#a dance in blood velvet

[faaun]

a while ago i accidentally bent a g.pangolin electrode (those things are made of gold) the world was covered in conductive gel time is passing unreal lvls of quick they know my heart is yours

[ejochsner]

Birds of a Feather OC Aesthetics 2/16

Amelia “Amy” Bertrand (She/Her) 🦽

[flowersforbucky]

acquainted

bucky barnes x reader (undercover stripper reader x undercover bodyguard bucky)

warnings/tags: SMUT, oral (male and female receiving), vaginal penetration, language, strip club setting, creepy dude being a piece of shit, violence and a brief mention of blood, protective/possessive bucky, reader is afab, no use of y/n, touch her and die trope, Bucky might have a slight lingerie kink... 18+ only!

word count: 3.3k

author's note: wow okay this kind of got away from me. this is probably the filthiest thing i've ever written. felt my heartbeat in my pussy while writing this. hope you enjoy!

The pulsating fuschia and lime green strobe lights illuminating the club had been making your eyes throb for the last three hours. EDM plays so loudly that you're surprised blood doesn't trickle down from your ears. Not to mention the suffocating combination of cheap perfume, body odor, cigars, and booze that permeates the air makes your empty stomach churn.

If you never step foot into another nightclub when this is all over, you'll consider yourself lucky. Not just any nightclub - one of New Orleans’ scummiest strip clubs.

Five goddamn nights of this operation and not a lick of progress.

Your objective was simple - obtain proof that the owner was operating a sex trafficking ring out of the club, and then call for the back-up squad parked a block away. So far, you had not been able to acquire any kind of definitive proof. No hints of anything shady going on behind the scenes, and you had yet to even see the owner make an appearance at any point since the mission began.

Everything seems as above board as a strip club can be.

One last night, you compromised with Fury. One last night and if it went as the last few have, you were done, and he owes you a few days of paid leave for putting you through this.

“If you don't stop picking at your garter belt, it's not going to have any sequins left.” Bucky's low voice murmurs through the communication device placed discreetly in your left ear.

“If you don't stop watching my every movement, you’re not going to have any unbroken toes left,” you threaten lightly, taking a sip of your drink - just a Shirley Temple, to keep up appearances. “Shoes like this could do a lot of damage.” You glance down at the pointy heels of the black velvet stilettos.

“Is that not my job?” he counters. You don't have to look over at where he's standing in the corner of the room to know he's smirking. “To not take my eyes off of you?”

“Then do your job. Watch me. You don't have to make comments on my sequins to do that.”

“Alright, alright,” he concedes. “I'll be over here, admiring your sequins from afar. You won't even know I'm here.” The com line clicks off before you can retort.

Except you absolutely would know that he's here. Just as you have the previous four nights of this mission - painfully aware that he's here, tracking your every movement in the skimpiest outfits you've worn in your life, doing the most provocative dances imaginable, and flirting with men that you wouldn't touch with ten foot long poles in real life, all while he keeps to the sidelines in case something were to go wrong.

Keeps to the sidelines and just watches you. Even when one of the dancers approached him to ask if he'd be interested in a private dance once he's off the clock on the first night on the job.

Even when there's gorgeous, topless women crawling on the stage and all but humping the pole in his direct line of sight.

He isn't here to look out for them, of course. He is here solely to keep you safe if things were to go sideways. But you had assumed you would have caught him sneaking glances at the dozen other women at least once by now.

It's almost your turn to go up on stage. You've performed a solo set every night so far, and you still feel every bit as nervous as you did the first time.

You enjoy dancing, actually. In the comfort of your own room, when listening to music alone. When you go out with friends, occasionally. When you took ballet lessons as a child. This, however, was leagues out of your comfort zone.

“The creep from a couple nights ago is back,” Bucky's voice is a strained whisper in your ear.

“Gonna have to narrow it down a bit for me, Barnes. You could be referring to at least half of the men in here right now.”

“Sitting in front of the stage, to the left,” he mumbles back. “He's wearing a red wife-beater–”

“See him,” you interrupt, your eyes zeroing in on the short, stout, beady-eyed fuck who had been thrown out of the club night before last. One of the other security guards on duty chucked him out when he repeatedly got too handsy with one of the girls who had been giving him a lap dance.

“Fantastic,” you huff under your breath, as you finish touching up your lipgloss and reapplying the iridescent baby pink body glitter across your chest. “Just in time for my dance.”

You get up from your seat at the bar and adjust your lace bustier and thong as the announcer calls your stage name.

“He won't lay a finger on you,” Bucky assures you as you're walking up the steps of the platform.

There's a weak round of applause and a few whistles as you take your place on the center of the small stage. You give a vague nod in the direction of the DJ’s booth to indicate you're ready for your song to begin.

An upbeat but sensuous synth-pop song pours out of the speakers throughout the room and you begin to sway your hips.

You're hyper-aware of the fact that you can see Bucky making his way closer to you, away from his position in the back of the room. He settles when he's just a few tables behind the man in the red wife-beater.

There's an eruption of butterflies in the pit of your belly at how close he is. Each night prior to this, he has kept to lingering around the exits and the far wall towards the back of the club. Now, he's close enough that you can actually see his eyes following every languid movement that your body makes around the pole.

“Take your fucking top off!” a grating voice bellows from the audience. “We want to see your tits.”

You don't have to look to know who the voice belongs to. You decide to ignore him, hoping he would stop if you didn't give him any attention. You go to wrap your thighs around the pole again, preparing to spin–

“Did you not fucking hear me?” he shouts even louder this time, audible to everyone over the roaring music. “I said take your fucking–”

A flash of movement in your peripheral vision causes you to freeze around the pole. You turn your full attention to the ruckus, just in time to see Bucky fisting the man's greasy, shoulder length hair and pulling his head back. The music comes to an abrupt pause.

“You don't fucking talk to her like that,” Bucky snarls. “In fact, you don't talk to her at all, you don't look at her, you don't even breathe the same fucking air as her.”

The man is thrashing around, trying and failing miserably to get out of Bucky's grasp.

“Let me go you fucking–”

He doesn't get to finish his sentence before Bucky snaps the man's head forward, sending his face crashing into the granite tabletop.

The instantaneous pool of blood that contrasts so starkly against the white stone snaps you out of your fear-stricken trance.

Bucky pulls his head back up, forcing the man to look up at him.

“It's not my fault she refuses to show off those perfect–”

You all but jump off the stage - miraculously not breaking an ankle in the six inch heels - and rush over to where Bucky still has the man's hair yanked into his fist.

Just as Bucky is beginning to shove the man's head downwards again, you place both of your hands on his chest, gently but effectively shoving him backwards. He immediately releases his grip on the man as the other few security guards on duty arrive to detain the pervert.

“Hey, hey,” you place your hands on his biceps, trying to turn his attention to you and away from the man who he's still glaring after, as he's hauled off by security. “I'm fine, yeah? Everything is fine,” you try to assure him, though you're not sure your shaky voice sounds very convincing. “He's just a creepy, entitled asshole.”

Noticing that Bucky is shaking beneath your touch, you rub your hands up and down his arms in hopes of calming him down.

He finally meets your gaze. He doesn't say anything for a moment, just stares at you as he takes a few deep breaths.

“Go get dressed,” he orders you calmly after a moment. “I’m getting you the fuck out of here.” You want to leave too badly to even think about objecting.

You make a beeline for the changing room, where you throw on a sweater and force your pants over your heels, not even bothering to change out of the lingerie and stilettos.

Bucky's waiting for you right outside the door as you sling your duffel bag across your shoulder.

“How mad do you think Fury will be that we are abandoning our positions?” you ask in a hushed tone as Bucky ushers you through the club, his metal arm wrapped around your waist.

“Not as mad as I am that he's had you doing this bullshit for no reason for almost a week now.”

You and Bucky exit the club as quickly as possible, ignoring the curious and confused stares of the other dancers and security guards. He guides you down the block, then through an alleyway where his motorcycle is parked in a heavy silence - other than the obnoxious clanking of your heels against the pavement.

Bucky straddles one leg over the seat of the bike, taking his place in the driver's position and then hands you the helmet.

“Wait,” you pause before putting it over your head. “I'm starving.” Your stomach growls, as if on cue. “Can we stop and get some take-out?”

He looks at you incredulously. “I just shattered that guy's nose and likely severely concussed him and then just dipped. Our cover is essentially blown, don't you think we should get back to the motel room and lay low until the morning?”

“There's a Chinese place open late just a few blocks from the motel–”

“If I say yes will you put on the helmet and get on the bike?”

Taking that as a win, you slide the helmet over your head and hop on behind him. You wrap your arms securely around his midsection in a tight hug and he takes off down Bourbon Street.

You spend the drive trying to ignore the thought that of all the times you've ridden on the back of Bucky’s motorcycle, you don't remember him ever feeling so tense beneath your touch.

Half an hour later, you're lounging on the rickety motel bed, stuffing your face full of sweet and sour chicken and vegetable fried rice while Bucky fills Sam in on what happened over the phone.

He sits in one of the small chairs at the singular table in the corner of the room, his posture rigid. He answers all of Sam's questions with clipped, one-word responses as he massages his temple between his thumb and forefinger.

He hangs up the phone, refusing to meet your gaze. Instead, he pretends to be interested in the episode of Family Guy playing on the old motel TV.

“Your egg rolls are going to get soggy,” you tell him, pushing the to-go box across the mattress towards him.

“I don't have an appetite right now,” he says, picking up the box of food as he stands. You grab his bicep in your hand as he begins to walk past where you're sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Hey,” you say, stopping him. “Everything's okay. Really. Don't let that guy get to you–”

“A little late for that, don't you think?” He snaps, pulling his arm from your grasp. You sit back, too stunned by his reaction to know how to respond. You just stare after him as he crams his take-out box into the motel room's mini fridge.

“I shouldn't have reacted so harshly,” he says after a moment, still facing away from you. “I couldn't stop myself. He spoke to you that way, and I could have killed him and not thought twice about it. Probably would have if you hadn't intervened.”

He turns back to you. You're frozen in place.

“Do you know what that's like?” He asks, taking a step closer to you. “To feel like you aren't in control of your own body? To be so irrationally protective of someone that you'd kill for them without a second thought?”

You feel like all air has been stripped from your lungs. He's just inches away, staring down at you from where you sit on the edge of the mattress. The way he's looking at you makes your skin feel like it's on fire.

“Because that's what you do to me. That's how you make me feel.”

Heat pools between your legs.

“Come here,” you say - it sounds more like a question than a command.

He closes what little distance is left between the two of you, and pulls you up from the mattress by the tops of your arms so that your body is flush against his.

His mouth hovers over yours - not quite making contact, though you can feel his breath fan across your skin.

He takes his flesh hand and cups the side of your face with it, his thumb trailing across your bottom lip. His metal hand wanders down your back until it reaches the curve of your ass - grasping your cheek in a firm hold and squeezing until his touch borders between pleasure and pain.

“This is what I wanted to do to you every time I saw a man so much as glance in your direction in that club,” he whispers against your mouth. “I thought about bending you over the stage and making them watch me take you right then and there, but they didn't deserve to see that.”

“They aren't here to see us now,” you murmur as you bring your hand to cup the noticeable bulge of his jeans, eliciting a hiss from him. “So what are you going to do now?”

There's a dark grin spread across his face. He pushes you, softly but effectively, back down on the bed. You scout back a few inches on the mattress, and then bring one of your feet up to remove the stiletto heels that you'd completely forgotten to take off upon returning to the motel with your haul of Chinese food.

“Oh, no,” Bucky laughs lowly. “I want you to keep those on. I've grown to like those quite a bit.”

Your cheeks warm in both arousal and bashfulness. You begin to push your pants down your thighs as Bucky kneels on the ground and helps you maneuver the fabric around your shoes. The sweater that you threw over your bustier goes next.

You're left in the lingerie set that you wore at the club.

“Call me jealous,” Bucky sighs as he begins trailing sloppy kisses up the insides of your thighs. “Call me possessive, call me crazy..”

You lay back down against the scratchy comforter as Bucky gets closer and closer to where you're aching to have him the most.

“But I don't want anyone seeing you like this but me.”

He pulls the already soaked lace material of your thong to the side, exposing your cunt.

He licks up your center torturously slow, causing you to let out a sharp exhale. He repeats the motion, and then locks his lips around your clit. Your hands shoot to his hair, fisting your fingers through the short brunet strands.

He eats you until you're a mewling and squirming mess beneath him.

You come hard, clenching your thighs around his head and riding his face through your orgasm.

“Stand up,” you instruct him as soon as you can think semi-clearly.

He obeys without any hesitation. The warm glow of the singular lamp in the motel room highlights the way your slick coats the lower half of his face.

You get up on your hands and knees before him and he lets out an audible groan at the sight in front of him. He bends down enough to kiss you - cupping your face in both of his hands and tipping your head up to give him a better angle to slip his tongue into your mouth. You moan into the kiss - the ache between your thighs reappearing already.

He removes his hands from your face, unbuttoning his pants while still kissing you.

You pull away to help free his cock from the confines of his boxers. Your mouth waters at what's directly in front of you. He's impressively long and girthy, with a thick vein running up the side.

You pump him a few times in your hand, swirling your tongue around the pre-cum dripping from his slit. He's already putty in your hands - groaning above you and placing his metal hand around the back of your neck to keep you where he wants you.

After you've run your tongue up and down his length a few times, you spit on the tip of his cock and massage it over the entirety of his shaft before taking him as far into your mouth as you can in the first go. He throws his head back, moaning your name.

You feel him hit the back of your throat and you gag before pulling back.

He curses under his breath, nudging himself slowly back towards your throat again.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl,” he praises and you moan around his dick. He gradually increases the speed at which he pumps himself into your mouth, obscene noises echoing off of the thin motel room walls.

When he pulls out, you feel drool running down your neck and mascara-tinted tears leaking from your eyes.

“You're so gorgeous like this for me,” he tells you, and despite knowing that you look thoroughly fucked out, you believe him. “Will you turn around?”

You do as he asks, turning around on your hands and knees. You lower your chest down to the bed so that your ass is angled upwards.

“Jesus Christ,” he grunts under his breath. He grips your hips with both of his hands, yanking you to him. His erection juts against the cloth of your underwear.

He tugs them aside once more, giving him access to tease your slit with the head of his cock. You rock backwards, grinding against him. He brings his flesh hand around your stomach and reaches down to rub your clit as he begins to slowly fill you from behind.

He pauses for a moment once he bottoms out, giving you time to adjust to the fullness of him before he starts fucking into you.

The combination of him slamming into you at such an intense angle and massaging you so perfectly has your climax building shamefully fast.

You grunt his name, bouncing your ass to meet his thrusts. “I'm gonna come,” you mewl, knowing he's on the verge of doing the same as his movements become uneven.

One, two, three more pumps and you can feel your pussy clenching around him as you come together.

You pull off of him, collapsing onto the bed and rolling onto your back. He crawls over you, propping himself up on his arms above you.

“You know,” he stares down at you, his eyes trailing to your breasts that are now spilling out of the black lace bustier. “As much as I hated every second of that mission, I do hope I might get to see you in some of these outfits again.”

♡♡♡♡♡

my masterlist!!!

[allfearstofallto]

Ok so, I've been having this taught of reader falling into a coma and not remembering anything from what happened before waking up. Which yandere do you think would take advantage and which would feel bad about doing so?

And why is it Diluc?

You were told you told a nasty fall. Right down the stairs at that. You're quite the clutz, one of your maids joked to you, but it's not like you'd remember. Everything about yourself, other than your name was blurry. Your name and something else. Red hair. Long red hair flowing down his back. Other than that, your mind was empty of memories, like you'd been reset with nothing.

"Master Diluc will be here shortly," the maid said with a smile as she used a wet cloth to dab the knot on your forehead. Swollen and painful, you could see the water in her bowl turning red from the dried blood, but she still smiled. Almost as if she enjoyed tending to you, "He's been dying to see you. You've had him worried sick, my lady,"

"Diluc...?" You repeated his name back, it felt foreign on your tongue, yet all too familiar at the same time. You forced yourself to think on that name as you'd done your own and nothing came up. Just empty, hollow, and blank.

She chuckled at your response, "Your husband! My boss. Master Diluc?" She tested these words while staring into your eyes, waiting for any sign of familiarity, but that flicker never lit in your eyes, and you grew more and more confused as she spoke. She watched your face change and in turn, hers did as well. You recognized the expression she was making. A look of worry and fear, that she tried to mask.

"I-i...have a husband?" You asked. The idea sounded crazy even to you. You'd gotten married and completely forgotten the person, forgotten the wedding, forgotten yourself.

Her little bowl was sat to the side and she dusted her hands on her apron. Moving quickly, she gave you a weak, worried smile as she marchd to the door, "I'll go get master Diluc." She said hurriedly, and she was gone. Leaving you in an unfamiliar room, with a strangely comforting ticking of a clock.

It wasn't long before the door opened again and he stepped in. He looked serious, almost scary, but also strangely remorseful. His eyes danced over to your forehead, where the bump was, then back to your face. His lip quivered as he knelt down at your bed side, reaching out to take your hand and being surprised that you allowed it. But his touch was gentle, he traced his thumb up and down the back of your hand, testing words on his tongue before he finally asked, "What do you remember?"

A weak smile formed on your lips. How could you tell him nothing? Or that all you had were bits and pieces of memories and even then, they weren't anything to go by. Yet that little shy smile was more than enough to tell him what you were thinking. He grimaced a bit before taking your hand and squeezing it, his touch was warm, borderline hot against the back of your hand.

"I'm your husband, Diluc Radnvindr and you're my wife. We've been married for two years," he spoke slowly, as if he were explaining this all to a child who wouldn't understand, "We live just a little bit outside of Mondstadt, I own a winery and the surrounding land as well."

At his mention of marriage, you looked down at your hands. Bare. Not even the indent of a ring on your finger.

"We don't have rings?" You questioned curiously, but sure enough, when you looked at his hand, he was wearing his wedding band dutifully. A plain gold band that wrapped around his finger.

Diluc's face tensed when you asked the question. It was an odd expression, not the type to face you expected your husband to make. But he still reached into a table at your side, opening a velvet box and showing you a similar gold band, only this one sparked with jewels and gems. It looked practically brand new. Not even a scratch or fingerprint on it. Almost like it'd never been worn.

"You always told me you weren't too fond of rings," he muttered, but his face looked sorrowful, "I couldn't force you to wear it so you never did."

You looked at that ring and you saw pure beauty. It looked like it was forged with love. You couldn't imagine why you didn't wear it, it was to pretty to not be seen. When you slipped the ring out of the box and onto the finger, Diluc made a face that was a mixture of surprise and horror. You gave him a questioning glance, but only was met with a stiff, but reassuring smile.

Days went by with you being a doting wife to Diluc, but the back of your mind something always felt wrong, like you were doing everything wrong. When you questioned why Diluc always ate his meals in his office, he did sit and eat with you at the table, but the maids looked confused at the sight of him. When you mentioned that it was strange that you and Diluc had supposedly been married so long, but didn't share a room, he allowed you into his bed. But even seemed uncomfortable by your presence.

Your dreams were restless that particular night. You dreamt of memories that you'd forgotten like you were living through them again. It was pouring rain and your heart was pounding. As you ran through the gardens, your feet bare and filthy with mud, all you could think was that you had to get away. But away from what?

Your heart thumping in your ears seemed even louder than the rainfall, your clothes soaked, fear being the only thing that pushed you further. When your wrist was grabbed, you screamed. Screamed harder than you had in your entire life. You expected to see a stranger when you turned, but instead you were met with familiar red hair, and angrier red eyes. Diluc.

He struck you. Hard across your cheek. It was a stinging slap, only calmed by the cold rain water hitting your face. Before you could even get the chance to fight, Diluc was dragging you back the way you came. Towards the manor. Towards your prison. You dug your feet into the mud, but you didn't stand a chance against his superior strength.

When you awoke in a cold sweat, chest heaving and eyes threatening to cry, his arm over your waist felt more like a restraint than a comfort. He slept peacefully right next to you as your mind tried to make sense of your dream, your memory. A pit formed in your stomach, a feeling of fear and worry as you thought about every strange thing about your marriage. About the strange way the maids looked at you. About how Diluc himself seemed almost surprised by what you assumed was typical martial affection. You swallowed hard as faint memories came flooding back. And the sudden realization of the fact that you were being lied to. And the liar, the cause of all of it, was nuzzling his face into you side.

[seaspringangel]

tears like sugar — boothill

summary: the sweetness of your tears makes boothill feel human again.

word count: 1.0k

content warnings: fem!reader ✦ dacryphilia ✦ oral sex(fem!receiving) ✦ overstimulation ✦ some touch starvation ✦ pet names (sugarplum /baby)

notes: just boothill being a love drunk simp <3

“Yer so pretty when ya cry.”

Boothill's hold on your naked hip was bruising and possessive as he pushed you down on the bed, but he still traced a tender, affectionate line from your temple to the bottom of your eyelashes beading with tears as he smiled crookedly; he imagined it to be a star pattern, pressing light into your skin. “I like it when yer face gets all soft n’ cloudy n’ sweet.” 

You flushed, bashfully attempting to cover your face with your hands, but Boothill wasn’t having any of that. He gently peeled them away, forcing you to stare at his face, bright with adoration. “C’mon, sugarplum, ya’ know I need to see your face when I make you fall apart.” 

Boothill had missed you so desperately. His work as a Galaxy Ranger always took him so far from where your hands could touch him. So many bitter nights kept him from the comfort of your arms, as grounding to him as the star shine that he traveled amongst, leaving him full of yearning, loneliness, and dreams filled with you. 

If he still could cry tears, Boothill would have shed several, letting them rain down on your face. But that part of his humanity has long been bled out of him, craved out of his body, sold for parts, phantom tears forever haunting his eyes. So how can one blame him that he was addicted to the loveliness that was you jumping in his awaiting arms, your adorable tears moistening the metal of his neck?

Boothill had you laid out beneath him, your body a universe made for his hands; every awe-inspired, reverent stroke and caress from the pleasure-pain of his fingers and teeth and tongue left you flushed so beautifully, color painting your body like a sunrise, and Boothill couldn’t help himself, he could never help himself when it came to you; he nipped at the soft bud of your nipple, and the sting of heavenly pain was so sudden you gasped, shivers dancing up your spine, liquid heat pooling in your stomach, an electric fire sparking to life inside you as you push yourself into his metallic chest, embers kissing shards of ice.

And more tears, shining and sweet, gathered in your eyelashes. Boothill wanted those tears to slide down your cheeks and into his mouth like falling stars.

All of his hot blood had long been frosted over with metal and circuitry, his robotic body an ice tundra slaughtering the spring in his veins; there was no bleeding heart to beat organically in the metal cage of his chest, no flesh or sinew to rub warmth into, but he knew you tried your best to love all of the cold hardware that forced him to be the ruthless machine he was today, with every tender kiss and affectionate touch that you showered on him. You wanted to make him feel human again. To make him feel like he is someone worth loving.

But there was no better way to show your love for him than when you fell apart in his hands, your tears raining down on him like a gift from the heavens when he lapped up the sticky sugar sweetness from your cunt, the velvet of your walls clenching around his artificial cock as he kissed away the sweet relief weeping from your eyes, the next best thing to a sugar rush for him. That’s what made his empty cavity of a chest burn with something bright and warm: your tears, salty and lovely and just for him alone. That is what made him human.

Boothill continued lavishing you with licks and kisses and small bites as he kept you pinned beneath by your hips. He trailed down from the valley of your breasts to the bliss he sought between your thighs, your delicate cries of please, Boothill, pleasepleaseplease a beautiful, needy melody in his ears, sending every electronic component within him humming. Aeons above, he could hear you cry like that forever until his body rusted over and broke down to nothing but scrap metal in the haven of your arms.

When he reached your cunt, he breathed you in and groaned softly; you were already so wet, your honeyed slick sliding down your legs, and Boothill wasn’t one to waste any precious drop; he licked them all up with a burning, aching swipe of his tongue, leaving behind a shining trail of his salvia. “You taste better than moonshine…” Boothill sighed against your inner thigh, your taste, sweet, sugary, and so utterly addicting, washing over him. “I jus’ want to devour you whole…”

And that’s exactly what he did; he latched onto your clit, his shark teeth and mouth a ravenous, all-encompassing, ruthless thing, sucking and licking and drinking you in until your voice cracked, breaking apart on his name, your cries crescendoing into sobs. 

He ate you and ate you, coaxing one orgasm to crash on his tongue like a wave, then another, and another, until you were nothing more than a quaking, wanton mess gripping tightly at his hair for relief. So needy. So perfect. So completely his.

“You got one more in ya, sugarplum. I know you do,” Boothill cooed softly, gazing up at you from between your thighs with reverence, your slick shining on his mouth like spilled starlight. You looked like what he had dreamed about for so many lonesome nights: beautiful and wrecked from the hunger of his desire, your face soft and cloudy and sweet, wet with tears.

So many beautiful tears. 

He drank from you until you were whimpering and limp in his hands, his grip on your hips lessening until he was rubbing them soothingly. “You did so good, baby.” Boothill pressed soft, apologetic kisses to your body as he crawled upwards until he was peppering your cheeks with them, lapping up the tears spilling from your eyes with his tongue. “Yer pretty as a picture…” 

Boothill knows that as soon as he separates himself from the warmth of your body, he’ll have to leave again, becoming weary and rueful thing cast out to endure the cold, black nights alone. But at least he has this memory as beautiful as the sweetest dream emblazoned in his mind to keep him going when things get hard: you, the brightest stars swimming in your eyes, love weeping between your thighs, your tears sweetening his tongue. 

He will never dream for anything more.

[siempre-bucky]

not a senator.

Qimir x Senator!Reader

Summary: On the run after a failed assassination attempt, you run into a peculiar apothecary owner

WC: 1.7k

Warnings: Mentions of blood

A/N: For the Anon that requested a senator!reader meet cute <3

You weren’t sure how long you’d been running through the outskirts of Olega, it felt like as soon as you left your ship you were being followed, hunted. The branches of the trees rustled in warning, and the whispers of threats danced along your ears. You picked up the bottom of your cloak, the last thing tethering you to your former self, and ran. It was a gift from the Senator elected before you, a soft navy blue velvet with matching metallic fiber woven into seams. You treated it as a reminder of who you once were. 

 The state of exhaustion had set in, hunger squeezed your stomach, but the adrenaline kept you going. 

Get to safety, get far from here, the terrified guard told you in the dead of night, an assassin lying dead at the foot of your bed in a pool of crimson that glowed in the bright lights of the Courscant nightlife outside the large windows of your room. It was an assassination attempt, a group of assassins hired by political rivals to remove you from the Senate—permanently. Supposedly, it was an era of peace but you soon learned how fleeting peace was. 

“Get the Senator!” a man seethed, pointing his knife in your direction as you disappeared into the bustling crowd of the marketplace, his other hand had the collar of his henchman clenched tightly in his fist, pulling the man in with a look of sudden fear in his eyes. The market had made good cover so far, the people of the planet were barely paying any attention to you running for your life. They went about their business, loitering on rust ridden buildings and eagerly bartering for goods. 

You heard someone mention an apothecary as you passed them. Your eyes hastily searched for it, just make it there. There’d be plenty of places to hide inside. You slid the dirty red door open and walked inside cautiously, the patrons paying no mind as you stepped through the doorway. Your eyes scanned the apothecary noting that it was a rather small place. A few people examined the various items on the shelves while a couple of others stood by the window beside you. It was a mess, you thought as you caught your breath. 

In front of you, stood a tall slender man behind the small counter. He paid you no mind as his eyes narrowed at the glowing yellow tile in the center of the counter, his hands tinkering with some broken parts that illuminated in the small light. You thought he was peculiar, the way he watched his work so intensely. 

“In there,” you heard the same voices from earlier shouting from the other side of the window, “check in there.” 

You were out of time to make a getaway, and in this small space, you didn’t have many hiding options. Taking in the lack of hiding spots, you ran towards the apothecary's owner, jumping and sliding behind the counter, his scraps falling in all directions with various clinking sounds. 

The man looked down at you with wide eyes and a shocked expression while you made yourself as small as you could, bringing your knees to your chest and pressing your back to the counter, your shoulders hunched over. Panic was setting in. “Hello,” he said lightly, clinging the two metal bottles in his hands together. If you weren’t so scared, you would have thought he was handsome this close up. Cheekbones carved especially by the Maker and disheveled black hair that covered his dark brown eyes. He was beautiful and in desperate need of a good shower. His loose but tattered green and brown clothes made him fit in with the rest of the place, a little dirty and run down.

“There are men trying to kill me out there. Please don’t let them find me!” you pleaded with him, skipping the pleasantries. He just stared at you blankly, and you assumed he already made up his mind. This was the way that the galaxy worked, you were too sheltered on your home planet and then sent to Coruscant where it was no better in the Senate. Things weren't perfect, people were not good like Jedi Masters told you they were.

He smirked playfully down at you, “Was that a pickup line?” he asked with a chuckle. Your face fell, lips falling to an annoyed grimace. 

“Maker,” you cursed, accepting your fate The door was suddenly ripped from its hinges, the earth-shattering thunk caught everyone's attention. You jumped, clasping your hands over your mouth to muffle any kind of fearful cry. 

The man looked at you and then back to the two burly men who barreled into his apothecary. They strolled up to the bar with confidence, the owner's eyes fixated on them. “Hello!” he greeted with the same light tone, “how can I help you?” 

The taller of the two bounty hunters leaned on the bar, his eyes narrowed. “We’re looking for a Senator,” he informed plainly, “Got a high price on that pretty head— we could cut you in for any relevant information.” The man pulled a hologram from his pocket and placed it on the table, turning it on. The owner looked at your official portrait that was slowly rotating in front of him and narrowed his eyes, he was taking it all in. He probably thought you looked more put together in the photo than you do now. Dirt covering your cheeks, strands of hair stuck to your sweaty forehead. 

He chuckled, “You sound a little desperate if you’re offering a cut to someone like me.” 

You looked up at him worriedly, you could see how his jaw clenched but his body remained light at his tone of voice. Your heart pounded against your chest, the men were about to offer a large sum and the owner was about to take it, you were sure of it. 

The bounty hunter snarled, but the other man stood still and held his ground. “I should have your head for that.” 

The man put his hands on the counter and nonchalantly turned off the hologram. His face was stone, unreadable as he continued to make eye contact with the bounty hunter. They stared at each other in silence, the background noise of the apothecary began to get increasingly louder in your ears. It was almost deafening, the clanking of jars and whirling of mechanical tools screamed at you. You moved your hands from your lips and slid them up towards your ears. 

But you stopped when the bounty hunters began to speak lifelessly, almost as if he was in a trance

“There is no Senator here, we will leave,” the bounty hunters spoke in unison, reaching into their pockets and retrieving two brown sacks of credits. The owner smiled as they placed it on the counter and exited without another word. 

You waited until you heard their footsteps fade to cautiously rise from the floor, your eyes frantically scanning the room to make sure it was safe. “They left,” you breathed as if it was the first time. 

“See,” he beamed, “Not so bad.” He took the two sacks in one hand, and your shaky one in the other. Your eyes met as he put the bags in your hand, “This should probably be enough to get you started if you choose to stay.” 

He let go and made his way to the back entrance, leaving you there staring at the bags in pure shock, “Thank you-,” you whispered before swiftly following him to the back alley. It suddenly dawned on you that you didn't know his name, he saved your life and you didn’t even ask. 

“Qimir!” he called back as if he knew what you were thinking. Strange.

You followed close behind him, but once you started to think, your steps became slower and separated the two of you. How was he able to change their minds so quickly, they were dead set on killing you. They were bounty hunters, the most relentless creatures in the galaxy. 

You paused, clenching the two bags in your hands tighter. “How’d you get them to leave like that?” You asked sternly, the Senator in you coming out. “Are you—” you paused. You had only seen methods like that from a select few, “—Jedi?” 

He stopped, blood running cold in his veins. You saw how his body tensed up then he stood up straight, pushing back his greasy hair, the strands falling perfectly into place. Qimir slowly turned to you and everything abruptly seemed off. His face was no longer filled with meek eagerness, he was secure and held himself with such poise. A whole shift in personality you noted. He slowly strode over, his eyes darkening as he moved. His whole presence felt dark. 

A chill ran down your spine as he approached you. Was he about to kill you? 

“Quite the opposite, Senator,” he spoke lowly with a slight rasp to his tone, his head tilting to the side, looking up at you. Another chill went through you. 

 His face was so close you could see every freckle on his face, every shade of brown in his eyes. 

You heard the stories of those who practiced the ways of the Force outside the Jedi Order, they had a name but you couldn’t recall what it was. The Council didn’t like to talk about them, another senator you became acquainted with once said they didn’t mention it purposely for it would “dampen the era of peace in the galaxy.”  You were too busy staring at the man in front of you, unsure if you wanted to run or kiss him, “N-not a Senator,” you swallowed, you couldn't call yourself that any longer. 

“‘I’ll make you a deal.” You nodded. “Tell no one of what happened here,” and I’ll spare your life, “and anything in the apothecary is yours for free.”

You smirked, “Deal,” you said, taking a step back and holding out your hand, “Thank you again, Qimir.”  Qimir nodded and shook your hand, his skin tingling at the sensation of your hand in his. Was this desire? He pulled away and began to walk back towards the apothecary, before he reached the door he looked at you with a smirk on his chiseled face, “You’re quite welcome, Senator. I hope to see you soon.”

[heavenbloom]

🇵🇸 BEFORE YOU READ: BOYCOTT TLOU, AID, DAILY CLICK.

don’t skip over this. do what you can!

now playing: hold on — the internet

warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, no plot, sub!ellie, oral (e!receiving), slight nipple play (e!receiving), hickeys, ooc probably, not proofread

it wasn’t a lust that gnashed its teeth. it wasn’t the all-consuming, foolhardy desire ellie was used to. no, this was foreign and torturous in its creeping. it twined through her ribcage and constricted her lungs, the roots of a tree scrabbling for the fresh soil of her heart.

this was more than clandestine journal entries or fumbling love songs in the comfort of her room. when she looked at you, what an angel, her very blood sang with hymns of your beauty.

each smile cast her way, each compelling stare, brought a new wave of something saccharine, blood rushing to her cheeks and rendering her throat dry. she’d never been robbed of words the way you snatched them from the tip of her tongue, with an absentminded, innocent brush of skin on skin.

there was a throb, an ache, within the very depths of her that demanded attention, yours alone. one touch, her soul silently begged. just one fucking kiss.

it was surreal, the reciprocation. she couldn’t quite believe it when her back hit your soft mattress, her cheeks a vibrant watercolour wash of pink. even as you stripped her unbearably slowly, she couldn’t keep her hands off you, if only to confirm that this was real.

when she laid bare beneath you, your hands gripped her wrists, pinning them to the side of her head gently. she let out something animal-like, a high whine bubbling from her chest as she felt the flame of your lips flicker down her neck languidly, taking their time as they trailed to her collarbone and reached the small swell of her breasts. a starlight of freckles danced across the skin there, with two rosy buds just begging for attention.

you kissed the skin there, delighting in the anticipatory way her chest heaved before you gave in to what she so desperately wanted.

your tongue swirled around one nipple, then the other, before latching your mouth onto one of them. a gasp rose from the girl beneath you, the velvet of your tongue causing her to arch her back slightly into your teasing touches.

“so worked up already…” you murmured against her burning skin.

she squirmed and twisted her wrists in response, as impatient as ever. although she could have easily broken from your grasp, she kept them down, suppressing the urge to touch your hair and hold your head closer to her chest.

you kept lavishing attention onto her, alternating between scattering sweetly stinging love bites across the flesh and sucking on her perky nipples. you could feel each tremor and deep, gasping breath, her body thrumming with life and need underneath you.

after her breasts were littered with the blooming purple-red of hickeys, you lifted your head to look up at her face.

a whine rose in her throat. “why’d you stop?” her usually deep and even voice was now wavering and raw with desire and desperation. auburn strands of her short hair were swept over the mossy green of her eyes, her pupils blown out and animalistic.

your fingers, phantom-light, slid from the bottom of her ribcage, down the plane of her stomach and to her warm cunt. your fingers grazed her slick folds, a sigh escaping her lips.

it was obvious she wanted your mouth elsewhere.

your lips followed the trail of your fingers, openmouthed kisses down her abdomen until you stopped at her cunt. a shiver passed through her body as she felt your breath ghosting over it.

you admired her cunt for a moment, pink and glistening in the dim warm light. you spread her folds with your fingers, the sound of it already obscene.

another tremor passed through ellie as she propped herself on her elbows. there was a wanton pinch to her eyebrows, her swollen bottom lip drawn between her top teeth. you would have loved to kept her teetering on the edge of pleasure, but who were you to deny her? she had already melted for you, syrupy and heady, like dissolved sugar.

your mouth met her pussy, lips delving into the slick sweetness that laid there, a sigh leaving your lips and reverberating against it. you licked a stripe up her slit, the taste of her arousal ambrosial. her cunt was petal-soft and heavenly on your tongue.

her fingers, in a frenzied movement, pushed your head further into her cunt, a moan puncturing the air, melodic and rippling through the air. your tongue swirled around the stiff pink bundle of nerves in response before your mouth closed around it and sucked gently.

your gentleness was a thing that ellie craved, the way your tongue carved out the purest of ecstasy from her depths with languidness and a few meaningful strokes.

her body writhed, hips bucking against your face in a plea of more, more, more. you were more than happy to oblige, tongue diving deeper as your nose nudged against her clit.

the swell of her oncoming orgasm was roiling within her, her entire body shaking beneath your ministrations. her thighs quivered in the heat of your fingers as you held them spread open for you.

with a burst of tension within her, her body began to convulse and tighten, a string of fragmented words and praises leaving her lips, broken up by unabashed whimpers and gasps. her head was thrown back, hair sticking to the base of her throat as she poured out pure euphoria from her being.

you lapped at her juices as if it were a thing of the gods, something to savour and worship, until you were certain the tremors in her body subsided.

you lifted your head, mouth and chin smeared with her wetness still, to get a better look at her. her breath came out in deep, drawling gasps, green eyes vibrant with the halo of a post-orgasmic glow.

with gentle movements, you propped yourself over her, brushing away the sweat-soaked hair from her face. you brought your face down, lips connecting with hers. she tasted it then, herself and her fervent desire for you, on the silky whisper of your tongue against hers.

her heart beat rapidly, with a newer thing coiling in her veins. she wanted more.

[lunnybunny12]

Stolas x wife reader (happy families)

(part 1)

Masterlist

Requests open

A Goetia party was always a talking point in hell. And for good reason. From kings to lowborns, everyone and anyone from the Goitias were invited.

The hall was practically dripping with wealth. Ladies draped with the finest silks and velvets, in floor-length gowns and sprinkled with jewels and gems. The gentlemen, groomed to perfection, wore luxurious suits with matching: shirts, hats, tailcoats and cloaks. The smell of the fine food, collected from all across the seven rings drifted through the air along with a strong smell of absynthe and incense.

It was a classy affair, at least you would've thought so if you weren't 5 years old. In your little bird brain, you hated these parties. Granted this was your first one but you couldn't imagine anything more boring. So far you have been: stepped on, pushed and pulled in all directions, danced and if you smiled any more your lips would fall apart.

Your mother, on the other hand, lived for them. When you were small your mother would always pawn you off to a babysitter so she could be at a party. Every year she would work for at least a month to prepare for the occasion.

Not a single feather was out of place that night. Her talons and beak were buffed and polished and there wasn't a spec of anything but elegance ( and annoyance) on her.

"(Y/N)! stop fidgeting you'll ruin my dress" she crowed, dragging you behind her.

"But Mama I-"

Your mother sent you a look that choked the words in your throat and bent down to dust off your dress.

"No buts. you be on your best behaviour. I won't have you embarrass me in front of a king"

Faster than you could comprehend, your mother composed herself and shoved you in front of her.

You slammed face-first into something. Tears were pooling at the corners of your eyes when a sweet voice said "Oh goodness, I'm sorry are you alright?

The boy in front of you was around your age maybe a year older. He was an inch or two taller than you and had 2 large, kind, red eyes that met yours.

"This is my daughter (Y/N). Isn't she just... Precious" your mother said pulling her face into the biggest smile you'd ever seen.

Your eyes travelled up to who she was talking to. The man toward over you and your mother. His blood-red eyes stared down at you like he was staring into your soul.

The owl grumbled to himself before planting a fake smile on his face.

"Isn't she darling? Allow me to introduce my son... uh. Fuck, what's your name?"

"Stolas, father."

"STOLAS! of course. My son, Prince Stolas."

The young owl lowered his head earning a slap.

"Don't bow to THAT one. They bow to us." The man hissed.

Your mother grabbed the back of your neck and forced you into a bow, making you slip and fall into Stolas, who caught you.

"(Y/N)!" your mother whispered sharply, tearing you away from Stolas and dragging you behind her.

The whole time you felt your mother's claws dig into your skin making you wince in pain.

Eventually, when your mother let you go you managed to sneak away and scurried to the first place you could find, under a table.

It wasn't the worst place to hide, the tablecloth draped down to the floor on all sides so you couldn't be seen. Through your misty eyes, you'd see shadows pass by. If you weren't so upset you'd actually enjoy your little nook.

"Hello?" someone hooted to you.

You immediately dried your face and tried to stand, hitting your head on the underside of the table.

You locked eyes with the young prince, who by this point was fully under the table with you, and fell face-first to the ground in embarrassment.

Stolas crawled to you with a slight giggle in his voice. "Are you ok?"

"Yes Your Highness I'm fine. My head hurts that's all." You mumbled into the carpet.

"Here let's get you to sit up. I can't really hear you."

Stolas could see that you were upset, your eyes were still puffy and your face was wet.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

You sniffled and fake smiled "Im alright Your Highness"

"Please call me Stolas" he lowered his head to a bow

[holybibly]

I can't stop thinking about that bunny, so today seems to be all about Sanhwa.

Unholy thoughts of today: Aristocratic blue blood vampires Sanhwa who cannot share you with each other.

Such auctions were nothing new. Ever since the advent of the vampire in the human world, auctions of this kind had been commonplace. There were many reasons for the attendance of an auction, but the main ones were money and sex.

Right now, you were sitting on a velvet pillow watching two divinely beautiful vampires about to gnaw each other's throats to get to you first.

San and Seonghwa were something of royalty in the vampire world, their covens rooted in dark and terrible times, which only strengthened their authority and power among their kind.

When you caught San's burning, sharp gaze early in this evening, you knew that at the end of the night you would find yourself in his bed, with his fangs in your neck and his cock deep in your pussy. And frankly, the prospect was more than attractive to you. Especially when you considered that the vampire was literally radiating 'daddy' energy, and maybe, just maybe, you had a big kink for that.

But within an hour, you were literally writhing under the hypnotic gaze of Seonghwa as he devoured you with his eyes. Your confidence about the end of this night was shaken, especially when his long tongue slowly slid over his sensual, plump lips, making them shiny and wet, just as your cunt had become from this view.

When you were informed that your "lot" had been purchased and you were asked to go to a special room to do the paperwork, you didn't expect to see two vampires on the verge of sinking their fangs into each other's throats or fucking each other. The energy between them was so hot and intense and full of sex that even the auction organisers were uncomfortable.

And so you ended up on your velvet pillow, watching San and Seonghwa circle around you like predators, barely holding back their urge to pounce on you to fuck you senseless and then drink you until they were drunk. Although they could get drunk on more than just your blood, you had heard that vampires could get drunk on pussy very quickly, and as you knew, yours tasted amazing, according to all those boys whose tongues managed to get between your legs.

San was the first to break down, wrapping his hand around your throat and pulling you towards him for a kiss. And damn, he kissed divinely. Powerful, dominant, hot, fuck, he was just a "daddy," and you melted under the skillful movements of his mouth and tongue, already imagining how it would feel all over your body.

But no matter how beautiful San was, nothing could make you forget the presence of the second vampire, especially when two of his long fingers slid into your hole without much effort. You were so damn wet that it was almost embarrassing.

"So damn wet for me." Seonghwa purred velvetily in your ear. And you shuddered, pulling away from San's lips, causing the magnificent vampire to growl and press harder against your throat. Seonghwa's fingertips pressed perfectly against your J-spot, and you arched your spine, thrusting your ass out, increasing the pressure of his fingers on your sweet spot.

"I y-yes, everything is for you." You barely whisper as San tightens his fingers around your throat, effectively cutting off your oxygen supply.

"For us, my queen. For us..." He leans closer to you, his cold breath tickling the sensitive skin on your ear. On the other hand, you feel Seonghwa's lips begin to plant wet, sloppy kisses on your shoulder. "You must never forget that you belong to both of us, my queen. Or daddy will have to punish you to remind you of that. And I can assure you that only I will have the pleasure of it."

As black spots begin to dance in front of your eyes and your body goes limp as if on the verge of losing consciousness, San unclenches his fingers and allows you to breathe. You greedily swallow the air while Seonghwa continues to relentlessly fuck your pussy with his fingers, and this contrast of sensations almost drives you crazy and makes you cum right away.

"Well, well, San, don't be so rude to her; we're not in a hurry, and you have all the time in the world to teach her good behaviour. Now let's fuck her; I'm hungry and not just for her blood.".

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Needs Must — Rhysand x Reader

While I put the finishing touches to the next part of Bluebird, enjoy this Rhys x Reader that I got a sudden burst of inspiration to finish this morning!

Summary: War changes everything, and the human-fae war changed the trajectory of your life completely — most pointedly decimating the relations between you and those closest to you. It’s been a long while since you’ve seen your brother, Cassian, and your friends. But that’s all about to change.

Warnings: Suggestions of solicitation/sex work/brothels. Nothing else, really!

Word Count: 1.5k

Enjoy! 💕

It’s all pointless, you think — the red velvet drapes, the burning candles, the sandalwood-scented smoke that clouds the air and creates a thick layer of fog that hovers just above the shag carpet. Pointless, because no amount of pretty décor will change Salt’s Pleasure Hall from the vacuous and miserable place it is.

Not miserable for you, no. There is no misery in the hefty sum of gold you’ll take home on a night. You are a master of pretty smiles and hooded gazes and saying all the right things that desperate, lonely males wish to hear. There is so much coin to be had in feigning interest and attraction. Bringing their fantasy to life for a night. There is talent in making them feel as though you’ve bared yourself to them, without having removed a single item of clothing.

And to think you once begged your older brother to train you, make you like him. Turn me into a weapon like you are, Cassian. We cannot change what filth sired us. But we can stamp it out from our blood and be better, be more.

And oh, he’d trained you, alright. Turned you into a weapon. Into something he was so fucking proud of. You knew the pride it had once brought him to strut around Illyrian lands with you at his side, clad in leathers just as he was, armed to the teeth just as he was. His way of showing off that he had done something good, something useful.

Oh, how things have changed. How the mighty have fallen.

For all you are confident, comfortable, used to the job you have now worked for some time, you are nervous tonight.

Tonight is different. Tonight is territory that has so far been untouched. Tonight, this room of velvet and silk and sensuality is your domain.

The Juniper Suite is part of the most expensive package that Salt’s Pleasure Hall has to offer. The package is similar to your usual night’s work in that you will smile prettily and pour drinks and ply whichever lonely male arrives with mindless conversation.

The difference is that in Juniper, those things lead to sex. And this is the first time since becoming one of Salt’s girls that you’re crossing that boundary.

So, yeah, you’re a little bit nervous. But — needs must, and all that.

With a soft sigh and butterflies dancing around in your belly, you slowly pace the circumference of the room, stopping every now and then to study the weird little trinkets that Salt has picked up over the years. A strange mishmash of things that you suppose he thinks creates a certain ambience. But tiny metal lions and old, fraying maps will be the furthest thing from your client’s thoughts when the two of you sink into the feathered sheets.

They will be here any minute, and for the first time since you started your work here, you allow yourself to wonder what they might be like. You never usually bother, because the other girls warned you on day one what to expect — that this place attracts a certain clientele, and that never wavers.

So, your guest will likely be far older than you. He will likely have dark smudges beneath his eyes and the weight of the world on his shoulders. There will likely be the faint mark of a removed wedding band on his left ring finger. He will likely want to talk to you about why he is a victim of life itself.

And you will coo sympathetically and pour him drinks, drag your hand down his arm and hold his hand. You will let him know how sorry you feel that life is so cruel to him. You will offer him the bliss of touch and feel, and make him think, for a short while, that you genuinely care about his shortcomings.

And then when he hands you the heavy pouch of coins you so desperately covet, you’ll switch it all off.

You swallow down another sigh and cross the room to the small, compact bar in the corner. You need a stiff drink yourself, something to settle your nerves—

But a knock lands on the door, and there’s no time.

For a split second, you doubt whether you can go through with this. Playing hostess for a few hours is one thing, but giving your body to a client is something you’ve never had the courage to do, despite the extra coin it would bring. But — needs must. You repeat it to yourself as you stride to the door. Needs must, needs must, needs must. You can do this.

You brace yourself, feeling suddenly too hot and sticky in the scant clothing that covers you — a pink lingerie set, barely covered by the sheer robe that sits open and threatens to slip down your arms. You are beautiful — and strong and sexy and confident. This is your body to do with whatever you want. And if this is the course you are taking, that is fine. This will be fine.

You lay your palm on the handle and yank the door open before you have to give yourself another pep talk.

But at the sight of who stands on the other side, you freeze. Your lips part in surprise.

A pep talk is not what you need — but rather a huge hole to open in the floor and swallow you down.

“What the fuck?”

It takes you a moment to realise that you’ve uttered those three words at the exact same moment your client did — Rhysand did.

He’s just like when you last saw him, but…older, now. Even though you were adults back then, too, he seems…more mature, somehow. He’s regal and stunning and night itself.

And fuck, he’s High Lord of the Night Court now.

And yet he’s ruffled, as he takes you in, gapes at you. Neither of you know what to do.

His eyes dip down to what you’re wearing, before travelling back up to your face. And he blurts, “Pixie?”

Pixie. You haven’t heard that name in years. The fond nickname that both Rhys and Azriel had coined for you, because you were so much like Cassian and yet so much smaller, a little pixie buzzing around.

But you are not her anymore. You haven’t been her since before the human-fae war. You had changed, just like the others had changed.

And the new you doesn’t need to explain to an old friend what has brought you to a pleasure hall in Sangravah. Nor does that old friend need to explain what’s brought him here, either. You owe him nothing. He owes you nothing.

But the situation is so bizarre that your mind freezes. You don’t know what to do. All you know is that you do not want to be in front of him, almost naked. You do not want to look him in the eye. The mere thought is humiliating.

So you move fast and try to slam the door shut in his face. You don’t care what kind of reprimand Salt will give you because of it.

But, of course, he is Rhysand, and may you never forget that. He’s quick as lightning, something about him always having been wildly feline. He always bested you when you sparred, always had the upper hand.

He has the upper hand now as he wedges his foot in the door and stops it from closing.

You grit your teeth, feeling just like when you used to bicker with him in Illyria as you bite out, “Move your fucking foot.”

“No,” Rhys snaps, shoving it in further. “Open the fucking—” he growls as he shoulders himself forward. “Pixie.”

“Don’t call me that. Go away—”

You’re not exactly sure what happens next. Either he loses his footing, or you do, or perhaps you both do. All you know is that the door is swinging fully open, and your balance is suddenly off, and Rhysand’s hand is gripping onto you as you fall backwards. Your attempts to right yourself are far too late and seem to make it worse. Down you go to that musty shag carpet, and down Rhysand goes with you,

Air whooshes from your lungs as he lands on top of you, far too close than is comfortable when you’re wearing so little clothing. You attempt to sit up, shove him off you.

But he holds you firm and stares at you with wide eyes. His face is inches from yours. He gives what seems to be a baffled shake of his head.

“Pix, what the fuck?” he blurts.

[littlemissayu]

Hi, I really love your twisted wonderland fics, especially the ones where the twisted wonderland boys are being fathers, had me fangirling for hours!!! So I was wondering if you could do a Twisted Wonderland Boys x Reader: WEDDING EDITION!! (Proposal, Ceremony(with Wedding dance song), Honeymoon(kinda saucy)), Also with some Chaotic shenanigans? I've been watching a lot of Rom-Com movies lately, especially My Best Friend's Wedding.

A Quick Trip to The Alter

A/N: I wanted to write some sort of wedding headcanons so thank you for the suggestions!! I really love domestic so its nice to get to do it. It might have taken me a while to get to this due to working on something separate, but now I'm gonna spend some time trying to update more.

A/N#2: I don't remember the last time I was editing this but geez, it's taking me long to post anything at all, I've had ZERO inspo the whole summer, and now school's starting up again by the time I'm writing this author's note, but let's hope I get this out b4 September lol. Let's also hope somehow school will motivate me to be more active in posting A/N#3: I lied I wasn't gonna get this out before September, I apologize. As I am writing this authors note it is 9/17/24 and i've only finished Riddle's part....

Pairings: Heartsabyul x FEM!reader (romantic)

Proposal-

It's romantic obvi, he's so awkward, not to mention atp that he's proposing you guys have been dating for 5 years MINIMUM.

It was a sunny afternoon and the two of you were having tea out in your backyard right by the newly blooming roses. The table was filled with white rose red and (ur fav color). As you two were sitting Riddle was so obviously nervous, and when he spoke up you could hear the nerves in his voice.

“ Dearest, we’ve had a wonderful 5 years together, you’ve been the greatest addition to my life. Without you I feel like a kingdom without its ruler, lost and chaotic”

Riddle’s face was redder than his hair you might’ve mistaken him for a Christmas tree skirt.

“There is nothing more fulfilling than spending all my days in your presence. Your absence is my worst nightmare and your smile is my greatest treasure. A treasure I want to cherish for the rest of our existence”

You finally notice the black velvet box in his hand. He drops to a single knee in front of you, at your mercy. Looking up at you with pleading eyes he ask-

“My Darling Rose, will you become my Queen of Hearts?”

Ceremony-

The ceremony is in a banquet hall, filled to the brim with red and roses. Your favorite color and the blood red compliment the white decor and clam lights.

Riddle was at the end of the aisle, the nervousness on his face was evident. Trey as his best man at his side Cater in tow. And when you finally walk down the isle it's like time freezes in place, and his heart stops, seeing you all done up in your stunning attire, hair, makeup, and just everything about this moment was perfect. His heart warmed, a feeling of home washing over him.

"My dearest, Y/N, you are my peace and my home, everything that I am and will be is with you. The name on my heart is yours. I will spend every second of everyday devoting myself to you and our love. Being your husband is a title I will cherish for all my days"

Wedding song: Young and Beautiful - Lana Del Rey(instrumental orchestral version/Great Gatsby ver.)

Riddle would want the first dance to be romantic and classy just like you guys and this entire wedding, so y'all are totally slow dancing to this song, because the orchestral version just sounds romantic and grand(especially the ver. from the lady on TikTok who was walking down the isle to it iykyk)

Honeymoon-

I feel like ya'll would go somewhere in the country side, whatever the equivalent to the french countryside, where you guys will be in a beautiful vacation home there surrounded by fields of wildflowers and small fruits growing on bushes nearby, with a small town down the road. While Riddle would enjoy going out into he town with you and learning it's history and culture, he'd also enjoy other honeymoon activities in the comfort of your comfy vacation home, besides even the bedroom is so gorgeous it's only right to use it for one of it's many purposes.

Proposal- It will catch you so off guard. Picture this it's a night after a long day at the bakery and the two of you are walking home together as usual. He asks to walk a long route because it's more scenic and your like sure so you guys are walking and you stumble across a huge willow tree, specifically a weeping willow and you see two initials one are his and the one at the end of the plus has your first initial and his last initial so you joke how it would take a wedding ring to make that happen and he just says "So let's make it happen, Y/N L/N, would you make the decision to not only share a last name, but a lifetime together?"

Ceremony-

I dunno why but I'm convinced yall get married in a garden or something. Think about it a nice forest with luscious trees and greenery, complemented by the fresh white and complementing amber color, as you make your way down the isle the standing their a we smile on his face as you come down the isle. His family and yours watched the two of you in awe and filled with love in their hearts and their eyes.

"Y/N, so much is beautiful about you, your eyes, your hair, your teeth, your smile, your warm embrace, and your sweet face. But nothing can compare to the beauty of your love, the most precious gift anyone could give me. Now I don't have to waste a second yearning for your love cause now I'll wake up to it in the morning and it'll give me the peace I need to sleep at night. I will spend every second of everyday trying to give you the love you give me tenfold and more because you are so worthy of that love and anything you could ever ask for. Thank you for being mine."

Wedding Song: Just the Two of Us by Bill Withers and Grover Washington Jr.

Vintage, romantic, classy. This is the song Trey would guide you in an intimate waltz with all his friends and family watching. Romance is in the air and everyone can feel the love between you two. And while the two of you are waltzing he's whispering all the things he plans to do to you the minute you're left alone.

Honeymoon-

Now if you've noticed I am RUNNING with this greenery theme but you two would spend your week away together on a lovely lake house that you rented for a week(or however long). The sweet sounds of birds chirping and the sun peeking through the small crack in the curtains as the sounds of the outside relaxed the two of you. The smell of the forest filled your nostrils from the small crack in the window. resting you head on his bare chest and the two of you are cuddled up under the covers. No view the lake could give would be better than the sight of him on top of you.

Proposal-

Think about it like this, the two of you are on a vacation together and he takes you to a private romantic dinner to commemorate your last day there (and take some cute pics for the gram). You finish taking pics and he mentions the beauty of the view. "But it would be more beautiful if you were in a wedding dress" you turn to look at him "And why would I-"

"How about a diamond to become a diamond for starters?"

Ceremony-

An evening/late afternoon ceremony. It's in a gorgeous town hall with marigolds and roses to compliment the warmth from the love that was bouncing off the walls. And as you walked down the isle in a dress that complimented and flattered you in ways that didn't seem possible. And as Cater looked at you, making steps closer and closer to be his wife, his heart melted. Only you could tell that at this very moment he wanted to shed a tear(ugly cry) at the sight of you. Everything in this moment felt complete.

"Thank you for giving me your love and affection. Nothing about you could ever compare to the love of anyone else, you are my home and my heart rest in your hands. Your delicate loving embrace holds my heart dear and guards it from the dangers of the world. My love for you is everlasting, every second of everyday my love for you will increase tenfold and all I want is to serve and love you the way you deserve as not only the fantabulous person you are but the way my wife deserves"

Wedding Song: Die with a Smile by Bruno Mars and Lady Gaga

Man maybe it's just cause I'm obsessed with this song, but I can just picture Cater and his new stunning wife dancing in the romantic lighting of the wedding reception to this heart warming song, that makes me wanna fall in love with someone so baddddd.

Honeymoon-

Whatever the equivalent to Greece in twisted wonderland that is exactly where your going. Think mamma Mia vibes. Maybe you're on an island, an island by the mainland with a Airbnb (well the test equivalent) that's right near the water with a stunning view, and you guys are near a market place too. You're out on the balcony where you're looking out into the sea as your husband wraps his arms around, his bare chest out and his head resting between your neck near the bruises and marks from the night before were, ones that he made sure were their himself.

Proposal- A part of me wants to say that he just randomly asks one day while you guys are eating dinner but I'mma trust him and say that he put some effort behind this because he loves you. So let's say you two were at a dinner with his family, and strangely enough the topic of marriage is brought up every so often. "You know lilies are pretty wedding flowers" "Don't you think that a summer wedding would be better than a winter wedding?" "Isn't the idea of settling down just darling, especially if you've been dating for a while, just seems like the logical next step doesn't it?". The only reason you weren't heavily suspicious is cause they always pondered out loud when you two would tie the knot. So by the time you left you hadn't really thought much about it. As you two head back to the car Ace asked if you wanna take a walk by the park that was only 20 minutes away walking and you were down. The walk was mostly quite the two of you just enjoying the scenery that there was to appreciate in the Queendom. Once you get to the park you two are walking deeper and deeper when you notice a small empty area near the flowers where fairy lights are set up? The fairy lights are hanging up on the branches of two trees and it was stunning, Rose petals dabbled around the area and you look at it in awe as your distracted you hear Ace clear his throat and you turn to him, on a single knee.

"Y/N, we've been together for, a while and I think I'm ready to spend my life with you, not as my girlfriend but as my wife, so would you like to be my wife?"

Ceremony-

An intimate wedding in a stunning garden. And there is totally fairy lights because when I think of Ace for some reason I think of fairy lights. Like imagine the fairy lights entangled in the seat to light your way to him and all the Rose petals and the smiles of your families. A beautiful arch adorned with roses the color of blood and ones a pure white as a compliment. Hints of gold everywhere really harp on the warm feel. Ace looks at you smirking, trying not to laugh, not cause anything's funny, just cause the fact this is even happening feels so unreal, you're seriously about to become his wife.

"Y/N, thank you choosing to stay by my side. I can be a hassle sometimes, you tell me as much, but you've never left. You've loved me and cared for me every step of the way. I plan to spend the rest of my days living up to being the perfect, or somewhat perfect, husband you deserve. I don't think I'll ever reach that standard but I'll do my damned hardest trying to. If you were to cut my heart open all you'd find is you, anything and everything about you. That is what I live for, to be your husband."

Wedding Song: I Think They Call This Love by Elliot James Reay

This song is so damn romantic and if Ace had to define you guys love I'm confident this is what he'd pick. If you haven't heard it listen to it please this song is so good and I really think it embodies Ace's love. If you've read my Rom-Com song picks you'll understand why, this song and that one have the same vibe in my opinion.

Honeymoon-

Yall totally going to like the TWST equivalent of Portugal. Imagine site seeing, Ace would say it's boring but he'd secretly be invested in the beauty of the culture and history. Especially all the palaces and market places. He loves it, the views are fabulous, the foods fantastic and the people are great. But his favorite part of this place isn't the white sand beaches, the detailed architecture or even the culture that was built into the place. His favorite part is when you two are left alone in your resort room when he's left to be between the warmth of your legs. Eyes to eyes, skin to skin. Yeah that's definitely the best part

Proposal-

He's nervous af. Sweaty palms, racing thoughts, stuff movements. This man is STRESSED. You two are taking a romantic blastcycle ride at sunset when he stops a cliff with a stunning view of a valley. You can just feel the nervousness radiating off of him and you rub his forearm to calm him, chuckling you ask him what's up and his face becomes flushed as he looks over his shoulder to the view right by the two of you as he begins to speak

"Y/N, you know that I love you.I'd do anything to ensure your happiness, even if it was without me. You're special to me, and that's why I hope you can have your happy beginning with me. Will you marry me?"

Ceremony-

Totally in a like a small chapel, with friends and family surrounding the two of you. The blue chrysanthemums and white jasmines decorate the chapel. The soft music of the wedding march playing as you make your way to him. He's sobbing. uncontrolably. You're just such a vision in white, you're beauty filling him with warmth but his love for you is really what has him in fat tears running down his cheek as he looks at you ever so lovingly, making your way to the start of your life together, forever.

"Y/N, I can barely describe my love for you. It transcends any word or saying or thought. I treasure anything and everything you say, do, think, or express. Your joy is precious and I'd do anything to preserve it and help it grow. I will do my best to be a dutiful and worthy husband. No gem could compare to the pricelessness of your love, everything I do will be to show my love for you."

Wedding Song: Line without a Hook by Ricky Montgomery

I have zero logical explanation behind this pick besides the fact this songs like Deuce, not voice wise, but tone wise. Something about this song is so moving and so Deuce kind of love, like this is how he would describe his love for you, but to him it'd never feel like enough, there's so much more to his love for you.

Honeymoon-

Sweden(the TWST equivalent ofc), like imagine you two staying in a quaint yet busy cute Swedish town. The warm lighting of the place and the warmth of the food, the people, the culture. Imagine waking to the sight of pure snow sitting on the buildings and people starting there day, the smell of fresh winter and the warmth of the hot chocolate warming you right up. But nothing can compare to the warmth you get from your now husbands bare skin against yours, warm and comforting. Your limbs entangled together under the sheets, very satisfied from the night before.

A/N: the fact this took me months get over with is ridiculous, let's hope the school year somehow, motivates me to write more. I dunno I guess when I don't feel busy I forget about all my writing but when I feel busy I wanna write desperately. Anyways, Ik I always say this then never release anything BUT FLOOD MY INBOX BABES. I will force myself to sit in front of my computer til I get something out of myself. You guys have great ideas and I'd love to recieve more to release more content, besides the ones I think of ofc.

If y'all think this deserves to be a series lmk, I think I'll actually be up to it

Heartsabyul Masterlist

TWST Masterlist

Grand Masterlist

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Dancing With the Devil

A Vampire!Rhys x Reader Fic (because I am a SLUT for him) based on this post.

Content Warnings: Smut and blood, you know, typical vampire things.

___________________________

How you ended up on the dance floor in the middle of the Velaris Estate, being spun in dizzying circles by masked males as stringed instruments swell on a phantom wind, is anybody's guess. You think it might have been Nesta’s idea, but whatever schemes landed you in this dark, shadowy world is lost under the swell of music and rustling of skirts. You’re sure your friend is here somewhere, dancing her heart out, but the bodies clustered around you in a sea of dark lace and velvet make distinguishing anybody hard. She’ll find you by the end of the night, once she’s ditched her shoes and had a little too much to drink, for now, you’ll have to keep yourself entertained in one of the many options the party of the recently returned lord of the estate has to offer.

You don’t know much about Rhysand, other than the rumors that he came from very, very old money and had been away on the Continent while the Vampire Queen Amarantha’s reign of terror had ravaged the courts. He’s something of a local legend, always throwing these extravagant masquerade balls, the doors of this sprawling, gothic estate open until the sun begins to rise in the morning, without ever showing his face. He has to be here somewhere, directing the staff and making sure there’s no mischief happening in the locked rooms on the upper floors, but no one can tell you what he looks like, how old he is, any defining details. Honestly, realizing this was where you’d be spending the evening had been nothing short of a thrill. The war against the vampires had taken your father and left your older brother as heir of the Spring estate, he hadn’t let you out much to explore since.

Gloved hands twirl you around the dance floor again, the candlelight from the iron chandeliers overhead glittering like a thousand stars as you throw your head back and embrace the sheer weightlessness of the dance. It’s exhilarating and freeing, and you find yourself wishing that every night was like this. You’d thrive in this kind of freedom, no locked doors in empty mansions, no guards just to walk you through the gardens, only your wits and your whims dictating where you’ll go next.

The dance requires you to change partners often, so it is no surprise that a different, stronger set of hands settles on your hips as you come out of a spin and move into a more complicated three step. However, the tall stranger, with eyes so blue they’re almost violet beneath a mask shaped like a bat, is far better sight than the last male.

“Enjoying yourself?” He asks, and his voice is a lover’s purr, made for the darkness of a bedroom. 

“Immensely,” you say as you chase him through the steps, one hand on his firm shoulder, other atop his own against your waist. It is unlike you to keep your hands firmly planted on a male’s body, even while dancing, even with your brother’s watchful eye far away. Better to be cautious than be accused of having wandering hands, but you can make an exception. Forget you have ever done anything else, because the male wears a corset to accentuate every muscle in his lean body, dark shirt beneath left half open to show off a swirl of dark ink on his bronze chest. Every piece of clothing looks like an open invitation to touch. He knows it too, grinning when your hand slides a little lower on his chest.

“You dance beautifully,” he praises, perfect teeth biting at his lower lip as he drinks in the plunging neckline of your gown.

You’re thankful that your own mask hides the blush dusting your cheeks. “So do you.” He moves with inhumane grace, so fluidly you wouldn’t be able to track every step if he wasn’t pulling you along with him. 

Three more steps, then a fourth before the music begins to slow and he’s dragging your body closer to his own, large hand sliding over your hip to your lower back. 

“Will you dance another with me?” He asks, warm breath fanning your face as he leans in to be heard over the swell of a harp.

You nod eagerly, anything for a chance to have those hands on you a bit longer.

Two dances turn to four, then six, until you’ve lost count entirely, the night slipping away from you. At some point, he asks if you want to stop and get a drink, and you might have said no because this was just too good an opportunity to pass up, but the mischief in his violet eyes make you think better of it. You soon find yourself pulled through the swirling of bodies that hasn’t let up all night, and into a darker corner of the room, where couches and chairs and tables line the walls for people to observe the dancefloor with a little privacy. Quite a few of the couches are occupied with couples embracing in the shelter of the dark, where there are few candles to be observed under.

There’s a couch in the corner, beneath a large window, moonlight streaming over the dark cushions that’s empty and your companion leads you right to it. In your defense, you are expecting to be plied with a little wine before anything happens between the two of you, so you are unprepared for him to slide into the seat and pull you right into his lap!

Heat flares in your cheeks, body awkwardly tangled in your skirts as he pulls your hips forward to get you situated atop his powerful thighs. 

“What happened to drinks?” You ask, a little breathless from dancing and trying not to stammer under the brazenness of the display. You’re no blushing virgin, but you’ve certainly never been in this compromising a position in front of an audience before.

He brushes his nose over the column of your throat and places his plush lips against your skin, making all thought eddie from your mind.

“I intend to,” he says into your skin before he nips gently at your sensitive flesh.

Your whole body shivers, eyes fluttering shut. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Rhys,” he says as he kisses his way up your jaw.

Rhys as in… 

As if he can read your mind he chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin, “Only my enemies call me Rhysand.”

“How did you know that’s what I was going to ask?”

He hums as he scrapes his teeth playfully over your throat. The edges of his mask tickling your skin as it brushes against you, the contrast between his warm breath and the rough fabric sending a thrill down your spine. You should be absolutely mortified that you’re perched in the lord of the estate’s lap, but you can’t find it in you to care, can’t find it in yourself to do anything but settle a little more firmly against his body and let him explore.

“Mind reading is one of my many talents,” he purrs as his gloved hands slide over your hips, skirts bunching up around your thighs as slender fingers need the soft flesh of your ass.

You instinctively rock your hips forward, clothed core scraping over the budding tent in his slacks. The contact makes your head spin, makes you tip your head back a little as he sucks a mark into your throat. You’ll have to wear a scarf tomorrow to hide it from Tamlin.

“And what other talents do you have, M’lord?” You tease, because you’ve never believed in such magic. 

“I think I’d rather show you, Darling,” he says, but his mouth doesn’t form the words, they’re an echo inside your head, as if they’re your own thoughts in his voice.

You still your movements in his lap; this is not the magic of witches or mages, not some clever party trick of the traveling magicians that often pass through Prythian. They say only Vampires can possess talents like this.

Rhys grins at you as the realization clicks into place, and whatever glamor had been used to hide his fangs slides out of place, canine’s glinting in the moonlight. You put your hands on his chest, firm, but there’s no heartbeat beneath your palms, intending to push yourself off him before he can sink those fangs into your throat, but his grip on you tightens to the brink of pain. Your bones feel fragile, brittle under his supernatural grip.

“Relax, Darling,” he instructs and a shadow of sheer, undiluted power brushes over your mind, freezing you in place. “I promise this will be pleasant for the both of us.”

“Let go of me!” You squeak, still trying to push yourself free. “Or I’ll start screaming!”

He chuckles, the sound of it skittering over your bones, and the dim candles nearby flicker out, leaving you only visible in the moonlight. A few of the couples nearby cheer excitedly, as if that’s some sort of signal. 

“Here’s the thing,” he explains as he brushes his nose against the column of your throat again. When you try to squirm away, he only pulls you closer, lips hungrily tracing the pulse pounding in your neck. “I could go out into the woods, feed on some vagrants nobody cares about, spend my nights hunting for a warm body to take my fill of. But after a thousand years, the chase gets a little boring.”

A thousand years. Rhysand is a thousand year old Vampire?

“Why waste my time and energy, when I can bring a meal right to my doorstep?”

“Please,” you whimper, body trembling. “Please let me go. I won’t tell anybody.”

“I know you won’t,” he says, kissing your throat far more gently than somebody holding this tightly to you should. “That’s why I picked you. I know you want an escape from your life of locked doors.”

You still as he drags his lips along the edge of your jaw until he meets your ear. “Let me show you a way out.”

Your skin is sensitive there, his breath makes you shiver in delight, goosebumps prickling your skin. He can’t possibly know all this just by looking at you, he had to have been rummaging around in your head, probably while you were dancing. It’s an invasion of your privacy, and you should keep fighting for any chance to escape him, but there’s a piece of you that wants this. Tamlin will never give you a way out, the more you beg for your freedom the more doors he locks in your face, and if you go home in the morning, if you let him pick a husband for you, it will never be any different. There will only be more locked doors, only keeping a stranger’s bed warm, his house run, tending boys that will have more freedom than you’ll ever get just because they’re boys. You will be lucky if you’ll get to keep to your books and your sketches, lucky if you get to keep any hobbies at all that don’t include tending a house. You’re trapped in a cage no one can save you from if you don’t take this one key.

His fangs scrape over your earlobe as he nips playfully at it. “It’s an even bargain,” he prompts. “You let me feed, and I’ll show you a world of nothing but open doors, hmm?”

You’re a fool, and you’re pretty sure an agreement will damn your soul forever. 

“Will it hurt?”

“Only for a moment.”

A moment’s pain for an opportunity of unbridled freedom. “It’s a bargain,” you say, tipping your head back to fully expose your throat. You shut your eyes though, unable to watch it happen.

“Good girl,” Rhys purrs and there’s a little tingle, like electricity in your fingertips and palm that makes you crack an eye open for a second to look at the black whorls that now cover your fingertips, up your hand and over your wrist. Some sort of permanent bargain mark.

There’s no time to ask about it before Rhys sinks his fangs into your throat. The coppery scent of blood fills your senses, mind spinning to comprehend all that’s happening as pain flairs in the muscles in your neck. 

“So sweet,” he purrs into your mind. “Just as I’d hoped.”

He’s not letting up, but the longer it takes, the less pain you feel. The longer his fangs are in your neck, the warmer your body becomes. Your muscles slowly relax, pliant in his iron grip. When he rocks his hips, slowly, testing, you can’t help the groan that escapes you. Even as the last little rational bit of your mind screams in protest, your hips once again work over the bulge in his pants, chasing the heat budding in your core. 

When he removes his fangs from your throat, he laves over the wound with his tongue, not letting a single drop of your blood escape. “I’ve fed on a lot of humans,” he whispers, “but none as sweet as you.”

You can’t seem to stop moving, chasing after the pleasure building quicker and quicker as you rut your hips against his. “What’s happening to me?”

When he kisses you, it’s the coppery tang of your own blood on his lips. “Vampire venom is an aphrodisiac. Makes feeding a pleasurable experience for everybody, wouldn’t you agree?”

The scrape of his slacks is delicious, makes you squeeze your eyes shut and move without thinking about how brazen you look, but it’s not enough. You need more. Need him deeper. Need him moving inside you with the same fervor he had when feeding on you.

“Need you,” you whimper and he kisses you again, one hand tangling in your hair, absolutely ruining the updo you’d carefully constructed hours earlier. The other slides under your skirts to find the hem of your underthings and he gives the elastic band a testing pull before he rips it off entirely. 

You gasp in surprise into his mouth at the sheer strength of him.

The leather of his gloves is a cool texture against your bare skin as he drags a thumb over you and you rock your hips into his touch, desperately seeking more. He’d been right, this was definitely a more pleasurable experience than you anticipated it being. 

Rhys breaks the kiss as he slides a finger inside you, and you throw your head back and moan unabashedly. You don’t truly have the presence of mind to look at the other couples nearby, but judging by the sounds coming from around you, you’re not the only one partaking of this kind of pleasure tonight. The cover of darkness and music shields your activities well enough, but perhaps there are more than a few vampires in Rhys’s court, and they won’t risk their own hunts letting anybody look too close in your direction.

Plush lips move down your jaw again, like he just can’t stay away from your throat. You’re inclined to let him bite you again and again and again just to feel like this for a little while longer. Heat and pleasure builds at the base of your spine, burning white hot through you as he slides a second finger in your wetness, stretching you out.

“All this for me, Darling?” He scrapes his teeth over your skin, not biting but marking you as he searches for the collar of your gown. When he finds it, he starts dragging it away from your body with his teeth, deft fingers untying the laces at your back to let the excess fabric fall.

The cool air against your flushed skin has you whimpering, eyes screwed shut as you draw closer and closer to the edge. 

His fingers curl, hitting a spot inside you that makes stars swim across your vision and you bite down so hard on your lower lip to keep from screaming you draw blood. Like a moth to flame, his lips leave where he’d been sucking a mark into your shoulder to lap the slight trickle of blood off your lower lip. 

Maybe you’re wrong for it, but the sight is hot, makes you core tighten around his fingers, addicted to the way he craves you, as if you’re some sort of drug. You drag your hands down his chest, unclasping the last button you can reach before the corset gets in the way. You want to tear it off him and run your tongue over the firm planes of his chest, taste him just as he is you, but that will have to be another time. Your hands move lower, trying to find the laces of his pants around the bunched up frill of your skirts, needing more, unable to convey it around the white noise building in your head. It’s too much and not enough; the best you’ve ever had and you haven’t even cum yet. You’ve never felt so desperate for anything in your life.

He chuckles into your mouth at your neediness, hips rising off the couch to both tease you and give you the leverage you need to find the laces of his pants. You’re really not sure how you manage it around your skirts, how you can think about anything but the movement of his fingers inside you or all the filthy things he keeps whispering in your ear. It’s nothing short of a frenzy as you finally manage to get him free of his laces and guide him directly where you need him most.

He’s not your first by any means, but he’s definitely the biggest, and it takes a moment for you to adjust to his size. By then, the world around you could have been on fire and you wouldn’t have noticed anything but him. There is no orchestra playing, no music besides the sounds of his moans of pleasure as they mingle with yours, no thought but the two of you and how your bodies merge and join. 

That white hot pleasure keeps building tighter and tighter with every thrust of his cock inside you, and you steady yourself against the back of the couch, chests brushing as you fight to remain steady. His fingertips will certainly leave bruises on your hips with the way he holds you. 

You’re so close to the edge, dangling over the precipice, his name a prayer on your lips as he once again sinks his fangs into your neck for a taste. Release barrels through you as he moans into your bruised flesh, his own release not far behind as you slump exhausted against his chest.

“Holy shit,” you whimper, body trembling as you come down from your high.

Rhys strokes a gloved hand over your ruined hair as you catch your breath. “I was going to turn you tonight,” he hums, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But I think I want a few more rounds of that first.”

You huff a laugh into his chest. You don’t hate the idea. No part of your bargain said he had to turn you immediately. “Is that all vampires do? Feed and fuck?”

Violet eyes gleam playfully in the dark as he says, “Darling, you’ll have all eternity to find out.”

[inklore]

if it's one thing your girl is great at it's making a million different google docs full of lists full of resources, ideas, etc that will help future me when it comes to posting fics.

fic titles are literally one of the biggest lists i have and not even in a perfect world where i write ten fics a day would i ever be able to use all of these, and i don't like to see things go to waste, and i know there's people out there that struggle with titles as much as i do. so i hope this list comes in handy for someone!

i don't think i need to say this but just in case: no one owns fic titles, anyone can use these, a dozen people or one or none. these are literally just words and letters. no one owns them. sharing is caring, enjoy lovies!

★ — ONE WORD.

overboard 

runaway 

repercussions 

sledgehammer 

stargazing 

symmetry 

deathless 

honey 

retrograde 

stitches 

gravity 

helpline 

hollow 

suffer 

pushing 

warrant 

want 

wonder 

emotions 

nonchalant 

lavender 

daydream 

nosebleed 

jigsaw 

static 

float 

limbs 

hologram 

careless 

lush 

rotting 

phonograph 

hypnotic 

splinters 

magnetic 

wasted 

lithium 

dealer 

she

candles 

sabotage 

secrets

better

crescendo

deny

phenomenon

nights

guilty

move

criminal

blue

rise

thirsty

strangers

clockwork

closer

hectic

change

somebody

more

misery

like

sour

lowkey

peaches

she

nervous

sympathy

scars

disappear

melody

gemini

cruel

persona

supernatural

nectar

obsessed

casual

tryant

xo

dare

honestly

yummy

out

paradise

nuts

groin

heaven

lost

stardust

tangerine

monolith

lunch

pov

perfume

dealer

tough

arson

★ — TWO WORDS.

hush hush

night away

heart stop

stone heart

waiting for

black rose

sad kids

spine breaker

look here

autumn leaves

for you

spring day

love maze

bad decisions

take two

wild flower

blue side

rainy days

face off

slow dancing

polar night

like crazy

club heaven

deeper water

romantic devil

hold me

angel eyes

picture you

after midnight

twilight zone

drain me

sorry sorry

pretty please

how sweet

bubble gum

empty box

love therapy

play me

red velvet 

cherry bullet 

midnight guest 

cherry wish 

code words

ghost walk

bad intentions 

atlas hands 

broken crown 

crystallized words 

filthy pride 

fresh eyes 

heavy feet 

hungry ghosts 

imaginary paintings 

neon jungle 

perfect storm 

slow hands 

stop signs 

sad farewells 

untranslated stars 

after hours 

bad liar 

bonfire heart 

bruised lips 

cherry bomb 

damaged goods 

dead end 

fire away 

gunpowder hourglass 

lonely together 

lost language 

old moons 

one dance 

paper knees 

sleepy eyes 

stolen dance 

vice city 

artificial heart 

cry baby 

daylight fading 

dream awake 

empty bottle 

exit wounds 

ghost orchards 

moving stones 

paper walls 

oceans away 

playing fiction 

something wild 

wild thoughts 

everybody’s fool 

eyes closed 

storms incarnate 

writing tragedies 

stereo driver 

soul searching 

party’s over 

backseat driving 

fearful heart 

backwards directions 

nosebleed seats 

high hopes 

lovers rock

wet dream 

selfish soul 

washed away 

rose rogue 

midnight sun 

teenage fantasy 

wandering romance 

sure thing 

wildest dreams 

rock candy

losing momentum 

ruin you 

heart holiday 

sink her 

cut splinters 

hot mess 

frozen devotion 

little star 

blind faith 

favorite crime 

romantic homicide 

those eyes 

play pretend 

plot line 

pretty poison 

intimidate you 

pretty face 

strawberry kisses 

lovers rock 

worlds apart 

desperate/separate ways 

those eyes 

the blonde 

loving machine 

spill blood

someone’s someone

★ — THREE WORDS.

got my number

happy without me

not over you

crazy for you

back to you

flame of love

just one day

let me know

hold me tight

make it right

closer than this

love me again

still with you

out of love

never let go

love in space

ready to bleed 

bleed for love

between the bars 

can’t be still

cold morning mist 

in cold blood

matter of time 

piece by piece 

ship to wreck 

taut with love 

waste a moment 

can’t see straight 

down and out 

in a blackout 

just like fire 

notes on tenderness 

across the room

fire with fire 

going half-mad

loving to ruins 

rust to gold

send my love 

talking in code 

cradling a dream 

cut to black 

dear to me 

run me dry 

dancing with demons 

kiss and tell 

if you care 

the cry out 

steal this night 

just for now 

heart on fire 

hold my head 

nobody but you 

simple and plain

a familiar sound 

fool for you 

drown your memory 

falling into you 

just like heaven 

warm like beaches 

love that stings 

rotting in places 

moves on you 

save your tears 

a single tear 

light my cigarette 

long nights, daydreams 

boys like you 

love me forever 

hands on me 

like a phonograph 

taking over me 

dug so deep 

touch the ground 

heart shaped box 

where’s my love

tears of gold

lover of mine 

love me wrong

kiss or kill 

exes and why’s 

love is easy 

stupid in love 

easy to love

lost with you 

glimpse of us 

keep you safe 

death with dignity 

just like heaven 

heart of glass 

baby i’m yours 

pull my strings 

★ — FOUR+ WORDS.

love me a little

happy without me

you can't hold my heart

wishing on a star

give it to me

around the world in a day

waste it on me

this mess is yours

feeling like i do 

on a war path 

blood on the surface 

corner of the sky 

do the divine love 

drinking the corinthian sun 

everything is laced in (add word) 

lost in the moment 

in the nick of time 

mouth like a pomegranate 

the bones you’re made of 

when the mania speaks 

all desire & no thought 

blue in the face 

collapsing and relapsing 

middle of the night 

sail to the sun 

lay down your arms 

falling into the sky 

take me where your heart is 

she’s like the bad weather 

kill for your love 

the cigarette and the smoker 

the match and the fuse 

saint, i’m a sinner 

when the sky comes falling 

pretty little hand in mine 

even when the sun don’t shine

staring at the sun / sunset 

tangled up with you all night 

paper airplanes flying 

maybe i’m a fool 

tastes like rock candy 

blood in a lemon

(a) heart ready to die 

fate is losing its patience 

at least we feel alive 

death for your secrets 

someone’s gonna ruin you 

dancing in a crowded room 

smell you on my clothes 

always taste like you 

leave me wanting more 

hunger for (insert here) 

swim before you drown 

put your hands on me 

drink my (these) tears and cry 

i’d sleep all day just to dream of you 

so high we never stood a chance 

i’d break down anytime for you 

maybe i’m wrong, or maybe it’s true 

i only breathe so that i breathe with you

a worn out cassette 

lips on my cold neck 

talking in my sleep 

make me feel like someone else 

locked inside your heart 

hooked on her flesh 

it’s bloody and raw 

the angel of small death 

just a couple sinners 

smiles cover your heart 

charmer and the snake 

stuck on your thumb 

if i killed someone for you 

dancing with your ghost 

i miss you, i’m sorry 

woman of the hour 

shut up and look pretty 

queen of the night 

devil in a dress 

the thought of you 

to be your lover 

falling over you 

just like a movie 

love on the line 

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 1: Amethyst]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can't seem to get away from...

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don't like Titanic you won't like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @camsdaae @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

A note goes sharp, and you swim up through colorless currents—indistinct conversation, an iron-grey draft each time the front door opens, cigar smoke like fog over the ocean—and turn to the viola player. His eyes have caught on the place where your left hand rests on the table by a glass of pear cider, still cold from the icebox, misty with condensation. Rain pours outside. Logs fracture and hiss in the fireplace. Your gown is thick velvet, indigo like the night sky, and the ruffles of your sleeve have slipped back to reveal the evidence roped around your wrist: shadows of trapped blood, rubies that sicken and turn to sapphires and amethysts.

You hurriedly adjust your sleeve. Now the viola player’s eyes are on yours, an overcast blue and improperly direct, and something flies between you: his shock, your shame. You look away and pretend to ignore him. His horsehair bow finds its rhythm again, a tempo like a racing pulse. The quartet is playing The Wild Rover.

Daemon hasn’t noticed. He has ensnared the reporter entirely, here in O’Connell’s Bar in the heart of Galway, just across the street from Eyre Square and only a few blocks west of the Docks and the North Atlantic Ocean. The young man writes for The Irish Times and has traveled from Dublin to interview your husband, once a celebrated newcomer but soon departing and taking you with him. Five years ago a storm blew him in; now the gleam of distant treasure catches his eye and beckons him like the moon calls the tides. He has been this way all his life. You were mad to believe he’d change.

“Lord Targaryen,” the reporter says with his felt-tip pen hovering over his notebook, gazing at Daemon worshipfully, firelight dancing on both of their faces. You glance at the viola player again. He’s still watching you, and this is bad. “You’ve been described as a cowboy by numerous publications and business associates. Do you consider that a compliment?”

Daemon chuckles, smirking and imperious. He puffs on his pipe, elbows propped on the table. His eyes are a deep-set reptilian green, emeralds glinting from the mouth of a mine. Strands of dark blonde hair fall roguishly down over his forehead. “Oh, it’s a massive compliment, isn’t it? A cowboy eschews the safe and the predictable. A cowboy makes his own way in the world. My father was a duke, and now my brother is a duke, and one day my nephew will be a duke, God help us all. And so I always knew that if I wanted anything for myself, I’d have to go out and find it.”

The reporter is smiling, enraptured. He asks, already knowing the answer: “And what was it you found?”

“In the Wah Wah Mountains of Utah, we discovered red beryl.” Daemon talks with his hands, magnetic fields, incantations, spells that once worked on you. “It’s exceptionally rare and a gorgeous stone, high color saturation, not as hard as a diamond but durable enough for jewelry, essentially a blood-colored emerald. I was twenty-five years old and had just put together my first small mining expedition, and here we were sitting on the only known supply of red beryl on the planet. And it was then that I realized that there are these sorts of…natural monopolies that exist scattered across the globe, gemstones that can be found in only one location, and thus if you are the man who owns the mine…every single stone must pass through your hands before it ends up in retail establishments in London or Paris or Milan or wherever.”

“And so you took the lesson you learned from red beryl and applied it to other minerals,” the reporter says as he scribbles in his notebook.

Daemon grins, puffing on his pipe, exhaling smoke like a dragon. And how remarkable he is to have agreed to meet here in this pub like a common man, so unpretentious, so unafraid of the world’s dirt, effortless and yet untouchable, and this is why his miners love Daemon, why they will break their spines and poison their lungs for him. “We kept the Utah mine, of course, and bought up rights to thousands of acres of land surrounding it. I hired more workers. And then I investigated reports of mysterious, unnamed, brand new stones that had been stumbled upon in far-flung places, untamed by civilized men, the earth just waiting to be slit open and butchered like a fat hog. In Madagascar, we found Grandidierite, a bewitching blue-green, the Indian Ocean in miniature, crystalized form. In Tanzania, we discovered Tanzanite, halfway between an amethyst and a sapphire.”

The reporter nods to you as he says: “I believe Lady Targaryen is wearing some this evening, is she not?”

“Indeed,” Daemon replies without much interest. You touch your fingertips to your teardrop-shaped earrings and give the reporter a polite smile. You steal a glimpse of the viola player; he isn’t staring at you anymore—a blessing, a relief—but he frowns distractedly as his bow glides over the strings. “In Australia there was black opal, and in the Dominican Republic we were the first mining operation to encounter Larimar, and then…well, then I heard of Connemara marble.”

“Native to Ireland,” the reporter says proudly. “The lone quarry that’s still producing is right here in Galway.”

“So of course that intrigued me.” Daemon taps on the tabletop with his right hand, and now he is watching you, curling lips, taunting eyes. “And when I crossed the Atlantic to acquaint myself with this quarry and inquire into purchasing it, I was intrigued by the quarry owner’s daughter as well.”

His pen scratching against parchment; black rivers of ink filling up the page. “How would you describe the courtship?”

“Brief,” Daemon says, then laughs. He points to you with his smoldering pipe. “How about you, dear? How would you describe it?”

“Flattering,” you answer honestly, and the reporter makes his notes. “Daemon already had a reputation by then. A captain of industry, a staggering success story, a man who refused to rest idly on his family’s titles, which he could have easily done.” And a man who also refused to marry, rejecting Rockefellers and Morgans and Astors, duchesses and countesses, but asked your father for your hand in marriage after only a few weeks of tours of the quarry and dinners set alight with charismatic retellings of his travels. You knew the Connemara marble was part of the allure, but you took this as a common interest rather than the only thing Daemon wanted from you. Well…one of two things.

“You’ve resided in Galway ever since,” the reporter is saying to Daemon. “Barring a few trips for business. But that is about to change.”

Daemon sucks on his pipe. “I’ve received a very generous offer from Tiffany & Co. in Manhattan. They’ve been around for almost a century, did you know they supplied the Union Army with swords and surgical tools during the Civil War? Real patriots. Not afraid to get bloody. They want to expand into the sale of colored gemstones, not just diamonds and pearls and gold, the same unimaginative pieces peddled by their competitors. And after some long and arduous negotiations, Tiffany has agreed to pay a fair price for the exclusive rights to specimens originating from my mines, and I have agreed relocate to New York City for the foreseeable future to consult with them as a gemstone expert.”

“It’s my understanding that you have family in New York too, Lord Targaryen. Perhaps a reunion is part of the appeal of a move across the pond.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t assume that,” Daemon says impishly. “I haven’t seen Alicent Hightower or her children in years and years. I wouldn’t even know them if I passed them on the street.”

“Is that right?” The reporter’s pen hovers uncertainly over his notebook; he doesn’t think this is the sort of familial disharmony that should be printed in a newspaper.

“But my wife and I will have some company for the voyage,” Daemon continues. “My niece Rhaenyra and her charming husband Laenor will be joining us on Titanic. They’ve been on holiday in the Mediterranean and have several social engagements on the East Coast before they return to summer in England with my brother.”

“Viserys Targaryen, the 9th Duke of Beaufort.”

Daemon grins, not kindly at all. “One man earns a title, eight others wear it.”

The reporter shifts awkwardly in his chair. It’s not the sort of joke he’s allowed to laugh at. Changing the topic, he looks to the string quartet, which is now playing Danny Boy. The viola player’s eyes flick to you; you drink you pear cider and pretend you are unaware. “You’ll be sorely missed in Galway. But what a proper Irish sendoff you’re receiving here at O’Connell’s tonight!”

“Yes,” Daemon muses, the bit of the pipe in his mouth. “A week from now, tugboats will be hauling us out of Cork Harbor and into the Atlantic Ocean, perhaps never to return.”

You shudder as a man enters the pub and a cold draft blows through you. You are terrified of ships, tiny metal buckets at the mercy of bottomless blue, unnatural incursions into inhuman spaces. You have sailed twice before with your parents—once to Le Havre to visit Paris and again on a cruise of the Aegean—and both times you were consumed by visions of water rising up over your feet, bodies thrashing in the waves, bones turning to silt. You don’t want to cross the Atlantic. You don’t want to leave home.

“You look a bit familiar, boy,” Daemon says, and you realize he’s talking to the viola player. You startle, then are relieved to see that your husband has only a dim curiosity in the musician. The reporter has bored him, and Daemon’s eyes are wandering. He is a man of short and restless attention. You have learned this the hard way. “Have we met before?”

The viola player—early twenties, around your age, sandy blond hair and a beard trimmed close to the skin—pauses his fiddling as his three companions carry on. His accent is English, not Irish. “Well I’ve played all over Ireland, sir. All over Europe, in fact.”

“Were you by chance at the McPherson wedding back in February?”

You don’t believe he was, you think you’d remember him; but the viola player nods eagerly. “Yes sir, that was me.”

“Ah! That was a fine night. Excellent duck. Wasn’t the duck good, dear?” But Daemon only half-listens for your response. He has turned back to the reporter and is recounting how he and his expedition hacked through the jungles of Tanzania to reach the location of suspected gemstone deposits, how they endured attacks from crocodiles and chimpanzees and burned up from fevers.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” you say as you rise from the table. The reporter scrambles to his feet to stand as decorum demands.

“Yes yes,” Daemon replies abruptly, not looking at you, then continues his stories.

You escape from the pub through the front door and stand beneath the awning just out of the rain, watching the reflections of streetlights glow in puddles like stars. Across the street in Eyre Square, a public park established in 1710, shadows of ash trees rock in the wind. With trembling fingers, you fumble a Kerry Blue and your cigarette holder out of your black handbag, then realize you don’t have a lighter. Someone else always does that part for you. You sigh and stare out into the rain, taking deep breaths of Irish night, early April, cold and wet and green, the only air you know how to take painlessly into your lungs, blood, bones, the dark damp earth that built you. You cannot imagine living amongst metal skyscrapers and rumbling automobiles instead of verdant rolling hills dotted with sheep.

You hear the pub door open, and you assume it is one of the waiters or perhaps Rush—Edward Rushton, Daemon’s valet and bodyguard, ever-watchful and unwaveringly stern—bringing you the black mink coat you left inside. But to your horror, it is the viola player, carrying his instrument by its neck. You gape at him as rain continues to fall.

“Hi,” he says.

You are clutching your handbag, a cigarette and holder still tucked between your fingers. “What are you doing?”

“I just…I was…uh…” He spots the cigarette. “Oh, do you need a lighter? I have one, hold on…” He begins rooting around in the pockets of his olive green tweed jacket.

“No, I don’t need a lighter,” you snap, glancing anxiously at the door. “I need you to go back inside.”

“Wait a minute, I wanted to—”

“Why are you speaking to me?” Your eyes are wide and petrified, your voice is a sharp whisper. No musician has ever addressed you beyond pleasantries: Good morning, good afternoon, good evening, thank you ma’am, my pleasure ma’am. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Look, I came out here because…I just wanted to ask…” He struggles to find the words. His eyes fall to your left wrist, now fully obscured by the ruffles of your sleeve, then return to your face. “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“Do you…you know…do you need some kind of help or something?”

It’s improper, it’s unthinkable, it’s dangerous. “You’re deranged,” you say as you breeze past him towards the door. “You’ve clearly escaped from an asylum somewhere. I wish you all the best in your recovery.”

He does not grab you—that would be absurd—but he does get between you and the front door of the pub. “Wait, please, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be rude or to overstep or anything, I’m trying to see if there’s anything I can do—”

“You will make it worse for me,” you hiss, and only then does the viola player go quiet and let you pass. You shove by him into O’Connell’s Bar.

Back at the table, Daemon and the reporter are engrossed in conversation. When you rejoin them, neither of the men take any notice of you beyond the reporter’s momentary rise to his feet. After a minute or two, the viola player returns to the quartet and slips seamlessly into the song they’re playing, Star of the County Down. You gaze into your pear cider, determined not to glance at him even once.

Daemon is saying as the reporter jots franticly: “I am reminded of something I read once in a French fashion critic’s guide from the 1870s. In the gloomy depths of the mineral world, stars are concealed that rival in their beauty those of the firmament. The fresh splendors of dawn, the sun’s incandescent rays, the magnificent sunsets, the brilliant colors of the rainbow, all are found enclosed in a morsel of pure carbon or in the center of a stone. Not everyone can see the potential, not everyone has the skill or the willpower to move the earth and free the treasures trapped beneath. But I found stars no one else knew existed. And my work isn’t finished yet.”

~~~~~~~~~~

At home in Lough Cutra Castle, your family’s estate since 1817, your parents are asleep and Fern is waiting up for you and Daemon, yawning into the back of her hand to try to hide it. She is your maid but she was hired by Daemon, and she scurries around the property like a mouse, eternally picking up toys and articles of clothing and papers that have slid off of tables, head bowed, footsteps so light you often don’t realize she’s walked into a room until she’s spoken.

“Care for some tea, my lady?” Fern asks as she takes your mink coat. Daemon goes directly to his study; you watch him leave with some feeling you couldn’t name, loss, relief, loneliness, resignation.

“No, thank you, Fern. I’m exhausted. Is Draco upstairs?”

“He is,” she says, but with hesitation, as if she is sending you into the lion’s den. You know what that means. You climb the staircase and find him in his bedroom sound asleep, four years old, surrounded by an army of teddy bears. Bears are his favorite animal; he likes the way they roar and brandish their teeth. He is named after the crest of Daemon’s family; Draco is the Latin word for dragon. His hair is white-blonde, a Targaryen trait. As they age it fades to an ordinary sand-like color, and by the time they are middle-aged—Daemon is forty, nearly two decades older than you are—their hair is a blonde so dark it’s almost brunette.

You stand in the doorway watching Draco for a long time. When you think of him, this is the image that comes to mind: your son across a room, or a lawn, or a garden, and you lurking on the periphery, longing to be a part of his existence, feeling so palpably unneeded. Already, he is becoming a stranger. He thinks it’s funny when Daemon insults people and breaks things. He stomps his little feet when he doesn’t get his way and rips flowers from the garden, tosses rocks through the windows of the greenhouse, hurls sticks at hissing geese.

“He’s asleep,” Dagmar says as if she’s scolding you. You whirl to see her behind you in the hall, glowering with those icy Nordic eyes, her hair grey and twisted into a tight bun, her face angular and cold-blooded. Legend has it that Saint Patrick expelled all the snakes from Ireland; you think he must have missed one.

“Yes, I can see that.”

“You’ll wake him.”

“I certainly won’t.”

“A boy that age needs his rest.” And this is how Dagmar has been since Draco was born: You can’t hold a baby like that, you can’t feed a baby like that, you can’t play with a baby like that, never showing you how to do things but only alienating you further and further until you looped around on some hopelessly remote orbit like Neptune circles the sun.

“Yes. Like I said, I won’t disturb him.”

But she does not leave; she only scowls at you with her bony arms crossed over her chest. She is ancient; she was Viserys and Daemon’s governess when they were boys, and your husband wrote to her immediately after Draco was born. She idolizes Daemon. The three of them are a family unto themselves, sardonic and spiteful and fiercely loyal, an oath you can’t figure out how to break. She wins this battle, as she’s won them all. It is not a war but an insurgency, a perpetual struggle for independence, sabotages and hunger strikes that amount to nothing. You retreat from Draco’s doorway and go to find Daemon in his study, bent low over his desk and sketching designs for jewelry men will buy for their wives, sisters, mothers, daughters, mistresses.

He glances over at you impatiently. “What is it?”

“You promised I’d never have to leave Ireland.”

Daemon shrugs, smiling wryly. “And yet…”

“Draco and I could stay here,” you say, as if this has not already occurred to him.

“And people would say my house is not in order. How am I to command the respect of American businessmen when my own wife does not obey me?”

You are desperate. “Half the year,” you plead. “I’ll spend winters in Manhattan and summers here.”

“Absolutely not.”

“What if I won’t go?”

“I don’t see how you’d accomplish that,” Daemon says, as if he’s already bored of this conversation. “You could throw yourself over the ship’s railing and into the Atlantic Ocean, I suppose. But that’s the only way you’re not ending up in New York.”

“You don’t even really want me there,” you reply, your voice quivering. “You don’t care where I am or what I do. Lots of men live separately from their wives, you can as well.” And even now—horribly, humiliatingly—you want him to contradict you, to swear that he does care, that he wants you, that he loves you in the sick brutal way he knows how.

Daemon picks up the dagger he keeps on his desk and uses it as a letter opener to unseal a piece of correspondence from one of his many mines, left in the care of managers just as your father’s Connemara marble quarry soon will be. The hilt is made of gold and has seven small gemstones imbedded in it, one on top of the other: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire. “You know,” Daemon says offhandedly as he skims the letter. “Draco is getting old enough for boarding school.”

“What?” You are shellshocked; it takes a moment for you to sputter a reply. “He’s…he’s four, Daemon. He can’t read more than a handful of words. He just learned how to write his own name.”

“I was only five when my father sent me away.”

“And you turned out to be so normal.”

“No,” Daemon says, a blade-sharp warning, his eyes burning into yours, ruthless green fire. He aims the point of his dagger at you. “I turned out to be extraordinary.”

Draco. Draco sent away. If I lose him now, I’ll lose him forever. He’ll never know me. He’ll never love me. “Please let me have a few more years with him.”

“Sure. In New York.”

“I’ll go,” you surrender. “Fine, fine, I understand. I’ll go. No more complaints.”

“Good.” He sets down his dagger and the letter and resumes his sketching. You’ve been dismissed, but you can’t look away from him: cunning hands that won’t touch you, blood that runs hot enough to scald.

What is this feeling, this hunger, this hatred, all gnarled up together, dark earth glimmering with flecks of jewel-tone light, constellations of subterranean stars? He has hurt you, but he has given you pleasure too, this man who is so impossible to know, to predict, the only man who has ever been inside you. It’s not that you want him, not exactly; you want what he can give you, and the cold truth is that if it’s not him it’s not anyone, never again for as long as he lives. You’ve never craved another body, another soul. If you ever took a lover, you believe Daemon would kill you.

He grins, mocking and cruel. And you are transported back to your wedding night, still euphoric and flushed and panting on the bed as Daemon sighed and got up to go to the washroom, the satisfaction and the shame, the inescapable sense that you have disappointed him. “Did you only come here to be vexing and disobedient, or did you have something else in mind?”

“No,” you say softly, turning away, leaving him with his drawings of rocks stolen from distant corners of the world.

At breakfast the next morning—Fern cracking Draco’s soft-boiled egg and feeding him careful spoonfuls, Dagmar reading aloud to him from The Three Billy Goats Gruff, giving him smiles radiant with warmth you’ve never received from her—you sip tea and spread butter over your soda bread, gazing listlessly at the mist that hangs cool and heavy beyond the windows. Daemon is at the quarry already. You are suddenly acutely aware of the absence of music.

“Hey, lassie?” your father says as your mother tries to coax him into eating his full Irish breakfast: fried eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, white pudding.

You look to him, clearing the fog from your skull. “Yes, Daddy.”

“I saw the luggage. Where are you going?”

You keep telling him, but he doesn’t remember; he was becoming forgetful five years ago but now he can’t work at all, can barely even carry conversations. You had a brother who died in infancy and a sister who was taken at eight years old by convulsions. You are the only child left, and there are no other evident heirs to the quarry. This must have been something that occurred to Daemon when he met you, seventeen and overwhelmed by the black magic of him. He had seemed like the right choice: dashing, capable, from an illustrious family, a man who could take charge of the quarry as your father’s health continued to fail.

“Daddy, I told you. We’re going to Manhattan.”

He is stunned, grief-stricken. “What? That far?”

“Yes, on Titanic. It’s the largest ship ever built.”

“Who the hell cares about the ship?” your father says. “When will you be back?”

Never. You and your mother exchange a heartsick glance. She tries to be strong for him; she tries not to show you that her world is ending as you and Draco are taken across the ocean like gemstones mined and smuggled away for cutting. “Soon, Daddy,” you lie. He won’t remember anyway. “We’ll be back really soon.”

And then again ten minutes later, and then again after a half hour, and then again at lunchtime:

Where are you going?

When will you be back?

~~~~~~~~~~

Titanic is not a ship but a wonder of the world, unbreakable like the pyramids, towering like the Colossus of Rhodes, beckoning seafaring travelers like the Lighthouse of Alexandria. It is too large to dock in Cork Harbor, and so two tenders—named, quite appropriately, Ireland and America—are used to shuttle the passengers to the anchored goliath waiting to carry you across the ocean. Aboard, a five-piece string ensemble greets the first-class passengers with The Sunny South, and beaming stewards distribute flutes of champagne, liquid gold freckled with bubbles of trapped air. The men are chucking and shaking Captain Smith’s hand and the women are sighing with soft, feminine awe at the soaring funnels and the sprawling Promenade Deck, steel overlaid with yellow pine and teak, and you stare vacuously back at the shadow of the shore, speaking to no one, noticed by no one, alone in a wonderstruck crowd on a cloud-covered, warm afternoon, April 11th, 1912.

Rush is giving bellboys instructions for the luggage to be taken to your rooms. Daemon disappears with Rhaenyra to inspect the accommodations, their steps swift and careless, laughing like children, Rhaenyra’s blonde hair—yellow jasper, yellow jade—streaming out behind her, her gown a shallow-water bluish-green like the Grandidierite Daemon found in Madagascar. Fern skitters after them to unpack the bags when they arrive in the staterooms and offer to make tea. Laenor, wearing a deep and dignified shade of blue, immediately makes the acquaintance of several Parisian passengers and sets about to stroll the deck with them, smoking their pipes and remarking on the ingenuity of the ship’s design, planning to enjoy the Turkish Baths together this evening. Draco is getting tired and ill-tempered; Dagmar merrily whisks him off to see the Grand Staircase and distract him until the rooms are ready.

Meandering, rudderless, you walk to the deck railing and look down into the water as the ship weighs anchor, unmooring itself from Ireland, stealing you away forever. Trying to distract yourself from weeping—tears burn in your eyes like a stoked furnace—you pretend to adjust your earrings. You wear amethysts to match your gown, dark mauve, a color not long ago only owned by royalty. One of the musicians has appeared to soothe your maladies, desperate terror and melancholy he perhaps mistakes for seasickness. But no, it’s not one of the men from the ensemble that welcomed you aboard; he is not wearing a pristine black suit but a pale green tweed waistcoat and unceremonious plaid trousers. He isn’t a crewmember of Titanic at all. He’s the viola player from Galway.

You jolt away from him, spinning around to ensure no one from Daemon’s party has reappeared to witness this. Then you whisper furiously: “What are you doing here?!”

The viola player stops fiddling and holds his instrument by its neck. His answer is amiable and innocent. “Playing viola.”

“No, why are you on this ship?!”

He shrugs, smiling, his hair blowing in the wind as the tugboats pull Titanic out to sea. “Heard it was the biggest one ever built, unsinkable, extravagant beyond compare. Seemed like something I’d like to experience given the opportunity.”

“You followed me,” you say flatly.

He winks, resting an elbow on the railing. His teeth are small and white; there are lines from the sun around his eyes.

“You overheard our arrangements at O’Connell’s Bar and bought a ticket for yourself? Crossed Ireland, travelled south to Cork, all to stalk me like some lunatic? A nautical Jack the Ripper?”

“Well…I wouldn’t say I bought a ticket.” He is playful, teasing you. “I found one.”

“How did you manage to by pure happenstance find a ticket for Titanic’s maiden voyage?”

“I ran into an aspiring passenger at a pub in Cork,” the viola player explains. “A very nice man, his name was Fergal. Unfortunately for poor Fergal, when the time came to board the tenders, he was…indisposed, and I found myself in possession of his third-class ticket. A strange coincidence!”

“Indisposed?” you say, squinting suspiciously.

“Perhaps he had a few too many pints in celebration and passed out somewhere. Perhaps he got lost on his way to the harbor. Or perhaps he was locked in the pub’s storage room and therefore unable to make it to the tenders in time to sail blissfully away on his trans-Atlantic journey. Who could say for sure?”

“So you stole a ticket.”

“I think that’s a cynical way to put it.”

You are incredulous. “How would you put it?”

“Fortune brought me a ticket. The stars aligned, the saints were looking out for me.”

“If you hold a third-class ticket, you are on the wrong deck of the ship.”

“Shh!” He holds a finger to his lips. “No one knows that, I just wander around playing songs for the rich people and they assume I’m supposed to be here.”

“You have to stay away from me,” you plead, staring out over the ocean. “Daemon can’t see us talking, he can’t know you followed me from Galway, he can’t find out that you saw…” The bruise, the evidence, the betrayal of you not keeping his secrets.

“Relax, I’m not here for you,” the viola player says, and of course he is lying. “I have family in New York City. I left home and haven’t been back in years, and I think now’s a good time for a visit.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah. Okay.”

He grins, slow and mischievous, and you are alarmed to realize some part of you wants to smile too. “You know what?”

“What,” you offer resentfully.

“I think you want me to be here for you.”

You turn away from the railing to make your escape. “I want you to leave me alone.”

“I’ll think about it,” the viola player quips. And when you glance back at him from the end of the Promenade Deck, ocean wind tearing your hair out of its pins and salt stinging on your skin, he’s still watching you.

[novaursa]

The Secret Flame

- Summary: You sneak out of the Red Keep again. And as alway, Harwin is there to chase you down.

- Paring: targ!reader/Harwin Strong

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin sister of Rhaenyra and has striking resemblance to her grandmother, Alyssa. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 3 599

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: I've never posted anything so fresh in my life. This work is just written, like a few minutes ago. I don't usually post my works so soon. They tend to sit way longer before being posted, especially if they are supposed to be made into a series. Those works are posted once all parts are complete, or way, way close to being done. I've slept like two hours, maybe. My blood is 90% coffee. Luckily, it's my day off. 😅 As always, I'll see how you guys like this before it becomes something larger. Enjoy! ❤️

The chill of the night air is a welcome contrast to the stifling warmth of the Red Keep as you slip quietly through the hidden passageways beneath Maegor’s Holdfast. You’ve navigated these shadowy tunnels since you were a child, memorizing each twist and turn like a whispered secret shared only with you. The cool stone beneath your hands feels like freedom as you push through the last concealed door, emerging into the moonlit streets of King’s Landing.

The city is alive, even in the depths of night. You breathe in the scent of the sea mingled with smoke and distant perfumes, savoring the feeling of anonymity that only these stolen excursions bring. You’ve always felt as if you were a dragon bound in chains within the walls of the Keep, and here, at least for a little while, you are free.

You keep your hood low, concealing the distinctive silver-gold hair that marks your heritage. The cobblestones beneath your feet are slick from the earlier rain, and the shadows dance with flickering torchlight as you weave through narrow alleys, away from the watchful eyes of your father’s guards.

The tension between you and your father has grown unbearable in recent moons. He sees in you too much of his mother, Alyssa, and perhaps that is why he clings so tightly. You can’t breathe under his watchful eye, can’t stretch your wings when he’s always hovering, reminding you of duty, decorum, and the precarious balance of the realm.

But here, no one knows you as the princess, no one sees the crown’s burden pressing down on your shoulders. Here, you are simply a shadow among shadows.

The night hums with the distant laughter of taverns and the murmurs of lovers hiding from prying eyes. You’re about to turn a corner when a rough hand reaches out from the darkness, yanking you into an even darker alley.

“Now what’s a fine lady like you doing alone in these parts?” A low, sneering voice slithers out from the gloom. You tense, instinctively reaching for the dagger hidden at your hip, but there’s no time to draw it before you’re shoved roughly against the wall. Two more men step into view, all grinning like wolves who’ve cornered a lost lamb.

“You’re far from home, aren’t you?” one of them taunts, his breath reeking of stale ale. 

You glare up at them, defiance burning in your eyes. “I assure you, you’ve made a grave mistake tonight,” you hiss, your voice edged with the fire that runs through your blood.

“Is that so?” The leader laughs, leaning in closer. “I think we’ve found ourselves a little bird with some fight.”

Before you can spit back a retort, there’s a sharp whistle from the shadows, and suddenly the men stiffen. The leader barely has time to turn before a strong hand grabs his collar and slams him face-first into the wall beside you. He crumples to the ground with a groan.

“Seems you lot forgot whose streets you’re crawling through,” a familiar voice says, smooth as velvet and rich with amusement.

Ser Harwin Strong steps into the faint light, his broad frame and easy confidence radiating a quiet authority that sends the other two men stumbling back in fear. His hand rests on the pommel of his sword, but it’s the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth that unsettles them more.

“Run along, boys, before you find yourselves missing fingers or worse,” he advises in a tone that suggests he’s making them a very generous offer.

They don’t need to be told twice, bolting into the night like startled prey. Harwin watches them go before turning his attention to you. The glint in his dark eyes tells you he’s more amused than surprised to find you here, as if he half-expected it.

“You have a peculiar way of taking your nightly strolls, princess,” he says, the smirk widening into a grin. “I should have known I’d find you stirring up trouble.”

You roll your eyes, gathering your composure as you adjust your cloak. “I can handle myself, you know.”

“Clearly,” he chuckles, giving a pointed look at the discarded dagger still in your hand. “But I doubt King Viserys would agree if he knew his daughter was sneaking into Flea Bottom on a whim.”

You lift your chin defiantly. “I wasn’t in Flea Bottom.” 

He arches a brow. “You’re not far from it.”

Silence hangs between you, broken only by the distant clamor of the city. The moonlight catches the chestnut in Harwin’s eyes as he studies you, his expression softening into something less playful and more sincere. “Y/N… You know I can’t let you stay out here. I’m supposed to be your protector, after all.”

“Are you my guard now, too? I thought you were just Rhaenyra’s Gold Cloak protector.”

His lips twitch at that. “Rhaenyra doesn’t run off nearly as much as you do.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, stepping away from the wall and back toward the street. “You’re insufferable, Harwin.”

“And you’re reckless,” he counters, reaching for your arm as if to steer you back toward the Keep. “Come on, before you get us both into even more trouble.”

But you’re not done with the night just yet. You twist free of his grip, darting back into the alley. “Catch me if you can, Ser Breakbones!”

For a heartbeat, Harwin simply stares after you, caught between disbelief and admiration. Then he shakes his head with a low chuckle and gives chase, the sound of his footsteps pounding behind you as you race through the winding streets.

The thrill of it all—the wind in your hair, the laughter bubbling in your chest, and the sound of Harwin’s voice calling your name—feels like flying. You know he’ll catch you eventually, but for now, you’re just out of reach, teasing the line between freedom and the inevitable return to your gilded cage. 

But that’s part of the dance, isn’t it? The chase, the daring escapes, and the knowledge that while he may be tasked with returning you to safety, a part of him enjoys the game just as much as you do.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

The pounding of your heart echoes in your ears as you dart through the narrow streets, your feet barely skimming the cobblestones. Harwin is right behind you, his heavy boots making it clear he’s gaining ground. You can’t help the exhilarated laugh that slips past your lips, feeling the cool night air whip through your hair. For a brief moment, you almost wish he wouldn’t catch you, just so you could revel in the rush of freedom a little longer.

But then you hear his voice—low, deep, laced with a blend of exasperation and amusement. “Y/N, you’re only making this worse for yourself!”

You glance back just in time to see the determined gleam in his eyes, and before you can react, his hand closes around your wrist. You let out a surprised gasp as he spins you, tugging you close until your chest is flush against his. You can feel the heat radiating from him, his breath ghosting over your lips as he stares down at you with a mixture of desire and reprimand.

“You truly are a wild thing, aren’t you?” His voice is husky, rough with the thrill of the chase.

“Perhaps,” you murmur, a sly smile tugging at your lips, “but you seem to enjoy it.”

Without giving him a chance to respond, you tug him into the shadowed alleyway beside you. The darkness wraps around you both, cloaking you from any prying eyes that might still be wandering the streets. There’s a moment of tension, of anticipation crackling between you like lightning in a summer storm.

You push him back against the stone wall, your hands fisting in the front of his tunic as you pull him down to meet your lips. The kiss is fierce, hungry—born of a shared need that has simmered beneath the surface for far too long. Harwin’s hands are quick to respond, gripping your waist with a possessive strength that sends shivers down your spine. He tastes of salt and warmth, of nights spent in armor and the fire that burns within him.

There’s no room for words now, just the frantic rustle of fabric as your fingers work to loosen his breeches, his own hands tugging at the ties of your skirts. The air is thick with the scent of desire, mingled with the cool, damp earth and stone around you. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you free him, your bodies already pressing together with the desperate anticipation of what’s to come.

When he moves into you, it’s with a practiced ease that speaks of all the times you’ve stolen moments like this before. Your head falls back, a soft moan escaping your lips as he fills you, the familiar stretch and heat drawing gasps from both of you. For a heartbeat, you both remain still, savoring the way you fit together, the way your bodies seem to crave this connection as much as your hearts do.

“Gods, Y/N,” Harwin groans, his voice low and strained. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

You smile against his lips, your nails digging into his shoulders as you start to move, setting a rhythm that’s as familiar as it is intoxicating. “Better than dying in the Keep, caged and suffocated,” you manage to whisper, your voice breathy with desire.

He lets out a deep, rumbling laugh, but the sound quickly fades into a grunt as your hips grind against his. The tempo between you quickens, each thrust driven by pure, unbridled need. There’s a primal urgency in the way you cling to each other, as if the world outside these walls doesn’t exist, as if all that matters is this moment, this passion, this escape.

His hands grip your thighs, lifting you slightly as he presses you harder against the wall, deepening the angle until you’re both lost to the rhythm of your bodies. Every movement draws a gasp, a moan, a whispered name into the darkness. Your nails rake down his back, desperate to hold onto the sensation building within you. He’s rough and tender all at once, his control fraying with each stroke as he buries his face in the curve of your neck.

“Y/N… you drive me mad,” he rasps, his breath hot against your skin.

You bite down on your lip, stifling a cry as he hits a particularly sensitive spot, pleasure coiling tight in your belly. “Good,” you manage, your voice breaking on the word as your hands slide into his hair, tugging him closer, demanding more.

The pace is relentless now, both of you moving in sync, lost in the frantic need to reach that edge together. You’re barely aware of anything but the feeling of him inside you, the way your bodies collide with a desperate intensity. His name slips from your lips again and again, a plea, a prayer, as the pleasure builds to an unbearable peak.

When release finally crashes over you, it’s like wildfire spreading through your veins. Your body trembles, tightening around him as you shatter, a cry breaking free from your throat. Harwin isn’t far behind, his grip bruising as he thrusts deep one final time, a guttural groan spilling from his lips as he finds his own release. He holds you there, chest heaving, his forehead pressed against yours as you both ride out the last waves of pleasure together.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your ragged breathing mingling in the darkness. The intensity slowly ebbs away, leaving behind a warmth that’s almost tender as you both come back to yourselves. Harwin’s thumb traces a gentle line along your jaw, his eyes soft as he studies your flushed face.

“Reckless, wild, and impossible,” he murmurs, but there’s no scolding in his tone, only fondness.

You lean into his touch, a contented smile tugging at your lips. “And yet you keep coming back, Ser Harwin.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, slow and sweet this time. “How could I not? There’s no taming a dragon, but gods be damned if I don’t love the fire.”

For a moment, you allow yourself to savor the warmth of his embrace, the comfort of his presence in the midst of all the chaos that defines your life. But the night is waning, and the world beyond this alleyway is still waiting.

Reluctantly, you begin to disentangle yourself, smoothing your skirts and adjusting your cloak. Harwin mirrors you, straightening his tunic and tightening the laces of his breeches. There’s a lingering heat in his gaze as he watches you, as if he’s already thinking about the next time he’ll chase you through these streets.

“Come,” he finally says, extending his hand with a grin. “I suppose I should get you back before anyone notices your absence… though I doubt I’ll be able to explain why you’re looking so disheveled.”

You smirk, taking his hand as you step back out into the moonlight. “That’s your problem, Ser Breakbones. I’ll leave the excuses to you.”

With a chuckle, he leads you back toward the Red Keep, but not before stealing one last kiss under the stars, a reminder that, for all the rules and restrictions of your world, some fires simply can’t be contained.

The flickering light of the hearth casts dancing shadows on the walls of the private dining chamber, illuminating the worn but sturdy wooden table where Lord Lyonel Strong and his son, Ser Harwin, sit across from one another. The aroma of roasted meats and spiced wine fills the room, yet Harwin barely touches his food, his mind lost in thought as he absently stirs his cup of wine. 

Lyonel watches his son with keen eyes, noting the subtle tension in his posture, the way his gaze drifts toward nothing in particular as if he’s waging some silent battle within himself. They’ve shared these private dinners often, moments away from the demands of the court, but tonight there’s a charged undercurrent in the air that neither man can ignore.

After a long silence, Lyonel clears his throat and decides it’s time to broach the subject. “You seem distracted, Harwin. A rare occurrence for you.” His tone is gentle, probing, as he carefully measures his son’s reaction.

Harwin’s head snaps up as if he’s been startled out of his thoughts. He forces a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s nothing, Father. Just tired, perhaps.”

Lyonel isn’t convinced, but he decides to tread forward nonetheless. He takes a deliberate sip of his wine before speaking, choosing his words with the precision of a man accustomed to walking the tightrope of politics. “There’s been much discussion in the Small Council of late regarding alliances and… strategic marriages.”

Harwin tenses slightly, though he tries to mask it with a casual nod. “That’s always the way of things, isn’t it? Who’s being sold to whom for power and coin this time?”

Lyonel’s eyes narrow, noting the edge in his son’s voice. “In this case, it concerns someone close to you. The King is making plans for Princess Y/N. It appears he’s leaning toward a betrothal to the heir of House Blackwood.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, Harwin’s face betrays nothing. But Lyonel’s sharp eyes catch the brief flicker of something—shock, anger, and something dangerously close to despair—before Harwin schools his features into a stoic mask. 

He swallows hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. “House Blackwood,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s… she’s to be sent away, then.”

Lyonel arches a brow, watching the way his son’s knuckles whiten as he grips the edge of the table. “It would seem so,” he replies slowly, studying every nuance of Harwin’s reaction. “The marriage would be advantageous for the realm—bringing the Riverlands more firmly into the fold, securing loyalties through blood ties.”

Harwin’s gaze drops to his plate, the food now entirely forgotten. His mind races, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions churning within him. The mere idea of Y/N being wed to someone else—of her being taken away to some distant castle, away from the Red Keep, away from him—it’s unbearable.

And Lyonel sees it, clear as day. The horror settles over him like a weight as he begins to piece together what Harwin’s response truly means. He knows his son—knows that Harwin has never been one to be so easily unsettled. For him to react this way… there must be something more, something deeper beneath the surface.

“Harwin,” Lyonel says, his voice now laced with a quiet urgency. “You’re taking this news rather hard, considering it is not your place to determine who the princess marries. Why does this trouble you so?”

Harwin clenches his jaw, fighting to keep his emotions in check. But his father’s probing gaze is relentless, cutting through the defenses Harwin has so carefully constructed over the years. “It’s not—” he begins, but the words catch in his throat. He can’t find a plausible excuse, can’t weave a tale that would satisfy his father without revealing too much.

Lyonel’s expression darkens as he begins to draw his own conclusions, his shrewd mind piecing together the puzzle. His eyes widen slightly in realization, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features before settling into grim understanding. “Harwin…” he breathes, the name laced with a mixture of disappointment and concern. “Tell me you haven’t done something foolish.”

Harwin’s silence is damning. His hands tighten into fists on the table as he struggles to find the words, his heart pounding in his chest. He doesn’t need to confirm it; his father already knows.

The weight of Lyonel’s realization crashes down like a hammer. He leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face as he exhales a long, weary breath. “Gods help us,” he mutters, more to himself than to Harwin. “You’ve gone and entangled yourself with the princess, haven’t you?”

Harwin’s gaze remains fixed on the table, shame and defiance warring within him. He knows there’s no point in denying it now. “It wasn’t supposed to happen,” he admits hoarsely, his voice thick with emotion. “But I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop myself.”

Lyonel closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as the full implications settle in. “You fool. Do you have any idea what this could mean? What could happen if this gets out? The scandal, the danger—not just to you, but to her?”

“I know,” Harwin snaps, his voice strained, as if the very acknowledgment of the truth is tearing him apart. “But I… I care for her, Father. More than I should. More than I’ve ever cared for anyone.”

The raw confession hangs in the air, and for a moment, Lyonel can only stare at his son with a mixture of anger and pity. He sees the turmoil in Harwin’s eyes, the desperate, reckless need that has clearly consumed him. This isn’t just a passing infatuation or a dalliance. It’s something far deeper, something that could lead to ruin if it’s not carefully managed.

“Harwin,” Lyonel finally says, his voice low and grave, “you’ve put us all in a precarious position. If the King suspects, if the wrong person finds out, it could be the end of not just you, but our entire house. You must let her go. The marriage will happen, and you cannot interfere. Do you understand me?”

Harwin’s fists tremble as he fights back the overwhelming urge to protest, to scream that it’s impossible, that he can’t just let her go. But he knows his father is right. He knows the reality of their situation, knows that they are both trapped in a world of politics, duty, and expectations that neither of them can escape.

“I understand,” he finally grits out, though the words feel like ashes on his tongue.

Lyonel’s gaze softens slightly, a hint of sympathy bleeding into his stern expression. “I do not doubt your feelings, son, but some battles are not meant to be fought. And this is one you cannot win. You must think of what’s at stake.”

Harwin doesn’t respond, unable to trust himself to speak without betraying the depth of his anguish. Instead, he nods stiffly, forcing himself to swallow the pain that threatens to overwhelm him. He can’t imagine a future where Y/N belongs to someone else, where she’s out of his reach, but he knows he may have no choice in the matter.

Lyonel watches him with a heavy heart, knowing he’s asking the impossible of his son but also knowing it’s the only way to avoid disaster. “Be careful, Harwin,” he warns quietly, his voice tinged with regret. “Love is a powerful thing, but it can also be a weapon if wielded recklessly. Do not let it destroy you.”

The room falls into silence once more, the crackling fire the only sound between them. Harwin’s gaze remains fixed on the flames, but his thoughts are far from the warmth of the hearth. They’re with her—always with her—no matter how impossible the road ahead may seem. And even as he tells himself to let go, to do what’s expected, he knows in his heart that the fire between them isn’t something he can simply snuff out. It burns too bright, too fiercely, and like all dragonfire, it may yet consume them both.

[speaknow-sw]

𝓢𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽 𝓡𝓮𝓶𝓷𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓼

Summary : Anakin says it’s a relationship without names. Maybe you can help him change his view. Word count : 2.3k

���ｏｎｔｅｎｔ: mdni, Vampire! Anakin, Human! Reader, nipple suckling, pussy-eating, vaginal fingering, PiV, blood sucking, biting, brief cockwarming.

AN : Why’s Vampire! Anakin is soooooo…. Anyway I enjoyed writing this one cuz it was fun searching the aesthetic and music to go with. Maybe I listened to A Little Death by the Neighborhood too much for my own sanity… The ghibli reference at the end…iykyk. Hope ya’ll enjoy !

In the dimly lit apartment, the air carried an unsettling mix of warmth and cold, an atmosphere that seemed to vibrate with secrets. The walls, adorned with dark, rich tapestries, absorbed the soft, flickering light from a single candle. Shadows danced around the room as if alive, hinting at the presence of something far beyond the ordinary.

Anakin Skywalker, his skin pale and his eyes an intense, unyielding red, moved with a grace that was both mesmerizing and unsettling. He was a creature of contradictions—a predator with a serene façade, his gaze both alluring and terrifying. His presence dominated the room, filling it with an undeniable tension that pressed against the senses.

You, a mere human, sat on the edge of the bed, heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. Anakin’s relationship with you was one of forbidden intimacy—a darkly sensual dance that played on the edge of danger and desire. The depth of his affection was as potent as the danger he presented.

As Anakin approached, his eyes locked onto yours with a predatory intensity that made your breath hitch. You could feel the heat from his body, a contrast to the cool, almost icy chill that seemed to surround him. His presence was magnetic, pulling you into a world where every touch, every look, carried a weight of dark promise.

He reached out with a slender, yet powerful hand, brushing a lock of hair from your face with a tenderness that was at odds with his dangerous nature. “Do you know,” he murmured, his voice a dark velvet caress, “how much I crave the warmth you bring into my life?”

You shivered at his words, caught between fear and an unquenchable desire. His fingers lingered on your skin, tracing a path from your temple down to your collarbone, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. The sensation was both thrilling and frightening, a reminder of the dangerous allure he held.

Anakin’s gaze never wavered as he leaned closer, his breath cool against your skin. “You are the only one who has ever made me feel this… alive,” he said, his lips brushing against your ear. The words were a dark promise, a confession of his vulnerability hidden beneath layers of his monstrous exterior.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours, asking for permission that you knew you were powerless to deny. With a sudden, swift movement, he captured your lips in a kiss that was both gentle and fierce, a dance of hunger and longing. His touch was electrifying, igniting a fire within you that seemed to burn away any lingering doubts.

"Anakin," you breathed, the name slipping from your lips like a prayer, though you weren't sure if you were begging for mercy or surrender.

His hand moved slowly, almost reverently, as he reached out to trace a finger along the line of your jaw. His touch was feather-light, but it sent a jolt of electricity through you, igniting every nerve in your body. You leaned into his touch, unable to resist the pull, the overwhelming need to be closer to him.

"You’re home," he murmured, his voice soft but filled with an intensity that made your heart pound even harder. "But now that you are..."

He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't need to. The implication hung in the air between you, heavy and intoxicating. There was no turning back now. You were his, whether you had meant to be or not.

His other hand moved to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. The sudden closeness stole your breath, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you tried to steady yourself. His face was so close now, his breath cool against your lips as he leaned in, his eyes burning with a hunger that made your knees weak.

"You're so beautiful," he observed, his tone almost worshiper as his gaze searched your face.

You were unable to form words as his fingers trailed down the side of your neck, pausing where your pulse beat frantically beneath your skin. He could feel it, you knew—the rush of blood, the warmth of life that coursed through you. You could see the desire in his eyes, the barely-contained need that lurked just beneath his controlled exterior.

Slowly, he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. Your eyes fluttered shut, your body trembling with anticipation. There was a moment of stillness, a breath held between the two of you, and then you felt it—the sharp, unmistakable prick of his fangs as they grazed your skin.

He paused, his lips just barely brushing the sensitive spot beneath your ear, and you could feel the sharpness of his fangs, the promise of what was to come. His hand continued its slow, soothing strokes through your hair, grounding you in the intimacy of the moment.

“I’ll be gentle,” Anakin promised, his voice barely above a whisper, as his thumb traced the line of your jaw. “But I need this. I need you.”

With a slow, deliberate movement, he pressed his lips against your neck, and you felt the sharp sting as his fangs pierced your skin. The pain was brief, quickly overshadowed by a wave of warmth and pleasure that radiated from the point of contact, spreading through your entire body.

Anakin’s hand tightened in your hair, his fingers gently massaging your scalp as he drank, his every movement careful, deliberate, as if he were savoring every drop. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, holding you steady as your knees grew weak under the intensity of the sensation.

As he fed, you could feel his desire, his need for you, in the way he held you, the way he caressed your hair with a tenderness that spoke of a deep, consuming passion. The world around you seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you, bound together in this dark, intimate ritual.

He pulled back slightly, his lips brushing against the wound as he murmured against your skin, “You’re perfect… so perfect.” His voice was filled with something akin to reverence, and the way he looked at you, his eyes glowing in the dim light, made your heart flutter.

His thumb traced your lower lip, his gaze locked onto yours as he whispered, “You have no idea what you do to me… how you make me feel.” His hand continued its gentle, rhythmic strokes through your hair, as if trying to soothe you, even as his words stirred something deep inside.

“I’ve tasted your blood, felt your heartbeat against mine, seen you flushed and vulnerable against me… There’s no going back from this.” Anakin continued, his voice rough with emotion. “You’re mine now… my little human…and I’m yours.”

He leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both tender and possessive, his hand in your hair tightening just enough to make you gasp against his mouth. The taste of your own blood lingered on his lips, mingling with the taste of him, creating a heady mixture that left you breathless.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, his voice was softer, filled with an almost desperate need. “Say you’ll stay with me… let me protect you, hold you. I can’t lose you now.”

Anakin's hands roamed over your body, his touch leaving trails of fire in their wake. His lips followed, tracing the curve of your neck, the swell of your breasts, his fangs grazing your skin, promising pleasure and pain in equal measure. You arched into his touch, a moan escaping your lips as his hand slipped beneath the fabric of your dress, his fingers finding the sensitive bud at the apex of your thighs.

He chuckled, the sound low and seductive, as he felt the dampness that greeted his touch. "So eager," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "I haven't even begun to taste you yet."

His fingers stroked you, teasing you, drawing out your pleasure until you were writhing against him, your hips bucking in a desperate attempt to find more of his touch. He obliged, his fingers slipping inside you, filling you, stretching you in the most delicious way.

You could feel his hardness pressing against your thigh, a silent promise of what was to come. Your hand reached out, grasping him through his pants, feeling the heat of him, the thickness that made your mouth water with anticipation.

He groaned, his hips thrusting into your hand, seeking more of your touch. "You're going to be the death of me," he growled, his voice rough with need.

He pushed you back into the couch, his body covering yours, his weight pressing on your chest deliciously. His hands made quick work of your dress, tearing it away until you were bare before him, your skin flushed and glowing in the dimly lighted room.

His mouth descended on your breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple, his fangs grazing the sensitive peak. You cried out, your back arching, your nails digging into his shoulders as he suckled, drawing out your pleasure until you were writhing beneath him.

His hand slid back between your legs, his fingers stroking you, teasing you, bringing you to the brink of ecstasy and then pulling back, leaving you desperate and aching for more.

"Please," you begged, your voice barely above a whisper. "I need you."

He grinned, his eyes glowing with a predatory light. "Patience, my love," he purred, his fingers continuing their torturous caress. "I want to savor every moment of this."

He slid down your body, his lips trailing kisses along your skin, until they reached the juncture of your thighs. His tongue flicked out, parting your folds, and then he was there, his mouth enveloping you, his tongue plunging inside you, eliciting a guttural moan from the back of your throat.

The sensation was overwhelming, the combination of his hot mouth and sharp fangs sending shivers of pleasure coursing through your body. You gripped the sheets, your back arching, your hips bucking against his face, desperate for more of his touch.

He didn't disappoint. His fingers found their way back inside you, his thumb circling your clit, his tongue never relenting in its assault on your most intimate parts. You could feel the orgasm building, coiling tight within you, your body trembling with the intensity of your need.

And then it hit, a wave of pleasure crashing over you, your body convulsing as you cried out his name. He continued to pleasure you, not stopping until you were a quivering mess beneath him.

Finally, he pulled back, his eyes gleaming with triumph as he looked up at you. "Now for the main event," he growled, his voice thick with lust.

He quickly disrobed, his cock springing free, hard and eager, pre-cum glistening at the tip. You couldn't help but lick your lips in anticipation. He positioned himself between your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pushed into you.

You gasped, the sensation of him filling you completely unlike anything you'd ever experienced. He paused for a moment, giving you time to adjust, before he began to thrust, his hips pistoning into yours, his cock stretching you, filling you, driving you wild with pleasure.

He reached up, his hand finding your breast, his fingers toying with your nipple as he continued to fuck you, his rhythm slow but powerful. You met his thrusts, your hips moving in perfect harmony, unholy moans filling the room.

His teeth nipped at your neck, his fangs grazing your skin as he plunged into you, the sensation of his teeth against your flesh adding an element of pain to the pleasure, making it all the more intense.

You could feel yourself spiraling toward another climax, the sensation building within you, your body quivering with need. Anakin seemed to sense this, his thrusts becoming more urgent, his fangs sinking deeper into your flesh.

His hand tightened in your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands, as he pulled your head back, exposing your neck even more to his voracious hunger. You cried out, the sensation of his fangs in your skin, the feel of his cock rummaging your gummy walls, the way he held you as if you were the most precious thing in the world, all of it pushing you over the edge.

Your orgasm hit you like a freight train, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around his cock, your cries of pleasure mingling with the pain of his bite. He didn't stop, his thrusts became more frenzied as his hips slammed into yours, his teeth still buried in your neck.

The sight of your release seemed to push him over the edge as well. He growled and his hips bucked, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled you with his seed, the warm fluid spilling into you, marking you as his own.

He released your neck, his fangs retracting, and collapsed onto you, his body shuddering as he caught his breath. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close. « I’m gonna stay here a moment, sweetheart.» he sighed softly, licking the remnants of blood on your neck. His hair were tousled, golden curls tickling your cheek and you buried your face in it. 

After a moment, Anakin gently pulled away, his eyes filled with concern as he looked down at you. "Are you alright, my love?" he asked softly, his voice a soothing rumble that instantly put you at ease. "Can you walk?"

You nodded, a lazy smile spreading across your face as you felt the lingering aftershocks of pleasure coursing through your body. "Yes, I think so," you replied, your voice a little breathless. "It was... intense."

He smiled and kissed the top of your head. « How about we shower together ? I promise I won’t break the shower curtain again » he smirked at that, his fangs catching the light of the room.

The End…