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jiminiecrickets · 6 months ago

Text

HEAVEN'S SHEATH. KTH / M!READER

summary. a wealthy lord's pacifist son finds friendship and affection in a poor soldier, unremarkable except for the fact that he is the lone survivor of a massacre. fate has different plans for them.

wc. 10k

tags. smut | top!reader, bottom!tae, virgin!reader with a big dick (lol), reader is described as tall/strong, descriptions of blood/injuries/death, sex while injured (reader), riding, multiple orgasms, 2/3rds is only worldbuilding oops im just like that!!

a cloud of dust billows beneath the heavy black hooves of a friesian stallion, sturdy and strong-chested. the well-travelled dirt path swings over rolling green knolls, past flocks of white sheep herded into valleys and heavy brown cows grazing along the hillside. the untouched countryside is marked by clusters of tall green trees along the road and they shade the large river snaking through the vale.

amongst the verdant growth, throned between the river and the hills, lies a large manor built strong with stone and brick. other buildings lay scattered around its feet, and life is most evident here – servants hurry about, ushering goats into their wooden pens and their young ones out of the way of the black horse's brisk high trot. the little children stare with big eyes up at the regal stallion's wavy mane, watching how it falls softly over its long neck with each step. it is a horse that carries great presence and elegance, and its rider is no different.

at the manor's grand front entrance, an older man stands in wait, both hands resting on a cane tipped at both ends with gold. his hair is almost fully grey. his steely eyes track the horse and the dust and pollen dirtying its fine feathering on the lower legs.

"you've been sorely missed, son," he says in an unreadable tone, light enough for politeness but darkened by his heavy gaze. "does wartime make for a better view?"

the rider dismounts, hushing the horse as it snorts and tosses its head, hooves stamping. it yearns for the freedom of the run. he pets its soft mane. his voice is deep and monotone with disinterest. "certainly. it's quieter."

the man's eyes narrow. "you left all the kitchen girls alone, who i know you've a fondness for. you should be at home to protect them, taehyung, not gallivanting off to paint your pictures."

silently, taehyung passes off the reins to the stablehand, and turns to stare up at his father from the bottom of the steps. he tugs off his kid-leather riding gloves and places them in the pocket of his navy blue coat. "what do i know of war and fighting? you were the general, not i. i'd say you are much better suited to protecting these frail women from suffering under the hands of conquerors."

"you are the son of a general," he replies sharply. "the youth must carry on what their fathers forged."

"hate and subjugation, of course," taehyung sighs, shifting his bag of paints in one arm and his canvas in another. "humanity's pinnacle."

"stay your wit, boy. you'll find no friends with it."

he slips past him through the open doors of the manor, his paints clinking in its leather saddlebag. "yes, my lord."

upstairs in a large, sunlit room, he sets it all down with a soft huff. he glances around at the canvases lining the walls, leaning against cupboards and drawers full of paint thinners and varnishes. portraits of one woman dominate most of them – slender, pale, with dark hair, full lips, and a soft curving nose. in some, she sits primly on a chair amongst vases of flowers and goblets of wine, and in others, on chaises in simple dresses with a needle and thread in her hands, glowing with the early summer light blooming behind her.

these are the ones hung up or placed atop chests of drawers. not one touches the ground – that place, on the edge between floor and wall, is reserved for simpler landscapes and still lifes.

"i remember i told you to take down those portraits. do you find joy in antagonising me?"

taehyung turns. his father stands on the threshold, cane by his side. after he returned from the last war with a limp and new scars, he has not worn any other colour but black.

he turns back to his saddlebags, indifferent as he slowly pulls his paints and brushes one at a time from the bag. "no. i find no joy in speaking to you at all."

his father's expression tightens. "i did not make her ill. it was chance and nature. your hatred of me will not bring her back, no matter how intense. it is time to move on, son. lingering on it breeds only worse things."

"'worse things'?" taehyung snaps, gripping a put of paint so tightly his knuckles turn white. "i am not one of your soldiers, so don't speak to me like one. i don't need your pragmatism, your war-bred heartlessness. all she wanted was you. all she asked for was you, and you never came."

he has had this argument many times over since that winter. it festers hot fury in his chest just thinking of it, and it has not burned dimmer with time.

he turns and approaches his father, eye-to-eye. he is not a boy anymore. he surveys him for a moment. "war may have reforged you, made you richer and cleverer, but it burned away all that she loved. you never once held her again, felt her breath on your cheek." taehyung brushes his knuckles over his jaw. he shakes his head and begins to walk down the hall. "don't touch those portraits."

back for only a few minutes and taehyung already cannot stand the solemn weight of the air within these walls. he pushes open the front doors with more force than necessary and wanders through the large, walled estate, stone brick encompassing the major centres of activity.

mindlessly, he travels past the cowherds and shepherds leading in the meat for supper, and the stablemaster tending to his friesian, and the beekeepers. he passes the wall and almost reaches the wheat farm.

hushed whispers float up from the riverbank. he stops in his tracks.

by the water, the girls and women who work with the granary from the farm are crowded around something on the bank. the linens of their dresses are dark with water up to their knees, where they hold it back.

he notices the expressions on the girls' faces – bright with nervousness and fear, but tinged with… curiosity? they whisper amongst themselves behind their hands.

he approaches, ducking under a branch of the oak they shelter beneath. "what is so interesting?"

they startle, several sets of eyes turning towards him. one of the older girls, about his age, drops into a fumbled curtsy. "oh, young master—! we weren't doing nothin' bad, sir, but we was hiding from the sun when we found something the lord sir might need know. we found 'im caught up on the root branches here."

him?

taehyung steps past her. his eyes widen.

a young soldier, skin tinged grey, lies on his back on the riverbank, the water lapping at his calves. his boots have come off somewhere in the water. he wears an unfamiliar uniform: a mixture of thick fabrics to stave off the cold adorned with a strangely-patterned leather jerkin.

it is a poor man's armour, he realises, made of what he can scrounge up and what fits from the garrison's armoury. despite his lack of wealth, taehyung can tell he is a big man – tall, strong in ways only a life of hard work can create. he is fair of face, too, handsomer than many young nobles taehyung has met. perhaps a blacksmith's apprentice, or a baker's boy?

"which… which army is he from, master taehyung? can you tell?"

the question awakens him from his daze. he blinks. "ah – bring him higher on the bank, get his legs out of the water. let me closer."

he crouches by the body, pulling at the heavy cloth draped over the torso. at the neck, where the cloth is bunched and rolled to pack in heat, he finds a small red patch.

taehyung sighs and presses the soaked cloth back into place. "this man is very, very far from home."

the girls glance at each other uncertainly. "what does that mean, master?"

"many years ago, his homeland was seized, and now his people are under southern rule. he was an infantryman. simple cannon fodder." with a soft exhale, he leans over the torso and pulls him onto his side to reach the lashes holding together his water-heavy coat. "perhaps i can bury him someplace high, so that his soul may be reminded of home."

the body jerks and chokes out a lungful of water with a ragged groan.

the girls yelp, stumbling back. taehyung would have had he not already been on his knees. his eyes widen as the soldier's face pinches in pain, eyes still shut. taehyung reaches for the oldest girl, gesturing frantically towards the manor on the horizon. "find my father and tell him what you've found! you've my permission to leave the farm and all of that – he's alive!"

—

it is dark. everything hurts. this is hell – this is punishment, eternal and unforgiving. this is deserved for desertion.

then – light. light rings against bone and flesh.

velvet. mahogany. silk and down.

there is a girl beside you, leaning over you. her linen dress is plain but clean with a white apron over it.

your side explodes with pain. you launch upright with a violent shout, gasping and clutching the hot ache under your ribs. cries of shock throb in your skull.

you blink, hard, eyes adjusting dizzily to the brightness of the room. your torso is wrapped in cloth, which you can feel flat and taut against your skin. your hand comes away clean, and for several unthinking moments, you wonder why. your thoughts are slow and heavy.

"you ought to relax, master," echoes a soft voice beside you. her vowels are round and elongated, the accent so different from your own that you barely recognise it, much less understand it. you stare up unseeingly at her youthful face, framed by dark curls held back by a bonnet. she steps forward, a damp sponge in her hand. that is why your limbs feel cold. "your injuries are quite severe."

"where am i?" you mumble, your tongue thick in your mouth. words are unfamiliar. "who're you?"

she glances up at the other maids, huddling by the door. she sets down the sponge and extends a hand, though you flinch from it. she does not try again. "you are in the northern highlands. hadria. my name is aemma."

"aemma," you murmur. the sounds are soft and round, like a river pebble. like a river, you realise, you are damp and naked, save for a single sheet of folded cloth across your lap. you feel your face grow hot and you clutch it close, folding your legs towards your body for security. "m-may i – where are my clothes?"

aemma gestures for one of the other girls, who quickly scoops up a folded pile of clothes from atop the chest at the base of the lavish bed. the rest of the bedroom is similarly luxurious, with a dark palette that soaks up sunlight to warm its wood. the walls are pale, though framed by polished wooden frames embracing the room.

"here," she replies. "the lord father has gifted you some riding clothes to wear in their stead. they were to be given to the young master when he turned of age, but…" she pauses. she shakes her head and curtsies. "you're to meet the lord father and his son shortly. we were to inform them when you were to wake eventually."

"eventually…" you trail off. "how long have i been here?"

"two days, master."

your head begins to pound. you cradle it, wincing, and reach for the offered clothes. they are clean and soft under your callused fingertips. "ah… i'm no lord, miss."

aemma smiles briefly, folding her hands over her stomach. "the lord father requires it, master."

you have no heart to push. in fact, you would much rather lay down for another two days, though knowing you are under the roof of a lord churns up too much fear to do so. if northern men were anything like southern ones, you would do anything to keep your name clean.

"i'd like to dress," you say softly, glancing briefly at the maids watching you from the corner of the room. "alone, if the lasses would allow it."

with another curtsy, aemma ushers the other girls out of the room and closes the door after them. you do not miss how they sent you curious glances as they left. she now stands where they once were, watching you with badly-disguised intrigue.

you clear your throat and feel your cheeks and neck blaze, folding the cloth around your hips tighter. "i'm sorry. i meant entirely."

perhaps it is your imagination, but you think you spot a tinge of pink wash over her features. she finds sudden interest in the knots and grain of the floor. "the lord father instructed that you were not to be left alone in case you required immediate medical attention. you are evidently still in pain, so i must protest."

"ah." you swallow, and your mouth is dry. "p-perhaps… you could turn around, then?"

she glances up, as if to say something, but eventually nods, bobbing in a small curtsy before turning to face the wall.

as quickly as your aching body will allow, you shuffle off of the bed and dress yourself in finer clothes than you have ever worn before. the cloth is soft and sits finely against your skin like a baby's breath. you are so used to abrasive linens that you almost feel more naked than before.

"you found my boots."

aemma turns around – she almost regrets it, spying the last sliver of skin before white cloth falls over it like the pull of curtains. it is more titillating than seeing the entirety of you bare. "o-oh – yes, one of the servant boys found them downstream."

"ah, thank you. and my uniform, miss," you glance up at her, leaning heavily against the bed poster to slip on your boots, "do you know what happened to it?"

"they're with the hold's tailor. i heard it took quite the beating."

"that could be said," you mumble, straightening up at last. your side twinges with pain, but you attempt a smile. "well, s'pose it's time to meet your lord. i've got to thank my saviours."

it is just turning to twilight, and the hazy golden sun on the horizon feels like little more than a memory. candles light the path past gold-spun tapestries and gleaming windows. aemma leads you to a grand dining room, reminiscent of castles and times long gone. she halts by the entrance, curtsies to you, and hurries away without another word, which you find strange as she had been a pleasant conversationalist when helping you through the halls and down the stairs.

"the soldier awakens at last. how do you feel?"

you glance away from aemma's retreating figure. at the head of the long dining table is an older man with sharp eyes and a natural severity about him. seated beside him is a younger man, around your age, staring into his plate with his hands folded in his lap. you step forward cautiously, and a male servant pulls out a chair on the older man's other side. the lord gestures at it, watching you carefully.

"well, milord; thank you," you answer, taking a seat and quietly thanking the servant who readied it in the first place. he bows but does not otherwise acknowledge you, his gaze on the ground as he slinks back into the shadows of the dining room.

"you were asleep for quite some time. my son doubted you would live." he gestures to the young man across from you, whose romantic dark curls are loose over his forehead. "i am glad you are feeling strong enough to join us for supper. i trust that the girls took care of you?"

"yes, milord," you reply, glancing over the table almost longingly. you swallow the saliva building in your mouth. silver platters are laden heavy with dark ox roasts, honeyed lamb shanks, roasted salmon fillets, sausages and baked potatoes, and braised vegetable stews steaming hot. ruby wine is poured into silver goblets. you have never seen so much food at once in your life.

"the war has yet to touch us. we have plenty to share," the lord informs, his voice almost kind. "how long has it been since you have last eaten, soldier?"

your throat bobs before speaking. "ah… four days, maybe, including my time spent here."

the man's brow arches. "your general did not feed you before battle?"

"no, milord. they ambushed us before our rations were due." you glance at the young man. he has yet to look up, or indeed even move. "we… had issues with our supplies. weevils in the grain, rats in the captains' meat. we turned from two meals a day, to one a day, then one every two." you pause. "i don't think one more meal would have saved us."

the room falls silent, with only the crackling of the fireplace breaking the stillness. green wood pops in the flames.

"well, don't wait for me to begin," says the lord suddenly, shifting comfortably in his seat and reaching for a leg of ox, stabbing it with a knife and lifting it onto his plate. he piles his plate high with potatoes and mash. the action seems to spur on his son, who jolts into motion like a creaking old waterwheel, movements slow and measured. "tell us your name, soldier. i'd like to know the name and story of our guest. now, news comes to us slowly in this isolated place. how fares the war effort?"

glancing down, you realise exactly how many pieces of cutlery there are. knives and forks, spoons and little spoons, all slightly different in shape or size. you pause, hand hovering over the knives, nerves tightening in your chest.

a soft cough. you glance up.

across from you, the son rests his delicate fingers on the outermost knife and fork, using them to carry a richly-glazed steak onto his plate. he chooses a large spoon, fingers lingering on it where it sits on the table, and places it into his bowl of stew.

his gaze lifts to meet yours and just as quickly, a butterfly's flap of wings, he glances away. his cheeks are dusted pink, the rosy colour like gold on his sun-warmed skin.

you copy him. you take a slab of steak from the dish right in front of you. you are starving, but everything about this manor makes you feel small, and you fear taking more than you are offered. you give them your name, for it is the only thing you truly own in these foreign lands.

"the war?" you continue, trying to shake the tremor from your voice. "i wouldn't know, milord. the captains don't tell us much. it's all the same – i've fought in three different battles. this was the third. they give their speeches about king and country, and then we fight. it is noble," you say hastily, "but i am not a warrior. not many of us were. the enemy outnumbered us, outskilled us, and when the poppy fields lay silent, they piled the bodies of all our fallen and made pyres out of us."

"such would explain the scorch marks on your clothes." the lord nods. he leans in, and you fight the urge to lean away. "i shall ask the question we all ask ourselves, if you would not mind. how did you survive such a massacre?"

you glance at the son. he eats quietly, forking small chunks of meat into his mouth. you glance away. "i remember a spear. it was tipped… with a blue and white flag. it waved in the black sky as i looked up at it." you frown. "i'd never seen one like it before."

"the temerian lilies," he replies, almost approvingly. "you must have been some opponent – if the flagbearer loses his flag, it is a great shame to the army. it must be held aloft at all times. he would rather die than lose it to the enemy."

you lift a shoulder. the other aches too much to try. "they pulled it out of me after, then dragged me to a pile of corpses. i… don't remember much, but i remember them squabbling over another soldier's brooch for a while. i only wanted to escape the stench of death." you survey the feast laid out before you. "i s'pose i have."

"then we shall celebrate that," hums the lord, lifting his goblet of wine. "my son was the one who found you floating down the river. he said you were cold as ice and only recognised you from the flag you had sewn into your coat. it is brave to carry your homeland's colours when fighting for their conquerors."

"it was a small creature comfort," you respond as nonchalantly as you can. "they could punish me all they liked, but could never kill me. they needed every man in their ranks."

the lord raises his brows, and something like admiration crosses his features. he glances at his son and that admiration turns into a tiny downturn of the lips. he turns back to you. "not a warrior, you say, yet you stand with the united courage of a battalion. who was your father?"

you notice how his son stills, holding the steak on his tongue behind his lips for a long moment. he closes his eyes and with a deep inhale, resumes eating, as if unaffected.

"just a farmer," you say, diverting your gaze. "dead, long past. my ma raised the rest of us – six boys. i was their second. when the army came knocking, askin' for sons, i went, gave them my name. my older brother knew how to count, how to run the mill. i couldn't let them take him, especially not from the little ones – after da died and ma got sick, he was all they had." you tap the edge of the silver plate with your finger thoughtfully. "i imagined i'd either die or be done after one battle, so i'd be brought home quick regardless. now… it's been four years."

then, the servants bring out a round white cake, slices set down around the table – what a perfect intermission. you have made it rather impossible to return to frivolity with your story, and you gaze down at the cake in front of you. you assume this is their dessert, so quaint and pretty on its little silver plate, but you have little idea of how to go about eating one. something so small must require a similarly-sized utensil. is it the tiny spoon? the tiny knife?

you lift your eyes to the young man across from you. he is already watching, eyes large and dark. he picks up a small three-tined fork from the inner edge, tilting it towards you to show you its appearance, the little notch on the left prong. this time, he doesn't look away, and you have enough time to offer a grateful smile, however brief. he blinks owlishly, almost in surprise, before lowering his gaze again.

it is unfortunate. you would not mind looking at him more. he is undoubtedly beautiful, almost pretty, the sort of face people would immortalise in myths and paintings on temple walls – a kind of elven face, like those that turn goddesses to jealousy and gods to obsession.

you spend the rest of the meal stealing glances at each other when you think the other is not watching. he is far more successful than you.

—

from behind a balcony's closed doors, taehyung gazes up at the crescent moon hanging high in the sky, surrounded by pale stars glittering in the blanket of darkness. he cannot stop thinking about the shy farmer's boy, his accent unfamiliarly pleasant – the vowels are soft and blurred, with each consonant crisp and clear. it makes for a bouncing sort of melody to his voice, one that draws taehyung deeper into his song.

he sighs softly and turns away from the night's landscape, uncrossing his arms and meandering through the empty halls. most of the servants are already tucked away, and his father drowns himself alone in old letters and wine.

in loose trousers and a looser white shirt, the vee of the collared neck laced with string, he finds himself in his library, rich and warm from a hearth already lit. curious. he shuts the open double doors behind him quietly to keep the heat from dissipating into the night.

his silent feet carry him through the aisles, where the shelves brush the ceiling with books and ladders. a walkway surrounds the room, essentially giving it a second level.

silhouetted black against the white glow of the moon beyond the arched window, a familiarly unfamiliar figure stands in silence, gaze turned up towards the heavens beyond the lines of books and old tomes.

standing in this still and quiet room, statue-esque in the way of classics, taehyung cannot help the journey of his gaze wandering up and down the planes of your body, painting to himself the sturdiness of your shoulders, the perfect balance between your booted feet. there is a severity about you he recognises in his own father – he sees it in your arms, tucked behind your back, and the practised way of standing that arches the spine just so to emphasise the broadness of the chest. yet, he knows gentleness when he sees it, and he finds it in the almost childlike awe in your expression, aimed up at his personal collection.

he steps out, the shadows melting from him like the shedding feathers of a raven. "what are you doing in my library?"

you startle, and taehyung almost regrets interrupting you. coward that he is, he would rather watch from afar than bring you out of that handsome serenity.

"f-forgive me, sir," you stammer, twisting your hands together as you incline in an awkward half-bow, half-stumble, evidently having forgotten the extent of your injuries as your expression tightens and your hand brushes over your side. "i didn't know it was yours. the – the doors were open, and i—"

"invited yourself in," he finishes.

"i – yes, sir…"

before you, he stands perfectly still. you could fool yourself into thinking his heart does not beat, for he is pale in the moonlight and beautifully dark-haired, with eyes like midnight lakes and lips like a rose.

you tear your gaze from his, breaking your trance. you begin to move past him. "forgive me, milord. i shan't interrupt you."

his hand darts out, wrapping itself around your wrist. serpentine, it slides up your arm and grips your bicep, forming creases in the cloth.

"you shouldn't move so quickly. you're injured." he turns his gaze on you. "you'd leave so soon?"

"ah…" you flounder, helpless. "if the lord wish it so."

his searching gaze strips your body bare. you feel it prod your soul when his eyes meet yours. his eyes scan your face, and he reaches up with his other hand, brushing it lightly against the slope of your jaw. his skin is warm and tender-soft. your breath hitches.

"the maids missed a spot when shaving," he mutters, pressing his fingers against the patch of half-shorn stubble left on the soft underside of your chin. "a man would do it better."

all at once, he drops his hand and looks away. "i am no lord," he replies, his low, rich voice like waves lapping at the sides of a ship, almost careless. "just his son."

you hesitate, your heartbeat still in your ears. "th-then what should i call you, sir?"

he glances down where bandages hide the hole in your body. "just 'taehyung' will do," he says softly, eyes lifting again. he unravels his arm from yours, turning fully towards you. "you may stay – as long as you are quiet."

he moves away, so graceful he may as well have floated. his fingers glide over the covers like bumps of the spine, and they pluck a small yellow book from the shelf. he opens it, already turning to the first page even before he finds a chair to sit in. he curls up in front of the grand fireplace, the furry hide of a brown bear thrown across the floor in front of it.

for a while, you simply watch him and listen to the crackling of the fire. his slim fingers glide across the pages to turn them, the edge of the page caught gently on the pad of his thumb.

bathed in the yellow and orange hues of the fire, the lord's son is every bit as regal as northerners are said to be – hair like calligraphy ink, cheekbones fine, slim bodies tall and lithe. you could lose yourself in his cold, gentle darkness.

that burbling feeling of being out of place rises to the surface, worse than when you sat before the lord at his table. you and your callused palms, your worn and labour-worked body. you should not be here.

"you know you can choose a book, yes? i don't mind." he glances up. "forgive the mess. i can help. what do you like to read?"

"i'm sorry, sir," you murmur, averting your gaze. "i can't read."

it seems he'd forgotten your roots. he blinks. "oh. my apologies. but if not to read, what interested you about my library?"

"ah," you chuckle, scratching your head. "i've just never seen so many books in one place. travelling merchants would display some, but never like this."

"i see." he surveys you intensely, then glances away and clears his throat. he shifts in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs. at last, he says stiffly, "if you'd like… i can… read to you."

the silence is thick with more than just the fire's heat. it is hard to know taehyung's hot face is not because of the fire, and he is grateful.

"if milord wishes to," you reply quietly, watching him for any twitch of his expression that may give him away.

"of course. i wouldn't offer it if i didn't." he gestures to the chaise beside him. "sit."

you step into the semicircle of light afforded by the fireplace, licked by tendrils of warmth, and ease yourself into the chair with a soft grunt, holding your side. "milord is as kind as he is beautiful."

his eyes flicker down to your lap. "i wish you wouldn't call me that," he says suddenly, a little sharper. "can i not be called my own name in my home?"

your mouth opens and closes. after a moment, you reply softly, "i meant no offence. it just feels… wrong."

slowly, he exhales, closing his eyes and his book. he places a hand over its cover. "all of my life has felt wrong. everything is wrong no matter what i do – who i wish to be, the company i keep, the fears i carry… the love i desire." he pauses, opening his eyes to your earnest expression. he diverts his gaze to the yellow-gold cover of the book. "what more can one last wrong hurt?"

"i'm sorry," you whisper. "perhaps i can start over." you straighten slightly, offering a crooked half-smile. "what do you want to read to me, taehyung?"

he does not disagree that his name sounds strange coming from another's mouth, but he cannot remember the last time it was used by anyone else. he hums and rises to his feet, coming to stand over you in front of the fire; his shadow cast over your body deepens the maturity of your features.

"when you said i was beautiful," he asks, "did you mean it?"

staring up at him, you can do nothing but tilt your head in bewilderment. "yes. you are fair and handsome."

taehyung chooses his next words carefully. "if… i were a girl," he decides, clasping his book over his stomach with straight arms, "would it be a different sort of beauty?"

you frown, shaping an approximation of a girl with taehyung's features in your mind. "maybe. but she would still be beautiful if she was you." you shake your head, dispelling morphing images of regal dark-haired daughters. you hide your warm cheeks behind an apologetic smile. "i'm sorry. i don't know much. i don't usually deal with such thoughts."

but it was enough for taehyung. slowly, as if not to frighten you, he lowers himself, grasping the chaise's rests and draping himself gently over your lap. he watches your face all the while, his heart beating faster at the shock and nervousness that cross your face in a single second.

"is this… is this alright?" he whispers, placing his hand against your chest.

your adam's apple bobs, your hands hovering an inch off of his body as if he is made of glass. gently, you place one on taehyung's knee and the other behind his back, and glance up at him.

"perhaps you can sit closer," you murmur, eyes wide and searching, "so you may not fall."

taehyung smiles, then – the first smile of his you have ever seen. it is sweet, and crinkles the corners of his eyes. it makes your heart swell.

he hides his smile in his chest, his knuckles brushing the corner of his lips. he lifts his eyes, and a sliver of hope twinkles in them. "shall i read to you, then? i will give you a synopsis of each story so you may choose your favourite."

"please," you murmur, settling back in the chair and sliding your hand higher up taehyung's thigh so he may be more comfortable. "do whatever you wish."

"'whatever'?" he hums, and with a flippant little kick, throws off his boots to the ground, where they thump carelessly. he meets your eyes and falls into a nervous smile, tucking his bare feet against your leg and resting his temple against your shoulder. his hair is still slightly damp at the ends from his earlier evening bath. "then you wouldn't mind this, would you?"

"of course not," you whisper, biting back a shy, embarrassed smile. you are too old to be acting like this, especially with the only son of a wealthy lord, but the rush of excitement from seeing such a reticent man blossom and show his petals to you is too much to keep you away. "i am only a farmer's boy, taehyung. anything with someone like you is… a dream."

at the mention of his name, his smile widens slightly and a pinkness warms the apples of his cheeks. he busies himself with opening the book and flipping through its contents to find the correct page. he presses his thumb against the spine between the pages.

"here." he taps the words on the page. "this story is one my mother used to read to me. a princess is trapped in a tower, guarded by a dragon in an ever-changing thorn maze, and a brave, handsome knight rescues her. they are married and live happily ever after."

he looks up at you, searching for a reaction, and you can only give a breathy laugh in return, still dizzy with the idea that someone like taehyung could ever be interested in someone like you. "are you sure you should be telling me these stories? i'm not a princess or a brave knight. i'm plain."

"perhaps. but do you know who else was seen as plain?" he taps your chest. "the dragon, disguised as a statue. and you, strong dragon, will protect the princess," he taps his own chest, "from all the boredom and politics of castle life."

"don't you have other, richer boys chasing you?" you ask, because you know your place. "your own knight? i don't see what i offer that they can't."

he licks his lips, setting aside the small book on a round side table and swinging his legs over your lap to straddle you. reading it is the last thing on his mind. "i do, of course. but it is like you said – they are boys. when their wooden sword chips, they get a new one." he trails his fingers lightly down the centre of your chest, wide and strong, and tentatively cups what is between your legs. he leans in, long-lashed brown eyes flickering down to your lips. "i want more than that."

"i—" your breath hitches as he squeezes gently, learning its shape and heft with deft fingers. "a-are we allowed to…? i am a stranger in strange lands with nothing to my name."

he chuckles, pressing his forehead against yours. his soft hair curtains your eyes. "allowed? no. but when a handsome soldier from far away falls into my lap, what else is a man to do?" he draws his thumb over your jawline, stroking your cheek. he lowers his lips to yours, hot breath sweet with honeyed treats. with the faintest thread of a breath, he whispers, "may i?"

with your heartbeat thudding in your ears, your head inclines, and taehyung wraps his arms around your shoulders and pushes his lips to yours.

his moan is sweet and starved as you kiss back to the best of your ability, your hands falling naturally about his waist. his lips are plump and warm, pillowy, and slicken with saliva as he deepens it, cupping the back of your head and pressing himself higher onto your body. he is desperate and dominating, sitting in your lap and rolling his hips into yours. you can feel his excitement through the cotton of his trousers.

when you part regretfully, gulping down air, he cups your face, his eyes dark yet gentle. he licks his shining lips, parted to pant. "you seem apprehensive. have you ever done this with a man?"

you wipe your lips with your thumb, tongue swiping over them in an almost bewildered motion. your eyes are wide. "a-ah… no. not with… anyone…"

"not even a girl?" he cannot help the surprise that coats his tone.

you shake your head, face aflame. "i never… my older brother had my father's charm. he was the one they all wanted, strong but lean. i was too much of a bull. they had fantasies of princes, and he was closer to it than i."

deeply and tenderly, he kisses you again. "it only means i won't have to fight anyone to call you mine." he brushes his thumb over your lips. "that suits me just fine. i was never the fighting sort."

he sits up on your lap, thighs bracketing yours. his bare feet tuck beneath him under his knees. when his palm grazes the front of your trousers, your breath hitches in your chest, and taehyung gives you a soft, if coy, grin. "i'll be gentle," he promises. he tugs slightly on the laces of the waist. "may i?"

mutely, you nod, your words sinking into the whirling depths of his eyes. his deft fingers undo the laces with ease and he pulls the thick cloth down your waist, tracing the vee of your hips with a pleased breath. he reaches in, lifting his gaze to gauge your expression. your chest rises and falls rapidly, and your knuckles are tensed on the chaise's armrest. the other arm is tucked tightly by your side.

"don't be nervous," he whispers, stroking you gently in your trousers. it twitches in his palm. "place your hands on my waist, darling. good. very good."

hesitantly, your hands graze his hips, sliding up to grip his slender waist. you splay a hand beside his waist, measuring it against him with fascination. he is slim and lovely… like the city nobles' soft-palmed daughters. you had noticed his hands during supper but hadn't the room to mull over them then, though now you do. they are square, masculine, but slender and fine-veined. his nails are clean and cut short, with a thin crescent of white at the ends.

he could not have been more perfect if he tried.

he slides his fist up to the tip of your cock, rubbing his thumb against the slit and the smooth skin. you are mostly soft, but still impressive – the number of taehyung's clandestine trysts have lent him a certain experience when it comes to men.

you have reinforced your place as his favourite.

"i see why they call you a bull," he says slyly, squeezing your shaft as his fist sinks down on it. "they just don't know how to tame you."

your face floods with heat as you stutter meaninglessly. your grip tightens on taehyung's hips and a single slant of a thought marvels at how delicate he feels in your palms.

"be still, my darling," he murmurs, "and be at ease. you are no longer at war. you can close your eyes and hold me without fear. nothing will happen unless we want it to."

his voice, like syrup, melts the frantic whirlwind of thoughts in your head. you cannot help but want to believe him. "you make it sound so simple. i want to believe you."

"why can't it be?" he tilts his head, glancing down and stroking you contentedly. he swipes his thumb over the slit, where a bead of precome bubbles. oil – from a small bottle you only now spot in taehyung's palm – smooths each stroke of your shaft. "the world is so complicated. affection can afford to be simple."

he lets go for a moment to step back, sliding his trousers down his hips and calves and tossing them aside on the chaise. he flicks his dark hair and tucks a lock over his ear as he reassumes his place on your lap, pressing his chest against yours and tugging your cock to throb against the curve of his ass. the silk of his white shirt is cool and light against your hot skin.

his lips ghost over the shell of your ear as his hips roll languidly. he whispers, "do you want this?"

do you want more? the question is unasked, but you hear it anyway.

"i do, yes. please," you reply immediately, your voice rough with desire. your hands trail over his hips and tuck beneath the long hem of his shirt to caress his warm, creamy thighs, a feeling that traps your breath in your throat. you force out a sigh, shaky, and rest your forehead against taehyung's shoulder. he hushes you and cups the back of your head, reaching with his other hand behind himself to ease you inside his warmth.

taehyung's head tips back with a slow exhale, shuddering as you pulse with heat inside of him. he watches you closely, committing to memory the way your brows pinch and your mouth falls open as your grasp tightens, trembling, around his waist.

"do you like that?" he whispers, breathy. he bounces shallowly, grinding his hips into yours. "how do you feel?"

"good," you choke out through a groan. your hand slides down to the dip in his back, trying not to seem too eager as it cups his ass. "oh, fuck…"

"don't hold back for me," he murmurs, hips quickening. he moans in surprise as you buck up into him, thighs meeting his ass. the slap of your balls against his ass is obscene, and he scrambles to cling onto your shoulders for balance.

"wait – wait, wait," he gasps, lashes fluttering as your cock kisses that spot inside of him that burns pleasure through his guts.

you stop immediately, sliding your hand up his side. "i'm sorry! are you alright?"

he huffs a laugh, panting softly, and nods. "you're injured, darling. don't waste the good work we put into putting you back together. sit back – i will take care of you, understand?"

"a-ah…" your face burns with heat. "all right. whatever milord desires."

"very good." he presses down on your hips gently, his hands between his thighs. he lifts himself off of your cock until only the tip rests against his hole, then sinks down on it in one smooth motion. a strangled noise escapes your throat as you scramble to hold onto him. his heat grips your shaft like a vice, gummy walls clamping down around you with each drop of his hips.

he moans when your fingers dig into the sensitive skin of his hips, sweat gathering in the small of his back. the fireplace crackles softly, the air warm and sweet with the smell of sex.

he gathers his shirt in his hands about his ribs, revealing his dusky cock, swollen with need. he takes your hand and curls your fingers around his shaft, his eyes fluttering and lips parting as you tighten it. your callused palms drag deliciously against his veins and he grips your wrist with a soft groan, bouncing on your lap in such a way that he thrusts into the warm tunnel of your fist.

carefully, you stroke his cock, cautious about rubbing raw or tearing his skin. wealthy boys are a different breed – so much softer, easier to hurt. the smell of him, sweet and musky, hangs in the air around him, enveloping you when he draws close – crushed petals, herbs, leaves. it seems foreign, or at least the mixture does, for you cannot quite place your finger on it – then again, what do you know of luxuries like this?

"you are doing well," taehyung praises, gasping as you flick the head of his cock with your thumb. "oh, yes… f-fast learner, hm? oh!"

a jerk of your hips has him jolting forward, his cock spurting a sudden white rope onto your stomach. he purrs, bracing against your chest and slamming his hips down on your cock to slicken him with your pleasure. it works, and he seems unduly proud of himself when your cock throbs and leaks, forming a white ring around the hilt that thickens with each bounce of his ass.

"milord – milord," you gasp, a tiny pathetic noise that does not match your appearance, "please – i'm—"

"let go," he demands, a breathy moan escaping his lips. he closes his eyes and lets out a punched groan as your cock carves into his insides, deeper than any other man had ever touched. his reddened cock throbs, slit pouring precome over his belly and thighs. the pleasure curls around his thoughts, his head spinning from it, and he feels your stomach tense under his palms.

you spill into him with a deep, satisfied growl, head tipping back as he arches against you. your hips roll up against his and the coil tightening in his belly snaps at the sight of you so wrecked from so little. he cries out, ropes of white streaking across your shirt, and his hips stutter and roll, milking your pleasure for his own like a succubus. he presses his ass into your lap, white teeth sinking into his plump lower lip, and his eyes roll as the thick warmth fills him up to the brim.

at last, he slumps against your chest, thighs trembling and tensing as he hums softly into your neck. he buries his nose in the soft, warm skin, and cups your cheek to place a soft kiss on the corner of your jaw.

"mm… good," he purrs, smiling with tender satisfaction. "i – i shall bring you to your… mm… room. it is just down the hall from my own... should you wish to see me, you only need to knock." his breath hitches as he raises his hips slowly, hole twitching around your shaft, and when it pops out, a steady stream of come leaks from him, staining his tanned skin. he sighs, closing his eyes to the slowing of your heartbeat. "but i think i will stay here for a time, if you don't mind. just until i – until i regain feeling and control of my legs."

"is that… is that normal?" you ask, a tiny panting tremor in your voice. "to lose feeling like that?"

taehyung laughs into your neck, eyes crinkling. "sometimes, when i feel overwhelmed. it is no fault of yours – you are just… big. don't worry. i liked it."

he shifts in your lap to get comfortable but pauses as something pokes his thigh. a sly smile spreads across his fine features, his fingers lifting to trace your jaw and tip your gaze to his own. he purrs, "is that for me, love? excited again?"

you gulp, unable to tear your stare from his despite the embarrassment clawing at your throat. "i – i…"

"handsome and energetic. i'm a lucky man." he laughs softly, reaching behind himself and groping your hard cock with a low moan. "i myself have been told i'm rather voracious. perhaps you will be the first to keep up with me."

he lowers himself on your cock, head tipping back as he teases himself with the thick head. his dick twitches.

"what say you to a change of scenery?" he asks coyly, perfectly content with your ragged-breath silence. every word you might have said disintegrates on your tongue when he turns around, arching his back and pinning your cock to your stomach. shining precome smears along the cleft of his ass.

his body, carved out of shadows by the fire, rocks and rolls like a ship in the harbour when all its crew are asleep. with an encouraging smile, he takes your hands and places them on his hips, pressing on them to guide you to control his body. he hums softly as you squeeze his hips and spread his asscheeks, your breath shaky as he angles his messy hole against your leaking tip.

he watches your face with gentle eyes as he sinks down on your cock, his warm, wet hole swallowing up your shaft like he was made for it. you jump slightly when his ass firmly meets your lap, taking you hungrily until the hilt, and if he were a lesser man, your expression alone would have been enough to tip him over the edge. he sears every line of your face, every edge and plane, into the backs of his eyelids. it will make for fine company on lonely nights.

you speak for the first time in a while. "p-please…" you whisper hoarsely, blunt nails digging into his smooth, unmarred skin, leaving crescent moons in your wake. "please, move."

"ah, but you are badly hurt… i must take my time with you. mustn't alert the servants, either, for they'd certainly report to my father what they've seen." taehyung giggles to himself, gnawing on his lower lip in an effort to subdue his grin. he grinds down into your lap in circles, relishing in the pleasured, impatient groans that escape your throat. "he'd toss you out in an instant, and we cannot have that! i haven't yet had my fill of you."

"a-are you always so… playful with your men, taehyung?" you ask, voice slightly strained. you watch your cock vanish into him, over and over again. the sound that is made when he bounces on your lap is obscene and filthy. your heart stirs with desire.

"mmh – no. my past conquests have not been as – as alluring as you," he gasps, wrapping his hand around his throbbing cock, thumb rubbing circles over the ridge of his tip. "mostly, they bore me. you, however – you're more than a cock i can use to please myself, if i may speak so crudely."

"i – ah – th-think i should be grateful, then…?" you reply uncertainly.

"yes. unless, of course, you enjoy that sort of game… but tonight is about simplicity," he breathes, his skin tingling where your rough palms glide over his thighs, soft as cream. "we have only so long until the sun rises and the servants wake. i want to spend that time with you – learning your homeland's ballads and epics, your favourite flower, where i can touch to make you melt…"

he looses an airy laugh as your grip tightens on his waist, his shirt folded up between your fingers to reveal the curve of his spine and ass. you drag him down onto your cock roughly and he keens, eyes rolling back briefly. "ooh, y-you like that, don't you? ah—!"

already he is so sensitive. nowhere else has he felt pleasure like this – where his body is treated as more than a means to an end. he had been completely content with that when he entered this library, agreeable to the idea that you might like him only for what he can give you. but he swears – he swears on the old gods and the new – that the way you press your nose into the curve of his neck, the way you stroke him thin and thick tight and loose – caring, properly, for his own high – means your attraction is more than fleeting.

years of ending up alone in empty beds have made him soft. lonely. desperate. perhaps he is reading into things too deeply, as he always does – poor boy, always a poet. the backs of his eyes sting with hot tears as his tightly-controlled leash snaps, making him cry out, writhe, and shudder, knees and elbows buckling under the weight of his orgasm.

you catch him in your arms before he can slip, pulling him backwards towards your chest. it is warm, your throat shining with sweat, and he can feel the burning fever of your body through your clothes. still, you do not let go, push him away – you cradle him close, your heart thudding through your ribcage and into his own.

one of your hands tugs languidly at his cock, milking his pleasure from him. you watch quietly as it spills over your knuckles, your lips pressed against his sweat-slick shoulder, and help him lift his hips off of your cock.

for the first time in what feels like hours, taehyung takes a deep, full breath of air. he cups your face in a hand and smiles, wide and content.

"i didn't believe you could be more beautiful," you murmur, words slightly clipped at the end from a lack of breath. "i've never been happier to be wrong."

he opens his eyes with a flutter of lashes, pleasantly surprised. "haven't i already let you take me?"

"what do you mean?" you ask with a frown, tilting your head. your thoughts are foggy with warm laziness. the fire's heat does not help. "taehyung?"

the sound of his name almost startles him. he sits up, and a pleasurable ache sparks up his spine. he sucks in a deep breath. "you really… truly think that of me?"

you blink slowly, like a cat, and the fire's flames dance in your eyes. "i am a simple soldier. lies are above a man like me."

"you're more than that," he replies immediately, turning around on your lap to face you properly. "if you were just a soldier, you would have died on that battlefield. forgive me, but you had all the time to die on your way down the river. still, you survived." his voice softens, and he fiddles with your collar, straightening it and folding it down. "i am glad you did. i am glad to have met you."

"ah…" gently, you tug his shirt down, allowing him the return of some of his dignity, though he does not seem to care. "that reminds me – i shouldn't waste much time here. i should report to the general."

"for what?" taehyung scoffs, and it sounds… hurt. he glances away. "am i so repugnant you would rather march thirty miles a day in mud-soaked boots than stay here with me?"

"no!" you protest, sitting up as best you can with the growing ache in your side. you had been too caught up in the moment to remember it, and now your body reminds you jealously. "t'ain't that, taehyung. you are intelligent and kind and if we were in my homeland, i wouldn't hesitate to ask your hand. but surely you have a girl you're supposed to marry?"

"no, not at the moment. despite what he says, my father still grieves my mother. it will be a while yet before he'll allow another woman into the house." he traces shapes into your skin. "i will free you from the servitude of the evil king who bound you, and together, princess and dragon will live freely, with the wind in their hair and the sun on their backs."

at first, you smile at the newfound softness of his voice, but freeze. "free… of servitude?"

taehyung watches you, draping his legs over the other side of the armchair, kicking his feet lazily. his eyes are dark and watchful. "as i know it, the king's oath swears that you are only relieved of your duty when you give your blood for his and fall in battle against his enemies. have you not satisfied these requirements?"

"i may be no scholar, but i'm near certain that to 'fall in battle' means to die in it."

"have you not satisfied these requirements?" he repeats, firmer. "our doctors and priests said you were dead when i brought you to them. they said you may have been alive when i found you, but somewhere between the riverbank and their stone table marked the spot where you died. as they proclaimed this, you coughed again, and nobody could deny me this time when i said you were very clearly alive."

"you are telling me that i died… and returned? like a saint?" you ask sceptically.

"i only tell you what our doctors told me."

for a while, you are silent. determination creases taehyung's brow, and you cannot hold in the disbelieving laugh that erupts from you, though it morphs into a groan of pain in the middle. taehyung sits up and presses his palm to your cheek, his eyes so vivid and certain.

"you have already died, and thus retain no obligations to the crown," he whispers. his gaze scours your face. "you are free. free to stay here. live here…"

with me.

your heart drops into your stomach. you grip his waist, shifting in the velvet chaise. "i'm…"

"agree. agree to it. even if i cannot bear your children, we will sleep in the same bed, take walks in the wheat fields, eat and drink every meal together. you won't fear for your life every day. and as soon as the war ends and they open the trade routes to your home, i shall book passage on a ship and take you there. you may stay, if you wish. i won't deny you."

"then why offer at all?" you ask quietly. "if you think i'll leave you the moment i can, why would you even try?"

"i can hope, can i not? by all accounts our kings have no desire to cease any time soon. perhaps you will learn to love me in time." he smiles, faint, and averts his gaze. "otherwise, i will be glad to help another soul. you will survive the war and return to your family, whole and healthy. out here, away from people, i have little chance to do something so good and noble."

"and if i grow restless? if i want to do something with my hands?"

he tilts his head thoughtfully. "how is your aim?"

"fair, i s'pose. haven't missed when it's important."

"the lord's hunter grows old," he proclaims. "he can teach you what he knows, and if you like, you may take up the title once he can no longer ride and shoot. besides that, there is always work to be done in the fields and granary – perhaps you'll find some comfort in the farms?"

you think about it, long and hard. in essence you would be a prisoner at his beck and call, though if taehyung tells the truth and is as earnest as he appears, perhaps you'll find freedom and enough work to fill your days with…

you give your answer, and taehyung's smile is like the sun.

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cherryredlove · 3 months ago

Text

☆ bad girls get punished ☆

Modern! au Gwayne Hightower x reader SMUT

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

You and bestie Aegon are proper party freaks. Your life is a glittering rollerocaster of whiskey, cigs, and banging tunes. So when Aegon invites you to his ancestral home for the summer, why are you so attracted to his highbrow uncle?

Word Count: 2.1k

Themes: SMUT, 18+, alcohol consumption, cigarettes, older man x younger woman, spanking, p in v, domination kink, praise, hair pulling kink, creampie

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

When your number 1 bestie (he'd gut you if you said otherwise) Aegon Targaryen first invited you to spend the summer with him at Dragonstone Manor, you were skeptical. Aegon was your best friend, a proper party freak like you, always up for a good time. He'd been there through everything, every shitty breakup, every hangover nursed with a takeaway.

You were the hottest students at Blackwater University and by Gods did you two know it.

Spending a summer with Aegon promised excitement, but there was something about leaving the familiar chaos of city life for the unknown allure of his ancestral home of Dragonstone that made you pause.

Yet, here you were, standing at the grand entrance of Dragonstone Manor, gazing at its ancient stone walls that seemed to tower into the sky, trying not to throw up from nerves. You could handle a rave, but meeting family was a different story.

Aegon bounded up the steps ahead of you, his platinum hair shining in the sunlight, and pushed open the large oak doors. You thanked the Gods he was chiller than you were right now.

"Welcome to Dragonstone, babe," he declared with a cheeky grin. "The place is a bit stuffy, but it grows on you. Wait till you meet my family. They're gonna love you."

The manor was as grand inside as you had imagined, with its sprawling hallways and majestic portraits lining the walls. You were introduced to Aegon’s mother, Alicent, who pecked both of your cheeks rather formally. You already knew Aemond from several nights out, and Daeron and Helaena seemed intrigued by the idea of Aegon’s infamous friend joining them for the summer.

But it was Gwayne Hightower, Alicent's brother, Aegon’s uncle, who caught your attention more than anyone else. He stood slightly behind the crowd in the hallway.

Tall, impeccably dressed, with an air of authority that made everyone around him stand a little straighter, Gwayne was dashingly handsome in a classic sort of way. His eyes seemed to appraise you with a besmused curiosity, and you felt slightly tingly under his heavy gaze.

“Ah, so you’re the famous companion we’ve heard so much about,” he said, his voice smooth and rich, like a well-aged whiskey. You crumbled inside a bit. Older men were your weakness.

You flashed a winning smile, suddenly aware of the heat creeping up your neck. “And you must be the uncle Aegon's been warning me about.”

His lips twitched with a smirk, his gaze never wavering. “I assure you, the stories are greatly exaggerated.”

The days at Dragonstone slipped by in a haze of sunlit afternoons spent in the pool, endless nights drinking the finest of wines and sampling Aemond's cigar collection. Aegon was right—his family was incredible, and it wasn’t long before you felt like you belonged. Gwayne, however, remained a mystery to you. He was always polite, always courteous, but there was an edge to his interactions with you that you couldn't quite place.

Your mind often wandered to him, especially during those long, lazy evenings where you’d find him reclining in a leather armchair in the manor’s library, a book in one hand, a glass of some expensive amber liquid in the other. He seemed amused by your antics with Aegon, his eyes glinting with a knowing that left you rather flustered.

One particularly sultry evening, Aegon suggested a trip to Dragonstone nightclub, a renowned hotspot in the manor's adjacent town.

“You up for it?” Aegon asked, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

You grinned. “Always.”

Sneaking out of the manor was no small feat, but you and Aegon were experts at slipping past watchful eyes. The club was everything you expected and more—loud music, pulsating lights, and a throng of people moving in rhythm to the DJ’s beats. You lost yourselves to the night, wrapped up in the freedom that only a place like this could offer. You kept it light on the drinking but indulged in wandering the streets at night, arm in arm with Aegon, cigarette dangling from your lips.

But as the hours passed and Aegon started yawning, then you both knew it was time to head back. Aegon, ever the responsible one when it came to these outings, guided you back to the manor with a practised stealth.

You giggled softly as you crept through the darkened halls, your heart racing not from fear of getting caught but from the thrill of it all. Yet, as you turned a corner, you stopped short. Standing at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, and gaze piercing, was Gwayne.

Next to him stood Alicent, looking less than amused. Her eyes softened when they landed on Aegon, a hint of disappointment mingling with fondness.

“Aegon,” she sighed, “we’ve talked about this.”

Aegon rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry, mummy.” He glanced at you with a helpless smile. You smiled reassuringly back.

With a firm hand, she steered him away, leaving you alone with Gwayne. You stood there, feeling like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

Gwayne watched you, his expression unreadable, though there was a gleam in his eyes that spoke volumes. He moved forward slowly, shoes clicking on the floor. You felt your heart rate speed up a tad.

“Looks like you’re not as elusive as you thought,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone.

You shrugged, trying to muster up some semblance of nonchalance. “Guess we got a bit carried away.”

He stepped closer, the warmth of his presence enveloping you, sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine. There was something different about him now, something that promised a departure from the composed exterior he usually presented.

“Carried away indeed,” he mused, his gaze fixed intently on you. His voice was so deep and firm that you felt yourself shiver with need. “And just what... do you suppose we do about that?"

You swallowed, the playful bravado you had so easily maintained with Aegon slipping away in the face of Gwayne’s intensity. The air between you crackled with an unspoken tension, a magnetic pull that left you breathless.

“I suppose,” you started, your voice a touch unsteady, “a punishment is in order?”

A slow, delighted smile spread across his face, one that promised danger. He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’d say that’s fair.”

Without another word, he grasped your hand hard, and he led you through the dimly lit halls to his study, a room you had only glimpsed from afar. The door clicked shut behind you, the sound echoing like a heartbeat in the silence.

He moved closer, the rich scent of his cologne mingling with the aged aroma of whiskey, a heady combination that made you feel lightheaded.

“You’re quite the little rebel, aren’t you?” he remarked, hands reaching up to rest on your shoulders.

You met his gaze, a challenge sparking within you. “Only when I have a reason to be.”

He chuckled, a low, indulgent sound that reverberated through you. “And tonight? Was it worth it?”

Every part of you screamed yes, your pussy thrumming with want and your body aching to be touched. You nodded, unable to trust your voice, knowing full well that he could read you like a book.

Gwayne moved fluidly, almost predatory, closing the distance between you with deliberate intent, lips finding yours swiftly. Your knees weakened at his domineering kiss. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek, tracing a path down to your jaw.

“You’ve been quite the distraction since you arrived,” he confessed, his voice a low rumble that rasied goosebumps across your skin.

His touch was electrifying. You leaned into it, admitting silently that you felt the same pull, the same allure that had drawn you to him from the start.

“Distraction?” you managed, the word a whisper in the charged air.

“Indeed,” he replied, his thumb brushing lightly across your bottom lip. “One I find myself increasingly unwilling to ignore.”

He kissed you again then, a sudden, searing press of lips that left you gasping and wanting more. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as you responded with equal fervour, the world around you fading as the kiss deepened, igniting a fire within that had been smouldering since your first encounter. You moaned helplessly into his hot mouth, and he laughed.

His lips trailed a path down your neck, each kiss a brand that marked you as his. You arched against him, a soft moan escaping your lips as he nipped at the sensitive skin, his hands exploring with a confidence that left you breathless. He bit down onto your tender skin and you felt tears welling at your desperation.

"Please!" You gasped. "Touch me!" He clicked his tongue.

"Patience, girl. You've been so naughty, do you think you deserve my cock?" His words sent your cheeks flaming. He was obviously amused at your wordless arousal. He gripped you tight and walked you over to his armchair. He sat down , leaving you to stand in between his legs, shaking slightly. He rubbed your thighs, as if you calm you

"Now, my girl," he said softly but firmly. "You said you needed a punishment. Lie down across my legs with that delicious ass in the air." Your eyes widened, and you followed his command without question.

He lifted up your skirt and pulled down your panties, making a noise of approval as you mewled for attention. Hands kneaded your ass, and you could feel the hardness of his cock press into your stomach.

Before you could open your mouth, he spanked you hard, making you lurch slightly and cry out. His hands smoothed over the reddened skin.

"Naughty girl. Do you know how much I've had to restrain myself? Seeing you prance around these halls with those gorgeous tits and your short skirts? How many times I've imagined how that pretty face would look as I made you cum?" He rumbled, striking your ass again. You could feel the sharp tingle of a bruise and the wetness between your thighs.

"Gwayne!" You cried out, hands gripping the armchair. "Please, please, I'm sorry for being a bad girl. I'll be good for you, I promise!"

Gwayne tutted in agreement, sliding a finger through your soaked pussy lips. You kneened at the touch, begging for more.

"Oh you little thing," he sighed heavily with lust. "I'll make you all mine, my good girl."

He lifted you up, helping you walk with wobbly legs over to his desk. You gave no resistance as he bent you over, shucking your top off and unzipping his trousers. He leant down, pressing himself against your back. You felt his hot, lengthy cock press between your asscheeks.

He grasped your jaw, turning your head to kiss you aggressively. You moaned, grinding your ass back to him.

"So eager, such a good girl." He gasped out, nudging his cock into your soaked pussy. A hand reached down to circle your clit as he thrusted into you. Both of you moaned at how good it felt. Gwayne seemed struck by how tight your pussy squeezed his cock, so warm and wet. You felt fuller than ever, feeling his heavy balls slap against your pussy as he fucked you.

Gwayne’s other hand was pressed against the small of your back, watching how your ass shook as he fucked you hard and fast. He reached up, twisting your hair in his fist and pulling, not enough to hurt but enough to make your pussy blaze. You arched your back, mouth open in a silent moan, feeling his cock rut against your sweet insides. His breath was hot and heavy on your neck. Gwayne bit onto your neck, your hands scratching the oak of the desk as you felt your orgasm rise up in your battered pussy.

"Cum for me, my good girl," he rasped. "Cum for me and I'll give you a reward. I'll fill up that little pussy the way you want, little slut." You mewled, his finger insistent on your clit. Without warning, Gwayne ripped an orgasm from you, making your pussy squeeze him in an anaconda like grip as he gasped. He moaned loudly, thrusting in fully to cum, filling up your pussy with white hot cum. He collapsed on top of you, panting, as your head swam with pleasure.

Gwayne managed to right himself up, pulling you into his arms. He held you for a very long time, kissing you gently and softly praising you.

Gwayne watched you, his gaze soft yet intense, as if memorising every detail. His fingers brushed idly against your cheek.

“Well,” he murmured, a teasing smile playing on his lips, “consider your punishment complete.”

You laughed softly. “If that’s what punishment feels like, I might have to misbehave more often.”

• • • • • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • • • •

AN: yummy yummy gwayne hightower, check out my masterlist for stuff like this! send in any feedback or request as always lovies

#modern house of the dragon #modern gwayne hightower x reader #modern gwayne hightower #gwayne hightower x reader #gwayne hightower #modern gwayne hightower x reader smut #gwayne hightower smut #gwayne hightower x reader smut

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feyascorner · 7 months ago

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11 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. In his honest opinion, the artist who drew your portrait should be fired, even if he’s no expert in the arts. Your softer features are far too sharp, and your sharper features are far too soft, in what he supposes is an effort to ‘enhance’ your appearance, but now it just looks plain uncanny. They also forgot to take into account the scars of battle on your skin, a part of your hair that he remembers sticking out more, the sheepishness of your smile looking straight at the painter, the two puncture wounds on your neck…

Ah. He wonders if you still have those. The last time he saw them, they’d nearly faded. And nowadays, you make it a point to keep your neck tucked under your collar, which leaves everything to his imagination.

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. it's been a while! this isn't the longest of chapter but it's to kick my creative juices back into gear :) thank you sm for your patience friends <3

He knows he hasn’t returned your cloak yet. Unfortunately for you, Astarion has taken a special liking to the dull fabric.

Despite its dreary grey shade and the tears from being worn relentlessly, it’s of surprisingly good quality. It’s the only reason it's survived this long, he reasons, and also why the sun can never pierce through its sewing job and burn into his own skin.

When he felt the tadpole leave him, he thought he would never see the sunlit streets of Baldur’s Gate again. But this cloak of yours has brought him a new sense of freedom he hadn’t had before—free of Cazador, free of an unwelcome visitor in his skull, free of the looming fear of death…and most importantly, free of his fear of the sun.

Being “stuck” in your home has given him too much time. Too much aimless staring at a book he’s already read four times over. Moreover, the others have become somewhat accustomed to his presence again…meaning some (Gale, specifically) don’t mind leaving Astarion by himself. And as much as he hates admitting it, Astarion would rather Gale’s incessant lectures rather than the boring silence you leave behind at the break of dawn.

An outing or two couldn’t hurt, surely.

So he embarks. Where to, he doesn’t know. But he leaves the house, making sure to lock the door behind him when he remembers how Shadowheart had scolded you for the mistake of not doing so. It’s not that he’s afraid of the cleric, of course. He’s a damn vampire, for heaven’s sake. He’s only being cautious.

The cloak makes it feel as if he were in an oven, especially with the weather becoming more sunny by the day, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when he’s finally standing in the middle of a bustling street, staring unblinkingly while others rush past him, all seemingly having a place to be. A newspaper boy here, a maid there, a circus performer somewhere there. He suddenly feels surrounded by too much life, and it’s not much help when he begins noticing fleeting glances in his direction. Wearing a thick winter cloak in the middle of the summer isn’t exactly common, after all.

“Baldur’s Mouth? They just started printing papers again, if you’d like a peek.”

Astarion glances down at the newspaper boy with squinted eyes, and his voice sounds snarkier than intended—not that he cares. “Who in the hells would pay two silvers for a newspaper that sucked up to Gortash just a few months ago? Does anyone really pay for this abomination?”

The boy frowns, crossing his arms. “If you didn’t want one, you could’ve just said so.”

“Really? Your incessant yelling around the market says otherwise,” Astarion snatches one of the papers, much to the boy’s distaste. He eyes the front cover for a split moment before realizing the very front page has a supposed ‘Exclusive Interview from the Hero of Baldur’s Gate! Never seen before!’

He finds himself reading.

“Mister, if you’re going to read, you have to pay!”

Though Astarion gives him a sharp glare that has the boy swallowing the lump in his throat, he relents, tossing one silver coin in his direction. Not without a click of his tongue, however, and the coin lands in the boy’s palms with a plop. “It’s two silvers.”

“I’m fully aware, don’t worry.”

The Baldur’s Mouth is full of cheap stories, surely paid off by its snotty writer as always, but Astarion acknowledges improvement where it’s due. Gortash’s death must’ve struck some sort of moral chord in the newspaper because a few of its columns are filled with mundane updates on the rebuilding of the city, even if they don’t provide as much entertainment as it surely could’ve if they stretched a few truths. He doesn’t read much into them, though, because he’s soon found himself a corner in Elfsong Tavern where he’s practically boring holes into the damn paper. The cover, specifically.

In his honest opinion, the artist who drew your portrait should be fired, even if he’s no expert in the arts. Your softer features are far too sharp, and your sharper features are far too soft, in what he supposes is an effort to ‘enhance’ your appearance, but now it just looks plain uncanny. They also forgot to take into account the scars of battle on your skin, a part of your hair that he remembers sticking out more, the sheepishness of your smile looking straight at the painter, the two puncture wounds on your neck…

He wonders if you’re ashamed of them as he’s ashamed of the ones on his own neck.

Astarion tears his attention away from your portrait and resumes reading the actual paper.

The questions the interviewer asks are laughable, almost. They’re painfully boring or painfully intrusive, with nothing in between, resulting in awkward short answers or whatever filler the writer put in place of your answer. Half your words, at the very least, must’ve been altered, as they don’t sound much like you.

One question catches his eye.

‘So what does the hero of Baldur’s Gate plan to do after the city is rebuilt?’

Astarion lifts the paper closer to his face.

‘’This city is my home…but I don’t think I could stay here any longer than I have to. I’ve made some precious memories here, but I’ve also made ones that I’d rather move on from. People I want to move on from. For that reason, as much as I love this city, I’d have to embark for elsewhere.’’

His eyes widen. You’re leaving? When the hells did you decide that?

‘Truly a sad day for the citizens to see their beloved bard leaving. Knowing our readers must be curious as to what their next step is, we made sure to discuss more on this matter.’

‘’Where will I go? I mean…I guess I’d just wander. Explore. Faerun is a vast continent. I’m sure I’ll have plenty to do. Plenty of people to meet.’’

Astarion’s gaze reaches the end of the page. The rest of the sentences babble on in flowery language praising you, which he doesn’t even bother reading before shoving the newspaper into one of the pockets of your cloak. He’s not sure if he would’ve preferred simply not reading the damn paper, but he tells himself that this is an improvement. A reason for celebration, even! Without you, he won’t have to tiptoe around the city any longer, nor will you need to worry about having to continue a months-long argument with him.

This is exactly what the two of you need. Space. For a while. Maybe forever. He stares at the beer stains on the table. Forever sounds like a long time, even if it’s only a few years to him and the rest of your life to you.

Forever sounds too long, yet not long enough.

He’s always wanted to be immortal. Even before he’d grown fangs and his eyes turned red. Sure, the path he took to get here…left a lot to be desired, but with Cazador gone, he supposes it’s not so bad, being a vampire—-besides the whole ‘not-being-able-to-see-the-sun’ fiasco. Sure, he has nightmares every other night about his time spent under his master, but without him, he’s essentially invincible as long as he doesn’t find a cleric who specializes in radiant magic. Sure, wine tastes like vinegar. Sure, he has to wear this suffocating cloak everywhere, but is it really so bad?

He sighs. It could be worse. He could be dead, for all he knows. Actually, dead.

Astarion stands to leave. This damn tavern is even more suffocating than his cloak, especially filled with patrons already half passed out from booze before noon. There’s a reason why he’s always preferred wine over whatever’s filling their cups.

He paces toward the door, but just as he’s halfway there, it swings open. And much to his horror stands a familiar cleric who nearly chucked a fork into his eye just this morning.

“Shadowheart,” the bartender smiles, ceasing his hand midway, polishing a cup. “What brings you here this morning?”

She certainly won’t miss her mark this time if she sees him out in public.

Astarion immediately turns on his heel and heads for the stairs. He practically shoves through multiple patrons in the process, but he manages to get there just as Shadowheart joins Alan at the bar, her arms looped around two large fabric bags as she greets him. They’re just within earshot, even as the spawn scrambles to get upstairs. “Just picking up our attire for the celebration and your tavern was on the way back. My friends and I do apologize for our inconsistent appearances…”

He doesn’t wait to hear the rest of their conversation because he’s already trying the doors to each of the rooms to figure another way out of the building. Most doors are locked shut, but there’s one he tries that slides right open.

Much to his distaste, it’s occupied.

He slams the door back shut just as the woman shrieks.

He peeks out the window. He could jump down, technically, but there are far too many people on the street in broad daylight to go unnoticed. And if there were to be a commotion, no doubt the damn cleric would come rushing out, thinking it’s another attack. So, instead of returning downstairs, he opts for the ladder leading to the rooftop, higher up into the building.

The warm air of the summer breeze hits him like an axe to the face.

Still, he climbs out, grateful to even managed to have escaped the same room as Shadowheart. Thank the heavens. And for a moment, he thinks he’s alone, until there’s another shrill voice rushing at him.

“There you are, Tav! I’ve waited days to see you here agai—" the tiefling stops, her smile dropping. "You’re not Tav.”

Way to state the obvious.

Clearly, he wants to spit back. But he’s too occupied trying to figure out why she looks so familiar to do so. He merely squints at her, which some might consider rude, but she doesn't seem to mind at all. Noticing his confusion, she blinks. “Wait, you’re Tav’s friend!”

Friend. He hasn’t been considered your friend in a long while.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on house arrest?” she tilts her head. “Did you maybe make up with Tav?”

Ah. You must’ve told her about his—peculiar arrangement.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Alfira. We met at the grove and Last Light Inn, didn’t we?” she offers him a smile, which he doesn’t return. She doesn’t wait for an answer either. “I wasn’t expecting you here…Did Tav send you?”

Astarion scrunches his nose as she squints at him, hands on either of her hips as she gauges how he seems to sink further into your cloak, hesitating to kiss the sun’s radiant glow. She doesn’t seem to think much of it, though, as she taps her foot impatiently. “Well?”

“I—yes,” is all his damn brain can spit out.

“Oh,” her face softens, and a soft small stretches across her lips. How gullible. It wasn’t even a particularly good lie. “You should’ve just said so. In that case, I must ask you how they’re doing…I haven’t seen them in weeks. Are they well? Have they started reading up on my lyrics? Have they got a message for me? Ah, scratch those, where are they right now?”

Hells. He’s already itching to jump off the roof.

“Does your head ever implode with all those questions racked inside of it?” he grumbles. “And I’m afraid I don’t know half the answers. Sorry to disappoint.”

Alfira’s shoulders relax as she leans back on her heel, eyes falling to her shoes before she looks back up. “...Well, that’s a shame. Then, what brings you here?”

This time, he’s prepared.

“Seeing the state you’re in, my appearance was warranted. They only wished for me to ensure they’re doing well. It’s a busy time of year, you see, and they haven’t had the time to indulge your—-outings up here.”

“That’s good to hear.”

An awkward silence hangs in the air like a deathtrap, and he wishes he could say something—anything else about what you’ve been up to, but it comes up empty. It’s not like the two of you are on terms to sit down and have a chat every week over tea, but he’s not sure if he knows any more about what you’re doing than this bard standing right before him. You don’t play music anymore. You don’t frequent the bars as much as you used to. You don’t do a lot of things anymore. But what do you do?

It irks him: not knowing, that is.

He only realizes moments later that the bard has been talking this entire time.

“---and I’d really appreciate it if you could take it to them. I can’t imagine anyone else using it as well as they did,” she reaches behind her bag perched against the stair rails, and lifts something in his direction. He’d be a fool not to recognize it anywhere. It’s a pretty thing, the lyre. Your lyre. “I don’t know how I managed to find this at the market, but I like to think it’s fate. Tell them it’s a gift for helping with my songs.”

Astarion stares at the instrument. He runs the tips of his fingers against its familiar strings, taking note of indents he’s all too familiar with and the chips from months running in the wild. The last time he’d held it like this, it felt like it brought him closer to you. Now, it only feels like the cold dead wood it is.

“Were you looking for it?”

“No. Like I said, it must be fate.”

How cheesy.

His lips quirk downward even further, if that’s even possible, as he narrows in on a multitude of new dents and cracks in the wood. The lyre is yours, without a doubt, but it’s clearly seen a different level of care than what you would’ve given it even while fighting to the death. He glares at a particular blemish, and Alfira sighs.

“It’s seen better times, I know. But I’m sure they’d appreciate it even if it’s not how they left it.”

Wouldn’t you? No. He doesn’t know if you’d appreciate it. Why would you? You don’t even play the damn thing anymore, much less produce any music. He contemplates just tossing the object, but the second Alfira sees the glint of hesitation in his eyes, she pounces, shaking her head.

“Please,” she pleads. “Give it to them.”

His brows pinch.

And because he doesn’t want to entertain this tiefling any longer than he has to, and because he’d much rather get out of the sun and no other reason, he huffs. “Fine. I will.”

The smile she gives him doesn’t prompt him to do the same.

Months prior, he could see himself in the reflection of the gloss glazing over the wood. At least, that’s what he thinks because he could see your own expressions reflecting off it when you played it in the sun. It doesn’t hold a glow anymore, much less a reflection.

The lyre weighs heavily in his hands.

“I won’t pry,” Alfira says. “They never really told me what happened between the two of you…I respect your privacy, so I won’t ask. But whatever it was…I do hope it won’t happen again.”

It’s a weak one, but it’s a warning. He’s had plenty of those to figure it out.

“It won’t,” he mutters.

He’ll be long gone before it can.

Sleep is a luxury you can't afford nowadays.

Surely, the bags under your eyes are enough of an indication if it weren’t for the sluggishness of your every step. Still, you manage to offer your guest a lopsided smile out of respect. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, I’m alright. Thank you, though,” Yevir says, eyeing you up and down, obviously noting your disheveled state. “Is now not a good time?”

You shake your head, straightening your back against the dining room table with a cough. “It’s alright. I’m only tired. With the preparations for the celebration next week, I’m a bit overwhelmed. I was meaning to speak to you again anyway.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, but you can’t be bothered to deny your exhaustion further.

“You’ve been busy. I’ve seen the dead spawn that they retrieved from the Blushing Mermaid.”

Quite frankly, you feel terrible for the folk who own the place. A hag and then a horde of vampires in their basement in the span of a few months? You think it’d be a sign to close the tavern down.

Your tone remains grim. “Were any of them the woman you were looking for?”

He shakes his head, and a breath of relief escapes your lips. “No, she’s…I still haven’t found her.”

And maybe it’s the fatigue getting to your head, but your mouth moves before you can stop it. “You would think she’d try to meet someone she was so close to.”

It’s insensitive, and you wouldn’t blame him if he promptly stood to leave, but all he does is hang his head, dragging his hands over his face. He doesn’t seem like he’s gotten much rest recently, either. “Trust me, I’ve been wondering that for weeks now.”

“And have you come up with anything?”

“No. None. Zero. All I get are nightmares that I might get to one of my patrol shifts, and I’ll find her dead body lying on the ground somewhere,” he groans. “Well, deader body.”

“Maybe she’s afraid.”

“Of what? Me? Who in the hells would be afraid of me? Certainly not her, I must assure you. She’s always been stubborn, and she’s far more determined than myself, believe it or not.”

“Not you, but of herself. Vampire thirst surely can’t be so easy to control, and let’s be honest…” you point at your own neck, and the place where two puncture wounds should be on your wrist burns. “You’re practically a blood pot being offered to her.”

He frowns. “Is it so hard to control their thirst? I will admit that I don’t know much about vampire spawn aside from the obvious…”

You half snicker to yourself, almost in disbelief. “Believe me, they’re beasts when they’re ravenous.”

“Beasts?”

“Do you blame them? To them, blood is essentially liquid gold,” you shrug. “It tastes nothing like actual blood on their tongue. Sure, it might be a bit adjacent to drinking iron, but if they get their hands on prey, they really like…it tastes sweet to them. Would you deny a treat if you spent decades cooped up inside a dungeon cell, starving?"

Yevir’s face pales.

“See?”

His brows furrow as you sigh into your chair. “I’ve done my own share of research, but books seem to overexaggerate things most of the time…Can I ask how you know so much about them? Even if I manage to find her, I’d want to find some way to make her new life more tolerable…it’s not much, but it’s the least I could do.”

You blink.

Shit. You’ve said too much.

What are you supposed to say? You dated a vampire? Let him ravage you on the forest floor and spent months in his tent? That you kissed him just weeks prior, and he’s living just beside your own room? That he told you what your blood does to him, and reveal the bite marks on your skin?

You stand, your chair legs scraping against the ground.

“I have a book you might like. Let me grab it for you. And some tea, maybe,” you smile almost too widely. Fortunately for you, Yevir only nods.

“I’d appreciate it.”

You essentially grab whatever vampire-related book you have shoved under your bed and rush back downstairs to the kitchen. There isn’t much to learn from the thing with how much you already know, but you’re sure it must contain something that he might consider helpful. You know how horrible it felt to be kept in the dark about vampirism, even more so when you realized just how terrible the relationship between master and spawn tended to be…so a small push certainly wouldn’t hurt. Especially with Yevir's own problems with his beloved spawn. This is how you reassure yourself as you pour whatever tea Gale’s left on the stove into a cup.

If you were in Astarion’s shoes, you’d think becoming a spawn would have been the worst turning point of your life. And for a while, you thought he’d felt the same. A part of you thinks he does. But in the time you’ve spent with him and the stories he’s told you sparingly of his life before Cazador, your gut tells you differently. Especially when he’s drenched in the blood of your enemies, holding the immortality he’s long wished for with a sickening smile stretching on his lips. Guilt pools in your stomach for even bringing up the thought, but you can’t deny it, either.

You wonder if it hadn’t been for Cazador’s leash tying him down, he would’ve turned out differently. More twisted. That he would’ve indulged in the most corrupt parts of him as a magistrate. That maybe he wouldn’t have learned the value of a life. That he would’ve become more alike to him—the man he would’ve become if he’d ascended.

That small voice in your head is what stopped the ascension, for you feared he would lose everything he’d gained in his time as a spawn, no matter how trivial he believed it to be.

You hear the front door opening and snap out of your self-tangent. No use dwelling on it now. What’s done is done. No matter how strange the situation between you and the spawn is now, you’d rather have this than what could’ve happened if you hadn’t listened to your gut. You remain firm, no matter how much he hates you for it.

You pour Shadowheart an extra cup.

But as you step back into the living space, you realize the occupant doesn’t drink tea at all.

Astarion stands in the middle of the room, eyes wide as he stares at your guest with an undeniably bloody sack clutched in one hand. His large, red eyes seem glued to the ones of your guest, who stares back even more appalled as he takes one look at Astarion’s pale skin, the shade of his eyes, and the very bloody bag containing what you assume to be his dinner.

You drop the two cups onto the ground, tea splashing against your feet.

“You—Is he—” Yevir stumbles over his words, yet his instincts as a guard have him reaching for his weapon. “He’s—”

Astarion sneers, though his expression strains as Yevir’s hand reaches his sword. “Now, let’s not do anything that could ruin the wonderfully tasteful furniture in here...”

The Fist snaps his head in your direction. “He’s a spaw–!”

The back of a sword hilt hits the side of his head with an audible ‘thud,’ and he’s out like a light.

You stare at the unconscious body slouched over your dining table for a brief moment in utter shock before you gawk at the culprit. Of course. Lae’zel huffs, awfully pleased for someone who just caused a concussion to an innocent man. “Your soldiers are such children.”

Astarion barks a laugh, though it sounds more of a mix of disbelief and amusement.

You wish you could go one day in this house without another headache to add to the growing list.

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#astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate astarion #astarion x tav #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion #bg3 x reader #tfbu #astarion x oc #tav #baldurs gate 3 x reader

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infamous-light · 6 months ago

Text

You Belong to Me Ch. 1

Alcina Dimitrescu x F! Reader

AO3: You Belong to Me

Summary: Lady Dimitrescu's obsession knows no bounds as she becomes increasingly possessive over you. Will you succumb to her dark embrace, or find a way to break free before it's too late?

Word Count: 3.4K

Warnings: Yandere, possessive/obsessive behavior, blood, aftermath depiction of violence

You woke up every morning to the faint glow of dawn filtering in through the small, frost-covered window of your cramped living space. The air was cool and still, carrying with it the subtle scent of weathered stone and aged wood. It was a far cry from the comfort of your former life, but you have long since resigned yourself to the harsh realities of servitude since you began living in Castle Dimitrescu three months ago.

With a weary sigh, you pushed yourself upright. The blanket slid away to reveal the simple cot that served as your bed. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed and planted both feet onto the cold, unforgiving surface of the wooden floor. It made goosebumps travel across your arms.

Ignoring the slight chill in your bedroom for now, you walked over to a small dresser, and with a gentle tug, you pulled open the drawer, revealing an array of neatly folded uniforms within. You sift through the selection, your fingers grazing over soft cotton blouses, tailored trousers, and dresses. After thoughtful consideration, you settled on a plain white blouse paired with sleek black trousers.

Once dressed, you made your way over to where a small basin sat atop a stand, tucked away into the corner of your bedroom. Cupping your hands, you scooped up the frigid liquid and splashed it onto your face. As the droplets cascaded down your cheeks, you reached for a hand towel hanging nearby and patted your face dry. You turned your attention to your hair next and picked up an old hairbrush resting on the stand. As you ran it through your strands, you felt the satisfying tug of knots being smoothed out.

After combing your hair, you placed the hairbrush back down with a soft clink and grabbed your toothbrush and toothpaste tucked next to the basin. You applied a pea-sized amount of toothpaste onto the bristles and began to brush your teeth. Once two minutes have passed, you rinsed your mouth and toothbrush and placed it back on the stand. With a sense of cleanliness and readiness, you leave your bedroom, prepared to face the day ahead.

You walked down the hallway, the quiet tap of your shoes thumping lightly against the carpeted floors. The walls, painted a pristine white, were lined with gold accents that shimmered under the candles’ soft lighting. Alongside the decor, various paintings adorned the walls, depicting scenes of women dancing in sunlit fields or portraits of people.

The interior of the castle was beautiful, you could admit that, but beneath it all lurked the unsettling reality of torture and death. Behind closed doors, unseen horrors unfolded. All the maids lived in constant fear, their every move scrutinized, and their slightest mistake met with brutal punishment. The halls were haunted with their pained screams and whispered pleas for mercy.

The price of disobedience and the consequences of crossing the line drawn by Lady Dimitrescu and her daughters was one you wanted to avoid at all costs.

Eventually, you reached the supply room door and turned the handle. The hinges protested with a soft, familiar creak as you swung the door open. Inside, shelves were neatly stacked with cleaning supplies. Just as your hand reached out to grab the items you needed, you heard a familiar voice behind you say your name.

You turned around and a rush of warmth flooded through you as you realized it was Catalina. Since your arrival three months ago, Catalina had become your closest friend, an anchor, guiding your life through the horrors of this castle.

“Good morning.” Catalina greeted you with a warm smile, her chestnut brown hair cascading in gentle waves around her shoulders.

“Hey, good morning.” You replied, returning her smile.

“Are you ready for another grueling day?” She joked lightly, though her voice was tinged with exhaustion.

“Yeah,” you forced to maintain your smile despite the unease that gnawed at your insides. “But we’ll get through it like we always do.” You added, summoning a bit of reassurance for both you and Catalina.

The corners of her mouth downturned, forming a subtle frown as she spoke. “I wish I had your optimism right now. I have to help Maria clean up Miss Daniela’s bedroom,” she continued, her tone heavy with a sense of foreboding. “I dread what I’ll find in there.”

You grimaced in response.

Daniela was the youngest of Lady Dimitrescu’s daughters. She was known for her volatile and unpredictable nature. Her actions often left everyone on edge. At any given moment, Daniela's demeanor could shift like the wind, turning from saccharine to savage in the blink of an eye. It was best to avoid her completely when it came to the Lady’s three daughters.

“Well, I hope it’s nothing too bad.” You murmured.

“Me too,” Catalina said with a soft smile. “But I’ll see you later at lunch, okay?”

“Definitely. See you then.”

As Catalina left the supply room, you grabbed a bucket already filled with soapy water, a mop, and a couple of washcloths. With your supplies in hand, you made your way over to one of the hallways assigned to you. Upon reaching your destination, you carefully set your supplies down. The mop leaned against the wall while the bucket of cleaning solution sat nearby.

Taking a moment to survey the large window, you noted the thin layer of dust and grime obscuring the view beyond. Determined to restore its clarity, you dipped one of the washcloths into the water and wrung out the excess liquid soaking the fabric.

Positioning yourself at the first window, you finally got to work.

***

As you finished wiping down the last window, the midday sun shone high above the mountains, letting you know that it was nearing noon. Satisfied with your work, you gathered your cleaning supplies and began to make your way back to the supply room.

However, as you walked along, the silence of the castle was shattered by the sudden, blood-curdling scream of a woman. The chilling sound was quickly followed by a sickening gurgle. Dread washed over you like a wave as the implications of what you had just heard sank in. Without hesitation, you quickened your pace, clutching your supplies in a death grip as you hurried away from the source of the horrifying noise.

“You there, stop!”

A menacing voice cut through the air, and you halted in place. Every muscle in your body tensed as you recognized the commanding tone of Cassandra, the middle child of Lady Dimitrescu. Encountering Cassandra was an ordeal in and of itself. Though not as overtly unhinged as her youngest sibling Daniela, Cassandra's brand of cruelty was more insidious. Her actions were calculated, designed to inflict maximum suffering upon those unfortunate enough to cross her path. She was known to be the most sadistic among her sisters.

With a knot of apprehension tightening in your stomach, you slowly turned to face her, meeting her piercing gaze with trepidation. However, your attention was soon drawn elsewhere as you noticed something deeply disturbing: blood dripped from the edge of her sickle, staining the floor in dark, ominous droplets.

“Come here.” Cassandra drawled out, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. Her lips curved into a sly grin as she extended her index finger, beckoning you over.

Swallowing hard, you forced yourself to comply, your footsteps hesitant as you approached her. Her grin widened, a glint of amusement dancing in her eyes as you stepped closer, feeling the weight of her gaze upon you.

“Clean this mess up.” She said lowly as she inclined her head toward Lady Dimitrescu’s study room.

“Yes, Miss Cassandra.” You whispered obediently.

As you cautiously stepped past the door frame, a scene of horror greeted you. There, sprawled in the center of the room, lay the lifeless body of a maid. Her throat was gruesomely slashed, the wound jagged and brutal. A pool of blood spread like a sinister halo around her head, seeping into the cracks of the floorboards.

For a moment, you stood frozen in shock.

Time seemed to stand still as you struggled to comprehend the brutality of what lay before you. Your eyes were fixated on the lifeless form, unable to tear your gaze away. You had never encountered a dead body before. The sight was jarring, shocking you to your core.

You had seen the aftermath of violence before, heard the distant screams, and seen leftover blood etched into the fibers of the carpets, but never have you come face to face with death itself. This was different.

This was raw and real.

Your eyes briefly caught sight of a large key adorned with the Dimitrescu family crest, resting delicately next to her hand. Before you could ponder its significance, Cassandra's voice, smooth as silk but laced with an unsettling edge, whispered close to your left ear.

“Don't mind her,” she purred, her breath brushing against your earlobe like a cold breeze. “She had it coming.”

Startled, you gasped and instinctively stepped forward, desperate to get away from her.

Cassandra chuckled and stepped around you without a single care in the world. She bent over and retrieved the key, slipping it into the pocket of her dress. Then, in a chilling display of strength, she seized the young woman by the collar of her blouse, her grip unyielding as she dragged the limp body along with ease. And then, as if forgetting something, she paused, turning slowly to fix you with an unnerving gaze.

“Consider this a lesson. This is what happens to those who attempt to escape.” She remarked, her tone almost causal, as if discussing the weather. Her eyes then drifted toward the trail of blood that stained the floor. For a moment, her eyes lingered on the crimson mess before meeting your own again, a smirk playing on her lips. “You may want to hurry and clean this up before Mother makes an appearance.”

The implication of her statement hung heavy in the air.

“Yes, Miss Cassandra.”

As Cassandra finally departed the room, a surge of anguish threatened to engulf you, but you suppressed it. With trembling hands and a heart heavy with dread, you forced yourself to maintain composure, though every instinct screamed at you to turn and run.

There was no time to waste as you got started on cleaning the blood up.

Time seemed to warp and twist, stretching into an eternity as you meticulously cleaned every speck of blood off the floor. With each swipe of the mop, your hands shook uncontrollably, the memory of what had transpired haunting your every move. Every corner you scrubbed, every stain you erased, felt like an attempt to cleanse not just the physical space, but the sorrow that threatened to consume you from within.

Just as you thought you couldn't bear another moment of the suffocating silence, you heard it. The unmistakable sound of heavy high heels clicking through the hallway. Your heart almost leaped into your throat, but instead, pounded against your ribs like a caged animal desperate for escape.

The click-clack of her high heels came to a sudden stop.

A tense stillness settled in the air, thick and palpable, as you sensed her presence looming by the doorway. The hairs on the back of your neck prickled and stood on end, a primal instinct warning you of the danger that stood before you. But your eyes remained fixed on the floor, as if it held the key to your salvation.

And then, finally, she spoke, her voice like velvet. “Well, well, what do we have here?”

You found yourself momentarily stunned. You didn't know how to respond. Your mind raced, searching for the right words, but they never came. You had never spoken to her before, until today. So, you settled for her title instead.

“My Lady.” You managed to utter softly.

But there was only silence in response.

You shifted uneasily, unsure of what to do next. Was she waiting for something? Did you do something wrong?

With a hesitant glance upward, you found yourself locking eyes with Lady Dimitrescu.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as you held her gaze, a sense of unease creeping over you like ivy winding its way around your limbs. There was something in the way she looked at you – a hunger, a thirst for something you couldn't quite name – that made your insides curl.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the moment passed, and she offered you a knowing smirk – a flash of pearly white teeth that sent a chill down your spine.

Your pulse quickened as you watched Lady Dimitrescu walk past you, her tall figure casting a long shadow across the floor. But then she stopped, the sudden cessation of movement sending a jolt of fear through you. You could feel her presence hovering somewhere behind you, a suffocating weight that seemed to press down on your very soul.

“You missed a spot.” Lady Dimitrescu said but it sounded almost playful.

“I-I’m sorry, my Lady,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll get that cleaned up right away.”

Your heart hammered in your chest like a relentless drumbeat as you scrambled over to her. Kneeling beside her, your eyes caught a small spot of blood that you had missed, a tiny droplet that clung stubbornly to the floor. How was she even able to see that?

You pulled a handkerchief from your pocket, fingers fumbling slightly in their haste. With gentle precision, you began to clean the area, your movements slow and deliberate.

Finally, when the task was done, you gazed up at her, seeking some sign of reassurance. But what met your gaze was unnerving – a smile that sent shivers down your spine. It wasn't the smile of satisfaction you had expected. No, it was something far more sinister. Her lips curled upward, revealing a glimpse of something altogether different – a flash of fangs.

“You may go.” Lady Dimitrescu said, her voice carrying an eerie calmness.

“Thank you, my Lady.”

With a deep, respectful curtsy, you dared not linger any longer than necessary. As you hastily gathered your belongings, you could feel her eyes boring into the back of your head as you left her study.

You navigated the many hallways once more, each twist and turn blurring together seamlessly. Desperation clawed at you, urging you to put as much distance as possible between yourself and Lady Dimitrescu.

As you rounded another corner, a wave of exhaustion washed over you, both physically and mentally. Taking a moment to collect yourself, you breathed deeply, letting the tension melt away. But even as you tried to calm your racing heart, your mind couldn't shake the image of the way Lady Dimitrescu stared at you.

There was something off about it, something you couldn't quite put into words.

You hope you never find out.

***

The morning sun casts a soft golden glow through your window, signaling the start of a new day.

With a languid motion, you stretched your limbs and pushed the covers aside, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. Rubbing your eyes, you let out a soft yawn and glance around the room, the familiar surroundings gradually coming into focus. Yet, something seemed out of place.

Your gaze drifted to the door of your bedroom. You frowned as you saw a small, folded piece of paper lying on the floor, just beneath the edge of the door.

Intrigued, you rose off the bed and padded your way across the room toward the note. You bent down and picked it up. Unfolding the paper, you found yourself staring at what appeared to be elegant handwriting scrawled across the page.

My dearest pet,

It has come to my attention that your talents are wasted on menial tasks. Therefore, it is with great pleasure, and without room for negotiation, that I hereby command you to assume the role of my personal servant from this day forth.

You shall attend to my every whim and desire with the utmost devotion. You will be at my beck and call, ready to serve me without question or hesitation.

You are expected to begin your shift at 9 A.M. in my bedchambers. Do not be late.

Yours faithfully,

Lady Alcina Dimitrescu

Blood froze in your veins.

As you read those words, an icy grip tightened around your heart.

Pet.

Being labeled as Lady Dimitrescu's “pet” made your stomach churn. At that moment, the room seemed to close in around you, suffocating you with its hold. You released the note from your trembling fingers, watching it flutter back to the floor.

None of this made any sense.

Lady Dimitrescu wasn’t known for keeping pets. The very idea seemed absurd, yet she called you one.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, she also wanted you to be her personal servant. That fact alone was terrifying. You were already forced to work in this castle but the prospect of serving directly under her? That was a whole other matter.

You stole a glance at an old clock perched on your dresser. It was 8 A.M. You knew you had little time left before you were expected to be in her bedchambers, ready to fulfill whatever tasks she demanded of you.

Many thoughts flittered around in your mind, swirling like leaves. Among them, one stuck out the most. The desire to escape burned within you like a flame refusing to be extinguished.

No.

The idea was foolish. It would surely get you killed. You have already seen what Cassandra did to that maid yesterday.

But what if you took your time to plot your escape?

Escaping the castle would not be easy. It would require cunning, stealth, and a plan so foolproof that even the Dimitrescu family would be caught off guard.

Despite the overwhelming odds stacked against you, you have to try. You refuse to live the rest of your life as some noblewoman’s pet.

Turning on your heel, you got dressed and left your bedroom. With each step, you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, as though a pair of unseen eyes followed your every move. You glanced over your shoulder, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of someone lurking in the shadows, but the hallway remained empty. You quickened your pace until the sound of your name pierced through the stillness of the hallway.

Startled, you pivoted to find Catalina standing there. Her smile, usually bright and welcoming, faltered as she took in your demeanor. Concern etched across her features as she walked over to you, her hands settling gently on your shoulders. Her touch offered both comfort and support.

“Hey, is everything okay?” Her voice carried genuine worry. “I didn’t see you at lunch or dinner yesterday.”

You swallowed hard, your throat feeling dry and constricted.

“No, everything is not okay.” You managed to rasp out.

“What’s wrong?” Catalina's expression softened with empathy.

You hesitated, feeling the weight of Lady Dimitrescu’s words pressing down on you. But you needed to confide in someone, and she was the only person you trusted enough to share that information with.

“I received a note this morning from Lady Dimitrescu. She said that I’m to be her personal servant starting today.”

Catalina's reaction was immediate. A light gasp left her lips, and her hands, which had been resting reassuringly on your shoulders, fell away. The color drained from her face, leaving her complexion pallid as her lips pressed together in a thin line.

“I don’t know what to do.” Your voice quivered, tears beginning to well up in your eyes. “I’m scared.”

Catalina's brow furrowed as she sought to understand the situation.

“Why did she ask you to be her personal servant?” she asked, her tone gentle yet probing. “The grand chambermaid usually attends to the Lady’s needs.”

You reached up, delicately brushing away the tears that gathered in the corner of your eyes. “I’m not sure. She just said that my talents were wasted on menial tasks.”

There was a long pause as she absorbed your words.

“This is very unusual.” Catalina murmured; her voice laced with unease.

A queasy sensation crept up from the pit of your stomach, coiling like a serpent as you hesitated to tell Catalina how Lady Dimitrescu addressed you in her note as well. You were reluctant to say it out loud.

Pet.

You were no longer a person, but a possession.

#lady dimitrescu x reader #alcina dimitrescu x reader #lady dimitrescu #alcina dimitrescu #resident evil village #resident evil fanfic #bela dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #resident evil #resident evil 8

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rainforestakiie · 2 months ago

Note

Hi!! I know you’re busy and please ignore this if you want. But I wanted to bring up the idea before I forgot. from Be Lonely With Me, we see how Adam enjoys the unique changes about Lucifer. Slowly bringing up his confidence in himself. I was wondering, only if you want too, but if there was a scene that Adam, ever the farmer, is helping Lucifer clean his little hooves. And is being so gentle about them. Lucifer’s a little shy about it and Adam tries distracting him with talk. And inevitably, they talk about Lucifer’s out changes, like the horns, his wings, but especially the tail. Adam is surprised Lucifer doesn’t have it too, but Lucifer assumes, like his wings, the tail was part of his powers. And Adam just goes. “Awww. That’s a shame. I wonder if it’s just as soft too” emphasis on Lucifer’s legs and hands, like an absent minded flirting and open admittance that Adam likes touching them.

hi!!!!

nooo, i'm never too busy for your requests! i hope you like this! a scene that should have been in Be Lonely with Me! with a little bonus added to the end!

Lucifer’s face bloomed into a radiant shade of crimson, so vibrant and intense that sweet, innocent Adam couldn’t help but compare it to the bright, sun-kissed tomatoes he had gathered earlier. He didn’t care much for the taste of tomatoes, but oh, how he adored that deep, fiery red!

Another exciting discovery! Adam had recently started naming things after colours, thrilled by his own blossoming sense of creativity. Still, with wide, curious eyes, he stared up at the Archangel, his face a perfect portrait of childlike innocence.

“Why?”

“Um...” Lucifer stammered, his usual composure unravelling. A delicate puff of steam seemed to rise from his golden curls as he hurriedly removed his top hat, lest the heat of his fluster leave embarrassing stains on it. “It... it’s just the way things are.”

“But why?” Adam pouted, his confusion only deepening as he scratched his head. “If it’s so important, why don’t I have them?”

Lucifer blinked in surprise, his sapphire eyes sweeping over Adam’s perfect form. His siblings had brought up the idea of dressing Adam a few times, offering him clothing like the angels wore, but Lucifer had always managed to steer the conversation away from it. In truth, he adored seeing Adam roam the paradise of Eden freely unburdened, unspoiled. Not that he’d ever confess that to his brothers and sisters! Michael would surely banish him from the garden for such thoughts.

But how could anyone not admire Adam’s beauty? His wild hair, a mix of earthy browns and sunlit reds, fell messily around his face. His pale skin, now kissed by Eden’s endless sunshine, was beginning to take on a golden glow. And his eyes—those eyes! Lucifer’s favourite feature of all. They were the colour of Eden itself, a blazing emerald green, unique and dazzling, unlike anything he or his siblings had ever seen.

“You don’t need them,” Lucifer finally murmured, though his voice trembled, his blush now spreading down his neck. “I... need them.”

Adam’s brow furrowed, his confusion growing. His emerald eyes drifted to the crisp, snowy-white robes that draped elegantly over Lucifer’s form. He crawled closer, his innocent fingers gently tugging at the soft blue edges, lifting them ever so slightly. A startled yelp escaped Lucifer’s lips as he quickly smoothed the fabric back down, his blush deepening to an almost impossible shade. Adam only giggled in response, finding the angel’s reaction amusing.

“What are these called?” Adam asked, his voice full of wonder as he continued to play with the hem of Lucifer’s robes. “And why do you wear so many?”

Lucifer swallowed nervously, offering a shy, trembling smile. “Um... they’re called robes. Heavenly clothing, made from divine light. And I wear layers because... b-because it’s sacred. As an angel, I’m not supposed to show my skin.”

“None of it?” Adam asked, his gaze shifting to Lucifer’s hands. Without thinking, his fingers lightly traced over the exposed skin there, curious and soft.

Lucifer’s breath hitched as he wrapped his slender fingers around Adam’s hand, his heart fluttering at the warmth of the touch.

“That’s... different,” he whispered bashfully.

Adam, always so curious, reached out with his other hand, his touch feather light as he trailed his fingers along Lucifer’s arm, up to his neck, and then to his flushed cheek. “Your neck... and face? Your skin is bare here too.”

Lucifer trembled under the gentle caress, his voice a mere squeak. “T-That’s different as well.”

Adam shifted even closer; his innocent eyes wide with curiosity. “But why is it different?”

“It just is!” Lucifer squeaked, his voice high-pitched as he quickly took hold of Adam’s wandering hand, gently guiding it down to his lap. His heart was racing, and he let out a soft, shaky breath. But as he gazed at Adam, he couldn’t help but smile. He adored how endlessly inquisitive the first human was.

Sighing, Adam slumped his shoulders in frustration. “Everything is ‘just the way it is.’ It’s so confusing.”

Lucifer chuckled softly, his voice tender. “It’ll get easier, Addie. You’re still learning. You’ll understand more as time goes on.”

Adam nodded slowly, trusting his guardian Archangel completely. He always believed what Lucifer said, for his angel never steered him wrong. But still, his gaze lingered on the shimmering robes that flowed around Lucifer like a celestial waterfall.

“Why don’t I have these... ‘clothes’?” he asked.

Lucifer clicked his tongue playfully. “You don’t need them.”

“Why not?” Adam pressed.

“You just don’t,” Lucifer grinned, his sapphire eyes twinkling as they met Adam’s vibrant green ones.

Shifting closer to Adam, his six wings fluttered softly behind him, creating a delicate breeze that ruffled the grass beneath them. Lucifer leaned in with a mischievous smile, his voice dropping to a secretive whisper.

“Can you keep a secret, Addie?”

Adam’s face lit up immediately, his emerald eyes sparkling with excitement. He straightened up like a curious little meerkat, his whole body buzzing with anticipation. “A secret? I can keep a secret! What’s a secret, Luci?”

Lucifer chuckled warmly, leaning in even closer until his nose brushed against Adam’s cheek. He grinned when he saw Adam blush, a rosy hue spreading across his face. “A secret is something shared between just the two of us. If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone else—not even the other angels.”

Adam gasped; his eyes wide in shock.

“Not even the animals?” he whispered, as if the birds and creatures of Eden were listening in on their private conversation.

“Not even the animals,” Lucifer nodded with a playful glint in his eye. “Do you think you can keep it, Addie? Can I trust you with my secret?”

Without hesitation, Adam eagerly nodded, his fingers tightening around Lucifer’s hands. “Yes! I promise! I’ll keep it safe!”

“You mustn’t tell my brothers or sisters~” Lucifer sang teasingly, letting go of Adam’s hands. He wiggled closer to the edge of the soft grassy hill they were sitting on, the pond below shimmering in the sunlight like a bed of diamonds. With a sly grin, Lucifer gently tugged at the bottom of his robes, lifting them just enough to reveal his bare feet.

Adam’s eyes grew wide with wonder, his breath catching in his throat. He watched in awe as Lucifer slipped off his pristine white shoes and raised his robes higher, allowing them to rest just above his knees. The sight of Lucifer’s feet, glistening like stardust under the warm light, left Adam speechless.

Lucifer, clearly enjoying Adam’s reaction, leaned over and planted a soft, teasing kiss on his cheek. Adam’s blush deepened, his whole face turning the same shade of red that had colored Lucifer’s earlier.

“Just this once, I’ll show you my feet,” Lucifer whispered with a playful wink before dipping them into the cool, crystal-clear waters of the pond. “Now, come sit with me, Addie~”

Adam, shy but eager, scooted closer and slipped his own feet into the water beside Lucifer’s. His heart fluttered as he watched the angel’s feet sparkle in the water, the cool sensation sending delightful tingles up his legs. He gasped when Lucifer’s foot brushed gently against his, the touch soft and teasing.

“Remember, Addie,” Lucifer murmured, his voice as soft as the breeze, “Uou mustn’t tell anyone about this.”

Adam’s breath hitched, and he nodded fervently, his gaze locked on the spot where their feet touched beneath the water.

“I-I won’t tell anyone, “He whispered, his voice barely audible.

Lucifer smiled sweetly, his sapphire eyes twinkling with affection.

“Good boy~” he purred, gently stroking his foot against Adam’s once more.

Adam’s heart raced, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the sun. He felt safe, cherished, and loved. With Lucifer by his side, everything in Eden seemed perfect—even if the world was full of confusing mysteries, if they had their little secrets, Adam knew he’d always have something special that was just for them.

~#~

Adam blinked hard, pulling himself out of a memory that felt both sweet and distant, like a faded photograph. He didn’t know why it resurfaced now, but the ache in his heart told him how deeply those moments had mattered. How close he and Lucifer once were—before Lilith entered their world. Before everything changed.

Lucifer had shown him his feet. Something so sacred and forbidden for angels to reveal. And yet, Lucifer had done it for him, swearing Adam to secrecy. It was such a tender gesture, and as Adam remembered, his own bare feet tingled, as if they could still feel Lucifer’s delicate touch. The way he had gently brushed their feet together, his expression always innocent, though Adam sensed something more behind those sparkling sapphire eyes. Lucifer’s feet had shimmered like the stars themselves, and Adam had often wondered if all of the Archangel’s skin sparkled in that celestial way, or if it was something uniquely Lucifer. Either way, the memory made Adam’s heart race all over again.

“Addie~” a familiar, joyful voice called from the bushes. Lucifer’s lean, graceful form emerged from the lush greenery, his body wrapped in a playful tangle of woven leaves, petals, and vines. His golden hair shimmered like spun sunlight, framing his cherry-red cheeks, making him look impossibly adorable. “There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Adam’s lips curled into a smile as he watched Lucifer approach, his fingers sinking into the soft golden sand along the riverbank. “Sorry, I guess I got lost in my thoughts.”

His eyes lingered on the fallen angel. Lucifer still looked breathtakingly beautiful, even after the fall. His once flawless white skin now carried a peppering of black along his arms, which had morphed into long, sharp claws. His legs were coated in soft midnight fur that ended in hooves. His face had become slightly more angular, his eyelashes long and dramatic, while his once sapphire eyes had melted into molten gold, flecked with crimson. The blue tint of his cheeks had deepened into a rich, blood-red hue, but Adam still saw the same beauty beneath it all.

“What’re you thinking about?” Lucifer cooed, dropping to his knees beside Adam and practically shoving himself into Adam’s space, preening for affection like a cat seeking warmth. "Anything nice about me?"

A small laugh escaped Adam, and with a burst of boldness, he leaned in to kiss the sensitive red markings on Lucifer’s cheeks, the Archangel's weak spot. A thrill of satisfaction ran through him as Lucifer shuddered and moaned softly, flushing even deeper.

“Of course,” Adam teased, his voice gentle. “I’m always thinking sweet things about you.”

Lucifer smirked at that; his eyes gleaming mischievously. “Damn right you are.” He stretched his legs out, his claws grazing over his thigh as he relaxed beside Adam.

Adam’s gaze flickered to the white scar that marred Lucifer’s thigh—a reminder of the time Lucifer had scaled the Tree of Knowledge and faced off with the fierce Cherubim guarding it. He’d gotten hurt because of Adam’s curiosity, because he couldn’t resist helping him, despite the risks.

“You can touch it, if you want,” Lucifer said softly, catching Adam’s gaze. “I’ve seen you looking.”

Adam flushed, feeling a wave of guilt wash over him. “It’s just... you got hurt because of me, and—”

“I don’t regret it. Not for a second,” Lucifer interrupted, his tone firm and resolute. He reached out and took Adam’s hand, his claws curling gently around it, guiding Adam’s palm to his scarred leg. “You don’t think it’s ugly, do you?”

Adam’s heart clenched. He had noticed this more and more lately—Lucifer, despite all his power and beauty, constantly seeking reassurance. No matter how often Adam told him he was stunning, it never seemed to fully sink in. Lucifer, the radiant, fallen star, still didn’t believe he was worthy of love.

“Luci,” Adam whispered, his fingers tracing the scar as if to soothe it. “There’s nothing ugly about you. Nothing. You’re beautiful to me—always have been, always will be.”

Lucifer’s golden eyes softened, but Adam could see the flicker of doubt that still lingered behind them, a shadow that refused to let go. He leaned in closer, pressing his forehead against Lucifer’s.

"I mean it," Adam whispered against Lucifer's skin, his voice filled with warmth and sincerity. "To me, you're perfect—scars and all."

Lucifer’s lips curled into a small, tender smile. He didn’t say anything, but the way he leaned into Adam’s touch, the way his body relaxed just a little more, spoke volumes. Even if he couldn’t fully believe the words, in that moment, he wanted to.

Adam's fingers traced the jagged, yet oddly mesmerizing, scar on Lucifer's leg. It zigzagged across his thigh but had a faint star-like shape to it, just like all of Lucifer’s scars. Adam couldn’t help but wonder why every deep wound Lucifer bore healed into a star. Even the scar on his own chest had the same celestial pattern. His touch lingered on the soft, velvety fur that framed the scar, the gentle texture of Lucifer’s goat-like legs always surprising him. Despite their sharp appearance, they were tender, warm, and inviting beneath Adam’s fingers.

“That feels nice,” Lucifer murmured, his voice a mix of contentment and playfulness as he rested his head against Adam’s shoulder. His breath was soft against Adam’s skin, the moment intimate and peaceful. “I love it when you give me attention.”

A light laugh escaped Adam’s lips, his chest vibrating from the sound. “Of course you do.”

Lucifer chuckled, his voice taking on a teasing, sing-song tone. “Because I’m selfish~”

Before Adam could respond, Lucifer leaned up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the curve of Adam’s throat. He felt the way Adam shivered beneath his lips, and it delighted him to no end. He pulled back just enough to see the flush creeping up Adam’s neck, his own grin widening with satisfaction.

“I also like to return the attention, Addie~” Lucifer whispered, his voice a seductive purr as his golden eyes glimmered with mischief. His fingers trailed gently along Adam’s arm, his touch as light as the breeze, drawing a shudder from the human beneath him.

Adam's heart fluttered, a mix of warmth and nerves coursing through him. He couldn't help but smile, despite the heat rising in his cheeks. "You’re incorrigible, you know that?"

Lucifer grinned wider, his eyes sparkling like molten gold. "And you love it."

Adam sighed, rolling his eyes playfully, but his smile never faded. He did love it—the attention, the way Lucifer knew exactly how to make him feel special. And in these quiet moments, with the gentle rhythm of the river in the background and Lucifer’s presence wrapped around him like a comforting blanket, Adam felt at peace.

He leaned down and pressed his forehead softly against Lucifer’s, their breath mingling in the small space between them.

“Maybe I do,” Adam whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with affection.

Lucifer’s grin softened into something more tender, his hands gently cupping Adam’s face as he nuzzled closer. “Good. Because I’m never letting you forget it, Addie.”

Adam’s emerald eyes wandered down the length of Lucifer’s legs, trailing over the soft, velvety fur and coming to rest on his hooves. His heart clenched when he saw them—sore, unkempt, and clearly neglected. A distressed sound escaped his throat before he could stop it, his brow furrowing with concern.

"Lucifer!" Adam scolded softly, his voice filled with a mixture of worry and affection.

"I thought we agreed you’d take better care of these." He gestured toward the poor state of Lucifer’s hooves, shaking his head in disappointment.

Lucifer blinked, caught off guard by Adam’s sudden shift in tone. For a moment, he tried to brush it off, shrugging with a playful smile.

"Oh, it’s nothing, Addie. I’ve just… gotten caught up in the freedom of not having to wear those pinching boots all the time. You have no idea how much those things hurt! They’ve been forcing me into them for so long, and now, being barefoot is such a luxury," he said, trying to make light of it.

Adam’s frown deepened, though his expression softened as he listened. He did feel for Lucifer—the thought of him being forced into uncomfortable boots, no doubt by Heaven’s expectations, made his heart ache. But still, he couldn’t ignore how sore Lucifer’s hooves looked.

"I get that, really," Adam murmured, his tone gentle as his fingers grazed the fur near Lucifer’s legs.

"But look at them, Luci… They look so sore." His voice dropped to a near whisper as he asked, "Are you still in pain?"

Lucifer hesitated, his bravado faltering. His cheeks flushed a soft pink, and for the first time in a long while, he seemed bashful, almost shy. He glanced away, his golden eyes flickering with embarrassment.

"I… I don’t really know how to take care of them properly," he admitted, his voice much quieter now. "It was easier when I could just wrap them up and give them a quick rinse in the shower. I guess I’ve never really given them much thought."

Adam hummed in response, his mind already shifting to a solution. Without another word, he patted his lap and gestured for Lucifer to rest his hooves there. "Come on, put them here. Let me help."

Lucifer’s heart skipped a beat at the offer. He stared at Adam for a moment, his breath catching in his throat. Something about the gesture—so simple, so kind—made his chest tighten with a feeling he didn’t quite know how to express. His love for Adam swelled in that instant, but instead of saying anything, he blushed a deeper shade of red and awkwardly shifted to lay his hooves across Adam’s lap.

The tenderness in Adam’s eyes as he carefully took Lucifer’s hooves into his hands was almost overwhelming. His touch was gentle, his fingers soft as they caressed the fur framing the hooves, brushing away any dirt or stray bits of Eden’s soil. Adam moved with such care, as if he was handling something precious, and Lucifer couldn’t help but blush harder, his heart racing with every delicate movement.

"You're always so gentle," Lucifer whispered, almost to himself, as Adam continued to attend to him.

Adam smiled softly, his focus never wavering as he carefully began cleaning the hooves, using the edge of his sleeve to wipe away the grime.

"You deserve it," he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I hate seeing you in pain."

Lucifer’s chest tightened again, a warmth spreading through him as he watched Adam work. The human’s fingers moved with such care, cradling each hoof as if they were something sacred. Adam’s thumb lightly grazed over the tender edges of Lucifer’s hoof, smoothing over the ridges with a touch that sent shivers up Lucifer’s spine.

He didn’t know what to say, his usual playful confidence slipping away in the face of Adam’s kindness. All he could do was watch, his golden eyes softening, his body relaxing into Adam’s touch.

"Does that hurt?" Adam asked, glancing up at him with concern as he gently brushed more dirt from the hoof.

Lucifer shook his head, feeling oddly shy again. "No… It feels nice, actually."

Adam’s smile deepened; his gaze warm as he returned his focus to cleaning. He worked slowly, methodically, making sure to tend to every detail. The way he handled Lucifer’s hooves was nothing short of reverent, like he was tending to something far more delicate than the fallen Archangel’s battered feet.

Lucifer’s heart swelled even more, and he swallowed hard, trying to keep his emotions in check. He wanted to say something—to tell Adam how much this meant to him, how much he loved him for this—but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he just watched in quiet admiration, feeling the love deepen in his chest as Adam’s fingers worked their magic.

For the first time in a long time, Lucifer felt vulnerable in a way that didn’t scare him. Adam’s touch made everything feel okay, made him feel cherished in a way he hadn’t realized he needed.

When Adam finished, he looked up at Lucifer, his eyes soft and filled with care.

"Better?" he asked, his voice quiet and soothing.

Lucifer smiled, his cheeks still a little pink as he nodded. "Much better, Addie… Thank you."

Adam leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to Lucifer’s knee, right above the scar. "Anytime, Luci. You just have to ask."

Lucifer’s heart fluttered again, and though he didn’t say it, in that moment, he was sure of one thing—he was hopelessly, completely in love with Adam.

Adam’s fingers continued to glide gently over Lucifer’s hooves, the warmth of his touch soothing the fallen angel. After a few moments, Adam finally broke the comfortable silence, his voice soft but curious. “Why do you think your hooves are so ugly, Luci?”

Lucifer shrugged, his golden eyes flicking away in that familiar, dismissive way.

“Because they are ugly, Addie,” he muttered, as if it were an obvious fact.

Adam pouted, his heart aching at how casually Lucifer put himself down. Shaking his head, he caressed the arch of one hoof with deliberate care, his thumb brushing over the tender fur surrounding it.

“I don’t think they’re ugly at all,” Adam said quietly, his gaze unwavering. “They’re beautiful.”

Lucifer scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping him.

“Beautiful? You must be joking.” He frowned, his voice growing harsher as he insulted himself. “I mean, look at me. What kind of archangel has hooves for feet? I look like some cheap knock-off, a twisted version of what I used to be.”

Adam fell silent for a few seconds, his emerald eyes glancing down at Lucifer’s hooves as he absorbed the angel’s words. Then, quietly but firmly, he spoke. “Probably the kindest one.”

Lucifer blinked, caught off guard. His gaze snapped to Adam’s face, searching for any sign that he was teasing or being sarcastic.

“You… really think I’m kind?” he asked, his voice softening in disbelief.

Adam chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully before nodding. “Yeah, I do. I think you’re the kindest one, Luci. Sure, you’ve made mistakes—we all have—but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re kind.”

He paused, his cheeks flushing slightly as he continued, “And honestly… I think you’re even more beautiful now than when you were an Archangel.”

Lucifer stared at Adam as if he’d just heard something impossible, his eyebrows raising in shock.

“Are you serious?” he stammered. “You can’t mean that. I was the most beautiful when I was an Archangel of the Lord. Look at me now—I’m just a step down. A cheap imitation of what I once was.”

Adam felt his face heat up, shy and a little embarrassed to admit what he’d been thinking for so long. He glanced away for a moment, before finally looking back at Lucifer with sincerity in his eyes.

“I… actually prefer you like this,” he admitted, his voice almost a whisper. “I find you… very attractive. More so now than when you were an Archangel.”

Lucifer gaped at him, his mouth hanging open in shock.

“You—what?” He blinked several times, gawking at Adam as if he couldn’t believe his ears. “You’re not lying?”

Adam met Lucifer’s gaze head-on, his emerald eyes filled with honesty. “Why would I lie about that?”

Lucifer sucked in a sharp breath, his face flushing a brilliant shade of red as he struggled to process Adam’s words. Slowly, he nodded, his heart racing. He knew Adam wouldn’t lie to him about something like this.

But the compliment felt strange, foreign. Lucifer’s golden eyes grew distant, misted over as he allowed himself to be vulnerable.

“I… hate myself, you know,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I hate how I look now. When I fell, and I woke up like this…”

He gestured vaguely to his changed form, his claws, his hooves. “It was hard. Maybe I could’ve gotten used to the hooves if that was all, but it wasn’t. I woke up with claws, horns, and then there’s the fucking tail…”

At the mention of a tail, Adam perked up, his eyes dropping to Lucifer’s hips as if expecting to see it. “Wait… you really have a tail?”

Lucifer pouted, folding his arms across his chest in frustration. “That’s all you’ve got to say?” he grumbled. “Yeah, I have a tail. It’s just as ugly as the rest of me.”

Adam shook his head in disagreement, his expression softening as he thought back. “I always wondered about that… I remember thinking I saw it back in Hell, before my second death, but I wasn’t sure. I thought maybe I’d imagined it.”

He smiled, his gaze warm as he added, “I don’t believe for a second that it’s ugly, though.”

Lucifer snorted, rolling his eyes. “You’re only saying that because you haven’t seen it up close. Trust me, it’s not something you’d call cute.”

Adam tilted his head, his curiosity piqued.

“I wish I could see it up close,” he said, his voice soft and thoughtful. “Why don’t you have it here, in Eden?”

Lucifer blinked, surprised by the question. He looked down at his lap, then back up at Adam. “I assume, like my wings, the tail was part of my powers. It must be tied to them, so I don’t have it here. Same with my horns, I guess.”

Adam’s pout returned, his lips curling into a small frown.

“Aww, that’s a shame. I wonder if it’s just as soft, too,” he mused absentmindedly, his hands trailing over Lucifer’s legs and fingers, as if his touch alone could bring that softness back.

Lucifer’s heart raced at the subtle, almost flirtatious way Adam caressed him. His eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, all he could do was stare, his breath catching in his throat. Adam’s casual admittance—his gentle, open fondness for Lucifer’s body—was almost too much for him to handle. It sent a thrill through him, a mixture of surprise and something deeper, something more dangerous.

But for once, Lucifer didn’t mind. He leaned into Adam’s touch, his heart pounding in his chest, and wondered—maybe, just maybe, he could start believing Adam’s words.

“I wonder what kinds of things you could’ve done if you still had it,” Adam mused aloud, a light-hearted laugh slipping from his lips before he could stop himself.

Lucifer paused, blinking slowly at Adam as his smile turned sly, lips curling in a crooked, playful grin. A flicker of something dangerous and mischievous danced across his features. What kinds of things could he have done? The thought made his heart quicken, and suddenly, his mouth watered at the possibilities. His gaze darkened, molten gold swirling in his eyes as he reached out, fingertips—claws—skimming up Adam’s throat, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He leaned in close, his breath hot against Adam’s ear.

“Oh?” Lucifer’s voice was a low, sinful purr that sent shivers racing down Adam’s spine. “And what, exactly, were you imagining, my sweet Addie?”

Adam’s emerald eyes flew wide, the realization of what he might have suggested hitting him all at once. Heat flushed through him, turning his skin warm and prickly as his pulse hammered in his throat. His face darkened, every inch of him suddenly feeling much too warm under Lucifer’s intense, hungry gaze.

“L-Lucifer, whatever you’re thinking… that’s not what I meant,” Adam stammered, his voice shaky as he tried to backtrack, but it was too late. Lucifer's lips twisted into a wicked grin as he pounced, a blur of mischievous laughter and quick movement.

They tumbled together, rolling across Eden’s soft, golden soil in a whirl of laughter and heat, the earth warm beneath them. Before Adam could even catch his breath, Lucifer’s lips found his, pressing in with fervour and playfulness. The kiss was intoxicating, sweet and teasing all at once, and Adam felt himself melt into it, swept up in the rush of the moment.

Adam barely had time to register what was happening before Lucifer's body was pressing against his, the force of the fallen angel’s playful pounce knocking them both onto Eden’s warm, fragrant soil. The heat of the moment washed over Adam like a wave, his breath catching as their lips collided, unexpected yet electric.

Lucifer’s claws gently grazed Adam’s jawline, sending shivers down his spine as their lips brushed together in a teasing kiss. It wasn’t hurried, but deliberate—like Lucifer wanted to savour every second, every reaction from Adam. His breath was hot against Adam’s skin, the proximity overwhelming, his presence a mixture of danger and comfort all at once.

"Not what you meant, huh?" Lucifer teased, his voice low and sultry as he hovered just above Adam, their faces mere inches apart. His golden and red eyes glinted with a mischievous glimmer, darkened by desire.

"Then what did you mean, Addie?" His voice was a velvet purr, laced with temptation.

Adam’s heart raced in his chest, each beat loud and insistent, as if it wanted to escape the intensity of Lucifer’s gaze. His face was flushed, heat rising to his cheeks and neck, and suddenly every inch of him felt hypersensitive to the fallen angel’s touch. His emerald eyes darted away for a second, unable to withstand the fire in Lucifer’s gaze.

“I-I wasn’t thinking,” Adam stammered, trying to gather his thoughts, but Lucifer’s weight on top of him, the press of his body, made it nearly impossible to form a coherent sentence. His voice faltered, softer now, “Luci… I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Oh, but I think you did,” Lucifer breathed, leaning in closer, his lips brushing the shell of Adam’s ear. “Or at least… I’m hoping you did.”

There was a teasing lilt in his tone, but underneath it, a raw vulnerability that Adam recognized.

Adam’s breath hitched, and he felt a wild heat surge through him as Lucifer's words sank in. His body felt like it was on fire, caught between the pull of desire and the soft pang of affection for the angel above him.

“Lucifer…” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as he tried to speak through the haze of emotions.

Lucifer's gaze softened for just a moment, his sharp grin faltering as he studied Adam's flushed face. There was a tenderness in his touch now, claws easing off, and he leaned down, pressing a much gentler kiss to Adam’s lips, softer this time, with the kind of care that only someone truly in love could give.

Adam kissed him back, slow and deliberate, his fingers tangling in Lucifer’s midnight fur as he pulled him closer. Despite the teasing and the heat of the moment, this was what it came down to—their connection, the way they fit together like pieces of the same whole. Adam felt the warmth of Lucifer’s body envelop him, the world around them falling away as they lay together in the heart of Eden.

When they finally pulled apart, both breathless and flushed, Adam couldn't help but laugh softly.

"You’re impossible, Luci."

Lucifer’s smirk returned, his eyes glittering with mischief. “Only for you, Addie.”

But as they settled into the quiet of the moment, the heat simmering down, Adam found himself tracing the edges of Lucifer’s hooves again, marvelling at how natural it all felt—like they had always been like this, tangled together in love, teasing words and soft touches. His heart swelled with affection, and despite the teasing, he knew one thing for sure: there was no one else he’d rather be with.

~#~

Hell was a mesmerizing blend of deep blues, purples, and reds, stitched together in a tapestry of shadows and infernal light. The sky was a dusky purple, shrouding the realm in a twilight gloom, with the distant glow of Heaven shimmering far above like an unreachable moon. Wisps of steam curled lazily through the darkened streets, mingling with the acrid scent of sin and chaos. Sinners hurried past, some rushing to their shadowy homes, while others clashed in fiery disputes under the ever-watchful eyes of the city.

In the Ring of Pride, everything pulsed with the raw energy of its sovereigns. Power hummed through the streets like a living heartbeat, the presence of the King and Princess tangible in every corner. Purple and crimson eyes, set deep within the cracked stone of the city, watched intently, surveying all that transpired within their domain. There was an undeniable majesty to the place, a sense of grandeur woven into the very fabric of Hell.

The Hazbin Hotel towered above Pentagram City, a structure of haunting elegance. Its height was dizzying, with countless windows glowing in hues of violet and scarlet, echoing the colors of the Pride Ring itself. Every light beckoned, drawing the gaze of anyone who dared look. The wrought iron gates shimmered like stars against the dark backdrop, while a pristine, dusty white stone pathway wound its way up to the towering golden statue of a goat-dragon—a symbol both curious and awe-inspiring, throbbing with otherworldly energy yet oddly inviting.

Two towers rose from the hotel like sentinels, their designs both strange and familiar. From afar, they might resemble a colossal golden apple and an old-fashioned radio, but up close, it was clear that they embodied the two powerful forces that ruled this domain—rivals in both strength and influence. Their presence crackled in the air, a constant reminder of the duality of Pride.

Adam couldn’t shake the growing sense of regret. The moment he had stepped foot into the Hazbin Hotel, his heart had raced with unease, knowing deep down that Lucifer’s sugary words and honeyed promises were merely a trap. He had spent fifteen long years with Lucifer, trapped in Eden's paradise, and he should’ve recognized the gleam in Lucifer’s eyes—the one that always meant mischief was at hand.

If only he had listened to his instincts, if only he had trusted his gut… he might not be in this precarious position now. Yet here he was, ensnared once more, wondering what fate awaited him in this unnervingly beautiful and treacherous place.

“Aw, come on Addie~” Lucifer purred, running his long tongue along Adam’s throat. “Don’t keep those cute sounds locked away~ I want to hear them~”

He should have known…

Adam flushed brightly from embarrassment. He was pinned upon a queen-sized bed, his wrists held down by Lucifer’s claws. A shudder of heat ran through his vein, tingling through his gut and making his hips arch.

“Don’t you remember what you said in Eden?” Lucifer cooed, leaning back to peer down Adam’s delicious face hungrily. “How you wished I still had it? You wondered what type of things I could have done if I did~”

“I-I didn’t mean this – ohhh~” Adam clenched his eyes shut, waves of pleasure running through him. He crushed his lips together, clanking his teeth together and trying to stifle his moans.

Lucifer whined, nipping at Adam’s lips again. His hips were arched upward, his backside stuck up with his long silk black tail buried between Adam’s thick thighs. The sound of wetness echoed through the room as he purposely moved his arrow-tipped tail against Adam’s wet cunt, rolling it with desire.

“Addie~” he sang, pressing his naked body down upon Adam’s. “Come on baby~”

“Let me hear your adorable song, it’s been so long since I’ve last heard it~”

Adam's eyes sprung open, growing wide with a cry erupting from his throat. Lucifer grinned widely, so wickedly and mean as he began to push the tip of his tail into Adam's dripping wet cunt.

"Is it good? Is it better then you thought it would have been?" Lucifer teased, running his sharp teeth up Adam's exposed throat. He dug them into the bite claim he had immeidately returned to the skin. "Is it everything you fantasied about in Eden?"

"S-So much better!"

Lucifer laughed with victory, beginning to fuck Adam with his tail.

#fanfic #adamsapple #hazbin hotel #lucifer x adam #guitarduck #au #fanficiton #a03 #be lonely with me #tail play #tail

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princesskenny1998 · 14 days ago

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Harry Potter | Draco Malfoy x pureblood!Reader ~ Promised One

Growing up in a prestigious pureblood family, you had known Draco Malfoy almost your entire life. Both of your families were ancient and influential in the magical world, with histories that stretched back hundreds of years, and the arrangement between the Malfoys and your family had been made long before either of you could remember.

The first time you were introduced to Draco, you were only five, and he was a year older than you. You didn’t know it at the time, but you were both being introduced as future partners. Your parents had emphasized the importance of keeping family lines pure, maintaining the power of the blood, and protecting the family name. Draco had been told something similar by Lucius and Narcissa.

Summers became the time you were always forced together. Your family’s home in the Russian countryside had long, sunlit days that were spent mostly outside, exploring the gardens or playing games under the watchful eyes of your parents. At first, Draco had been something of a mystery to you. He was brash, opinionated, and seemed to take pleasure in teasing you. As you grew older, though, that teasing started to feel less like a childish bother and more like something... interesting.

One summer afternoon, when you were both thirteen, you were sitting on the grass beside a sprawling garden of enchanted white roses. Draco had just made a remark about your Russian accent, imitating it with a smirk on his face. You’d rolled your eyes, used to his teasing, and shot back a quick remark about his pronunciation of certain charms — a sore spot for him, considering how seriously he took his studies. He’d laughed, and you realized then that his teasing was almost affectionate, in a way.

When you reached fourteen, your parents’ efforts to push you together became even more obvious. They started planning more activities, often giving you time alone together in the expansive rooms of Malfoy Manor or your family’s home. At that age, you and Draco both understood the implications of your families’ plans for the future. You had moments where the idea of being tied to someone so arrogant grated on you. But there were also times when you looked at him and felt strangely comforted by the familiar presence.

One summer day, during the warm month of August, you found yourself in the sitting room of Malfoy Manor, watching Draco as he read a book on magical history. The air was thick and still, and you found yourself growing restless.

“Is this what we’re going to be doing every summer?” you asked, breaking the silence. “Sitting around, reading, waiting for our parents to tell us what to do next?”

Draco looked up from his book, one eyebrow raised in amusement. “What would you rather do, then?”

“Something exciting,” you replied with a slight grin, standing up and walking to the window. “Surely, with all the magic we have at our disposal, there’s something better than sitting around.”

He closed his book and stood up, crossing the room to stand beside you at the window. “I suppose we could explore the manor,” he suggested. “There are places even I haven’t been to.”

Intrigued, you agreed, and the two of you ventured into the depths of the manor, laughing as you slipped past portraits and explored hidden rooms. At one point, Draco dared you to go down a narrow, winding staircase that led to a shadowy room filled with dusty old relics from the Malfoy family’s past. The air was thick with mystery, and you couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement.

When you turned to Draco, he was watching you with an intensity that caught you off guard. “What?” you asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

“Nothing,” he replied, but his gaze lingered, a small smirk playing on his lips.

As the years went by, your connection deepened. You saw each other’s flaws, yes — you knew he could be arrogant and quick-tempered, and he knew you could be stubborn and sharp-tongued. But there was a familiarity that came with growing up together, and it made you feel closer to him than anyone else.

During the school year, while he was at Hogwarts, letters became your main form of communication. He’d send brief notes, detailing his experiences at school, and you’d reply with stories of your own studies and family gatherings. There was something comforting in the routine of it, in knowing that you’d hear from him every few weeks.

Then came the summer of your sixteenth year. You arrived at Malfoy Manor, expecting the usual formal greetings and small talk with his parents, but instead, Draco was waiting for you in the gardens. He looked different — older, more serious. The playful smirk that you were so accustomed to seeing was gone, replaced by a somber expression.

“You’ve heard about what’s happening, haven’t you?” he asked quietly, once you were out of earshot of the others.

You nodded, understanding the gravity of his words. Voldemort’s return was no longer a secret, and the pressure on the Malfoy family was growing. “Yes. My family… they’ve spoken of it.”

For the first time, you saw a crack in Draco’s confidence. He looked away, his hands clenched at his sides. “It’s... complicated,” he admitted. “The expectations, the pressure. It feels like... I don’t have a choice.”

You stepped closer to him, placing a hand on his arm. “Draco, I know. We were both born into this. But maybe... maybe we don’t have to follow the exact path they set for us.”

He looked at you, surprised. “You think so?”

You nodded, giving him a small smile. “There’s always a choice. And whatever happens, you won’t face it alone.”

In that moment, an unspoken understanding passed between you. Despite the weight of the expectations placed on both of you, there was a sense of unity, a feeling that you could face whatever came your way — together.

That summer was different from the others. Your interactions took on a new depth, a sense of shared struggle and understanding. Draco confided in you more than he ever had before, and you found yourself opening up to him as well. Late one night, as you sat in the library, he turned to you and said quietly, “You know, I used to think this arrangement was just... something our families imposed on us. But now…”

He trailed off, looking away, and you felt your heart skip a beat. “Now?”

He met your gaze, a rare vulnerability in his eyes. “Now, I think I’m actually glad it’s you.”

The words hung in the air, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to fully acknowledge the feelings that had been growing inside you. This wasn’t just an arrangement anymore. It was real.

When Draco returned to Hogwarts that autumn, you felt the ache of his absence more than you ever had before. Letters came, but they were fewer, more guarded. You knew things were becoming more dangerous, that the world he was returning to was growing darker by the day.

One winter night, as you were reading by the fireplace, an owl arrived with a hurriedly scrawled note from Draco. His words were brief, but they conveyed a desperation you’d never seen before.

“They’re expecting things from me that I don’t think I can do,” he’d written. “I’m trying to protect my family, but it’s getting harder. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.”

You read his words over and over, your heart aching for him. You wanted nothing more than to be there, to offer him some comfort, but there was only so much you could do from afar. Still, you wrote back immediately, pouring as much reassurance and strength into your words as you could.

The next summer, when he returned to Malfoy Manor, you saw the toll the past year had taken on him. His face was pale, his posture tense, and there was a haunted look in his eyes. But when he saw you, some of the weight seemed to lift from his shoulders.

You spent long hours together, walking through the gardens, talking about everything and nothing. He confided in you more than ever before, sharing his fears, his regrets, his hopes for a future that seemed increasingly uncertain.

One evening, as you sat together under the fading light of the setting sun, he reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. “I don’t know what the future holds,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I know I want you there, whatever happens.”

You squeezed his hand, feeling the truth of his words resonate deep within you. Despite the shadows that loomed over both of your families, despite the uncertainties that lay ahead, you knew one thing for certain: you wanted to face it all with him by your side.

In that quiet moment, under the soft glow of the twilight, you found solace in each other. And for the first time, you allowed yourself to hope — to believe that maybe, just maybe, the two of you could carve out a future of your own choosing.

#draco malfoy x reader #draco x reader #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy #harry potter #slytherin #x reader

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moondirti · 2 years ago

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charcoal

pairing: John 'Soap' MacTavish x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 2.6k summary: you and johnny draw portraits of one another warnings: cock warming, unprotected p-in-v, creampies, handjobs, tooth rotting fluff, nude drawings, light masochism, mentions of death notes: inspired by soap's journal in mw3. our sweet boy can draw :)

“Sit still.”

A whisper, spoken like a fervent kiss to the space between you. Humid air, smothered under his peppercorn cologne and the tangy warmth of lingering sex. Johnny’s pelvis remains glued to the back of your thighs, conjoined at that sweltering centre, gently swelling back to rock-hard shape. It works to plug you full of him, a barrier to the cum he’d spilt a mere thirty minutes prior.

Mere. To you, long hours have gone by while stuck in this state, oscillating from painful overstimulation to an insatiable urge that only exists with him – more, more – and back again. But he exercises a surprising restraint. No. Unexpected. A fortitude obviously cultivated in the SAS, carbon under pressure, polished and primed. One that is diamond-sharp, deadly even, but usually crumbles to dust around you.

He keeps your leg hooked over one broad shoulder. The other quivers, cushioned by the duvet, serving as a surface for the item he’d fetched in a rush.

Fuck. Hold it righ’ there. Freshly spent, glowing with an endorphin-logged high.

Huh– W-What’re you doing?

Y'look so bloody beautiful like this, hen. Have ta memorialise it.

Ever the flatterer. You’ve no doubt you’re a mess – mussed hair, smudged mascara. The only thing he’d left in his stripping you was the necklace you’d worn for his welcome home; a golden chain, charmed with a replica of his dog tag and an antique locket you’d salvaged from your grandmother’s place.

You thought he’d been reaching for a polaroid; a quick snapshot of the moment, print to be stapled to the inside of his combat coat. But he’d ducked under your bed – not the nightstand where you kept the camera – and ruffled through dust bunnies and expired condoms for the stash of things he deems too important to take with him to the job. Material objects, little keepsakes, left to rot behind, with you.

He’d come back up with a self-satisfied grin, a journal – moleskine bound and half-full of rough scribbles – clasped between waving fingers.

It’s not the first time he draws you. Just the first time he does of such an intimate scene.

Clenching involuntarily, you flush at the thought. Johnny’s free hand tenses from its place on your knee, soothing circles turned bruising touch. Giggling, you squeeze him again, only to be met with a particularly vicious thrust of his hips.

“Nng-! Christ,”

“What'd I tell ya?”

“I had been.” The protest peaks at the back of your throat, forming something more akin to a whine. His chuckle is indicative of the fact; sunlit bough and soft moss gaze catching yours. His eyes pool like honey in the lowlight, gold drawn out by the haze of your surroundings. Warm. “You’re taking too long.”

“Wad ye rather I get the shadin’ on yer tits wrong?” He teases, gaelic-curled accent accompanied by sharp scratches of charcoal on paper. The black dust coats calloused fingertips, concentrated on the middle, the one he uses for smudging. “Ye'll end up lookin like ma great aunt.”

“That’s gross.”

“Watch it. Rory was a great woman.”

But his chest widens in that special way, skin rippling over thickset sinew, and you know his current contentment runs bone deep. He gloats it, wearing the radiance like he does the sweat; the tender marks along his neck, imprints of your teeth cut in blood. His battle scars pale in contrast, silver and thin and nothing when set beside the raised scratches, red, carved mid-fuck.

You’ve tried to be gentle with him. Really, you have.

You just found he doesn’t prefer it.

A Noah’s-Ark cataclysm of rain, unending cataracts of water sluicing from the sky. They wash over the windshield, the windows – you can barely see beyond the hood of his car.

It was your suggestion to wait the storm out. You’d gone on a picnic for your first date, perched up high on some mountain that now seems too formidable to scale down.

Spice with rosy overtones. His scent is intoxicating, distilled on that spot – the edge of a broad tendon that stretches up his neck. Johnny’s clad in a polo shirt, the collar slightly popped to cover the patch of skin, but you catch sight of it every once in a while. Enough to fuel your internal screams, urging you to act against what is proper.

Hold out ‘till the next time you see him. Leave him wanting more.

He’s talking. Something about football and fake turf scrapes.

God. That voice. Full-bodied, confident with all the charisma to match. You latch on to every syllable, basking in the way they furl from him – rolled r’s, two element vowels morphing to one. What’s the word for gorgeous in Scottish jargon? He’d taught you it over a bowl of strawberries.

Broad. Brock. Brow. Br… something.

But his thumb had swiped out to the edge of your lip to catch a bead of stray juice, and you’d lost all wit. In one ear, out the other. Boiled down to a saccharine, lust-filled puree.

You’d wanted to take the digit into your mouth.

The high altitude ensures the car is frigid, windows chilled with a freezing pellet downpour. The skirt you wore does nothing to hide the goosebumps that prickle down your thighs.

It’s not the weather, though. It’s him. He inspires a cyclone in you, a vortex of violently rotating winds that upturn every function. Hot. Cold. A puddle of melted something, stirring deep within the recesses of your gut. Your attempts to smother it down will forever be in vain.

Him. Him.

He drives you mad. You’re fucking stupid.

But pellucid blue light streams in from outside, the sun sinking behind gunmetal clouds, and Johnny fills his jeans nicely, you think. Hulking thighs force the denim to its limits, stretched and spread and–

Oh.

Maybe your mind had skipped over it purposely. For knowledge of what it would do to you. In knowing that your panties are already slick, unable to hold the extra saturation. You’ll leak onto his seat.

Fuck.

A prominent, massive bulge. Strained, outwardly painful.

Enticing.

You flood, anyway. Overbearing heat and oblivion striking your core. A breath catches, spinning to form a small bubble of recklessness between constricting lungs.

You speak before you begin to process it all.

“We’ll be here for a while.”

Stupid, silly girl.

He halts, tangent lost to the half-lidded look you give him. Your nails graze the arm nearest to you, propped on the console, brushing through hair to elicit a deep shudder – mirror to your salacity. It tells him what he can already guess.

In the split second it takes for your impulse to waver, he recovers, back to that ludic man you’d met just last week.

“And there are only so many things to talk about.” Johnny nods.

Your heart slams on hollow ribs. He may hear it if he tries hard enough; an echoed melody of cosmic yearning.

“Gotta save some for next time.”

“Aye.” His head ducks closer to yours, locking you to those bonfire eyes. “Next time?”

“Hmm, if you like me enough.” The suggestion skips across your nervous titter. Spearmint washes over you when he speaks, cold breath a product of the pack of gum he keeps tucked in his car door. He’d told you he reserves the stash for special occasions, with only the ‘prettiest of hens.’ You’d folded the wrapper into a heart and placed it against the stick shift.

“I like ya, bonnie. Only question is–” A bent forefinger taps your chin, thumb caressing the curve of it. “Do ye like me?”

You let your stare flutter down to his lips; perfect, pink, pulled in a devious smirk. It wipes any semblance of logic from you. Propriety, the manners your mother taught you at a holiday dinner table – cross your legs, elbows off the table – dissipate to ash. You’re raw; skinned alive and vulnerable to whatever he wants.

Crackling nerves. You don’t answer, don’t say a word.

Instead, you lean in to kiss the scar on his lip.

And it all goes to hell from there.

Hurried gropes, desperation fogging. You bend over the centre – precariously balanced on your knees – to hug his head closer to yours. His hands find purchase on your waist, exposed now, your sweater rucked upwards to hang just below your bra. You can see his back in the reflection of the window, his muscles rolling under a too-tight shirt, expanding to accommodate the weight you throw onto him.

It’s hormone fuelled, messy. Your teeth clack and your tongues wrestle and you can only ponder on releasing him, on untucking his hard length from hindering pants.

“H-Here–” You stutter into his mouth, left hand smoothing down his chest to dance teasingly at the waistband. His hips buck the slightest bit. “Let me…”

“Wanna make ye feel good too, lass.”

“Please.”

And it must be the way you say it, the keen in your tone, the pout of your lips. You’re close to tears, eyes glossy like the wet road ahead. It must be; mutual magnetism, some shared fondness that makes him concede to your plea (I like ye, bonnie), before he helps you pull them down to let his cock spring free. Head flush and base thick enough to split your lips.

You swim impossibly deeper into the pool of crush-drunk abandon.

Braw. That was it. Braw, for mind-numbing attractiveness. Or so to say–

Maybe you’re exaggerating. It doesn’t feel like a grand enough word to encapsulate this. To capture him.

Nothing could be enough. Your first date and yet you sit here, obsessed already, willing to spend a lifetime showing him all you can’t say. How those eyes draw from you a lightness, an ease. Hazel has quickly become your favourite colour. How mohawks are an abomination to conscientious style, but how he makes them work, much to your displeasure. You imagine plugging clippers in a shared bathroom, helping him buzz off the sides prior to longer missions. Sending him off with a kiss that means more than just interest.

“Fuck.”

“Feart, now?”

His accent thickens in the throes of pleasure. You add the word to your growing list and spit on your hand to help slick him up.

He stops you before you can wrap it around his leaking cock. “Wait, wait.”

Head still buried into the crook of his neck, a trail of purpling bruises adorning the stubbled skin of his jaw – you can only spot him in your peripheral, a hazy blur of long eyelashes and a prominent nose.

His hands unclip your bra when he speaks again:

“Do it dry. I like when it hurts a little.”

A year later now. He’d wrapped an assignment early to see you on your anniversary.

“Done?”

You’re sticky with cooling sweat and spit, fluids hardening on supple flesh in the filtered air of your bedroom. Both naked, posed in the same position; your right glute burns with the ache of a prolonged stretch, still thrown over his shoulder as he hurriedly finishes the final details of his sketch.

“Almost. Canae fuckin’ get the lightin’ right.”

“Lemme see,” You make a grab for the journal. He bats your hand away.

“No.” Johnny huffs, shifting to look at you from a slightly different angle. “I think it’s the glow.”

“The glow?”

“Aye. Took ower long ta get those gorgeous tits down, you’ve lost that sex sheen.”

“You’re mad.”

The hand that was at your knee starts to knead your thigh, grabbing whatever it can hold. An intentional touch, he targets every tender area, sparking a match to an already smouldering flame. The pressure at your core tightens.

“I’d say it’s a quick fix,”

Your hips buck to meet the heavy weight of his palm as it flattens against your pelvis, seeking true fusion to the rough skin. You’re feverish, practically singing him; you spread your legs and do what you can to spear yourself further onto his cock, one that has not yet left the tight clutch of your cunt.

This is what the poets eulogise, this ‘swete breeth’ reverence. Zephyrus – he’s zephyr adjacent – the god of westerly wind. But he places you on a shrine like he’s not the being made of sun; touches you with a prayer imbued into his callouses – barnacled reminders of his life as Soap. Your Johnny, as he is with you, finds you speechless and continues giving – pouring water onto wet clay, bending you as he pinpoints an electric centre, that bundle of nerves that has you seeing star-speckled pantheons.

He continues to work your clit even as you kick his back, heel thrashing onto freckled skin. The overstimulation is not creeping, it does not wait until you’ve come undone – no. You’ve been on this tightrope for far too long now, and your legs tremble with the sheer exhaustion of it all. It’s never clear with him, whether the end is in sight. There are often moments of recovery where you pull away, only for him to flip you over and stuff you full again.

The lewd squelch of your cunt, your wailing moans; you hardly register them as he begins pistoning into you, both hands and dick devoted to completing the picture. All that exists is sacred, divine insensibility. Pleasure in its purest form, locked in this haven where you’re safe to imagine holding onto him forever.

“J-Johnny… Johnny, God– I’m gonna–”

He gains speed, fucking your sopping heat with a brutal pace, unrelenting as he circles your abused clit. You don’t have it in you to even move, boneless and wholly open to his ministrations.

“Tha's exactly what we want now, bonnie. Go on, cum for me.”

The muscles in your core harden, too brittle to stand against the wicked tide brimming within you. It drives you delirious, flooding your instincts. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and your back arches – you absolutely ruin the continuity that comes with being his live model. But you don’t care. You don’t care. He’s so good at hitting you in all the right places – head nudging your cervix, his breadth stretching you out with a fiery sting. He rubs you raw, chafing, and you’re so close.

You think about jerking him off on your first date, coaxing from him groans that taste like scotch and spearmint-covered strawberries. The sorest handjob known to mankind – he’d cum hard, spurting thick globs of warm fluid onto his lap, webbing your fingers together with his essence. His apologies had fallen on deaf ears when you’d licked yourself clean.

You think about meeting him at that bar, nursing a fruity drink with a wild name. Your friend had abandoned you for some blonde chick, but Johnny took your lonesome as an opportunity to swoop in and compliment your dress. He’d later told you that he’d only been looking for a quick fix to stall on the grief of a close friend's death. Turns out, ye're not so much a stall, more a remedy, love. Sad tae say I'm glad yer friend was horny that night.

You think of him, now. Of the past twenty-something pages of his journal filled with nothing but idle doodles of you and gum-wrapper hearts, no longer dedicated to anguished attempts at remembering lost comrades. He’s grown to be a better artist, lines bold and drawn in sole strokes, able to capture just about anything in ballpoint pen alone.

Well I’ve got the perfect muse now, haven’ I?

You break, shattering into a million fragments. You know he’ll pick you up.

Finally resting, spooned together under clean sheets. A strong arm thrown over you, holding open a page for your scrutiny.

“It’s nice, baby! You might’ve made me too pretty, though.”

A growl. “Shut it. That’s all you.”

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