You are my son’s only chance…”

You looked up at her: the glint in her beautiful irises – and for the first time you saw something more than the performance she presented to the court. Mischief. “My son’s…and those sweet little children.” A smile curled at her wine-stained lips. “And I hope you are prepared for the consequences of that.”

The silent, unbroken stare shattered as the doors burst open and Lagertha hobbled inside with an entourage of three. They held something in their arms like a dead snake, spread between them, covered in thick cotton and secured with the Asgardian royal seal in five places along its length.

Lagertha clapped her hands twice and you couldn’t help but smile at the irreverence on her face as she cast an imperious glance around the room. “There she is,” she said, waving you towards her. “Come, come – we haven’t got all day. Sun will be setting soon.”

You jumped up and scooted over, and immediately her surprisingly iron grip fastened to your bicep. “Loki sends his well wishes,” she hissed abruptly, “hopes his mother ain’t been too much of a cow.”

You pressed your lips together. “He’s alright? He’s not…” “Nervous? Course he is, dear. Near-on shitting himself. Not that he’d say that out loud, but I’ve known him a long time…the real him, like you do. Bless his silken hose. But now…we need to focus on you.”

Minutes passed in a blur as one of Lagertha’s deputy Weaving Crone who wasn’t quite so nobbled rolled out a small podium. You mounted it, following instructions to raise your arms and soon the dress was pulled over your head and in a heap on the floor.

A mirror was wheeled from somewhere, and behind your naked body you tried not to look at Frigga perched on a chaise, supping from a goblet.

Over your shoulder, the assistant crones were unpacking the snake-like thing. It must’ve been twenty feet long, and as it unfurled, your breath hitched. They held up the part which went over your arms, pacing forward reverently. It was as sheer as cobweb, tiny golden flecks weaved into the impossibly fine threads.

It slid up your skin like liquid moonlight. The fabric kissed your flesh like the graze of a lover, and beside you, Lagertha smiled.

You eyed your reflection warily. “How many people will see me in this?” “Just focus on the prince, dear.” “How many, Lagertha?” Her eyes flickered up to yours before taking a renewed interest in straightening the sash. “No more than twenty.” “Twenty?” you hissed. “I thought…I don’t know what I thought. Norns. Who are they?” “Odin, Frigga, Thor…some of the high gods; selected nobles to witness. It’s an honour, remember that. For them, as well as you.” You could swear the outline of your heartbeat was visible. “Oh my god…will they see everything?” “Not everything, child,” Lagertha whispered, untying the sash loop and re-assembling it; buying time. The robes sides covered your breasts but left a gap of bare skin in the centre, gathering at the naval before the flowing, split skirt began.

“It’s all very hush hush beforehand, so the participants can’t…skew things.” “Skew things?” You saw Lagertha’s lips roll together as she tried to dampen a laugh. Her eyes darted to Frigga and quickly back to you.

“Touch ‘emselves,” she said with a straight face.

“Focus on Loki, dear.” Her voice was as calming as poppy-seed tea. “I know what I see when I see it.” She ran a nobbled hand down the curve of your waist, smoothing the fabric.

You swallowed, looking at yourself in the mirror. “How will they know if I…if I love him? How will they know if I don't know?” Lagertha spun out the silence, fussing with the fabric at your breasts. “Focus on Loki, dear,” was all she said.

And soon, you were on the move again.

After his father’s ‘motivational’ speech, Loki felt no better. Although admittedly, he did feel slightly lighter when he’d left. Lagertha’s arrival had been the only bright spot in the darkness of his mood. She’d clothed in him in the same style of ceremonial garments expected from all participants in The Rite – far less grand than yours would be, but Loki’s held more elaborate stitching than his brother’s had done centuries before: tiny runes and charms woven into the hem with wishes that whispered when he moved. “Tell her…” he’d started, realising that he didn’t know what to say. He grumbled out some inane quip about his mother. Lagertha raised an eyebrow. “I know how you feel about her, silly boy,” she said under her breath, eyeing Thor snarfing down a third plate of cold meats like he’d been raised on the streets and not in a palace. "You can't fool old Lagertha."

Loki’s chest tightened: fighting the urge to deny it, fighting the urge to let his persona of bravado take hold. “I can’t love. Everyone’s always told me I’m not…made for it.” Lagertha’s laugh caught in her throat. She made a face. “Who? Him?” She yanked her head towards Thor leering covetously at a wheel of cheese. “Please,” she added under her breath. “And if she doesn’t love me?” Loki asked, voice crackling under the weight of the words.

Lagertha rolled her eyes. “It was a big ask in such a short time – any fool could see that, even your brother. But if you can…then maybe she can too.”

She shrugged, and patted his bare pecs twice. “I saw the way she looked at you when you came to get measured, and she couldn’t look away when you were playing with little Grisyna.”

Her eyebrow rose again. “Besides…if what she feels isn’t strong enough to fulfil The Rite…doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Doesn’t mean it isn’t worth exploring, tending.” “But the children," Loki hissed, ensuring he was out of Thor's earshot. "If I’m not in the succession, then if father finds out, he’ll—” Lagertha flapped a hand. “— We’ll figure out a way. We always have. Odin isn’t going to sweep in and decimate them – Frigga wouldn’t allow it…they’ll be shifted out somewhere, all nice and quiet so no one finds out what a bunch of unworthy vagabonds his court is.”

She reached up his neck and instinctually he stooped so her hands could cup his jaw.

“You are worthy of love, Loki Odinson. Giving and receiving,” she said quietly, searching his eyes. “No matter what some daft Rite says.”

“Brother you simply must try these prunes.”

Thor belched, pressing a fist to his mouth too late. Loki and Lagertha looked at him with matching expressions of disgust, and her hands fell from his jaw. Thor chuckled.

“Seems like your partner has competition for her place tonight,” Thor said, throwing a prune up and trying to catch it with his mouth. It hit off his eye and bounced to the floor. “I’ve been laying with gods since Odin was a sparkle in your grandfather’s eye, boy…I wouldn’t possibly qualify,” she said, gathering her things. She looked at Loki a final time, sharing a conspiratorial nod as Thor flushed pink. “Boy?!” Thor balked, as she shifted from the room with a quiet, purposeful grace. “Boy!?” he said again, marching to Loki. “That old witch is too familiar. I should have her removed from royal favour.” “You’ll do no such thing, brother,” Loki drawled, picking up a goblet of wine before setting it down again, untouched. “Who will make the garments that enchant your groin to look larger?” Thor’s cheeks began to turn violet. “That was supposed to be in confidence.” “Oh, dear.” Loki spun to his reflection, tilting his head. “Well, you’re lucky I’m very good at keeping secrets - if I choose to.”

Thor's lips pursed tight. Clearly, today would not be the one he’d break the habit of a lifetime and concoct a witty response. Loki’s gaze shifted back to himself.

The ceremonial Rite garment clung to every line of muscle like shimmering skin. It rippled at the merest breath; whether it was silver, or gold, or white depended entirely on the angle of the light. Bell sleeves draped from his wrists, hanging down to his mid-thighs and melting against his skin like dregs of foam into sand.

The fabric was split down his torso; cock on full display; sheer fabric leaving no inch of the skin beneath to the imagination. The hem of the robe brushed the floor as his bare feet shuffled, inspecting himself. He looked resplendent.

Loki sighed. “Fix my hair, will you? Or try, at least.”

A box rattled as Thor combed through a variety of pins. Loki rolled his eyes. “The gold one, with the emblem.” “Which emblem?” Thor asked, bored. “My emblem, you cretin.”

Thor worked in silence, and Loki was glad of it. His brother managed to gather the hair in a serviceable knot at the top of his head: fastened with the golden snake pin at its base. Loki’s cheekbones slashed deep shadows into his face, highlighting faint blue shadows under his eyes. The sun had almost set, and soon enough, there was a knock at the door. Thor squeezed his shoulder. “I wish you fortune, brother. May her heart be open.”

Loki waited for the quip about her legs being open too, but it didn’t come. And unlike the cowing pleasantries at last night’s feast, he felt a shiver of gratitude wrench up his spine at the sentiment.

“Thank you, brother,” he whispered, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. “I need it.”

The stone seemed to pulse beneath your feet.

You walked in procession: Frigga at the front, the Asgardian nymphs flanking you each holding a clutch of your train as the golden door grew closer. Goosebumps needled your arms beneath the silk-chiffon. ‘Just focus on the prince’, Lagertha had said. ‘Just focus on him’. Finally, the procession stopped. Frigga beat a fist on the door three times, and inside there was the muffled sound of trumpets.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Heraldry? Be serious.

The doors swung open. The hall was narrow, with padded benches lining the walls like one of those Midgard chapels and torches throwing throbbing amber hues on the floor. It was so polished that the gemstone stars set deep into the dark ceiling reflected on its surface, and your feet wobbled as the world slewed around you. “It’s alright,” the nymph to your side whispered, staring ahead. “Just keep walking.” You tried not to look at the shaded figures who populated the benches, but the curiosity was too much. Fandral sat with a sullen expression, glowering at your progress, the centre of his face marred with a purple bruise which spread to his eyes. You smirked. Frigga stopped, and stepped to the side.

And then, you inhaled sharply. Loki stood with his hands clasped behind his back: posture impeccable, body tight with braced muscles and his raven hair swept up in a devastating knot.

He wore a robe made of the same material as yours. In torchlight, it looked like pure gold – rippling with opacity in time with the flames. But still, his alabaster skin was visible beneath it. The god’s bare form was as flawless as you remembered from the night in the baths – it felt like a lifetime ago.

And yes, his cock really is that big, that perfect. You thought you might have imagined it. His face was set in ceremonial stiffness, but those eyes sparkled. He isn’t embarrassed. You decided – fuck it – you weren’t going to be embarrassed either. You opened your mouth to speak but, regrettably, Odin got in first. “Gods, nobles…you are welcome to the attempt of my second son – Loki of Asgard – at fulfilling The Rite of Successional Pleasure, and taking his place as one of the realm’s true-royal sons.”

Loki sidestepped as you found yourself guided by the nymphs holding your train, nudging you towards a raised platform at the end of the hall. A firm looking cushion sat on top of it: the deepest navy blue, scattered with silver thread.

You climbed each of the four steps, turning to the crowd of shadowed faces occupying the pews and trying to ignore the graze of your hardened nipped against the fabric. For Loki, you reminded yourself.

Looking up, you could make out a golden railing suspended from the ceiling, thin bunches of material hanging from it in thin sections. Loki mounted the steps with easy grace, cock swinging, drawing your hand to his lips when he reached the top.

“You are well?” he murmured against the skin, looking up through his lashes. Your stomach roiled with the need to kiss him, but all you could muster was a nod. A silent understanding passed between you of how fucked-up this was. “It will be over soon,” he said, brows peaking. Your lips rolled together, but as words shaped your lips—

“Loki Odinson: God of Mischief and Lies, Son of Asgard.”

Odin’s voice rang around the cloisters like a war-cry. “I command you to prove yourself worthy of the people you seek to rule by bestowing unrequited pleasure on this woman. By doing so, you prove that you can put those you rule above yourself; that if you can cultivate their love, you may one day hold the crown.”

Cultivate their love. The phrase made a shiver tighten your shoulders.

A woman even older than Lagertha shuffled up the steps, and beside you, Loki stiffened. Red markings smeared down her face, paste crusting into deep wrinkles. She gathered your hands. Her eyes closed, face tipped to the feeling. The very air seemed to sharpen. “She is untouched by a god: she has known no seed, she is eligible for the ceremonial Rite,” the woman announced. Beside you, Loki’s muscles relaxed. A nymph tapped your shoulder and you drew your eyes from Loki’s. “My lady- we need to—” “—I can do it,” Loki cut in. He observed her visible panic with clear irritation. “Nowhere does it specify this in the ceremonial texts, I assure you.”

There was a hum from the crowd, but no objections. Loki ushered you to the bed. He leant down to your ear, and the warmth of his breath ignited fierce, obscene desire in your core. The crowd, forgotten. “Lie on the bed, so that your head rests near the top," he whispered, shivers running down your limbs. "Those two women will fan the train of your robe. It’s very important that you let them arrange it how it needs to be. You’ll be restrained, but don’t fear…it will not hurt. It’s only so—” “—I don’t touch myself,” you finished. Loki smirked. “Skew the results,” he replied, eyes glittering like the gems in the ceiling. His knuckles trailed down your bicep and for that moment, there was only you and Loki in the room. “Shall we?”

You did as he’d asked, settling on your back. True enough, the two nymphs spread the train of the robe until its huge length spilled down the steps and halfway up the narrow aisle. The rest of it pooled across the bed, pearling weave undulating in shadows. When they were done, your arms were spread and satin tied to your wrists; fastened somewhere down the sides.

And all the while, Loki stood where you’d left him – facing the crowd with what you imagined was a thousand-yard-stare.

One of the nymphs approached the long material draped from the ceiling. Loki brought a hand up, clicking his fingers. The material sprung to life, metal rings scraping on metal as it worked around the railing; surrounding the bed in a circle of thin, voile fabric.

You’d been prepared to repeat Lagertha’s mantra in your head at this point, but it turned out it wasn’t only easy to focus on Loki – it was impossible not to.

He drew a portion of the curtain to the side and slipped through: utterly beautiful in his regally-repressed lust. That lithe body shifted beneath the sheer robe as he knelt on the bed: one knee, then two. You squirmed, unable to help yourself. You were already wet, arousal sliding between your thighs.

“Kiss me?” you asked quietly.

His brow furrowed, eyes falling to his crotch. He was hard. It was the first time you’d seen him erect without any clothes on. Even in the baths, he’d been underwater. Saliva welled in your mouth, heart thumping. A bead of pre-cum had already swelled at the tip. “This is rather unorthodox,” he muttered. Whispers were audible from the world beyond the curtain. Loki swallowed. “But you look so…” He swallowed again, eyelids fluttering closed and hands falling to the mattress. “I’ll get seed on you. And we can’t have that. Not now.” “Not now,” you agreed as your legs parted.

Loki’s breath hitched as he drew the sliver of fabric covering your crotch to the side. The god lowered, lips fastening to your thigh as his hands scooped under your legs. You felt like you might catch fire.

He kissed up to the knee, lingering on each inch of skin like you might vanish. Your nerves were wild, and it wasn’t until the whine of his name had left your lips you even realised you'd done it. There was a ripple of amusement from the crowd, and one of Loki’s brows rose. “As you desire,” he murmured, before fastening softly to your clit.

A moan ripped from your throat.

The touch was almost nothing, but it was a lit match to sulphur. All the desire, the longing, the denial – it came rushing up your throat in that moan.

Loki’s tongue was silk. It smoothed over the folds of your sex, coating you in his wet enthusiasm. Every long, languid lap coupled with a groan of approval in his chest; the sharp angles of his jawline slotting perfectly between your spread legs.

“Loki,” you gasped, back arching while his fingers spread against your hips.

He suckled your clit, eyes opening with calculated precision to lock with your own. “Loki,” you chanted again, reaching to tangle a hand in his hair and failing. His mouth broke from your pussy. “Yes, little owl?” he hummed, chin glistening with your arousal, a playful dimple winking at the corner of his mouth. You huffed.

“Don’t stop,” you pleaded as the god chuckled against you thigh, wet, lazy kisses bitten into the flesh. His eyes met yours as he kissed over your mound, lowering completely before dragging his nose through your cunt and covering your clit again.

“Gods, yes….f-fuck,” you gasped.

There were more titters of mirth behind the curtain. But you couldn’t hear them – you could only hear Loki’s desperate sighs of need as he worshipped you, only feel the coil winding in your belly as orgasm began to crest; only sense the press of his fingertips pulling your hips deeper into his open mouth.

Suddenly someone shouted: another, and then another. They were hushed by a voice suspiciously like Frigga’s.

You turned your face unwillingly to the side, craning up, straining against the binds. The end of the train was just visible were it ended down aisle. You squinted. Where before it was a kind of white, now it was… “Green?” Loki’s palm pressed against your chest, sliding to cup your breast with a squeeze as you lowered.

“Ignore it,” he breathed: wet, hot. And then, he pushed your knees back. Your eyes widened as he towered above you, fingers spread on your calves like a chariot-rider. A single curl had come loose from the top-knot. Loki lapped from the base of your slit to the tip.

His movements were fluid, and wild – yet perfectly controlled. You’d heard tales of how he swept through battlefields like a whirlwind; slicing enemies down like they were paper; harnessing madness with the absolute precision. And this was like that. Except his battle was your pleasure – and gods, he was winning.

You’d begun to pant, and nonsensical words shaped your tongue as his movements became slower, massaging your cunt with slow, methodical licks. “Loki…” you pleaded, chest heaving, lips parted. And then, you came.

It was like nothing you’d ever known. Everything else had been a pebble of pleasure scattered on a beach – this was the cliff. It slammed into you, spine arching as he shifted to your thrashes; holding your hips fast to his lips as you spilled into him.

Somewhere, people were clapping – but all you could feel was him, guiding your sizzling pussy from its high with gentle, careful licks.

The binds at your wrists loosened and the moment they did, you sat up – audience be damned – and collided with his mouth.

The kiss was deep, wild: fingers digging into the tight hair at the base of his skull, his lips teased open by the demands of your tongue. The taste of you was thick: sweet, hot, dark with your deepest needs. It tasted like love - like trust.

Loki’s moan as you shifted onto his lap and dragged your pussy up his cock: scorching your insides with an unquenchable drive to have him buried inside you. “It’s done,” a creaking voice announced. You squinted through the curtain, panting. The old woman from before with red crusted on her face was standing, facing the crowd. “Loki Odinson has completed the Rite of Successional Pleasure.” A roar erupted through the darkness. Loki shook you by the shoulders, his face smeared with your cum a picture of fierce delight.

I did it, those eyes said.

For a reason you couldn’t explain, your stomach dropped.

The curtain was torn aside and you toppled from Loki’s lap, pulling bundles of the robe’s length to cover your modesty. And then, you saw it. The train spilling down the steps and onto the aisle was almost completely green: a deep emerald, like it had been dipped in ink which soaked its material like the tide. As you watched, the stain grew closer, starting an ascent of the steps. “He has proven himself able to give pleasure to those who serve him,” the woman’s voice cut through the din. “He has proven himself able to earn their love, their allegiance.” Loki stood from the bed, his arms spread wide to the applause: robe open, cock still hard. You frowned, shuffling forwards and tugged the back of his robe. He glanced over his shoulder, expression faltering.

You loved him. He knew that now. Everyone did. So why did it feel like… A mob descended and suddenly Loki was absorbed into a mass of congratulatory back slaps and cheers. Thor stood at the side, clapping all-too-slowly. His eyes darted towards you, before falling to the ground.

‘A triumph,’ the voices in the crowd around Loki said as his smile widened. ‘Never seen anything like it…magnificent.’ They pulled him down the steps. 'One for the histories.'

“Loki." Your voice broke, and you shuffled forwards and stumbled over the tangle of your train. You thought you saw the flash of Loki’s profile; you thought you saw him trying to lurch back through the throng.

But fingers curled around your arms and pulled. The mossy perfume of the Asgardian nymphs stung your eyes and you wrenched against them, hearing a rip from below as someone tore the delicate robe with their feet.

More fingers fastened to your wrist and you yanked away before meeting a pair of piercing blue eyes. Sad eyes. “Let him go,” Frigga whispered firmly. “He has much to celebrate.” Everything else was white noise. Only the memory of Fandral’s smarmy voice loud in your head. ‘He’s trying to make you fall in love with him,’ he’d said. ‘And afterwards, he’ll discard you like the commoner you imagine yourself to be.’ You faltered at the scrunch of Frigga’s brow, strength leaving your limbs.

Her pitying gaze said more than platitudes ever could. Glancing at the door, shouts of jubilation faded in echoing wisps as the green spill completed its ascent up the enchanted fabric.

Loki’s colour: proof that he held your heart in the palm of his hand, proof that you were willing to give yourself to him body, and soul.

And Loki was gone.

A/N. Just trust me, okay? Please? 🙏❤️ Please please. Tags in comments x Next Chapter : Marked (Finale) The Rite Masterlist is here

#the rite🕯️#loki x reader #loki smut #loki x female reader #loki x reader smut #loki x you #loki x female reader smut #loki x you smut #loki fanfiction #loki odinson #loki fanfic #loki imagine #lokismut

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jam3sacaster · 26 days ago

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“For he would be thinking of love..”

(Rivals) Declan O’Hara x Reader

Suggestion by a sweet anon 🫶🏽 / Declan takes a break from his work to show you how much he loves you…

18+ FANFIC / Soft Declan for once! Reader character aged at 26. Short Work. Hopefully you enjoy 🩷

The heavens had opened atop Rutshire, unleashing icy precipitation and blustering winds, that rattled the windows of The Priory, and made the already bitter night seem glacial. These were the perfect nights to spend curled in Declan’s office, fireplace roaring —crimson tendrils dancing their passionate jig amongst charcoal embers — and the dusty blue chenille sofa comforting you like a warm hug. “You okay, my love?” Your husband asked, pushing the office door open with his foot and carrying two steaming mugs of hot chocolate with slightly shaking hands. “Mhm hmm.” You respond sleepily, face pressed against the fabric of the sofa. Wandering Aengus, your silver British shorthair cat, purred slumberously and leaped up from the hardwood floor and onto the spare space on the sofa, nestling into a ball beside you. Placing the hot chocolates down at his desk, Declan sat amongst a mountain of books, and began to scrawl in his notepad, brows furrowed in concentration.

Slinking away from the sofa, you padded over to his desk and draped your arms around Declan’s neck, nuzzling your mouth into the crook of his shoulder. Unwavering from his writing, Declan planted a litter of soft kisses along your forearm and smiled tenderly. “Yeats?” You ask, voice muffled against his skin. “Yes. I’m really making progress,” He began. Declan’s biography of Yeats, his favourite poet, had been a long time in the making, and you would be ever so proud of him upon completion. “It shouldn’t be long until I’m finished, love. And then ya’ have my full attention, I promise.” He huffed, lighting a cigarette and taking a drag. “Oh, Dec. Don’t worry about that. I know how much this means to you.” You tutted, and removed your wrap of his neck, bounding back to the sofa and collapsing onto the plush fabric, causing only a slight stir from Aengus.

Your unfaltering support of Declan’s career — whether writing or television — was absolutely bewildering to him. Despite only being married for just over six months, you had spent countless nights in bed, the space beside you empty as he drank himself in a hole whilst working, and you hadn’t complained once. It took a few moments to notice that Declan was no longer writing, but staring at you, eyes ablaze with extraordinary adoration. “Oh, love is the crooked thing. There is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it,” He began to recite.

“For he would be thinking of love ‘til the stars had run away and the shadows eaten the moon.” You interjected, finishing his quote. Declan rose from his seat, not for one moment breaking his eye contact and stood above you. “Down, Aengus.” You whisper to your cat, who obliges lazily and pads out of the room. “I will be thinkin’ of loving you until the earth implodes.” The Irishman speaks under his breath, gently sitting beside you and raking a loose curl behind your ear. “Declan..” You murmur, lip trembling as his face inched towards yours. Before you could speak another word, he kissed you tenderly, taking great care in caressing your skin.

Pulling away only to catch his breath, your husband rose to his feet and leant downwards, scooping you into his arms and beaming with joy as a jubilant cackle escaped your mouth. “What are you doing?” You chortle and allow your limbs to melt into his hold. “Takin’ you to bed, Mrs O’Hara. Ya’ve waited long enough, but tonight, ya’ get me all to yourself.” He replied, and began to haul you upstairs. Wandering Aengus lethargically returned to his warm spot on the sofa.

#rivals #rivals disney+#rivals disney #rivals fanfic #rivals fanfiction #declan o’hara fanfic #declan o’hara x reader #declan o hara #declan o’hara #declan o’hara fanfiction #aidan turner

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buckets-and-trees · 3 months ago

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Welcome Home, Pumpkin [spiced]

Characters/Pairings: Lloyd Hansen x curvy Female!Reader Word Count: 1.9k Summary: Bad ethics. Zero impulse control. This is what everyone says about him. What will it mean for you tonight?

Content/Warnings: dubious consent, soft!dark story, use of pet name "Pumpkin," explicit smut (fingering, unprotected vaginal intercourse), orgasm denial, groping, light choking, bondage

Notes: This is the second of three in a set of short stories with Lloyd served three ways - soft, soft!dark, and dark. The three feature the same setting, overlapping themes, shared thoughts, and bits of dialogue. Spiced is the soft!dark version.

sugar pumpkin | smashed pumpkin

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You shut the door behind you and sigh, happy to be home after a long day - a long week, really.

You slip your shoes off, hang your bag on the hook by the door, and turn on some music before making your way down the hall to your bedroom, ready to change from your professional clothes to something comfy to lounge in the rest of the evening.

You jump when a deep, serious voice you aren’t expecting says, “Welcome home, Pumpkin.”

Your heart rockets into your throat, and you grip the doorframe. “Lloyd Hansen!”

He chuckles, rising from the spot he’d been perched on the edge of the bed.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

He makes a show of bowing slightly, “And yet, here I am.”

You hesitate in the doorway, studying the face of the man you are now so familiar with. The steel blue eyes, the sharp jawline, the ridiculous mustache you hoped to avoid indefinitely.

He looks you up and down slowly, then sits back on the bed. “Did you think I would really be stuck in a Lithuanian prison?”

You narrow your eyes slightly and chew the inside of your cheek. His eyes study you as much as you’re studying him, and you don’t want to give anything away.

“Aw, you did. That’s cute,” he says, voice dripping in saccharine sweetness. “You should’ve known I’d be able to work myself out of there in two or three days, at most.”

You shrug. “A girl can hope.”

“Only one night, by the way, since I know you won’t ask,” he says, clearly wanting to boast.

“And that was six months ago,” you counter. “I finished the job and got the paycheck.”

“The job might be done, but we have unfinished business, Pumpkin. And it’s more fun surprising you like this when you thought you’d never see me again, isn’t it?” he simpers.

He might have been biding his time to drop in on your life again, and you can sense he’s eager, a bit impatient, but you also sense he will play this out the way he wants now that the two of you are in the same room together again.

And you hate the way you’ve been drawn to this man since the day you two first crossed paths. He is dangerous and untrustworthy. You operate in the daylight and occasionally step into the shadows, but he lives in the dark, revels in it.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re keeping from me? Why you took the contract in Kaunas in the first place?” he asks, lifting his chin just a fraction.

And oh that look does something to you - the delicious swoop in your stomach that made you weak in Eastern Europe and traitorously eager for him now.

“No,” you finally answer. Slowly, you take measured steps toward him.

“Fair enough. But I might get under your skin enough to change your tune, wind you up, have you singing all sorts of secrets for me.”

“How much time did you spend thinking up that line? The imagery, the alliteration? Impressive.”

“Not the only thing that’s impressive about me,” he responds without a second thought.

You scoff, but there is an impertinent flutter in your chest you try to tamp down. He talks - a lot - but from the brief time you were in each others’ orbit in Lithuania, you learned he could back up his bluster with brains and brawn. A dangerous player on the board.

“How much time did spend you think about my fingers deep in your pussy like they were in the closet in that day in Kaunas?”

His words hang in the air, a bold challenge that sends a shiver down your spine. Your mind immediately flashes back to the last day in Lithuania, when you had been alone, hiding in a closet and his fingers had boldly started to explore your body. You can almost feel the heat of his touch, his breath on your neck, and his hard body pressed against your back like they were that day. The memory floods your senses, the smell of wood and dust, the creaking of the floorboards as the hired goons patrolled up and down the hallway just on the other side of the door. And now, here he is, asking how much time she had spent thinking about it.

You couldn't deny to yourself the way your body responds to his words, his presence, craving that same intense pleasure again, but you can deny it to him. You have to.

“I didn’t want you then, and I don’t want you now,” you reply simply and walk over to your dresser, bypassing him on the bed. Methodically, you begin to take off your necklace, and then your watch, as if he’s not there.

“Want, need, crave…”

“Lloyd!” You gasp because those words are murmured directly in your ear, as Lloyd has moved with silent precision right behind you.

“…those are all different things,” he says. He presses his hard body up against your back, pressing his pelvis up against your ass, knocking you roughly into the drawers, pinning you. “You may not want this, but need it? Crave it?”

“No,” you whimper when he grinds against you again.

“Mmm, you made some pretty, soft sounds when we were hidden in the dark before. Wonder what sounds I can get you to make now that we’re not trying to be discreet.”

“We’re not trying to be anything,” you argue, squirming against him.

“Anything with labels, no, definitely not,” he agrees. “But you’re itching for it, aren’t you, Pumpkin?”

One of his large hands gropes your breast, and the other moves to your throat. He squeezes in both places, and you groan, a shiver ripping through you.

He chuckles, “I see we like that.”

“No,” you whimper.

“Boring!” he barks.

In one swift motion, Lloyd hefts you up, flips you around and has you on the bed pinned beneath him, body pressing into yours. He growls into your mouth as he claims you in a filthy kiss. He props himself up slightly on one arm, and his other hand reaches to tear the front of your shirt open, rending the fabric in two.

You look up at him, chest heaving, waiting with bated breath.

He unbuttons the top of your pants and drags down the zipper, all the while looking in your eyes.

“I find you wet, and I’m not stopping,” he insists, tone low, calculated.

You could press your thighs together, try to squirm away from him, but he’s too strong, and you know what he’s going to find. You could even turn your head and look away, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

His fingers dip into your panties, and he goes straight for the cut of you, slick and wet for him, and slips a finger inside.

“I knew it,” he whispers. His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing in slow circles.

You moan, arching into his touch, unable to resist the pleasure he’s giving you.

“Such a sensitive little thing,” he murmurs, adding another finger and thrusting them inside you.

You wriggle and writhe beneath him, unable to control your body’s response to his touch. He watches with dark satisfaction as you lose yourself in the moment.

“Lloyd,” you moan his name, and he chuckles softly.

“You sound so sweet when you say my name like that,” he coos, increasing the speed of his fingers inside you.

Your breath hitches as your orgasm approaches.

But then he pulls his thick fingers away, and a whine escapes your lips before you can stop it. Your body surges up, pelvis seeking his.

"You'll give me what I want," Lloyd purrs, his voice low and dangerous. He brings his slick fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, maintaining eye contact with you the entire time. The sight makes you shiver involuntarily.

"Never," you breathe, but your voice lacks conviction.

Lloyd smirks, clearly not believing you. "We'll see about that."

He leans down, pressing his body against yours once more. His lips brush against your ear as he whispers, "I always get what I want. And right now, I want you."

Before you can respond, he captures your lips in another searing kiss. His hands roam your body, touching, teasing, igniting a fire within you that you've tried so hard to extinguish. You hate how easily he can affect you, how your body responds to his touch without your permission.

Lloyd's voice is a low rumble against your ear as he pins you to the bed. "You'll tell me everything I want to know."

You struggle to catch your breath, still reeling from the sudden loss of his touch. "I told you, I'm not giving you anything."

He smirks, trailing a finger down your cheek. "Oh, but you will. Your body's already betraying you. I think you’ll give me everything."

You think there’s a possibility he could end up being right, because while you didn’t think of him much after Lithuania, the truth is you did think of him. You thought of him on some of the nights alone in your bed when you had your best orgasms.

"What's the real reason you took that contract in Kaunas?" he demands.

You clench your jaw, refusing to answer. Lloyd's hand slides back to your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you gasp.

"Come on, Pumpkin. Make this easy on yourself."

Your breath catches as his fingers tighten ever so slightly around your throat. The pressure sends a thrill through you, desire boiling in your belly despite your best efforts to resist.

"I won't tell you anything," you manage to choke out, your voice strained.

Lloyd's eyes darken with a mix of frustration and arousal. "So stubborn," he murmurs. "But I did hope you’d choose the hard way."

He takes off his belt and binds it around your forearms. He yanks the clothing completely down and off your bottom half, and then he’s between your legs, cock out, and pushing his thick, blunt head against your entrance. He leans down, his breath hot against your ear. "Last chance to tell me what I want to know."

You turn your head, refusing to meet his gaze. "Go to hell," you spit out.

He chuckles darkly. "Oh, we're already there, Pumpkin."

With one powerful thrust, he buries himself inside you. You cry out, overwhelmed by the sudden fullness. Lloyd groans, his fingers digging into your hips.

"Fuck, you feel even better than I thought you would.”

You moan and push your bound forearms at his chest.

Lloyd growls, grabs your wrists, and pins them above your head in one of his giant hands.

Then he proceeds to fuck you.

Slowly.

He gives you what you won’t admit you want.

Over and over again he gives it to you, until you’re boneless, voice hoarse, throat raw, limbs aching, babbling, but somehow still fighting against giving the one piece of information he’s seemingly desperate to have.

When dawn is about to break, dazed and delirious with pleasure, you wonder which of you will break first - or if neither of you will.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

all Welcome Home, Pumpkin stories

Aaaaah! So with the second one, what do you think? Was this anything like what you were expecting? Did you catch the repeated lines?

...and will you be ready for the third and darkest of the three?!

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #lloyd hansen x you #lloyd hansen x yn #lloyd hansen smut #female reader #curvy reader #aspen wrote something #welcome home pumpkin collection #tw: dub con #tw: dubcon #tw: dubious consent

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peterparkouryo · 5 months ago

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fell from the sky into my lap | ⍣ ೋ

⍣ ೋ

prompt; You encounter a very charming boy on the train.

warning: fluff, fluff, and did i mention fluff?

word count: 1.5k

a/n: meet cute!! i missed writing <3 (also ignore the fact that i used this gif once b4, feel free to send me tom gifs for future fics 😭)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ taglist

You step out of Midtown High, the warm afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. You had decided to stay after school, opting to have a small study session with a few of your friends for an upcoming test for the gruesome mathematics class, also known as calculus. The weight of your backpack pulls slightly at your shoulders as you make your way down the stairs of the school building, balmy wind blusters against your skin. Descending down the stairs finally, you keep your head down and walk across the football field, creating a safe distance between you and the ongoing practice taking place.

What seemed forever, but in reality was maybe a good two to three minute walk off the school grounds, you head toward the train station. The familiar hum of chatter and the rhythmic clack of shoes on the sidewalk fill the air, blending into a comforting soundtrack of the end of the school day.

As you approach the station, the distant sound of a train horn echoes, signalling its arrival. Just in time, you thought to yourself. You quicken your pace, the excitement of heading home, mixed with the anticipation of the journey itself, propelling you forward. The station is a bustling hub of activity, with students, commuters, and travelers weaving in and out of the crowd.

You swipe your transit card at the turnstile, the beep granting you passage onto the platform. The cool, metallic scent of the train station mingles with the faint aroma of fresh coffee from the nearby café. You glance up at the electronic display board, noting the arrival time of your train. It's right on schedule.

The train glides into the station with a soft hiss of brakes and a rush of wind. The doors slide open, inviting you inside. You step onto the train, the cool air conditioning a welcome relief from the warmth outside. You find a seat by the window and settle in, reaching into your backpack and digging through to find your wired headphones, despite begging your parents for regular ones.

You open your phone, clicking the green app for music, scrolling through many playlists you've obsessively created for various different scenarios. Picking a playlist you don't remember creating, you let out a tired yawn and sit back, wandering your eyes to the left, and daydreaming about your bed.

The train ride was relatively quiet, aside from a crying baby (not that you could hear it, but breaking your daydream to observe your surroundings, you could see a crying baby), and the loud music blasting in your ears.

For the next six minutes, the music from your headphones consumed your ears, guaranteed to worsen your hearing in the next twenty years or so. You were at an unusual ease you normally don't feel when you're alone on a train by yourself. It could do with the fact that there was maybe five or six people onboard, you weren't too sure.

You lay your head back against the seat and stare out the window, the passing buildings rapidly leaving your vision. A bored sigh leaves your lips, the spotify ad only adding onto the exhaustion you felt.

The train stops, indicating people were either leaving or stepping on the train, and you tear your gaze away from the window out of curiosity, watching a couple people swipe their transit cards. You notice the last person, a boy with hair as brown as a bear, swipe his card more than once, and you can only assume something was wrong.

The more you watch the boy struggle, the more you feel bad because not only was the operator getting impatient, the passengers moan and groan as well. Slowly you dig into your pocket for your card, standing up and swiftly walking to the front of the train. Showing the boy a friendly smile, you glance at the operator, who's eyebrows were furrowed and a permanent frown carved onto his face.

"Um, he can use my card." You say unsurely, not entirely positive thats even how transit cards work.

The man narrows his eyes and stares between you and the boy for a good while before he exhales a huff.

"Go ahead, you're holding up my line." He mumbles and you furrow your eyebrows and glance behind you, seeing that it was only the boy and no one else, but you decide not to say anything about it.

You swipe the transit card, watching the red dot change to green, and the boy sighs in relief.

"Thank you." He says, watching your every move as you put your card back into your pocket.

You nod and your eyes drift to his face, studying him carefully, because boy, he was gorgeous. The boy had eyes just as brown as his hair, maybe even a little lighter with the golden specks straggling within them. If anyone was lucky (such as yourself) to stand so close to him, one might be able to see the small barely visible, but undeniably delightful freckles scattered across his nose.

Your eyes trail down to his lips, but not in a weird way, the small smile etched on his face captivated you and deep in your stomach, you swore you felt butterflies erupt. The smile was warm and inviting, and one of his most endearing features, capable of lighting up his entire face. It gave him a friendly, yet approachable demeanour.

He was the kind of person who had the-boy-next-door kind of vibe, and you can't help but gaze longer than intended, making him uncomfortable in a way you had no intentions of doing.

So, you clear your throat, and quickly look at your shoes.

"Its no problem." You mutter.

There's a standstill silence between the two of you, the murmur of passengers, the rustling of bags and the occasional ring of a phone not helping the awkwardness you felt whatsoever.

Eventually, the boy shows you yet another charming smile, walking past you to sit in a nearby seat. You return to yours and try your hardest not to stare at the boy diagonally across from you.

There's a standstill silence between the two of you, the murmur of passengers, the rustling of bags and the occasional ring of a phone not helping the awkwardness you felt whatsoever.

Eventually, the boy shows you yet another charming smile, walking past you to sit in a nearby seat. You return to yours and try your hardest not to stare at the boy diagonally across from you.

That challenge, however quickly crashes when you glance at him only to see him gazing back, in a way that wasn't entirely creepy, but cumbersome for the both of you. You do your best to show him a smile, cringing slightly when you realize its more of a nervous grimace than what you intended.

Though, he shows no signs of being weirded out by your so called "smile", he waves as you wave back. A rush of warmth and pleasantry overtakes you when he looks away. You'd think this is the first time any boy has ever showed you this much attention, no matter how little it might have been.

Minutes pass in a blur as the train carries you forward, each moment seamlessly blending into the next. Ultimately, you reach your stop and you gather your things, albeit a bit reluctantly. As you leave, you bite your lower lip and share a scrutiny when you walk past him, making your exit off the train.

While you step off the train, and make it your mission to ascend up the stairs, a hand purchases on your shoulder causing you to flinch fearfully, many thoughts running through your head as you make the stupid decision to turn around to face the culprit.

All fears subside once you meet the familiar chestnut brown eyes of the boy from the train.

He realizes your initial fear and holds up your tangled headphones. "You left these on the train." He blinks.

"Thank you." You obligate, retrieving the headphones from his hand.

The boy nods and buries his hands in his pocket, unwieldy looking around.

You tilt your head as a thought comes about.

"Is this your stop?" You wonder.

He breaks his train of thought and stares right at you before laughing awkwardly. "Um, no my stop was actually three more blocks away." He informs and guilt fills you at that information.

"Oh, I'm sorry," You apologize, frowning.

He shakes his head quickly.

"No, its fine I was just going to stop at Delmar's anyway." He reassures and smiles, holding out his hand.

"Also, I'm Peter by the way, Peter Parker."

You return the smile and shake Peter's hand at his dorky introduction, speaking your name in greeting.

"I know, we share a gym class." Peter says.

You blink at the revelation, having no idea he even went to Midtown. Small world, you think.

"Anyway, is it okay if I walk you up the stairs, in a non weird way that seems creepy." Peter offers shyly, interrupting the barely there silence. There was something about his adorably dunce proposal that made you appreciate him despite only knowing the boy for ten minutes at most.

"Sure." You agree all too eagerly.

With new found courage, you and Peter make your way up the stairs of the train station and you're greeted with the bustling New York city, of what you can only describe as chaotic, honking cars and fellow civilians either on their arguing or arguing on their phones.

You felt excited to be walking next to Peter, no matter how small your interactions have been or how little you two new each other, you were grateful for his presence.

Grateful that you decided to take the train. Had you would've walked, only god knows what could've happened, the foreign feeling of butterflies in your stomach would not had been, that's for certain.

taglist: @victoriousskylar @imawhoreforu @myfangirlinessononeblog

shoutout to the divider account: @saradika-graphics

#peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n #peter parker fluff

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kingdomofstalkingthewrath · 6 months ago

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A scene I think about often

“I need a spider, and she’s the best.”

“It can wait.”

“I say it can’t. Head on down to the Gemensbank. You’ll see my name at the top of her contract, and that means I say where she goes.”

“Understood, sir,” said Kaz. “And as soon as I find her, I’ll let her know.”

“She’s right—” Haskell broke off, his jaw dropping in disbelief. “She was right here!”

Kaz forced himself not to smile. While Per Haskell had been blustering, Inej had simply melted into the shadows and silently scaled the wall.

Followed by the best line of all

“This is my gang, Brekker. She doesn’t belong to you.”

“She doesn’t belong to anyone,” Kaz said, feeling the singe of that angry white flame.

#six of crows #crooked kingdom #kaz x inej #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #leigh bargudo #books #ya books #nina zenik #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #matthias helvar #the crows

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writteninlunarlight-years · 2 months ago

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Tears to Shed

This is based on Tears to Shed from the Corpse Bride. Where Alastor accidentally marries the reader. The only problem is Alastor doesn't want to marry anyone. TW: Angst, Hurt, Sorrow, Illusions to Suicide but you can't die in hell unless it's angelic steel; Alastor is well Alastor, Mimzy is Alastors partner in this. <I am open to writing a part 2 if yall like this> @willowaudreykeyes helped me edit!

The day Alastor slipped the ring onto your finger seemed to shake the whole world with the weight of fated lovers. He was a striking figure, with caramel skin glinting beneath the sun, eyes alight, and a vigorous appetite for power and immortality. But beneath the surface, a shadow lingered: his heart was not free but tied to Mimzy, that star of the city, resplendent with the possibilities of influence and status among humans.

But in that very moment, as your eyes caught the gleam of the ring, you could almost think he chose you. You were, after all, wearing his ring, and he had said those vows with such passion as if some unseen force bound your destinies.

But then time unraveled, and the truth trickled in like a cold, silent mist: Alastor wanted neither you nor Mimzy. He wanted to be free and live a life unencumbered by chains called commitment. He wanted power and to be feared above all others in his realm.

You had been heartbroken, perched up on the roof of a falling building in Hell, looking out at the fire spreading to the horizon. Never a fan of red and black, you'd always enjoyed blue and silver. The licks of flames danced like lost souls, taunting your self-worth.

You did, indeed, feel the gravity of your life in that moment-the corpse bride, once a loving beauty, now a demon cloaked by yearning and solitude: Alastor had brought one spark of hope into your heart only to cast it down into the dark. The pain of betrayal and the weight of your new existence as a demon were crushing you, threatening to consume the last remnants of your humanity.

You remembered that cold, starless night when he slid the ring onto your finger. For the beat of a moment, you were complete, while today, you are the broken pieces of what you once were: a beautiful woman full of life and a longing to be loved. But now, the truth stared you in the face: he was trapped, and you were the specter haunting his every step, it would appear.

You'd found Alastor begging for Mimzy's help only hours before. The scene had played like an echo in your mind, a foreign sound that twisted your insides. You'd seen it in his eyes, heard it in the shake of his voice. Beneath the bluster of a power-hungry fool, he was just a man desperate to be free of the tethers of a promise he had never wanted to make. And you, you were the one who had been used as a pawn in their twisted game of power and love.

As the reality fell in your heart like ashes, your friends emerged from the shadows: Nero, the imp, and Arianna, the succubus. Their loyalty to you puts a soothing wave over your spirit of fire and ice. They pressed themselves against your sides, the heat from their bodies contrasting with the chill of your skin and the despair that began to wrap around you as time passed.

They stared at the scene before you, knowing this was their doing. Had they not encouraged you to keep Alastor in your life, to guide and mentor you in a fantasy of mortals and demons in love, you wouldn't be like this on the brink of unleashing your powers on all of Hell once again, just as you had on the day you had died.

"What does that wispy little brat have that you don't have double?" Nero's voice was soft yet managed to cut through the fog in your brain. The gentle touch of his hand to yours was akin to a lifeline for a moment.

Arianna leaned in, her eyes aglow with wild affection. "She can't hold a candle to the beauty of your smile!" she said, in words that were an attempt at stitching the pieces of your heart together.

"Yeah, how about a pulse?" You snorted, the venom of bitterness thick in your voice as you stared at the fiery scene below your chosen hideout. You just felt like an antique compared with the sweet Mimzy.

"Overrated by a mile!" Nero chipped in, his voice light yet grave, as he sat by your side with a mutual understanding of the pain you are experiencing.

"Overfed!" Arianna cut in with a snort, her tail flicking in outrage.

"Overblown!" Nero exclaimed, with echoes of laughter resounding around the darkening space. Then he turned to Arianna, who nodded with full vigor. For a moment, their eyes shone with playfulness as they looked at you, hope alighting in their pupils.

"If he only knew the you that we know," they chorused in unison, gripping your hands tight. Their faces held pride with a touch of pain, but they held steady on one thing: their unity in support of you.

Arianna played with the ring on your left hand, smirking with mischief and love. "And the little silly creature isn't wearing his ring!"

Nero playfully elbowed you. "And she doesn't play piano!"

"Or dance or sing! No, she doesn't compare!" they chortled, their voices rising like some haunting melody.

But the shadows of doubt clung to you like a second skin. "But she still breathes air," you muttered; the weight of your reality fell again.

"Who cares?" they chorused, still enthusiastic, though you knew they were growing tired of your self-doubt.

"Unimportant!" Nero insisted, scrambling onto your shoulder, his small frame reassuring.

“Overblown!" Arianna echoed with whimsical reassurance, wrapping her tail gently around your arm.

"If only he could see how special you can be. If only he knew you that we know," they said in one accord, a mantra to which you were no longer sure you believed.

You stood, peeling yourself gently from the tangle of friends. Your undead eyes threatened to spill over with tears as you swayed on the precipice of despair, humming a mournful tune. Closer to the edge of the building you sat atop, the seductive allure of the fall whispered promises of nothing, for you could not die here.

"If I touch a burning candle, I can feel no pain. If you cut me with a knife, it's still the same." You flourish the blade hidden in your garter, the cold steel calling to your mind your immortality. The use of it on Alastor flashed across your mind a spark of the most dangerous kind. You chase the thought away, turning back to your lament. The struggle between your desire for revenge and your lingering love for Alastor was tearing you apart, threatening to push you over the edge of sanity.

"And I know her heart is beating, and I know that I am dead. Yet the pain here that I feel, please try and tell me it's not real." You turned your gaze to your friends, their faces dimly lit by the firey light of hell, then fell back from the rooftop, landing softly within a coffin overflowing with blue and silver roses, the delicate petals wrapping you in a sorrow growing only larger by the minute.

"And yet, it would seem I still have a tear to shed." Your eyes, no longer shining bright, now blazed with the bitter salt of lost love, lost on the one with whom you had believed you shared. Yet time was a thief and saved little space for sorrow. Nero and Arianna were already down to your level, their eyes afire with determination in jarring contrast with the despair flooding your heart.

Nero was first to huddle beside you, his face lined with concern and encouragement. "The only redeeming feature of that little creature is that she's alive!"

Arianna joined him, her cheeks flushed from the hurried descent. "Yeah, it's overrated!" she chimed in, light in tone but weighted with the depth of unsaid meaning.

Nero nodded vigorously, nudging you gently as he gestured to the world beyond. "Yeah, even overblown!"

Arianna smirked, crossing her arms in a very defiant pose, even going so far as to tilt her chin upward in some kind of dare for you to say otherwise. "Everybody knows that’s just a temporary state, which is cured very quickly when we meet our fate!"

Nero's grin widened as he helped you sit up, your surroundings—a darkened alleyway—looming on like some sort of forgotten lover's heart. "Who cares?

Arianna wrapped her arm around your waist, the touch grounding and warm. "Unimportant!" she insisted, dismissing the weight of your sorrow with a wave of her hand.

Nero tugged your good hand with newly formed determination, pulling you toward the busy streets, back into the folds of society. "Overrated!"

Arianna toyed with your hair before flashing a mischievous wink over the mask of worried tension she knew was building the more they danced around your feelings. "Overblown!"

The pair sparkled brightly as they laughed-a stark difference amidst the cowering crowds shrinking away from you, the infamous Corpse Bride, the dainty specter who wielded more souls than damn near Lucifer himself.

"If only he could see how special you could be, if only he knew you, that we know!" Their words of encouragement merely cut through your heart like daggers.

You merely shook your head, a deepening frown as the shadows danced in your eyes, before pulling away and meandering to drift across the streets. A melancholy tune tumbled from your lips as those who'd dare to follow quickly began to wither into roses of silver and blue, scattered remnants of what once was. As you approached the next street, your lament started again, an echoing whisper.

"If I touch a burning candle, I can feel no pain; in the ice or in the sun, it's all the same." You breezed by a café with candles on its tables casting their golden light into the night air, and without even batting an eyelash, you blew them out, embracing the darkness like an old friend.

Your eyes closed, knowing, sans sight, that you were the most significant threat this Hellscape had ever known. Your heart clutched, and your sorrow blossomed into a dark storm that sent those who knew your power scurrying back into the shadows, fear etched upon their faces.

"Yet I feel my heart is aching; though it doesn't beat, it's breaking, and the pain here that I feel, please, try and tell me it's not real." As your eyes fluttered open, the street transformed before you: what once was vibrant red and black now lay cloaked in shades of blue and silver- your wailing, weaving a tapestry of despair, draped over the once bustling scenery.

"I know that I'm dead, yet it seems that I still have some tears to shed." Your voice was barely heard, and there was a broken murmur as you made your way to your house. The chill of the stone outside was like the weight of your grief. Climbing the stairs with sluggish motions, you sat at your piano bench and stared onto the keys, the swell of your sorrow deep.

Nero and Arianna watched you, their faces heavy with what was not said, too much pain entering them as it had the rest of hell when you started your lament. They knew all too well that you only called upon your full banshee powers when the weight of despair bore too much, even that they could not fix it.

You laid your fingers against the keys, and the weight of silence fell. You pressed a key, and the note sang out to resound as one deep ache in your soul, for Alastor would go back to the world of the living, leave you for another, and leave you a shadow.

The sob, so fragile yet mighty, ripped itself free from your lips and unleashed a storm into the very pits of hell. Your wail pierced the night, a chorus of anguish, seeing as you were Y/N, the Corpse Bride, or better yet, a banshee of ill fate, rivaling the voice of Lilith herself.

The roses that danced around your abode shook with solemn trembles at the harmonization of keys to a requiem of lost love. And you, still lost between the planes of life and death, celebrated being the Harbinger of Sorrow.

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candystudios · 3 months ago

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More Shadow Bluster doodles!

ft. Bluster Jr.!

Ko-Fi<3

Also loving all the Bad Crowd related asks I’ve been getting! Thank you all! It’s been a blast to summon the whole Care Bears/Bad Crowd fandom to my doorstep

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 8 months ago

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Winter's King 17

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

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

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

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: I have a house now. One more month until move in.

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

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You leave the queen, stepping into the gales that whip around the outer flap of her tent. You reach to keep your cap from flying into the violent winds, the soldiers with their chins down as they lean against the force. Before you can gain your bearings, a shadow appears and calls your name, battling the weather to be heard.

“Eh, where is your cloak, silly mouse? You will blow away with the leaves,” Bryce approaches, latching onto your arm as the bluster swirls around you, nearly taking you off your feet.

“I am fine, sir, I only need find a blanket,” you stumble against him as another willful gust pushes you around.

“That isn’t what I asked. What has happened to it? You’ve lost it?”

“The queen was cold, sir,” you answer and cling to him, shivering as the tempest swirls around you.

“The queen... greedy...” his voice trails off as her sneers towards the tent.

“Sir,” you touch his arm gently to calm him, “she needs it more than I. She is expecting the king’s child.”

He looks at you and juts out his jaw, “aye, s’pose you’re right, even if you’re too kind for yer own good.”

He turns you and grips you tightly, shielding you as best he can against the wind. Your progress is slow and stunted by the sudden ebbs and flows. He grunts as you stagger and steadies you, at times almost lifting you off your feet.

“Sir Bryce,” a deep voice slices through the whistle of the winds, “a storm approaches.”

The king nears, his sword gripped by the pommel as he leans it against hit shoulder. His golden eyes flick towards you, as if he had not seen you in the shadow of your escort. He raises his chin and returns his attention to the soldier. He angles his blade to the ground and the tip buries in the dirt.

“Aye, it surely does,” Bryce agrees, “I’ve seen a worst tempest in my years.”

“Sir,” Geralt holds out his hands and a glisten appears on his sleeve. You lean in without a thought, curious, then feel a cold speck on your nose. You look up and see the white flakes drifting down. “It will not remain so peaceful. It comes from the north and will deepen by morning.”

“Shall we wake the camp?” Bryce asks and you sway with the wind. Once more, the king’s attention strays to you, he frowns.

“Not as yet. Let the horses rest a little longer. They will be able to handle a dusting,” he affirms. “but I will harry the men to prepare for our departure.”

“As will I. I’ll be certain the carts are covered and weighted.”

“Sir, ever wise,” King Geralt praises and scowls at you. He shakes his head and huffs, “why does the maid wear no cloak? She will not survive in this, summer soul, she is.”

“Aye, yes, I was only just telling her as much. Seems her heart is too big for her thin hide,” Bryce tuts, “we were only off to find her a blanket before she sleeps.”

“Blanket, eh,” the king lets go of his blade, letting it stand in the ground. He unbuckles his collar and sweeps his cloak from around his shoulder, “I have my hunting cloak and I don’t mind the snow so much.”

Before you can react, the king lays his heavy cloak over your shoulders. It is longer than your height requires and it smells of sweat and iron. You lower your head at the warmth clinging to the lined wool.

“Your highness, many thanks, but I might find a blanket--”

“Do not defy your king,” Bryce rebukes, “mouse, you would do well to accept his grace. You will certainly need it if these winds do not pass.”

“Apologies,” you utter, “sir, your highness, you are both generous.”

King Geralt grumbles and nods, looking once more to the sky as he grabs his sword.

“The Ridge, Vulture’s Peak... it isn’t far. The castle will do, eh?”

“Not far at all, your highness,” Bryce agrees. “It would do you well to let your wife rest. Many congratulations, my king.”

“Congratulations? For what? Smelling a storm?” the king furrows his brow.

“Oi, I think I’ve said too much,” Bryce glances at you.

“Say more,” the king commands. The soldier sighs and sheepishly shows his teeth.

“Please, maid, would ya...” He mutters.

“Your highness, the queen said she is with child,” you swallow, “I only just came from her tent. I believed you were aware. I did not mean to gossip.”

“Child,” his eyes sink and close. He hums and heaves a deep breath, “yes, she would need to be still a time.”

“Your highness, again, you have my apologies--”

“No matter,” the king waves his hand. “Take the maid, I shall see to my wife.”

The king resumes his path onward, sword in hand. He hardly shares in Jazlene’s cheer for the news. Perhaps it is only the threat of the storm that has him unhappy.

You bring your hands to the dark fur along the collar of the cloak and draw it snug. You chatter and Bryce clucks. He nudges you and you walk forward in step.

“So the snows have come,” Bryce declares, “along with the heir. I sense many storms brewing, mouse. Best keep our eyes on the horizon.”

⚔️

You don’t sleep for long, if at all. Only the shallow dregs of your anticipation. You watch the snow fall from beneath the canopy and as the horses are roused and fed before dawn, a carpet coats the ground.

You peer down at the powder. You wonder what it feels like. Cold and wet, Bryce says, but don’t dirty your soles, you’ll be soaked. He remains, as ever, cynical.

“Be off soon,” he says as he brings Daisy around, a thick coat over her back and haunches.

“To Vulture’s Peak?” You ask.

“Aye, so we will,” he pets Daisy’s snout as she sniffs him. “though our host may not be so fond to have us.”

“Host? It is not the king’s castle?”

“Ha, no, no,” Bryce laughs heartily, “a king can’t live on a desolate bluff. By fealty, a lord must break bread and offer a roof to his king. It might be his company which has him facing a cold welcome.”

“Oh,” you frown.

“Ah, even this old coot won’t deny us in the coming storm. He has sense of these better than any,” Bryce shrugs. “Don’t worry your head. You stay in your cart and Daisy will do the rest. She’s a fine climber--”

“Out of my way!” The curdling snarl interrupts the soldier and you both look to see the source. “Move, by gods, I am the queen, be away from me.”

You get to your knees, leaning on the edge of the wagon to see out from under the canopy. A scatter of bodies split apart as Queen Jazlene struts through, the fur cloak rippling from her shoulders and the hood set back on her head as her curls spill out. She sneers at the snow beneath her slippers.

“Ah, I did hear there was a cart around here—ugh, out,” she points as she marches up to the cart, “by royal right, I am seizing this cart.”

“Eh,” Bryce moves closer, “your highness, the king--”

“I cannot sit a horse, sir,” she rests her gloved hand over her stomach. “Or would you murder the future prince with your selfishness. All for a--” she pauses and glowers over at you, rolling her eyes. “A maid?”

You rise and snatch up the cloak you’d used as a blanket. You keep bent under the low canopy and climb out with the cushion under your arm.

“Sir, the queen is right, she should have the cart, I will sit with the luggage.”

He huffs and sends a grimace to the sky, unable to direct his malice towards its source, “if she must...”

“I must!” The queen snaps and yanks the pillow from your hands, “I will need this, certainly.”

You stand aside, staring at the pillow dolefully, and buckle the top of your cloak. The queen pauses as she faces you. She looks you up and down.

“Where did you find this then?” She touches the collar of the cloak.

“It is my spare cloak,” Bryce insists before you can answer, “what else do you require, your highness? Shall we bring a lamb to sacrifice?”

“Hm, is that how you northerners worship?” She sneers, missing his irony.

He blinks dully and says nothing.

“Well, secure the horse, I will need to be drawn.”

“It is my horse,” Bryce insists, “you may bridle your own.”

“You dare deny me?” She snarls at him as the soldiers with her stand on either side of the cart.

“You may take it up with your husband. This is my steed, she carried me to war and she will carry me henceforth,” he snips.

Bryce and Jazlene glare at each other. You look between them nervously. You don’t know who King Geralt might choose in this battle should he be called.

“Fine, fetch the stinky thing,” Jazlene demands of one of the soldiers, “and blankets, another pillow, perhaps something to eat.”

The cast of the sky shifts with the first light of the sun and Bryce grabs both horses and leads them aside. He whistles for you to follow. You come to him as Chestnut and Daisy cluelessly puff into the cold air.

“You will ride. I will not have that... queen seizing my horse,” he sniffs, “I will show you how once I’ve saddled the mare.”

“Oh, yes, sir.” You look up at the horses back. It seems very high.

“You will want to be aback anyhow,” he shrugs, “you’ll not want to miss the mountain. It is very beautiful, especially in the snow.”

⚔️

The party continues onward, treacherously. As the snow falls, the train diverts away from the flats and onto the narrow paths speckled with broken trunks and towering trees. The smell of pine tickles your nose as you ascend, bit by bit.

It takes some time to grow used to the motion of the horse. Daisy’s hooves are certain and she does not slip on even the most precarious spots. Bryce rides behind you, booming about each nook and cranny, pointing out the white rabbits and the wilted fauna. His enthusiasm is unexpected but endearing.

You ride until the moon replaces the sun and dismount along the side of the great cliff. There is no room here to pitch a tent and only a few fires burn along the ridge. Your hips ache as the soldier grunts about his back.

“I should see to the queen,” you suggest as you rub your hands together.

“She must have many fawning over her,” Bryce spits out a wad of leaves and squashes it under his feet.

“I am her maid--”

“And we are on a long road. She might go without you minding her temper,” he snarls.

You frown, “I am not upset. She needs the cart more than me.”

“It isn’t that which sees me chagrined,” he growls. “It’s those deeds you will not admit of that traitor’s daughter which make me prickle.”

You’re quiet. You look away, your eyes wandering up into the sky, watching the snow swirl down, following it down to the ground far below. The heaps are immaculate in the moonlight and the trim of white along the ridge gleams.

“I am a maid.”

“I know little of your summer people but if that is how they treat those who serve them, perhaps this alliance was not so wise,” he grumbles as he steps up beside you, “perhaps it would’ve been better to submit such cruel nobles.”

“Sir,” you say, shocked and peer over at his profile. His beard has grown to meet his cloak, his hair coiling down to his shoulders.

“I serve my king, as I ever will, but I will not bend the knees to a snake,” he hisses and crosses his arms.

“We are united, aren’t we? Summer and Winter,” you reach to touch his thick hide mitt.

“Aye, yes, I do not seek another battle,” he exhales. “I am only wary of those who may.”

You squint. Your mind returns to Lord Dustan and what he said to his daughter. The heir is their prize, an affirmation of the bounty earned by their betrayal, but also a chain to that very act. To the man they forsook their name for. A man they speak as kindly on as they had their former allies.

“Might I walk?” You draw your hand from his. “My legs are sore.”

“Not too far. And keep your eyes open,” he girds, “and your hands in your cloak. You needn’t frostbite.”

You nod and he turns to you. He pulls up the hood of your cloak and pats your shoulder.

“Tarry too long and I’ll look for you,” he warns.

“Sir,” you shift slowly and step past him.

You trod higher up the incline as you marvel over the edge. Bodies huddles together beneath cloaks and blankets, nestling for warmth against the wall of the cliff. You carry on and stop near a luggage cart, close to the drop. You hold out your hand, letting snow gather in your palm. It is cold, bitterly and painfully cold, but so beautiful. You bring it closer and watch it slowly melt as your hand numbs.

“Do you remember...” the king’s voice drawls over you as his soft steps approach. “What I told you of this place?”

You look at him. He is lit by the moonlight, his golden eyes like stars, and his jaw is bristly with thickening stubble. You bow your head, “your highness, are the bears already asleep in their caves?”

He chuckles, “you do recall,” he praises, “not yet, though they do not come this high.”

“And the wolves? Are they near?”

“They are always prowling,” he says, shifting closer, his arm pressing to yours. He bends slightly to peer straight down, “the elk will be in the forests.” He points to the snowcapped tips of the distant trees, “here, the vultures have their nests. Their eggs,” he curves his hands to show the size, “I made a writ, years ago. It is forbidden to eat the eggs. I always found it quite tragic to desecrate the majestic creatures before they can even be borne. Before they can fly even.”

“Vultures? I’ve never seen one? They are... birds?”

“Yes, birds,” he confirms.

He is silent as he considers his kingdom below. His breath is gritty as it rises and falls. He has much to think on. A child, a wife, and his homecoming delayed by a storm.

“One thing has changed here, in these lands of winter,” he says lowly and you feel a ripple in your cloak. He presses his hand firmly to your back, sliding it along your side to grasp your hip. He moves to stand behind you and brings you close. He wraps his arms around you and rests his chin on your crown, “I said before, there is no summer here,” he holds you, pulling his cloak around you, concealing you within it as he drapes himself around you, “summer is here. With me. Warm and gentle.”

You go rigid as he holds you, your heart beating at the unexpected embrace, at the unseemly contact between you. He hums as he stands with you in the shadows of the cart, so brazenly covert. Anyone might happen upon you and yet they all hide away from the storm.

“Your highness,” you stammer and quiver against him.

“Treasure,” he purrs, “my treasure. The one good thing I’ve brought home...”

You can’t breathe or think. Is he drunk? Confused? What does he mean?

“I--” he begins but the kick of a rock quiets him, the stone bouncing off the cart’s wheel.

A shadow stalks down the precipice towards you and the king detaches, uncovering you from his cloak. He faces the figure as the tramp up the incline. You hear the king shudder as he tickles your back.

“There’s the mouse,” Bryce says as he comes into the moonlight, his brow and jaw set, though he doesn’t look at you. He looks at the king, almost defiant. “You shouldn't be out so long in the cold. Exposed,” he grits, “come, I’ve sparked us a fire.”

King Geralt clears his throat, “thank you, sir.”

“My king,” Bryce says as he beckons to you, “I will keep the maid safe. As you bid.”

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #au #medieval au #winter's king #the witcher

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white-wolf-buckaroo · 16 days ago

Text

And I’ll keep choosing you, every single day.

A dad!Vander fic (with my og character, Luna, Vander's fifth adopted child)

Set before Act 1.1.

Masterlist: there you go

Disclaimer: english ain't my first language folks

It had been a rough day in the Lanes. The tensions with the Enforcers had escalated yet again, and the people of the Undercity were less than pleased. Whispers of anger and rebellion ran through the streets like poison in the veins of a sick body—too loud to ignore, too dangerous to let fester.

Vander stood at his usual spot behind the bar, wiping down the counter even though there wasn’t much left to clean. The cloth moved in lazy circles over the polished wood, but his hands were on autopilot. His mind was elsewhere—distant, preoccupied—and his shoulders carried the weight of a man trying to hold up a crumbling world.

He’d been tense since morning, ever since a mob of restless fools had swarmed the streets, their voices raw with outrage. Protests against the Enforcers’ recent raids had turned to chaos in the blink of an eye, and although Vander had no desire to get involved, he’d had no choice when he found out his kids were out there—Vi, Mylo, and Claggor, of course. Sneaking out like ghosts, drawn to trouble as moths were to flame.

By the time he’d caught wind of it, they were already gone, leaving nothing but questions and cold panic behind. They hadn’t left a word, not so much as a note, and Vander had stormed through the streets with his heart pounding in his ears. Anger, worry, relief—they all mixed into one sickening knot when he finally spotted them near the edge of the crowd.

Vi had been at the front, fists clenched and jaw set, ready to throw herself into the fire without a second thought. Mylo had been shouting alongside the crowd, full of bluster and bravado, while Claggor lingered close to the side, his face torn between excitement and hesitation.

Vander hadn’t known if he wanted to strangle them or pull them into his arms and never let go.

Instead, he’d grabbed each of them by the scruff, his voice booming like thunder over the crowd. His scolding carried all the way back to The Last Drop, his words sharp with anger, but layered with a worry only someone like Vander could express. By the time he herded them into the basement, his voice was hoarse, his patience threadbare. “Grounded. One week. And don’t think I’ll forget.”

He left them there, stewing in their guilt—or, in Vi’s case, frustration—while he climbed back upstairs to calm himself down. His heart was still racing, his mind spinning, when he found Grayson waiting for him.

She sat at the desk tucked into the shadowed corner of the bar, her expression heavy with the same weariness Vander felt in his bones. They hadn’t needed to exchange pleasantries. Their arrangement had become their shared burden: Keep your people out of Piltover, and we’ll stay out of Lanes' businnes. Simple words on paper, but the reality was a knot of complications neither of them could untangle.

“It’s getting worse,” Grayson had said, her voice a quiet rumble. “People are scared.”

Vander had bristled at that, leaning against the edge of the bar with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “They’re angry, not scared. They want someone to blame, and the enforcers are giving them plenty of reasons.”

“And if this keeps up, we both know how it ends,” she countered.

The truth of it had stung like a wound, and it followed Vander as he opened the bar for the night. Tension thickened the air like smoke, curling into every corner of the room. The regular patrons filed in, but their conversations carried the same hum of unrest he’d heard all day. Every table murmured about the same topic—raids, protests, violence in the streets. It was as though the Undercity itself was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable match to fall into the powder.

And there Vander stood, a man caught between two worlds. Piltover’s enforcers on one side, his people on the other, and his family—his kids—right at the center of it all.

The glass in his hand squeaked as he scrubbed at it harder than he meant to, his grip tightening. Powder’s giggles carried faintly from one fo the tables, where she was sitting with Luna, Ekko and Benzo, who had been keeping the girls distracted for the day after he dropped them off at his shop before going to fetch the other three rebels. Their innocent chatter was a brief balm against the storm brewing just outside the doors.

He exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping. He knew this life wasn’t sustainable. But for now, all Vander could do was hold the line—keep his family safe, keep the Undercity from tearing itself apart.

He didn't see Vi, Mylo and Claggor through the night at the bar, and he was very much relieved for them staying in the basement, for once doing what he had told them. He'd have to have a more serene and serious chat with them about not heading straight to danger, especially before it could ocurr to them to let Powder or even Luna tag along with them.

Now, later that night, the bar was quieter, the earlier noise and tension reduced to a low hum. Vander had managed to send Powder to bed after some gentle coaxing, but Luna had been stubborn, her big eyes silently pleading with him to let her stay. In the end, he didn’t have the strength to argue. Not tonight. With the day he’d had, filled with protests, scoldings, and weighty conversations, he let her stay upstairs. She’d settled herself on the floor across the room, cross-legged and clutching the patchy stuffed fox he’d scrounged up for her some time ago.

The toy had seen better days—its fur was matted, one of its button eyes hung loose, and its seams were beginning to fray—but to Luna, it might as well have been a treasure. She hugged it close, her tiny fingers twisting at its worn ears, her knuckles white from how tightly she held it.

She’d been quiet all day, which wasn’t entirely unusual for her. Luna was a small shadow in a big, noisy world—a world that didn’t always make space for kids like her. But there was something different about her silence tonight. It hung in the air like a heavy fog, clinging to every corner of the bar. Vander had noticed it in the way she sat, so still it was almost unnatural, her little shoulders hunched inward like she was trying to make herself smaller.

The sight tugged at something deep in Vander’s chest, a part of him that had softened over the years despite everything the Lanes had thrown at him. He stopped wiping the bar, setting the rag down as a deep sigh escaped him. He watched her for a moment longer, torn between giving her space and knowing when to step in.

The day had been long and hard—too much shouting, too much tension, and not enough answers—and a part of him wanted nothing more than to let the world slip away for a little while. But there she was, curled up on the wooden floor, clutching her fox like it was the only thing keeping her together.

He couldn’t leave her like that.

With another sigh, he walked over and crouched down beside her, his large frame casting a shadow over her small one. The floorboards creaked softly under his weight, but Luna didn’t look up right away. He studied her for a moment, noting the way her lower lip trembled as if she was holding something back.

“What’s the matter, kiddo?” he asked, his voice softer than usual, the gravel smoothed out by concern. “You’ve been awfully quiet today.”

Luna glanced up at him, her wide eyes glimmering with unshed tears that made them look even bigger. For a heartbeat, she hesitated, chewing on the inside of her cheek like she wasn’t sure if she should speak at all. Then, finally, her voice slipped out, so soft it could’ve been mistaken for the creak of an old floorboard.

“Do you have to fight them?”

Vander’s brows furrowed. He tilted his head slightly, trying to make sense of her words. “Fight who?”

“The Enforcers,” she said, her voice breaking just slightly as she hugged the fox tighter against her chest. “I heard Vi say you might have to.”

Vander let out a long, slow breath, as if releasing the weight of the entire day all at once. He lowered himself the rest of the way to the floor, wincing as his knees groaned in protest. With a heavy thud, he leaned back against the counter, stretching out his legs in front of him.

“Ah, Vi’s got a big mouth sometimes,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, though a faint smile flickered on his lips for just a moment. “But no, Luna. I don’t want to fight anyone, not anymore. Not if I can help it. My job is to keep all of you safe, not to pick fights.”

For a moment, Luna didn’t respond. She just sat there, clutching her fox like it was a shield, her small fingers tracing circles into its fur. Then she looked at him again, and this time there was something else in her eyes—something deeper, as if the weight of the day had finally caught up to her too.

“What if… what if you can’t?” she whispered.

"Where's all of this coming from?" he asked back, concerned. "Luna, kiddo, you shouldn't worry about that."

"But Vi said that... That someone should do something. Someone like you, who people listen to." her lips formed a pout, her eyes getting glossier. "What if they hurt you? What if they take you away from us?”

The questions hit him harder than any punch he’d ever taken. Vander froze, feeling the air shift around them, heavy with the unspoken fears she’d carried for far too long. He swallowed, his throat tight, as the memory of Silco’s sneering face flickered through his mind. Luna might not have seen it firsthand, but kids weren’t blind to the world—not when the walls they lived behind were so thin.

His poor little girl. She shouldn’t be carrying burdens like this. None of them should.

Slowly, Vander reached out and scooped her into his arms. Luna didn’t resist; she just melted into him, burying her face against his chest as his strong arms wrapped securely around her. He cradled her close, rocking her gently like he used to with Powder when she couldn’t sleep.

“You don’t have to worry about that, sweetheart,” he murmured, his deep voice a low rumble in the stillness. He rested his chin lightly on the top of her head, letting the warmth of her small body seep into him. “I’m not going anywhere. As long as I’m breathing, nothing’s gonna happen to you or your siblings. I promise.”

For a moment, Luna said nothing. She simply clung to him, her tiny fists curling into the fabric of his shirt like she was afraid he might disappear if she let go. Then, in a voice so quiet it nearly broke him, she hesitated, her small voice shaky as it finally came. “I… I heard Mylo say we’re not really your kids. Does that mean you… could leave us? Could leave me?”

Vander’s heart stopped. The words struck him deep, sharper than any blade. He'd have to have another additional talk with Mylo, maybe even before tonight ended; he had a big mouth, just like Vi, but at least she knew better how to not spit out her harshness in front of her younger siblings and not direct to them.

He tightened his hold on Luna, leaning back slightly so he could look her in the eyes. His expression turned serious—not harsh, but firm, like when he told her to never let go of his hand when they were outside.

“Luna, you listen to me carefully now,” he said, his voice low but steady. “Blood doesn’t make a family. You’re here because I chose you. Same with Vi, same with Powder, and same with Claggor, and with Mylo. Even if all of you get in trouble from time to time." he pinched her sides, making her lips break into a smile for a second. "And I’ll keep choosing you, every single day. You’re my kid, you all are, no matter what. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

Luna stared at him for a long moment, her tear-streaked face full of something he couldn’t quite name—hope, maybe, or disbelief. Slowly, the tension in her small body began to ease, like the words had finally reached her. She sniffled, wiping her nose against his shirt before whispering, “Okay, Daddy.”

The word hit him like a wave, crashing over him and stealing the breath from his lungs. He’d been called many things in his life—a leader, a protector, a criminal—but “Daddy” was not one of them. And yet, here it was, so small and unassuming, spoken with such trust it nearly brought him to tears.

A slow, warm smile spread across his face. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his voice soft as he whispered, “That’s right. Daddy’s here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Luna nestled back into his chest, her little body finally relaxing, as if all the fears she’d carried had been lifted. All thanks to him. Vander held her close, letting the quiet settle around them like a blanket. Outside, the world was still a mess—the tension with the Enforcers, the whispers of unrest—but here, in the soft glow of the bar, he had everything that mattered.

For Vander, that single word—spoken so innocently and yet with so much meaning—was enough to remind him why he fought so hard, why he carried the weight of the Lanes on his shoulders.

Because this—these kids, their laughter and their tears—this was his family. And nothing in the world mattered more.

Taglist: @keira7664@starryhiraeth @eternallyvenus

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druidwolf21 · 2 months ago

Text

Part of first impressions

Roboute Guilliman.

There is smut in here, but it's under a cut so you can read the rest without any warnings.

Your evening takes a turn when you try to leave the party.

Tag list: @jaghatai-khock @beckyninja @lemon-russ @moodymisty

@cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond

Your eyes locked on the intricate carvings of the mahogany doors as you beelined for your exit, weaving in and out of the waves of bodies as you inched closer to your escape, your golden heels clicked across marbled floors and velvetine carpets as you slipped around a large gaggle of blustering politicians. You twisted to avoid a serf, her hands laden high with steaming dishes, your dress swirling around you as you spun before fluttering back down as you came to an abrupt stop.

You'd missed the large shadow moving towards you in your desperation to get to the exit and now you found your self face to face (or face to body) with a mass of muscle. Your body stumbled and you cursed your lack of your usual britches as you felt your heel snag on the hem of your gown. You closed your eyes waiting for the collision with the floor, an impact that never came.You felt a strong hand circle your back and support you and your eyes flew open to see the face of guilliman looking down at you as he caught you.

You eyes met his and you found yourself in a sea of blue as you stared at him, his gaze stern but gentle as he guided you back upright. His eyebrow cocked slightly as he continued to match your gaze, lost in a boiling ocean of emotion he hid behind a stoney face. You felt a flush climb up your neck into your cheeks as he slowly released your waist

"so lonely" you muttered softly, still staring before catching yourself and finally looking away, fussing with your dress to hide your sudden embarrassment.

A flash of surprise reached his face before vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

"forgive me, my lady I should have minded my step more carefully"

You looked back up at him as he smiled gently, his eyes seemed to search your face for something for a moment looking for something you weren't sure was there.

"not at all, my lord, I need to watch where I'm going" you smiled back, your first genuine smile of the night "if I hadn't have been rushing, I probably would've seen you, considering... Well" your grin broadened as you gestured to his notice height difference.

You weren't ashamed to admit you eyed up the rest of him at the same time. Tall muscular features, tucked under white and ultramarine blue linen. Cropped blond locks framing a far too handsome face.

A chuckle rumbled deep in the primark and he nodded, pulling your gaze away from his broad chest back to his face. He smile seemed easier than it had a moment ago and the stern looks on his face had relaxed.

"if you are in such a rush, perhaps you would allow me to escort you, my lady?" He cocked his head slightly, eyes seeking out yours again as you hummed in thought before offering out your hand and allowing him to guide you to the door.

Roboute had reached out the grab the young woman on instinct as you flinched before walking into him, his hand gently caressing the small of your back. Goosebumps ran up his arm as he felt you soft skin and the warmth of your body as your weight fell into him.

He looked down and was trapped by a bright inquisitive gaze holding his own.Looking him dead in the eyes, no fear, no reverence, just curiosity.

Who the hell were you?

He had gently guided you to your feet, reluctant to remove his hand and loose the feeling of your heat on his skin.

"so lonely" he had heard you whisper as you looked at him. One of his hearts had damn near somersaulted in his chest as the words left your lips, he felt naked, like you could see right to his soul. He finally removed his hand as he watched you blush and fiddle with your dress, his eyes travelled over you admiring the pink that dusted your cheeks, follow the colour as it creeped down your neck, past your collar bones and lower, his pupils narrowed and he eyed the curve of your breasts under the silk, letting his eyes travel lower to your hips before returning to your face.

When he finally spoke he smiled, relieved when you lifted your face and met his eyes again, gently laughing as you apologized to him. He saw the ways your eyes trailed over his body as you spoke, just as he had done to you.

Throne, was he enjoying this?

He nodded to himself slightly, making up his mind to get you alone somewhere so he could find out more, more about you, who you were, your likes and dislikes, he wanted to hear your soft laugh again, he wanted to hear you say as name as he...

He was pulled from his day dream as you held out a small hand towards him and nodded towards the door. Taking your small digits in his, reveling in how small you felt, he led you towards the exit, leaving the sound of the party behind you, everything mite to him except the sound of your voice as you finally told him your name.

You allowed yourself to be gently pulled down the corridor you had so desperately tried to reach as the noise of the gathering faded to a low hum. The gas lanterns peppering the wall cast a warm glow across the floor and guilliman's face as he walked beside you, a gentle smile on his face as he listened to you talk about your home. You found yourself rattling off tales of growing up in the manor, playing with servants and tumbling in mud with the low born children in the alleys, stories of getting in trouble with your parents for associating with soldiers and traders as you got older.

His face had grown sombre as you told him if your parents death and your brother's ascension to govenor and if the empty lonely feeling you had now if not knowing what the future held. All of this had come pouring out of your mouth before you could stop yourself.

As you continued down the corridor, his hand had continued to hold yours, refusing to let go as he listened to you waffle, he squeezed your hand gently when you told him how you felt lost, longing for something more and looked down at you with a soft look on his face as you talked.

"I'm so sorry, Ive talked about myself for so long, I haven't stopped to ask about you" you hummed, coming to a stop and running your thumb absently mindedly over his hand.

Guilliman felt the heat creep across his face at your touch, he glanced down to watch as your thumb rubbed gentle circles on his hand, he felt his hearts pounding in his chest and the hairs on his arm stand up as he realised he could see the curve of your breast through the top of your gown.

He coughed slightly to hide his embarrassment and began to tell you about his journey here and his interaction with various ambassadors before you gently interrupted him.

"no, I want to know about you. Your favourite food, tell me about Macragge."

He stared at you blankly, a million thoughts and feelings flooding through his mind before a wide smile spread across his face. He knelt down, face to face with you and beguiled you with tales of the fortress monastery of hera, being taught history, politics and war by his foster father konor.

He watched your eyes light up as he told you about growing up in the fortress surrounded by magistrates and soldiers and he saw the empathy and grief on your face when you told him about konor's assassination and felt the gentle squeeze of your hand.

He rose back to his feet finally releasing your hand to run a fist through his hair. Taking a deep breath he spoke.

"my lady, If it would please you, I would have to join me on the Macragges honour, the galaxy is vast and your company would go a long way to ease the monotony, for both of us"

Go with Guilliman

Your mouth fell agape as you realised what he was asking you, roboute guilliman, Primark of the ultramarines, lord regent, had asked you to accompany him. You looked questioningly at him, searching his face for any trace of a lie, but he remained stoic, the weight of his stare heavy on your shoulders.

He was right. You knew he was. The galaxy was so big and there was nothing left for you here. But out there?

Worlds upon worlds of adventure and people, people who didn't know where you came from, who your brother was.

Speaking of; hadn't your brother said he wanted you out of his hair anyway?

Thoughts of ancient tomb worlds and foggy mountains encased in ice and fire raced through your thoughts as mischievous grin snaked it's way across your face. reaching up and pulling the aquilla from your hair, allowing your locks you fall freely around your face you reached for his hand again and placed the pin in his palm. He looked down at the pin, then back to you, cocking a brow. He smile growing to match yours as he saw the adventurous gleam in your eye.

"let me grab my bag"

Stay behind

You stood, shocked for a moment before gently shaking your head and stepping back.

"my lord, I would love nothing more, but my brother is all I have... He needs me"

You watched as a thinly disguised look of disappointment graced the giants face before disappearing. He nodded his understanding and gently took your hand, placing a chaste kiss on the back before attempting to guide you back towards the party.

Guilliman's shoulders dropped in defeat and he took the woman's hand in his own. He had expecting this answer, but it hurts none the less.

A small squeeze on his finger made him look down and he stopped in his tracks. Tears poured down your face as your shoulder shook, silently despairing at your own choice.

He sighed and knelt, cupping your face and sweeping tears away.

"please let me stay, just a little longer" you whispered, leaning into his touch. He voice hoarse from holding back tears.

Guilliman nodded, and began muttering tales of rebels, rocky peaks and alien horror. He hoped to spark the fire he had seen in you at the party, relight the curious look in your eyes that had drawn him in so deeply.

But the dusk was fading into morning light and the familiar roar of the Macragges honour echoed off the walls.

And time stopped for no man.

Not even him.

SMUT

Based on going with guilliman

You raced towards your room as fast as your heels would allow, the amused Primark in tow smirking slightly as you cursed at your shoes slowing you down. You heard a poorly concealed chuckle from him as you growled and, finally conceding defeat, stopped to rip your sandals from your feet. Finally reaching your door you flung it open, tossing your footwear to a lonely corner you began to gather some essentials.

You heard the door click shut softly as roboute followed you in, he cast a look around the room before watching you tear around tossing clothing and various items into a small bag. His eyes widened a bit as he watched as you dropped to your knees reaching under the bed, he couldn't stop himself admiring the curve of your ass as you dropped low, back arched as you stretched to reach something. A low grumble sounded in his chest as you stood up huffing.

"I can't reach anything in this stupid dress" you huffed, clawing at the knot that held your dress closed around your back. You glanced at guilliman, who very pointedly avoided your quizzical look.

"I'm so sorry to ask, my lord, but would you mind?" Embarrassment etched all over your face as you gestured weakly to your dress "I need to get changed but I can't get this wretched thing off"

Guilliman swallowed dryly and nodded slightly, stepping over to you, you turned away from him and lifted your hair away from your neck exposing the tight bow of soft silk near your shoulder blade. He reached out to untangle the fabric, but found himself tracing a finger down the curve of your neck, from the corner of your jaw down to your back before finally teasing the fabric loose. He heard your breath hitch at his touch as saw goosebumps rise on your skin at his touch, fearing he had overstepped, he started to pull his hand away, until you sighed gently and tipped your head, exposing the soft skin of your throat and shrugged your dress to the floor. He felt his breathing increase and his dick harden as he leant down, placing a soft kiss on you shoulder as a hand found your jaw and another caressed it's way across your bare stomach.

You moaned gently as his lips moved up your neck, his fingers gently rubbing your jaw, he pulled you closer to him and you felt his arousal brush against your ass. You turned, cupping his face in your hands as he rested his hands on your hips, his fingers gently moulding your skin.

"roboute" you whispered, face flushed as you nibbled your lip.

His eyes flashed and you gasped as his lips captured yours in a fierce kiss, you felt his tongue run across your lip and moaned into him, the Primark picked you up, hands grasping your ass and squeezing as he carried you towards the bed. You wrapped your arms around his neck, desperate to taste him as you felt heat rise in your stomach.

He placed you on the bed gently pulling away from the kiss and caressing your face, he stood up and pulled his toga and tunic off over his head, muscles rippling as he moved. Your eyes followed his movements as he paused before shaking off his trousers. You felt heat rush down at the sight of him as he crawled over the bed towards you.

"my lady" he muttered, lifting your thigh and peppering kisses from your knees, down towards your core. You moaned as you felt his mouth in you, his tongue flicking around your clit as he kneeded your thighs, You tangled your hands into his hair and ground your hips into him as he continued to lick you, sucking and flicking at your cunt as you chased the building pressure.

"say my name" he whispered, leaving you squirming, so close to release as he held you down waiting for your response.

"roboute, please"

He looked at you, gasping and writhing and feeling his dick twitch, dived back down to bring you over the edge, you felt him smirk as you came, you breath hitching as you shook.

Wiping your fluids from his face, he pulled you towards him, eyes burning with desire as he kissed you again, hand grasping desperately at your body You arched into his touch, tasting yourself on his lips. You gasped as you felt his tip brushing against your entrance and he pulled back to look at you concerned.

"please" you whimpered, shuffling your hips towards him "I want this"

"we don't have to do thi.."

You cut him off by biting his lips, earning a low growl from your lover. His face buried in your shoulder as he slid into you, groaning into your skin as he felt you stretch around him. Your hands clawed as his shoulders as he filled you up, and you threw your head back as he finally seated himself fully in you.

Guilliman huffed as he felt your muscle spasm around him, tight and wet. He could feel you pushing into him, quivering as he spread you to your limit.

He slowly pulled himself backwards before thrusting back into you, listening to the lewd sounds your tight little pussy made and the mewling from your mouth almost made him feral and he continued to drive into you, gradually picking up speed as he fucked you.

"throne youre so tight" he grunted as his hips slammed into yours, he could feel your wet leaking down your thighs as you came, you walls pulsing around him, pulling him in closer. He reached up and grasped the headboard, lifting your butt slightly with his other hand and wrapping one of your thighs around him so he could look down at you. Your eyes were heavy and your lips, plump and well kissed had parted into a small o shape as he fucked you silly. You fisted at the sheets as you felt him hit the right spot deep inside you, Cock drunk you threw your head back.

"roboute, roboute"

You chanted his name like a prayer, your tits bouncing with each thrust, shining slightly under the thin sheen of sweat covering you, guilliman could feel himself peaking, he gritted his teeth, edging himself to last as long as he could, unwilling to stop ruining you as he felt your walls heave again, the wooden headboard cracked until his grasp, he was so close.

Gasping you reached up and touched his face, caressing his cheek and running a thumb along his lip.

"roboute" you sighed, eyes filled with lust and care shining up at him.

He grunted and felt himself come undone, pumping his cum deep inside you as he called your name. you felt him twitching as he filled you and you wrapped you legs as far around his as you could, holding him tight as he finished. Panting, he gathered you in his arms and rolled over, still sheathed inside you so you were lying across his stomach and chest, you could hear the dual thumping of his hearts as you rested your head on his pectoral muscles, running a hand gently up and down the line of muscle. you felt his hand come to rest in the small of your back as his heart rate gradually slowed and you looked up at him.

"I don't normally do this yknow" you sniped, suddenly realising the weight of what you'd done. You lay your head back down "I mean, I dont want you to think... I'm not..." You stumbled over your words.

You shook slightly as he laughed, his chest reverberating with the sounds.

"I wouldn't think you did my lady.... But I would like to make this normal for us"

You smiled and looked back up, his handsome face framed by a single shaft of early morning light creeping through a window.

"well, I did agree to go with you"

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