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Theodore Roethke, from "All the Earth, All the Air", The Collected Poems of Theodore Roethke [ID'd]
#q#lit#quotes#poetry#typography#id included#theodore roethke#the collected poems of theodore roethke#all the earth all the air#the lovers#she hangs like a jewel upon the night#reading#m#x
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Mirror, Mirror
Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader
Summary: When Benedict's wife tries on his clothes, things happen...
Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, cross-dressing, clothing kink, light biting, breast play, a smidge of intercrural sex, very mild exhibitionism, mirror sex, vaginal sex.
Word Count: 2.2k
Authors Note: Request fill for @d-caryophyllus (HERE) about Benedict being aroused by his wife dressing up in his clothing. I hope this fits what you were hoping for, my dear. Thanks as ever to @colettebronte for the beta read. Yes, the title is a nod to Season 3, lol. Err, enjoy! <3
It’s early in the morning on a mundane Thursday when a somewhat daring idea forms in your mind.
Fresh out of your morning bath, you dismiss your maid quietly when usually she would assist you with dressing for the day. As the double doors click closed discreetly behind her, you glance through the open archway into your bedroom; heavy curtains still drawn there, obscuring the sunlight. In the darkness, you can just decipher the outline of your husband sleeping soundly after a late night of carousing with his brothers.
With a little secret smile, you decide that, yes, now is the perfect time. He is asleep, and you have a few hours to spare until your first social engagement - a ladies' luncheon - so why not use the time to satisfy your curiosity?
You stride to your husband's side of the dressing room, opening his wardrobe doors and running your fingers over the items within—a symphony of wools, silks and cotton, all luxurious to the touch. While he is arguably one of the more flamboyantly dressed men of the Ton, with eye-catching jewel-toned waistcoats and colourful cravats, the basics of his outfit are mostly the same every time: dark trousers and a white shirt. A large part of you is envious of that easier choice. Sometimes, it feels like a veritable minefield being a woman during the social season, the looming threat of an unintended fashion faux pas simply by wearing the wrong colour to the wrong event.
Upon a chair, you spy the outfit he discarded when he came home in the early hours, not yet tidied away by your staff. You decide this shall be your choice, a frisson that they are already worn.
Dropping your bathrobe from your shoulders, you grab the pair of his trousers and pull them on. The finely woven wool feels plush on your skin, and there is an undeniable novelty in having fabric between your thighs. They are, however, almost comically long for you, and you have to bend to roll them up a few times around your ankles. Bemused, you briefly catch sight of your reflection in the full-length dressing room mirror, topless in oversized trousers.
You snatch his white shirt and pull it on, pausing to tug the ruffled lapels up to your face and inhale deeply, enjoying the flood of scent there. His woodsy citrus cologne, yes, but also that undercurrent that is all him. That tang you cannot help but bury your face into, be it upon his pillow when he is away or his body while you cling to him, moving together in ecstasy.
You fasten a few buttons, then tuck the shirt into the trousers and loop the braces hanging loose around your hips up onto your shoulders, once again inspecting your reflection in the mirror with a wry smile, twisting this way and that, admiring how different you look dressed in his clothing.
“Wife, what are you doing?”
You almost jump out of your skin as that velvet tone, slightly roughened by sleep, calls out from across the room. You twist to see Benedict leaning casually upon the archway into the dressing room, shooting you a look that is pure menacing intrigue while looking like sin himself—all riotous bedhead, and, as your eyes slip further down, gloriously naked. It makes you swallow hard.
“I… I was trying on your clothes,” you stumble sheepishly, a blush creeping over your cheeks being caught doing something perhaps rather bizarre.
“Any reason?” he queries, bemused, that crooked smile claiming his features.
“They just seem so much more practical and comfortable—especially trousers. I would like to wear such things…” you confess, turning back to the mirror to appraise your appearance again, watching him prowl towards you in the reflection. “Are… are you vexed with me, husband? For taking such liberties?” Your words petering out, mildly abashed.
A large, warm hand wraps around your shoulder, yanking you back almost roughly, making you gasp as your shoulder blades collide with his chest.
“The precise opposite,” he rumbles, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror, a sudden burning intensity that makes your lungs feel tight.
Long fingers spider down his brocade brace, draped down your chest, lingering where the strap rests over your nipple, swiping his thumb in a deliberate tease, his face triumphant as you swoon back into him from just this simple touch.
“My clothes look much better upon you than me,” he opines duskily, his lips tracing your temple as his fingertips push the brace aside to capture your nipple through the thin cotton shirt, making you inhale sharply. “Perhaps we should attend a party with you dressed like this?”
“That would be a scandal!”
There is a vault in your stomach at the idea of attending a social event dressed in his clothes, even as you melt under his questing touch.
“Not in the more… bohemian… circles that I know of…” he contends; his breath is a warm gust in your ear as his other hand does the same, fondling both nipples now.
He waits until you meet his gaze in the mirror again, then lowers his lips to your neck and bites gently. His incisors a faint scrape, immediately soothed by a wide, wet lathe of his tongue. A little crest of victory as something sizeable stirs against the cleft of your bottom.
“If I were dressed as you, then what would you wear, husband?”
“Whatever you would like, my darling,” he offers between soft, damp kisses, a tingle running up your neck from his lips to the top of your scalp. “I could wear your clothing should you wish it. Or perhaps just your corset and underwear?” He nuzzles into you, taking a deep breath. “Our little secret…”
Something about his tone, the images he concocts, makes your blood run warm, your hand reaching up and diving into his luscious hair, tugging gently upon his roots so again he feels compelled to use his teeth, a groan bubbling up from within as he does. With a flick of his wrists, the braces fall from your shoulders, and he cups your breasts through his thin cotton shirt. It makes you sigh his name, asking for more, arousal coursing thickly through your veins—a yen to be taken right away.
“The thought arouses you, does it not?” he correctly surmises, trailing his touch down over the shirt, brushing your ribs and belly to the fastening on the trousers, making short work of the buttons.
You nod demurely, biting your lip as you watch his dextrous hands in the mirror, his arms encircling you; it is almost as if he is removing them from himself. The air feels heady as he pushes the loosened fabric from around your frame, and it hits the rug with an audible thump.
Standing before him in just his ruffled white shirt with only a few buttons fastened, you feel his weighted stare in the mirror, lingering on the patch of hair at the apex of your thighs peeking out between the shirt sides.
“I shall prefer you keep this on…” he asserts, popping open a button over your chest so the fabric opens enough for him to slide a hand inside, tweaking your nipple and pulling you back into his frame, rutting his now solid cock against your bottom.
You turn your head to press your lips to his, imploring for more of his touch in a fervent whisper before seeking a kiss. His mouth is hot on yours, rolling his tongue with yours, endless caresses of your breasts as you burn so hot you rub your thighs together in delicious anticipation of more, already more than ready for him, your clit pulsing with each tease of his tongue.
“Here?”
You know what he is asking—if you wish to have sex right where you stand, in front of your dressing mirror, his shirt loose around your body, him naked behind you.
“Yes. Yes please…” you murmur into his mouth, rolling your body against him, telegraphing unmistakable need.
“The window is open,” he points out with a smirk, nodding towards a high window that allows in light to the dressing room but affords you not to be seen; it is open this morning to let in the summer breeze. “What if we are heard?”
“I care not,” you confess, exhaling jaggedly, knowing he likes you in this state, desperate and debauched, uncaring if you may be overheard in your pursuit of pleasure.
Rubbing yourself upon him akin to a feline in heat, moving so his cock passes teasingly between your thighs now as you writhe. He groans and tells you not to stop, hissing his approval. So you squeeze your legs together tightly, allowing him to rut between them, the pass of his cock glancing maddeningly over your engorged clit.
His touch becomes heavier, hands mapping your body as his hips surge, and you see the red, weeping tip of his cock emerging and disappearing in the mirror, an intoxicating sight. You moan lightly with every pass, a tantalising swipe, not enough to bring you real pleasure, just notching your want higher.
He finally takes pity upon you, angling his hips differently and driving into you; you, moaning at the invasion so deep and encompassing, rocked up onto your tiptoes. Every time he has entered your body, it's always the same: a force that steals your breath and makes your eyes roll. His hands are a firm grip around your waist as he withdraws slowly back, then surges in again, capturing your earlobe in his teeth as he does.
As your eyes meet in the mirror, you idly wonder how many other wives are watching themselves being fucked by a handsome husband like this; a bright weekday morning, birdsong wafting in on the scented breeze, body wrapped only in his shirt. You suspect none are quite so lucky.
You moan his name and arch back against him, wrapping your hands around his neck and watching yourself being taken, relying on him to keep your stance steady as he starts to fuck into you in earnest, large hands sliding up to cup your breasts, engulfing them in his warm palms.
Unable to stop the noises you make, each pass hitting all the spots inside that make your toes curl into the thick pile of the rug beneath your feet, your pussy clenching around his invasion, making him growl and move faster, taking you harsher, an onslaught that is as pleasurable as it is powerful.
His mouth is a breathy litany of praise into your cheekbone, your eyes fluttering closed to focus on the carnal moment - the sweat, the skin, the ragged breaths, the meeting of your bodies so primal and glorious, but he has other ideas.
“Look at yourself,” he purrs dulcetly, your eyes reopening to do as he asks, to watch this unrestrained moment of passion, to see the little marks blooming on your body from where his fingers dig into your flesh as he pounds into you now, a flourish of colour on your neck from his thorough attention.
You plead for more throatily, pushing back as best you can against his thrusts, wanting him to make you scream, uncaring of any audience inside or outside your townhouse, only craving the sweet, blissful release he always provides.
Abruptly, he wrenches open the shirt you wear, one button pinging forward and tinking against the mirror before skittering across the floor, your naked body framed by his crisp white shirt, the ruffled lapels tickling the sides of your breasts, catching sight of his handsome face in the mirror contorted in a passionate tempest.
Then one hand slides down your front, you feeling it rippling in your belly and seeing it in your reflection before you until those fingers slide between your legs and hook over your clit with a force that steals the air from your lungs, a sharp stab of pleasure that makes your knees buckle, him pausing in his motions briefly to brace your weight, keep you upright.
Then it is a blur as he restarts his motion, his fingers dance on your swollen pearl, slipping silkily over his touch as he grunts encouragements. It feels like you are circling for so long, so close to something mind-blowing, but then he flicks harshly with his fingernail and bites your neck, and you are hurtling. Everything is loud and quiet at once, no doubt your voice calling his name as you tumble over the edge, clenching hard around him as your whole body shatters and rebuilds in a blissful puzzle. Dimly, as you float, you feel his entire body tense, and with a roar, he follows you over, a warmth blooming inside you as he reaches completion.
There are a few moments of panted breaths as you both recover from the intensity before he spins you around and sweeps you into his arms, carrying you back to bed. There, he lays you down gently and proceeds to turn you into a molten, quivering pile, mapping your body with his lips and fingers until you are begging for him again, which he more than obliges. So much so you are almost late for your social engagement.
If there are a few derogatory looks as you swan into the ladies' luncheon with a blissful smile and a burgeoning mark on your neck from your husband's amorous intentions, well, so be it. You wouldn't change it for the world.
And it is also most definitely not the last time you dress up in his clothes…
Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies
#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton smut#bridgerton fanfiction#bridgerton#bridgerton smut#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x female reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton x y/n#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton x female reader#bridgerton x you#bridgerton x y/n#benedict bridgerton imagine#bridgerton imagine#1k notes#2k notes
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Steve Rogers finally gets drunk.
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Pairings: Steve Rogers x f!reader Themes: Funny? and CUTE. STEVE BEING CUTE WHILE DRUNK. Summary: Steve got wrecked by Thor's Asgardian Liquor and now he's stumbling under your balcony, reciting Shakepeare's Romeo and Juliet to you. A/N: I stumbled over a prompt that I have long lost now and this was the fruit.
It was a perfectly quiet night, and you were unwinding on your balcony, half lost in thought, when the unmistakable sound of someone quoting Romeo and Juliet—or at least attempting to—echoed from below.
“O, she doth teach the torches to burn... so—hic—bright!”
Rolling your eyes, you assumed it was some drunk wandering the street. But then, in a voice far louder than necessary, the mystery romantic slurred, “It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night... like a rich jewel in... uh... someone’s ear!”
You sighed, trying to ignore it. But then there was a strange thunk against your temple—a small pebble had just bounced off your head.
“Ow!” you hissed, standing and scanning the area, annoyed—until you spotted Steve Rogers, lurching slightly, down below on the sidewalk.
You watched in amazement as he squinted up at you, attempting to focus and swaying on his feet like a flag in a strong breeze. He seemed to be mentally assembling the pieces of a big plan, his face all determination and zero sense. Another pebble tumbled out of his hand as he wobbled, barely avoiding tripping over his own feet in the process.
“But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?” he shouted, looking about as stable as a newborn giraffe on roller skates.
You blinked. “Steve... are you okay?”
Steve flung one arm into the air, as if delivering a grand declaration, nearly toppling backward. “It is the east, and Juliet is the... uhm... Juliet is... Juliet!” He thrust a hand forward, fingers spread wide, as if that added extra meaning. “And you—you—are...”
He paused, visibly struggling, his other hand braced against a streetlamp for support.
“A total mess?” you offered, eyebrows raised.
“A goddess!” he slurred, blinking up at you with the most sincere, lovelorn look you’d ever seen. “A bright angel!” he continued, pulling himself up, trying—and failing—to straighten his posture.
For a moment, he seemed to try and get a grip, but his feet betrayed him, and he ended up doing an awkward spin, arms windmilling, before stabilizing himself.
“Steve, how much have you had to drink?” you asked, starting to laugh despite yourself.
“Only... one cup,” he replied, attempting to measure out what he must’ve thought was a “tiny” amount with his fingers. But the gap between his thumb and forefinger was about the size of a baseball. “Well... one Asgardian... goblet.” He grinned up at you, eyes bright. “A small one!”
You tried to bite back a laugh as Steve clasped his hands over his heart, gazing up at you with tragic romance. “Deny thy father and refuse thy—thy name!” He paused, his forehead wrinkling in concentration. “Wait... did I—did I skip a part?”
“Just a few lines,” you teased. “You also hit me with a rock.”
“Oh,” he mumbled, frowning. He bent down, swayed, and then picked up a handful of pebbles. “Doth my lady forgive me?”
“Steve, don’t you dare throw those at me.”
He looked down at the pebbles in his hand, confused. Then, with an exaggerated wink, he tossed them aside like he’d just disposed of a dangerous weapon. “Not a pebble in sight!” He shot you a triumphant, lopsided smile.
“And why art thou—no, wait—why are you out here, Juliet?”
“I live here, Steve,” you replied, trying to keep a straight face. “You’re the one making a scene.”
But Steve only clasped his heart, looking utterly enchanted. “Oh, fair maiden... would you come down and—uh, wait... no. Would you let down your hair?” He stopped, perplexed. “No, wait, that’s... that’s Rapunzel.” He scratched his head, lost. “Same thing, right?”
With a sigh, you leaned over the balcony railing, looking down at him with a smirk. “Steve, you should probably get home before you accidentally wander into traffic or—”
But he suddenly looked up at you with the most determined expression you’d ever seen, his eyes glassy but oddly focused.
“Doth thou love me?” he cried, one hand raised in a fist of drunken valor. “Say it true, or I shall be...” he paused, struggling, “...a total disaster!”
You couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing. “Steve Rogers, get your tipsy Shakespearean self home!”
He beamed up at you, his goofy grin full of pure, unfiltered adoration. “Parting is such sweet... uh...” he faltered. “...sorrow?”
Steve, swaying dramatically, looked up at you with a sudden, steely determination that only a man in his state could manage. “If thou shall not come down… then I… I shall climb up!” He pointed to the fire escape, his face alight with misguided heroism.
“Steve, please don’t—”
But it was too late. He grabbed the bottom rung with a graceless, lurching motion, grinning up at you with sheer triumph. “I’m coming, my fair maiden!”
With all the poise of a baby deer, he hoisted himself up, grunting as he fumbled his way onto the next step. Each rung seemed to be a new, Herculean task as he struggled to stay upright, clutching the railings like his life depended on it. His foot slipped once, making him lurch sideways, but he shot you a reassuring thumbs-up, completely oblivious to the danger.
“Steve! You’re gonna hurt yourself! Seriously, get down!” you called, half horrified, half laughing.
“Fear not, my lady!” he slurred, clinging to the railing and taking a very, very slow step up. “I am... coming for you!”
As he ascended, he attempted another line from the play, fumbling it badly. “Uh… But soft! What... yonder... light and window... um... something?” He shot you a sheepish grin. “Hold on... almost... got it.”
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of wobbling and mumbling fragments of Shakespeare, he reached your level on the fire escape. He extended a hand dramatically, nearly toppling over in the process, and declared, “I have arrived!”
You laughed, hands on your hips as he wobbled in front of you. “Steve, that was a lot more ‘Romeo in need of a medic’ than ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ You’re absolutely out of it.”
He blinked, swaying as he tried to focus on you. “I came for thee,” he said proudly, managing to stand up straight—though his grip on the railing suggested it was doing most of the work.
Steve, still gripping the railing for dear life, looked at you with a mischievous glint in his glassy eyes.
“Fair Juliet… couldst thou… come a bit closer?” He held out a hand, wiggling his fingers invitingly, his face lit with pure, drunken delight. “I have something… uh… very important to tell thee.”
You arched a skeptical brow. “Steve, I’m pretty sure you can say it from there.”
He squinted, trying to look tragic but only succeeding in looking adorably pouty. “Nay… ‘tis… a secret of the heart,” he slurred, placing a hand over his chest with a lopsided grin. “I must whisper it… so only thou can hear it.”
Rolling your eyes but grinning despite yourself, you leaned a little closer, watching as his gaze flicked from your face to your lips.
“Alright, Romeo, what’s this ‘secret of the heart?’” you asked, half-expecting him to spout more mangled Shakespeare.
But instead, as soon as you were close enough, Steve leaned forward, his hand sliding around the back of your neck, and he pressed his lips to yours in a soft, surprisingly gentle kiss from across the railing.
Caught off guard, you froze, feeling the warmth of his mouth against yours. Then, with a laugh bubbling up, you pulled back slightly, blinking in shock as he gave you a pleased, slightly dazed smile.
“There it is,” he whispered, eyes twinkling. “My secret… is that thou art… perfect.” His gaze softened, and he gave a dopey smile. “And... very kissable.”
You shook your head, laughing. “Alright, Romeo. That was smooth—but I think it’s time to get you inside before you ‘heroically’ declare your love to the whole neighborhood.”
He grinned, still clutching the railing, looking like he’d just conquered the world. “Only for thee,” he slurred, leaning into your touch as you helped him down, his expression dreamy. “Only... ever for thee.”
Just as you were helping Steve down from the fire escape, a voice floated up from the street below.
“Steve! Where the hell are you?” It was Bucky, sounding frustrated and more than a little exasperated. You could see him pacing the sidewalk, looking around like he was on some kind of ridiculous rescue mission.
Steve’s eyes widened, and he pressed a finger to his lips, eyes sparkling with mischief as he looked at you.
“Shhh!” he whispered, grinning like a kid playing hide-and-seek. His attempt at silence was immediately betrayed by a giggle that escaped his mouth, and he put both hands over his lips, eyes gleaming with excitement.
“Steve, I know you’re around here somewhere! Get down here before you fall off something,” Bucky called out, still searching.
Steve, in a fit of tipsy brilliance, looked at you with a conspiratorial smirk and pointed toward your open window beside the balcony. Without a word, he started squeezing himself through, contorting like he thought he could make himself invisible in the process.
“Steve, what are you doing?” you whispered, half-laughing, as he awkwardly wedged his shoulders into the window, one leg hanging out, struggling like he was trying to sneak into a bank vault. He gestured wildly for you to help, but his clumsy movement only made him even more noticeable.
He leaned forward, eyes wide, and whispered, “Shhh! The enemy approaches!” He stifled another giggle, clearly thinking this was the funniest thing in the world.
Just then, Bucky looked up, and Steve flailed dramatically, accidentally bumping his head against the window frame with a muted “ow,” then snorted, laughing harder. He pressed his finger over his mouth again, hushing you through breathy laughter.
“What the…” Bucky stared, his gaze following Steve’s ridiculous pose as he tried to disappear through your window, half-in and half-out, his other leg kicking as he tried to haul himself through.
“Hey!” Bucky called, hands on his hips. “Rogers, get down here. Right now.”
Steve froze, peeking over the window frame like a deer caught in headlights, then gave you a pleading look, as if you were his partner in crime.
“Shh! The man downstairs… he cannot know I’m here,” Steve slurred dramatically, squinting as if Bucky were some kind of Shakespearean villain.
You bit your lip to keep from laughing as Bucky’s eyes narrowed.
“Steve, you’re on the fire escape, not a secret lair. Get down before you fall off and end up in the hospital.”
Steve waved a dismissive hand, a drowsy, lopsided grin on his face. “I’m in safe hands, Bucky! I have my fair maiden to protect me,” he announced proudly, glancing at you with such conviction that you had to stifle your laughter again.
Bucky groaned, his exasperation palpable as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine, you’ve got one minute to say goodbye to your ‘fair maiden,’ then you’re coming with me,” he called, crossing his arms.
Steve turned back to you with a goofy grin, still wedged halfway through the window.
“Didst thou hear that?” he whispered in a loud stage voice, pointing at Bucky. “The villain gives us but one more minute. But it shall be a glorious minute!”
You rolled your eyes, pushing him gently. “Alright, Romeo. Time to head home.”
With one last dramatic sigh, he extracted himself from your window, blew you a clumsy, theatrical kiss, and began his wobbly descent down the fire escape. As Bucky grabbed Steve by the shoulder, trying to steer him down the street, Steve spun around, clutching Bucky’s arm like he was clinging to the last lifeboat on a sinking ship.
“Unhand me, Mercutio!” Steve cried, throwing his other arm up with all the grandeur of a Shakespearean actor. “Thou art but a hindrance to my love! Dost thou not know I’m with Juliet?”
Bucky froze, staring at Steve in complete disbelief. “What did you just call me?” His expression was halfway between horrified and annoyed, eyebrows knitted in utter confusion.
Steve pulled himself up, looking deeply wounded, his hand over his heart.
“Mercutio!” he slurred dramatically, pointing a shaky finger at Bucky. “You are the friend that doth betray me! I shall not be parted from my love!”
Bucky blinked, visibly trying to process this. “Mercutio? Steve, what the—” He looked up at you, helplessly gesturing at Steve. “I’m Mercutio now?”
Steve waved a dismissive hand. “Alas, yes, for you wouldst steal me away from my Juliet,” he said, glaring with the most intense puppy eyes you’d ever seen.
“Steve, I’m not Mercutio,” Bucky groaned, looking over at you as if hoping you could talk some sense into him. “You are absolutely out of your mind.”
But Steve seemed lost in his own world. He placed a hand over his heart, gazing longingly up at you again.
“Juliet,” he called to you, his voice full of melodrama. “Mercutio hath come to tear us asunder.”
Bucky’s face scrunched up in pure irritation. “Steve, I’m trying to get you home before you fall flat on your face. You’re gonna thank me in the morning.”
Steve shook his head, looking at Bucky like he was the ultimate betrayer. “Mercutio… thou art a traitor,” he declared, voice wobbling with fake tragedy.
Bucky rolled his eyes. “I swear, if you call me Mercutio one more time—”
“Mercutio!” Steve interrupted, leaning against him dramatically. “Wouldst thou poison my love? Dost thou come between us to ruin the most beautiful thing?”
Bucky let out a defeated sigh, looking over at you with an expression that screamed, Help me. “Your ‘Mercutio’ is about to drag you home, Rogers.”
But Steve just shook his head again, mumbling about “betrayal” and “unhand me, knave,” as Bucky steered him away, calling one last time over his shoulder to you, “Fear not, Juliet! I shall return! Mercutio’s treachery shall not prevail!” You stifled a laugh as Bucky, looking thoroughly done with it all, muttered to himself, “Mercutio… unbelievable.” He gave you one final, apologetic look as Steve continued to mumble protests about “Mercutio’s interference,” until they finally disappeared down the street, Bucky still muttering, “I’m not Mercutio.” Tags: @disneyprincessbuffyannesummers @strawberrybisou @alyana-luvs-u
#steve rogers x you#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers fanfiction#steve rogers imagines#steve rogers x y/n#steve rogers x female reader#captain america x reader#captain america fanfiction#steve rogers fluff#captain america x you#captain america imagines#captain america x y/n#captain america x female reader#steve rogers#captain america#chris evans fanfiction#chris evans x you#steve rogers fanfic#captain america fanfic
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Stolen Treasures (Pirate!Agatha Harkness x f!Reader)
Synopsis: When a mysterious woman surprises you in your father's garden late at night, you weren't expecting to meet a pirate captain. You certainly weren't expecting to find her so alluring. And you certainly weren't expecting to want her enough to run away from your perfect life to join her.
Words: 3.1k
Warnings: none
Tags: @sasheemo @buttercandy16 @chlondykebar @midnight-lestrange @babybeeelle @dontsblameme@grilledcheeseandguavajelly
A nighttime walk in the garden was typically frowned upon by your father, but the air was heavy and hot, licking at your skin until you were drenched in sweat. Slipping out of bed, you moved on bare feet from shadow to shadow, avoiding the silvery moonlight begging to catch you. Your father’s men were stationed through the house, facing the windows, standing guard against the forces that might try to invade your home.
The sea breeze was a relief against your skin when you managed to sneak out into the garden. The salt on the air was familiar, a comforting hug after the night of tossing and turning under the heavy quilt you’d been forced under hours ago. Tilting your head back, you closed your eyes and inhaled deeply. Your fingertips trailed over the soft petals of the roses your father had had planted, soothing after the heat of the night.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting to find something so beautiful in this garden.”
Your eyes snapped open, your previous calm fleeing faster than you thought was possible. A hand clutched over your heart, you felt it thundering, loud in your ears. Stepping out of the shadows, like a demon from your most tempting dreams, a beautiful woman was grinning at you. Black hair half pinned, curling around her face, large blue eyes swept over your body. Your thin nightdress suddenly felt too flimsy to hold up under scrutiny.
Her own dress was as dark as her hair, cinched in at the waist, neckline lower than anything your father would ever let you wear. You found yourself staring. Her skin was pale, almost glowing in the moonlight, and you were given over to the sudden thought of running your fingertips over it just as you had with the roses. You could imagine her skin would be just as soft under your touch.
“Our roses are beautiful,” you said, as if that was a reasonable response to a stranger lurking in your garden in the middle of the night.
“And yet they still don’t come close to comparing to your,” she said.
“Who are you?” you managed to ask.
She took your hand, palm warm. Lips pressed to the back of your fingers, lingering longer than was appropriate. Looking up at you from where she was bowed over your hand, her blue eyes were twinkling, lips curled up in a small smile. Your heart skipped a beat, breath stilling in your chest, suspended in the moment.
“Agnes,” she replied, straightening up, breaking the spell, “Agnes O’Connor.”
Your brow furrowed. It didn’t feel right, the name, like she’d slipped on a skin that didn’t quite fit. Too loose. It wasn’t right but to suggest to her face within moments of meeting her that she was lying was horribly impolite.
Not that you thought the usual rules applied to a woman you met in your garden in the dead of night in your nightdress.
“Are you sure?” you asked.
A smile unfurled over her face and her eyes swept over you again. You shivered, curling your arms around your body. There was something about her gaze that set your blood on fire, a feeling you weren’t familiar with. No one had looked at you the way she did, like you were something interesting, an anomaly, but one that fascinated her.
“I am,” she replied.
“Why are you in my father’s garden?” you asked, the question hanging over you from the moment you’d seen her.
“Your father? That must make you the jewel of the town,” she said, “I’ve heard about you.”
“You have?” That sent a thrill of pleasure down your spine.
“And if I may say, the rumours don’t do you justice. You’re far more beautiful than they say,” she said.
“Who are you?” you asked again, wondering how one woman with a few well placed compliments could make your heart flutter when none of the suitors your father had paraded you in front of had managed to get so much as a second look.
“Someone hoping to take a walk through this lovely garden in the cool night air,” she said.
You stared at her, wondering where she’d come from, who she was really, what she wanted. She was everything your father had taught you not to be, brash and refusing to ask for permission to do anything, charming and beautiful, enticing in all the worst ways. If he saw her he would call the guards on sight.
So why did you want to give her anything she wanted?
“Take a turn about the garden with me?” she requested.
Her arm slipped through yours, tugging you along. You followed, bare feet on cool grass so different from the warm rugs inside. It wasn’t a surprise that she wasn’t following the carefully planned paths in the garden, but striding where she wanted. You let her without complaint.
“Your father should keep you under lock and key. Someone might be tempted to steal you away right from under his nose,” she said as she bent to look at some of the lavender you’d helped the gardener plant.
“No one is interested in stealing me,” you replied.
“No?” She looked up at you, her tongue dragging along her lower lip, making the fire in your veins reignite. You shook your head, “that surprises me.”
“Does it?” you asked.
“There will always be people looking to steal a jewel. Especially when one is owned by a powerful man,” she said.
“I think you’re overstating my reputation,” you laughed, “no one thinks about me like that.”
“You don’t hear how they talk about you in town,” she said.
“Then why am I still unmarried?” you asked as she straightened again.
“Perhaps your father isn’t ready to let his crown jewel go?” she suggested.
“He parades me around like a prize heifer in the hopes one of the men with bid on me,” you said, lips twisting in distaste.
You surprised a laugh out of her, face brightening, as if she saw some kind of potential in you. You preened, remembering how it felt, tucking it away to revisit later on when this enigmatic woman disappeared, leaving you in your little life.
“Then all those men should be taken to the local asylum,” she said, “I would empty my coffers to have you.”
Your cheeks heated with the pleasure her statement gave you. And the implication. To be married to this woman might not be so bad. It might even be enjoyable. Not that your father would ever consider it. She was the kind of match he’d believe would bring shame to the family. You were waiting for the news he was sending you somewhere far from home to ensure a match. Somewhere you didn’t have to meet the man before the wedding.
“I’m not property to be owned,” you said instead. It was the exact kind of statement that had turned half the suitors away from you.
“No, you’re not,” she said and the flash of pride over her face made your heart skip a beat.
“I wish my father saw it that way,” you said.
You had no idea why you felt comfortable enough telling this woman something you hadn’t managed to express to your own father. Perhaps it was the fact you were certain you’d never see her again. Or perhaps it was the way she turned your head fuzzy with how close she was. Her body was brushing against yours, her warmth seeping through the thin nightgown you wore.
You wanted to know who she really was.
Then she was dragging you into a shadow, her hand tight on your arm. Your back rested against the old apple tree, rough bark scraping through the cotton of your nightgown. Her body rested against yours, long lines pressed together in the shadows of the tree. You felt breathless, her own breath brushing against the vulnerable skin of your neck.
“What?” you tried to ask.
“Shh, love,” she said, her hand pressing against the swell of your hip.
At this distance you could see the faint freckles dusting her nose, the blue eyes every shade of the sea, her pink lips parted as she focused on you. The sound of two voices passed, a slow wander through the garden. Shrinking back, your hand on her waist pulled her closer into the shadows. You shouldn’t, a stranger breaking into your father’s property something you should report to the guards he paid to keep you safe, but there was something in you screaming to keep her hidden.
Her body relaxed as the voices moved further away, growing fainter with every passing moment. Still pressed against you, one had against the trunk of the tree by your head, the other still on your hip, you felt caged in but not trapped. It was a safe feeling, and yet you felt more alive than you had in years. It was like being in a carriage hurtling out of control. You wanted more of it.
“You didn’t give me up to your father’s guards,” she said.
“It’s not a crime to wish to walk through a garden,” you replied.
“Or to enjoy the company of a beautiful lady,” she replied, her voice husky, her gaze lingering on your mouth.
Your own eyes found her lips, wondering if they would be soft against your skin and what they might taste like. Her tongue ran along her lower lip again and you found yourself entranced. Her low chuckle was music to your ears as you found yourself leaning closer to hear better.
“Tell me, love,” she murmured, close enough her breath ghosted over your face, “did any of those suitors you spent time with manage to steal a kiss?”
“Of course not.” Just the suggestion was insulting.
“May I?”
Your father would crucify you if he knew. You would be ruined. But there, in the shadows and the moonlight, the cool sea breeze brushing over your skin, you thought the risk was worth it.
“Please,” you whispered.
Her lips brushed against yours, as gentle as a butterfly’s wing. You whimpered and she surged forward, her hips alining with yours, pressing you into the rough bark as she kissed you again. You’d never felt such fire, lit up from the inside out, burning up with every press of her lips. Her tongue licked along your lip in a mirror of what she’d done before. You opened to her, the way it felt so foreign and yet all consuming. It felt so good. It make you want more.
If this was what your father was protecting you from you could understand why. You’d give up everything for more. It was heady and addictive and all you could do was urge her on. She moaned into your mouth, kissing you deeper, pressing more insistently against you, possessing you. If this was the path to hell you thought eternal damnation might be worth it.
Only then she was pulling away, wrenching her mouth from yours, lips kiss swollen and eyes dark. You were breathless, your fingertips pressing to your own lips, a sense of wonder at the feeling. You wondered what it would be like to feel those lips everywhere, if they would draw such intense feelings in you. You thought they probably would.
“You are the jewel of Westview. Don’t let a petty criminal who won’t know your worth steal you. Hold out for the collector who will know exactly how precious you are,” she whispered.
And then she was gone, leaving you gasping for breath, hand pressed to your heart, leaning against the apple tree your father had so lovingly tended in your childhood. It was incomprehensible that one night in your garden could fundamentally change you. But you couldn’t forget. The door had been opened and now you knew what you were holding out for, the potential that was out there, the way you could feel. Your father had been keeping you sheltered, perhaps because he knew that if you knew the truth, there would be no stopping you looking for what you wanted.
You lingered in the garden, trying to get your heart under control. The cool air seared your skin, your knees weak, lips still tingling. When you finally returned to your room, you lay in bed, returning time and time again to that kiss. You pictured her face. You imagined her head on the pillow beside yours, dark hair spread over the white sheets.
By the morning, having only snatched moments of sleep, dreams filled with beautiful strangers in shadowy corners, you wondered if you could ever go back to the life you were living before. You knew it would be impossible. But your father would never accept this new reality for you. He would want you to go back to how you were before you knew all the things the world held.
There were whispers around the house, too quiet for you to hear but they followed you as you descended to breakfast. Your stomach churned the longer you went without hearing what the latest gossip was, wondering if someone had seen you the night before. If your father caught wind of your night time activity, you would be in such trouble.
“Darling.” Your father was already at the table, “did you sleep well?”
“Yes, Father.”
You sat at the table, a soft thanks passing over your lips when a plate was placed in front of you. You nudged the food with your fork, not sure you could eat. Your stomach was tying itself into knots.
“Did you hear any disturbances last night?” he asked, over the rim of his tea cup.
You froze before forcing your shoulders to relax.
“No, Father,” you said.
“You may have heard the servants talking this morning. We have been robbed and if the rumours are to be believed, Agatha Harkness’s ship has been sighted at the harbour,” he said.
You looked down to your plate, still pushing your food around. Agatha Harkness, pirate captain of legend, was a figure that had been scaring you since you were a little girl. It had been a great way for your mother to keep you in line. The threat of being carried away by Agatha Harkness if you misbehaved had haunted you.
Now, rather than fear, an overwhelming sense of curiosity was overtaking you. It would be too much of a coincidence for Agatha Harkness to be in town and a strange woman to be in your garden on the night your father was robbed. The two must be connected.
You slipped away after breakfast, sneaking out the way you’d learned to do as a child when the house became stifling. The streets were emptier than usual, the whispers of Agatha’s name following you as you made your way towards the harbour. You scurried past anyone who might try to stop you, a respectable lady out without any kind of chaperone or guards with a criminal on the loose.
The figure standing at the end of the pier was familiar. Long dark hair, unbound and floating on the breeze, one hand raised to her eyes as she gazed towards the horizon. The dress was gone, leather breeches and a loose shirt branding her as anything but respectable in your town of Westview. She was nothing like the wanted posters depicted, beautiful where they printed a monster. Dangling from the fingers of her other hand was a chalice you were intimately familiar with, having watched your father drink from it on every special occasion.
On slow footsteps you approached. Her head didn’t turn, her muscles didn’t clench, but you were sure she knew you were there. Stopping behind her, at her shoulder, you stared out at the horizon too. A ship swayed on the waves, the mast tall, a flag snapping in the wind.
“Agnes,” you said, “or would you prefer Agatha?”
“Worked it out, did you, love?” she asked.
“You robbed me,” you said.
“I robbed your father,” she corrected.
Finally turning to face you, you chose to drink your fill of her. She was beautiful, as beautiful as she’d been in the moonlight the night before. Wild and uncontrollable, not made to be contained, even in your mind. You wanted her. You were never going to stop wanting her.
“Why?” you asked.
“To prove I could.” She shrugged, “he was bragging that his house was impenetrable and that his greatest treasure could never be taken.”
“Oh,” you said.
“Although I’m beginning to think his greatest treasure wasn’t one of the objects in his home,” she said.
Your cheeks heated as her finger dragged along the skin of your collarbone and your breath was shaky as you drew it into your lungs. The smile she was giving you was predatory, like a cat with its sights set on a particularly nice bird. It was the exact kind of look that had you realising how much you wanted to feel this way for the rest of your life. You took a step closer to her.
“Will you steal me too?” you asked, breathless and desperate and not caring if you sounded desperate.
“What’s that, love?” she asked, head cocking to the side as her eyes dragged over you.
“Steal me from him too. Take me away. Make me yours,” you said.
Your hands cupped her cheeks, pulling her closer. Her hands settled on your waist, cinched in with the corset you’d been forced into that morning.
“I’m not sure about that, love. You’re not made for the pirate life,” she said.
“I’m not made for this life. I can’t stay here. Not anymore. Please. You said you would empty your coffers to have me. You don’t have to. Just take me,” you said.
“It won’t be the sort of luxury you’re used to,” she said.
“You mean the cage I live in,” you said.
“It’s not a pretty existence,” she said.
“I’ll be pretty enough to make up for it,” you replied.
“Indeed you will,” she said, eyes dipping down to your lips, “do you need to return home and pack a bag?”
“You’re the only thing I need now,” you said.
Her expression brightened and she swooped down, lips pressing to yours in a searing kiss. In the sun shining off the sea, salt on the air, you thought you might have found the suitor of your dreams without the help of your father. Certainly without his approval.
But when a pirate captain stole you away, there was nothing to be done expect enjoy the adventure.
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❛ pairing: Astarion/f!OC (Ysera) ❛ word count: 8.6k ┊ ❛ rating: 18+ MDNI ❛ tags/cw: angst, hurt/comfort, hurt no comfort, emotional sex, PIV sex, mentions of trauma and abuse, references to Astarion's past, blood, blood drinking
▸ preview: He had been purposely avoiding her before, vexed by his concern for her wellbeing, but it all seems so pointless now.
Why shouldn't he take as much as he wants – as much as he needs? He'd be stupid not to when she's offering herself so willingly. Sooner or later she'll tire of him, and what will he have then? Nothing but his pride and an empty stomach.
Her kind words hadn't saved him when he needed them most. They're nothing more than a distraction now, and a luxury he cannot afford to indulge if he wants to maintain his freedom.
--
OR: Sometimes all it takes is a little darkness to expose the light. AO3 ┊ masterlist
The shadow-cursed lands are easily the most depressing thing Astarion has seen in weeks. Descending into the Underdark had been awful enough (the bioluminescent mushrooms were, after all, a poor substitute for the warmth of the sun), but here, amidst the pervasive scents of death and decay, the darkness is nothing if not suffocating.
There's an unsettling weight to it, the way it bears down upon them all with an almost crushing force, as if it seeks to drag them down into some endless abyss.
Even when he had prowled the streets of the Lower City, he had found some refuge in the stars that dotted the night sky like so many glittering jewels, or the inviting glow of one of the city's many taverns and brothels.
It's hardly strange, then, part of him almost misses it. Here, where all traces of light have been snuffed out. Had he ever truly been content amongst the shadows, or was it just another of the many lies he had told himself over the years?
For this place is naught but shadow, the kind of creeping, carnivorous darkness that devours everything in its path. It's burrowed beneath his skin and made itself at home in his very bones, like an itch he can never hope to scratch. He would tear himself apart before ever hoping to purge it.
He hasn't felt like this since…
In the farthest recesses of his mind, he hears the scrape of stone-on-stone, recalling the hopelessness he'd felt when the last slivers of light he would see for an entire year refused to be sealed away with him.
Astarion shakes his head to rid himself of the memory.
A soft sigh leaves his lips as he swirls the wine in his glass, fingers wrapped around the delicate stem as he lifts it to his mouth and takes another sip.
He needs a distraction.
His eyes drift lazily across the bar at the back of the Last Light Inn, searching for her as they always seem to these days.
Astarion's only salvation sits no more than fifteen feet away, but even her light has dimmed in this wretched place. It's evident in the way Ysera slumps her shoulders, the weary fatigue she conceals behind a put-together facade. Her tail hangs limply over the back of her barstool, as still and lifeless as his unbeating heart.
The rest of them might be fooled, but Astarion has worn enough masks to know when someone is playing a part. Watching her is like watching some unknown entity puppet her body, guiding her through the motions without any real respect for the craft. To say it unnerves him is an understatement; he'd find more life in a corpse.
As she takes yet another hearty drink of whatever she plundered from behind the counter, Ysera entertains the bard they met back in the grove with a strained smile and a hollow laugh that echoes harshly in his ears. Astarion remembers her name is Alfira, but only because Ysera had greeted her so fondly the moment they were reunited. There's nothing else remarkable enough about her to retain his interest for more than a fleeting moment.
One after another over the course of the evening, he has watched from afar as the tieflings that had survived the journey to Last Light have circled her like vultures, taking what they needed from her – reassurance, hope, a promise to ensure their safety. Alfira is but the latest scavenger, coming to collect the final scraps.
And Astarion is furious. At the tieflings, for being too weak to carry their own weight. At Ysera, for letting them use her without a second thought. And at himself, for being no better than any of them.
After all, had he not been the first one to take more from her than he was owed?
The stem of the wine glass cracks beneath his fingers, and Astarion pushes it aside before sliding gracefully from his seat. He hears Ysera echo the same empty promises she'd given the rest of the stragglers from the Grove, vowing to secure them safe passage to Baldur's Gate, as if any of them have any say in the matter.
Alfira thanks Ysera profusely and excuses herself when she notices Astarion approaching. Lost in her thoughts, Ysera turns back to her drink, and Astarion watches her expression turn grim. She downs the rest of the alcohol in a single swallow, teetering on the barstool as she swipes another bottle and upends half its contents into her glass.
The subtle notes of vanilla, smoke, and cinnamon assault Astarion's senses as he draws nearer to her, but not before Ysera has gulped down most of what he assumes from the way she scrunches her nose and sticks out her tongue must be a rather strong batch of whiskey. Hardly his preferred drink, but it's done its job of getting her thoroughly drunk.
When she raises the glass to polish off the rest of it, she only manages to lift it halfway before Astarion intervenes and lays his hand over her wrist to restrain her. She whirls to face him, fire burning in her eyes as he pulls the drink from her hands.
“All right, darling,” he says gently, “that's quite enough of that. I'm not sure what you're hoping to find at the bottom of that glass, but I assure you it's not worth the headache.”
Ysera regards him with sullen fury, and her tail twitches irritability.
“Oh, don't spoil my fun.”
She lurches forwards to steal the drink back from him, but her movements are uncoordinated and slow, and Astarion lets out an amused chuckle as he holds the glass above her head while she swipes helplessly at it. When she finally gives up, he returns it to the counter behind her, well out of reach.
“This is what you consider fun?” he asks incredulously, raising a single brow. “Drowning yourself in cheap spirits? You look positively dreadful. ”
“Thank you for noticing.” Ysera huffs and folds her arms over her chest, and Astarion is quite certain from the look she fixes him with that she's imagining his perfectly arranged curls going up in flames. “Don't act like you're not just as miserable as the rest of us.”
For a moment Astarion hesitates, caught off guard by the truth in her words. But he decides in the end that it's just a lucky guess and shrugs his shoulders dismissively while brushing a stray bit of dirt off of his armor.
“Speak for yourself, my sweet; some of us are flourishing. In fact, I rather find myself quite at home here.”
Shadow, shadow, everything is shadow, he can't get out, there's no way out –
“Liar.” Her voice is slurred but rings in his mind with alarming clarity, ripping him from the memories that refuse to remain buried.
“You haven't come to my tent in days, and I know you're not feeding on anything out there because there is nothing.”
Ysera's temper flares, red-orange fire licking her palms before she clamps them shut to extinguish the flames. He can't decide if she's worried for him, hurt by his absence, or something else entirely.
“Listen, darling,” he starts, “you're hardly in any state to –”
“To what?” she shouts. “To stand by and watch you starve!?” Her body shakes with what might be a restrained sob, and something about the way she looks at him twists like a knife in his chest.
“You know I can't do that, Astarion! Let me help you.”
‘Please!’ His fists beat mercilessly on the stone, fingers scraped raw and bloody. ‘Someone help me!’
No one comes.
The anger that's been simmering inside him erupts, and his eyes flash in warning. But she meets his ire with determination, either too drunk or too stupid to realize what she's done. The memories she's pulled to the surface, long since locked away.
Only then does he notice the staring. Half a dozen tieflings watch them with bated breath, eyes wide and curious. Even some of their companions have noticed the commotion.
Astarion schools his expression and twists his lips into a bitter smile.
“Fine.”
Ysera opens her mouth immediately, ready to refute his remarks, but she clearly wasn't expecting this.
“Wait… that's it?” she asks, narrowing her eyes as she peers up at him in disbelief. “Seriously? After all that, that's really all it took to convince you?”
Astarion responds with another shrug and a tilt of his head.
“Come now – do I really seem like the kind of person who would lie just to get out of an uncomfortable conversation?”
Ysera snorts audibly.
“Astarion, you are exactly that kind of person.”
A smirk flits across his face, silver brows arched as he leans in towards her. Ysera's back hits the counter as she retreats, and Astarion watches her nostrils flare as she breathes in his scent, caged beneath him with no intention of escaping.
Her eyes travel to his lips, and there's little more than a hair's breadth between them when his hand closes around the handle of the glass behind her, and he withdraws suddenly from her personal space.
She masks her disappointment well, but her eyes spark with a passion he hasn't seen in days.
Well, at least there's still some life left in her.
Astarion swirls the rest of the whiskey in her glass and swallows it. It tastes like ash in his mouth, but it's well worth the venomous look she throws his way. He sets the empty glass down beside her and saunters away with a flourish of his hand.
“I'll see you tonight, darling.” ————
The air here is stagnant as ever, but Astarion swears he feels a chill snake its way down his spine as he walks through their camp. There's enough distance between his tent and Ysera's for him to dwell on what she'd said to him earlier that afternoon, and no one around to stop his thoughts from wandering.
‘I know you're not feeding on anything out there because there is nothing.’
She's right, of course. The first night they’d arrived here, he'd snuck away from camp in the middle of the night and stumbled upon the body of a dead bear, lying peacefully on the side of the road as if in slumber.
He'd sank his teeth eagerly into its fur, retching when its putrid blood had burned like acid in his throat. The same inky black ichor had oozed from every other creature he had come across, each less appetizing than the last.
By the third day, he was ravenous.
He'd slipped into Ysera's tent well after everyone had gone to sleep, but she'd looked so frail and cold beneath her blankets that the thought of drinking from her had physically repulsed him.
Each time he'd considered asking her again, the treacherous voices in his head had condemned him for his selfishness, filling him with an unfamiliar guilt that he still isn't quite sure what to do with.
Worse still, he feels plagued by that same guilt even now, even after she has all but demanded he come to her tent and feed from her.
Astarion hesitates for only a moment before he thrusts open the flap of Ysera's tent, startling her from where she sits in front of her mirror to brush out the tangles in her hair. It's gotten significantly longer in the month and a half since they've been traveling together, cascading over her shoulders in satiny pink waves as she turns to face him.
Her face falls when she sees his conflicted expression, but she scoots towards him anyway and invites him to sit with a sweep of her hand.
“I was starting to think you were going to stand me up again,” she murmurs quietly, twisting her hands in her lap.
Relying on instinct has gotten him this far; Astarion finds himself settling back into familiar routines, letting a seductive smile play across his lips as he kneels across from her. He cocks his head to the side and clicks his tongue, purposely dragging his gaze over every curve of her body.
“And waste another moment without enjoying that delicious blood of yours? That simply won't do.”
Her heart leaps in her chest, a blush staining her cheeks. It's almost too easy, her concern for him seemingly forgotten in an instant.
He wants to feel proud, confident that he can still get what he wants from her when he wants it.
But the only thing he feels when he looks at her now is shame. It sprouts like creeping, twisting vines, suffocating him from within.
She hasn't bothered to light any candles, and Astarion suddenly finds himself missing the way her golden eyes glimmer like warm amber in the firelight. Ysera crawls towards him and settles comfortably in his lap like she's always belonged there, and Astarion instinctively inhales her scent, swept up in the aroma of roses and springtime that make him yearn for the sun.
He hasn't had the time to remember what it feels like to be cold, but everywhere she touches him breathes new life into his frigid skin, caressing him like the kiss of a nascent flame. She sweeps her hair obediently over her shoulder to expose her throat to him and waits for his instruction.
When Astarion lifts his hands to grip her waist and thread his fingers through her unbound hair, he's trembling.
Not in anticipation, but with anger.
Astarion holds her more tightly than he should, and Ysera's spine immediately straightens. The racing of her heart suggests that she is afraid, and yet she still does not refuse him.
How many years had he suffered, trapped in an endless cycle of misery under Cazador's cruel thumb while the buzzards stripped him bare? How hard had he fought to claw back even a modicum of freedom, only to watch her willingly submit to the whims of complete strangers whose lives were ultimately insignificant? To him , when he's done nothing but take and take and take?
With every poor, worthless fool she helps, she makes a mockery of him.
His rage is a volatile thing, barely leashed behind the fangs he presses into her throat. A soft whimper escapes Ysera's lips, and she clutches at his shirt. Somewhere on the periphery of his mind, he realizes he's hurting her, but the rush of blood that pours into his mouth as he punctures her neck without warning washes the thought away on a current of red. Her pulse pounds in his ears, and with every swallow he can feel his own strength returning.
He had been purposely avoiding her before, vexed by his concern for her wellbeing, but it all seems so pointless now.
Why shouldn't he take as much as he wants – as much as he needs? He'd be stupid not to when she's offering herself so willingly. Sooner or later she'll tire of him, and what will he have then? Nothing but his pride and an empty stomach.
Her kind words hadn't saved him when he needed them most. They're nothing more than a distraction now, and a luxury he cannot afford to indulge if he wants to maintain his freedom.
Ysera yields without protest when Astarion bears down upon her, pushing her roughly onto her bedroll. He pins her beneath him, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of her blood as if in a trance. When his fangs dig deeper, she lets out a strangled sob, and the sound of it wrenches him out of his stupor just in time to realize just how close he'd come to losing control of himself completely.
Astarion refuses to look at her when he tears himself away from her throat, pointedly avoiding the ghastly wound he's left behind. The air is thick with the smell of her blood, and the drops that run down his chin bloom red against the white fabric of her nightshirt.
His stomach tightens. All this time, he'd fooled himself into believing he was the one in control.
But no matter what he does, he can't escape the one simple truth that he is weak. The only question now is who gets to hold his leash: Cazador or Ysera?
“Astarion?”
Ysera's voice sounds so fragile, timid and uncertain as she calls out to him. He grimaces when her hand cups his cheek with more tenderness he deserves, compelling him to look at her. He knows what he'll see when he does: revulsion, fear, betrayal.
But when Astarion forces himself to meet her gaze, the look of concern writ across her face fractures something deep within his chest, and he gasps for breath he no longer needs.
“What's wrong, Astarion? Are you alright?”
The softness of her expression cuts him like a knife, and he pulls himself away as if he's been burned.
“I should go.”
“What? I don’t – Astarion, wait!”
He's halfway on his feet by the time she reaches for him, hands just brushing past the collar of his shirt.
Don't look back.
This was a mistake.
You gods-damned fool.
Another sob bubbles in her throat, and he keeps his back to her, certain that looking at her now would ruin him. He doesn't want to know what she looks like, broken and abandoned not by some nameless foe, but by someone else she trusted not to hurt her.
But it's worse than that, because he is afraid to know.
“Please… don't go.”
Astarion clenches his fists and walks away.
Their camp is still quiet as Astarion stalks back to his tent. He's halfway there when he sees a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, turning to see Gale and Shadowheart engaged in a hushed conversation together.
They glance at him from across the campfire, and their expressions grow stern as they survey the state of him. It likely doesn't take them long to piece together what has happened. The hand Astarion wipes across his mouth comes away red, stained with the remnants of Ysera's blood he hadn't had the time to clean up before he left her tent.
Astarion deflects their silent accusations with a scowl, daring either of them to speak. But they say nothing, and Astarion turns up his nose in defiance before returning to his tent.
They don't understand. None of them do.
The moment he returns to the privacy of his tent, Astarion wastes no time peeling his clothes off and throwing them to the far corner. Her scent clings to him anyway, and even after he's cleaned the blood from his mouth, it's all he can think of.
He pulls on a fresh pair of trousers and makes himself as comfortable as he can, settling into his bedroll. The same one Ysera had insisted he keep once she found out he was trancing on nothing more than an old wooden board.
What must she think of him now, he wonders?
Astarion sighs and closes his eyes. He half expects her to come after him, but with each passing minute, he realizes it's nothing more than wishful thinking.
When he finally slips into an uneasy trance, all he sees is her face, twisted in grief.
————
Isobel's moonshield glows bright white and ethereal as Astarion slips through it like a phantom, his skin prickling as he emerges on the other side of the barrier.
He had been told Ysera had come this way not long after they had returned from their preliminary visit to Moonrise Towers, though he doesn't quite understand why she would choose this of all places until he spots her.
She's sitting on the flat top of the rock that extends over the lakeshore, and Astarion watches as she grabs a loose stone from the spot next to her and throws it as hard as she can into the water. Her tail thumps against the ground, and he can overhear her muttering about the drow they'd met shortly after coming face to face with Ketheric Thorm himself.
She grabs another rock and hurtles it farther than the last. Astarion finds it all rather amusing, and anger certainly looks far better on her than sorrow.
He clears his throat as he approaches, and she makes a noise of surprise when she turns to face him, scarlet coloring her cheeks.
“Astarion! Uh… hi. How long have you been –?”
Astarion gestures to one of his pointed ears and smirks through his fangs. “Long enough.”
Ysera's already buried her face in her hands when he sits next to her, and she inhales sharply before letting out a frustrated groan.
“It’s just – I don't – I can't believe that woman!” she seethes. Her teeth are halfway bared behind her snarl, body bristling with magic. She fixes her gaze on Astarion, expression softening when her eyes rove over his face.
“I can't believe she thought she could speak to you like that.” A string of Infernal curses tumbles from her mouth, and Astarion watches as she opens her palm and ignites a brilliant ball of white-hot flame.
“I still think Gale should have let me incinerate her.”
He hasn't seen her this upset in weeks, and an unexpected thrill of pleasure courses through him at the fact that it's all on his behalf.
“And that, darling, is why we leave diplomacy to the wizard.”
Ysera pouts at him. “Oh, come on. You would have enjoyed it too, and you know it.”
Without Gale's interference, Astarion has no doubt that their encounter with the blood merchant would have gone awry. The look of terror on Araj’s face when Ysera had summoned her magic and threatened her had been extremely entertaining, and he hadn't been the only one to be disappointed when Gale had intervened.
“True,” he says wryly, "but I hardly think the great General Thorm would have appreciated us attacking one of his little minions.”
Ysera snorts and rolls her eyes.
“He might if he knew how much of a bitch she is.”
Astarion throws back his head and laughs. It's the best he's felt in days.
“What?” she mutters indignantly. “We'd have been doing him a favor! Whether or not he deserves it is irrelevant.”
This time, when Astarion fixes her with a mischievous grin, it's completely genuine. His influence on her is evident; even a month ago, she never would have suggested such a thing.
“Well, there's always next time. And if she should happen to find herself in the way of a blade –”
“– or a fireball,” Ysera interjects, tail swishing excitedly back and forth. Astarion simply nods in agreement.
“It would be such a shame, of course, but accidents do happen.”
They look at each other for a moment, and despite the familiar ease Astarion can sense returning between them, her face remains inscrutable.
“In all seriousness, though…” Ysera says after a moment, “I'm sorry about what she said.”
Astarion stares out across the water and dismisses her with a wave of his hand.
“Don't be. What's done is done.”
What hadn't surprised him was the way Araj had spoken to him, intent on using him to indulge her strange fantasies. It's nothing he isn't already used to, and instead of feeling angry, the only thing he'd felt was numb.
That Ysera would be against the idea was another given, but it was the ferocity with which she had defended him once he’d expressed his disinterest that he had found the most intriguing.
Especially considering what had occurred between them only two nights prior to their visit to Moonrise.
He still doesn't understand her, or why she insists on being so kind to him. Somewhere, some part of him that he thought long dead stirs to life, the part of him that dares to hope that maybe she might actually care for him.
The same way he's been too scared to admit he cares for her. The people he cares about don't survive for very long. She deserves better than that.
He's never really had someone to care for before – someone he could truly call his own. Everything he had had been ripped away from him the night Cazador turned him. Little by little, she had worked her way into his cold, dead heart, so quietly that he hadn't even noticed it until it was already too late.
“That doesn't mean I have to like it,” she's saying now, looking at him with more of that righteous indignation. “I promise I'll never ask you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, no matter what we're offered in return.”
A weight lifts from his shoulders. There's freedom in her words, the closest he's felt to it since waking up on that beach so many days ago. He reaches for it tentatively, as if it will slip through his fingers if he isn't very, very careful.
“Thank you.”
He lets Ysera lay her hand over his, and together they listen to the waves break against the shore in silence. If they survive this, he vows to himself that he will confess everything to her, before he leaves. He'd thought it would be better to slip away quietly, to pretend like nothing had ever happened between them, but as she leans against his shoulder and strokes the back of his hand with a fondness she reserves only for him, he knows that he can't go through with it.
The best he can do for her now is try to convince her to stand up for herself so this doesn't happen again. Him. The tieflings. All of it.
“You'd do well to heed your own advice, you know.”
Ysera lifts her head from Astarion’s shoulder and looks at him in confusion.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
Astarion huffs a dry laugh, and she furrows her brow.
“Only that I haven't seen you smile once since we came to this place,” he says simply.
“I mean… yeah, just look at it. Do you blame me?” she counters, throwing her arms wide. She must expect Astarion to commiserate with her, but he only looks at her sternly.
“I'm talking about the tieflings, darling,” he says sourly. “You don't owe them even half as much as you've given them.”
“I…” Ysera bites her lip and looks away to avoid meeting his gaze. “It's fine.”
“Is it?” he presses.
She draws her legs close to her chest and wraps her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees. For a moment Astarion thinks she won't respond, but she sounds so small when she finally tells him:
“My whole life, all I've ever done is hurt people. My parents are dead because of me.” She traces a hand over the jagged scars that mar her face, and Astarion remembers the sordid tale of how she got them.
“So is the man who gave me this.”
Dead by her own hands, after he'd carved into her face as a punishment for hurting him.
“And you too.” Astarion glances down at his chest, eyes following the path of the mark she'd left seared into his armor the last time her temper had flared, hot as the forge in the Underdark.
“I just…” Ysera sighs and hugs herself tightly, eyes downcast. “I just want to help people, if I can. I don't see anything wrong with that.”
At last, he thinks he understands. In her desperation to feel wanted, to convince herself she isn't just a mistake, she's destroying herself in the process. He sees his own self-loathing mirrored back at him like some vile, twisted shadow, always there, always whispering in his ear that no matter what he does, nothing will change.
“You'd sacrifice your own happiness for people who are more than willing to take advantage of that kindness,” Astarion observes dryly. “Doesn't seem like a fair trade to me.”
He knows she can't refute the truth. The seconds turn into minutes; and there's something deeply sad about the way she smiles as she finally turns to look at him again.
“And what about you?” she asks quietly. “Is that what you're doing, Astarion? Taking advantage of me?”
————
The next evening, Astarion finds himself outside Ysera's tent once again. He tells himself it's the hunger that has brought him to her proverbial doorstep, because it's more convenient to lie than it is to admit he feels the need to set things right between them.
That still doesn't make him any less anxious as he slips quietly into her tent. He finds her tucked under a pile of blankets, thumbing through one of the terribly written romance novels she's picked up from one merchant or another. When she hears him enter, she looks up at him and sets her book aside without a second thought.
Astarion has come to her tent enough times now that they have long since established a routine, and even though his visits have been infrequent as of late, she still seems more than eager to accommodate him.
Neither of them speak about what happened the last time he paid her a nighttime visit.
He leaves his boots by the entrance and makes himself comfortable amidst the pile of blankets she's used to line the floor of her tent.
“Back so soon, Astarion?”
“What can I say? I've missed you, darling.”
The truth slips through his lips like water through a sieve, even though he hides it behind a well-placed smirk.
Ysera combs her hands through her hair, tying it back and out of the way. Astarion's eyes follow the shape of her jaw before reluctantly settling on the bite marks on her throat. They've healed since their previous encounter, but it doesn't stop the memory of her, bloodstained and trembling, from resurfacing in his mind like a festering wound.
Yet when she crawls out from beneath her blankets and into his lap again, she does so without hesitation. There is no trace of fear in her golden eyes, and although her smile is hollow, she holds his face in her hands with a gentleness that cannot be anything but sincere.
Blazing heat follows the path of her fingers beneath his chin. Under her direction, Astarion lifts his head to meet her gaze. There is an emptiness there now, a cold detachment made all the more haunting in the flickering light within her tent that casts her face in shadows. The tenderness of her hands as they sink into his hair sends a chill down his spine, and despite himself he leans into her touch.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said, you know,” she says, twirling a stray lock of his hair around her finger. He hums thoughtfully in response.
“Do you want to know what I really want, Astarion?”
The shadow-cursed lands have stolen something from each of them, but they have taken the most from Ysera. Gone is all her reckless optimism and carefree laughter, her last and only defense against the darkness that dwells within her own mind. The woman in his lap may wear her face and speak with her voice, but it isn't her.
Astarion swallows thickly and nods.
“I want to think about something other than this place, or these worms in our heads,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Or why can't I sleep without these godsdamned nightmares.”
The dam breaks, and her body shudders with a quiet sob as she presses his face against her neck in a silent plea.
“You're the only one who’s ever made it all disappear,” she whimpers. “Help me forget, Astarion.”
He knows it is an impossible request. He's been trying to forget for two hundred years, long enough to know the weight of what she's asking of him. But he presses his fangs into her flesh like a balm all the same, soothing her as she sags against him and rakes her nails across his scalp.
He cannot make her forget, but he can distract her. He owes her at least that much. And for the first time in a long time, when he sinks his fangs into her neck and lets his hands slip beneath her nightgown, everything feels right.
Astarion’s hands drink in her warmth with the same eagerness he swallows her blood, roving over her curves and dragging his nails against her bare skin. She shudders at the contact and moans softly, pressing his face even more firmly into the curve of her neck.
“Astarion…”
When Ysera accidentally brushes her hand over the shell of his ear, Astarion groans into her throat, grabbing her by the hips and positioning her over the growing bulge in his pants to let her feel the hardening outline of his cock as he rocks his hips against her. She responds beautifully, grinding down against him the moment he pulls away. His tongue swirls around the puncture wounds on her neck, coaxing more delicious sounds from her before he pauses to admire his handiwork.
When he unlatches from her and sits back on his calves, a trickle of wine-dark blood spills over her collarbones, staining her skin with crimson as it disappears beneath her nightgown. Astarion’s fingers glide smoothly up her torso, yanking the garment down as her breasts spill into his hands. Her hips jerk forward again as he brushes over her nipples, pinching the taut buds between his thumbs and forefingers.
Ysera sighs softly when he presses his nose against her chest, and she tastes just as heavenly as he remembers as he runs the flat of his tongue across her flushed skin, following the trail of her blood. The marks on her neck entice him to drink more, but instead he nips a teasing path along her throat and across her jaw, breath fanning out against her ear as he drops his voice to a pleasing growl.
“You've told me all about what you want – now tell me what you need .”
“I–”
Her breath hitches as Astarion’s fangs press into her skin, and her hands fumble blindly for his laces.
“I need you,” she whines. “I need this .”
A laugh rumbles low in his throat, and Astarion rewards her with another nip. “Very good. You need my cock, darling? It's all yours.”
As Ysera works at his laces with trembling hands, Astarion braces himself for the familiar sense of dread that has been his constant companion during their nights together. But her touch is gentle, almost reverent, as she frees him from his trousers, and he finds that he doesn't hate the feeling of her hands on him perhaps as much as he should.
But Astarion smothers the thought as he catches a glimpse of her eyes, smouldering like golden embers beneath her lashes.
At last, she's come back to him.
With one hand braced against her back, Astarion steadies Ysera as she lifts her hips, maintaining eye contact with her as she watches him expectantly. He pulls aside her underwear, exposing her quivering cunt as he lines his cock up with her entrance.
“Are you ready for me?” he asks.
“Yes,” she answers.
Astarion understands the language of pain – what it means to finally feel something after feeling nothing for so long. He can see it now in her eyes, pleading for something she doesn't quite know how to ask for.
So with a quick snap of his hips, Astarion sheathes himself inside her in a single, harsh thrust. At the same time, his fangs pierce her neck again, blood running thick and warm down his throat. Ysera cries out and whimpers his name, but the way she throws her arms around his shoulders and clings to him tells him everything he needs to know.
Ysera rolls her hips each time he drives his cock inside her, letting him bottom out with each thrust. She's tight, pulsing around his cock as he works her open, and even though it must hurt she begs for more, more, more .
Kneading her breasts in his hands, Astarion encourages her to keep moving, whispering words of praise into her ear when he's taken his fill of her blood.
“That's it. Good girl. Focus on me.”
Sparks ignite between them when their eyes meet, and even through her half-lidded gaze he can feel the intensity with which she watches him, devoting herself to memorizing every detail of his face, the way he holds her, and the fullness of his cock, warmed by her body and her blood as he maintains a steady pace inside her.
“More,” she sobs, bucking her hips and throwing her head back on a broken moan. “Please, Astarion…”
As much as he finds he enjoys the intimacy of having her in his lap, it makes things unnecessarily complicated. He misses the warmth of her body and the scent of her skin the moment he lays her back against the blankets, reaching for the nightgown bunched around her torso and pulling it over her head. Ysera waits patiently for him to reach for her underwear next, smooth fingers hooking beneath the waistband before he slides them down her legs and tosses them into the darkness.
She looks up at him, pupils blown, swallowing as Astarion gently spreads her legs and seats himself between her knees. Slicking his hand over his cock, he takes in the sight of her, pleased by the gentle curve of her mouth and the way her heart flutters beneath her ribs. He slides his length through her slick folds, gathering her arousal.
“Wait.”
Astarion pauses, confusion coloring his expression as he wonders what's gone wrong.
“I…”
Even in the darkness, he can see the flush that stains her cheeks, plush lips parted as she pants softly.
“I want to see you too.”
She smiles sheepishly when he rolls his eyes, and he huffs dramatically before grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. The rest of his clothes join hers in the same half-forgotten pile, and Astarion quickly returns to his place between her legs.
“Better, darling?”
“Uh-huh.”
It's difficult for him not to preen beneath her attention as he eyes travel over the sculpted planes of his chest and shoulders, but Ysera anchors her gaze instead on his face, studying him as though it's the first time she's seen it.
He wonders what she sees when she looks at him, what she's searching for with those brilliant golden eyes. Ysera's breath hitches when he enters her again, hands on her waist as he seats himself fully inside her. He pulls almost completely out of her and pauses, waiting for her to whine in frustration before he slams home again. He does it again, snapping his hips forward with enough force that it nearly lifts her off the blankets.
The sound of her languid moans sounds like a symphony as he sets a feverish pace, grunting through gritted teeth as he fucks her hard and deep. Hands tucked beneath her knees, he gives her everything she'd asked for, taking pride in every whimper and moan that tumbles from her mouth.
“What are you thinking about now?” he asks. The lewd sound of their bodies moving together fills the silence between them while Ysera struggles to find an answer to his question, and she barely gets out a single word before her eyes slam shut and she buries her fists in the blankets.
“You.”
He hits a particularly sensitive spot inside her and she cries out in pleasure, gasping for breath. “You, Astarion. Always you, always, always…”
The admission pleases him more than he cares to admit. He's seen the way some of the others look at her, and with every thrust of his hips he makes sure there will never be room for anyone but him.
The thought of her sharing this kind of intimacy with anyone but him is nearly enough to drive him mad. Her secrets, her hopes, her fears, all of them are his and his alone.
But what, then, does that make her?
Yours.
His mind rejects the obvious answer.
It's strange, he realizes, that even as his mind wanders, it remains fixated on her. He wants to remember the way she looks beneath him, trying so hard to keep her eyes focused on his face. He wants to remember the feel of her in his hands, the way she moans and whimpers only for him.
He wants to remember, because for the first time in so many years, he finally feels like more of a man than a monster.
Astarion adjusts his position and leans over her, and Ysera takes the invitation to gather his hands in her own. Their fingers lace together and she squeezes tightly. He can feel her magic brimming just beneath her palms, undulating in time with the steady drumming of her heart. Her eyes shine with the ferocity of a supernova, a dying star scattered into the cosmos.
He feels the tether on her power snap taut, and her body trembles with the effort it takes to restrain it. Ysera's throat constricts with a sharp gasp as Astarion drives his hips forward again and again, coaxing her closer and closer to the sweet oblivion he knows she needs with each delicious thrust.
The air crackles with magic when Astarion pins Ysera's arms above her head, lightning dancing between her outstretched fingers. She arches her back and writhes each time he thrusts into her, his pace unfaltering as he banishes any lingering doubts from her mind.
Her fingers flex and she looks away, a frightened animal in flight. Astarion grabs her chin between his fingers and tilts her head towards him to capture her mouth in a tender kiss. His tongue slides across the seam of her lips and she yields to him without hesitation. He greedily devours every delightful little sound she makes for him, kissing her in just the right way he knows will produce the exact response he wants from her.
“Don't run from me,” he says softly. It's more of a request than a demand, but she complies all the same.
Her gaze returns to his face, albeit reluctantly, and Astarion doesn't know what comes over him when he smooths his thumb across her cheek and cradles her head in his hand. “I’ve got you.”
The gentleness of his own voice surprises even himself.
Ysera has always been afraid of herself, but never of him. He can't understand why. He's hurt her. He can't be certain he won't do it again, before everything is over. Whatever monster dwells within her must be truly terrible if it would convince her to seek solace in someone like him, no matter how much he's come to crave her affection.
She clings to him like so many others before her, legs lifting to encircle his back to keep him close, tail coiling tightly around his leg. An instinct to beg for more of the only thing he has to offer her.
But what he can't dismiss as instinct is the way she looks at him, bright and warm as the first rays of the sun as dawn breaks over the horizon. Mere inches separate them, and Astarion can feel her breath fanning out over his lips with each sigh and gasp she makes beneath him.
“Astarion…”
His name sounds like honey on her tongue. Despite himself, Astarion recoils from the longing in her voice, his expression impassive despite the terror that takes hold within him and encircles his unbeating heart like a fist.
He remembers so few of his victims, but there is one he will never be able to forget. The man he had refused to condemn, the one and only time he had rebelled against his master’s orders. He had looked at Astarion the same way Ysera does now, had spoken his name with the same yearning that it had doomed him to a year of starvation and suffering.
No , he wants to scream, don't say it.
This isn't what he wanted.
But it's no use. He watches, helpless, as her mouth falls open and her hand raises to brush a stray curl behind his ear.
“Astarion, I lo –”
He crushes his mouth against hers, swallowing her confession with a desperation he hopes she will mistake for affection.
Astarion understands love the way a scholar understands facts and figures – from a distance and with cold indifference. He's grown adept at mimicking its trademarks, the mannerisms of genuine devotion, to be used as a means to an end but never to be indulged in.
Because allowing himself to hope for anything more would be to invite his destruction.
And yet, as Ysera kisses him back and murmurs the words against his lips again and again, Astarion can't stop himself from reveling in how good they sound. If he must be weak, let it be for something worthwhile.
I love you, Astarion. I love you. I love you.
He doesn't respond, his mind a whirlwind of contradictions. If it bothers her, Ysera doesn't let him see it. Instead, she winds her arms behind his back, touch featherlight as she traces the scars carved into his flesh. With each pass of her fingers, she erases the pain he'd been made to feel when he'd received them, if only for a fleeting moment.
Astarion doubts she's even aware of what she's done to him, that each time she touches him with such gentleness it makes him want to abandon centuries of habit and believe that they might actually have a future together. Tonight was supposed to be about her, but in everything she does, somehow she still prioritizes him.
“Ysera.”
He tests the feel of her name in his mouth, spoken with the same devotion she's given him. Her entire body shudders in response, and Astarion finds that he rather likes it. The need to please her becomes an all-consuming thought in his mind and he lowers his head, taking the peak of her breast into his mouth as he continues to roll his hips into hers at a pace that brings them both immense satisfaction.
Ysera lets out a keening whine when Astarion pinches her nipple between his teeth and flicks it with his tongue, mirroring the gesture on her other breast with his hand. The hands on his back instinctively tighten, nails pressed into his skin.
“I wonder if I could make you come for me like this,” he groans, voice low. “Would you like that, Ysera?”
She murmurs something immediately that sounds like “yes”, but Astarion considers his options. She'd probably agree to anything he said now, if she thinks it would bring her the relief she seeks. And he can give her so much better than that.
“Perhaps some other time,” he says, chuckling when she whines in protest and writhes beneath him.
One hand slips beneath her, cupping the base of her tail while the other drags a torturously slow path down her stomach towards the place their bodies are joined. Ysera sucks in a breath, trembling in anticipation. She lets it out on a strangled shout when Astarion circles her clit with his thumb; at the same time he caresses the underside of her tail, sending tremors of pleasure throughout her body.
Her eyes fly open, hazy with arousal. “Again,” she pleads, canting her hips to press herself against the hand on her clit.
A single fang gleams behind Astarion’s lips.
“I thought so,” he purrs. He alternates his strokes, teasing both her tail and her clit between every thrust of his cock inside her. Her cunt tightens around him and he bites back a moan, watching her fall to pieces in his hands.
“Astarion. Astarion. ” She says his name like a mantra, clinging desperately to him as he guides her to the edge, keeping her just on the precipice. He knows her body well, enough to build her pleasure to a roaring crescendo, and only once she begs for release one final time does he finally give it to her. With one last pass of his hands and thrust of his cock, Ysera finally lets go, gnashing her teeth and arching her back off the blankets as she shatters beneath him. Her chest heaves as she gasps for breath, riding the cresting wave of her orgasm as Astarion increases the pace of his thrusts and follows her quickly over the edge.
His hand comes away from her cunt slick with her arousal, and Ysera watches him slowly lick his fingers clean, enraptured by the sight of it. Astarion pulls out of her with a sigh, fixing his hair and bushing away the curls that have fallen over his eyes.
Ysera glances between Astarion and the entrance of her tent; he can tell that she's afraid he will leave. On any other night he would collect his clothes and go, but he can't bear the thought of abandoning her again, not after everything that has occurred between them.
He feels her relax the moment he takes the liberty of laying down beside her, and although his back is turned he can still hear the way her heart skips a beat as she sighs in relief. She settles in beside him, and they slip into a comfortable silence.
Is this what it would be like if they were together? Enjoying one another's company without obligation or expectations? The emptiness he feels now has nothing to do with what just transpired between them and everything to do with the fact that she isn't still in his arms, sharing her warmth with him.
Astarion feels her hand hovering over him, hears her reconsider before rolling over onto her other side and drawing the blankets up to her chin. They lay together in the darkness, but the silence soon becomes suffocating.
Astarion’s mind races, a thousand different thoughts waging war within him. Guilt wraps its way around his heart like strangling vines, each pricking thorn gnawing away at his already fractured composure. He moves before his brain has time to remind him it's a bad idea, rolling over to face her.
Ysera makes a muffled noise of surprise when Astarion slips his arm over her torso, tucking her tightly against his chest. He holds her close enough to calm the tempest raging inside him, indulging more than he should by burying his nose into the nape of her neck and inhaling the scent of her.
She deserves to know the truth. And tomorrow, he will tell her everything. But for now, he grants himself this small mercy, entertaining the fantasy that this could be forever, that he could be the one to bring back her smile. Because when she finally lets him go – and she will, once she learns of his deception – at least he won't have to wonder what it might have been like to be hers.
————
Astarion has been awake for hours by the time he sees Ysera emerge from her tent, hair disheveled as she rubs the sleep from her eyes. He'd been loathe to extract himself from her arms earlier that morning, but the longer he let it carry on the harder he knew it would have been to go through with what needs to be done.
Ysera smiles softly at him as Gale passes a plate of food into her hands, and she brushes Shadowheart off as the cleric fusses over the fresh bite marks on her neck. Shadowheart skewers him with an accusatory scowl, but her temper cools when she notices the soberness of his expression. Whatever she thinks happened between them, she doesn't press any further.
When breakfast is finished and the plates have been cleared away, Astarion grabs Ysera's attention and leads her away from the others.
He doesn't want an audience – not for this.
She follows him quietly to the edge of camp, and they come to a stop just before the barrier of the moonshield. She seems to pick up on his stiff posture, and her reaction to his expression when he finally turns to face her seems to confirm her worst fears.
“Do you have a moment?” he asks. “I… I think we need to talk.”
#astarion#astarion bg3#astarion smut#bg3 fanfic#astarion fanfic#astarion x oc#astarion x female tav#tiefling tav#ysera#character study#astarion x tav#astarion x f!tav#spawn astarion#my writing
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Theseus #6 (The Abandonment of Ariadne)
Having succeeded in his mission to slay the Minotaur, breaking King Minos demand for yearly sacrifices of Athenian tributes, Theseus flees Crete with the Princess Ariadne in the cover of night. A terrible storm forces them to stop on the Island of Dia (Nexos), where they find rest and respite in the safety and warmth of each other’s arms. But that night, Dionysus visits Theseus in a dream, threatening death if he does not abandon the princess, for Dionysus has also fallen in love with her. With a heavy heart, Theseus sneaks away in the night and puts out to sea, leaving her behind. Dionysus takes Ariadne as his wife, eventually bringing her to Olympus, making her immortal, and begetting many children with her.
there are many different versions told of princess Ariadne’s fate. According to the cryptic passage in Homer’s Odyssey, on the island of Naxos, she was slain by Artemis with Dionysus as witness; suggesting a blasphemous act of lust within the god’s sacred grove (mirroring Ovid’s later ending for the Atalanta myth). Plutarch, in his Life of Theseus chapter from his work “Parallel lives,” recounts an array of variations; from her hanging herself upon abandonment, to her settling down with a Dionysian priest. There’s even a version that tells of Ariadne being turned to stone by Perseus! Ovid says that Dionysus set Ariadne’s jeweled Cretan crown up into the night sky, becoming the constellation “Corona Borealis.”
Another fascinating version is the Roman poet Catullus’ “Poem 64”, which has a furious Ariadne calling on goddesses to curse Theseus for abandoning her, which results in the many tragedies that follow in the hero’s life.
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Medusa! Reader and Shang Tsung in MK 1 (Part 1)
NEXT
SPOILER ALERT FOR MK 1 STORYMODE
A/N: I hope y'all like this as I've been hyped for this game since I heard its release!!! I was so excited for the possibilities that I watched the full storymode cut as soon as it came out to take notes! Be aware, given this is a new timeline, there ARE gonna be some changes from the other hc/s you've known, but rest assured that doesn't mean I have forgotten. Please enjoy!
You were born around the same northern canton as Shang Tsung, yet you would come to know him in adulthood. You were born as the second eldest to your village's apothecary during your childhood. You never knew your eldest sister, who was taken at infancy to become Umgadi; despite this, your mother always spoke highly of the daughter she never got to know. To the point of being grating to everyone around you, including yourself. On the other hand, your father had high hopes for you to someday take over the apothecary of your village, having seen your innate talent and intrigue for medicine from an early age.
You reveled in the pride your father expressed for you. Although, your mother gave you a different time of day despite your best efforts. Because of your frustrations, you would come across to others as prickly and shrewish. Although deep down, you just wanted a chance to make BOTH your parents proud.
That day came, but not in the way you truly hoped, when a plague struck your village from another nearby canton. Thankfully, it wasn't Tarkat, but that didn't make the one that came any less deadly.
You and your father worked day and night to help treat your village, giving them depleting medicine to ease their symptoms. However, that doesn't mean you didn't have your fair share of corpses you had to help burn to stifle the plague from spreading.
When your father became ill from overworking, you took it upon yourself to search for a cure. It took weeks of secretly digging corpses out of the burn puts and cutting them open (something that wasn't so hard for you to stomach, oddly) to find which combinations of elixirs were the most effective before you found a cure. Even then, it took weeks of trials and tribulations before you finally succeeded. However, to others, you seemed to have cured your village overnight by some miracle, making both your parents proud.
From then on, through the grapevine, it wasn't hard for the newly crowned rulers of Outworld, Sindel and Jerrod, to hear the word of an upcoming healer making a name for herself around the northern cantons by healing most ailments and diseases. Eventually, they would invite you to study at the palace to further your knowledge of medicine.
You were already stunned to hear of Outworld's rulers inviting YOU, of all people, to study at their palace. Imagine your amazement when you first saw the luscious and lively city of Sun Do. Yet the city seemed pale compared to the crown jewel of Sun Do Palace.
When you were escorted into the palace, instead of immediately heading into the throne room as instructed, you slipped away from Li Mei's watch to head toward the legendary Hanging Gardens. While exploring the garden's flora, you took the time to sketch out the plant life you've never seen to look up later. In fact, you were so caught up in what you were doing you didn't immediately acknowledge Empress Sindel when she entered. When she invited you inside for tea, did you finally look up from what you were doing and realize who you had spoken to the entire time.
You quickly bowed as you started to ramble out apologies for not properly greeting your Empress, stating how you meant no offense or disrespect. Sindel only gave a small chuckle and brushed it off, stating it was a relief to know the healer they invited to study here had so much potential. From there, after getting berated by Li Mei about how there won't be a next time for you to slip from her, you meet Jerrod.
Jerrod and Sindel watched you flourish into a benevolent and dedicated healer, eventually the Head Healer for the Palace, often treating the royal family, Imperial Guard, or Umgadi. While there, you were also trained by Li Mei herself to defend yourself, to prove that every member of the Imperial House is capable of defending Outworld.
You and Sindel grew to have a close friendship. In fact, you treated Sindel the most when she was pregnant with twins and watched as both came into the world. You, too, helped with the upbringing of Mileena and Kitana after Jerrod's death. Sindel found she could confide in you, knowing any secret with you is safe, assured in your loyalty to her and the royal house.
However, that's not to say your friendship with Sindel didn't get into trouble occasionally, specifically in matters concerning Tarkat and those afflicted with it, as your role as a Healer conflicts with Sindel's policies.
You took it upon yourself to become one of the lead researchers into Tarkat, including going to the colony of those afflicted in the Wastes. What you saw appalled you and sickened every part of you that is a Healer.
Yet, as Sindel continues to ignore your suggestions on improving Tarkatan's life, a wedge forms between you. That doesn't stop you from advocating giving Tarkatans better treatment than what they currently have. You and Sindel's skirmish reaches a crescendo when Mileena, infected with Tarkart, one day approaches you.
You tried everything you could to treat her in secret from Sindel, fearing the Empress would banish her own daughter. Yet neither of your efforts would be successful as Sindel and Kitana eventually learned about Mileena's affliction. You and Sindel argued about how Mileena's illness should be dealt with, with you calling Sindel a hypocrite for protecting Mileena when she doesn't do the same for the rest of her sick subjects.
Thanks to the new sorcerer, Shang Tsung, that Mileena found, she was temporarily cured before she could go on a bloody rampage. Immediately, you asked Shang how he figured out how to treat Mileena's symptoms. To which he answered by offering a partnership, stating that together, you both had a real chance to cure the princess and all of Outworld. An invitation you were not going to turn down, much to the Sorcerer's delight.
Thanks to Shang Tsung backing your argument, Sindel had a laboratory built near the Tarkatan camp so you could further your studies for a cure. Although, secretly, it may have also been a way for you to put some distance between you and Sindel since you felt you needed time away from her and the city.
Shang Tsung introduced you to Syzoth, who he claimed would work as an assistant. You were unaware of his enslavement to Shang. Although more at ease in your presence, you couldn't help but notice how twitchy Syzoth can be, especially whenever Shang is in the room.
You recognize Shang's mannerisms, dialect, and choice of clothing to be from the same area you're from. Despite the familiarity you two connected with, you were wary of Shang when he refused to indulge in what he used to be. While he finds your caution understandable, that would not stop him from trying to woo you.
At first, he wasn't quite successful in using honeyed words and shiny trinkets since you were too caught up in your work to care for them. Frustratingly for him, you struck a faster friendship with Syzoth over your interests in each other's cultures. Yet, it didn't escape Shang's notice that Syzoth would cringe at your dark humor and be unable to fully understand the theories you would share with him.
Shang Tsung changed his approach to you after taking note of you and Syzoth's interactions (and punishing Syzoth in private). He got this chance when you let slip a dark joke that some would say is in bad humor. You slap a hand over your mouth when you realize what you said. Yet, to your surprise, the sorcerer you saw as pretentious and full of himself let out a genuine laugh to the point he had to step back from his worktable to reorient himself.
Shang Tsung didn't fake finding you humorous especially when it meant seeing you direct your smile toward him. One small but genuine one he scarcely ever saw directed at him. He found himself wanting more.
Such a small moment led to a friendship that intertwined with your partnership. Shang got you talking about your work and what you hope to accomplish with it, occasionally encouraging you. You would find him sometimes jotting down notes when you share with him theories you developed about Tarkat, including how its mutative properties cause an excessive amount of bone to grow from a person and could probably strengthen a person if used right.
"Yet, I would never actually see if that's true. Not only would it be incredibly painful, but it would be an act against nature.
"Of course, yet shouldn't progress be something healers should strive for?
"Indeed we do, but not at the cost of lives."
Syzoth watched as your relationship with Shang Tsung flourished, thus leading you to share a few apothecary secrets your father taught you. The Zatteran wishes he could've told you about the man you looked fondly at, yet he kept his mouth shut.
Unbeknownst to you, Shang Tsung would take some of your ideas and theories with Tarkat and then make them into a horrid reality, all right under your nose. For all you knew, the basement level of the lab would eventually be used to treat patients.
Yet, you didn't think Shang Tsung could ever be so depraved. Not from the charming and intelligent man you came to know through long discussions and walks near the lab. However, you started to grow suspicious since you saw Syzoth often head downstairs, but Shang Tsung discouraged you from looking around below. This eventually spiraled into a confrontation between the two of you.
You argued that both of you are partners and thus are equals. Just, what was he hiding down there? However, when you confronted the Sorcercer and gave him a piece of your mind, that's when disaster struck.
Fed up with Shang Tsung dancing around the answer and his secretiveness, you marched right to the door leading to the lower levels of the Laboratory. Out of desperation, Shang Tsung then ran to your side to push you away from the door.
He only meant to push you hard enough to get you away from the door, but it was enough to push you directly into a shelf containing a glass jar containing proto-type Anti-Tarkat serum that fell directly on your head, followed by more unknown serums. You screamed at the searing pain of glass and the liquids entering your eyes.
Your skin started to peel away, leaving your entire body in patches of red rashes, and your hair fell out in clumps. Your screams filled the entire laboratory as you collapsed to the ground. You didn't see the panicked look on Shang's face as he instructed Syzoth (who saw the whole thing) to carry you.
A/N: Sorry, that's all for now, folks. I reached the word count limit.😅 Don't worry, part 2 is coming out real soon!
#mortal kombat#mk x reader#mortal kombat x reader#mk11#oddball writes#shang tsung#shang tsung x reader#syzoth#Reptile mk#mk syzoth#mk sindel#mk kitana#mortal kombat 1 2023#mileena#mk Lei Mei
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Would That I
Pairing: Otto Hightower x f!reader Warnings: Smut, age gap, keeping it in the family. Word count: ~1.1k Summary: Otto makes sure his pretty, young wife has absolutely everything she desires. Based on this request.
She is smitten with Otto the moment she lays eyes on him. Arriving in King’s Landing she anticipates a week of uninteresting jousts and tedious formalities, but as she sits in the stands, thoroughly uninterested by the spectacle of the two knights charging towards each other on horseback, her eye is drawn to the Hand of the King. He is older than her by at least three decades, but he is refined, tall and ruggedly handsome. While the potential suitors within the capital are seemingly endless, none of them compare to Otto Hightower
Using every excuse within her arsenal over the coming days, she seizes all opportunities to see and speak to him, and is delighted to find he is every bit as charming as he is handsome. He titters at her jokes and she is enamoured by the way his eyes crinkle as he smiles, the green of his iris appearing to sparkle as he does so. His voice is deep, yet velvety smooth and she hangs on his every word. He is intelligent, diplomatic and sharp as Valyrian steel.
Her desire for him intensifies as the days press on, and emboldened by one too many cups of Dornish red following a feast one evening, she leans forward and presses her lips to his, her heart fluttering as she feels the warmth of his large palm cup her cheek as he returns the gesture.
“I have not felt like this about a woman in years,” He tells her.
She smiles at his words. She has not felt like this about a man ever.
There is no need for her to leave come the end of the week, King’s Landing is now her home, and after a hastily put together ceremony in the Sept, Otto Hightower is her husband.
He surprises her with his virility on their wedding night, wringing peak after peak from her pliant body, leaving her exhausted but with a satisfying ache between her thighs the following morning. Otto spoils her beyond comprehension, she wants for nothing and has the finest of everything; jewels from Lys, gowns of Myrish silk and lace, wines from the Arbor. He is diligent in keeping her sated in every aspect of their marriage.
It is obvious his daughter, Alicent, does not approve, though she does not say it, and who can blame her? She has to admit that she’d be annoyed too if her father chose to marry someone younger than his own daughter.
It is not Alicent’s silent disapproval that bothers her, however, it is how the ladies of the court love to gossip. It is not unusual in Westeros for men to wed women much younger than themselves, yet she finds herself at the center of all manner of prying questions regarding the nature of her marriage to Otto. She supposes it is because of the responsibility he holds as the King’s Hand.
“What is it you see in him?” One bold lady dares to ask.
She bites her lip, considering her answer. She longs to say that it sends a thrill through her body to wait upon her knees for him, gazing up at him as he presses the head of himself past her lips. Such talk would cause a scandal, however, so she gives a tight smile and says that he is tall.
“Surely that can’t be all?”
“No, he is handsome too,” She says wistfully, thinking about how he gazes up at her from between her thighs, the softness of his beard tickling her soft flesh, the sensation causing her to clench around nothing.
“Is he kind to you?”
“Oh, yes, Otto is extraordinarily generous!” There is a particular necklace that Otto insists she wears, with nothing else to accompany it, whenever they are alone in their marital chambers. It sits tight against her throat, adorned with emeralds that gleam in the same shade of green as the Hightower house colours. It likely cost a small fortune, but in his eyes nothing is too good for her, not when he is buried to the hilt inside of her.
“Is that your favourite quality of his?”
“No,” She muses. “I adore his dedication to his family.”
The combined heat from the fireplace and lit candles that sit upon every surface of the bedchamber make the room stiflingly hot. She feels sweat trickle down her neck, disappearing beneath the emerald choker that sits snugly around her neck, every green gemstone glittering in the dim light as she rolls her hips against Otto’s.
His grip on her waist is vice-like, every sensation heightened by warmth, as the length of him nudges against a spot inside of her that makes her tense with every undulation of her body. She feels taut, pulled tighter than a bow string until it eventually snaps, sending her headlong into oblivion, waves of ecstasy rolling through her as she collapses against her husband’s chest, triggering his own release.
His fingers stroke gently over her dampened skin as he holds her close. Already, renewed desire throbs between her legs.
“Are you satisfied, my dear?” Otto asks softly.
“I will never have enough of you, my love,” Comes her playful response.
“That is not quite what I had in mind.”
“Oh?” She lifts her head, eyeing him curiously.
“I have seen the way that you and Aemond look at each other, I am no fool.”
She laughs softly, shaking her head. “It is nothing, I can assure you.”
“I do not mind,” He rises from the bed, pulling on a robe. “I wish for my darling wife to be satisfied, to have everything she desires, so I shall make it so.”
He opens the chamber door, uttering “you can come in now” and her eyes widen in disbelief when she sees Otto’s second oldest grandson hovering in the doorway. It seems outrageous to her that he would suggest such a thing, yet she cannot deny the way it makes her pulse race.
“I shall be back in an hour.” Otto informs them both, before leaving.
She is too stunned to speak at first as she takes in the sight of Aemond. He seems stoic and unaffected in his demeanour, until she studies him more carefully. She takes in how his pupil is dilated with lust, the prominent bulge that presses against the lacings of his trousers, and the slight parting of his lips as he struggles to control his excited breaths.
Arranging herself atop the bedspread, she relaxes knowing that he desires her just as much as she desires him. She beckons him to her with a crook of her finger. “Come now, don’t be shy.” He goes to her eagerly.
It is just one of the many perks of being Otto Hightower’s wife. He is nothing if not generous in every aspect of their marriage, and so dedicated to his family.
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"I don't think I'm ready for this."
The Winter Palace loomed over the Inquisition agents as they stepped through the wrought-iron gate into the front gardens, a colossal silhouette against the twilit sky, crowned in gold and glittering with the setting sun. The soft yellow light of ornate lamp posts dotted the landscape like stars in the night. Violets and lilies adorned bushes in marble planters, their sweet fragrance permeating the air. A large fountain sat in an alcove at the back of the gardens, two sets of stairs curving up to the entrance of the palace proper. Cool, crystal clear water flowed gently over a circle of golden winged lions.
"It's too late to back out now, Inquisitor,” said Josephine, ambassador of the Inquisition. She wore an off-shoulder golden bouffant dress accentuated with embroidered flowers and vines. Her raven-colored hair, usually kept in a low-hanging bun, was now free and draped over one shoulder. She wore a delicate golden amulet adorned with a ruby in its center. Gold eyeliner complimented her hazel eyes.
“Do stop slouching, please,” she continued as she scrutinized the Inquisitor’s appearance. “How you present yourself is a matter of life and death when it comes to the Game. It is no simple matter of etiquette and protocol. Every word, every gesture is measured and evaluated for weakness. Even more so when we approach the court. The Inquisition must not show weakness or they will eat us alive."
Ellana Lavellan, the Inquisitor currently being berated by her diplomatic advisor for her posture, straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. None of what Josephine said made her feel any better about the situation, though.
"Correction: I know I am not ready for this."
Ellana was Dalish! They didn't go to fancy balls or dress in the latest human fashion. She didn't even own a dress! What she wore now was entirely too thin and fragile to survive a day in the forest. However, Josephine insisted she look the part of a proper Lady. Elves had an ethereal beauty to them and it needed to be flaunted if they were to impress Empress Celene. Ellana felt that would be easy, considering Celene used to have an elven lover, but Josephine's fretting over the downfall of the Inquisition's reputation would not abate.
Now, Ellana stood before her fellow agents in a white silk gown, cinched at the waist by a golden brooch with the Inquisition symbol etched into it. The gown had a plunging neckline, framed by a high collar that was tied with golden string at the collarbone. It was simple, but the added golden embellishments gave it an air of elegance that was hard to deny. With her light blonde hair woven into an intricate updo and accentuated by a golden winged circlet, she was the epitome of what the Herald of Andraste should look like.
... Aside from the pointed ears and the face tattoos honoring a goddess who was not the Maker.
As they were actually here in the Winter Palace to prevent an assassination, Ellana had alterations made to the dress. The skirt could be peeled off, revealing leggings underneath that would allow her to move without exhibiting her undergarments for all to see. The skirt was also long enough that it hid her feet. They sported bottomless sandals rather than the jeweled slippers that Josephine wanted her to wear. Ellana needed to feel the ground underneath her feet. Elemental magic was her specialty and shoes got in the way of channeling the energy of the earth.
"Smile, Inquisitor. Eyes are upon us," Leliana encouraged. Her smile, relaxed and confident, was entirely uncharacteristic of the usually cold and deadly demeanor of the spymaster. She almost looked at home among the elite of Orlais and Ellana had to remind herself that this was all a façade.
The Inquisitor flashed a smile at passing nobles that didn’t quite reach her emerald eyes due to her growing anxiety. Leliana’s own smile faltered and she silently shook her head to get Ellana to stop.
"Honestly, you aren't doing yourself any favors with the company you've decided to bring with you," Josephine muttered under her breath, not paying the slightest bit of attention to the Inquisitor’s struggle. The Antivan glanced behind them to take in their entourage. Everyone was dressed in fine red velvet suits trimmed in gold with blue sashes extending across their chests and wrapping around their waists. At least they were uniform in that regard.
Ellana tilted her head at the ambassador. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, an apostate elf? A Qunari spy? A spirit boy? Dorian at least has some exposure to the nobility, but he's from Tevinter!"
"I am technically an apostate elf, too, mind you," Ellana shot back defensively, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Solas has given me good counsel since the beginning of this whole ordeal." The slight curving of Leliana's lips did not go unnoticed by her and she quickly continued. "They won't even remember seeing Cole and Iron Bull knows how to behave in court. He wouldn't be a Ben-Hassrath if he couldn't blend into his surroundings."
Josephine sighed. "I suppose, but Madame Vivienne, Varric, Blackwall, or even Cassandra would have been a better choice."
It was an unspoken agreement that bringing Sera would be a catastrophe.
"As you said yourself: it's too late to back out now. Let's just get this over with."
She took one step before spotting Duke Gaspard weaving his way through the crowd of nobles in the garden. He wore a suit of teal silk brocade, adorned with silverite pauldrons. A red sash was draped over his broad chest. His face, as was Orlesian custom, was hidden behind a golden half-mask. Ellana could barely see his eyes through the slits and it unnerved her greatly. You could gauge an individual's intentions through their eyes, creature or human. Did he have something to hide?
"It is a great pleasure to meet you, Inquisitor Lavellan," he greeted in a thick Orlesian accent. He took her hand and kissed the back of it, the stubble of his beard leaving red scratch marks on her skin. She resisted the urge to wince.
"Bringing the rebel mages into the ranks of your army was a brilliant move," he continued and leaned in with a conspiratorial smile. "Imagine what the Inquisition could accomplish with the full support of the rightful Emperor of Orlais!"
Ah, so he was fishing for support. He figured he had an edge on the competition since she accepted his invitation to the masquerade. Arrogant man.
"Oh?" she asked and put a finger to her chin thoughtfully. "Which one was the rightful one, again? I keep getting them confused."
Gaspard let out a genuine laugh, the sound emanating from deep within his chest. "Why, the handsome, charming one of course, my lady!"
She could feel his eyes graze over her body appraisingly, lingering for no small amount of time on her chest, and it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. The dress was definitely a mistake. Behind her, the air cooled considerably and Solas cleared his throat. The agonizingly long moment ended and Gaspard extended an arm for her to take.
"My lady, are you prepared to shock the court by walking into the Grand Ball with a hateful usurper?" He grinned devilishly down at her.
She, playing the part of charming guest, smiled up at him, all teeth and dimpled cheeks. "I can't imagine that crowd has seen anything better than us in their entire lives," she joked. Gaspard laughed and placed a hand over the one holding his arm. He pierced her with his gaze through those slitted eyes.
"You are a woman after my own heart," he replied, voice husky. Oh no, she was making this worse. The hand resting over her own was pressed up against her breast, a rather sly way to grope her. The Game was not something she was adept at. Was this even part of the Game? All she knew was that she couldn't part from him soon enough.
They ascended the stairs towards the entrance of the Winter Palace and, along the way, the whispers of the nobles did not go unnoticed.
"Is that the Inquisitor?"
"An elven savage? Maker forbid!"
"Andraste would never choose a knife-ear as her herald."
"Is this Gaspard's idea of a joke?"
"Perhaps she's his whore. She certainly dresses like one."
"Those marks on her face are hideous."
Each comment was a dagger to her pride. Her cheeks burned with shame. They had a point: why would Andraste choose an elf to save Thedas? Ellana didn't even believe in the Maker. Their opinions shouldn't have mattered, but they did. It wasn't just because they were directed at her. She was the face of the Inquisition and a negative opinion of her would reflect poorly on her people. They deserved better than that.
The walk to the front entrance stretched on for an eternity. Ellana did her best to keep her composure and block out the horrible remarks, with little success. She was vaguely aware of Gaspard speaking to her about his concerns for the night, namely that Briala, the elven ambassador, was up to something with her legion of servants. Ellana’s jaw tightened.
"Tell me there's more to your suspicion than 'the elves were acting dodgy'," she interrupted, her tone taking on a sharp edge. Gaspard was taken aback by her sudden change in mood. Of course he didn't notice what was being said about her. Or he did, but didn't care. Elves meant less than nothing to humans.
"Briala used to be a servant of Celene's," Gaspard argued. "That is, until my cousin had her arrested for crimes against the empire to cover up a political mistake. If anyone in this room wishes Celene harm, Inquisitor, it's that elf. She certainly has reason."
Right, the assassination attempt. That's what really mattered. Why should she care what those idiot nobles thought of her when the fate of the world was at stake? And yet it gnawed away at her from the inside all the same. Perhaps she was afraid those remarks were mere echoes of her own thoughts.
"I'll look into it," she said, deflated.
Gaspard sighed. "Be as discreet as possible," he warned. "I detest the Game, but if we do not play it well, our enemies will make us look like villains."
He relinquished her arm when they entered the vestibule and left to mingle with a few of the guests. Ellana breathed a sigh of relief and turned to face her entourage.
"When you meet the empress, the eyes of the entire court will be upon you," Josephine reminded her. She smoothed out a crinkle in Ellana's dress and adjusted her collar. "You were safer staring down Corypheus, I'm afraid. The Game is like Wicked Grace played to the death. You must never reveal your cards."
A wave of nausea swept over Ellana. Her heart pounded against her ribcage like a war drum. Outside, she had fresh air, but in the palace the walls seemed to press in, threatening to crush her. Through it all, the disparaging remarks of the nobles were building to a crescendo in her mind, drowning out all other noise.
"You're just full of joy and light this evening," she managed to croak out when Josephine continued to stare at her. It was supposed to be a light-hearted jest but lacked the substance.
"Everything will be fine," Josephine said, to herself more than anyone else. "Andraste watch over us all."
The group broke apart then, Josephine, Cullen, and Leliana ascending another set of stairs to scope out the perimeter before the festivities started.
"I’m headed to the buffet,” said Bull as he patted his growling stomach. "I'm starving."
"Vishante kaffas, don't just shovel it in your mouth like a savage, you oaf," Dorian grumbled. He followed after the Qunari to try to prevent a disaster.
Cole had already vanished.
The anticipation of the night's events threatened to overwhelm Ellana and she tried to quickly and gracefully descend another set of stairs that led into a storage room. She just needed a moment to collect herself, a place to catch her breath. There was a mirror in the storage room with a great golden frame, a lion head jutting out on either side of the arch. She caught her reflection in it as she paced the small space and stopped. Her hands went to her knife-shaped ears, traced the hideous marks on her forehead and cheeks, the Dalish version of a mask. The sudden hatred that consumed her spilled over and she tossed the feathered circlet off of her head, yanking her hair out of the updo that took Josephine hours to do. She tried to style her hair so it would hide her ears. On a table next to the mirror sat a few discarded masks. She picked one up and placed it over her face to hide her vallaslin.
There, now she looked more human. Acceptable ... right? So why did her stomach continue to churn? Why were hot, angry tears threatening to spill over?
"What are you doing?"
Ellana gasped and spun around. She was so caught up in her emotional turmoil that she didn't hear the door open or even see the elf behind her in the mirror.
"Solas! I was just--"
His brows knitted in concern as he took in her wild hair and covered face. 'I'm fine,' was her instinctual response, but it never reached her lips. It was impossible to lie to him. He was wise beyond his years and though they had only known each other a short amount of time, she felt he knew, intimately, the depths of her heart.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she admitted in a whisper, her bottom lip trembling as the tears finally slipped down her cheeks. "This isn't --- Did you hear the things they said? I don't belong here."
He slowly approached her until they were mere inches apart. There was fire in his eyes, a righteous fury. For her? Or maybe he thought her foolish. His fingertips slipped under the edge of the mask, grazing her wet cheeks before gently removing the mask from her face. He tossed it aside, never taking his eyes off of her. Mesmerized, she couldn't look away.
"They are not worth your tears."
His hands cupped her face, wiping her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. Her breath hitched in her throat. His hands were rough, calloused, but the gesture was tender. He cradled her face like he was holding the world in his hands, his gaze so intense it was as if nothing else existed in that moment but them. The echoes of the nobles' words faded away as she hung onto every one of his.
"I'm the Inquisitor," she protested. "I'm supposed to represent the Inquisition. This meeting hinges on what the court makes of me and they just see me as an elven savage--! If I were human--"
"You are Elvhen," Solas declared, cutting off her downward spiral. "Our people built an empire that spanned all of Thedas. We created wonders the likes of which no other race has ever accomplished and never will."
This was the first time he had ever referred to her as one of his people. When they first met, he showed such scorn for the Dalish and didn't associate himself with city elves. He stood apart and above everyone else. His name meant 'pride' in the elven language, but she only ever saw him as ... lonely. Now he was including her in his world, the world of the true elves. Who knew whether he was right, but the meaning itself meant everything to her.
"Beyond that," he continued as he circled around behind her, "you are the Inquisitor." His fingers brushed against the nape of her neck as he started to gather her hair into his hands, handling it like it was made of the finest silk. "You command an army that makes nations tremble.” Her scalp tingled as he continued to brush his fingers through her hair. “Ferelden, Orlais, the Free Marches, they hang on to your every word and beg for the salvation that only you can deliver. You stand defiant against a would-be god and his archdemon. Be proud of who and what you are."
He leaned in close to her, lips a hair's breadth from her ear. "And you are the most beautiful woman in this entire palace," he murmured. Goosebumps erupted down her arms and the back of her neck, making her shiver, but unlike with Gaspard it was thrilling, not revolting. Desire sparked in her core and she fought back the urge to spin around and crush her lips against his. He was tying her hair up into a bun, not the complicated braided crown that Josephine had created, but loose and elegant, leaving her ears visible for all to see.
"These nobles fear the power you wield. Your beauty is a height they can never hope to reach. Envious, they must try to tear you down instead. Do not let them."
The bun was finished and he stepped back around to her front, his hands planting firmly on her hips. His words stole the breath from her lungs and set her heart fluttering. No one had ever spoken of her that way before. Not her clan, not her friends, not even her former lover. The words rolled off of his tongue so easily like they were waiting to be said.
"Sweet talker," she managed in a breathless whisper.
There was a spark of amusement in his eyes, though it was quickly covered by a solid determination. "I speak the truth," he said and she believed him. Even if it wasn't objectively true, it was to him and needed to be said.
Fear creeped into her voice as the weight of the words made her falter. He held her in such high regard. Maybe too high. "What if I fail?" she asked.
"You won't."
A nervous laugh bubbled out of her. "You have such confidence in me."
"It is well-deserved."
Ellana swallowed, all too aware of the warmth of his hands through the fabric of her dress. She tilted her head back to get a better look at him and tried to take a step closer, but he held her in place. There was a storm churning in his steel blue eyes, a flurry of emotions warring inside of him. Excitement. Adoration. Desire. Then regret, resignation. Behind it all, a sorrow so deep and endless she felt she might drown in it. He was always restraining himself. In the Fade, on the balcony of her room, his heart and mind were at odds with each other. There was an obvious attraction between them. He had already kissed her twice before, but still something kept holding him back. The chains of a past she knew nothing about. He spoke of his journeys through the Fade, but never of himself. All of those pretty words and no follow-up.
"You're always so detached and self-controlled, Solas,” she observed. Her hands rested atop his and felt them tremble as she gently pried them away. "But you don't need to be ... not with me."
Fingers danced along the velvet fabric of his suit before resting against his chest. She could feel his erratic heartbeat through his jacket and knew then that her words were true. So she did have the same effect on him that he had on her. A hesitant step forward closed the distance between them further.
"This is dangerous," he breathed, eyelids drooping. His resolve was faltering.
"I like danger." She gripped the lapels of his jacket and pulled him closer. They were mere inches away from each other now.
"Ellana," he warned and a thrill pulsed through her at the sound of her name on his lips.
"What are you so afraid of?"
He struggled to find the words, eyes glossed over as if trapped in a memory. She watched him for a moment, noting the light dusk of freckles across his cheeks and nose, the scar above his brow, the curve of his jaw, the fullness of his lips. It was as if the gods themselves sculpted him. He was beautiful.
She rested a hand against his cheek to pull him back to the present. "Solas?"
"... I don't want to lose you," he finally admitted, leaning into her touch. His fingers curled around hers and her heart ached. There were such thick walls around his heart and though she chipped away at it, she still hadn't completely broken through. Solas was always looking miles ahead of everyone else or behind in his past, but never in the moment.
Her smile was kind, patient. "You still have me," she assured him and traced the line of his jaw down to his chin. "I don't know what the future holds for us. I don't know if we'll defeat Corypheus or what will happen to the Inquisition. I don't know if you and I will stay together or drift apart, but fear of the future shouldn't stop us from enjoying the present. What I do know is that you make me feel ... important. Like I matter beyond my titles. Me, Ellana. Not the Inquisitor, not the Herald of Andraste, not the Keeper's First. Just ... me. You look at me like I'm the only thing that matters .. like the world could crumble all around us and you wouldn't even notice." She glanced down, her cheeks tinged red. "Perhaps it's selfish of me, but I want to be the only one you look at that way."
She felt him take her chin and tip it up, his gaze a smoldering flame that slowly drifted down to settle on her mouth.
"You are."
Their lips met and everything he had held back from her flooded into that kiss. His adoration and desire burned against her like a wildfire. She grew lightheaded from the force of it, but craved the taste of him as a Templar coveted lyrium. They parted for a brief moment to catch their breath and his hands found her waist again, though this time it was to pull her against him. Her dress, so flimsy before, was now far too thick. She wound her arms around his neck, her tongue flicking against his lips. That elicited a groan deep in his chest that rumbled against her own. He was unraveling before her and it exhilarated her. The kiss broke again only for her to pepper more across his jaw and down his throat.
"Ellana," he groaned. It spurred her to start hastily undoing the buttons of his jacket, but he brought her face back up to capture her lips again. The kiss deepened and she felt his tongue in her mouth, gliding along her own. He gripped the backs of her thighs and lifted her up onto his waist, her back hitting the wall. She braced herself against it and wrapped her legs around him for support. His hands slid up underneath her dress and caressed her thighs and she moaned. Her leggings were still in the way, but his fingertips teased along the waistline. That flame he sparked inside of her became an all-consuming fire.
"Solas," she whimpered as kisses traced her collarbone. Her fingers tried to find the buttons of his jacket again, but now his lips were at her breasts. She had awakened a wolf in him that lay dormant for far too long and it was ravenous for the taste of her flesh. He was struggling to bring himself back under control, but she didn't want him to. He brought his lips back to her jawline, his cheek brushing against hers.
"Ar lath, ma vhenan," he breathed and time stopped. She went rigid in his grip and he stared up at her as if surprised the words had spilled from his mouth. They stared at each other, fighting for breath and trying to make sense of the words through their delirium. He slowly lowered her back to the ground, though his arms stayed wrapped around her. She, too, refused to let go of him.
"...You do?" she asked. Her arousal, though definitely still there, was melting into something else.
His eyes searched hers, trying to discern how she felt about the words, but then he set his jaw, resolute. "I do."
The confession hung between them for an agonizing moment and he swallowed, his throat bobbing in anticipation of her reaction. A wide grin spread across her flushed face. There was attraction between them, yes, but she never expected that it went deeper than that for him ... that he loved her, that he would admit it first. She had been in love with him from the moment they met, when he first grabbed her hand and showed her the power that she wielded. He always seemed so lonely and sad, but he would positively light up when speaking about the Fade. She lived for those stories. His smile, as rare and fleeting as it was, could brighten her whole day. When he laughed? Indescribable. She only heard it once and it became her personal mission to hear it again. But her fears mirrored his: she didn't want to lose him either, so she never built up the courage to tell him how she felt. Now he admitted it himself. Her hands cupped his face and she kissed him tenderly.
"Ar lath, ma vhenan," she declared in return.
He flashed her a crooked grin before pulling her back against him, intending to finish what they started.
Until the door to the storage room creaked open.
"There you are, Inquisitor," Josephine announced with no small degree of relief. "We've been looking ev- Oh." The scene before her finally registered and she blushed, averting her eyes respectfully. "Oh, do forgive me." she apologized, "I seem to have opened the wrong door."
"Josephine!” Ellana called out in surprise. Her face turned the shade of spindleweed and she let go of Solas, smoothing out her dress. “It’s fine, we were just–”
Solas glanced over his shoulder at the ambassador before calmly picking Ellana’s circlet off of the floor and placing it back on her head. How could he be so poised?! She was mortified, but he had an air of smugness about him, as if being caught making out with the Inquisitor in a closet was the most natural thing in the world.
“Yes, well, the court is ready to receive us,” Josephine said, her gaze still averted. “I will meet you upstairs.” With that, she slipped back out of the door.
Ellana released a breath she didn’t know she was holding and adjusted the brooch and her hair. “Right, well, I guess it’s time to meet the empress.”
“Remember my words,” Solas told her as he straightened his own jacket.
“How could I forget them?” She buttoned up his jacket and fixed the sash, aware that he was gazing at her fondly. “Save me a dance?”
He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. “Perhaps, as soon as our present business is concluded.”
“I'll hold you to that.” She grinned and headed out of the storage room to meet up with Josephine.
Thankfully, it seemed the nobles were so caught up in their own affairs that they didn't seem to pay her much mind. A few cursive glances her way and more whispering, but she found herself less bothered by them than before.
“Be proud of who you are.”
She lifted her head to stare down her nose at them and confidently strode upstairs and into the ballroom.
#solavellan#solas dragon age#solas#solas x female lavellan#solas x inquisitor#female inquisitor#lavellan#dragon age#dorian pavus#iron bull#cole#empress celene#briala#love#masquerade ball#wicked eyes and wicked hearts#josephine montilyet#leliana#cullen rutherford#dragon age inquisition#ar lath ma vhenan#dance#gaspard de chalons#fenharel#dread wolf
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I've been trying to write 500 words a day (or an hour of editing, but 500 words is typically easier when I'm tired) and succeeding, rather to my astonishment (I've already written more in January than I did in all of December). However.
Last night, I was so exhausted that my usual projects weren't speaking to me and everything I tried to write just felt dead and flat. But there's no rule about what the 500 words needed to be for, so I was like... okay, we might need some maximal self-indulgence to get to 500 tonight. I tried fanfic about my favorite D&D character. It still was a miserable slog. I finally stopped and just thought ... okay, what would cater to my specific preferences on this specific occasion more than that?!
The answer, obviously, was confused genderbent f/f Farawyn pining/fantasizing about a queen/lionheart AU life in a specific f!Faramir AU I haven't written anything for in years:
Éowyn, to her great surprise, did not mind seeing Fíriel enthroned in majesty in the hall of the kings. She hadn’t been sure if Fíriel would rule as her fathers had, from the seat of the Stewards; it was still there. But Fíriel sat on the high throne, gazing down at the lords and ladies of Gondor with her grey eyes that were somehow nothing like the blue-grey of Éowyn's, but instead too colorless and too brilliant all at once, even from a distance. Éowyn did not see the great sceptre that Aragorn carried as his badge of office anywhere, though; the sceptre held loosely in Fíriel’s hand, resting on her lap, was a simpler, smoother one. She wore no crown, and her elaborately woven hair would not have allowed for one; instead, a silver-bright jewel blazed from a fillet over her brow, gleaming in the not-quite-natural way that Fíriel’s eyes did: the same jewel that Aragorn often wore in place of the tall, formal crown of Gondor. The truth was that Éowyn did not look at her and long to displace her from the throne, wish the blazing jewel rested upon her own skin, wish for either the White Rod of the Stewards or the Sceptre of Annúminas. She wanted armor. She wanted to stand to the side of the throne with a sword in her hand, prepared to strike down any threat to the queen. She wanted to see Fíriel sitting as she did now, but with all that hair unwoven, loose, hanging to her knees in a glossy raven mass while the crown did sit on her head. Éowyn wanted to see her as queen in her own right, and kneel before her in the gear of a marshal of the Eorlingas, and hold up the sword and swear an oath as sacred as Eorl’s to Cirion. She wanted to feel Fíriel’s clear, clear eyes piercing her as she swore herself to Fíriel’s service, to stay here forever, guard her as she slept or read or ate, and kiss her hand as any of these lordlings might. They were very tall men, all of them, but nevertheless there was something so small about them, too small for Fíriel. But not so Éowyn.
#after 40 mins of struggle i wrote this in about 15 lmao#sometimes you just need to give yourself permission to write your id i guess!!#anghraine babbles#otp: and the sun shone#legendarium blogging#genderbending#éowyn#faramir#fíriel daughter of denethor#fic talk: fíriel#fic talk#long post#anghraine whines
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the bastard queen - chapter 1
the things we do for love.
Pairing: Original female! Targaryen/Arthur Dayne
A/n: au for Robert’s Rebellion. Enjoy!
Rating: Mature (+16)
The strangling tension can suffocate even the most strong-willed courtier. With the hint of charred corpses still lingering in the air, Arthur Dayne wonders if the king has changed his clothes since the last night, where he delighted himself with the pleading yells of two prisoners as wildfire devoured them and the rest of the people gathered in the Great Hall drowned in horror.
With the reliable Barristan Selmy guarding the meeting with him, his lilac eyes observe the men as they take their seats around the wooden table, only the naïve Qarlton Chelsted and the newly appointed Hand Owen Merryweather to not show grim faces. The tension is palpable, a heavy cloak of discomfort wrapping around each lord present. The king's recent actions have instigated fear and uncertainty, even among the most loyal men.
As matters follow one to another, almost the whole group of men trying to decide what is best for the realm, Arthur’s mind is partly elsewhere, honed by years of duty and vigilance. His gaze, under the guise of passive surveillance, catches every subtle shift and twitch among those gathered. All of them or too cautious or too coward to dare and defy the monster with the crown upon his brow.
“With your permission, Your Grace” lord Merryweather’s voice almost trembles with hesitation, fearful of the reaction of the king. “There is a pressing matter this council has to discuss” Aerys raises a pointy eyebrow towards him, and Arthur can spot the slight curl of the king's lip, an ominous prelude to his temper which could ignite over the most trivial of provocations. “Princess Valaena’s marriage.”
This mention of the Princess Valaena, the beloved jewel of the kingdom, causes a distinct shift in the atmosphere of the room. The council members exchange wary glances as the name of the only daughter of the monarches is put over the table. They all have witnessed during the years the mood swifts and the affronts of Aerys towards his own daughter, branding her as ‘bastard’, ‘dragonspawn’ or worse only because the colour of her hair is darker than the rest of her family, and they have developed various degrees of sympathy towards her. Arthur Dayne himself stiffens when Merryweather dares to speak her name, thinking of him as unfit to even think about his princess.
“We should wait” Rhaegar Targaryen, the Crowned Prince, also shows himself most uncomfortable in his chair with the idea of being separated from his beloved sister. “My lady wife is still recovering and she gladly keeps her company. It would not be wise to rush matters.”
The tension around the table is palpable. A quick glance from Rhaegar to both kingsguards looks more like a plea than he actually wants to.
“Nonsense!” the king screeches, the council apparently having passed over the menacing looks of the loon, with his nails more like claws pointing at his own son and heir and to his master of ships, who dares to agree with the prince. “That girl will be useful to the crown for once in her life.”
“Your majesty” lord Velaryon counterattacks, having properly made his work towards the eyes of the Mad King for quite a time, “with your permission, I would suggest the lady Valaena to get married to me. Houses Velaryon and Targaryen have had a shared history towards the centuries, and Driftmark would prove a safe refuge to our much beloved princess.”
Aerys, his gaze sharp as the blades his ancestors wielded, seems to consider consider Velaryon's proposal with a mixture of intrigue and suspicion. Leaving hopes for a response hanging in the air like a thick fog, he seems to find amusement in the pause, rejoicing himself as he crashes Lucerys Velaryon’s hopes with an acrid cackle.
“Do you think that I would allow my only daughter to be pushed to the margins of my realm, hidden away on Driftmark, while I sit the Iron Throne?” Aerys’s voice rises, filled with annoyance and madness, and it seems that the balls of every member of the council shake on their pedestals over the table “How dare you to even think of putting a hand on her!?”
It seems this time the protective father has taken the place of the abusive parent, and if it weren’t for the space between them both, with Aerys sat at the head of the table and the Lord of the Tides almost at the other side of it, the king would have easily thrown his wine cup to his face, or even worse.
“Your Grace” it is this time Lord Varys’ modulled voice to speak, and the whole bunch of men put their attention upon him, the Master of Whispers. The Spider. “I can think of a much more adequate suitor for the princess’ hand” his eyes dart towards Lucerys Velaryon, who just answers with a half lidded gaze behind his own cup. “Storm’s End.”
He was just a lad when the tragedy of Shipbreaker’s Bay took place, only a mere squire to prince Lewyn before he joined the Kingsguard himself. The death of the beloved Steffon Baratheon and his lady Cassana stroke the Red Keep, with queen Rhaella helplessly weeping for them in the Great Sept of Baelor and the Mad King descending upon madness more quickly even.
“Lord Steffon and lady Cassana died in a mission for the Crown, and the young stags would surely feel again protected by the Crown if their house would join house Targaryen again, like two generations ago with the arrival of princess Rhaelle.”
Both kingsguards exchange glances, almost like searching an explanation or even a support. If the only unsullied member of that wretched family was to be taken away, what could be awaiting around the corner?
“Storm’s End seems the most appropriate place, father” Rhaegar’s measured words leave Arthur and Barristan nonplussed. “Robert Baratheon is a force to be considered, and Valaena can be the most ideal way to make him bend the knee to the Crown’s wishes.” Both knights look at the prince, their expressions a mix of concern and understanding. They knew the politics of the realm as well as any, and the value of strategic marriages could not be underestimated, but Rhaegar giving up his sister, his only confident, the receiver of his hopes and praises, is something none of them can explain. “Besides, it is close to Kingslanding, with a safe passage through the Kingswood now that ser Arthur led the royal offensive and cleaned the road of thieves.”
As soon as the meeting meets its end, quickly Arthur and Barristan make their way towards Rhaegar, whose paces drive him to the Master of Whispers. Both knights carefully take their places behind them as the prince and the Spider talk about trivialities before the conversation takes a sharp turn into more pressing matters. The air around them thickens with tension as Rhaegar's tone becomes earnest, almost urgent.
“Do tell me there is a good reason for having placed that wretched idea on the table.” he grits, trying to look as calm and regal as always, the type of king Westeros deserves instead of Aerys.
“I seem to recall that you and I pursue the same interests, Your Highness. Our primary aim is to ensure the stability and prosperity of the realm,” the Spider responds, his voice smooth and measured, a stark contrast to the prince’s fight to keep his composure.
Barristan Selmy swiftly opens a door, half hidden at mere sight and the three of them end up pushing Varys inside, quickly closing it behind, making sure nobody listens to their clandestine meeting. The room, lit by a single flickering candle, casts long shadows across the faces of the men, adding an air of mystery.
“You have to be kidding, Spider” the Stormlander spits, arms crossed over his chest, clearly disgusted.
“We share a common goal, despite our interests being different” the bald man observes each and every one of them and Arthur finds it hard to not gut that man in that room and let his heart drive his actions. “With the temperamental Robert Baratheon linked to the crown, maybe one day he witnesses one of the King’s fits and surprises us. I find it surprising that none of you have reached that thought…”
“How sure you are that he will risk everything for the princess?”
It is not a question, but almost a growl that escapes his lips. With his wrist resting carelessly over Dawn’s pommel, Arthur’s lilac eyes observe the eunuch’s face with attention, ready to defend Valaena’s honour if he musts.
“She is a complete delight” a cunning smile upon Varys’ thin lips repulses him. “There are lots of young lords who would gladly risk their titles, their lands, even their lives for a chance to stand beside her. All she has to do is charm him, and he will do whatever she wishes, no matter the cost. Power, in its most intoxicating form, wouldn’t you agree, my lord?”
Arthur’s grip on Dawn tightens with the mere thought of his princess used as a mere tool in the dangerous games of court. The idea of Valaena, with her vibrant laugh and kind heart, being manipulated by those who see her as nothing more than a pawn in their quests for power fills him with a cold, seething anger. Yet, amidst this storm of emotions, a steadfast resolve takes root within him. He knows the challenges that lay ahead are daunting, but the thought of Valaena facing these alone is something he cannot, and will not, entertain. The fire in his heart, fueled by his love and unwavering determination, ignites a clear path forward. He vows to himself to keep her away from any harm, to guard her as long as he breathes, to stand by her side against the shadows that seek to engulf her.
Only when Rhaegar dismisses the Master of Whispers he allows himself to show the true depth of his concern.
“What happened to the vision, Rhaegar?” his voice, bitter, reflects the turmoil swirling within him. “We were supposed to protect her, to ensure her safety above all else. Have we lost ourselves that badly in the webs of the spider that we are unable to see the light with our own eyes?”
The vision. How hard it had been to handle the burden of such a prophecy, one who sealed the fate of the young princess to a loveless marriage, to the hopes of bearing a saviour, the future of house Targaryen depending on her fragile shoulders… At least she has Elia by her side. For a short while.
#asoiaf fanfic#asoiaf fic#arthur dayne#arthur dayne fic#arthur dayne fanfic#arthur dayne x original character#a song of ice and fire fic#a song of ice and fire fanfic#arthur dayne x oc#tbq1
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Hello, I'm new to the blog and may I make a few requests? It's okay if you don't want to do all of them or even none of them. I just hope they comply with the request rules.
My first suggestion is a Twisted Wonderland x LP! Athanasia! Reader. The reader is EXTREMELY beautiful since she takes after her mother, Diana, and has her father's beautiful, ethereal, otherworldly jewel eyes. However, she was executed unjustly by said father due to being framed for poisoning her "lovely" older sister Jeanette whom she was always in the shadow of.
My second suggestion is a Twisted Wonderland x WMMAP! Athanasia! Reader. Again, the reader is gorgeous and has jeweled eyes, but this time, she is adored by all, including her father, who is SUPER protective of her.
My third suggestion in a Yandere! Diasomnia x Reader who wears iron to avoid them. The reader knows they're a psycho yandere and wears iron to protect themselves.
Again, it's okay if you don't want to do all or any of them, I just hope I've complied with the rules, I've followed good requesting etiquette, and that I haven't been a bother. Have a great day!
You haven't been a bother at all! I appreciate your effort into looking at the rules and everything! ^^
I saw the first idea and IMMEDIATELY thought of the reader being a mysterious ghost that haunts NRC, so I took it and ran with it, I'm sorry if that's not what you were looking for! But the Yandere Diasomnia is something that I'm definitely gonna have to write once I finish their book, eheheh~
Tws// Mentions of death (murder, specifically), spooky ghosts, too oooh
─── ・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* :☆゚. ───
There were tales of ghosts and ghouls, all being passed down to the freshmen late at night in their dorms. Tales that they eventually grew out of, but for their first year, it was terrifying.
There were evidence of ghosts all around school, of course. Some of the staff were deceased, and there were even ghosts infesting the old Ramshackle of a building just on campus. But those ghosts were all good and well, and didn't bother anybody who didn't bother them. These tales were more...horrifying ones. Ghosts that would stick around for centuries after their death for revenge. And once they got revenge on their killer, they'd still lash out in rage at anybody who happened to pass by...ghosts with no eyes, ghosts who could only scream...ghosts that could and would kill.
But the story that everyone collectively feared and loved the most was that of the Jeweled Lady.
Born to a wealthy family, Jeweled Lady (often called "Jewel" by those telling the story) was exceptionally beautiful. Her mother's heavenly looks, and her father's ethereal eyes combining to create a woman who had been receiving offers of marriage from a young age. As kind as she was lovely, Jewel was beloved by the entire kingdom she lived in...but one day her sister, Jeanette, died.
Jeanette was no one of note. She was average-looking, had nothing of interest to say, and did nothing to make people view her in the same lovely light that they did her younger sister. Yet despite all of this, Jeanette was her father's favorite daughter. So once she died, the father claimed that Jewel had poisoned her, and forced a court to execute her.
It was a terrible thing, and soon after her execution, the kingdom fell into a deep, dark depression without her light. Her father and most mysteriously vanished one day, either running away to a new land, or murdered by vengeful folks.
As the story goes, Jewel haunts NRC because the students remind her of better times, times when she had so much to look forward to in life. The students give her hope, it was said, and she hoped that one day she might receive justice for her terrible demise. It was said that one could stumble upon Jewel's ghost early into the morning, just before the sun rose. She liked to hang around the courtyard the most, under blooming trees. But, of course, one could also find her in the halls or the library, longingly looking at all of the stories she couldn't read.
It wasn't uncommon for students to go out and hunt for her, especially the freshmen (despite claiming they didn't believe in fairy-tales, a good many of them fell in love with the mere idea of her). Those who claimed to see her remarked on how lovely her eyes truly were....like jewels sparkling in the moonlight. Which is why, most likely, she was nicknamed "Jewel". Her true name might never be known, lost to the passage of time....
The Beloved Ghost of NRC
─── ・ 。゚☆: *.☽ .* :☆゚. ───
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Hello!! For the 100+ follower request
Id like to request cloud 9 (1) Chuuya and romantic if possible
Congratulations on over 100 followers <3
Cloud 9
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Pairing: Chūya Nakahara x Fem! Reader
Type: Oneshot
Genre: Fluff
Warnings: Not proofread
Synopsis: Chūya Nakahara grew to love his assistant just like how she turned out to loved him.
A/n: I'm feeling pretty useless and a bit suicidal right now :) semester starts on the 1st day of August so I'll be pretty busy after that. I am sorry if this isn't what you looked for..
Was in my drafts for who knows how long because Tumblr had an error and my drafts wouldn't save...
Event // PM.Masterlist // M.Masterlist
The five tall buildings in the center of Yokohama casted a shadow on the moonlit streets. It was the buildings owned by Mori corporation and where the rulers of the night lies, you are not foreign to them just as they are to you. The automatic door opened and you walked in, a few members showed respect by greetings and you did so too. Your black boots hit the tiled floor while walking towards the elevators, putting in the floor number, you took your phone out of your pocket and dialed a number. The phone in your hand slowly rang, and the elevator closed.
"Sir?" You called his name and could hear his slurs on the other line.
"(name).?" Oh how you loved to hear his voice, hearing your name slip out of his lips made your heart falter.
"Sir, pardon me but where exactly are you?" You tried fo gain back your composure. "Thank heavens he can't see my face right now" you thought to yourself, feeling hot in your face.
"I'm here at a bar, why?" He muttered between hiccups.
"The boss sent me a message to inform you about a sudden meeting. Osam-I mean the former executive Dazai Osamu is held captive in the dungeon, his execution is already on date" the elevator rang and opened, stepping out, you headed to your office; while he continued to listen.
You could feel his anger from the other line while he gritted his teeth upon hearing his former partner's name. You stopped by your office and grabbed a document before closing the door, releasing a thud.
"When's the meeting?" He asked, it seemed as if he really was sober now.
"About three days from now, but it's preferable for you to return the day after tomorrow. After all you do have some matters to attend to in Yokohama, boss said that he'll call you later" You entered the elevator once again and waited for his response.
"I'll return be there tomorrow, answer me if I call alright?"
"Yes sir, good night" You hung up, putting your phone on the pocket of your overcoat. Leaning on the elevator wall, you blushed. Excitement is an understatement of how you felt right now; you could finally see him after a few weeks during his trip overseas.
You put your hand over your chest and began to feel your rapid heartbeat.
"This is wrong.. I'm his secretary and he's my boss, nothing more.. nothing less.. a professional relationship" You struggled as you said the last words, and before you knew it you reached the dungeon.
Clenching the document in hand, you walked down the stairs, the smell of of blood reeking on the air. Your eyes fell to the captive, his arms hanging on the wall and wrists bounded in chains.
"How much do you plan to risk your life , Dazai?" You asked his 'asleep' form, walking near him you noticed the slight twitch on his finger before gently slapping his cheek.
"That really hurt" he opened his eyes to your form.
"Good." You rolled your eyes before brushing away the strand of hair on his face.
"You're so cruel... You do know that you'll be a traitor if you helped me"
"I know." You let out a breathless sigh before removing the bobby pin on his hair and handed it to his hand.
"Reach for my right pocket." His tone of voice was demanding but nonetheless you did what he asked.
"What's this.?" It was a bracelet, it had a flower pattern with a few glass-like-jewels was on top and in the color of gold, on the back it had his and your small initials written on it; as if to prove you it wasn't stolen.
"A bracelet duh!"
"No I mean why.?"
"I missed your birthday for four years didn't I?" He softly smirked before you lightly punched his shoulder.
"...you still owe me three gifts." You muttered before putting the bracelet in the pocket of your overcoat.
"Yeah.."
Silence engulfed the room before she decided to break it.
"Get your stupid ass ready, Akutagawa will beat you up for tomorrow once he knows that you're held captive. You have only tomorrow before that tiger gets captured" You turned around to the stairs after picking the lock of the chains on his feet.
"Ouch. So Akutagawa will come here after capturing Atsushi-kun huh." It was more like a confirmation than a question but yi still answered.
"Yes if that tiger's name is Atsushi"
"Hmm.. But how did you know I'll be here?" He smirked and you continued to go up the stairs.
"Because I know you" You said before you slowly fading into the distance.
"Thanks (name)"
You left the dungeon, went back to her office, and left your overcoat on the couch. Locking the door, you flopped onto your chair and started your computer, you typed and typed, before you knew it; it was already morning. Glancing at the bracelet, it shone while it was hit with the bright sun, then you decided to put it on. Your phone suddenly started to ring just in sync when you slid your arms on your overcoat. Looking at the contact caller, your heart skipped a beat.
"Sir.?"
"I'm going to arrive at the airport soon. Be there with the files" He ordered, his tone of voice was hoarse and demanding.
"Yes." You slightly nodded as if he could see you. With that he hung up, and you sighed. For you that call was more like a reminder that you are nothing but his assistant even if he never knew of your lingering feelings; but it won't make any changes. You left the building and went in your car, driving to the airport.
Chūya's POV
He hung up and his phone dropped to his lap. He heavenly exhaled and looked to the window, as if to hide the blush that crept up to his cheeks.
"How nice it is to hear her voice.." He thought to himself, he felt like pulling his hair out at how stupid he felt for extending his trip to not see her. How foolish he really was..
Ever since he met her a few years back, he grew to love her. He was enchanted by her intelligence, her beauty, her fierce nature, he loved everything about her. He was overcome with excitement when he finally became an executive because it meaned that she could be his assistant, and he would able to see her everyday. That was when he noticed that it was love...
Upon hearing her voice, he wanted to get drunk on it. He wanted to wake up with her beside, while shuffling through her hair just as she did back then to his former partner. He liked her and it was only an understatement, he wants to give her the world and everything she wants.. and now he could finally have his chance to finally do so.
He glances at the small blue box with a ribbon above it. It was a bracelet, one that was a souvenir from his trip, and a gift to you; his only hope for you to accept it along with his feelings.
~Time Skip~
You sat on a small bench and waited for Chūya. You tried to read a book but you couldn't focus because of how fast your heart was beating. No matter how you tried you couldn't get over him, flipping the page to a new chapter, you heard someone call out your name from behind. Looking over the bench, you could see your boss just behind you.
"Ah! Sir" You bowed lightly before continuing to apologize frantically. Ignoring your rambles, his eyes found it's way to your right wrist, and four capitalized letters shone and his eyebrows furrowed upon seeing what it was. 'D.O' and your initials.
"Sir.?" You asked him snapping out of his trance.
"hmm.? Do you need something?" He smiled at you, trying to hide the anger that built up when he realized whose initials those were.
"Uh. No.. I'm just asking if you want to go now" You fiddled with your fingers at the awkwardness.
"Then let's go." He tried his best not to sound angry but it came out more demanding and rude. He internally scolded himself at his pathetic attempt at covering it up, it was likely that you got upset by his actions. You laid your head down before fully responding with a quiet whisper.
"...yes"
The drive was quiet, you were focused on driving and he was looking out the window. You gave him quick glances using the mirror, his features is completely visible to you by such angle, the sunlight hit his ginger hair, it was a sight to behold. Looking away, you could feel your heart skip beats as you turned your focus back on the road. Just then, a pair of ocean eyes landed on you. He couldn't help but clench his fists tight when the bracelet was hit by the sunlight, making it shine. When he was about to look away, his eyes met your by the mirror.
"Do you need something sir?" You turned your eyes on the road, hoping he wouldn't see you blushing.
"Ehem. Yes.. I have a question for you." He tried to look away to hide his red cheeks.
"Ask ahead, sir"
"Why do you still call me by 'sir' and not by my surname or first name?" Truth be told, that was a question that lingered in his mind ever since he left for the trip. "and why do you call that bastard by his first name?" A question that he could never ask you since it may make you think that he was weird for trying to interfere with your personal life.
"I-its only proper for me to call you that since you're my superior" You tried your best to smile but to be honest you wanted to call his name in a honey-like tone, not that you knew he wanted to do the same.
"You've known me ever since I joined the mafia; besides, I call you by your first name for a while now and it's only fair for you to do the same" He nonchalantly explained, trying his best to convince you.
"Okay.. Chūya-san" Your voice was quiet and meek but enough for him to hear. His eyes lightened up before he cleared his voice and looked away.
"Just don't call me sir anymore. It's awkward" He tried to hide the smile that unconsciously crept up his lips, crossing his arms and legs he looked at you.
The drive was silent once again before you lightly chuckled at his reaction, the car was stopped with the heavy traffic, and you turned around to face him.
"I'll keep that in mind Chūya-kun" You smiled at him, your hair fluttering as you turned around. He blushed and muttered a small "whatever" before looking away again, his mind painted with the scene that happened moments ago.
Your mind was flooded with thoughts before you snapped out of it when you heard the traffic lights buzz.
"Oh! Also here" You reached for some files on the car's compartment and handed it to him. "It's a brief review of what you missed and some missions that the boss plans to send you to" You went back to driving after he took the files in your hand.
"Mhm" His expression changed and he looked more serious just as he looked at the files.
After that nobody spoke a single word. You drove to the mafia while he flipped through the documents. The silent breathing from you and the heavy exhales from Chūya is the only sound heard in the car, except the rustling of paper. You broke the silent by muttering a small "We're here" just in sync of you hitting the brakes. The car door released a small click when you opened it, you were about to step out until you felt a gloved hand pull you back.
"Chūya-san?" You stared at him with widened eyes before he let go of you and cleared his voice.
"Ehem! Here! I bought it because it reminded me of you" He reached for his pocket and handed you a small blue box.
"A.. gift.?" Your lips parted as you stared at the box in hand.
"I know that I'm very hard to put up with as you boss, and I realized that I want to—" He struggled to finally say the last words, a scenario playing in his head where you decline his feelings and things will become awkward with you and him.
"—I just.. I want to say say that I really appreciate you hard work" He thought that he finally had the courage to say those words just as he practiced in the mirror but something different came out of his lips.
"I see thank you, Chūya-san" You faintly smiled at before you came to a realization. "We should probably go.." "ah yes.."
That was how the day ended, no important events happened afterwards. You just went and arranged some documents and he attended to the boss's needs, you forgot to open his gift.
Chūya's POV
Another day passed and I was still not able to confess to her. I couldn't get my mind off the bracelet that was on her wrist. A thought that lingered in my mind for too long was"Why did she have a bracelet with his and her initials on it?" Yet, no matter how much I thought of it, I couldn't afford to ask her that, nor to ask her to be my lover.
I woke up in my bed, looking beside me was no one but a hope that I will be able to get the answers to my thoughts and questions. My driver picked me up and I headed to the dungeon, where my former partner is held captive.
"Well isn't this a sight to see... Don't you think so, hmm... Dazai?" Chūya emerged from the shadows and slowly went down the stairs, monitoring Dazai.
"Oh. It's you."
"Hey what's that supposed to mean?! Don't forget that you're the prisoner here shitty Dazai" He pulled his hair closer to him before letting go and turning around.
"Yeah whatever. What are you doing here Chūya."
"I'm here to give you a piece of my mind!" He said before kicking the chains the dangled above his head and punching him in the gut.
"Hmm" Dazai smirked before taking out a pin.
"So you could've escaped no matter what happens huh."
"Of course! And you're not here to give me a piece of mind aren't you?" He stated before Chūya halted and furrowed eyebrows.
"What the hell are you saying-" "You're here to get answers regarding (name) aren't you?"
"What are you on-"
"You want to know why she has a bracelet with my initials don't you?" He stood silent, and Dazai began explaining.
That was the last straw for Chūya. He barged into your office without a word with clenched fists.
"Chūya-san? What are you–" You stood up with widened eyes, but before you could say anything, he pulled you in for a tight embrace.
"Damn it! I love you okay?!" He pulled away, and turned to look at you with determined eyes. You stood still, not processing the words he said. The atmosphere became tense, he wondered if it really was right that he confessed to you, but before he would apologize and leave you blurted out something from shock.
"What. The. Fuck." You lightly slapped your cheeks and he sent you a worried look.
"Excuse me, can you say that again Chu?" The nickname made him blush but he complied nonetheless.
"I love you (name). I don't want to lose you to anybody else other than me. I want to make you the happiest woman and I-" He closed his eyes out of embarrassment but he quickly opened them as he felt your lips against his.
"If this is a dream I don't want it to end" You let out a breathless whisper.
That was the day that a love was formed. A few years passed since then. Dazai became the wingman to their relationship by planning it from the dungeon, and now it was their five year anniversary.
"Hey Chu sorry I'm late." You sat down across Chūya and he faintly smiled.
"It's fine doll. You look beautiful" He smirked before leaving his chair. His eyes fell to the bracelet that he gifted you four years ago. He unconsciously smiled, feeling proud of what he did back then. Now you were wearing a gift from him and not Dazai's, and that was enough to make him feel accomplished.
"oh. Thank you" You raised an eyebrow at what he was doing until he knelt and reached for his pocket.
"(name).. you are a blessing in my life that I thought I didn't deserve. Would you by wife and let me have the pleasure of having you in my life for the rest of my life?" He looked at you with glimmering ocean eyes.
"Chūya Nakahara.—" You said in an endearing tone.
"I feel at Cloud 9 with you, and I wish to spend my entire life with you beside me." You smiled at him before he put the ring in your finger and hugged you in a tight embrace after he kissed you.
He buried his head into the crook of your neck before whispering something that made your heart falter, "I love you—"
"I love you more" You kissed his collarbone before he pulled away and kissed the back of your hand.
"—and I will always continue to love you"
A/n: I am very sorry if that took a wrong turn... I'm currently bedridden right now so this took a long time to make.
#bungou stray dogs#bsd fanfics#bsd fluff#bungou stray dogs x reader#bsd x reader#bsd fic#bsd chuya#bsd chuuya#chuuya nakahara#chuuya x reader#chuya nakahara#chuya x reader#x reader#bsd x you#bsd x y/n#bungo stray dogs fluff#bungo stray dogs x reader#bungo stray dogs
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#001 || Tutor lessons — lance.cr
── .✦ Roots from “Douceur || MASHLE: MAGIC AND MUSCLES” — A collection of MMAM one shots.
ᯓ★ Notes: A few details here are inspired by “Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint”, do you know where, what, and who I’m referring to?
╰┈➤ ❝ In which you got assistance from the Adler’s house genius amongst the first year, Lance Crown, and found out how smitten he has become around you. ❞
-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
— My heartbeats resonated with yours, and that fact to me, is more than enough to prove my love for you.
ᡣ𐭩🎵Show Me How - Men I Trust
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She was a troublesome individual. And Lance didn’t like that.
From the first time they met, he was sure his sister would hardly accept her as his friend, for which she was considered to be a hassle by many. For some, like a blazing inferno, she was radiant and festive, while others complained about how much distress she’d caused.
Undergone its way through constant negative views and judgments with absolute perseverance, the rose continued to grow, with thorns and spikes, willing to wound those who dared to come close.
Lance found her actions to be relatively entertaining. Once she poured a bucket of green liquid down one of her classmates' heads, for they had made her befuddled with inquiries about Potion and Mathematics. How unfortunate, for them to experience her childish and mischievous antics.
Bearing witness to all of her mischief and knowing the reason why she acted that way, the school's esteemed headmaster, Mr. Wahlberg Baigan, decided to assign her to a special student who seemingly could aid her to the best of his ability.
Amidst the loud gossip of pupils, gusts of wind traveled through oval-shaped windows, gently caressing one’s ocean hair as he ventured his way through the vast empty hallway of Easton Academy. Despite the cooling air of Spring’s morning, his body embraced the heat of Summer day’s afternoons. After the trip to the counselor's office, he became much more cautious. He didn’t understand what was happening, after all, he was a mere passerby who barely knew the girl. She only piqued his interest and was seen as the main subject of amusement.
Curiosity is one of human’s biggest enemies, and for him, it ultimately led him to his demise. Like a cat trapped in a lion's den, he was chosen to be her tutor.
Once the glowing orb of fire had set down into the far horizon, the school’s library turned into an unexplainable dark void, swallowing one whole with tranquility and silence. Upon entering, she heard the flutter of turning pages, as they were rifled by the wind. Nervous, perplexed as to why a student would arrange a meeting at that time of day, she hurriedly navigated through the seemingly never-ending corridors, each lined with towering bookshelves filled with a vast array of books and manuscripts.
Turquoise, brilliantly shone like a lost ancient jewel found on a frosty night, its gaze piercing through every page with such intensity. Impatient as he was, waiting for her in the quietest section of the school’s education facility, where he would spend most of his time reading, aside from hanging out with Mashle and others.
“You’re late.“
Slowly approaching the figure looming over the table, who was constantly tapping his finger onto the cold wooden surface, her body jolted slightly in response to the monotonous dullness of his voice.
“Half an hour late, to be exact. I thought you would be more responsible, [Last Name]. How many times have you been told to be punctual to class?“
First year of Adler’s house, an exceptional student with top grades, his demeanor spoke with such eloquence of a first-rate master. Lance Crown, talented as he was, had an odd interest in his sister. She always knew he was a weird one, though peculiarly enough, she harvested great fondness for him. Perhaps being close to beauties did make her weak after all.
Excluding herself with a few apologies, she later learned from him about the primary after-school tutor lessons and it was against his will to be her temporary guidance. Shameful as it was, she had to admit she was failing potion classes as well as other science-related subjects. Having been blessed by the gods with a relatively well-athletic physique, which excels in sports, her wits were far from it. Blood was deemed to be thicker than water, her family wasn’t known for their intuitive sharpness, but instead for their physical toughness as they were once renowned knights whose strengths and power rivaled the heavens above.
The night sky was dark, painted on a black canvas with streaks of golden shades, the presence of whites gracefully drifting off beneath the placid body of water surrounding Easton’s Academy. Chimes from nearby town cathedrals accompanied by the chilling winds of northern highlands, two students bid their goodbyes after a few light-hearted conversations to make themselves comfortable with one another. Both traveled back to their respective house, marking the meeting as the first tutor lesson.
Day after day, lesson after lesson, the two grew closer. One might find it odd to have seen how much their relationship has grown. Divinely blossomed under the coldness of rainy nights and the warmth of morning sunshine, to be bathed in such admiration and joy, he and she are fated to become one.
Astounded as he was, slowly bringing light to his once negative perspective upon her personality and actions, her new image as of then engraved onto his mind and heart, a sense of longing, a strong desire for something he wished to have. It was familiar yet somehow distant.
Two adults who readily cast away their daughter when a disease was eating away her life, the faith in his parents spiraled into utter hatred. It was then he pledged to the gods, and vowed to protect his sister against the Bureau of Magic, against the world even if he had to. He held a deep affection for his sister without second the thought of finding a partner, and yet after several encounters with [Name], in response to the latter, his mind kept on sharing the same fuzziness all over again.
He wasn’t foolish enough not knowing how to distinguish love, between families and individuals. How atrocious! Had he drawn a line to distance himself from her, those lingering attachments wouldn’t have gotten in his way. But how could someone not, when she was that lively and endearing?
Harsh ringings from an amber, hollow instrument of cast metal echoed through the school’s hallway, signaling the message of dismissal amongst scholars. Blaring talks and loud chatters filled the once-quiet ambiance of the prestigious academy with delights and excitement.
The pair got seated in a certain spot in the Athenaeum to prepare for the upcoming test as Autumn arrived, the season which danced along the final gospel of newborn leaves, as trees shed their skin, complemented an oasis of serenity with vibrant hues of red, orange, and yellow.
The air was different from what he’d known, Lance was often perceptive, he had a very keen eye and sense on small things, whether it was a smell, sound, or wind current.
Piling racks of sunlight illuminated the place as they advanced their way through blue-tinted window sills, each ray varied from corridor to corridor when a particular one passed by her, [Name] [Last Name].
Beauty is subjective, to others, she might have a few distinctive features that made her stand out from the rest, but to him, being the only witness of her unfamiliar side, the sight of her left him utterly breathless.
Facial features were carefully drawn with the exceptional skills of a refined painter during the most glorious period of art. Eyes are known to be windows to the soul, in the purest form of the color hers owned, it expressed such determination which was molded from vigorous trials and errors, hardships and obstacles. A nose and a chin elegantly shaped in perfect angles, enough to rival the sun, moon, and even the stars.
If one had not been blinded by the beauty of the rising sun, then perhaps the shadows had always sheltered their life in the perpetuity of darkness with the moon.
Hey, you’re gonna burn a hole in my face if you keep looking at me like that. Pray tell, is there anything troubling you, my dearest?
-Badump-
She slightly chuckled, closing the manuscript she was researching, her attention then focused all on him.
“Pardon? My apologies, I must have dozed off while reading.”
-Badump-
…Lance, do you know, that rivers seek for the sea, fleeting with crashing waves of foam and memories, they long for a reunion. As a rose needs light for its growth, it yearns towards the sun, in the hope of reaching for the warmth it once desired. In truth, I’d harbored affection for you, more than I can wonder. If you allow, perhaps, can we be life-long companions instead of this momentary relationship?
-Badump-
-Badump-
-Badump-
The answer was in front of his eyes all along, whether her gentle gestures towards him or the friendly remarks that turned his mind into a hazy dream, she was the one. How slow of him to realize both of them shared the same secret, a similar emotion for which was known to be love.
“…Of course, anything for you and my sister, my beloved [Name].”
⋆౨ৎ˚Entry #001 || Tutor lessons — lance.cr , END ⟡˖ ࣪
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© — hiyokxre, 2024 - All rights reserved.
© — v6que for the amazing dividers!
#mashle#anime#shounen manga#mashle: magic and muscles#lance crown#reader insert#x reader#female reader#mashle magic and muscles#writing blog#one shot#lance crown x reader#hiyoapproved ᝰ.ᐟᯤ✮⋆#manga#lance is a siscon#and somehow he fell for you too#romantically#that’s crazy#romance#im a sucker for this trope#mashleverse
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Hey, this one’s less nsfw and more fluffy.
Could I request dani with an s/o that is an absolute romantic and literally treats her like a princess? Like I imagine when dani is in the library she reads all these fairytales about Prince Charming and she secretly wants someone to sweep her off her feet. And she finally gets it, someone who can keep up with her pace and match her energy. Surprise bouquets, serenading, reciting poetry, kisses her hand when they first meet, etc. Just spoiling the fuck out of her.
Omg absolutely. Dani deserves nothing less but the absolute princess treatment imo!🎀
Masterlist
Meeting you was the best thing that has happened to Daniela in her reborn life. She isn’t over-estimating this. It’s simply the truth
She was in the library as usual, reading her favourite book yet again. Although, this time, it seemed more as though she merely flipped the pages
Her back was set against a bookshelf, her head leaning back
It was then that she heard your unique voice. A voice she would never forget
“O she doth teach the torches to burn bright. It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night. As a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear”
A quote, from the book in her hand. A quote of the moment Romeo expressed his feelings, his first impression of his dear Juliet. Daniela jumped from the suddenness of your voice
“You know this book?”, she asked, breathless
From then on out, Daniela had her eye on you. And, more importantly, she knew yours was set on hers
Each day she found a new, beautiful flower set outside the door to her room. Each time with strange initials written on a paper clip that was wrapped around the stem. Later on, she learned those were yours
And not only this, but as you gifted her rose after rose, she had noticed one thing; they never sported any thorns
“Because how dare they prickle the finger of such a beautiful, nimble creature such as yourself, Lady Daniela. No, it would be a vast crime indeed to harm a beauty such as yourself”, you had reasoned when she confronted you about this
She fell fast, but also, hard. And it was genuine. She learned to love your laughter and she loved being the reason for it
She blushed often around you, and kept a vase in her room, the most beautiful one, to hold all her dear gifted roses. It became a bouquet, the most beautiful one in all of Castle Dimitrescu, as time stretched on
Daniela had been called many things in her life- delusional, was one of the terms that struck her especially hard
Even Cassandra and Bela had used it on her
Delusional,
Such high expectations
A mutant’s life is not one of romance
Yet you proved them all wrong
You were raised from your low staff position to the one of Daniela’s personal servant in mere hours of her finding out about your identity. She couldn’t get enough of you
And neither could you of her
Daniela grew addicted to the way you treated her, loved her, and eventually to you
She found poems in her room after you were tasked to clean it, a note sitting on her bed inviting her to a date nearly every time. Secretly, she messed her room more often than normal, eager to see you more often
Upon experiencing your first date together, Daniela knew she was head over heels smitten, more so than the naive redhead often and normally was
You had taken her to a date in the opera hall, at night, when it had been just the two of you
Daniela had blushed bright pink when you bowed down and gripped her soft hand upon seeing her. She neglected her gloves and sickle, and it had paid off
She was sure she would faint when you held her hand softly and pressed a kiss, a sweet greeting, to her knuckles
How romantic
You knew your way around music, your fingers playing a steady rhythm as the two of you shared the small seat in front of the piano
It was refreshing to be with someone who’s heartbeat picked up around her for an entirely different reason than fear
Daniela was addicted to the feeling
She sung and laughed as you played the lovely tune, and giggled when you joined in, singing verse after verse,
Singing of auburn hair and golden eyes,
Beautiful lips and soft, pale skin,
A beauty in the distance growing nearer and nearer
It was then that she had kissed you. She never bothered holding back, and perhaps she was even in a rush, too used to the love she felt disappearing. To her lover losing interest
But you did not
In fact, in time your love only grew, as did hers
She was gifted bouquets and rare treasures and chocolates from the duke, showered in love and affection
And your attention? It was solely hers
She spent her days with you entirely, her head on your thighs as you read to her with a hand in her beautiful locks, or told her about the outside world and what you had heard of it
You had been the one to ask her to be yours, and she jumped at the opportunity
Never had she even taken this step. She had always claimed; and yet, never had she been claimed. Not until you
She had worn the dress you had gotten her with hard earned money, beautiful and green, matching the gemstone at her necklace and contrasting beautifully with her pale skin and hair
You made her stand out
That night, the opera hall was all yours once again
A servant of unknown nature playing the piano obediently as the two of you laughed and sang, danced and kissed the night away
She was sure she would faint when you pulled her onto the stage and danced with her, swirling her around and holding her tight
And then, when she laughed and sank to her knees after hours, and you did the same, and your hand held hers, you asked her
And she said yes, with tears in her eyes, the first time the young woman had been official. It felt good
Of course, your relationship did not go unnoticed by her family and servants
However, it seemed the closer you grew with Daniela, the more respect and power you earned. You were untouchable, fit for your queen
And as a queen she was treated,
Showered with gifts and cuddled whenever she wished,
Kissed and protected,
She smiled daily and blushed sweetly at every flower that was handed to her, as though it was the first
She was taken on dates frequently and cared for, carried when the floor was filthy and massaged in a hot bath,
Coddled and painted
She was your muse, as she had always been
She she wouldn’t have it any other way
{For sure got a bit off track, although I plan on continuing something, if not by far more than 1 thing, along the lines of Daniela getting her fairytale partner soon! Maybe even a proper story wohoo! I’ve had a Cassandra one once btw-} {I love Dani sm ;-;}
#cassandra dimitrescu#daniela dimitrescu#bela dimitrescu#daniela dimitrescu x reader#resident evil village
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Tienes Mi Corazón - Chapter 12
~*~ 18+ Content below. MDNI. Extra warning for Micah being a c*** ~*~
Shady Belle – A hidden jewel within the swamps of Lemoyne. The Van Der Linde gang had been pushed even further East thanks to the looming threat of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. The age of the new world was dawning upon them and yet Dutch still insisted on opposing the dangers striving towards them. Water and oil; a tragic tale of what will never be. A fusion to never co-exist.
Time was running out. Yet Dutch still held onto hope. Still. Was it hope? Or selfishness? Did he truly love the very souls whom he led astray or were they pawns in his game of deceit? In this moment, those questions could not be answered with confidence. There was still time. Time to make amends. It all depended on Dutch and those who stood by his side.
Hosea heavily influenced Dutch in the most mundane yet omnipotent way. Being by Dutch’s side all these years had kept the leader on the right path most of the way. He gave Dutch the wings he needed to fly. The voice he needed to preach. The knowledge to keep those they could alive. The love to keep everyone bonded. Hosea had a particular gift in these sorts of things. He was by no means an angel but human. He understood emotions well, having experienced a lifetime of his own trials and tribulations. The elder gentleman was one folk would go to for advice, the one who they approached without hesitation. Even those who hesitated would find themselves at ease after exchanging conversation.
This golden morning, Hosea decided to make his own approach to the one who perhaps needed his guidance the most.
“How you doing, Miss Miriam?” The doe-eyed woman looked up from her book. Upon seeing Hosea, she gave the man a warm smile, twisting her perched figure which sat on the edge of the stone fountain. She straightened out the creases of her dress, somewhat salvaging a respectable appearance despite the sweat which glossed across her skin. She had never experienced such thick, warm air like this before – much like many of the other camp members. The cold was something she thrived in. Frosty mornings and bitter nights had always been her preference.
“Good morning, Mr Matthews. I’m fine, thank you. And yourself?” He ignored her question. His way of words was always to put another in the spotlight. Selfless and soul searching.
“The heat is pretty unbearable?” A small quirk of her bottom lip caught his eye. It made him smile, knowing he was close to breaking down that barrier. Not that he wished to intrude – he only wanted what was best for each member. If that meant breaking down their barriers to help understand them more, then that was a battle he was willing to slowly win.
“It is really hot here…” Hosea pulled his fingers against the inside of his neck tie in agreement.
“I guess you’re not used to the heat.” His statement made Miriam hesitate. In the end, she shook her head with a small smile. The older gent’s eyes scanned her, piecing her together like some intricate puzzle just waiting to be solved. He had been a good judge of character. He knew there was nothing deviant about the young woman. His mind only wondered why she kept so many secrets. Something as big as her identity. To him, it made sense she had to be someone of importance or someone on the run for doing something bad. Or both.
Taking the opportunity, he pressed. “I suppose the cold is more to your liking?” She nodded. This prompted a chuckle from Hosea, thinking of a passing joke. “Then you would have liked it up in them mountains…” His thoughts trailed off, thinking back to that time of darkness for the gang. Letting his head take over, he subconsciously sat down beside Miriam, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands intertwined to lace his fingers together, his head hanging lower in thought. The silence made Miriam look closer at the man. She could read his eyes – how much hurt he had experienced from the past. The slight remnants of fear which resided within. The young woman understood that ‘the mountains’ were not a good time for anyone. She wished to offer words of comfort but how could she when she knew so little about the situation. About their history. It was not her place to. “You ever been up that way? Past Colter?” A shake of her head made Hosea lift his eyebrow. “Too cold for you?” The comment confused her and without thinking she answered.
“No. I love the cold. It’s just been a little too far West for me- the snow that is.” Placing the pieces together quickly in his mind, Hosea effortlessly chimed in leaving her little time to think.
“So East?” Miriam’s eyes opened wide in disturbance. A pause was set between his voice and her own.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re from the East then.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Goosebumps prickled over the skin of her arms. Her worry became evident to Hosea. He too could read people, just like her. He could do it perhaps a little too well. His eyes shifted down to the ground, not wanting his gaze to cause her any alarm. “I know the country well, Miriam. There are only a few places around here that accommodate to your preferred climate.” She felt herself becoming flustered. She could not allow herself to let him see it so she looked over her shoulder towards the marshy waters. Her eyes searched for something in particular to focus on but her worries made the task difficult. Miriam’s silence spoke a thousand words. Clouds which encased her were gradually starting to part; not without challenge. Thunder flashed through those clouds. Before that mysterious haze could ever clear, the storm would have to present itself. Only then would the suffocation of her secrets could be lifted at last.
Flickering his eyes to her hands, Hosea focused on the book she had been reading prior. He recognised the book cover and the intriguing engravings on the spine of it. “I’ve read that one.” The heat from her head dissipated once she turned her head back to her company. It took her a few seconds to realise what Hosea was referring to. The book offered her so much comfort, therefore a smile was always a response to its very memory.
“It’s my favourite.”
“I’ve noticed.” He stared down at the pages, a coy look present on his face. “You must know the book well if you’re reading it in Spanish.” As quickly as it went, the heat reappeared but this time across her cheeks. Dryly, she swallowed, hoping she could blame her reaction on the heat of the bayou. Hosea was not stupid. There was an aura of omniscience which surrounded him, nothing ever able to get past him. It was down to his caring nature. The want to help people do better and be their best selves. Honest and free.
Unable to fight her nerves, Miriam went to stand and close her book but Hosea’s hand went to her shoulder to stop her. “No – no – no. Please.” His free hand offered her old seat back, inviting her to stay just a little longer. His tone of voice proved to her he meant no harm. She accepted, denying her own departure. Not being too knowledgeable on the language, Hosea referred to the page the book was currently open on. “Which part of the story are you on?”
Breathing calmly through her nose, she settled back into the comfort of her book to accept its embrace. “When the Knight tells the Princess how he truly feels.” Her cheeks darkened yet somehow a smile persevered through to support her words. “You know, at the end?” Hosea nods.
“Ah yes, yes.” He leant over her, scanning over the Spanish text. Despite not knowing the language, he believed he could find the part he wished to enlighten. “The part where he says… ah! Here it is…” His brows furrowed as he attempted to read the foreign words. “Tienes… mi… corazón.” Hosea lifted his head, looking at Miriam with a smile of delicate purity and warmth. “You have my heart.”
“You have my heart.” Miriam repeated in acknowledgement. The Knight saying this to his Princess had always starstruck the young woman. She had wondered evermore what it would feel like to have someone confess their feelings like that. It was truly beautiful to her. To tell someone that they no longer own their heart because it had been claimed by their true love – it was words of poetry which came from the soul. To be so selfless to another. To love them so much you could trust them with something which could be broken so easily. One crunch of their hand could shatter the organ to shake their realm of reality. Such trust was so hard to come by. Although the very thought of having this much faith in someone was deemed as beautiful to her – it also scared her and to Miriam, there was something magical about that.
Observing the peaceful look of wonder which portraited her face, Hosea’s expression softened as he knew that look all too well. A look of yearning which he once held for Bessie. “And what a powerful thing to say to someone.” His eyes looked up to the morning sky, watching a pair of larks which flew over in blissful glee. “It doesn’t matter who you are or where you come from – anyone can feel that moment of power. Only if they allow themselves to.” He turned his head and his eyes locked with Miriam’s who was intrigued by what he was saying. “Love holds no judgement, Miriam. Some would say it is the most powerful force on earth.” His words rattled her yet her heart thumped against her chest in a way which lulled her; as if it was telling her to listen. She shook her head.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, Mr Matthews.”
“Miriam.” He called her name firmly to silence her. The both of them knew very well what he was insinuating. “It takes a lot to completely destroy love. Sure – someone’s past may cause a few cracks, or – what they once did could hurt – but if that person also trusts you with their heart, then there is nothing to be scared of.” His words moved her. She could not deny the truth in which he spoke yet ever the same, her fear of rejection held her back. Shaking her head, she tried to search his eyes for an answer.
“But how would I know-”
“You won’t know unless you tell them.” Their conversation felt almost hypothetical yet underneath the mystery, they both knew who and what they were talking about. His answer held a double meaning. To tell Javier how she really felt… it also meant telling him the truth. Just like Sadie had once told her.
The thunder within her mind had stopped. Clouds were beginning to clear away and now, all that was left was her thoughts. Her head felt light, no longer heavy to the burden of what she must do. In a way; she felt ready.
It was time.
Seeing Hosea stand up from the fountain made Miriam mouth a quiet thank you to the older man. Hosea acknowledged this but being the man he was, he didn’t wish to pry and make her feel in debt. He brushed it away; another selfless act on his part. He had never once changed; always the man who wished to help others. Even as he began to walk away, he couldn’t help but pass by a comment to help encourage her that her past wasn’t as scary as it seemed.
“I hear Annesburg is lovely this time of year. Especially a little further up North-East from it.” He looked over his shoulder at Miriam. But before she could react, she read his expression which soothed her. In quiet understanding, she knew by the way he spoke and the look he gave her that he wouldn’t utter a word to no one. He knew.
A smile was left behind on her lips.
‘Thank you, Hosea…’
Night had claimed the land fast that day, much to the appreciation of the people. It had been the hottest day of the year thus far, so the night’s cooler air was welcomed with open arms. The clinch of coolness wasn’t the only thing which was welcomed that night.
After Dutch, Arthur and John had met with Angelo Bronte, their return to camp had to be celebrated – Jack had come back safe and sound.
Cheers and laughter encircled the campfire as Javier sung to the strumming of his guitar. A talent he possessed – not just the way he played or sang but his ability to bring his fellow camp members together. He was the glue which bound everyone together, almost completely unbreakable. How Miriam admired that part about him. Looking from afar, she watched him joyously express himself through the lyrics of his song, the others chiming into the chorus with theatrical delight. It made her heart swell to see how together everyone was. It was the happiest she had seen them all.
She wished she was nearer to Javier but she held herself back, wanting him to be with his family. After all, it was a bond she never wanted him to break – only solidify further. Even throughout the day, she had kept her distance from him; ever since her conversation with Hosea. She wanted to figure out the right words to say to him; it had taken her what felt like an eternity to figure out, but she knew she had to do this. Not just for herself, but for him. Javier deserved to know the truth. He had been so good to her.
He found her at her most vulnerable. Took her into the safety of the gang. Explored the Heartlands with her – he even took a bullet for her. Part of her really wanted to know how he felt about her before she could confess everything, however her need to be honest and give her heart to him was stronger. He had asked for her trust and that was what she wanted to give him. Her full, undying trust. No matter how frightening the thought of it was.
She loved him.
The very thought made her heart bubble in her chest like lava waiting to erupt. In the past she tried to push those feelings aside, in fear of the hurt it may cause, but now it invaded her entirely. It was undeniable and inescapable. The chains which encased her had finally rotted enough to the point she could finally break free. All she needed to do was try. And Javier deserved that at the very least.
Leaving the coolness of the night’s air, Miriam retreated back inside the walls of the house which stood strong in the middle of camp. Closing the door behind her, she leant against the wood to take slow, deep breaths. She knew the moment was close. Tauntingly close. Even now she struggled to think of a strong opening line to start this chaotic and somewhat dangerous confession. Knowing the gist of the conversation was easy, but as for what to exactly say – this was unclear. Trying her best to snap out it, Miriam walked through the hallway and into one of the rooms where a mirror hung on the wall. Cautiously she approached it, as if one wrong step could cause it to fall to the ground. That was the last thing she needed – seven years of bad luck. A superstition she most definitely believed in, perhaps even more so after Molly’s pocket mirror broke. Since then, it seemed the poor woman had never gotten a break. She would sometimes see Molly on the outskirts of camp, looking out into the wilderness, mumbling incoherent things about Dutch. It broke Miriam’s heart to see her this way. She had attempted to talk things out with Molly, but she pushed the woman away. She did not want anyone’s company other than Dutch’s; which was something he could not give her.
Looking into the mirror, Miriam’s reflection shone back at her through distorted cracks. The cracks were like veins which jaggedly etched their way along the centre to the corners of the frame. Subconsciously, she brought a hand to her hair, stroking down the fly aways. How humbled she felt about her appearance. Javier was strikingly handsome to look at, yet she felt the complete opposite about herself. She found it comical the idea of Javier finding her as attractive as she found him. In her irrational mind, there was just no way. She sighed, hopelessly. Yet her eyes wandered to the dress she was wearing.
After all this time, she had finally finished weaving together the dress she started making back in Horseshoe Overlook. Despite Javier’s kindness in buying her the dresses back in Strawberry, Miriam felt it a waste to abandon her project. The dress was made from silky, scarlet fabric which was made to fit her exact measurements. It held no long sleeves but her shoulders were crowned with the smallest black ruffles. The neck line had shaped a most magnificent V-shape which complimented her décolletage. Following the waist line down, the ruche of the skirt had been pinned up to create a gothic-style waterfall effect on the sides and through the opening of the outer skirt, black lace fell to the ground as the underskirt. The dress created a feeling of pride which was new to the young woman. She wanted this to be the dress. The dress she would confess to Javier in. It made her feel empowered yet vulnerable and that was something she felt fascinated by.
“My, my. Don’t you look pretty in that getup.” A chill ran down her spine, recognising that voice. Miriam whipped her head over her shoulder, fast enough to cause a couple strands of locks to fall from her clipped-up hair. Micah stood in the doorway, leaning lazily against the wooden frame. He shifted his weight so he now stood straight, ready to approach. “Who’re you getting’ dolled up for, I wonder…” Not wanting to give him the time of day, she stayed silent. She knew all too well that people like him craved responses. Tauntingly, he stepped towards her which immediately caused Miriam to fully turn to face him to stand her ground. Much like the time back in the cabin, where she was cornered by the O’Driscolls.
The clicks of Micah’s boots echoed through the room like the sound of a ticking clock. Her shoulders tensed but never once did she break eye contact from him. He stopped walking once he was a couple metres away from her, wanting her to fall into a false sense of safety. One thing was certain – being alone in a room with Micah Bell was never something safe and she was smart enough to know this.
A snicker trickled past his lips, holding out his hands to gesture inwardly to himself. “Is this all for me?” A look of disgust shadowed over Miriam’s face. If only a look could really kill someone, he would be nothing more than a corpse before her. Clenching her jaw, Miriam remained composed before the serpent, still having no intention of giving in to his sick game. Micah tilted his head with his mouth slightly agape, soaking in her defensive state. That scowl she held for him… he found it utterly delicious. “Let’s take a good look at you…”
Before she could react, his hand grasped her jaw, the tips of his fingers pinching into the skin of her cheeks. In defiance she tried to shake herself from his grip by snapping her head to the side but he only squeezed her face tighter to make her heel. Not wanting to be permanently injured by his hand, she stilled, keeping her gaze away. His breathing was heavy, like he was fighting for crystal clear air. The smell of her was almost too intoxicating for him to handle. His eyes scanned over her features, looking at the shade of her glossy lips to the colour of her eyes and sighing in bliss when she would batt those pretty lashes which each blink. The grip of his hand loosened just slightly so he could angle his thumb up towards her waterline where black kohl had been carefully pencilled across. Wanting to taint the remarkable portrait before him, his thumb brushed across the bottom of her eye to smear the black eyeliner down past her outer corners. He snickered at the art he had just created.
Now she looked fragile – as though she had been crying.
“Ain’t you just… pretty.” He licked the top of his lip, his warm breath coming through his nose like a bull in heat. “Nasty little thing, dressin’ up for ol’ Micah…” His thumb went back to the start of her waterline to once again follow along, but this time, he dragged his digit downwards once he reached the middle. A smoky smear fell to the apple of her cheek. His thumb was rough and he had pressed hard, causing a streak of faint redness to appear behind the ashy smears. How appetising she looked like this. Like a forbidden fruit he so desperately wanted to take a bite from. Being so close to her, a couple strings of breathy laughter escaped him. He found it funny. The joke of it all; how easy it would be to take her right now whilst everyone was occupied outside.
The fantasy of her crying for help whilst all the other gang members would be nonchalantly celebrating, not able to hear her pleas at all. It was the perfect opportunity. Quickly, his mind pieced together a delectable scenario. He’d smash the back of her head against the mirror, just so show her how much fun he can be. Then he’d throw her like a little dolly onto the cold wooden floor before taking her from behind. Oh, how the sounds of her dress being ripped apart would stiffen his cock. He would be entertained for a long while…
His smirk disappeared at his next intruding thought. ‘Unless he interferes…’ Anger flashed across Micah’s face which resulted in his hand clasping round her jaw again and this time, forcing her to look at him. “Or is this all for that fucking greaser, hm?” Now it was Miriam’s turn to see red. Without even a second thought, she pursed her lips before releasing them to spit into Micah’s face. The action was so sudden it took him a back, making him let go of her in the process. She took her chance to escape and bolted through the doorway and towards the grand doors which would lead her outside. He didn’t attempt to chase after her, instead using his preferred tactic to hunt his prey – threats.
“If you don’t come back here… I’ll fucking destroy your world. I know who you are.” Gritting his teeth, he walked towards the doorframe once he wiped the spit from his eyes. “And what you did.” He stopped once he was back in the doorway. This time he had his fists held tightly in a ball and his posture was hunch over, as if ready to charge at her. “If you walk out that door, I’ll tell your little greaser everything.” She could no longer ignore what he had to say. It enraged her the way he spoke about Javier like he was some form of weapon to be used against her, calling him those horrible derogatory names. Silence was no longer an option.
Snapping her head over her shoulder, she hissed her words. “You won’t have chance. I’ll be telling him tonight.” Her surge of confidence caught Micah off guard. She had a mean bite to her and it replaced his anger with excitement.
“Oh, really now?” For the last time, she turned around to fully face him.
“Yes. You have no power over me, Micah.” It sent chills over his body the way she snarled out his name. If he played his cards right, he could still make the world around her crumble. Micah had always had a sick desire to see beauty decay. It was the most natural form of art to him.
Micah held his hands up, as if to surrender. “Oh, ho. You got me there, sweetheart…” His tone of voice leered over her, spookily, like he knew something she did not. “I’m just thinking about that Mexican’s wellbeing is all.” Her eyebrows knitted closer together, confused by his change of heart. He smirked, knowing his new tactic was working. He took a step towards her, his hands still raised in sweet surrender. “It would be such a… shame… to see him – burdened with such knowledge.” Now he took a couple more steps closer, almost halfway across the landing. Slowly, Miriam’s eyebrows softened as though she could see her victory being taken away before her very eyes.
“… a burden?” Micah stopped himself from grinning. ‘Jackpot.’ He thought to himself. He knew very well which direction to take this conversation.
“Of course. I mean, when I discovered what you were, well… I was shocked. And that’s puttin’ it lightly- I mean…” Micah lowered his hands. His tone changed. “… ya did some real nasty things after all.” The young woman flinched at his words. “What you did… oof-” The blonde dropped his head momentarily, only to raise it slowly to look at her through his messy strands of hair which cascaded over his brows. “No normal person could ever look at ya the same way ever again.” Her blood turned cold at the horrifying thought. It felt unbearable, the idea of Javier shunning her away after discovering her past. She felt her eyes begin to sting with tears but she refused to let them fall, especially in front of Micah. Such a sight could not slip past Micah. Those tears which threatened to spill only fuelled him further. His hands hovered over her shoulders but he didn’t dare to touch.
“Sweetheart… I know it’s hard.” He didn’t have the faintest idea. “Ya just gotta understand… that greaser had his family and friends drop like flies, one by one. Murdered in front of him… so…” Micah tauntingly tilted his head side to side, as though he was weighing the options of what to say. “… it only makes sense he wouldn’t react well to what ya did. He’d hate you.” Her blood felt as though it were ice. For a moment, it felt impossible for her to breathe. Micah’s words made perfect sense. She convinced herself then and there that she had gaslighted herself into thinking that everything would be okay. Of course, there was no way Javier would be able to look past the things she did.
Not wanting to spend another second in Micah’s presence, she went to open the door but Micah’s hand held onto her wrist to pause her action. “Oi.” He growled, bringing her close into his chest. The dark-haired beauty frowned, still fighting the sting of her eyes. He lifted his hand and instead of grabbing her jaw again like last time, he curled his index finger and softly petted it over her cheek. “Don’t ya worry, doll. Ol’ Micah will be here to pick up the pieces.” He leant close to her face, his lips just a couple centimetres away from her own. “If ya tell him.” And just like that, he released her and she immediately ran out, slamming the doors in his face.
Her feet pattered down the steps and across the grass until she could find shelter under the gazebo, just a little away from the camp’s celebrations. She tried to calm her breathing although not a sound of it could be heard due to the rambunctious singing from both Uncle and Pearson. Even Arthur could be heard trying to join in, carefully trying to not slur his words due to the amount of whiskey he had consumed.
Looking to her hands, the young woman realised the shake that now rocked them uncontrollably. Her ears burned hot; her throat too dry to be able to swallow. Attempting to steady herself, Miriam’s hands rested on the pale wood of the banister and sank her head low to calm her rhythm of breaths once she wiped away her ruined eyeliner.
She knew Micah was not to be trusted; his words were a sorcery of evil. Malice was something he thrived to express. He was like a disease, persisting to take over and destroy something once good from the inside out. Yet those very words he spoke only awakened Miriam’s once buried paranoia. Just as she had at last calmed herself into thinking her past could not break the bond she shared with Javier, a threat loomed in its grand return to make her back down. Deep down, she still wanted to tell Javier the truth. Uneasiness plagued her at the scenario.
What if…
What if Micah spoke honesty, no matter how hurtful it came out? Would it be a burden for Javier? Would he…
‘Would he hate me?’ She bit the inside of her cheek; the taste of iron spilling in slow droplets down her throat. Would he or wouldn’t he. A riddle she could not solve. It was a gamble. A leap of faith.
Being so lost in her troubled thoughts, she had barely noticed the familiar presence behind her whose hands rested on the plumps of her hips. “Hola, hermosa ángel.” Regardless of her agonising thoughts, Miriam couldn’t help but melt under his touch. She breathed out his name, savouring it as though it was the last time she would ever be able to say it.
His hands stroked her hips a couple times, like he was soothing her for something he wasn’t quite aware of in that moment. With a feather-like touch, Javier’s hands slid over the peaks of her hips to take their place over her belly. The feeling was welcomed for it offered a warmth she did not mind faltering to. His chin rested over her shoulder which allowed Miriam to smell the whiskey and cigarettes that came from his long breaths. It was a smell she found appetizing and often salivated for during steamy exchanges.
“I haven’t seen you all day…” He mumbled, now turning into her neck to smell the gorgeously scented perfume which he found suited her and only her. A scent of lavender and powdery notes. Miriam pressed her back against his chest to allow him to fully hold her. His eyes were shut with the lightest of smiles, appreciating the tender fragment of time that stood still for their sake. A snapshot of gentle peace.
“I was… lost in thought, today.” He hummed at her response, finding it an acceptable answer for the time being. The tips of her fingers lightly traced over the knuckles of his hands. Even now, her thoughts troubled her deeply – yet his aura soothed her, preventing her from breaking down to the corruption Micah had caused. “I- My mind has been all over the place. I’m sorry.” A low rumble came from Javier’s throat in an understanding chuckle.
“Mine too.” His hands snaked past one another, tightening his embrace. His cheek pressed against the length of Miriam’s neck where his lips dusted across her skin in a sweet whisper. “I can’t get you off my mind, mi amor.” His lips and facial hair tickled her skin, causing her to momentarily break away from her intrusive thoughts in soft laughter.
“You’ve been drinking.” Turning her head to try and look at his expression, she could see his cheeks were slightly glazed with a pigment of rosiness. His eyes held a mist of heavenly delight, finding all things around him pleasant. Not denying her words, he raised the depths of his focus by looking into her dark hazel eyes.
“I speak only the truth.” His eyes closed lazily to fall into a blissful realm, allowing his lips to dance across her jawline and then the corner of her neck, underneath her ear. “Mi amor…” He whispered this line over and over again with each feathery kiss. Goosebumps responded back to him, giving in to the enchantment he cast over her. She held onto his arms to keep her from stumbling, bending at the knees as though she was becoming limp like a doll held by its owner. “Look at me.”
Javier loosened his hold on her so she could eventually turn around to face him. There were things he wanted to tell her which had been occupying him all throughout the day. Perhaps longer. Delving into the wondrous pools of her iris, he felt his chest seize for a brief moment. It amazed him how this woman standing before him had such a hold over his mind, body and feelings. Never in his twenty-six years of being on this earth had he felt this way before. It was foreign, shrouded in mystery; nonetheless a hold he never wanted to let go.
“Listen.” Javier stepped back from her, tilting his head down to the ground and raising his hands in front of him as though halting any attempt to interrupt him. “I’ve been thinking- I’ve been thinking, a lot… and…” He lifted his head and in doing so he placed his hands on his hips before rapidly flickering his thumb over the tip of his nose to brush off the last bits of nerves that had held him back before now. “You and I- We… I think…” He stopped himself.
The way she looked at him. It captivated him. She without a doubt took his breath away; without even trying. Her mere existence was enough to shake the ever-winding staircase of his reality. She had always captivated him. Ever since he first looked at her within that cabin. A short exhale of realisation escaped him.
“I think we’re good together.” He said it so matter of a fact, that his awkwardness had successfully been disguised by his liquid courage.
Miriam’s eyes became wide with surprise, not expecting him to say such things. She kept quiet, unable to find the right words to say. Javier stroked the back of his neck, not knowing how he made it this far. However, he understood that he had to finish what he had started. “I mean, only if you want that too.” Now the Mexican found himself second guessing how he approached his words. He wanted to continue to plead his case because of course, she was someone whom he wanted to fight for. “Look-” He stepped towards her; his hands now being held out to gesture with each word that needed visual guidance. “What I mean to say is- I don’t care about what you did, who you are or where you came from. None of that matters.” Miriam’s eyebrows furrowed upwards, her mouth becoming agape – not believing what he was saying. Javier’s hand held onto hers. His fingers squeezed tight to the following words. “I want you. Only you.” With his free hand, he gently placed his palm over her heated cheek. “Just as you are.” The words he uttered cut through her like a welcomed wound. A wound which hurt but distracted her from her anxious thoughts. He made her heart bleed with sweet sorrow.
She wanted him too. To Miriam, Javier deserved the world and more.
Pursing her lips together, Miriam tightly closed her eyes to lean into the hand which held her cheek. He was so warm, like the water of a hot spring steaming against ice cold skin. “Javier…” Bringing her hand to his own, she pulled it down from her cheek. “I’m not the woman you think I am…” A pause of hesitancy followed before she let go of his hands to hold her own. Javier looked at her with hurt in his eyes, as though he had been shot through his chest. It pained her to do this, but the taunt of Micah’s words could not allow her to let her walls fall apart. She allowed him to have her heart, but she could not do the same for him. She feared so much that his heart would die by her tainted touch. Her bottom lip quivered before she looked at him with tearful eyes. She could barely choke out her words. “But I wish I was. I truly do.”
Javier averted his eyes from her. For the first time, he did not know what to do. All he could do was look at to her, almost in disbelief. With all his strength, he set his hurt aside and tried to reach through to her. “Miriam…” He made a promise to himself. “Eres tan estupida…” (“You’re so stupid…”)
A promise that he would fight for her.
Both of Javier’s hands held onto her face to bring her back to this dimension. “¿Cuántas veces tengo que decírtelo?” (“How many times do I have to tell you?”) Her watery eyes blurred her vision yet she could still see the intense look of truth he emitted. “I don’t care.” A smile returned to his face, his sharp gaze softening. “I don’t care, Miriam.” He frowned yet his smile remained. “Don’t you remember?” Before she could respond to his question, Javier pulled on her hand so she would follow him.
They left the shelter of the gazebo, walking just outside of Shady Belle by the water yet remained concealed by the trees and greenery. They couldn’t wander too far due to the main road only being just up ahead. Once Javier stopped, he pointed up to the night sky. The galaxy of stars twinkled back in response, shining through the grey clouds which surrounded the moon. “You remember, don’t you?”
The organ within her chest tightened at the memory of those beautiful words. Without saying anything, she nodded. But he wanted more. He wanted her to fight back – to succumb to the feelings they both could not deny. “Then say them.” Her eyes tightly closed, her lips pursing back together.
She could not bring herself to say those words.
Javier held onto her waist, bringing her towards him so their hips met one another. “Say them to me, mi amor.” Their foreheads touched, his eyes trying to find hers through her thick lashes – still her irises were averted from his.
He deserved the truth.
His fingers tightened on her waist. His whispers became more soaked with passion. “I need to know.”
And the truth is what she wished to give.
“Javier… Tienes mi corazón.” Those words ripped through him like a rainfall of bullets. He pulled his head back, looking at her with shock. At last, he could see her alluring cocoa eyes. Her hand went to her chest as if to soothe the pain and ache she felt there. “Tienes mi corazón, Javier.” Her tears spilt down her cheeks, uncontrollably. Her walls had fallen to dust thanks to him. She felt exposed and vulnerable. And she was so grateful. Somehow her revelation made her feel lifted; unafraid. “And it will always be yours.”
No longer did a barrier stand between the two thus the only thing to be done was to fall into each other’s reality. He claimed her lips with his own, not caring that it sucked the air from her. He could not help himself after she had told him such euphoric words. Never did he think he would hear her say those words to him, especially in his language. Those three words spoke a million tales, matching up to each star that dotted the galactic sky. His reaction made Miriam cry more, the lump in her throat becoming so painful she could barely breathe. To others it would seem as though she was in pain. Forlorn and distressed. But the two of them knew that it was an articulation of happiness and that was all that mattered.
Miriam fought for air but was unable to win due to Javier’s hand holding onto the back of her head, pushing her further against his mouth. His tongue tangled around hers, barely allowing room for her to inhale. A meagre jolt of panic naturally took over her yet her own body betrayed her, keeping her pinned into his strong embrace. Colourful spots sparkled behind her closed eyes, signalling her impending downfall. She murmured his name against his mouth, revealing her desperation.
Not wanting her to pass out, just yet, he pulled his lips from her and watched the saliva slip over the centre of her bottom lip. Perilously she gasped out for air but was immediately silenced by his lips. She squirmed in ecstatic delight. The very thought of seeing stars just by him kissing her sent waves of paradise towards her core. She trusted this man to do whatever he wanted, knowing he never would have an inkling if ill malice. Her hands ran through his hair, unconsciously pulling away the band which held his hair back. His velvet ebony locks touched his shoulders where his blue waistcoat hugged against the white fabric of his blouse.
“Tienes mi corazón…” She whispered against his lips, repeating those words he found so beautiful. His hand clenched, grabbing a fistful of her hair. She mewled in contentment at the rough action.
“Mierda…” He grumbled, the tightening feeling of jeans around his groin which became uncomfortable all too quickly. The way she said those words, it was driving him fucking crazy. Pulling the clip that held her hair back, her mermaid-like waves fell past her shoulders like unravelled silk. All those feelings which held him back before, those chains no longer claimed him. Instead, he was finally free to do as he desired. No restraints or second thoughts. Only what felt right to both himself and her.
Javier’s hands grabbed Miriam’s ass, crunching together the carefully woven fabric she had seamed and lifted her without warning. Instinctively, her legs wrapped around his waist where her bare pussy caught his jeans just right, the tent of the fabric rubbing against her clit. The skirt of her dress covered the sight, but underneath, it was a vision to behold – one Javier could feel. The roughness of his jeans caused a friction which made her hips buck involuntarily. The sharp sparks of pleasure which flew through her like flashes of lightning made Miriam throw her head back, leaning her weight away from him so her hips had no choice but to force themselves harder against his concealed yet prominent cock. It didn’t take long for her slick to begin coating his jeans, as if her pussy was begging skin on skin contact. Without shame, Miriam bobbed her hips up and down the tiniest amount to rub her clit over the point of his jeans. Due to the ridged nature of his jeans, her clit became instantly swollen, enjoying the friction more than she imagined she would. Her wetness rapidly dampened the fabric and with aid was soaked further by his leaking tip. The thought of his precum seeping through to invade her pussy made her eyes roll back to see the stars.
The feeling of her hips rocking against his erection made Javier open his mouth to invite in the cool air in hopes it would help him re-centre himself – to stop him from fucking her so furiously that she would surely lose consciousness. Yet he reminded himself that all restraints were to be forgotten about. Just for this night at least. He wrapped an arm around her upper back and knelt down to the ground to place her on the grass, all the while keeping their hips connected like this. Her hips were raised, angled upwards over his thighs and he kept her like this so he could unzip his jeans to pull out his aching cock. In doing so, his fingers brushed over the area of his pants where their liquids seeped through. With the tip of his middle finger and thumb, he brought them up to his face and rubbed the slick together before retracting his middle finger away to watch the string of clear fluid stretch.
“Mi amor… if you keep doing things like this, I won’t be able to stop myself.” Through her flushed pants, she quizzed her lover.
“Stop yourself from what?” Innocently she blinked which caused Javier to arch over her, pressing his leaking head inside of her without warning. Not giving her a single chance to adjust, Miriam’s head fell back so her forehead was inches away from meeting the grass. Keeping her hips angled up towards the sky, Javier pressed a kiss to her exposed throat, growling against her skin.
“Fucking you until you’re full of my cum, mi amor.” The walls of her pussy clenched hard around the tip of his cock, milking him in response to his words. The two of them gasped in symmetry at the rapturous feeling. The tightness of her heat made it difficult to sheathe himself fully inside but once he did, he hung his head low between his shoulders, panting. His fingers dug into the earth to ground himself whilst Miriam tried her best not to make any sudden movements, still recovering from the brief moment of sheer bliss.
Soon, a laughter that was barely audible came from Javier. He lifted his head, looking through the messy strands of his hair to address his love. “You like the idea of that, hm?” With eagerness in her movements, she nodded her head to him; the memory of him almost coming inside her dancing around rent free in her head. She could still remember how hot the heat of his cum felt inside, even if it was only a drop. Her pussy spasmed again, wishing to be filled this time instead of it being wasted on her lower abdomen. He grunted, pulling his cock back until he was almost fully free from her.
Keeping the tip of his cock lined at her entrance, Javier pulled her thighs up and folded them back so her knees came to a beautiful bend. Her shoes slipped off her feet so her heels pressed into the rounds of her ass. He let go of her plump skin, watching her dress skirt pool around her chest – the sight of her pulsing pussy now on full view. That and her big doe eyes all tearful from sinful want, were a picture of perfection to the Mexican rebel. His hands traced over her knees, pushing them further apart before planting a kiss to one of them. He raised himself a little higher on his knees to get his angle right and once he was there, he slammed his cock deep and hard into her pussy; reaching depths Miriam didn’t even know was possible. The earth surrounding Miriam’s head sank lower, being pressed with great force by the back of her skull. A noise had left her mouth she didn’t even know could ever be recreated even if she tried. That very noise made her lover see red and repeated the violent snap of his hips over and over, earning a unique and satisfying moan from her each time.
The head of his cock abused her insides, forcing her heat to overflow with more of her slick in a pathetic attempt to soothe the overstimulation which was being invoked. Her head was dizzy, unable to think rationally whilst he pounded into her pussy like she was just some tight hole for him to let his frustrations out on. “Oh my God… Javier! Javier!” Her sanity was long gone, no care being present to fear what others might hear. She felt his hands pull harder on her knees, bringing her hips impossibly closer to his own; Miriam became a babbling mess. He hit depths within her that shot fiery sparks of gunpowder through her core all the way to her head. Her toes curled, bracing herself for his ruthlessness that would undoubtedly continue.
Already, her pussy squeezed his cock, ready to deliver its final chokehold. Javier placed an elbow and hand beside her head whilst the other rested in the same manner but above her head. Not once did his unforgiving thrusts change in pace. “Mi amor- Ah! Miriam…” His voice was quiet through the loudness of his grunts, yet as though the elements of nature respected their moment of union, Miriam heard him clear as day. “Te amo.”
‘Those words…’
She hiccupped, feeling the swell of her heart become unbearable. Javier kissed her forehead. “Te amo… te amo…” He never stopped saying those words. With every thrust, every pant and groan, he cooed those words to her. He would say it as many times as it took for her to finally understand. She felt her head ache, still unable to stop herself from crying. All she could do was place her hand on his cheek and kiss the corner of his mouth.
Even then, he still did not stop.
‘He loves me…’ The happiest smile she had ever conjured in her entire lifetime graced her features. ‘He really loves me…’
Being close to his release, Javier shuddered, his head falling lower to try and stop himself. He could feel she was close too. She could tell by his silence he was trying hard not to give in, selflessly wanting her to come before he did – yet each time it risked him coming inside. Breaking his concentration, Miriam brought her lips to his ear, begging him in a sultry voice.
“Please, come inside-ah! Javier! Please…” Miriam raised both her shoulders in a euphoric high, knighting each side of his face as his forehead now came into contact with the bottom of her throat. His nails scratched hard at the dirt, whilst her own snaked under his arms and latched onto his shoulder blades. Her nails pierced in through the fabric of his waistcoat, not realising she was in fact drawing blood. Even Javier couldn’t feel it, due to the feeling of his cock pulsating inside her becoming overwhelming. “Please…” She lowered the volume of her voice but kept a higher pitch than normal – something she naturally did when she wanted something bad. “Javier… I want you to come inside me. Make me yours.”
Like a cryptic code being cracked, it unlocked the shackles which bound him. A second wind of energy eloped through his body like an untameable hurricane. The rhythm of his hips became faster, more ruthless with no remanets of gentleness. He wanted nothing more in that moment than for her wishes to be granted. And for his own – to have her as his – whole and complete. Sweat glossed down the muscles of his back, sticking to his garments which caused an imaginary suffocation as his climax overcame him, spurting his hot cum inside her weeping pussy. He pressed his hips hard into her and stayed like that, as if his only goal was to make sure her womb became full of his fertile seed. Upon the first contact of his cum, her pussy clenched and pulsed around his length, milking each and every drop as Miriam experienced her own ascension. His cum felt excruciatingly hot but it only heightened her senses and made her journey to paradise all the more heavenly.
The feeling of her taking all of him so receptively was something he cursed himself for not experiencing sooner. He didn’t want the moment to end – even during the peak of his high, he slipped his hand between her thighs to rub his thumb over her clit in circles. The elation she felt from his unexpected action made Miriam snap her hips into his, forcing his cock deeper creating more room for his cum to splurge through. The overstimulation made the young woman shake violently, her pussy now refusing to release her hold on his cock. Javier groaned loud into her throat, the noise emanating from deep within.
Finally, with the last few rocks of his hips, he pulled his cock from inside her, the spoils of his climax spilling out with the friction of his length. Once he had fully unsheathed himself, due to her hips being pointed at a high angle, any droplets of cum which surrounded the circumference of her heat fell back inside. The sight of her cum-filled pussy made Javier’s cock twitch, threatening to become hard again. Her puffy cunt pulsed, drinking back every last drop until it was deep inside her warm cavern.
Attempting to wipe away her tears, the mundane fidgeting caught Javier’s attention, him only now realising just how badly she had been crying. Once he tucked himself away, he leant over her to brush his thumb over her watery cheeks.
“Hey…” He cooed. He thought her tears were a product of their love-making but seeing her continue spill them made the man feel genuine concern. A flash of hurt sparkled across his coffee-coloured eyes as she scrunched her nose and tried her best to wipe away anymore tears that were left behind. “Did I hurt you?” A crackle of laughter bubbled past her lips, shaking her head to him.
“No.”
“Then why are you crying?” That wide, close-eyed smile returned once more and this time he was there to witness her expression of joy.
“I’m… I’m just so happy.” A charming look graced Javier’s features.
“Yeah?” Miriam nodded, humming her confirmation. He closed his eyes in contentment. “Me too, mi amor.” Javier lifted her own delicate hand towards his face. With a look of faraway dreams, he placed the softest of kisses against her fingers. To finally hear her speak such honeyed words to him and he in return at long last came to terms with his deep-rooted feelings he held for her – the shadows within his mind felt less dark than before. His demons had been blinded by her luminescent light.
He couldn’t help but consider if she was an angel sent by God. Or a Saint sent to guide him through the darkness that threatened to take over.
Whoever she was, or whomever had sent her, he knew he had to appreciate every waking second with her. Time threatened all beings.
He vowed silently, on that warm summer’s night, that he would devote himself to her and strive for a life where they could be free.
Together.
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#javier escuella#javier escuella x original character#rdr2#red dead redemption 2#van der linde gang#micah bell#hosea matthews#Tienes Mi Corazón#Tienes Mi Corazón Chapter 12
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