#a feast of fire and smoke

[spikedfearn]

Upon the Scarlet Altar

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: On a night when the moon hangs low and your body bleeds for him, he worships you the only way he knows how: on his knees, mouth between your thighs, feasting like you’re the last taste of warmth in a world gone dark. But in his arms—cold as the grave—you find a different kind of fire. One that never dies.

wc: 4.1k

a/n: AHHH you guys—I’m seriously losing my mind right now. Mercy Made Flesh hit 1.7K notes in 72 hours and I’m just sitting here clutching my pearls and screaming into the void like !!! thank you SO much for all the love, thirst, and pure unhinged energy you’ve poured into my fic!! this fic is lovingly (and hornily) dedicated to @oc3anbxbyxoxo who requested remmick eating reader out while on her period!! and, as always, thanks to my number #1 pookie Nat @kayharrisons for beta reading!!

warnings: vampirism, bloodplay, oral sex (f!receiving), period sex, vampire x human, worship kink, possessive undead love interest, overstimulation, blood drinking, body worship, monsterfucking (soft), southern gothic setting, mild dubcon tones (power imbalance), religious/sacrilegious language, explicit sexual content, knife-edge tenderness, unholy devotion, mutual obsession, sex as ritual, canon-typical vampire violence (implied)

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! please enjoy!!

The moonlight spills across the cold stone floor like spilled cream, pale and thick, stretching all the way to the foot of Remmick’s bed. You don’t knock when you enter. You never have to.

He already knows.

He’s there, seated at the edge of the mattress like he’s been waiting all night—shirt half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his hair a soft tangle from too much pacing. There’s a gleam to his eye that hadn’t been there yesterday. Something feral. Something starved.

His nose twitches before his lips curl.

“You’re bleedin’,” he drawls, voice like bourbon left too long in the sun. “C’mere, sugar.”

You close the door behind you. You should be embarrassed. You’re not wearing anything underneath the long black slip you call a nightgown. Not tonight. The silk clings to your thighs, sticking just slightly with each step.

He’s watching. Always watching. Like he’ll die if he blinks.

By the time you reach him, he’s already reached for your hips, already dragging you between his legs. His hands are cold. They always are. But they warm quickly when they cup the back of your thighs and pull you forward until you’re straddling his lap.

“Could smell you from the hallway,” he murmurs against your mouth. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

“Then show me,” you whisper.

His eyes flick up. Crimson. Blazing.

Ravenous.

And then he lays you back.

The mattress dips under your weight, the room heavy with the scent of old wood, candle smoke, and something darker now—something copper-sweet. His breathing doesn’t hitch, doesn’t falter. But it deepens. Slows. Like he’s savoring every second before he lets the hunger off its leash.

Remmick’s palms press to the inside of your thighs, spreading you open like a prayer. His voice, low and reverent, ghosts over your skin.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, thumbing the edge of your nightgown up, baring the soft heat of your core. “Ain’t nothin’ in this world tastes as good as you do when you bleed.”

The shame you thought you might feel never comes. There’s only heat, only want, only the obscene pulse in your stomach as he lowers his mouth with something like worship painted across his face.

“Y’ain’t scared, are you?” he murmurs, his lips brushing the crease of your inner thigh. “’Cause I’m real hungry, darlin’. Real fuckin’ hungry.”

You shake your head, your voice a whisper. “No.”

His grin is all teeth.

“That’s my girl.”

And then his tongue slides over you—slow, deliberate, impossibly soft. He groans like he’s been starving, the sound deep in his throat, his arms locking around your hips to hold you still as he buries his face between your legs.

You cry out.

The first lick is hot and sinful, laced with something carnal and wrong, the wet glide of his tongue tasting the blood he craves, the slick that coats you. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t build slow. He devours—growling against your cunt like it’s the only meal he’s ever needed.

“Christ,” he moans against you, lips already wet with it, tongue circling your clit with obscene precision. “You’re sweeter’n sin like this.”

Your fingers fist in his hair. You’re trembling. The sheets are damp beneath you from your own sweat, from the way your body shudders every time he moans into you like he lives for this.

And maybe he does.

Because Remmick doesn’t stop.

Not when your legs shake. Not when your thighs try to close. Not even when you gasp his name like it’s a lifeline. He keeps going, mouth locked to your cunt, tongue sliding deeper as he feeds and worships all at once.

“Gon’ give you everythin’,” he mumbles, voice thick and slurred with lust, lips slick. “Gon’ make you cum so hard you forget your damn name.”

You already have.

Your back arches, spine bowing off the bed as the wave crests—hot, thick, electric. His name spills out of your mouth in pieces, broken syllables caught between breathless moans, and he drinks it in like it’s part of the offering.

Remmick doesn’t let up.

Even as your hips buck, even as your thighs tremble violently around his head, he holds you down, strong hands keeping you spread and helpless beneath him. His tongue flicks against your clit with punishing precision now, coaxing you past the edge and straight into ruin.

Your vision whites out.

Pleasure burns—too much, too good, a drag across nerve endings that should’ve long gone numb but haven’t, not under him. Not under the mouth of a man who’s been alive for centuries and still claims you as the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

He groans again, loud this time, the sound vibrating through your cunt like a sin. You don’t realize you’re crying until he pulls back slightly, lips flushed red and glossy with blood and slick. The sight should be terrifying.

It’s fucking gorgeous.

“Look at you,” he rasps, dragging his mouth up your body, a smear of crimson trailing from your inner thigh to your hip. “So damn pretty fallin’ apart like that.”

He licks his lips, slow. Lingering.

“Could stay between these thighs all night, baby. Might just do that.”

Your breath stutters when he leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. His voice is thick with lust, but there’s something else now—something dark. Territorial.

“Ain’t gon’ want nobody else’s blood, y’hear me?” he whispers, one hand cupping your throat, thumb brushing your pulse. “Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than you when you bleed for me.”

You whimper, your body still trembling beneath him.

And Remmick smiles.

Because you're not scared.

You're in love. In lust. In ruin.

The room is quiet now, save for the rasp of your breath and the low hum of Remmick’s satisfaction as he lays against you, one arm heavy across your waist, his nose nuzzled into your neck like he can’t bear to be even an inch away from your pulse.

You’re boneless, ruined—your legs still trembling slightly as the aftermath rolls through you in warm, dizzy waves.

But he’s calm. Too calm.

Like a beast that’s fed and now lies curled around its prey, not because it’s lost interest—but because it’s claimed you.

His fingers trace idle circles over your belly, smearing faint streaks of blood he hasn't bothered to wipe away. He hums low in his chest, then murmurs against your throat:

“Y’don’t know what you’ve done to me, do ya?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mouth’s parted, your tongue dry, your body still fluttering in the places he touched and tasted.

He presses a kiss just beneath your jaw, then another, lower—his lips dragging slow.

“You come to me bleedin’ like that,” he drawls, voice syrupy and warm, “an’ expect me to behave?”

You feel his smirk as he speaks against your skin.

“Darlin’, you ain’t just mine. You’re marked. Body knows it. Blood knows it. Every time you ache, every time you get that little twitch in your thighs thinkin’ ‘bout me…that’s me callin’ to you.”

You swallow hard.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, those crimson eyes soft now, almost tender—but still burning. Still dangerous.

“I ever catch somebody else smellin’ you like this…” he shakes his head slowly, almost pitying. “They won’t get the chance to learn from their mistake.”

He says it like a promise.

And then softer, almost lovingly:

“Gon’ take real good care of you. Keep you right here where it’s safe. Keep that sweet little body fed, fucked, and mine.”

You blink up at him, dazed and flushed.

He brushes a knuckle down your cheek, then presses his lips to your temple like you’re something precious. Holy, even.

“Rest now, sugar,” he murmurs, voice velvet-dark. “We got all night.”

Steam curls like spirits from the clawfoot tub as the water runs, hot and fragrant with crushed rose petals and herbs from the garden out back. The scent is earthy, grounding—lavender, rosemary, and something darker beneath it. Something that smells like Remmick.

He’s at your side, one hand steady on the small of your back as he helps you into the water like you’re made of spun glass.

“You’re shakin’,” he murmurs, voice quiet now. Slower. “Let me fix that.”

The warmth envelopes you, and you sink into it with a sigh, limbs limp, head tipping back as your body adjusts. The blood between your thighs has already begun to dilute in the bathwater, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. If anything, his gaze softens.

Remmick kneels behind the tub and rolls his sleeves higher. He dips a cloth into the water and begins to wash you gently, reverently, careful around your thighs, your breasts, your throat.

Like he’s memorizing every inch of you again.

“Still can’t believe you walked into that church that night,” he says, the hint of a smile in his voice, low and fond. “All that fire in you, all that fury. Lord, you had no idea what you were walkin’ into.”

You remember.

You’d been eighteen. Hungry. Lost. Sleeping in the loft of the abandoned chapel on the edge of the forest because the shelter was full and the weather had turned. You hadn’t known the stories were true—not until you’d come face-to-face with the man who didn’t cast a shadow, who stood at the altar after midnight like he’d been waiting for you.

Remmick had looked at you the way God might’ve looked at Eve: not with shame, but with curiosity.

And then with hunger.

“I should’ve run,” you whisper.

He hums. “You did. I let you.”

You’d run through the woods, blood pumping so loud in your ears you could hear your own pulse. He hadn’t chased you—not right away. He’d let the fear bloom, let it take root, let you come back on your own.

You hadn’t been able to stay away.

Maybe it was the way he spoke. Or the way he looked at you. Or maybe it was the way the nights weren’t so cold when he was near.

“I didn’t want you to be afraid,” he says now, dipping the cloth to run it between your legs, slow and careful, like he’s cleaning a wound.

“I was,” you say. “But not of you.”

Remmick nods. He knows.

You’d been afraid of needing him.

And now look at you—body bare and pliant in his bath, flushed from orgasm and bleeding in his water, letting him touch you with those old, cold hands like they’ve got the right.

Because they do.

“You were too damn young,” he murmurs after a beat, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “But you looked me in the eye like you’d seen a thousand winters. Said you weren’t afraid of no man, no monster. Only the ones who pretend they ain’t.”

You smile faintly. “And you never pretended.”

His eyes darken.

“I told you what I was. What I needed. And you still chose to stay.”

You open your eyes, tilting your chin toward him.

“I still do.”

He leans in and kisses you then—not hungrily, not with possession, but reverence. Like you’re sacred. Like he’s praying with his mouth.

And in a way, he is.

Because Remmick never asked for salvation.

He found it anyway.

In you.

The water laps gently around you, soft and warm as skin, swirling faint pink around your hips. His kiss is slow—an ache, a promise, a tether. When he finally pulls back, your lips are damp, parted, breathless, and Remmick is just watching you.

Like he always does.

There’s something about the way he looks at you. Not just hunger. Not just obsession. It’s deeper than that—like he’s memorizing you, like the sight of you is the only thing anchoring him to this wretched earth. Like if he stopped looking, the centuries would catch up to him and pull him down to hell where he knows he belongs.

But not yet.

Not while you’re here. Not while your blood is still warm and your body still pliant and your soul still just out of reach.

He brushes the edge of the cloth over your collarbone next, then your shoulder, dragging it across your chest with trembling restraint. There’s a smear of blood on the side of your breast—his doing—and he wipes it away with the gentleness of a man afraid to break the thing he worships.

“You’re somethin’ holy to me,” he murmurs, low enough it sounds like it’s more for him than you. “Somethin’ sacred.”

You swallow, your throat tight, heart tripping over itself in your chest.

“No I’m not.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe not to the world. But to me? You’re a goddamn miracle.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move. All you can do is feel as he pours warm water over your shoulders, cupping the back of your head like he’s baptizing you in blood and roses.

“First time I saw you,” he says, “I thought I’d finally gone mad. Thought I was seein’ a ghost. You walked right through that broken door, moonlight at your back, lookin’ like vengeance and salvation in one breath.”

He sets the cloth aside.

“You didn’t flinch when you saw my teeth. Didn’t cry when I told you what I was. You just looked at me with those big, tired eyes and asked if I was gonna kill you.”

You remember that night. You remember the way your voice hadn’t shaken, even though your knees did. The way his eyes had gone wide—startled, not by your fear, but by your lack of it.

He laughs softly now. “And I told you, didn’t I? Told you I don’t kill what I’m fixin’ to keep.”

Your breath catches.

“Remmick…”

“I meant it,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead, to your temple, to the crown of your head. “Meant it then. Mean it now. You’re mine. And I ain’t ever lettin’ you go.”

Your fingers curl in the water. His arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest, the sound of his dead heart silent beneath your ear.

But it feels like it’s beating.

Only for you.

Only here.

The water’s gone tepid by the time he speaks again.

“Time to get you outta there, sugar,” he drawls, voice velvet-thick. “Before I end up joinin’ you.”

He stands, boots echoing soft on the old tiles, and leans over the tub to scoop you into his arms. It’s effortless—like you weigh nothing at all. Your wet skin presses to his chest, and the chill of him—cold, corpse-cold—sinks straight into your bones.

But you don’t flinch.

You never do.

Because even if he doesn’t have blood that pumps or a heart that beats, there’s warmth in him still. In the way his arms hold you like you’re breakable. In the way his mouth brushes your temple like a promise. In the way he carries you through this crumbling house like you’re something he’d go to war for.

You cling to him out of instinct, arms curling around his neck as your cheek rests against the hollow of his throat. It’s icy. Still. But it’s home.

“I got you,” he murmurs, “Always do.”

He steps out of the bathroom and into the dark hallway of the house you’ve come to know like a second skin—your house now, though no one but the ghosts know it. The floorboards creak beneath his slow steps, the wallpaper is peeling, the chandeliers are draped in cobwebs like mourning veils. The wind outside presses against the windows like a lonely thing begging to be let in.

But here, in his arms, even cold, you feel untouchable.

You bleed against his skin.

It’s not until you reach the bedroom—your shared bedroom, with the worn four-poster bed and the rotting wainscoting and the lace curtains yellowed with time—that he speaks on it.

You feel the pause in his chest before the low, filthy rasp leaves his lips.

“Leakin’ all over me, sweet thing,” he mutters with a smirk, voice dipped in reverence and filth. “Leavin’ a trail like you want the whole damn forest to follow your scent home.”

You suck in a breath. The heat in your belly curls tight again.

He sets you down on the edge of the bed, your thighs parting on instinct, your slick skin sticking to his shirt, to the old quilt beneath you. The blood between your legs is thicker now, heavy. He watches it, eyes dark as pitch.

“Lord have mercy,” he whispers, dragging the back of his hand up your inner thigh just enough to catch the wet. His fingers are cool—unnaturally so—but they don’t make you recoil. They make you burn.

“You’re drippin’ for me. Bleedin’ like you want me to taste you again.”

He leans in, teeth grazing your ear.

“You know what that does to a man like me? That warm, dark sweetness runnin’ down your thighs? Ain’t nothin’ on God’s green earth tastes more like heaven than that.”

You shiver.

Not from fear.

From need.

He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, then another to your shoulder.

“Don’t you worry, baby,” he murmurs, voice so low it sinks into your skin like wine. “I’ll get you cleaned up again. Real slow. Real good. Might just make you bleed a little more while I’m at it.”

You tremble under his touch.

And Remmick smiles.

Because he knows you’re already his.

He kneels.

Doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. You can feel it—what’s coming. The weight of his stare between your legs, the way his cold hands slip beneath your thighs and spread them wider, wider, until you’re completely exposed to him in the dim, flickering candlelight.

His fingers drag slow along the inner swell of your thighs, smearing blood and slick across skin like paint. His mouth parts.

“Christ almighty,” he breathes, voice reverent, his accent rougher now, more ragged. “Look at this mess. Look what you do to me, girl.”

He kisses the inside of one thigh—cold lips on burning skin—then the other. He doesn’t go for your pussy yet. He lingers. Worships. Drags his tongue along the seam of your thigh where the blood’s heaviest, groaning low and obscene as he tastes it.

He licks it up like it’s the finest thing he’s ever touched.

“Could spend hours down here,” he rasps, voice already wrecked. “Feastin’ like you’re my last goddamn meal.”

You whimper, hips twitching, your legs threatening to close—but he doesn’t let you.

“Uh-uh,” he warns, using his strength with ease to keep you open. “Don’t hide from me now. Not when you’re bleedin’ for me like this.”

His mouth finally descends on your cunt.

And this time, he takes his time.

The first pass of his tongue is so slow, so deep, it makes your eyes roll back. He licks a long, deliberate stripe from your soaked entrance to your clit, tasting everything—blood, arousal, need—and moaning like it’s divine.

His tongue flicks against your clit, again and again, featherlight but maddening. Then he shifts—mouth flattening, sucking, lapping at you with wide strokes of his tongue like he’s trying to ruin you.

And god, he is.

You fist the sheets, back arching, mouth open in a silent cry as he moans against your cunt, the vibrations shooting straight through your core. Your blood coats his mouth, his chin, his lips—but he doesn’t care. He relishes it. His hands grip your thighs tighter as he buries himself deeper, tongue fucking into you like he’s trying to crawl up inside and live there.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans between strokes, pulling back just long enough to pant against your slit. “You taste like heaven and sin all at once. Never gonna get tired of this. Never gonna stop wantin’ it.”

He slides a cold finger inside you—then another. Your body clenches hard, the contrast of his freezing hand and warm tongue almost too much to bear. But he knows your body now. Knows exactly how to curl his fingers, how to suck your clit while his tongue and hand move in tandem.

You start to shake.

Your vision blurs.

You cry out, your orgasm building harder than the last, pressure curling, snapping, about to break—

And he doesn’t stop.

Not when you start to sob his name.

Not when your thighs tremble and spasm against his shoulders.

Not even when you cum, shattering hard enough to see white behind your eyelids, your body jerking beneath his mouth like you’re being ripped open.

He keeps going.

Sucks your clit through it. Licks up every drop of blood and slick. Fingers you slower now, more gently, like he’s helping you ride it out instead of trying to end it.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing your swollen cunt. “Gave it all to me, just like you’re meant to.”

You’re ruined.

Your chest is heaving, your limbs loose, soaked through and aching, and he’s still between your thighs, still worshiping, still tasting like he’ll never get enough.

And maybe he won’t.

Because you’re bleeding.

And he’s starving.

Your breath hitches—caught somewhere between a sob and a moan—as your legs twitch from the aftershocks, thighs sticky with blood and saliva. But Remmick’s still there.

Still devouring.

Still worshipping.

His tongue moves with aching tenderness now, lazy, slow—almost teasing if it weren’t so reverent. He licks through the mess he’s made, lips parting to mouth at your folds like he’s kissing your mouth, not your cunt. Like every inch of you is sacred.

And even as your hips jerk, trying to pull away—too much, too sensitive—he doesn’t let you go.

“No,” he murmurs, voice low, steady, commanding. “We’re not done yet, sweetheart.”

He pins your hips with those cold, strong hands, mouth descending again.

You cry out, thighs shaking violently, the sensitivity blooming into a new kind of agony—pleasure twisted at the edges, electric and sharp, making your toes curl and your spine bow. The room is spinning. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

But he’s soothing you as he ruins you.

“Shhh,” he breathes against you. “I got you. Just take it. Lemme taste every last drop you’re willin’ to give me.”

You feel your body trembling apart for him again, your stomach clenching, heat pooling low and impossibly fast.

Remmick’s voice is almost gentle now, slurred with arousal and reverence as his tongue drags across your clit.

“Don’t you go hidin’ from me, baby. You know I’ll chase you down.”

He kisses your cunt again, tongue flattening and lapping, nosing against your entrance where your blood is still fresh, still dripping slow. He moans deep in his throat like it’s a vintage he’s been saving for decades, like this moment—this mess between your thighs—is a gift he doesn’t deserve.

And god, the way he sounds when he speaks between strokes—

“Your blood’s hotter’n the devil’s breath tonight.”

Another lick.

“Tastes like lust. Like pain. Like home.”

Another.

“You were made for me, girl. Built to bleed for me.”

Your body coils tighter and tighter, the pleasure sharper now, no longer soft or slow—it’s demanding, relentless, fire at the base of your spine.

And he feels it.

He moans against you as you cum again—louder this time, messier, your entire body going rigid under him as you fall apart a second time, writhing as he holds you open and takes it all.

You’re crying now, softly, not from pain but from being so thoroughly undone.

From how deeply he sees you.

How completely he wants you.

When he finally pulls back, he’s soaked. Lips red, chin slick, eyes glowing like coals. He kisses your inner thigh, then your knee, then the scar on your ankle he once asked about and never brought up again.

You’re limp beneath him, panting, ruined.

And he looks so fucking proud.

“That’s my girl,” he whispers, crawling up your body. “My perfect, filthy little thing.”

He settles beside you on the bed, pulling you into his arms, curling your spent body against his cold one—and somehow, you feel warmer for it.

He presses a kiss to your temple, then your hairline, then your shoulder.

“Sleep now,” he breathes. “Ain’t no one ever gon’ touch you but me.”

And as your eyelids flutter closed, muscles aching, pulse slow and full, you realize this is what he’s given you—what no one else ever could.

Not warmth.

But safety.

Not love.

But devotion.

And in a house filled with ghosts, buried in a forest that forgot its name, you fall asleep knowing you’ll never be alone again.

Not as long as Remmick walks the earth.

Not as long as he’s hungry—and you’re his.

[s-u-w-i]

Silmarillion sketches, once again, ha 💎💎💎

"Then Morgoth hurled aloft Grond, the Hammer of the Underworld, and swung it down like a bolt of thunder. But Fingolfin sprang aside, and Grond rent a mighty pit in the earth, whence smoke and fire darted."

"But Fëanor followed him, and at the door of the king’s house he stayed him; and the point of his bright sword he set against Fingolfin’s breast. ‘See, half-brother!’ he said. ‘This is sharper than thy tongue."

"...for though at great feasts Fëanor would wear them, blazing on his brow, at other times they were guarded close, locked in the deep chambers of his hoard in Tirion. For Fëanor began to love the Silmarils with a greedy love, and grudged the sight of them to all save to his father and his seven sons..."

[sixeyesonathiel]

love & war — ares!gojo x aphrodite!reader

part 2 of all’s fair. 18+, YEARNER gojo, LONG HAIRED GOJO I REPEAT, LONG HAIRED GOJO. jealous & sort of possessive gojo, he breaks your wedding ring. cunnilingus while u sit on ur throne, squirting.

the feast is decadent.

ambrosia drips like honey from silver goblets, pooling at the edges like nectar too sweet to swallow. laughter rings through the marble colonnades of mount olympus, reverberating against pillars gilded in gold, lilting and hollow—like a song sung too many times, a chorus with no soul. but the gods don't care for meaning. they care for spectacle.

and tonight, you are the show.

you sit at hephaestus' side, spine straight, expression the picture of benevolence. the torchlight catches in your hair, setting it aglow like strands of molten gold. the chiffon draped across your body slips just so—revealing the curve of your thigh, the soft swell of your shoulder, the shadow between your breasts. suggestive, never vulgar. worshipped, never touched.

you tilt your goblet, fingers tracing the rim like you're tuning a lyre. your lips, red and warm, brush the edge but never drink. your eyes flutter closed as apollo's laughter crescendos, and you feign delight—mouth curling in a smile that could bring mortals to their knees. beside you, your husband remains silent. his hand is steady on his chalice. he forged the ring on your finger with hands calloused from fire and fury, and yet you wear it like it's forged from spider silk—a fragile thing, breakable.

and you don't look at satoru.

not at first.

but oh, you feel him.

his presence seeps into the room like smoke. the god of war is leaned lazily against his throne across the hall, the picture of restraint. clad in armor darker than midnight, trimmed in crimson, his white hair is tied back by a ribbon dyed red, trailing down his back like a war banner, a declaration. but his restraint is a lie.

his goblet remains empty. always empty. he drinks nothing tonight—not wine, not ambrosia—because it is only you that he hungers for.

his blue eyes, pale and gleaming, fixate on you. they don't waver. not once. they drink in every movement of your fingers, every curve of your smile, every deliberate flutter of your lashes. he watches you toy with your ring like it's a sin he's yet to commit. he watches you lean closer to dionysus, watches your laugh tilt toward apollo, watches your bare foot slip from under the tablecloth like a secret invitation. it's cruel. deliberate.

it's punishment.

your favorite dress, ruined. your thighs, bruised. your lips, bitten and left cold in a tent heavy with the stench of blood and iron and war. he kissed you like a man possessed, like a god starved. then he left you aching.

and now?

he aches.

not with the sharp, glorious pain of battle—but something worse. duller. quieter. the kind of ache that sits beneath the ribs and gnaws like hunger, like longing.

when the feast ends—when wine-soaked laughter fades into sultry sighs, when silk rustles and marble floors grow slick with pleasure—you do not rise.

you stay seated in your throne, golden and still, carved like a statue of temptation by hands far crueler than fate.

you wait.

and like always, he finds you.

you don't hear his footsteps. only the subtle shift of air. the softest rustle of a crimson sash brushing against bronze armor. then the press of a shadow curling into yours like a secret.

“that's twice now,” his voice comes low, smoked silk and sharpened edge, curling around your spine. “once on the battlefield. now here. you like making me wait?”

his tone holds accusation—but the way he looks at you, moonlight caught in those cerulean eyes, it's not anger. it's reverence. it's ruin. it's worship.

he looks like war incarnate dressed in restraint—white hair tied back by a ribbon the color of spilled blood, pale skin brushed faintly gold beneath olympian firelight, armor kissed by countless hands but pierced by none. and he looks at you like he's starved. like he would gut himself if it meant dying with your name on his lips.

your lashes lower, slow. you don't turn to face him yet. you let the pause bloom between you, heavy with all the words you shouldn't say and all the touches you're not allowed to crave.

then—deliberately—you twist to meet him.

your gaze is lazy, liquid, the wine having turned your movements feline. your dress slips like a sigh over your thighs. your lips curve just enough to wound.

you reach to press a palm flat against his chest, over the gilded armor. his heat hums beneath it. a mortal man would be scalded.

“you ruined my favorite dress,” you murmur, voice hushed and sugared. your fingers curl, tracing the seam between plates of gold. “and left me in a tent that smelled of blood and glory and you.”

he breathes in sharply, jaw ticking once—just once—but it's enough. enough to unravel you.

his exhale is quiet, but charged, like the hush before a battlefield scream. his chest rises with restraint, sinewed muscle tense beneath his black tunic, straps of armor left discarded at the threshold like a promise he intends to break.

he steps forward. slow. deliberate. like the way fire creeps, hungry and patient. another step. then another. the weight of him warps the air. heat blooms in your lungs.

your hand stays raised between you like a shield, but your wrist trembles, traitorous. it remembers the weight of his grip, the way his fingers once mapped constellations into your skin. your mind whispers no. your pulse chants yes.

his eyes flicker—not to yours, but to your hand. to the ring.

“and you think this—” his voice, low and hoarse, curls at the edges like smoke, “—wearing this ring makes us even?”

he slides his fingers beneath yours, not with force, but with reverence. with fury disguised as grace. he lifts your hand like it's an oath he's been denied. like it's home.

he doesn't meet your gaze. his attention stays pinned to the band of gold—hephaestus' craftsmanship, forged in fire and jealousy, fitted for a goddess who never wanted to be possessed.

he looks at it the way a warrior looks at a wound he cannot close. as if it mocks him. as if it dares him to tear it off with his teeth.

his thumb ghosts over it. slow. scalding. like a brand.

you inhale, lips parting to say something cold, something final—but your voice crumbles before it can reach your tongue. all that leaves you is a whisper, soft and shaking, “you shouldn't even be touching me.”

his head lifts.

his eyes—blue, impossibly bright, like the sky just before it breaks—lock onto yours. and they don't just look. they consume. scorch. drink you in like a man dying of thirst, parched from years of wars he didn't win, undone by a beauty he was never meant to hold.

you feel it then, the tremble in the air between you. like something sacred cracking. like prophecy catching fire.

“then stop me.” he says.

his voice isn't loud. doesn't need to be. it's low, rough like gravel but sweetened with reverence, a thread pulled too tight, fraying at the edges. and it tugs at something inside you—something soft, something ancient.

your fingers twitch in his grip. not to pull away. gods, never to pull away. but to stay. to linger. to clutch the fleeting moment like it might fly from your grasp if you dared to blink.

you don't stop him.

instead, you tip your chin up, just slightly. prideful. defiant. divine. and you raise your hand higher between you both, baring the delicate line of your wrist like an offering on an altar. like a lamb to the slaughter. like a challenge written in perfume and silk.

“go on, then,” you whisper, lashes lowered like a veil. the words curl out of you like smoke, like honey laced with venom. “break another rule.”

and he does.

not with rage. not with thunder.

but with reverence.

he sinks to his knees—not like a soldier kneeling before his commander, not like a penitent before a god—but like a man who has already decided that he would rather burn at your feet than live untouched in another's arms.

the marble floor groans under him. the sound is quiet, but it echoes, somehow—sharp and cold, like the world remembering how to breathe.

his white hair, bright as new snow and wild as flame, slips loose from its ribbon and cascades around his face like falling starlight. it brushes against his cheeks, glows silver where it catches the lamplight. divine. disheveled. ruinous.

his hands are warm when they cradle yours. calloused from centuries of war, yet careful. trembling, just barely. he lifts your fingers like they might dissolve in his palms.

he bows his head to the ring—hephaestus's ring, forged in fire, in resentment, in the echo of zeus's command—and kisses it. once. twice. the third time, his lips linger.

then—he bites.

there's no warning. just a clean snap. metal splits beneath his teeth like fate surrendering. the ring breaks. falls. its fragments scatter across the marble like shattered promises.

and you exhale, shivering. not from fear. from recognition.

his mouth finds your bare finger again, lips dragging slow over skin where the band once sat. his teeth press again—gentler now, but no less possessive. he doesn't break the skin.

but the mark blooms anyway.

golden ichor wells to the surface. one drop. warm. pure. precious. it gleams like molten starlight, catching the flicker of torches. it doesn't harden, but it remains—a glimmering, radiant mark that pulses like a gem, impossibly beautiful against the curve of your skin.

no forge. no chains. no vows.

only power. only him.

his ring. your ruin.

he doesn't move. doesn't rise. just kneels there, his mouth hovering over your skin, his breath soft and reverent like a prayer whispered at the altar of something sacred. his eyes flutter closed, and there's a tremor in the air between you.

he lifts his head just slightly, the weight of his gaze pulling you deeper than any touch could. his voice breaks the silence, low and broken, the words crackling with something raw.

“this... is the only semblance of a ring i can give you.” he murmurs, as if the words are both a gift and a confession, an admission of a longing that has no end.

it carves through you like lightning.

you should pull away. remind him of the vows you wear like shackles. of your station. your symbols. that zeus did not gift you to hephaestus out of kindness, but as a solution. a ceasefire.

but instead—your hand lifts. as if guided by something older than reason. you cradle his face in your palm, thumb brushing the sharp angle of his cheek. your golden ichor paints him—bright against pale skin, like warpaint. like a claim.

“you'll get me killed one day.” you say. the words float out of you soft and slow, silk soaked in prophecy.

he laughs, low and broken and full of something starved.

“only if someone gets to you before i do.” he turns his head, catches your fingertip between his lips. kisses it. reverent. ruinous.

his lips trail down your wrist, slow—like he's savoring not flesh, but fate. your breath hitches. somewhere behind you, the world still feasts. but here, in this quiet ruin, it's only the two of you. the war god, and the goddess he was never meant to have.

“do you want me to stop?” his voice cracks, a threadbare rasp that trembles with something dangerous.

you don't answer, not right away.

your body shifts, the fabric of your chiton whispering against your skin, slipping like liquid gold, pooling at your hips, revealing just enough to stoke the fire smoldering in his gaze.

his eyes darken, pupils swallowing the blue entirely, consumed by the weight of you.

satoru, the untamed. satoru, the one who has never known restraint. satoru, brought to his knees by the soft curve of your thighs.

you lean down, your breath warm against his ear, lips grazing the shell, barely there. “then kneel properly.”

and he does.

the groan of his armor is deafening, the pressure of him against you—heat and steel—his forehead against the crest of your hip, his nose tracing the curve where skin is softest, most vulnerable. his hands, large and calloused, find the firm flesh of your thighs, not with the intention to mark, but to learn, to remember. every small movement you make, every breath you stifle, he maps them, tattooing them in his mind like a strategy, like war.

his tongue flicks, slow, deliberate, not a conqueror's claim but a prayer. grateful in it’s intensity.

you arch into him, your back a taut bow, the world blurring for a moment as the weight of his touch splits you in half.

the torchlight bathes your skin, casting molten gold over the sweat-slick column of your throat, the flutter of your lashes so delicate, like wings caught in the flame. your fingers twist in his hair, not guiding—never guiding—just holding on.

as if you fear the heavens might tear him away from you, pull him from your reach.

he notices. of course, he does.

satoru, who feels the tremor before the spear flies. satoru, who senses the precise moment an enemy's resolve crumbles to dust.

his hands slide upward, fingers finding the curve of your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft hollows beneath your ribs. it's a question without words. a question only you can answer.

and you do.

you roll your hips once, sharp, precise, and his groan cuts through you, the sound shaking your bones, a crack of thunder in the silence of the room.

“satoru—”

your voice breaks, a whimper caught between prayer and curse. the ceiling above, painted with the gods' own hands, seems to sway with the weight of it—or maybe it's just your vision, blurry at the edges.

he pulls back just enough to catch your gaze, a smile curling at the corners of his lips, glistening, intoxicating.

“louder,” he demands, voice as dark and thick as smoke from war-horns. “let them hear.”

you kick him, weakly, a distant protest, your heel sliding off his pauldron with a dull clang.

his laugh is ragged, breathless, a sound that rattles the air between you then he dives back in.

no hesitation. no mercy. just hunger, raw and relentless, like he's been dreaming of this moment for centuries. his hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks, hard enough to remind you who you belong to. his mouth moves with the kind of skill that comes from obsession—from nights spent imagining exactly how you'd fall apart for him.

and oh, you do.

It builds slow, then all at once—a coil tightening in your stomach, your back arching off the throne, your fingers twisting in his hair like you're clinging to sanity itself. you bite your lip hard enough to taste ichor, but it's no use.

the world simply narrows to heat and pressure and the slick drag of his tongue and you break.

a choked gasp rips from your throat as your back arches off the throne, thighs clamping around his head like a vice. golden ichor spills—not the slow trickle of a wound, but a flood, a surrender, dripping down his chin, painting his lips in liquid radiance.

he doesn't pull away.

he drinks.

greedy. reverent. as if this—your ruin, your release—is the only ambrosia he'll ever crave.

when he finally lifts his head, it's with a slow drag of his tongue along your inner thigh, savoring every drop. his breath fans hot over oversensitive skin as he surveys his handiwork—your trembling limbs, your heaving chest, the mess glistening between your thighs.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. his thumb swipes through the gold streaking your skin, smearing it like war paint. “all that pretty composure, shattered.”

your cheeks burn in embarrassment as you kick at him again, but it's weak, the force gone, the desire too heavy.

he catches your ankle with ease, his grip unyielding. his lips pressing to the arch of your ankle, tender, almost reverent. then his teeth find it—sharp, a bite.

you jolt beneath him, a shiver running through you like lightning.

“still sensitive?” his voice is dark with satisfaction, low and predatory. he runs his tongue along the mark he's left, soothing it, his mouth just as cruel as it is tender. “good.”

a/n : ares gojo brainrot so bad i wrote this instead of continuing my wips... dunno if i made some misconceptions since im not that invested on greek mythology but if i did yall can expect my apology video w/ tears 😔✌🏻 first time actually trying to write smut omg dont jump me i did my best... part 3 someday idk

[delilahsturniolo]

✦ HIGH OUT OF YOUR MIND . . .

.ᐟ smut, unprotected sex, smoking joints, sex while high, dirty talk, body worship, oral, (fem!receving) use of pet names, multiple orgasms, praise, boob & clit play, dealer!chris, kissing.

you're in chris's bedroom, the two of you lying on his bed together. you've just smoked a joint for the first time, and the high is starting to set in. chris grins at you, his eyes glazed and heavy-lidded. "feeling good, baby?" he asks, his voice low and seductive.

you nod, a lazy smile spreading across your face. "mmm," you murmur, snuggling closer to him. "i feel really good." chris's hand slides down your body, his fingers tracing the curves of your breasts through your shirt. "you look really good too," he says, his voice rough with desire. "so fucking hot."

you shiver at his touch, your body already aching for more. you sit up, pulling your shirt over your head and tossing it aside. you unhook your bra, letting it fall away to reveal your bare breasts. chris licks his lips, his eyes feasting on your exposed flesh. "fuck," he breathes, reaching out to cup your breasts in his hands. "you have the most perfect tits."

you moan softly as he squeezes, your nipples hardening under his touch. you arch into his hands, desperate for more stimulation. "please," you whimper, your voice thick with need. "touch me more."

chris grins, his fingers trailing down your stomach and disappearing beneath the waistband of your jeans. he pops the button open, tugging the zipper down slowly. "lift your hips, baby," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "let me get these off of you."

you do as he says, raising your hips off of the bed as he tugs your jeans down your legs. he tosses them aside, leaving you in nothing but your panties. chris runs his hands up your thighs, his fingers slipping under the hem of your panties. "you're so fucking wet," he growls, his voice strained with desire. "i can feel it through your panties."

you whimper, your hips bucking up to meet his touch. "it's all for you," you pant, your eyes locked on his. "i'm always wet for you." chris smirks, hooking his fingers under the waistband of your panties and tugging them down slowly. "i know," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin as he leans in to press a kiss to your mound. "and i love it."

you cry out, your head falling back against the pillow as he licks a slow stripe up your slit. "oh fuck," you moan, your fingers tangling in his hair. "that feels so good." chris grins against your flesh, his tongue delving deeper to taste your essence. he laps at your clit, sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth as he teases you closer to the edge.

you moan loudly, your body tensing as you near your peak. "oh god," you pant, your hips thrusting up to meet his mouth. "i'm—i’m gonna cum.." with a final swipe of his tongue, you come undone, your body shaking as wave after wave of pleasure washes over you. chris continues to lap at you, drinking down every drop of your release until you're completely spent.

he kisses his way back up your body, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. "you taste so fucking good," he murmurs, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. you can taste yourself on his tongue, you moan into his mouth, your hands roaming over his chest and back. "i need you inside me," you whimper, your voice desperate with desire. "please, chris. fuck me."

chris grins, reaching down to undo his jeans and tug them off. he kicks them aside, leaving him naked and hard before you. "you want my cock, baby?" he asks, his voice low and rough. "you want me to fill this tight little pussy?"

you nod frantically, spreading your legs wide in invitation. "yes," you pant, reaching for him. "please, chris. give it to me." chris positions himself between your thighs, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance.

with that, he thrusts into you, burying himself to the hilt in one swift motion. you cry out, your back arching off of the bed as he stretches you wide. "fuck," you moan, your nails digging into his shoulders. "you feel so good inside me."

chris starts to move, his hips snapping forward as he pounds into you hard and fast. you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper as you meet his thrusts. "harder," you pant, your head thrown back in ecstasy, the joint you smoked only added to your pleasure. "fuck me harder, chris."

chris obliges, slamming into you with all of his strength. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mingling with your moans and cries of pleasure. "you're mine," he growls again, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release. "this pussy belongs to me."

"yes," you whimper, your body tensing as you near another peak. "it's yours. all yours." chris reaches between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. "cum for me," he demands, his voice harsh with need. "cum on my cock."

with a few more strokes, you come undone again, your body shaking as your orgasm crashes over you. chris follows soon after, his cock pulsing as he fills you with his hot seed. he collapses on top of you, both of you panting and spent from the intense session. "fuck," he breathes, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "that was incredible."

you smile lazily, nuzzling into his neck. "mmm," you murmur, your body still tingling from the aftershocks of your release. "you're incredible." chris grins, rolling off of you and pulling you into his arms. "you're not so bad yourself," he says, pressing a kiss to your lips. you giggle, reaching for the joint on the nightstand, taking a long drag before passing it to him. “yo, you needa chill with that, you’re already high out of your mind.” chris chuckles, practically snatching it away from you.

© delilahsturniolo

💌: late night post mwuahh

[milksuu]

ᴀ ʀᴜʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀꜱʜ & ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ ───── ♛ | 𝗣𝗧.𝗢𝟮

pairing: dark!hiccup x f!mute!reader

wc: 1.7k

tw: yandere, kidnapping, obsessive/possessive behavior, blood/violence, grotesque imagery, elements of horror

synopsis: You regretted the day they left him for dead. And you’d regret the day you ever saw him again—he’d make sure of that.

“Wake up, sleepy-head.” A childhood voice echoed like a distant memory in the void behind your eyes. Tearing through the dark threads of your subconscious. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

With a choked gasp, you emerged from the black pool of your mind. Your vision swam in a blurry haze, dimly lit by the sole fire pit in the room. When you blinked away the last smoke and ash from your lashes, you noted the ache of your body propped against a chair. 

Your sight then glazed over a long table displaying a feast only a vulture could salivate for. Unknown smells emanated from a mangled and strangled pheasant served past its due date. And across the table, something much worse. Skeleton bones seated tortuously, broken and dashed in all places. One with its skull completely detached from its person to serve as wicked center piece.

Your lips twisted into a nauseous bow.

“What, not hungry?” 

That same voice split through you again. Snatching your attention towards the head of the table, where Hiccup busied himself nonchalantly with a plate of his own. 

“Can’t say I blame you.” The scathing sounds of cutlery sent your nerves aflame. You wondered how such an ordinary sound could be so cruel to your ears. “Being kidnapped never opened up anyone’s appetite. Which is a shame, since that means I always end up having to do it.” 

You watched, eyes wide and round, as he sliced the belly of the roasted bird in a slow, agonizing horizontal line. 

“I’m just joking. You don’t have to sit there and watch me eat. You can leave if you want. I won't chase you.” He took a slow, meticulous bite, before his dulled eyes lulled to peer at you with a devouring glint. “Unless you want me to.”

Sucking your breath tight against your ribs, you shifted your gaze back to the table. A sight that wasn’t any better to look at. Not with all the scattered remains of guests that never made it past a sickening appetizer, and you weren’t a fool to think you would fare any better. Especially if you decided to entertain the obvious game of chase he’d proposed. 

You wanted no part in it. Whether it was being forced to swallow putrid catch, or fleeing until your limbs were detached from you—he wouldn’t receive the satisfaction.

Not from you, at least.

With a purse of your lips, your fingers pushed away the plate. Then a snap of pheasant bone bent between his fingers. You wondered if that would be your neck. You flinched when he breathed out a bitter chuckle. 

“I get it. My cooking's probably not the best. Hard to learn when you’re busy doing...other things.”

Your skin prickled when the chair scrapped against the stone as he stood. The clanging of his prosthetic growing louder in your ears, sending your heart into a gut churning beat. You held for breath as he reached in front of you, thinking he'd steal your very last. Instead, he grabbed a pitcher and gave your cup a gracious pour.

You made no attempt to accept.

His lip edged with amusement as he served himself the rest before taking a generous swig. A thin dribble streamed down his chin, down the curvature of his neck. It the made the remaining soot in your mouth cotton your tongue dry.

You stood to reason you didn’t have to eat, but surely, you still had to drink. And if he had drank from the same pitcher, then...

When he wiped the wet of his skin and turned a shoulder, you quickly took the cup and drank without a sound. 

“You’re right,” he drawled openly, circling the head of the table. “Why waste time chewing bad food when we have so much talk about. I would ask you to go first, but that might take a little longer. I’ll be quick, though. Promise.”

When he turned, you hastily placed the cup back onto the table, pretending as if you hadn’t succumbed to his offering. 

“When you’re down a leg a short of a few meals, you almost get the sense that death is trying to tell you something. But everyone knows vikings are stubborn; we don’t listen to anything. So, after you and everyone else left for me for dead, I limped till my bandages were soaked red, and ate till my body was paralyzed.” There was a beat in the air as he rimmed the cup with his index finger. “From poison, obviously.”

Your heart and stomach sank when you realized what he had done. What you had done. You covered your shaking mouth with your hand, wishing you could take back the liquid you swallowed. 

“You know, at first I thought I was just another run-of-the mill starving idiot, eating whatever animal or plant I could. Poisonous or not. Until I stopped blacking out and waking up with a mouth full of dirt. Which really saves you from those moments when you’re just minding your own business at a Northern Market tavern, and some random up-to-no-gooder decides to spice up your drink. Boy, you should’ve seen the look of surprise on his face.”

He set his emptied cup and picked up the decapitated skull piece at the table's center, scratching at the nicks and dents in the bone.

“And what I did to it afterwards.”

The corners of his mouth pinned themselves to his dimples. It turned the once endearing sight into twisted holes that looked more like nails had dug cruelly into his cheeks.

“Oh. Don’t worry. The poison won’t kill you. I mean, it almost killed me. Couple of times, actually, but not you. Can’t have that wrench in my plans.” 

Hiccup sauntered towards the fire pit blazing to be fed with whatever he had to offer. He muttered something underneath his breath, seeming to argue with the skull he juggled between his hands. 

“I bet you’re wondering if I killed my dad. No, not yet. Vikings—stubborn, remember? We just talked about this. You can’t stab a mountain and hope it bleeds. You wither it down, break it apart, stone by stone. Until it just…” Hiccup tossed the skull into the fire’s arms, watching it feed its hot stomach with human remains. “Turns to dust.” 

He clapped the bone debris from his calloused fingers. 

“It won’t be much longer until my dad’s failures pile up like a heap of rubble, and just to spite him, that’ll be the foundation of where I’ll begin. Become the leader he could never be. A leader who brings actual peace and prosperity to Berk.” There was a crack of laughter, and he grasped his head to steady himself. “Against my own dragons! How hilarious is that?” 

The howl carried across the innards of the cave was never a gust of wind, but the screeches of dragons bellied deep within the mountain. Echoing through the cavernous walls, enough to shake the rocky fangs protruding from the ceiling.

“You can’t tell me that’s not pure poetry. His so-called biggest failure—me—becomes what he always thought I could never be. What he now fears I can be.” He twisted, pacing to place himself at your side, lurking close to your ear. “Chief.”

You remained silent, as you could only do. Even if you weren't mute, you wouldn't be able to say anything coherent. The poison bit into your lips, slithered down your throat to curl inside your chest and claw its way through every remaining part of your body. It chewed into your muscles till you felt like nothing more than pliable clay. Still, you wanted to defy it.

Defy him more than anything.

Without so much a look or inclination to respond to him in a manner he could understand, you simply dragged a nail against the wood of the chair. In that subtle, mono glyphic language Gothi had taught you.

You drew the scathing remark: To Hel with you.

“That’s not very nice to say. But if that’s where you’d like me to go...” He spun the dinner chair, gripped the arms of it, and pinned you with his presence alone. “Then how about I drag you down with me? I could sure use the company.”

Before you could comprehend the fact he understood you, the rough of his hand swiftly captured the underside of your arm. A rush of blood drained from your head as he yanked you to stand. You stumbled in his grasp as he dragged you closer and closer to the fire pit roaring with heat. The effects of the drug coating your nerves, making it impossible to fight every pull and tug of your body.

 Would he throw you in?

You were answered physically when his fingers unlatched, and your weight crumbled to the floor, inches away from licking flames.

"Go ahead." The command was blunt, a crushing blow to the back of your head. “Show me what Hel’s got in store for me.”

Your temples throbbed as you raised your chin, staring into the gaping mouth of the fire. Every part of you screamed to run away, but the flames beckoned you to stay, calling for the taste of poison in your veins.

Your ceremonial dagger—dropped at your side—whispered for you to take, take, take!

Spell bound by the incantation, you took the dagger in your trembling hands. Heard the sharpest point of iron begging to meet your skin. Obliging, you let it drink from a horizontal line in your palm. Not letting it be too greedy, you fed a serving of blood to the heart of the fire. It sparked and writhed hungrily, consuming every drop, wanting to lap it down to your tendons if it could.

When plums of smoke formed, images danced inside the clouds. The crash of black waves against the jagged cliff rocks. The flash of lightning through an never ending storm of ash. The cries of those you knew, drowned in a sea of jowls and wings. It stung your eyes and tears lined your vision, desperate to deny it all. Wanting the God's to reconsider. Worse part of it all....

....you stood at his side.

Consumed wholly by your mortifying entrancement, you hadn't noticed the scripture you'd written in blood on the stone. Hiccup crouched at your side, his head tilted in amusement.

"I always liked how bad you were at hiding what you were feeling," he said, taking your face in his leathered hands. "It's kinda cute, except now in a pathetic sort of way."

You choked on a silent cry as his thumbs brushed away the tears scolding your flushed cheeks. He brought your mouth a mere breath away, and whispered cruelly against your lips.

"Guess Hel has everything I want."

[timmydraker]

Bruce had never been to The Eclipse before.

The club was similar to that of a gentleman’s club from the starting years of America, filled with dozens of tables all curved and ready for a game or feast. The three floors of the place each had a game room, a bar and a section for private rooms for the more seedy type of talks to be had.

It was one of the few non-criminal funded place in Gotham that was still rich. Deals definitely went down, but it was more fitting for gossip that anything else.

Often people went there for catch ups in a refined setting.

Bruce was there for a catch up, or more accurately, a reuniting with his son.

Tim had sent Bruce a time, date and location and said he was only going to meet with him and no one else. Considering Bruce hadn’t seen his beloved son in nearly four years, including his time in the time stream, he accepted without argument.

Tim said he would look different but that if Bruce was as good of a detective as he says, it wouldn’t be a problem.

Bruce had no idea what his son meant until a woman let him inside and told him that ‘Drake had asked you to find him yourself’ with a confused bend in her eyebrows.

It took him a little longer than he’d be happy to admit, although still less than forty seconds, to find his son.

Or maybe that was the wrong word now, if the regal young woman staring at her drink was anything to go by.

Like something out of a vintage movie, the woman had curled black hair and dark red lipsticks. Her dark eyeshadow matched her sweetheart collar dress, black with thick straps and tight enough that each breath was visible.

The gloves on her hand were long and black, one putting a stark contrast to the pink coloured cigarette lit in her hand.

Everything about her screamed old money.

Bruce only knew it was Tim because of the sweet blue eyes and shape of his jaw, though there was also some kind of… paternal instinct in play.

Tim only looked up when he put a hand on the rounded couch, Jim’s tearing nervously down at his distinguished looking child.

It was when she smiled, a real thing that was just highlighted by her dark red lips, that Bruce knew he wasn’t mistaken.

“Hi Bruce.”

A lighter voice, not soft so much as smooth, and nothing like the more monotone sound he was used to.

“Ti-… hi.”

She smiles and gestures for him to sit before taking a final drag of her smoke and putting it out.

Bruce stares at for just a second before looking at his child. Despite the shock of the obvious changes, he notices something far more important, “You look healthy.”

Well fed, clean, nourished.

Like she’s gotten sleep.

“I am. I’ve done a lot of work on myself and it’s paid off.”

Bruce smiles, genuine and almost a little painful, “I can see that. What… what do I call you?”

“Charlotte. Charlotte Jackson Drake.”

“A beautiful name.”

Charlotte smiles before a serious look comes over her face, “Bruce. I haven’t just changed my lifestyle and body, I’ve changed how I look at the world and I’ve come to understand a lot more in my life now.”

Never has Bruce been so attentive, ears feeling on fire as he does his best to focus on every word spoken to him.

“The main thing I’ve come to understand is you.”

Bruce doesn’t move, scared to make his daughter stop talking to him and so he just does his best to show he’s listening.

Charlotte continues, “I get why you brought all of us in. It wasn’t just to protect us from the world, but from ourselves. I can see now that you are only crazy because you’ve been given the impossible challenge of being a necessity in Gotham and the worlds survival and sanity. It doesn’t change that you’ve made mistakes and fucked up, but I get why now. You didn’t want us to apart of Batman, but we forced you, me most of all.”

Bruce is more than stunned by the honesty and understanding in Charlotte’s words, but the fact that he himself only figured that out after loosing Jason.

She smiles at him like she could read his mind, “It took me a long time and I still have anger towards you, yet I want you in my life all the same.”

A gloved hand comes to hold onto his own, delicate and gentle in a way that reminds him of his mother all those years ago.

Charlottes smiles is far too sad to be hers though, “I’m not the boy you once knew, not just because of the woman I want to be now. I don’t want to help you, to save you and parent you, I want to know you. As my father. If-if you’ll allow it?”

Bruce has cried in public before, several times in fact, but normally it’s to play up his over emotional persona.

This time it’s pure relief.

“Of course. Anything you want, at any pace you want, I- what ever you need.”

Charlotte smiles and squeezes his hand, “Thank you.”

Bruce eventually huffs a laugh and wipes his eyes, “god, you really are good at catching me off guard.”

She laughs, a honey like noise that makes him realises he’s never heard Tim smile and that maybe his daughter could only do that once she be same ‘her’.

The two order drinks and Bruce is given the tale of how Charlotte came to be, of how sometimes she misses being Tim but never wants to go back. He learns that she chose her name based on what she would ah e been if she was born a girl so she wouldn’t feel like she was betraying her parents.

Bruce learns that she is still a hero, operating as Red Robin, but that she focuses on prolonged crimes like trafficking rings and makes sure to take them down in on go instead of busting a few and giving the rest a chance to escape.

He’s not so happy to hear that she isn’t ready to talk to the others and that she only really talks to Cass and Duke as both of them have always been on her side and are truely her siblings.

Yet he respects it, if only to keep her close and show her the love he failed to give.

Respecting his daughter’s privacy, he doesn’t tell his other kids anything about what happened and acts ignorant when there’s a few articles about the mysterious Charlotte Drake and her distant relation to the private Tim Drake.

He meets with his little girl, his Lottie, once a week at The Eclipse and talks with her about their businesses both in the literal sense and more broadly.

He meets Bernard and can’t quite see what it is about the strange boy that makes his daughter so happy, but all he needs is to see her big smile and know it doesn’t matter.

That and the several background checks he did.

[night-night-stories-before-bed]

Dirty heart

Warning ⚠️; slight smut, fluff, mention of drinking blood. 🔞

Pairing; Batman/Vampire!Male!Reader

Summary; The Justice League hit a stalemate during a mission, but thankfully, Batman knows the perfect person to help them. The only problem is that you are absolutely shameless with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Gotham was a nightmarish city. Rotten to its core and filled with corrupted souls, Gotham was the perfect playground for a creature of the night like you. You could feast as much as you wanted, no one ever questioned the trail of bodies you left behind you. Well, that was until you met Gotham’s well-known vigilante; Batman.

You remembered the first time you two met. It was a rainy and cold night and there weren't many pedestrians out. You were hunting, hoping for a quick meal when Batman jumped behind you. The battle was short-lived as you were faster and stronger than a mere mortal. But you didn't kill him, you didn't even drink his blood. You were too curious and wanted to know who was hidding under the mask, so you let him go.

Only to be able to hunt him down.

And what a beautiful mistake.

Because this time Batman was ready for you. You never expected to be outsmarted and bested by a man dressing as a bat, and yet you found yourself stuck in a cage facing the city’s multimillionaire Bruce Wayne. Thankfully for you, the man had no idea how to properly kill a vampire. You managed to pass a deal with Bruce Wayne; you could live in Gotham and feed, but only on the worst kind of criminals.

You obviously agreed and with the days and weeks passing, you slowly came to cohabit perfectly with fine with Batman. From time to time, you would join him in his nightly adventures, watching over him like an evil angel. You even saved his and Robin’s asses a few times, slowly winning over the kid.

Even Bruce got softer around you.

It was a slow process, but Bruce and you became closer. As an immortal vampire, you had amassed quite a fortune, so you could easily be part of the same gala that Bruce went to. Naturally, the papers jumped on the occasion, questioning the relationship between the two of you and so did you.

Bruce was a womanizer, a playboy, but you weren't better. Some could even call you a manwhore. It was only predictable that you ended up sharing a bed with Bruce, savouring the taste of his skin and drinking his moans. His blood became a favourite of yours and you loved biting him in the groin or leaving trails of small bites all over his body. Your own way of claiming him.

You respected each other lives too and never did you put your nose in his business as Batman, unless he needed your help. So you never once met the Justice League until now.

Bruce’s call took you by surprise, but when he said he needed your help with some important business, you immediately accepted. After all, Bruce wasn't one to ask for help. So you went to his manor and Alfred led you to the batcave.

Down there you came face-to-face with the Justice League. Superman, Wonder Woman, The Flash… they were all there staring at you curiously as you made your way to your lover. Sitting in front of his screed, Bruce didn't even look at you as you rested your hands on his shoulders.

- “So, what can I do for you gorgeous?” You asked, leaning down and smirking.

- “I need your help to deal with Lex Luther. Mind helping us get in one of his warehouses?” Bruce said, showing you the place on the screen. “It’s lead so Superman can look inside and it would be too risky for J’onn if there is fire. But you?”

- “Aye, I can turn into smoke and get in without being noticed. Can do that, but what is there for me?” You asked, turning your head to look at Bruce before kissing the side of his clothed neck. “I am getting hungry, been a while since I had a taste of you.”

You had whispered, dropping your voice as low as you could that Bruce would still hear you. You got a chuckle from him as he looked you from the corner of his eyes.

- “Get inside, turn off the security system for us to get in and then I’ll think about it.” Bruce replied, making you scoff.

- “Unfair! I do all the dirty jobs and I don't even know my price?”

- “Let's call it a surprise.”

- “Fine! But just because it's you, precious.”

As you let go of Bruce, allowing him to turn around, you realized that all eyes were on you. Amusement was painted on most faces, but Superman seemed a bit jealous. What a shame, the bat was yours and you didn't share. You smirked before looking back at Bruce.

- “This is Y/N, a close friend of mine. He’s a vampire and will easily get inside Luthor’s warehouse.” Bruce simply said as he got up from his chair.

- “Excuse me, are you telling me mister handsome over here is like Dracula?” The Flash asked, pointing at you with surprise.

- “Yeah, kind of, but harder to kill. I still haven't found a way yet and trust me, I tried a lot of things.” Bruce replied as you simply laughed.

After that, you accompanied them to the warehouse, travelling with Bruce in his Batmobile. Every excuse was good to spend some time with your favourite vigilante after all and Bruce wasn't complaining.

Dealing with the warehouse was a quick business for you and the Justice League got inside in no time. Bruce was the last one to walk in and you got a quick kiss before anyone else could see it as Bruce thanked you. After all you didn't just stop the security system, but also unarmed all the traps you had found. Some could have been deadly for some of the members, but not anymore.

That night you left with Bruce and went back to his mansion. Robin wasn't there and Alfred was already sleeping when you both got inside. You quickly found your way to Bruce’s bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes for Alfred to pick up in the morning.

You took your time savouring your prize, kissing and caressing every scar on Bruce’s body, from the biggest to the smallest. His body was like a piece of art that you worshipped. Soft moans escaped Bruce each time your lips and fingers brushed a sensible spot, making you smile. You loved the sound of his voice when he let all restrain go. You were addicted to the trust he had in you when he abandoned himself in your hands.

And when you both were done and your hunger had been satisfied, you cradled Bruce against you, caressing his face and body as you watched him fall asleep. You would fight your own sleepiness, wanting to stay awake as long as possible, admiring your lover sleeping and making sure no nightmares would plague him. But you would always lose and fall asleep as well, arms and body wrapped around Bruce as if to shield and protect him from the outside world.

[dedeinthewild]

evan buckley x reader, roommates to lovers

“Feast your eyes on the newest star of the 118!”

summary : Halloween at the 118 firehouse gets hilariously spooky when Buck's quirky surprise steals the show...

The locker room at the firehouse had always been a safe haven for the crew, a place where they had grown up together and become a family.

How many times had they found themselves sitting on the benches after a tough call, the smell of smoke still clinging to their noses, their eyes burning as they tried to close them for just a moment? It was also where they often joked around, and where _____, the team’s star paramedic, would bring trays of cookies that Buck inevitably “borrowed.”

“Halloween,” she announced, stepping into the locker room, followed by the firefighter who had left the surprise they’d picked out for decorations by the entrance.

“Don’t say anything,” Eddie warned, knowing that a phrase like “let’s hope for a quiet shift” would jinx them and inevitably turn into their worst day.

“I wasn’t going to,” she replied, shrugging as she dropped her bag on the bench next to her roommate’s.

“Cap isn’t exactly fun when it comes to decorations,” Chimney said, sounding a bit disappointed as he sipped his coffee, the shiny name tag on his chest catching the light.

She looked over at Buck, already knowing that in ten minutes, the decorations they had chosen would turn Bobby’s plans on their head. Buck grinned, shrugging off his uniform shirt and stretching his shoulders, looking far less tired than he should have after a night shift.

“We’ll be The Wizard of Oz characters,” Hen chimed in with a smile, talking about her family, where Mara would be Dorothy and Denny the Tin Man.

The woman smiled, loving how proud and happy Hen sounded as she talked about her kids and Karen.

“Jee is Pluto,” Chim added, making Eddie bow his head slightly. Ever since his son had gone to stay with his grandparents in El Paso, he had felt alone, as if he were losing precious moments with him.

“You don’t have kids yet, so I won’t ask,” Hen teased Buck and the woman as they were changing out of their smoky uniforms into the clothes they had grabbed from home.

“You could always ask about our costumes,” the firefighter quipped, leaning against the locker behind him with a smirk.

“Guys, what’s with the coffin?”

Captain Nash had walked in through the glass door, pointing at the coffin the two had left by the entrance alongside a cart. Buck sprinted out, positioning himself behind the coffin to open it dramatically, excited to show the others what he’d found.

“Okay, everyone!” Buck announced, grabbing everyone’s attention as he wheeled the cart into view.

“Feast your eyes on the newest star of the 118!”

Buck opened the wooden sarcophagus to reveal a fascinating mummy, its head tilted to one side, draped in cobwebs.

“Good Lord, Buck, what is that?” Bobby asked, hands on his hips as he stared at the decoration.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Chim said approvingly, while Buck explained that he had picked it up from an old Hollywood prop warehouse near his apartment.

“Do the pow-pow thing,” the paramedic whispered in his ear, referring to the presentation they had rehearsed in the car on the way back to the station.

“I figured we could give him a cowboy hat and a vest, maybe even a six-shooter,” Buck added, his grin stretching ear to ear. “Pow-pow!” He mimicked firing pistols with his hands.

“It looks...” Hen rested her chin on the woman’s shoulder, tilting her head as if analyzing the mummy.

“Awfully real?” the woman whispered, arms crossed and feet slightly apart, dressed in the base layer of her black costume.

“Like he’s been dead for 200 years,” the experienced paramedic chimed in with a laugh, just as Eddie arrived carrying the last of the skeletons for the decorations.

It was the perfect opportunity to outshine the 126 and establish themselves as the best-decorated station, delighting the kids who would do anything for candy. Most importantly, it was a day to set aside their uniforms and enjoy some fun before their shifts began.

“They’re supposed to be for the kids.”

“God, Buck!” the woman exclaimed, clutching her chest in surprise when she turned around to find him standing right behind her.

“I’m a cowboy. I shouldn’t be scary,” Buck teased, stealing a piece of chocolate from her hand.

“Nice mustache,” she joked, running her fingers over the fake mustache, feeling the synthetic material against her fingertips.

He would let her touch him forever if she wanted.

The way she pressed her lips together, assessing the realism of the mustache, and those eyes—soft and sweet despite the bit of makeup she wore to look spooky—captivated him.

“And what are you supposed to be?”

“I literally told you two hours ago, dummy,” the paramedic teased, holding up the mask in her hand.

“A cowboy and a plague doctor. That’s... kinda nice,” Buck remarked, popping the chocolate into his mouth, unaware she hadn’t yet realized he’d stolen the whole thing. As he walked away, her laughter trailed after him.

“Welcome to the spookiest night of your short, little lives!” Bobby’s voice boomed as he welcomed the kids. “I am your guide, Cap Dracula.”

The team suppressed small chuckles at their captain’s enthusiasm as he grinned at the kids, fake fangs on display. Most of the children were entranced, though a few looked bored, which made her smile as she donned her mask and took her designated position.

The walls shimmered with colored lights cutting through fake fog, and amplified footsteps added to the eerie atmosphere. The air made the hanging skeletons sway, completing an impeccable setup that was sure to secure their win.

“Have a terrifyingly good time!”

As ultraviolet lights revealed Hen dressed as a mad scientist, the kids gasped, their white costumes glowing blue. The woman, already chuckling sinisterly, addressed them in her most haunting voice as they approached her station.

“Step closer, little ones... I see sickness in your eyes. Let me check...”

She examined their hesitant gazes, following them into the maze. “Beware, there are whispers of the dead... they’re calling for you!” she murmured into the ears of the older children, who appreciated the scare without being overwhelmed, while the younger ones eagerly pressed forward into the next section.

At the maze’s end, the team’s newest “member” awaited, holding a giant bowl of candy. Beside it, Buck stood tall, hands resting on his cowboy belt, his hat casting a shadow over his bright blue eyes. He tried a Texan drawl as he encouraged the kids, understandably hesitant about the mummy, to take some candy before heading out to trick-or-treat around the neighborhood.

“He’s creepy,” one little girl whispered, clutching her fairy wings.

“He’s not creepy,” Buck insisted, only to receive a pointed look from the paramedic. “Okay, maybe a little... but he’s harmless,” he conceded, kneeling to her level and offering to move the mummy’s hands so the kids could take candy without fear. His soft smile shone even through the large brown mustache tickling his lip.

But when he grabbed one of the mummy’s arms to move it, it came off in his hand, revealing something disturbingly lifelike.

“Are those worms?” a boy in a giant baseball helmet asked.

The paramedic stepped forward, removing her mask and crouching beside Buck to get a closer look. Her face hovered just past his shoulder.

“I think those are tendons,” she murmured, as if even she doubted her words.

“Oh my god, he’s real.”

The first time, it was as if someone else had said it. The second time was to process the realization. The third and fourth were for convincing themselves that what they held was, in fact, a real arm, complete with ligaments and tissue. The fifth time was purely instinct as Buck stood, tossed the arm to her, and screamed while running away.

“What the hell are you doing?!” the paramedic yelled, clutching the arm as if she too wasn’t entirely sure what it was.

By the time the police hauled the mummy away and the team glared at Buck, who had undeniably spiced up their Halloween, she was leaning against the ambulance, arms crossed, holding Buck’s fake mustache.

“Billy Boils, huh?”

“He was a showstopper, at least,” Buck said with a sheepish grin.

She gave him a playful punch on the shoulder before carefully reapplying the mustache under his nose, pressing the adhesive to his fair skin. Once again, her fingers brushed his cheeks, and he silently wished she’d run her hands through his hair and leave them there for as long as possible.

“Wait, have you washed your hands?” he asked suddenly.

“For what?”

“You literally held Billy’s arm,” Buck replied, horrified, stepping back.

“You’re such an idiot,” she laughed, chasing him with her “tainted” hand raised dramatically, just to see his mock-scared reaction.

The following evening, she was in the locker room with Hen, who seemed visibly shaken by what had happened to her son. Hen had come to talk to the captain but found her colleague sneaking snacks away from the giant firefighter with blue eyes.

“You know they say your hair curls when you’re in love,” Hen teased, leaning against the doorframe, noticing the oversized fire department shirt the woman wore—one she recognized as one of Buck’s old ones.

“Whose hair is curly?” the woman asked curiously.

Hen pulled out a photo from Halloween, taken just before the swarm of kids arrived and the chaos of Buck’s mummy erupted. It showed the woman sitting between Buck and Chim, smiling towards Buck as she held her mask. Her hair, resting on her silk cape, fell in soft curls at the ends, as if someone had gently twisted them.

“Maybe it’s the shampoo. I’ve been using Buck’s for a while now.”

“Is he trying to save on that?”

“I got tired of him using mine,” she laughed.

Hen was serious. She had practically watched those two grow together, despite the paramedic only joining two years ago. From the moment she arrived, she brought a unique energy to the station, seamlessly blending in as if she had always been part of it. Slowly, she had also changed Buck. He’d always been hesitant about relationships after so many failed ones and doubts about how he expressed love. But when it came to her, none of that mattered.

She was the one he’d asked to share his huge loft. She’d chosen the couch they often ended up napping on together, and she was the one who made breakfast for both of them every morning. They knew each other better than anyone else did, and despite spending almost every moment together, they never got bored of one another.

“I like your hair lately,” Buck said, seated in his armchair, watching the morning news with a cozy sweatshirt and a temporary leave for his sprained shoulder.

“Is that sarcastic?” she asked, tidying up the kitchen, organizing what had piled up during the past few hectic weeks.

“Why do you always think I’m being sarcastic with compliments?”

“Because you always sound like it,” she teased, approaching him with the little gift he had left for her on the kitchen counter.

But as she walked around to stand in front of him, the sight that greeted her left her stunned.

“Holy cow,” she whispered, wide-eyed, holding one of his dirty socks between her thumb and index finger.

“What?” he asked, reaching for the sock in her small hand, which seemed frozen in place.

“Are those boils?”

The first time was to convince herself. The second was to comprehend the hilarious coincidence between the mummy’s name and the rash erupting on his face. The third, fourth, and fifth were spent teasing him as her fingers brushed over his skin—despite her reluctance and a fair amount of healthy disgust at the blisters.

“You’re disgusted,” Buck said, smiling, ignoring the boils on his face.

“I’m totally not,” she lied, setting the sock down and abandoning the idea of scolding him for leaving it where she baked the cookies he always stole.

“I can see it in your eyes,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“Is my hair really that different?” she asked, changing the subject.

“You’re dodging the topic.”

She smiled, locking her gaze with his bright eyes.

“Say it—I’m disgusting.”

“Disgustingly irresistible, yeah.”

Buck, my beloved. This doesn't make sense, not even closely, and I'm not sure that I like it but I dreamt about this kind of fic last night and I had to write it down (it feels so dumb god). There are too few Buck fics! give me some recs pls

[novaursa]

Hi Nova!

Oberyn Martell x Stark!reader x Ellaria Sand

Reader escape the Red wedding with her direwolf and she has a cut in her cheek. She take a ship without knowing it go to sunspear. The guards see them and take them to the Martell family. 🤍 You can choose how it ends!

I really love your stories and i was wondering if i could join your Oberyn Martell taglist? 👀

No One Left but Us

- Summary: After escaping the Red Wedding, your journey brings you to two people that have thirst for the same kind of vengeance you crave.

- Pairing: Oberyn Martell/stark!reader (x Ellaria Sand)

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (violence, blood, gore)

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: You will be added to the tag list for Oberyn. 🫶

The wind howled through the trees as if the gods themselves were wailing, a warning carried too late. You rode hard, your fingers white where they clenched the reins, the pounding of hooves beneath you nearly drowned by the thudding in your chest. Your cloak streamed behind you like a banner, dark as a raven’s wing, and your direwolf, Harrow, loped silently beside you—shadow and fang. You’d meant only to arrive late, to avoid the noise and spectacle of the feast at the Twins, to enter with quiet dignity after Robb’s bannermen had gorged themselves and settled. But the smell on the wind had turned your blood to ice long before the Twins came into view—smoke, iron, and blood. The stench of betrayal.

You crested the hill and saw it all at once. The red flames licking the night, screaming horses, the sounds of steel on steel, and worse—of flesh torn open, of children crying, of men dying with your family’s name on their lips. Stark. You could hardly breathe. The banners of House Frey flapped in the smoky air, joined by the golden lion of the Lannisters. Freys and Lannisters. Blood and ash. You knew then, with a clarity that shattered your heart into jagged pieces, that this was no battle. It was slaughter.

“No,” you whispered, too softly for anyone but Harrow to hear. He snarled, ears pinned back, his muzzle wet with the mist clinging to the riverbanks. “We’re too late…”

And then the first arrow hissed through the air.

You ducked instinctively, the shaft grazing your cheek and searing fire into your skin. Blood splattered your collar, warm and immediate. Harrow roared—yes, roared, not barked—and launched himself into the woods as more arrows thudded into trees and mud, some striking dangerously close. You kicked your horse’s flanks and bolted after him, your heart crashing like a war drum. A voice shouted behind you—"Stark! That one’s a Stark!"—but it was lost to the wind.

You didn’t know how long you rode. Minutes? Hours? Your limbs burned, your breath came in sobs. Harrow guided you more than you guided him. Eventually, the trees thinned and the shoreline opened before you, the river dark as pitch, wide and endless. A ship stood docked, sails unfurled, rocking gently. Lanterns swung from her bow. A voice called, rough and accented: “We set sail now! If you're not on, you're left behind!”

You didn’t think. There was no time to think. You spurred your horse forward and leapt from the saddle before the ship’s crew could turn you away, landing hard on the deck as Harrow bounded after you. The sailors reeled back at the sight of him—black-furred, eyes pale as ice, his mouth dripping froth and fury—but you rose to your feet and grabbed the nearest man by the sleeve.

“Please,” you rasped. Your voice cracked from smoke and screaming. “Please, just go. Don’t ask me why. Don’t ask my name. Just go.”

The man looked you over—saw your fine dress, now smeared with mud and ash, saw the cut on your cheek, still bleeding, saw the direwolf that stood pressed against your legs like a silent sentinel. Whatever he saw in your eyes, it made him nod.

��Aye, girl. You're not the first ghost to come aboard bleeding.” He gestured with two fingers. “Hoist anchor! Let the Twins burn.”

You collapsed against the railing as the ship lurched away from shore, the gentle splash of water against the hull a grim contrast to the chaos you’d left behind. The flames still burned in the distance, and you watched until they blurred, until you no longer knew if it was the fire that stung your eyes or the tears. Harrow pressed his nose to your hand and whined, low and soft. You buried your fingers in his thick fur, your body shaking.

“They’re gone,” you whispered. “Mother, Robb… even Grey Wind. They’re all gone.”

Your voice cracked on your brother’s name. Harrow whined again and laid his head on your lap. Somewhere behind you, a gull cried. The river widened, then became the sea. You didn’t know where the ship was headed, and you didn’t care. You only knew you couldn’t look back.

But still, you did.

And the fire still burned.

The voyage had been long, but the sea had offered you a strange kind of peace—cold, constant, and vast, like the grief that lived in your bones. The crew of The Sand Serpent had become your shield and solace in those drifting days, rough men and weather-worn women who had grown used to the silent girl cloaked in black, with hollow eyes and a direwolf that paced the deck like a guardian spirit. Harrow had terrified them at first. Now, they tossed him scraps from their meals and offered gruff greetings as they passed, always keeping a respectful distance. They never asked your name. They didn’t need to. They knew loss when they saw it. And you knew that even if you’d arrived on their deck bloodied and broken, you were safe among them.

The call of gulls and the scent of sun-warmed citrus greeted you as the ship glided into the harbor. Sunspear rose before you like a mirage—red sandstone towers rising in elegant coils from the bronze dunes, domed roofs glinting beneath the brutal Dornish sun. The breeze that swept across the port was dry but fragrant, carrying the smells of spiced wine, lavender oil, and roasted goat. It was nothing like the North, and the moment your boots touched the stone pier, the heat wrapped around you like a living thing, coaxing sweat from your skin beneath your heavy Northern furs.

“Gods, you’ll roast in that,” one of the sailors chuckled, nodding at your layered cloak. He hefted a barrel of olives onto his shoulder and winked at Harrow. “Though your beast don’t seem to mind.”

You glanced down. Harrow was already panting, tongue lolling from his mouth, but his tail twitched at your side as if he were trying not to look too impressed with the land of endless sun. You murmured, “We’ll find shade soon,” and scratched behind his ears, your voice quiet from disuse. He pressed against your legs in reply, watchful as ever.

The crew disembarked to unload their cargo, and you walked among the market stalls that clustered along the sun-baked streets near the docks. Everything shimmered in golds and reds, brilliant silks hanging from awnings like banners, the air thick with the perfume of crushed dates, mint, and exotic resins burning low in clay bowls. The vendors called out in a cacophony of tongues—Valyrian, the other various guttural tounges of Essos, and the singsong lilt of Dornish. You ran your fingers over baskets of ripe pomegranates, glazed amphorae, and blades curved like the crescent moon.

People stared at you, but not with cruelty. Your Northern face stood out among their tan skin and black curls, your pale cloak marking you as foreign as surely as your quiet posture did. Still, they didn’t look with suspicion—only curiosity. But one pair of eyes lingered longer than the rest.

“You walk like someone with ghosts at her heels,” came a voice—smooth as silk and sharp as a dagger. You turned, slowly, and found him standing beside a fig seller’s stall, leaning lazily against a pillar of sun-warmed stone.

Prince Oberyn Martell was unmistakable. He wore no armor, only a light, ochre tunic that left much of his chest bare, the fabric clinging to his lithe frame. His skin was sun-kissed, his lips curved into a knowing smile. A woman stood beside him, her arm looped easily through his. She was stunning in a way that left the air feeling too thick to breathe—long-limbed, wild-eyed, a vision in crimson silk with curls cascading down her back like a dark waterfall.

Ellaria Sand tilted her head, studying you. “You’re far from the snows of the North,” she said softly. Her gaze fell to Harrow, who stood rigid beside you, his fur bristling. “And not just a traveler. That beast… only one house raises wolves.”

You froze, every instinct screaming to flee. But your feet stayed rooted. You had nothing left to run to.

“I know you,” Oberyn murmured, stepping closer. “You were not at the feast, but your face—your eyes. You're a Stark.”

Your voice came out hoarse. “And if I am?”

“Then we mourn the same death,” Ellaria said. Her voice held sorrow, yes, but also fire. “The Red Wedding was not just your family's funeral. It was an insult to all who value honor. A dagger in the back of the world.”

Oberyn’s eyes narrowed, but not in suspicion. In understanding. “They butchered your kin at a feast. Slaughtered your brother beneath guest right, murdered your mother while she begged. And still you live. That is no accident.”

You blinked, mouth dry. “I was late.”

“Then perhaps the gods spared you for a reason,” he said. “Come with us.”

You shook your head instinctively. “I don’t even know where to go.”

Ellaria stepped forward, her fingers light as feathers when she touched your arm. “Stay with us. At the palace. You will have protection, comfort… and something more.”

You blinked. “More?”

“A chance to fight back,” Oberyn said. “A chance for justice. For vengeance. The Lannisters have touched my family with betrayal and blood before. They will do it again. But not if we burn them first.”

Ellaria smiled, slow and warm. “And you’re beautiful. Tragic. Fierce. Stay, and you won’t need to be alone with your sorrow. You can share our bed, our fight, our future.”

You opened your mouth, but the words caught. The market faded around you—the calls of merchants, the buzz of heat and sun—and all that remained were their eyes. His, bright with promise and passion. Hers, gentle and wild, like an oasis in the sand.

Harrow nudged your thigh and sat beside you. Silent approval.

And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, you let out a breath. Not quite trust. But something close to hope.

“…Take me with you,” you whispered.

[kabr0ztrousers]

heyy

how about a fem being knotted by a whole pack of dogs? exorbitant amounts of cum are appreciated

Kabr0z Writes episode 58: Pack Tactics

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: feral human; human X feral; group sex; giving fellatio; knotting; implied impregnation;

A/N: Well, I said requests for feral content would be case by case, so let's see how close I can fly to the sun before these waxen wings melt

Obviously, this is all fantasy. Nobody in sound mind condones running away with wolves and trying to seduce several wild animals. That should go without saying, but this is the internet, where nuance goes to die.

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The pack ran. The pack hunted. You hunted with them. Leaves in your short hair, your naked body bearing scratches and scuffs from the undergrowth. Callouses on your feet, a sharpened spear in your hand. You'd joined the pack years ago, barely a teen when the world fell apart and you ran as the skies burned with azure fire. The forests reclaimed the land, your pack's territory grew, and you became a respected member of the family.

The wolves could smell better than you, but needed rest more often. You could trace the wounded beast you're tracking for longer, seeing where its limping broke branches, where it left fur on thorns and twigs, and when your family had caught their breath, they could follow you. It wasn't far now. Your prey was moving clumsily. This is the final push.

You broke the treeline. A wounded elk knelt at a brook, drinking the clear, cold water. A hazy memory crossed your mind. Before the war, nothing could drink from these streams without risking death or worse, now they run pure and clean. It doesn't matter. You threw your spear. The sharpened point struck true, sinking into the flank of the elk. It bolted.

The wounded beast made for the treeline. The barbed held as the shaft dragged, shaking the spear in its flank and letting your friends catch up easily. A wolf latched onto the beast's neck and brought it down, tearing flesh and dislocating bone. You pulled a knife from the sash wound around your calf. The last piece of civilization you carried: a folding blade, meticulously sharpened, the handle sporting the flag of a nation that doesn't exist. A quick cut. Its suffering ended in a sanguine spurt.

You set about dressing the meat. Your family let you work. They knew that once you were done the kill would last longer, go further. They gathered sticks for you, which you assembled into a basic rack, hanging strips of meat over the wood and lighting a smoky fire underneath. You'd learned how to smoke meat from a book, back when you still risked going into the ruins of towns. Now the black objects floated, ever vigilant, scooping up anything that came too close.

No. The forests are safer.

You cut one last portion from the carcass. This would be dinner while you waited for the rest. Skewered on the spear, you held it over the fire as the wolves feasted on the remains. The meat sizzled and spat as you turned it, roasting it through.

You ate. The juices running down your chin and wetting your cheeks. You threw the occasional morsel to your packmates, who snapped them up greedily.

Night was falling, the sky darkening to a dusty purple. The meat was smoking gently, It'll keep for a week or so though it'll probably only last for a couple of days. After that another week then another hunt. Now though, your belly was full. Your family lazed around you, some playing, some relaxing on the cool grass. One padded over to you. A young male who's had his intentions on you for the past few weeks. His muzzle still carried flecks of blood, but his head was low, ears drooping in submission to you.

You scratched behind his ears, rubbing the fur either side of his head. You lay back and let him lie on top of you, rubbing and scratching, hearing the thump-thump-thump of his tail on the grass as his tongue lolled out of his open mouth. He rolled over onto his back and you rubbed his belly, hand buried in the thick fur of his midriff.

Did you mean for your hand to stray so far down? Or had you seen the vivid red tip poking out from the tawny-furred sheath? Were you expecting what was to come? Anticipating it?

You held the base of his cock through the skin of his sheath as he humped against your hand. It was already long and thick, protruding as it was, even before the knot inflated. You'd seen your packmates mating before, even woke once or twice to clumsy excited humping on your leg or back, once one had even managed to push itself between your muscular thighs, coating your skin in sticky, strong-smelling fluid.

A thought crossed your mind. You stuck out your tongue and ran it up the length of the cock before you, hearing the panting get louder and faster as you did. It tasted like it smelled, musky and strong, maybe tangy? Either way, you felt yourself get wet, your sinuses opening to let the smell in as your pulse quickened.

You lay on your front, pushing your hips up and presenting yourself to the young wolf. A weight hit your rear, blunt claws grappling up your back until he got into position, thrusting madly against you. His cock kept slipping down, hitting your clit as it rubbed the outside of your pussy. Your legs and your belly were already slick, moistened by the precum leaking from his cock. You grabbed his cock and helped it in, your virgin cunt already tingling and ready for him.

He pushed in. You'd always expected your first time to hurt, to bleed, it didn't. Even as he forced himself into you, all you could do was whimper and whine. The rest of the pack was taking notice. A bitch getting bred would normally attract a few more interested males, but you weren't an ordinary bitch. Half the males in the pack were padding over to you, sniffing and barking, sensing your readiness.

The young male was pounding at you, his cock all the way in as his narrow hips pushed and his knot started to swell. One hand braced your body against the ground as the other held the knot in you, the wolf's jerking thrusts threatening to shake it out. You squeezed your pussy against him, feeling the wolf cum spill into you, the thin fluid leaking out around his knot, coating your hand. Your clit stood on end, aching for a touch. You gave up holding yourself. Both hands between your legs now, one holding onto the knot threatening to fall out, the other rubbing your clit in time to your strained whines and pants.

You bit back a scream. Your whole body was aflame, clenching and shaking. The knot slipped mid-orgasm, spraying your rear end with thin cum as even more leaked from you. Another wolf took the youngster's place. You couldn't see which, but you could feel its cock hammering into your cunt as the first started licking his cum from your clit. The tongue on your pussy as a new knot began to take root in you, squirting a fresh load of cum in.

Another wolf took the opportunity. He knelt over your head, humping at your face, the tip of his cock poking out, searching for a warm, wet hole to bury itself into. You opened your mouth to him, angling for the cock as it found its mark. Your newly freed hand, stinking of cum and musk, pulled back the sheath, allowing the shaft to push between the seal of your lips, spraying bittersweet salty liquid into your mouth. You held the back of his cock, behind the knot as he humped your face. The taste changed, becoming more bitter, saltier. Your mouth watered as it twitched, hosing your tonsils with the hot liquid as his balls dangled inches from your nose, filling your head with the mind-emptying sweat and musk.

You felt the knot in your pussy fall out as you lost your grip on it, more spunk squirting onto your ass and pussy, lubricating you for the next cock. It didn't feel like either of the others, there weren't that many males in the pack. Were they all taking a turn?

The knot in front of your face started to deflate as the pumps dried out. You let the wolf go and he padded away, interest waning now his balls had been drained down your throat.

You rubbed your clit and held the cock in your pussy, feeling ever more wolf seed flowing in your slick, soaking pussy until another orgasm greeted you. The ground muffled your moans as your face ground into the dirt. Your body was exhausted, your arms dropping as the last wolf fell out. You felt your cunt tensing lazily, cum dripping out of you as you stayed propped up on your knees, unwilling to move.

Nobody else took a turn on your soaking, gaped pussy, you felt the cum inside you leaking out, except for what filled your womb.

Can a human have puppies? You're going to find out.

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Again, I don't condone running away with wolves, regressing to a feral state and fucking four or five of them. But if you're going to write about that happening, this felt like the way where the POV wasn't Humbert Humbert-ing a bunch of wild dogs.

Bonus points if you get the Easter eggs I scattered in the runup to the sex scene tonight!

As a final note: if you have a request, tell me! It's a long road to December and while there's enough to see me through to mid-April (seriously) I'm always grateful for new ideas and concepts!

[ghost-1-y]

Sacrifice

Surtr!Kyojuro x AFAB!Worshipper!Reader

Content Warnings: MDNI, explicit sexual content, penetrative sex, oral sex (f! receiving), fingering, masturbation (Kyo), getting caught masturbating (Kyo), knotting, Kyojuro is in heat, Kyo has a massive breeding kink, lactation kink (Kyo loves your titties), size kink, pregnancy kink, pregnancy (at the end), using horns as handles, implied belly bulging, mommy kink (reader referred to as both “mommy” and “mother”), love confessions at the very end, douma being an asshole, incorrect interpretation of norse mythology, reader is given as a human sacrifice to Kyo, mentions of animal sacrifice, reader referred to as “pretty girl” sometimes, please lmk if I missed anything!

Summary: The legends stated that the mighty fire giant would one day bring about the beginnings of Ragnarok and engulf the world in flames. You had been told of these prophecies since childhood and were a firm believer in appeasing the proclaimed Ruler of Fire through worship and sacrifice – just as you had been taught by the village elders since you were a mere child. What you didn’t expect, however, was for the village to turn their back on you and suggest that what would be needed would be a human sacrifice to appease the giant once and for all.

Word Count: ~6k

Divider Credit: @/benkeibear

A/N: So sorry this took so long!! I've had a mess of a week so far. I hope the fic is worth the wait! Apologies for any spelling or grammatical errors (I tried my best).

A fire blazed in the heart of the village, crackling with embers floating gracefully and smoke ebbing above the tallest of houses – its heat a sharp contrast to the bitter cold of the autumn night. Members of the village surrounded the bonfire, sitting with their families as they feasted, bellies full with the meat stew that was provided for them. A single bowl was left untouched amongst each family – a welcoming invitation for the dead to engage in the festivities that were part of Vetrnætr.

As chieftain, you engaged with the families, wishing them good health and happiness as they did the same for you, before engaging in sumbel with them as you poured wine onto the grass below.

“Freyr will be most pleased by your worship.”

In a way of parting from families, you’d praise their good faith before moving on to the next family. The smiles were abundant amongst the villagers, and, once you’d made your way fully around the bonfire, you removed your sword from your scabbard and raised it high into the air.

“Today we celebrate, and are thankful to the god Freyr for a wonderful harvest. Please join me in this sacrifice, in order to show our thanks to the deities of all the Nine Realms.” 

However, before you could commit to the sacrifice – the poor lamb that was before you – a cold hand gripped at your shoulder, which made you turn in confusion.

“Perhaps I should tell you, before you engage in such an act, that the priest has some… concerns,” the man – Enmu you believed his name was – whispered. You sighed and sheathed your sword once more, your blood beginning to boil as you’d wondered what he could possibly want in the middle of the village’s celebration.

You trudged your way through the temple that resided on the outskirts of the village. The door creaked open as you walked through, and before you sat the village priest, who sat on a cushion made of feathers and animal skin. He upturned his lips upon seeing you, yet it wasn’t a true smile.

You knew he didn’t know how to, after all.

“Ah! My lovely Chieftain,” Douma drawled, “such a beautiful night to celebrate Vetrnætr, isn’t it? Although, I doubt that Freyr will grant you the beauty or fertility needed to continue your lineage this upcoming year, truly a shame,” he said, faking a pout. 

You fought the urge to ball your fists. The village elders, and, apparently now the village priest as well, had been pressing you for a child – particularly a son – however, despite many suitors attempting to lay their claim to the throne, and therefore you, none had been successful.

Despite this jab, you maintained composure, “what do you need from me, Douma? You’ve interrupted the sacrifice.” You stared him down, and he forced a small laugh.

“Oh my, a harsh tongue doesn’t suit you, dear Chief” he sneered, “You see, I have become aware of some rather concerning events – ones surrounding Ragnarök in particular,” he paused, observing you for any kind of reaction, “unfortunately, it seems Surtr has traveled from Muspelheim to Midgard.”

Your eyes widened, “how would he be able to do such a thing? He isn’t a deity–”

“–ah, but he is a jötunn, and therefore would have the ability to travel between the realms,” Douma countered, “did you never pay attention to my lessons during your youth?”

You rolled your eyes, “you speak as though we do not dedicate sacrifices to him with each solstice. You know appeasing his anger is one of my most steadfast beliefs.”

Douma hummed, “well, it appears that you did not follow through with this past solstice, my dear Chieftain – rather dedicating it to Freyr than to Surtr – and, to be completely honest, I am quite disappointed in that fact.”

The door shut behind you, and two warriors stood on either side of you. You grabbed the hilt of your sword, sensing distrust in the air.

“Do you know, Chieftain, what would be required to adequately appease the Ruler of Fire?”

You pulled out your sword and swung at the warrior on your right, an attack which was quickly blocked by his own weapon. You landed a kick to the left one’s stomach, only for it to be trapped in an unwavering grip by the warrior’s arms. You attempted to swing your sword at him in retaliation, only for your arm to also be grabbed by the one on your right.

Douma stood up and walked towards you, gripping your chin – the cold of his skin causing you to wince.

 “A proper, human sacrifice.”

A blow landed to the back of your neck, and your vision faded to black.

—

You awoke to a chill that laid upon your skin, feeling as though you were made of ice rather than of flesh. You were completely bare, lying on a wooden floor of what you presumed to be the priest’s sacred temple, as your vision was fully obstructed by a cloth which wrapped around your eyes. Upon moving your arms – which were thankfully in front of you and not behind, you noticed that your wrists were also bound by rope to prevent you from making any potential escape from Douma’s clutches.

Outside, you heard footsteps approaching, and the door swung open – causing you to flinch at the loud creak that sounded from it. A rough hand grabbed at your arm and pulled you up to your feet, forcing you outside where you heard murmurs of villagers on either side of you. Your cheeks flushed deep with embarrassment, the idea of your beloved villagers seeing you in such a state bringing tears to your eyes in pure shame.

“All of you, please say your final goodbyes to our beloved Chieftain – for she has volunteered to become the sacrifice that will appease Surtr and end his threats of Ragnarök!”

You couldn’t hear the cheers of your people over your pulse pounding in your ears, completely helpless as you were all but dragged along the dirt and gravel pathway before being placed on a horse. A faint rustling could be heard before you felt a rope tied around your neck.

“Be careful not to fall off, my dear Chieftain, lest your neck snap as you’re dragged along the rugged terrain by your horse,” Douma whispered to you before saddling himself onto a separate horse, and you could only assume that this rope was also tied to the horse in some way, thus forcing you to go wherever Douma led you.

You begrudgingly held tight against the horse’s mane as it went into a trot, the wind blowing harshly against your naked skin as the voices of the villagers slowly faded away, replaced by the clopping of hooves as you traversed to a place unfamiliar.

The horses did not stop, and you could only tell the passage of time as the cool of night gave way to the blazing heat of the sun that seared itself into your back. Hours must have passed, and your muscles grew sore the longer you traveled.

At some point, the horses slowed, and the sun’s heat was obstructed by a shadow which loomed above you. Again, a faint rustling could be heard before you were taking off of the horse’s back – yet the rope stayed wrapped around your neck, yet it was no longer taut if you tried pulling away from the horse’s body. You were dragged into the cool shadow, before a hand gripped at your hair.

“Such a shame you never produced a son,” Douma muttered into your ear, “you wouldn’t have to die if you were nice and fertile, my dear Chieftain.”

You could only imagine the nasty grin on his face as he pushed you forward, causing you to lose your footing and fall what could’ve been roughly two meters before hitting solid rock. You heard laughter above you before it started to fade away.

Luckily, the fall seemed to loosen the cloth which covered your eyes, allowing you to see out of one of them, yet you doubted it would be of much help as you got your bearings and realized that you were indeed alone in a dark cave, being left to starve and rot as a form of sacrifice to Surtr.

You decided, that if you were going to die anyway, that you’d at least explore the cave you were pushed into.

It was dark, yet not damp, the stone beneath you as dry as the walls that surrounded you, and you wondered if the sun somehow reached its way into the depths of this cave to evaporate the moisture. There was no life, not a single lizard or insect to be seen – although a few animal bones would be strewn about here and there as you continued your descent further into the cave.

You traversed further, being careful to not trip over any rocks or pitfalls. After what seemed to be an hour of exploration, you saw the tiniest spark of light in the distance.

Perhaps a way out? You thought, and walked closer to this flickering light, and the rather narrow tunnel you were in gave way to a large cavern – with a large bonfire in the middle, one much larger than the one in your village during the celebration of Vetrnætr. 

Unlike the blazing heat of the sun from earlier, the warmth of the bonfire was comforting, with its orange hue flickering along the walls of the cavern.

As you got closer, you heard the slightest shifting from the other side of the cavern, followed by what could only be described as a low growl. You froze, unsure of how to proceed in front of a potential predator with nothing to defend yourself with. You slowly crouched and walked towards the bonfire, and, despite your hands being tied, managed to pick up one of the smaller logs on the outer ring of the fire before dousing the tip of it in flames – a weapon, should you need to use it.

As you slowly walked around the bonfire, you found a rather peculiar sight – realizing that the growl did not come from the likes of an animal.

But who– or what was before you was certainly not human.

The being before you was huge, possibly even a jötunn. You were never one to doubt your beliefs, but the idea that a creature from another realm was before your very eyes was difficult to swallow. However, from what you could remember from your religious texts, a jötunn is the only creature you could bring yourself to categorize it as. 

The creature had large, curved horns that were sizable in their girth, and its tusks – not fangs – emerged up from its lower jaw. What’s more, it had pointed ears on either side of its head which emerged through hair resembling that of fire, locks that matched the finest gold and ruby gemstones that would cost a fortune in your village.

Unlike the face, its body looked quite human – although its very naked form boasted large, dense muscles throughout its entire body, and a cock that made you swallow absentmindedly from just how threatening its size was.

The creature was stroking its girth, thumbing itself over the leaking slit – a slight shudder escaping from its throat. It started to fuck itself into its grip, thrusting quickly as though chasing its release. Its other hand was fondling its balls – which looked heavy and full of seed, before having its hand move slightly upward towards the slightly swollen base of its cock, softly massaging it to seemingly ease the tension it caused.

Fully flushed with embarrassment, you backed away from the creature before you, each step seemingly calculated in order to escape this situation.

Is the creature sentient? It seems to be humanoid– does that mean it can think like a human? What if it’s a predator and kills me? 

Thoughts rushed through your mind, seemingly going into a frenzy as you worried about potential outcomes of this situation.

Crack!

In your panic, you managed to step on a stray twig that managed to stray from the center of the bonfire.

The creature stopped its movements, and immediately turned its head to the source of the sound.

Its amber and crimson eyes opened and glared into yours.

“F-Fuck—!”

With one glance over your naked form, the creature before you released its seed, spilling it all over its fist and shaft, with the remaining drops dribbling onto its lower abdomen. It continued to slowly rub its fist up and down its length, closing its eyes as it played with its tip up until the last of its cum dribbled out from the slit, before tensing and looking back at you, eyes widening in shock – as though it couldn’t believe you were actually there.

“I’m sorry!” the creature exclaimed, a blush so red blooming across its cheeks that it seemingly felt the same amount of embarrassment as you. It hastily wiped itself clean on the furred animal skin it was laying upon. “I– I can explain, really– just– who are you? Why are you here?” 

You were in shock, so much so that you couldn’t even eke out a full sentence. Your eyes drifted down to its cock once more, which – much to your surprise – was still standing incredibly tall and proud as it curved up towards the creature’s stomach. Heat prickled across your cheeks and down your chest as the fiery-haired being used its hands to cover itself up in front of you – sensing that you might be uncomfortable from bearing witness to such an event.

This is ridiculous, you thought, you are the Chieftain of your village – compose yourself!

“I am Y/N, leader of my village and child of a family of famed warriors,” you introduced yourself. 

The creature raised an eyebrow to you in response.

“And what exactly brings a village leader into my cave?” 

You hesitated, humiliation flooding your veins even more so than before.

“I– I was overthrown by the village priest and have been made a sacrifice to Surtr, the Ruler of Fire.”

You expected laughter from the jötunn before you, closing your eyes to hide whatever dignity you had left from what Douma stripped from you. However, instead of hearing a cacophony of hearty noises from the creature’s throat, you instead heard the thud of footsteps approaching you. 

Slowly, the jötunn reached forward and removed the bandages which obstructed your vision, loosening and pulling them away with his large fingers, careful to not touch you unnecessarily in the process.

Your eyes widened as you looked up at the giant, his eyes surprisingly kind as he looked down at you. He bunched the bandages in his hands before tossing them to the side, then continued untie the ropes that were digging into your wrists and cast them aside as well.

“If what you say is true, please inform your village that I do not take human sacrifices.”

Your heart seemed to have traveled up to your throat, its beats both fast and fluttery.

“That would imply that I could go back– wait, what are you talking about?”

Then, the creature did finally let out a laugh – a small chuckle that rose from his chest and was deep and bassy as it rose through his throat.

“My dear human, I am the one you people refer to as Surtr.” 

You stopped, instinctively stepping back – away from the creature that just claimed to be the harbinger of destruction – the one to bring flames that will engulf all nine realms and Yggdrasil itself.

You did what you believed best, and forced your body to the rocky floor of the cave, bowing in absolute submission and respect for such a being – nearly cowering in the presence of such raw power presented before you.

“Stand up, please, there’s no need for that here.”

You looked up at the being before you, rather confused by his words.

He sighed, “you humans have beliefs of me that are so far from the truth, it’s saddening.”

A pause, the only sound in the cavern being the crackling of the wood against flames.

“My real name is Kyojuro, the name ‘Surtr’ is a title bestowed upon me that I did not wish to receive. I am not going to harm you or your village, I do not wish for such evil. Whatever “priest” thought that a human sacrifice would appease this nonexistent will of mine is, to put simply, a fool.”

You let out a shaky breath, and he reached out his hand – one that dwarfed your own – toward you. 

“Stand up.”

He was smiling as you took his hand, with a gaze that was comforting and kind as he sent sparks through your skin with his touch.

The prickling heat returned to your cheeks.

“I’ll help you get back to your village,” he promised.

You froze, your heartbeat quickening once more as you registered his words.

“I can’t– please, I can’t go back, not after what they did to me,” you started, preparing yourself to beg and plead this god-like creature for mercy.

Kyojuro frowned, “I understand, but I can’t keep you here. You need to leave, I– I can’t have you stay.”

You knew it was selfish, to leave your people in the hands of Douma, but after what he did to you– after how he humiliated you.

Where the fire in your village was scalding, his was warm. Where those treated you with indifference or malice, he had been nothing but kind.

Was it really worth going back?

“I’d like to stay,” you decided.

Kyojuro stopped, each and every second becoming more and more difficult for the jötunn. Every passing moment he ignored his very obvious problem, he became this much closer to just bending you over and taking you like a wild animal. His blood was hot in his veins, and fire licked at his lower abdomen, pleasure bubbling once more to the surface as he continued to endure his heat.

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me, human,” he warned. He was using every ounce of his willpower in order to maintain his composure. His heat was going to near its peak soon, and he needed you away from him before that happened. He came to Midgard to weather it alone in his cave, and you were only making it all the more difficult.

“Kyojuro,” you uttered softly, and the creature before you let out a low growl, “will you let me stay if I…help?” 

His cock twitched, precum dribbling slowly out of the tip, with the base of it swelling up once more.

“I don’t want you to try and sell yourself to me as though you’re a piece of meat. I–” he swallowed, “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t allow you to do that.”

“Kyojuro, I want to help you. I want this,” you assured, and he balled his hands into fists, as though the rope holding him together was about to snap.

“Y/N–” he warned, and you rolled your eyes.

“Please, fuck me, Kyojuro.”

The jötunn grabbed your arm, “if– if we are to do this, you must know that I am in heat, and I–” he swallowed, “I may not be able to control myself should we continue.”

You took your hand and brushed your fingers across his tightened grip, causing slight shivers to flow down his spine.

“Lose control, Kyojuro, I can take it.”

He groaned, and with his strength, picked you up and collided his lips with yours. Your hands sought either side of his face, kissing back with fervor as he moaned into your mouth. His tusks surprisingly didn’t obstruct your access to his mouth, and every once in a while he’d nip at your bottom lip, before laving his tongue over the swollen skin and pushing it into your mouth. You let out a small moan at the intrusion, and wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers finding purchase in his wild, fiery hair.

His grip on your body moved from your hips back towards your ass, cupping and massaging the muscle with his hands. His cock was stiff against your inner thigh, the precum spreading along your skin with each small movement. You wrapped your legs around his waist, moaning as his cock slipped between your legs and along your slit – the sheer girth of it a little worrisome as it pressed against your heat.

“Shit– so big, Kyojuro, hah–” you panted, and he growled.

“Never had cock this big before, have you? Don’t worry, dear, I’ll get you nice and ready to take me.”

He shifted your weight onto one of his arms, the muscles flexing as he shifted his other hand beneath you. Two of his fingers started rubbing along your clit, making small circular motions as his other hand groped at the fat of your ass. He lifted you up a little more so his mouth was in line with your breasts and pursed his lips around one of your perked up tits, sucking at it and licking broad stripes with his tongue. He groaned around your tit as he played with your pussy, reveling in how wet you were for him already. The mini vibrations sent electricity down your spine, and you moved your head to rest on his broad shoulder, giving small kisses to his neck as you whined from his ministrations.

“Lips feel so good, dear, love it when you kiss me like that,” he sighed, giving kisses to each of your breasts, “want to apologize for my earlier…release, you were just so beautiful…seeing you all naked ‘n presenting for me like that…made me want to breed you, pretty girl,” Kyojuro confessed, causing you to shiver as he softly whispered such filthy thoughts into your ear.

“Mmh– don’t apologize, Kyo– liked watchin’ you,” you admitted, and he let out a light chuckle, which made you lightly slap his rocky chest. He responded by giving a small bite to your breast, before licking it better with his skilled tongue.

“Yeah? You like the idea of me wanting to breed you? Getting you pregnant with my young?” he asked, his fingers moving from your clit down towards your entrance, where he inserted a single thick digit into your heat. You whined as your pussy clenched around the intrusion, and nodded in response, licking a stripe up his neck before kissing back down it again.

His finger thrust into you, curling against that one sensitive area inside of you as his thumb reached for and played with your clit. The moans that you let out echoed throughout the cavern, with the only other sounds being the shlick of Kyojuro’s finger deep in your cunt and the crackling of flames. After a while, he added a second digit, and slowly but surely worked you towards your peak, the tension slowly building up in your gut.

With one last swipe against your clit with his thumb, you came undone, your orgasm causing you to shudder and whine in his hold as he worked you through it, curling his fingers and rubbing your clit as you rode out each wave. 

“Kyo–” you moaned, trying to grind your hips down on his fingers, and he smiled before meeting your lips in a heated kiss. He continued thrusting his fingers up into your now weeping cunt, prepping you nice and good to take his much thicker cock.

He walked back toward his makeshift bed – a pile of furs and animal skins which he must’ve collected prior to his heat – and gently placed you down on top of them. His large hands moved down your thighs, rubbing softly up and down your plush skin as he stared at the slick between your legs. He lowered himself between your thighs and inhaled deeply as he tried desperately to memorize your scent. He licked a stripe up your slit, causing you to jolt at the sensation, and moaned as your taste spread over his tongue like honey.

You squirmed underneath his touch, which made him hold your hips in place as he started to devour you. His tongue flicked over your clit before collecting more of your juices on his tongue. Your hands found his horns and gripped them tightly, pushing his head further between your thighs, earning a groan from Kyojuro. He pursed his lips and sucked at your clit before licking at it in circular motions, moving his hand between your legs again and pushing two digits inside your cunt once more, thrusting in and out of your hole with his fingers. After adding a third finger, he started curling his fingers into that one spot again, his movements quick and deft as he brought you to your second orgasm. 

You moaned loudly as you came undone, legs shaking as your grip on his horns tightened, trying your best to buck your hips up into his face as he lapped up all of the juices that seeped out of your pussy. Only when you were able to open your eyes once more did you look down to see Kyojuro humping himself onto the fur pelts as he messily gathered the rest of your release onto his tongue.

“Kyo– please, I need you,” you whined, and he looked up at you with a fire ignited in his eyes. He got up, stroking his thick cock as he looked down upon your much smaller form.

“Get on all fours for me.”

Without hesitation, you rolled over and got on your hands and knees. Kyojuro kneeled behind you and placed his cock in between your wet folds, rubbing the tip up and down as his precum mixed with your juices. He shuddered before slowly pushing the head inside, causing you to tense slightly from how big the intrusion was.

“Relax for me, won’t you?” he asked softly.

You tried your best to relax, and he started to push more of his length inside of you, filling you up more than you ever thought possible. For a moment, he stayed like that, relishing in the feeling of your cunt tightly wrapped around his throbbing cock, his hips flush against your ass as you whined for him to move, please.

“Let me have this moment, dear, I– I haven’t felt something this wonderful in centuries,” he confessed, and you let out a soft mewl before complying with what he wanted. 

After a few more moments, his cock dragged out of you slowly before thrusting back in. He rocked into you, slowly at first, which was most likely for the better considering how huge he was. He growled as he thrust into you, his heavy balls slapping against your clit as he reached underneath you to hold your stomach, pressing up slightly as he fully fucked his cock into you.

“Shit– you feel that, pretty girl? Feel my cock deep inside you?” he groaned, and you nodded helplessly, letting out a whine as he continued his movements. “Feel so good wrapped around me, so fuckin’ tight f’ me.”

You choked out another moan as he started increasing his speed, his groans becoming more frequent with each thrust. Kyojuro took his hand and gently tilted your chin up so you could look at him.

“Won’t last much longer, pretty girl,” he leaned down and kissed you, “gonna pull out, promise.”

You whined, “no– please, need your cum, Kyo– need it inside.”

He moaned loudly, “you have no idea what you’re asking of me, pretty. You’d end up taking my knot–”

“I want your knot, Kyo! Please give it to me–!”

Kyojuro thrust even harder into your sopping cunt upon hearing that, “fuck, you want my knot? I’ll get you fucking pregnant, fill you up with my young ‘n get your belly all swollen, you sure you want that?”

“Yes! Please Kyo–! Please–”

With a couple last thrusts, Kyojuro shot his seed inside of you, thick ropes painting your insides white and filling you up to the brim. You moaned as you felt the warmth spread deep inside of your cunt, and, before his release could begin to seep out of your pussy, a burning stretch began inside your abused hole. Realizing this is what Kyojuro meant by his knot, you tried to look behind you to catch sight of his cock seemingly expanding inside of your pussy, keeping his cum nicely plugged inside of you.

Kyojuro was panting, his voice rough as he pulled you up onto his lap.

“Good fuckin’ girl, taking my knot so well.” He looked down at your chest as you sat in his lap, his cock still rock hard and throbbing inside your wet cunt.

“Can’t wait to see these breasts filled with milk, gonna be such a good mommy, aren’t you?” he said before taking one of your tits in his mouth and sucking at it, as though he were trying to get you to produce milk already for him, and eventually his young, to feed on.

“Kyo, I– I’m sorry, but I’m not fertile, I– I’ve never been able to produce an heir with another man,” you sighed, and his eyes looked up to meet yours. “I’m really sorry, it’s why I was thrown down here in the first place” you continued, hoping your words wouldn’t anger him.

Instead of becoming angry, he simply placed you back down on the fur pelts and brought your legs up towards your shoulders so that you were folded completely in half. He then crouched over you, keeping you locked in a mating press with him.

“I’m no simple man, my dear human,” he kissed your lips, “if I say I will breed you and fill you with my young–” he paused, thrusting deeply into your cunt.

“–I mean every single word.”

Kyojuro started fucking into you with renewed fervor, his stamina seemingly having increased despite already releasing inside of you once. His cock reached deeper inside of you, and you could swear you felt him all the way in your throat. Every single thrust of his hips had you a whining mess, taking his knot until your pussy molded into the shape of his cock.

“Fuck, that’s it, take it all,” he groaned before pressing his mouth to yours once more. His tongue plunged past your lips – prompting you to suck on it, causing him to fall over the edge again, his hips stilling as he pumped a second load of cum into your needy cunt. You whined as he didn’t stop – continuing to fuck into your abused cunt despite cumming twice, his cock still stiff and leaking with every thrust. You felt his seed sloshing around in your womb, feeling so incredibly full by both his cum and his fat cock.

“Mine,” he growled while pumping himself into you, “you’re fucking mine.”

You could only nod and whine in response, having been completely fucked dumb by his cock.

“Pregnant.” He pummeled his cock deep into your cunt, “getting you pregnant. Fuck. Gonna have a round belly filled with my young, tits swelling with milk, I’ll keep you here – gonna be the mother to my children, gonna treat mommy so well, hunt for you, protect you, everything you could ever want.”

You moaned, your cunt clenching around his cock upon listening to his promises.

“Wan’ it,” you managed, “wan’ to be a good mommy so– fuck– so bad.”

Kyojuro groaned, his cock twitching inside of you as it swelled even more. “Can’t stop thinking of my young suckling on your breasts, tits producing so much milk that all of them have their fill– shit, gonna cum again, gonna fill you up– fuck!” 

He spilled into you once more, filling your cunt up completely with his seed, ensuring that it takes, making good on his promise. His fingers flicked at your clit and your own orgasm came crashing down around you, pure euphoria flowing through your veins as you let out a silent scream from the seemingly endless waves of pleasure addling your mind.

Kyojuro rolled over and had you collapse on top of him, his arms reaching around your torso and holding you close.

“Did you mean what you said? About wanting to stay?” he whispered, slight insecurity being carried through his tone.

You gave him a quick peck to his lips, “yes, Kyojuro, you– you’ve been so kind to me, much more than anyone else in that damned village. I’d love to stay with you.”

He smiled softly at you, his eyes glowing with warmth as he cradled your head into his neck, petting at your hair as the two of you fell asleep next to the flickering bonfire.

—

A few months had passed, and you were waiting for your lover to return from his hunt. He had promised a large meal today, and you were excited to see what he had planned for the two of you.

You rubbed your baby bump as you cozied up next to the fire, resting in a heap of animal furs which acted as bedding for the two of you. You were surprised to find out that you were pregnant, but Kyojuro had sensed it about a month after you two had first met, and proceeded to treat you as though every step you took turned the rocks beneath your feet into gold. 

The bump was rather large for only being a few months in, and your breasts were already swelling and leaking with milk, but Kyojuro had told you that it was normal – considering that his young would be half-jötunn. He quelled your fears of labor, saying that he would help you in every way that he possibly could when it came time to have the baby.

After a few hours, Kyojuro came back to the cavern, carrying your meal over his shoulder.

“How is my love doing?” he asked with the biggest smile on his face, causing you to giggle as you attempted to get up to greet him. Kyojuro rushed over to you, ensuring that you don’t so much as lift a finger while carrying his young. He leaned down and gave you a soft kiss before dragging your meal to the bonfire and beginning to cook it.

“Mmh– Kyo? Could you help me a little bit, my tits feel so swollen,” you pouted, and his ears damn near perked up at your words.

“Oh? Does mommy need some relief?” he asked teasingly, and you nodded. Kyojuro walked over to you and knelt down, his hands reaching to massage your breasts slowly. He kneaded them and licked at the milk which dribbled out, letting it coat over his tongue. His lips wrapped around one of your tits, and he sucked slowly, moaning as he drank from you. You whined when he moved to the other tit and performed the same actions, relief sinking in the more he suckled the milk out of you.

“Taste so good, pretty girl,” he whispered before getting up again to cook the meat he brought in.

You pouted again, “need you, Kyo, please,” and he laughed.

“You can have me after we eat, does that sound okay?” he compromised, and you sighed but nodded in agreement.

You laid back and rested upon the pile of furs, smiling in contentment as you looked at the two meals that were set out before you.

“I love you, Kyo,” you admitted, unashamed by your feelings as they echoed throughout the cavern.

Kyojuro froze, glancing back at you briefly before continuing to prepare the food, trying his best to hide the blush that traveled across his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

“I love you, too, my little flame.”

Taglist: @k-a-t-h-r-i-n-a, @wow-im-gay, @peanutpunchy, @love-me-satoru, @crazycatlddy, @dinosaur-crime-scene, @thisbicc, @gojoscumslut, @everyonesfinaldestination, @leehoonii-i, @kyojurismo, @briefrebelfanalmond, @izuoyarmin, @ahashiraswife, @d1gitalbathh, @homo-homini-lupus-est-1701

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[hivemuthur]

In Thy Name - Ch.10. - Cut Down The Puppet Strings

viktorxfemale!reader NSFW + mild gore, gothic AU

Reader is a highly renown linguist hired by Viktor, a paranormal investigator, for a case he cannot crack himself.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST + SOURCES

word count: 8,1K

author's note: Playlist here! Art by @cringemaster3 ♡ For everyone interested, the songs I used for chapter titles are as follows: Dark Entries by Bauhaus, Mask by Bauhaus (Ch.2. and 3.), Blasphemous Rumours by Depeche Mode, The Passion of Lovers by Bauhaus, Persephone by Cocteau Twins, Spellbound by Siouxsie and the Banshees, Stigmata Martyr, All We Ever Wanted Was Everything and Spirit by Bauhaus. In the end notes I'm explaining the Algernon paradox.

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Within the fourth day the bell tolls iron-throated and low, rolling across the valley for Radomír, the nameless. Dawn is scarcely a suggestion; breath smokes out of every mourner’s mouth. They gather in the hilltop chapel—stone ribs blackened by centuries of incense—while below, the footprint of the manor still steams, earth warm enough to melt the shy November snow that drifts in uncertain flakes.

You and Viktor stand among the stripped-of-surname household, shoulders brushing the Samkovas, hands brushing the young heir’s trembling sleeve. Grief here is quiet, almost reverent; names were eaten by fire, but affection survived the feast. Candles gutter along the narrow altar and the priest intones only given names, as though Heaven itself has no ledger for what was burned.

Viktor’s gloved fingers find yours—small linkage beneath the funeral pall—and squeeze once, solemn. Friend, the gesture says. Witness. Co-bearer of passage. You return the pressure, feeling the faint tremor in his hand—the weight of a vow forming even before the last bell stroke fades into the aching sky.

Outside, winter light glints off the chapel’s stained-glass shards, littering the steps with bruised colours. Beyond the churchyard gate a modest crowd waits—fewer than the fire brigade counted when the house was burning, yet enough to thicken the road: farmers in smoke-scented wool, shopkeepers in their Sunday coats, widows wrapped in sable shawls, a trio of schoolchildren clutching frost-stiff posies. No one speaks above a hush, but in every lifted face lives a story Radomír once mended—a broken fence, an unpaid doctor’s fee, an apple pressed into a palm the winter after his wife died. These gathered memories outweigh any title that went to cinders.

If the boy’s deep, effortless breaths were not proof enough of what Viktor has done, this living ledger is. As you and he descend the chapel steps, the mourners part, touching brims, bowing heads. Some look puzzled, mouths shaping a surname they can no longer summon. Others simply nod, certain of grief even without the anchor of letters.

“They remember him,” Viktor murmurs, almost to himself, voice thin as a church draft but clear to you as heartbeat. You tighten your grip on his hand, feel the pulse speed beneath kid-glove.

“I cannot call the name,” you confess, the realization sudden and eerie. Your free hand finds the one that balances his cane; you fold both inside your own.

“Nor can I,” Viktor answers. “ But I recall the man. I see the boy draw breath, and I think—perhaps…” Words tangle in the raw cusp of hope.

Footsteps skirt around you, coats brushing yours, but you do not step aside. Leaning close, you hide bright anticipation in an embrace that passes for sorrow. Lips near his ear, you whisper, “For this I will owe you my life.”

He steadies you, palm warm against your cheek despite the frost. His gaze softens. “On the contrary,” he breathes, “it is I who am in your debt. But let us earn living first—then we may bargain over gratitude.” Behind him the bell tolls once more, not dirge but distant clock, and the two of you stand a moment longer in its echo, feeling the shape of the future settle—unnamed, but suddenly, achingly possible.

Snow begins in hushed flurries as the last mourners drift away. Good-byes are simple: Mrs. Samkova presses your hands, repeating soft blessings; her husband clasps Viktor’s shoulder with the word brother caught in his throat. The boy—newly free of hitching lungs—hovers behind them, boots scuffing half-moons in thin white powder. Just as you reach the carriage step he bursts forward, arm outstretched.

A toy horse, hardly longer than a matchbox, carved from orchard wood and burnished by long pocket-rides. He offers it to Viktor without speech, huge brown eyes fierce with purpose. Viktor kneels—snow dampening his trouser knee—and accepts the gift with both palms as though receiving a relic. “Ride far,” the boy whispers, the words a vow and a benediction. Viktor touches the child’s cheek, nods once, and slips the horse into the safe hollow of his waistcoat.

Inside the carriage you fold into each other as naturally as breath and rib. Cold seeps from the glass, but warmth pools where your legs tangle and Viktor’s arm bands your waist. The toy horse rests between his palm and your thigh, its smooth flank warming by degrees.

Fear travels with you—an uninvited passenger—but it rides quieter now, tempered by a sharp, bright appetite for the hours still possible. Outside, the countryside has softened: snow stitches field to hedge, grave-mound to road, erasing quarrel lines with white thread. Trees stand in gentle truce, their black bones laced by the same steady drift. Even the river wears a hush—skin of ice knitting its restless pulse. The world feels briefly unified, forgiven.

You breathe that sameness, that bright muffled calm, into one another’s mouths. Viktor’s lips brush your temple once, twice—small tithes against the chill—while the carriage wheels turn steady beneath, bearing you toward the last bargain yet to be struck and whatever thin dawn follows its price.

Home greets you with a modest crust of snow, the sort that means to stay—no soft drifts, only a colourless film clinging to hedges and crunching under wheels. The manor itself seems to have exhaled while you were gone: shutters half-latched, lamps burning low but steady, a dogged pulse awaiting its master.

Algernon stands beneath the portico, two footmen at his flanks. “I take it the mission was successful, Master Velesny?”

Viktor lifts a brow, frost still jewelling his lashes. “Yes. Disappointed?”

The butler flinches as though tapped with a switch, then smooths his features to the usual porcelain calm. “Not in the least, sir. You must be chilled—come, come.” He shepherds you both through the doors, already delegating with crisp gestures. “Tea in the drawing room anon—”

“In my chambers, if you please,” Viktor interrupts. “All luggage there as well.”

“As you wish, sir.” Algernon bows, the motion precise yet brittle, and disappears down the corridor, orders snapping after him like dry twigs.

Viktor turns, arms open but hesitant, a man poised on the threshold of a stronger vow. “I do not wish to part from you,” he says. “If you will have me.”

Wordless, you step into the circle of his embrace, feel the thaw where your coats touch. Together you climb the familiar stairs—past the secret room, your guest bedroom and the quiet library—until the upper hallway hushes around your footfalls.

Luggage lands in soft thuds; the door closes; the house recedes. Viktor kicks free of his boots and sinks onto the edge of the bed, long legs stretched before him, braces creaking. The tea tray arrives, steam curling into lamp-lit calm, then you are alone again with the muted tick of distant clocks.

You kneel at his feet, fingers deft at buckles, leather surrendered into your lap piece by piece. He exhales—one long ribbon of relief—as the brace slips away, his shoulders folding loose for the first time without urgency or ache. You set the metal aside, warm your palms against his calves, and look up.

He studies you, half-smile tugging at the edge of fatigue. “You are equal parts wicked and kind,” he murmurs—praise spoken like confession. The words balance between you, steeping in the quiet the way strong tea stains porcelain, until the whole room tastes faintly of possibility rather than peril.

“You are the same,” you murmur, and slip your fingers beneath the edge of his sock. The wool peels away; winter-pale skin shows the faint map of veins and a single old surgery scar. You roll the fabric down and cup his calf with both hands, working slow circles into the knotted muscle. A tremor skims through him—surprise and surrender. His breath catches, not in pain but in some startled bliss he hasn’t tasted since some thoughtful hands last tended a fevered limb. He lowers his eyes, lets them shutter, as if watching might break the spell.

Your thumbs sweep the length of his shin. “Any notions,” you ask, tone almost idle, “of how to undo your bargain?”

He opens his lashes, studies the ceiling as though answers might be chalked there. “What, precisely, did the name purchase?” he muses. “Scholarship seats, lectureships, every citation that turns ink to clout. I can’t drag all those journals to the fire.” He reaches into his waistcoat, producing a slim bundle of embossed cards: Viktor Velesny, FRS, Lecturer in Aetheric Dynamics. Their gilt edges catch the lamplight like tiny guillotines. “It reduces to this—titles and vowels on good linen stock.”

Your palm slides to the back of his calf, squeezing. “You were tricked,” you say, voice low. “Taken against your will.”

A sigh breaks from him, long and bone-deep. He slips off the mattress, joints cracking soft, and folds to the floor before you. The discarded brace glints nearby like an iron question. He draws your knees between his, rests his forehead against your sternum. “I know,” he says, words feathering the cotton of your dress. “Not a moment passes I don’t search for some sleight to turn scripture against that god.”

You comb fingers through his hair, feel the heat of his plotting skull. “We’ll find the hinge,” you whisper. “Every trap has one.”

He tilts his face up, eyes dark with hope that can’t yet name itself. “Then tomorrow,” he says, voice steadier, “we begin forging keys.” Outside, wind fidgets around the eaves, but in this hush his vow feels heavier than iron, warmer than the tea cooling on the bedside table.

Days begin to braid into one another, silver and soot, tenderness and graphite. Morning often finds you in the library where frost feathers the windows and Viktor’s breath plumes over strewn folios; he dictates, you annotate, both of you hunting the hinge on which a god’s claim might turn. Noon drifts into the greenhouse, where weak sun warms copper gears while Viktor sketches sigils in dirt between wilted basil stalks—testing fragments of languages older than mortar. He breaks off only to tug you close, soil still on his fingers, pressing a kiss to the pulse beneath your ear as though to remind himself which world he is fighting for.

Evenings pool in the bedroom, heliostat planets tracing their muted constellations overhead. At the workbench Viktor opens a leather-bound album—sepia portraits of scholars’ banquets, university fêtes, expedition groups—each captioned in his careful hand: V. Velesny, Lecturer, Prof. Velesny and Colleagues. With a sable brush he dips into dense India ink and drifts a dark stroke across the surname, letting it bleed until the letters vanish beneath a soft, tidal black. Page after page he performs the quiet erasure, leaving only initials and faces. You stand close, turning sheets for him; between each sweep of ink your fingers knead the tension where leather brace meets his shoulder blade, and the room fills with two companion sounds: planets ticking their slow orbits above, and the patient sigh of parchment surrendering names to night.

Sometimes, without warning, desire flares: you end up half-undressed on the desk, schematics crinkling beneath your hips while nightingales outside the cracked window sing their cold-season dirges. Other nights are quieter: Viktor lies listening to your heartbeat, toy horse clutched between your palms like a charm, the two of you talking in murmurs about what a nameless future might taste like—bread still warm, bodies unburdened.

Between each sunrise he files another portion of himself away: lecturers’ medals tucked into a velvet pouch, an old dissertation reduced to ash in the grate, brass nameplate unscrewed from the study door. With every relinquishment his spine straightens a fraction, as though the god’s hand loosens its grip by degrees—yet the cost shows too, in new shadows beneath his eyes. You match him step for step, fearing and craving the moment the ledger is balanced, when the world must decide whether it will remember brilliance shorn of syllables or let the man himself slip, bright and unclaimed, into legend.

On the last night the lamp is low, trinkets caught in their mute procession, as Viktor lets a bead of scarlet wax fall to the spine of a calling-card. A stray tremor tips the spoon; a droplet leaps, lands on the slope of your hand. Heat bites—sharp as drawn breath—then cools to a humming sting while the wax sets, shrinking into a lacquered shell. You flex, feeling it crack, and lift the small crust away with the edge of a fingernail.

Viktor’s quill stills mid-air. For a beat he watches the red fleck in your palm as though it might reveal an oracle. Something moves behind his eyes—relief, almost, that the night has offered sensation other than the clawing dread you have both worn over the last few days. Wordless understanding slides between you: a silent dare, a promise of a feeling stronger than fear. His pulse answers before speech can; you can tell from the sudden hush, like rooms aligning perfectly after long disrepair.

You edge closer, rolling your sleeve to bare your forearm across the desk. His hand settles on it, thumb tracing veins with affection that feels pre-remembered. He tips the taper. Molten orange glides, sears, then cools. You steady your breathing; he steadies his on yours. When he peels the hardened drip away, need sparks in both gazes—twin flames recognising tinder.

The candle meets wood with a muted clink. He hooks a hand behind your knee, draws you to the chair’s edge so your breath mingles with his. Fingers slide to your bodice fastenings. “Is this truly what you want?” he murmurs, though the answer is already thudding in his throat.

You nod, pulse bright. “It is our last night before—” you cut yourself off. Then: “Let us spend it wisely.”

His mouth brushes yours—promise, or a pact. “Then let me spend you,” he whispers, clothes loosening under deft hands. “Let it brand us both, and melt the fears away.”

With that, he parts the last hook of your contraption and spreads the fabric wide as though opening a rare tome. His palms skim the slope of clavicle, pause a heartbeat to feel your pulse beneath thin skin, then glide upward—encircling your neck with a velvet firmness that draws you in. The kiss begins soft, delicate, corners first; heat pools where your bare breasts brush the linen of his shirt, silk nip against starched front. His thumbs press gently at the hollow where your throat rises and falls—measuring want like a physician might count breaths—before his teeth catch your lower lip in a tender bite that steals your next exhale.

You feel the moment the tension in him shifts from caution to hunger. He pulls back just far enough to strip his shirt, buttons scattering like pale seeds. Your fingers know the brace now: you unfasten each buckle with practiced grace, leather loosening until the iron scaffold slides away. He shivers—not from chill but from the shock of unarmoured skin meeting air and your gaze.

“Look at you,” you murmur, palms spanning the firm plane of his chest. “All iron gone, and still the strongest man I know.”

His answering smile is half gratitude, half wicked delight. “And you,” he breathes, tracing circles around the knot of your spine, “are art and appetite in equal measure.”

You lose your bottoms and swing a knee across his thighs, sinking into his lap. The sudden cradle of your weight pulls a low sound from him, rich as dusk bells. Your fingers work deftly at the clasps of his trousers; fabric yields, and the warmth pressed against your inner thigh grows urgent.

“Ease me,” he whispers, voice frayed with lust.

“Guide me,” you counter, slickening the request with a roll of your hips.

He cups your breasts, thumbs brushing peaks into sharper want. “You take light,” he murmurs, kissing the tender swell, “and make it unbearable.” His praise sparks heat under your skin; you free him from the last restraint, smoothing your hand along firmness until his throat imprisons breath.

Your name leaves his mouth like a vow. “Hardships tomorrow,” he says, eyes bright with the promise of oblivion found in each other’s bodies. “For this hour, let us be only yes.”

“Yes,” you answer, lowering yourself with slowly, welcoming him inch by aching inch. The world narrows to murmured endearments and low, unruly pleas.

His palm glides from the plane of your belly up through the valley of your breasts, circling once over each quickened peak before winding round your throat, guiding you to arch like a bow. “Ready?” he asks, voice frayed velvet.

“Brand me,” you breathe.

He reaches for the taper—its stub of flame trembling in the draft—tilts it until a bead of fire-soft wax swells and slips. It lands just below your sternum, searing, then cooling to a tight sting that pulls a keen from your throat. You arch higher, hands fumbling for his shoulders, nails grazing the muscle there.

“Look at me,” Viktor commands, candle held aloft like a single votive between you. Your gaze locks on his: pupils blown, irises twin furnaces.

“Again,” you whisper.

This time he watches every shift of your expression as molten orange beads, slides, and kisses the slope of your rib. Your breath chokes; his own follows. Wax shells bloom along your skin—tiny seals of night—each one a vow he speaks in low praise: “So brave, my compass… my true North.” Your hands settle at his nape, pulling him forward until the heat of breath replaces the heat of wax. He kisses the cooling marks, tongue soothing the sting, and when your hips roll in silent plea he answers with a slow upward thrust, melding body to body while the candle’s glow dances, the only star in a room intent on forgetting every hardship but hunger.

Viktor bows his head, lips roaming the new reliquaries cooling on your chest. Each pass of his tongue feels like sacrament reversed—holy water traded for salt-slick hunger. Deep inside, his rhythm lengthens, driven, splitting you open to the root. He catches your gaze, sweat haloing his brow in the low glow, and offers the taper between trembling fingers. “Anoint yourself,” he rasps, hands sliding to cup the curves he worships. “Let me witness your devotion.”

You take the candle, the flame wavering like a single rebellious cherub. “Every word you speak,” you murmur, tipping the wax so it swells at the lip, “writes salvation on my skin.” The first drop falls, and heat sings through nerve and marrow. His hands urge you higher, guiding you so the drenched heart of you grinds against the taut plane of his abdomen—each stroke a bell-note of pleasure, flesh chiming against flesh.

Wax beads again, trailing down your ribs, sluicing over soft curls below until it nets there, bright and sacrilegious. Viktor watches, chest heaving, zeal and hunger braided in his stare. “Beloved of mine,” he breathes, two fingers parting you to keep you poised, to feel every clench that answers his thrust. “Brand yourself with every yes.”

You drizzle another line, hiss his name like a litany. It cools to a fragile shell over pounding muscle; he rises into you, sealing heat with heat. In swift ruin of restraint he crushes you to him, molten edges catching, bonding skin to skin. The candle slips, extinguishes against the floorboards with a hiss like a psalm’s final amen.

“Sealed as one,” Viktor gasps against your ear. “I am yours, and you, irrevocably, mine. Spend for me, darling—let the night witness our creed.”

“Take me,” you answer, voice caught between prayer and dare, mouth pressed to his temple, fingers clutching at his dark hair. He drives upward, groan rending the hush, teeth claiming shoulder then throat in near-feral blessing. Pleasure shears through you, wax shell fracturing as your body locks round him, pulse beating fire against broken seal. His own release follows, anthem and surrender, spilling into the shared incandescence while snow-pale light fingers the curtained glass—two sinners bound, sanctified by flame, fear held at the door until the chiming clocks remember to summon it back.

Wax cools and cracks where your bodies meet, tiny shells of red and amber falling like spent petals onto the carpet. You sit sideways across Viktor’s thighs, both of you still perched on the poor chair that now lists under your joined weight. His breath creeps along the curve of your neck—warm, unhurried—and each exhale loosens another flake of hardened seal that lands soft against his bare shoulder. He tightens his arms as though the night might yet slip away, mouth grazing the pulse beneath your ear.

“It is foolish of me to ask,” he murmurs, voice worn thin by pleasure and dread, “but you mustn’t follow me to the cave. I can’t promise I’ll walk back out.”

Your spine stills; you lean away just enough to cradle his face, palms cupping cheeks still flushed. The candle’s after-scent lingers between you—honeyed smoke, something half like church, half like damnation. “Death will not part us,” you say, steady as catechism. “I won’t grant it that courtesy.”

A breathy chuckle shivers from his chest, equal parts awe and resignation. “I had to try,” he confesses. “If positions were reversed, I’d bolt the door to keep you safe.” He kisses the pad of your thumb. “But stubbornness is devotion by another name.”

You fold against each other, let the cooling wax lie where it falls, and barter a few more hours of sleep from the reluctant dawn. When afternoon finally bleeds grey across the windowpanes, you rise together—limbs aching, hearts steadier than before. Packing is oddly brief: Viktor shrugs into a travel coat, slides the leg brace into place, pockets a tinderbox and a coil of hemp line. On the writing desk lies a single calling-card—one he spared from ink or flame—bearing the gilt of a name soon to be bartered. He tucks it into his breast pocket, over the beat of his heart, not as keepsake but as coin.

You step from the threshold without ceremony—no luggage save the weight in your chests—when Algernon appears at the top of the steps, hair uncombed, cravat skewed as though dressed by ghosts. Fatigue dusts his shoulders; candle-soot smears one cheek. He descends, halts, and for a moment simply stares at Viktor, lips parted around a plea that takes its time finding sound.

“My lord… I beg you, do not go.” His hand lifts, wavers inches from Viktor’s sleeve, then falls—as if the air itself forbids the touch.

Viktor forces a smile that wobbles at the edges. “Why? Would you prefer me dead after all?” The jest is thin; your fingers brush his coat, feeling the sudden tautness beneath.

“It is death where you go—either way,” Algernon murmurs, smoothing hair that will not lie flat. His gaze fixes somewhere beyond the yew hedge, as though an answer hangs in the fog, just out of reach.

“What say you?” Viktor closes the distance, palm steady on Algernon’s shoulder. “If I perish, sooner or later matters little. I must attempt this. You, of all men, know trying is the marrow of living.”

For a span that might be a heartbeat or an eon, Algernon simply looks at Viktor—eyes clouded, as if some hidden ledger is being read aloud inside his skull. Muscle by muscle, his face rearranges: first the polite neutrality he has worn for decades; then bafflement, as though he’s stepped into a room whose walls are suddenly wrong; then stark terror, pupils shrinking to pinpoints. The corners of his mouth flutter, trying on several shapes—apology, protest, prayer—before settling into a tremor that leaves his lips parted, wordless. You watch the change ripple downward, loosening the set of his shoulders, stealing the impeccable butler’s poise until the man beneath the livery emerges—frightened, unarmoured, newly aware of the knife-edge on which his existence balances. Only when that transformation completes, slow as frost creeping across glass, does he seize Viktor’s wrist, desperate not to be left behind by the truth he has just understood.

“It is not you who will perish,” he whispers, voice fraying. “It is I. I was a man once—I can half-recall—a foolish boy seeking favour of gods, much as you did. Now I am bound to the name on your tongue, kept here where He wishes you tethered. If you slip the leash, I slip into nothing.”

The realisation dawns across Viktor’s features like sunrise over ruins. “Algernon…” he breathes, horror and pity intermingled.

“Forgive me,” the butler goes on, a man confessing sins discovered only this moment. “I meant no harm; I am merely an instrument, unaware. An illusion of will.” He bows his head, fingertips blanching where they still hold Viktor.

“All those times,” Viktor murmurs, remembering sudden tea trays, doorways blocked by polite inquiry. “The interruptions—”

“It was He, puppeting me.” Algernon’s voice cracks; you see tears standing, silver as thaw. “I should not exist now—not as myself.”

Silence settles, heavier than any bell. Somewhere a rook cries, harsh and solitary.

At last Algernon lifts his gaze, and for the first time the mask of perfect service is gone; what remains is raw, undeniably human. “Go,” he says, the word shivering in the cold. “Cut the strings. Free my soul with the name. I beg you.”

Viktor’s hand rises, rests against Algernon’s bowed head—a benediction, or a farewell. No more words follow; the three of you understand the bargain, spoken and unspoken, that waits in the dark mouth of the cave. You turn toward the path, and behind you the manor door closes with a sound like a curtain drawn, leaving Algernon in the porch light, already half-shadow, half-memory.

Before you the lane narrows quickly, stone walls giving way to hedgerow ghosts and then to the starker wilderness beyond. Underfoot, rime squeaks; each breath leaves a plume that fades before it can reach memory. Viktor’s cane clicks a measured cadence—never stumbling, as if the ground itself has agreed to bear him this one last time. Your hand anchors at the crook of his arm; whenever the path glass-slicks to ice, he steadies you with a subtle shift of weight, and onward you go.

The world pares itself to elements: birch trunks etched black on pearl, the iron scent of distant water, the hush of snow filling every pocket of silence you might have filled with fear. Somewhere an owl sounds—three hollow notes, answered by nothing. Frost crystals rim the cuffs of Viktor’s greatcoat; in the faint moonlight they glitter like a borrowed crown.

Darkness folds deeper. You pause to strike a flame, cupping it from the wind, then lift the lantern between you. Its amber circle slides over bark and root, over drifted stone fences, painting each breath a momentary gold. You huddle close—two sparks moving through a field of unlit stars—sharing what warmth remains in tired bodies. Words seem too loud for this world; instead you speak through small gestures: your thumb tracing the seam of his glove, his hand settling at the small of your back whenever the trail drops.

At last, the hush gathers a new sound: the faint glassy rush of water. A half-frozen stream slips between shoulders of granite, its surface veined with black ice, its voice low but urgent. Lantern-light glances off the water and shows the stream’s narrow tongue leading into a cleft in the hillside—the cave mouth, waiting like an unspoken sentence. Snow has not drifted there; the ground is bare and dark, as if even winter hesitates to follow further.

You and Viktor stand a moment at the threshold. The lantern quivers in your grip, casting restless rings upon wet stone. Behind you, the snow-soft night continues, vast and indifferent. Ahead, the cave exhales a breath older than language, smelling of iron, fern ghosts, and the memory of a child’s wish. Without speaking, you tighten your hold on the lantern pole. Viktor meets your gaze, nods once—the simplest vow. “Godspeed,” you say. Then together you step across the icy stream and into the dark that bears his unspoken name.

The passage narrows after the first bend, forcing you to walk single-file beneath a ceiling that sweats winter condensation. Lantern-light skates over limestone ribs; each droplet poised to fall gleams like an icy bead of anointment. Behind you the entrance dwindles to a pale lozenge; the hush here is heavier than snow.

Further in, the path tilts downward. Frost gives way to damp earth tinged with the mineral scent of deep water. A faint silver glow leaks ahead, outshining the lantern’s amber. When the tunnel finally widens you step into a chamber half the size of a cathedral’s apse. Moonlight slants through a jagged aperture in the roof, bathing a single unfurling of green at the center: a fern, winter-defiant yet bloomless, its fronds trembling in the underground draft.

Viktor lowers the lantern to a flat stone, flame settling into a steady heart. He turns, takes both your hands, and presses his forehead to yours; in that small circle of light your breaths mingle like vows.

“If night swallows me,” he whispers, voice roughened by awe and dread, “know I have lived my happiest weeks in your company. Nothing He takes can undo that mercy.”

You kiss the confession from his lips, salt and iron mingling. “Speak no finalities,” you breathe against his mouth. “I will meet you on the farther shore.”

He nods once—acceptance, promise, surrender—then releases you and limps to the fern. From his coat he draws the slim knife you last saw in Shalladholm. The blade finds the scar across his palm and reopens it with a soft, resigned sound. Blood beads, bright as melted garnet, and drips onto the fern’s central frond where it darkens, unabsorbed.

Viktor steadies his breathing, shoulders squaring in the argent glow. “Veles,” he calls, voice low but unwavering, the cavern carrying each syllable into shadowed vaults. “Come forth. I would reckon my debt.” The air chills, lantern flame recoils—then stillness gathers, listening, before the answer arrives.

From the farthest corner where lantern-light refuses to wander, a figure unpeels itself from shadow: a tall man, hair and beard slick as fresh pitch, shoulders wrapped in nothing but the cavern’s chill. Moonlight strikes his eyes—two coins cut from night. A smile, almost gentle, curves across his mouth.

“So,” he says, voice soft as falling ash, “you too would renounce me, Velesny? Such a promising child you were.”

“A child owns no power to bargain,” Viktor answers, steady though his pulse leaps. “It was only a wish, spoken out of sorrow.”

The god glides forward. Frost blossoms beneath each bare step, whitening the stone like plague. A whisper accompanies the grin: “No witnesses this time.” Fingers snap. Your knees buckle; the lantern jerks as you crumple to the cavern floor, breath whisked away. Viktor lunges, fear carving his features, but an unseen pressure roots him where he stands.

“She will wake,” the god murmurs, almost soothing. “I do not take what wasn’t offered, nor what is not yet due. Dreamless slumber—nothing more.” His gaze sharpens. “Tell me, child-grown: why spit out my bread?”

“I will be free of your name,” Viktor declares. “I’ll forfeit every comfort it purchased.”

Black laughter ripples off the cave walls. “Did you haul ledgers and houses to burn for me again?”

“No.” Viktor uncurls his hand; the single calling-card gleams ivory in the moonwash. “I bring only this.” Then, almost shy: “Why did you claim me?”

Silence gathers, heavy as subterranean water. With an almost parental sigh, the god speaks: “I choose prodigies. Radomír—honest, small—could wait. But prodigies feed a hungry god. Clever souls, once broken, sing my tale into every corner. Humans forget old altars; empires rename us stories. I bind you in tragedy, so my name outlives the rot.”

“Release me,” Viktor says. “Name your price.”

“You know it.” The god’s smile widens, teeth black as coal seams. “Your legacy to dust. Are you ready to be… middling, Viktor the Nameless?”

“I want to live,” Viktor answers, voice trembling at the edges of his truth.

“So be it. But a god taxes the debtor.” He plucks the calling-card, slips it between jagged teeth, chews—paper, ink, and gilt vanishing down a throat dark as burial earth. “Twice you have robbed me; I will take my due.” Circling the fern’s bare fronds, he faces Viktor squarely. “It will hurt,” he purrs, delighted by the promise, and the cavern’s air grows sharp as blades.

Veles’s smile thins to a razor. “A final tithe, child.”

His hand rises—no incantation, no flourish—only fingers spreading, pale as moon bone. They drive straight through cloth and skin, neither ripping nor cutting so much as invading, as if the flesh remembers an old, unwelcome door.

Cold floods Viktor’s chest, glacial shock that numbs quicker than terror. Then pain answers—every cough he has ever swallowed erupting at once, multiplied, condensed to white agony. It feels as though his ribs are packed with broken icicles; each shard twists, trying to pry itself free. Breath claws for exit but finds no purchase. He would scream if air existed.

The god’s arm burrows wrist-deep. Frost creeps outward from the puncture, feathering blue over Viktor’s sternum, making the lantern light glitter on crystalline veins. With a soft, fleshy crack Veles withdraws his hand. Two shriveled lobes cling to his fingers—organs the colour of bruised nightshade, collapsed and glistening. Steam rises where their warmth meets the cave’s chill.

Viktor staggers yet does not fall. The hole in his breast seals with a hiss, skin puckering, bloodless but raw. A breath shudders through the cavity—first thin, then fuller— until his lungs, impossibly new, inflate beneath scarred flesh. Each inhale burns like winter iron, but it is breath, strong and certain. He clamps a hand over the mending wound, feeling life drum loud against a palm that moments ago should have cupped nothing.

Veles lifts the desiccated lungs to his lips, teeth tearing as though into overripe fruit. Black blood dribbles along his chin before he licks it clean with a shiver of distaste. “Disgusting,” he sneers, letting the husks fall to the stone where frost devours them.

Eyes ember-bright fix Viktor. “Nameless you shall wander. As nothing you will live the span granted. Turn to me again—let your dove turn—and I will finish the feast.” He wipes his fingers on the air, and the darkness itself swallows the stain.

The god melts back toward shadow, until only the fern’s fronds tremble in the stirred gloom. Viktor stands alone but breathing, chest aching with newborn fire, the cave echoing with the price that bought his life and unmade his name.

Knees strike the stone, brace ringing a hollow psalm. Another breath roars through him—too large for old ribs—sending him forward on shaking hands until your still figure meets his reach. His fingertips skim your cheek, heat against chill; relief surges so fierce it blinds him. He presses his mouth to yours, pouring air into a kiss.

“Wake, my heart,” he whispers against slack lips. “Breathe with me.”

Your lashes tremble; a small sound—half gasp, half question—rises into the kiss. Awareness streams back like thaw, and you bolt upright, clutching what remains of his torn shirt. Your fingers map the fresh, puckered scar across his chest, ugly and luminous beneath lantern glow.

“It is done,” you breathe, terror threading wonder.

“Aye,” Viktor answers, eyes startlingly clear. “I am nothing—yet alive. Will you still have a man who bears oblivion?”

“You are everything,” you vow, palms framing his jaw. “The bravest soul to walk this earth— and I slept through your crucifixion.”

He huffs a ragged laugh, joy and exhaustement. “Then wake beside me now. Let us go home before the cave remembers it can keep us.” He rises, helping you to your feet, two heartbeats learning a new rhythm in the hush where a god’s shadow lingered only moments before.

Dawn meets you halfway home—indigo thinning to pearl while your footprints stitch the snow in crooked twin lines. You lean into one another as though still unsure lungs will keep the bargain, laughing breathless at nothing, at everything: at how light the air feels when no syllable drags behind it. At the threshold, the manor seems quietly startled to see you return. Every ledger, every monogrammed napkin bears a clean edge where a surname once slept; even the copperplate plaques on laboratory cabinets are blank as unearthed bone. You call for Algernon out of habit, and only the wind in the halls answers—his absence a hollow note that makes the whole house ring.

For a time you drown that emptiness in exhilaration: stolen brandy in the library, fingers tangled in hair above the stairwell, laughter echoing off frescoed ceilings. But elation, like a fresh burn, cools. Within days Viktor’s smile begins to fold at the corners; he walks the winter-garden paths with no clipboard, touching dead fern fronds as if they might whisper purpose back to him. In the library he stands before shelves of his own writings—now credited to V. or Anonymous—and the pride that once lit his eyes gutters into a strange, polite vacancy. When you press a cup of chocolate into his hands, he covers your fingers with his, offers a murmured thanks so thin it stings worse than silence.

The house learns your shared quiet. Meals arrive untouched; firewood burns low. You drift behind him like a guardian shadow, unsure whether to shake him awake or let him grieve the ghost of himself. At last the question—Do you still want me, when I can give only myself?—gathers too much weight. One grey afternoon you find him in the study, staring at a blank sheet as though waiting for a name to appear. You open your mouth—

“Sir!” Ethel bursts in, skirts swishing, arms laden with a teetering stack of letters. “These just arrived. The new mail driver was muddled. I’ve—well—collected a week’s worth.”

Viktor rises to relieve her, blinking as though from deep water. “Thank you, Ethel. Though usually the butler—” He stops, the sentence dangling.

The maid’s brows knit. “But there is no butler, sir. Not that I’ve known.”

The letters—addresses scrawled to The Author of Aetheric Currents, Dr. V., Distinguished Natural Philosopher, and one jaunty To the nameless genius who corrected my folly—spill across the desk, fluttering like startled birds, and something in Viktor’s eyes flickers: a small, unexpected spark that looks almost like returning light.

“A fool I am once more,” Viktor mutters, spreading the letters like tarot. Envelopes addressed in every flourished hand cover the mahogany. You step to his side and trace the riot of postmarks.

“You are no fool—only in mourning,” you say, voice soft but certain. “Though mourning proves futile, it seems. Here is proof you would have stood here—name or none.”

He studies a wax seal, thumb worrying its edge. “Do you remember the name?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head. “Only the weight it carried.”

“Me neither,” he murmurs, surprise and liberation mingling.

His fingers find yours; a fragile hush folds around the two of you. “Your commission is finished,” he says, as though tasting the words. “Forgive my silence—I had to weigh what was lost. It was not only a title I buried.”

With the same small flourish that once guided constellations, Viktor hooks his cane behind your waist and draws you close. “The love I bear for you is—devastating.” The confession slips out quick, almost boyishly shy. “I cannot stand parting.”

He gathers breath, eyes bright. “So much gone: the name, Radomír, Algernon—yet so much gained.” He nods toward the sea of letters. “Stay. Work beside me, sleep beside me, lace our fingers through all future hardships. I have only myself to give—and, it seems, a life of endless curiosities.”

You press both palms to the cadence beating beneath his shirt. He looks better—healthier. The hollows of his cheeks have softened, his eyes seem wider, almost younger. Beneath all the time and toil, the boy he once was lingers, gentler and less severe.

“Where you go, I follow,” you answer, voice steady enough to anchor the room. Outside, wind stirs the snowmelt into soft applause, and inside, among ink-blotted proofs of a legacy without a surname, Viktor bends to press his forehead to yours—pledging, in quiet breath, that nothing named or nameless will stand between you.

That night devotion takes the shape of pilgrimage: your tongue charts the new scar that bisects his chest—cool ridge crossing the terrain where a god reached in—and follows lower, soothing the faint chafe left by iron braces long discarded. When your mouth closes around hard flesh, Viktor’s breath escapes whole and thunderous; he speaks your name like a poem, each syllable borne on lungs that no longer seize.

You feed on him with slow, faithful hunger—hollowing your cheeks, letting your tongue trace the pulsing vein along the underside before taking him deeper, deeper still, until your lips brush the warm plane of his navel. Each glide draws a rough blessing from his throat; his hands thread your hair, knuckles blanching at every descent. The candles throw wavering gold across his stomach, catching on the slick sheen you leave behind, and when you pause to breathe, you drag the flat of your tongue from root to tip—savouring his salt—before sealing your mouth around him again, rhythmic as song, determined to worship until his knees threaten collapse.

He answers with thrusts sure and deep, filling you until the lantern rattles on its hook and frost quivers from the window lead. His fresh, wide breaths pace every surge, reverberating against the rafters as if the house itself must learn this untamed music.

And so it continues—night after ascending night—each joining a fresh mystery solved by skin and sighs. Before sainted dawn can lay its hush upon the world, you find one another again: in study shadows among scattered correspondence, against greenhouse glass fogged by winter stars, beneath quilts that smell of wax and smoke. Viktor breathes through every union—astonished, grateful, unrestrained—while you drink the sound, knowing the miracle was never the name he shed, but the life both of you now dare to claim, unbound and fiercely sung.

Winter passes like a deep breath held between two hearts. Inside the manor you and Viktor hibernate, wrapped in quilts and in each other, emerging only to chase the occasional village riddle—a vanishing brooch, a false haunting, a ledger cooked by candle-light. Those diversions are brief sparks; the real fire is the quiet: reading aloud with legs tangled on the bed, drowsing to the tick of the heliostat, tasting tea from the same spoon. By the time the river ice groans itself apart and crocuses spear the sodden lawn, the house smells of wax, dried lavender, and bone-deep contentment.

It is on such a thaw-bright afternoon that a sharp rap splits the calm.

Viktor unfolds from the chaise—gait uneven after sitting with his legs draped across your lap—and makes for the door while you drift in his wake, curious.

The visitor revealed is broad of shoulder, still carrying winter’s wind in the set of his coat. A shadow of growth clings to an otherwise clean jaw. He doffs his hat with formal economy, and that is where restraint ends.

“Finally,” he blurts, voice half-hoarse with travel. “I’ve searched for months. May I come in?”

Viktor’s mouth tilts. “Perhaps a name first, sir?”

“Oh. Quite right. Jayce Talis.” They exchange a firm shake; Viktor steps aside. Talis nods to you. “My lady.”

“A pressing matter?” Viktor asks, shepherding him toward the drawing room. “Haunting? Poltergeist? Or merely domestic unrest?”

“Neither haunting nor unrest—an opportunity.” Jayce shrugs out of his coat, words spilling faster than buttons. “I hunted down every scrap of your work I could find—no small feat, given your… limited signature. I was mocked, dismissed by the Academy, but I believe what I hold will interest you.”

“You sound remarkably like a traveling salesman, Mr. Talis,” Viktor remarks, motioning him to the settee. Seeing Jayce’s glance flick toward you, he adds, “Speak freely—we are betrothed and partners in all things.”

“Congratulations,” Jayce says, a bit too earnest, and you cannot help the laugh that slips free. He sits, coat clenched in his fist. Leaning forward, voice lowered: “I think I have found a way to harness magic itself. And you, sir, are the only mind I trust with it.”

Silence settles, thick as dust mote light. Viktor’s expression hovers between amusement and intrigue; yours holds polite interest.

Jayce stands again, pacing—laying out mining anecdotes, luminous anomalies, crude measurements. As he speaks, you watch Viktor shift: skepticism melting into the keen focus you know too well.

When at last words fail, Viktor taps his cane once. “Evidence, Mr. Talis?”

From an inner pocket Jayce produces a small blue crystal. On his upturned palm it glows faintly, as though remembering lightning. Viktor lifts it to the window; sun needles through, scattering azure shards across carpet and wall. A slow smile curls his mouth.

“And here I had you pegged for another pleasant madman,” he says, eyes lit with new hunger. “Perhaps, instead, you’ve brought me the next impossible question.”

Jayce paces as though tethered, coat flapping. “I mined it in the city’s northern quarry—pure happenstance. It hums, sir—hums at certain frequencies, as though tuned to energies unseen. It arcs between metal contacts without any external source, enough to brand copper. With refinement—”

“Enough to change the world,” Viktor finishes, voice low, equal parts warning and wonder. He lifts the crystal to his ear, and for a moment the house goes still. You catch the subtle widening of his eyes, the tiny indrawn breath: he hears it. The thing sings, however faintly, like a choir behind a door.

Jayce clasps his hands, knuckles whitening. “They call me deluded. The Academy laughed me out. But you—your treatises on aetheric lattices, your field notes on ambient motes around so-called haunted sites—those papers told me someone else had gazed beyond the veil and found rules instead of myths. Help me quantify it. Help me prove them wrong.”

Viktor turns, blue fire dancing up his sleeve. “I have sworn off gods,” he says, mouth quirking, “but the pursuit of wonders remains a vice I cannot break.” He glances at you; the glance holds an unspoken may I? You nod once, equal parts guardian and accomplice.

“Very well, Mr. Talis,” Viktor says, closing long fingers around the stone. “Stay as my guest. We shall test your singing crystal, chart its hum, and see what symmetry lies hidden.” His cane taps brisk assent against the floorboards. “But I warn you-—any miracle exacts its price.”

Jayce’s answering smile is broad, almost boyish. “I have already paid in ridicule. I’m prepared to pay the rest.”

“Then we begin at dawn,” Viktor decides. He passes the stone into your keeping—its cooled glow tingling your palm—while Jayce exhales relief so palpable it fogs the window.

Outside, early crocuses spear through tarnished snow; a rook scrapes new twigs for an old nest. Inside, three chairs draw close about a work-table soon to be cluttered with lenses, coils, and ink-stained notebooks. Somewhere in the rafters the house seems to shiver awake, sensing fresh riddles to devour, and the naming of things—be they crystals, curses, or the quiet vow between your joined hands—begins all over again.

Viktor pulls the bell-cord to summon supper, the chime fading down the corridor. Jayce rises again, clutching a fist at his chest as though it might steady his thoughts. A flush creeps over his cheekbones; he rubs the back of his neck, then spreads his palms in awkward surrender.

“Pardon my candour, sir, but—after all my chasing—I realise I don’t even know your name.”

Your beloved’s smile is soft, knife-bright at the edges. Amber eyes hold Jayce’s a moment longer than courtesy requires.

“It’s Viktor,” he replies, as if the single word were currency enough.

—

So, Algernon: he also made his own little pact :') What, we do not know, but it bound him to the god and the god used his essence as a construct - to keep Viktor from solving the mystery, because Viktor was a valuable asset. Some of Algernon's humanity remained, which is why he was doing everything unknowingly. He was planted into this reality like a parasite, making everyone believe that he's just a butler, there since the beginning. Upon the curse being broken, he ceases to exist. He becomes erased form everyone's consciousness, except Viktor and Reader - he lingers there, just to show how much of a relationship with Viktor he actually had. They don't mourn him extensively, because just the sheer fact that they remember of him is enough to accentuate it. That's it! Thank you for reading and see you in my next story!

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

marvel men- stoner edition

this is how i think the marvel men would act while you (and them) are high:) please enjoy and get baked appropriately, whichever method you choose stay safe! <3

peter parker

- one word. munchies.

-this man prepares an entire feast before the two of you get high and he gets so hungry it’s not even funny. you pray to get a bite in… but he cooks such good food, so you can’t complain.

-you bring over a desert so it’s even, last time it was chocolate fudge brownies and he kissed the chocolate off your lips

- he’s very touchy, always wanting to cuddle!1!1 more than normal, like he literally sits you on his lap despite there being an empty chair next to him

-you guys watch starwars movies often, or compilations of brain rot that you both know all the references to- you laugh with him for hours to the point you’re silently dying, tears down your face and needing to call a time out

-often times you get high at his place, with lots of low, dim christmas lights, open windows for the nice breeze (and so you can sit on the fire escape) and he always makes sure your spot on the bed is made and has stuffies!

-essentials- fuzzy blankets. his camera (to take pictures of you), fuzzy peaches and baggy clothes

bucky barnes

- super good at rolling. you make him roll everything for you and he pretends to get annoyed but secretly he loves it

- he has a much higher tolerance then you so it’s super funny when you’re already on cloud nine and he’s barley high yet, he makes fun of you

- he’s super protective of you if you guys go out, normally you go to the gas station to grab snacks because it’s close by, but despite this he holds you close and always is slightly in front of you when people are around to shield you

- you guys typically smoke at the little creek by your house and watch the stars or in your room, from out the window

- he really likes your room (mainly your bed) and is constantly insisting on cuddling, which results in you freaking out because he threatens to wear his outside clothes under the sheets if you don’t hurry up

- super calm and relaxed, but still alert to protect you! even if you’re in your home, he’s still a guard dog

- you tend to play with his hair and put butterfly clips in it (he “does not” like this)

- usually if you’re at your house you watch lord of the rings

- essentials- his fancy lighter he likes to show off, chocolate covered pretzels, baggy clothes and a nerf gun (to protect you ofc)

steve rogers

- says “do a flip!” to anyone who is on a high surface, including you

- he always brings his notebook because he claims his ideas flow better when he’s had a few hits, so sometimes he’ll just randomly pull it out and write or draw

- he likes to draw you a lot whenever you guys get high together

- huge video game lover! you guys play Minecraft together at his house and build little villages (and then he brings you to the nether with no weapons so you’re running around freaking out)

- #1 fruit gummy and goldfish lover

- if he slid his hand on your upper thigh and gave you that look he knows drives you wild, you would have 216 nickles. which isn’t a lot but it’s weird it happened 216 times (you fuck after)

- does spot on fuck boy impressions to make you piss your pants from laughing so hard

- essentials- a game, lunchbox snacks, thin blankets (so he doesn’t get hot, he’s picky), and his notebook

matt murdock

- he likes to eat “treats” that you bake, his favourite is the homemade rice kripsies with weed butter

- you guys always cheers them before you eat them after a nice homemade, candle lit dinner

- typically you guys lounge on the couch and like getting stoned when it’s storming so you can listen to the rain on the roof (his high, echoing loft makes it louder:) )

- he’s old fashioned, you guys make a charcuterie board and play board games like chutes and ladders and battleship

- matt like to run you a bath, light some candles and play with your hair while you watch a cheesy sitcom

- lazy make out sessions allll the time, and being perched up on his knee while he rubs your arms and back

- words of affirmation… always. he already tells you stuff all the time but when he’s stoned it’s every two sentences. “you’re so soft and sweet and so good” is a classic, where he rambles on

- just really romantic:) also SEXY! but sexy romantic. he takes care of you and touch is a must

essentials- red wine, sweet smelling candles, his dog eared box game of battleship and some good italian bread

loki laufeyson

- this man… yeah. sex!

- the two of you stretch out with a soft blanket and watch compilations of people acting like idiots and getting hurt, or super bad reality tv to laugh

- i feel like he’s artistic! whenever you guys smoke that side comes out even more, so you guys often paint together- recently you did that trend where you painted your partner in real time

- he’s a cat man so your black cat locks is always with you, curled up in a ball or slung across his shoulder

- he really likes frozen/ cold fruits. like frozen grapes. i feel he would have a deep connection to them and would feed them to you like some greek goddess

- sometimes you guys smoke before a night out in town, and you go see a play or something and eat sooo much popcorn up in those little balcony boxes

- late walks in the city too, to look at all the pretty lights and such! he often snags you a fresh baked good from a vendor to nibble one

- essentials- his cat, his grapes, and his lady!! also he has this really soft pair of sweatpants he likes to wear, black of course! you guys have matching ones

[aggieharkness]

All blood is black in the night

Pairing: Avis Amberg x reader

Summary: You had caught her eye long ago. So pretty and pure, a strange thing for her to find in a line of work such as showbiz, and she would be mad if she let you slip from her grasp. She would have you, no matter what. Even if there was a rune marking you as someone else's property.

Warnings: smut (+18), swearing, oral (Avis receiving), oral (r receiving), fingering (r receiving), tit play, spanking, strap ons, blood, vampires, lingerie, hair pulling, biting, power play, Dom/Sub, mommy kink, orgasm denial, edging, pet names, rough sex, blood loss marking, magic...

Author's note: I saw @anthewitch 's drawing of Avis as a vampire with Lilia and just coudnl't help myself. I'm sorry it took me so long to write it when I promised it would come out soon, but situations happened (I'm better now), and I wanted it to be good. I hope that you all like it and as always, be gentle but tell me if I need to be more graphic, if I'm lacking in something. I also accept ideas and suggestions that you might have. Available on Ao3. Finally, let's thank Patti Lupone for giving us Avis Amberg.

Shoutout to @bravewithacapitalb for being my beta reader. I LOVE MY WIFE!!!!! ❤️❤️❤️To @p2pecleanerwitheyes for being helping out when I needed her and for making the collage. LOVE YOU!!!!❤️❤️❤️ And to @anthewitch for the drawing of Avis that's in the middle of the collage. ITS GORGEOUS!!!

Word count: 28 K (As an apology)

All blood is black in the night

The smoke in the air was thick, like a dark fog that carried souls in silent parade through the streets, moaning and crying for release that would never come, only pain and an eternal wish that would never be heard. It was utterly delicious to taste such despair and fear lacing through the puffs that came out of her nostrils and mouth, like a dragon that’s ready to set fire to the entire world, to feast on the terror of all those small insignificant beings that walked past her as time stood still. The horrid and bright lights of the lampposts outside her office only increased her need for darkness, to be one with the shadows, to feel the adrenaline coursing through her bloodless veins until her dead heart pounded against her chest in anticipation, or perhaps to lazily stroll through streets that led nowhere simply to feel the sting of heat and cold against her skin for an instant. What a curse it was to be eternally beautiful and yet to be doomed to seek that which was not hers ever to have to calm her ever-growing thirst as she tumbled around the world as if it belonged to her. The ashes from her cigarette fell slowly onto the ground by her feet, swaying and breaking apart before collapsing on the floor like a sandcastle of consumed lives, like embers that were flashing their last orange flames before being snatched away by death, forgotten by the world, but not Avis. Never Avis.

She was a patient woman, someone who always got what she wanted and never apologised for getting it, but even with her perfection there was one detail she despised above everything else, her one and only regret. Decades past by, humans died and were born and from all those people that grew and crossed her path she could only feast of the bodies of men and the languid and virginal bodies of women, pretty dainty things untouched, unblemished by sin, an occurrence that was diminishing her supply of blood as the decades went by, as her cigarette became nothing between her perfect red lips. But even in her patience Avis was a powerful being, something far more impressive and important than those boys Ernie so willingly provided for her to satiate her hunger for passion and sex as much as her hunger for their flesh, and in that power she had bent rules and laws in her favour seeking something that up until a few months ago she had been unsure what it was. That smell, pure as the first specks of oxygen that had kissed the Earth, sweet as the first drops of honey that Spring brought, rich as the most expensive wine Avis had ever tasted, had welcomed her on a quiet and simply boring Monday morning, followed by the perfect image of a saint.

Hair neatly brushed and braided, cheeks rosy by the morning cold, not an inch of your skin spoilt in any way, pale and oh so enticing. The instant her oak eyes had landed on your form, hungry for everything that made you so utterly perfect, she had made it her mission to get you as close to her as possible, no matter what, not caring what others thought. She was a widow, a rich and gorgeous woman mature enough to know what she desired and how to get it, and stupid young kids who judged her with their fearful eyes wouldn’t stop her. She could make them all disappear in one long delicious rampage and get new people to work for her, after all Ace Studios was the best place in which to make ones, dreams come true. Or nightmares.

Every single detail had been set to lure you in, slowly drive you insane with lust until you begged her to take you but somehow everything had either failed or seemed to you like a lovely caring touch, a fact that had driven Avis insane with anger and frustration. Every single time your eyes had tenderly looked at her and thanked her only to totally miss the point had ended up with Avis fucking one of her boys to death. Literally. It wasn’t only the roughness with which she played with them, biting, scratching, choking them until they were on the verge of passing out as she rode them fast and hard, pouncing and fucking them until she was pleased, no matter how many times that could be, draining them until they were merely puppets in her perfectly manicured hands, her tongue licking every wound she had inflicted on their bodies, showing the gentleness she had foregone throughout the entire exchange until she grew tired of having them in her bed and quickly devoured them, blood staining her mouth and body as she let her lust and thirst mix in a perfect dance of sex and horror with which she satisfied herself one last time without fail.

But lately Ernie had been lacking boys that could withstand Avis’s energy, her body begging for blood, and yet she controlled herself, keeping tabs on you and making sure to get rid of any male eyes that fell on you, ripping them out without mercy, so angry that she had forgone her ritual and simply disposed of them. You might be too pure and innocent to notice her advances but everyone in that fucking place better know that you were hers or she would rip them all to pieces in the most gruesome sight of blood and flesh anyone could ever imagine. All for you. The cigarette in her lips had long died as she sat on her leather chair contemplating her options, thinking about what she was going to do with you because for the first time you had flirted, a giggle as sweet as anything Avis had ever had in her entire life and it would have been exquisite to let that sound fuck her under her clothes but it had not been directed at her. Some secretary or whatnot had caught your eye, and you had laughed at her mediocre jokes even when Avis was only a few feet from you, and that simple action, the sight of you all pure and saintly so close to the line of perversion was something she was not willing to take.

Between her index finger and her thumb, she put out the cigarette butt, the glass ashtray glinting under the horrid white lights, the entire office submerged in shadows that Avis longed to be in, to drag you with her and show you exactly where you belonged. To rip you from the “right” path and make sure you never forgot who your mistress was, your Goddess and the only person you should ever worship and sacrifice yourself to. Her acute hearing could make out the silence in the entire floor, the last person having left over ten minutes ago, making your little car one of the very few that were still in the lot, and therefore making it perfect for Avis to simply slip into your tiny cubicle and make a few suggestions. No, Avis thought as the plan formed in her head, her mind calculating and placing everything neatly in their rightful spot, hands pressed against each other as they rested against her lips, eyes narrowing and dilating. Suggestion shad been failing her in all these weeks, she would not waste any more energy on seemingly stupid seemly touches when it was clear your innocent mind was not picking on them. Time had always been on her side, but tonight it was an enemy, an hourglass that was running out of the thin and fine element, giving Avis the push she needed to turn the tables on her favour, to stop playing it safe and finally win the game.

After all the prize was far too sublime and tempting for her not to take it. Graceful as a tender April breeze she stood from her chair, her fingers tracing the edge of the wood of her desk as she rounded it, her black heels echoing against the walls with each step she took, the floor smooth under her soles. Even after she had finished her cigarette the air seemed to be foggy, filled with rivulets of thick smoke, or maybe it was the lust clouding her mind, she could not figure it out, not did she want to waste time on such a trivial task when there were far more important things to address, her eyes raking over every item in her office as she prepared herself for what was to be a delicious night. This room was a far cry from how it had looked when her husband had been alive, depressive, far too masculine for a man who could not keep up with Avis in the slightest, though she had made sure to keep a souvenir from him before his death, a tiny detail in a glass jar that hid in the depths of her desk. She had made sure he would never cheat on her again, watching in horrific delight the way his eyes widened in terror when she had ripped his dick off, basking in his pain and his despair before she grew tired of his screams. Oh, poor Mrs. Amberg who had to see her husband dead as she arrived home, crying fake tears and becoming the richest woman in the entire state in under a few hours. She had had half a mind to display her trophy, but it held more meaning for her where it rested.

She had not noticed the smile that had broken from her lips, dangerous, white teeth glinting under the mix of moonlight and lamplights, observing the trinkets she had been given throughout the decades, hoping to add you that her ever growing collection, although there was part of her that wanted to keep you for longer than she had with any other pet. Maybe if you proved yourself to her, you wouldn’t be a pet at all. Destiny seemed to be on her side tonight and had listened to her thoughts and pleas, as in a sudden and surprised move every light outside the lot turned off, a few sparks flying as if the electricity had suddenly spiked, pitch black darkness enfolding Avis and filling up every inch of the room, her body thriving in the feeling of the shadows that caressed her skin, her head lulled back in delight as her hands brushed against the sides of her body tasting the positively intoxicating flavour of secrets and filth that hid under the pretence of night. A predator can hunt better when its prey cannot see them, and a woman could give in to her pleasures when there are no unworthy eyes to observe her.

Her sense of hearing and smell weren’t the only thing that had improved since she had been turned decades ago, her vision had adapted and in the still of the night there was no soul she could not see, no poor unfortunate fool that she would not have, though she could grant you the tenderness that she never provided for anyone else if she so desired. A glass of scotch had been sitting on top of her desk for the last two hours as she planned, forgotten as the ice slowly melted, but now it was picked up and downed in one go, the burning sensation that travelled through her mouth and down her throat soothing the human doubts that sometimes would slither their way into her mind. Compassion, guilt, maybe even regret, but she was too old and too used to how cruel the world was to let anyone, not even her old self, make her feel bad for the things she had done and would continue doing. If she had been stripped of all her humanity against her will once upon a time, she would take advantage of it for her own gain not caring who got hurt. She could not die; it was of no concern to her what happened to those she sent on their merry way to Hell.

Picking up her purse and making her way to the big doors, she was sure to pick up her stole, draping it over her shoulder with one quick motion that fell perfectly over her clothes, like a rehearsed move that was meant to perhaps surprise someone, but in truth the only thing she wore to make people gasp, stumble on their words and beg for her permission to touch her was her underwear. Every morning, she dressed to fuck, then chose an outfit to kill and arranged herself to bewitch, and never had that process failed her. Humanity had failed her, and she was going to take revenge on them tonight.  It was borderline delirious to see all those innocent faces filled with lust and agony when she undressed, when she gave them the opportunity to touch her, to please her, always under her command and never taking liberties, always showing Avis a good time. But it was even more sublime to see the terror when in all her naked glory, still sweaty and dripping cum onto the hotel bedsheets or her own Egyptian linens, she feasted on their sweet, tainted blood, almost as good as all the orgasms she drowned in.

The last time she had a boy had been three weeks prior, which was all the more reason why she was walking out of her office, locking the doors and heading towards the lift partially wondering if there had been a power outage and she would have to take the stairs. Thankfully the button turned on as she pressed it, leaving her standing there waiting, tracing every step of her master plan in her mind, imagining the moment she would make you hers, ruining your virginal body in ways only she could. What a sight it will be when she has the perfect mix of your blood and your arousal on her tongue, crimson rivers falling from her mouth and down her neck until they get smeared all over her chest and collarbones as she thrives in her lust, perhaps your blood even dripping from her nipples in slow teardrops as her naked body lays covered in that bright red liquid, Avis watching all that pristine skin marked by her lips in bruises and by her teeth in bites, forever tainted. Ruined. God, she could not wait to rip that angelic façade and find what depraved little creature laid underneath for her to fuck until you could not remember your own name. She had gone so long without a woman it was a visceral need now, raw, maddening, primeval, and she would show you.

You worked on the second floor, three doors down from the lift, right beside a council room that only her husband used to use, a boring, utterly hideous place that made her want to vomit every time she set foot in it. She had been meaning to remodel it, but her mind had been far too preoccupied by you and your obliviousness that it had slipped her mind, though after tonight she might have all the time in the world to think about such things. Once you were dealt with. From the lift she could make out the soft melodies of conversations, fading in the night as your heart pumped in a relaxed, steady rhythm, the only sound left in that entire floor, lights turned off except for the hallway that led to your tiny cubicle. She had thought of several ways in which to tackle this, from simply taking you without mercy over your desk to taking you to dinner, in a fake attempt to woo you, but after considering everything, she came to the conclusion, there was no need for such brutality nor such romance. If you gave yourself completely to her there would be plenty of time for both, but if you didn’t… Let’s just say that Avis knew how to inflict pain as much as she could give pleasure, and she would not hesitate to punish you if the opportunity arose.

Flickering fluorescent lights bathed her fiery hair in disgusting artificial beams that could not make justice to the sight of Avis under the sun, simply breathtaking in the morning light as dawn broke through the horizon taking all the monstrosities of the night with the last sparkling stars, but the moment in which your eyes had settled on her form, and had drank in every inch of her when she wasn’t looking, was at dusk. There was something so mysterious and perfect when the golden light of the evening dressed her body in melted silks of diamonds and rubies only to be dressed in a perpetual gown of darkness and moonlight moments after, every star in her eyes, every secret about to spill from her lips.  You weren’t blind, you had seen her the moment you had set foot in this place, and a quiet voice had been telling you ever since that there was something more about Mrs. Amberg, something dangerous, something you could not quite pinpoint but that had you on the edge of your seat every time she talked with you which apparently was odd in itself.

This breathtaking woman, who filled the entire building with her presence, her confidence and her power, was giving her whole attention to you and no one else. Apparently seeing her around was a rare occurrence, a miracle some would say; she worked but never ate with the rest of the executives, never engaged in conversation with anyone but Mr. Samuels and Ms. Kincaid and kept pretty much to herself during the day. At night though Avis transformed into a completely different person. Rumours of deadly parties, of people that had crossed her and disappeared, of rituals she did to look as beautiful as she did spread like wildfire at the most random of times, and ever since you had arrived your name had floated through the halls like a curse. Avis Amberg didn’t give her sole attention to one person unless there was some sort of benefit she desired, people thought, a fact that wasn’t too far off from the truth, but Avis had had many virgins in her life and never had she met someone like you. A perfect and rare specimen that she would have for herself for all eternity, no one else allowed to claim your body and soul.

And part of you knew that. A small, tiny part of your brain that seemed to know what was going on but that it was far too small and quiet to be heard, warnings and pleas falling on deaf ears. You might have been oblivious to her advances, choosing to believe she was being kind instead of wanting to further your status from acquaintances to friends, or more, and as you worked alone at your desk you should have known that had been the mistake. You had been so engrossed in your typing, the clicking of the keys hitting the paper, echoing in the air, bouncing off the windows and closed doors as Avis’s footsteps were muffled by the carpeted floors, preventing you from hearing her approach you. But she could hear almost every cell in your body moving, your blood flowing and pumping through your veins making her mouth water, her tongue tracing the shape of her teeth, caressing her fangs gently in anticipation. She hadn’t felt such a thrill in a long time, and it was intoxicating to feel so ready to play, to wonder just how delicious you might be.

-Working late I see. – a quiet yelp escaped you, your hand rushing to your chest as your heart skipped a beat in fear at the interruption, the pencil you had had on your other hand slipping from your hand and rolling over your desk onto the ground, the sound soft as it collided with the tiles. Your head had jerked upwards to see Avis standing there, her hands toying with the fingers of her red gloves and she rested her body on the wall of your cubicle, her upper arm and shoulder pressed firmly over the smooth paint. You hadn’t seen her all day, almost missing her daily check-in before lunch or the random visits to observe you without uttering a word, just so her deep, rich eyes would fall on your form as her lips quirked into a wicked smile. – A pretty young thing like you should not be staying here, alone, at this time. Anyone could come in here and make indecent proposals to you, doll.

-I… Good evening, Mrs. Amberg. I… I was just finishing this report. I was going to leave in a few minutes.

-So much can happen in a few minutes. The night is a dangerous moment for any poor soul to be alone. – her body moved so slowly, her hips swaying from side to side as the fabric of her outfit hugged her figure, approaching your desk knowing perfectly that you would not run away. Never before had you seen clothes like this on her, a blouse bathed in black lace with a plunging neckline that allowed her black corselette underneath to peek through the red velvet. And as unusual as this outfit was, you could not say that the mix of black and red did not suit her. With each step the black velvet that draped over her legs, long and nearly brushing the ground, flowed like water around her curvy hips, pieces of rich oxblood red made out of translucent silk giving you glimpses of the skin underneath, of the nude stockings that covered her flesh. For a moment you thought that your mind was playing tricks on you, the roses embroidered on the skirt seeming to move in a sea of climbing flowers around her legs as the space between you became less and less, but it wasn’t that what made a red hue appear on your skin, it was the fact that through that silk, that beautifully expensive fabric, you could see the top of her stockings, the black lace that wrapped around her thigh and made your mind reel. Avis picked up like clockwork the way in which your once steady heart now beat nearly at double the speed, hammering against your ribs.

-It’s safe in here, and I don’t walk home Mrs. Amberg.

-Nowhere is truly safe doll. Has no one ever told you that?

-If it isn’t safe, why are you still here, ma’am?

-Because of pretty young things like you. Nothing can hurt me, but so many things can happen to you. – she was practically hovering over your desk, the embroideries around her breasts roses that had small rubies threaded in between them, like drops of blood that fell as one’s hands were prickled by the thorns. It was even more beautiful to see it so close, to almost feel the warm, soft fabric that hugged her waist, wishing you could undo the buttons on the front and see for yourself what truly hid underneath. Rumours had been floating around Hollywood for years of scars she carried, of images of deities she had imprinted on her skin, symbols that tainted her very soul and in your curious nature you wanted to see if she was unblemished and fair as you thought or if the world had been right all along. And if her freckled kissed skin was anything to go by, plump breasts begging to be released from in between their velvet and lace prison, you were pretty sure you had an early start on the race. The touch of her fingertips on your chin as she lifted your head slightly sent a jolt of electricity all throughout your body, but you didn’t dare move, didn’t dare speak, the contrast of her cold flesh on yours causing goosebumps to rise on your body. – We wouldn’t want anything nor anyone to touch you, would we now?

-No… No ma’am.

-Then be a good girl and get your things. I may have a chore or two for you that need to be completed tonight.

-Ms Kincaid said that all the important reports were made by her or Ms. Stinton.

-They are, but these chores can only be done by you, honey. You don’t want to cross me and upset me, do you? – the tender grip she had had on your chin suddenly became a harsh grab of your face, pulling you closer to her until your body had stood from its chair and was practically bent over the desk, breasts brushing your typewriter. Her eyes were staring at you with a deep sense of want, perhaps the initial stages of lust, her irises somewhat dilated but still allowing you to drown in that exquisite sea of browns that danced before you, singing in perfectly rehearsed voices to lure you deeper and deeper into her spell. You didn’t know then, but in that position with her red lips inches from yours you had already signed to do whatever she desired, given yourself without speaking, all so you could stare at her eyes for all eternity. Avis, being the smart woman she was, knew perfectly well that she had you wrapped around her finger already, but where was the fun when there’s no resistance, no pleadings and apologies? She wanted you to beg for mercy, and she would have it.

-No ma’am.

-Good girl. Get your things, I’m driving you to my place to… fulfil your duties. It’s far too late for me to let you go home all alone.

You were about to retort, mouth slightly agape when her grip on your face hardened, leaving you unable to voice your response, not that she would have let you say no by the way her eyes hardened slightly, narrowing and glancing at your rosy lips. Just that action made you close it, nodding in agreement at a question that was never asked. That seemed to please her, and her fingers loosened on your skin, her smooth tips caressing the reddened flesh she had abused as if she could soothe it. You were so eager to please, so ready to be controlled and broken, hints of fear mixing with your perfume, matching the way your eyes widened and shone in slight alarm. It was delicious to smell such a spicy aroma in the air, almost as terrified as the souls that followed her in the shadows as she walked through the night, their cries music to her ears, their tears the water she used to bathe her body in and soon yours would join them. Unless you proved to be far more rewarding to keep around. Avis’s thumb traced the shape of your lower lip, removing part of the balm you had applied not that long ago, and in a bold move to test the waters she moved her hand away from you, releasing your face at last, and proceeded to lick the translucent product with her tongue, making sure to keep her eyes on yours as she did so. Your body had the expected reaction.

The rush of blood in your body, the way your breath picked up would have been unnoticeable to a normal person, but Avis was far from human or normal, and she thrived in knowing that you were already crumbling when she had barely touched you, barely teased you. God, this was going to be a good night. Your body was frozen on the spot, watching Avis’s every move as the temperature under your skin rose by several degrees, following the shape of her hands, veins prominent on the back, nails trimmed and painted to perfection, an absolutely stunning piece of jewellery glinting in her middle finger that matched her person down to the very last detail. The stone embedded in between a dozen small diamonds and white gold seemed to be the deepest red ruby your eyes had ever seen, and as she moved her hand you could have sworn that you had got a glimpse of a distressed face reflecting off of it, but as soon as you blinked it was gone, leaving only the uneasy feeling that that ruby was more than just a simple stone. Under the flickering and nauseating lights as she hovered over you her hair shone and glowed in flames that framed her gorgeous face and bathed her features, a sea of fire that your fingers longed to touch, longed to be burnt in, her red lips slightly parted, plump, and so very inviting, calling out to you in whispers that licked at the back of your ears. Were your eyes so enthralled that your own mind was playing tricks on your overheated body? Every thread of fabric that dressed her seemed to flow around her like snakes, hugging every curve, hiding her skin and yet giving you glimpses of what you could have, what, as the seconds passed, your body was craving more and more.

Inches away from you, that velvet she wore matched the colour of your blood, deep, rich, but still inside you, rushing through your veins making Avis’s fingers twitch with want, but she had to be patient. With a grace you hadn’t witnessed before Avis straightened on her spot, tall in her shiny black heels, waiting for you to break free from her gaze and start gathering your things, but maybe she hadn’t controlled herself as much as she thought, intoxicating you too much and too early and leaving your body under a spell that you could not break on your own. For an instant she felt a glimpse of regret, maybe it was guilt, but it vanished just as fast as she moved around your desk, your body falling back on your chair of its own accord. There were no barriers between the two of you now, Avis observing your soft blue dress as it gathered around your thighs, your hands shaking softly, holding onto the linen of your gown as your breath picked up, your heart rate almost spiking with each step Avis took towards you, her perfume slamming onto you like a sudden wave that knocked you off your feet, whiffs of florals and a hint of vanilla filling your lungs. Her stole slipped from her shoulder slightly, threatening to fall as she bent her body, palms firmly on the armrests of your chair, her purse and gloves temporarily placed on your desk, allowing her whole body to pay attention to yours. It was a strange sensation to be barely inches from her face and not feel heat emanating from her, not hot breath ghosting over your lips, only cold, but it was a strange cold, one that somehow was filled with life and got a sharper response than any warm caress ever could.

-What is it Ms. Y/S? Why so quiet all of a sudden? Have my words scared you?

-I…

-Shhhh. – with her finger under your chin again she was able to lift your head, tilting it back slightly so that her lips were barely less than an inch from you, your nose smelling the rich carmine that had so neatly been applied throughout the day. How would it look smudged on your lips? Would it taste of her? Your brain could not comprehend these feelings, this visceral need that had grown inside you so quickly but at the same time you could not make it fade, perhaps didn’t have any desire to do so, after all it was well known that Avis Amberg got what she wanted and never took no for an answer. – You don’t have to fear anyone as long as I’m here doll. I’ll protect you… if you behave and don’t upset me. You’ll be a good girl for me, won’t you?

-Y… Yes, ma’am.

-Good girl. Go get your things, and hurry. There’s a lot to do before I release you.

If she did allow you the sweet and eternally damned release of death. Not a single virgin she had ever had had stayed with her, all meeting their demise as soon as their purpose was done, but there was something about you, something so delicious that she could taste it on the tip of her tongue, letting her breath, tainted with scotch, brush your lips before she stood up again readjusting her stole. She had nearly set you ablaze and she seemed so cool, so calm and relaxed, as if she hadn’t just spiked every hormone in your system, your mind clouded, foggy, every thought slow. You could only think of doing what she told you, of obeying her every word until she was pleased, until she praised your willingness to do what she desired, something you had never truly thought about until this very moment, when your entire world shifted from living your lonely life to being anything and everything Avis wanted you to be. As she rounded your desk once again, swaying her hips a little bit more than necessary, you practically sprung from your chair, throwing the cover of your typewriter on without much care, grabbing your white jacket and small purse from the hanger behind you, nearly tripping on a stack of old reports you had no room for. A smirk painted Avis’s lips at your clumsiness, a small chuckle nearly escaping her throat, but she kept it in. You were such a delightfully young and naïve thing.

Even before you had put your jacket on Avis was already stepping out of your cubicle and walking down the hallway towards the lift, your person rushing to turn lamps off and follow her before she could get upset at your lack of speed. A cold cup of coffee would be left on your desk, next to a picture, for whoever came to see you in the morning, only for them to find dust gathering over your forgotten reports and thirsty plants, unsure if you would ever return or be mourned in the early hours of the morning. The picture that presided your desk showed a gorgeous older woman of peppery curls and rich chocolate eyes, that strangely seemed to be twins of Avis’s, dressed in a yellow jacket and the hints of a white blouse underneath, the entire photograph radiating comfort and beauty as the strange woman smiled, a soft smile that stretched her reddish lips slightly. A signature on the right corner said “Yours forevers. Lilia xx”, swallowed by the deep shadows of the night. When Lilia found out about what Avis had done to you all Hell would break loose, two completely different and dangerous worlds colliding, and in that war, you would be in the middle.

The lift opened exactly as you stopped on your tracks beside Avis, the woman glancing at you from the corner of her eye already counting and planning all the things she was going to do to you, every depraved and perverted idea consuming what little control she had with each passing second. It was proving so very difficult not to pounce on you and suck you dry, the craving for your virgin blood nearly maddening, all consuming. Her grip on her gloves and purse nearly turned her knuckles white, inhaling sharply when your arm nearly brushed hers as the lift came to a halt on the ground floor, your perfume, a mix between berries and something sweet that she was unsure whether resembled caramel or vanilla, filling her lungs as her ears counted each beat of your heart, tracing the shape of her fangs in anticipation. With a loud ding that echoed in the mostly empty lobby Avis didn’t bother to wait for you, simply headed towards the entrance doors knowing that you would follow, that she had you wrapped around her perfect finger, and you would never stray from her side. Under her spell, her voice bouncing in your head “You’ll be a good girl for me, won’t you?”, every ounce of free will had vanished from your body, your steps quick to keep up with Avis’s confident strides, your eyes following the shape of her spine over the velvet of her blouse, mesmerised by the way her skirt hugged her ass to such detail that you were almost sure you could see the garters of her stockings through the red embroidered roses, your mind jealous of each thread that dressed her.

The night air was slightly chilly, colder than you had expected after the heat of the day but to Avis it was the perfect weather, that gentle breeze caressing her skin with tender invisible fingers in that way only someone like her could feel. She had been a bride of darkness when she first got turned, scared, confused and so very lost but now she was longer that stupid little thing, she was its only wife, and she demanded and yearned for every touch and kiss it would grant her knowing that there was no one more powerful than her. Feeling the tender kiss of night on her red lips she smiled softly, thriving in the fact that you had to stay close to her while she walked towards her Cadillac, allowing herself to study you without you being able to see her, from your angelic face to the way your breasts bounced with each step you took. It was delicious and Avis almost craved for that sweet fog that would hide you both from the world, no disturbances annoying her while she devoured you, in every single sense, in the middle of the parking lot. But she supposed that the pitch blackness that was bathing the city allowing the shadows of lonely ghosts and souls to roam free to pave Avis’s way, was enough, a warning that she had to be patient as you’d be far sweeter when she had you in her bed and not over dirty concrete.

It would be a lie to say that you weren’t scared, the trek you were so very used to from the building to your car now a sea of nothing that consumed every spot of light your eyes could see, making every step you took unsteady, terrified even, but you had to trust Avis. She seemed to know exactly where she was going and you could not afford to get lost in this darkness; no one would ever find you again, and so you kept your body as close to hers as possible without touching her, keeping a moderate distance that wouldn’t make her feel imprisoned, almost crashing into her the moment she halted her walk, your hands clinging to your jacket and muttering apologies that were far too quiet for anyone to hear, but Avis did, and she smirked, her teeth shining in the night as if they had a light of their own. Avis’s skilled fingers pulled the keys to her beautiful Cadillac out of her black purse, working quickly on opening it, pulling the door and bending to flick the headlights on as the smell of your fear nearly overwhelmed her senses. She adored it but not when it overshadowed everything else that she wanted to taste phantomly on her tongue. As the bright beams bathed the ground and everything on a six feet radius your mind calmed its raging thoughts, eyes falling on Avis’s form as she was still bent partially inside the car, the fabric of her skirt taunt, nearly stretching the seams to the point in which you thought it might burst, firmly clinging to her round ass.

Everything was falling into place, a set of dominos crumbling under the steady weight of her heeled foot, watching in gleeful delight as each step performed just as expected, her power, the lust that flowed through her veins every hour of every day intoxicating you, making your mind hers as the clock ticked by. Your body would bend and break for her. Even though she found your reactions sublime she was finding it harder and harder to control her needs, and with no time to waste she pushed herself upright, turned to look at you and simply gestured with her head to the passenger seat, and thankfully you picked up on it quickly and rushed to the other side of the car, stumbling on your own feet. That eagerness did bring a laugh out of Avis, a sound deep and rumbling that echoed in the night like a perfectly tuned orchestra that played ancient organs under the dark clouds that hid the full moon, her head lulled back as her frame shook slightly for a moment. So adorable, so different from the other girls she had had, perhaps if you performed as she wanted you to, she’d keep you around.

Settling herself behind the wheel she pulled out her gold cigarette case from her purse before throwing it in the space between the two of you, her stole flying to the back seat without a care, the hood of the car off to enjoy the crisp air of the night. The red carmine stained the butt of her cigarette, turning her face to look at you while raising an eyebrow, asking without speaking, perhaps even demanding, for you to light it, your trembling hands grabbing her purse and looking for her gold lighter observing briefly the tube of lipstick, a handkerchief with red stains, a small bottle of perfume and a load of cash that was far more you had ever seen in your entire life, finding the lighter in a small pocket. Your hands shook as you lifted them, the flame flickering dangerously close to Avis’s face, but she steadied you as her cold flesh wrapped around your fingers, holding you still, and letting the cigarette burn between her lips. That first puff of smoke, the taste of nicotine and tobacco, tempered her system, calming her needy body slightly as her gaze locked onto yours, letting the smoke escape her mouth and nostrils in a big thick cloud but not before she blowed the last few rivulets your way, the swirls caressing your skin as your eyes fluttered closed for a moment. How could such a thing smell just so like her, sweet and addictive, as if she was breathing part of her own self in your direction?

You hadn’t even noticed, lost in your own world, how Avis has slid closer to you, her face inches form yours, tempted to brush her lips over yours but deciding against it after a moment, simply granting you the ghostly touch of her cigarette in your mouth, your eyes shooting open when you tasted her carmine and saliva, breathing in that deep tobacco that coursed through Avis’s veins, almost tasting her scotch on your tongue. If your body had been inadvertently fighting against her spell it was no longer bothering, the salty aroma of your arousal finally reaching Avis’s nostrils. Sharp as a blade she took her cigarette back, her nails raking over your jaw and neck as her pupils dilated, red angry marks painting your skin before she turned the engine off and backed out of her spot towards the gates, leaving you stunned, highly worked up and frozen in your seat. Your breath was hitched in your lungs holding onto the smoke without realising it, feeling the vibrations of the engine as Avis manoeuvred expertly through the gates and down the road, one hand on the wheel while the other held her cigarette, the radio playing a soft song that you couldn’t truly make out as the car sped down the street.

It was such a strange sight to see Hollywood in the dark, not even the moonlight daring to break through the clouds, like something out of a horror movie. No one out in the streets, even though it was summer, no music floating through the air as doors opened, the expected broken songs from clubs not even daring to slip through the cracks of the old buildings, afraid that the delicate balance that had settled over the city would shatter, taking everyone in its apocalyptic destruction. There was something so eerie about how things were developing, how the night was unfolding in a succession of occurrences that seemed too exact to be coincidences and yet there was no one to blame but the universe, the relative randomness of these things falling in no one’s hands. Though it didn’t make s feel any better. There were no lights even inside the houses, as if the entire world had gone dark, the only source of light coming from the cars that would pass Avis’s as she drove, completely relaxed, smoking her cigarette and letting the puffs of grey clouds bathe her face before they vanished into the air, the radio sounding more like static than actual voices. It was almost like a warning sign that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand, but you could not turn back now, not that you wanted to. Being with Avis was giving you a sense of safety and protection that you were sure no one else could ever give you, her body commanding the night as if she owned it, as if it owed her and would never mess with her.

From between two clouds the gentle rays of silver moonlight set the town alight, easing your fears for an instant or two, and allowing you to stare unabashed at your companion’s face. If ever should you say Avis Amberg wasn’t a stunning, gorgeous, breathtaking woman your eyes had been lost to a world where there was nothing worth living for, something from which you would never recover and that demanded death, because the day she was created every God in the universe, every entity, every fleck of matter that floated in between black holes had collided and exploded in a dance of particles that had sculped her. Every angel that had shaped her face and body had cut their hands off afterwards so there would never be a most exquisite work of art in this world. Unbeknownst to you though, eternity had given her the touch of immortal beauty that would never fade, never wilt. Avis was forever still in time, watching as others shrivelled and passed while she drank a glass of wine in her rich world built in a bubble of blood and stranded souls.  And now, if she had it her way, you would either live with her inside it or accompany all those whom she had killed before, and something in the back of your head was extremely aware of such a fact.

Avis could have told you to stare ahead, to make watch the shadows of all the houses and palm trees that the Cadillac’s headlights, along with the moonlight, let you see only for a brief moment, but the fact that your attention was on her, so deeply attached to her form, your heart beating hard against your ribs as your gaze never strayed from her, she could  not find it in her to deny you such pleasure. She was breaking so many rules tonight, allowing you to do things that she would never even think of allowing to one of her boys to do, things she had most certainly never let any of her girls even think about, but she wasn’t displeased with your eagerness to adore her. She had not forgotten your flirting though, and she had many, many plans to ensure that no other human would ever cross your mind, not even for a second. She wanted to be inside your head, inside your blood, to make you an addict and never let you live without her, your soul dependent of every single inch of her body, for her love, her pain and her desire. And the best way to start was by letting you look at her, drink her in and practically stamp her profile with fire into your brain.

Invisible fingers traced her shape of those perfect curls that frame her forehead, the breeze that formed as the car sped down the street not even touching a single strand, as if the air around you feared her and refused to touch her unless she desired it. Under the moonlight her ginger locks looked like stunning seas of rubies that were threaded through every single hair strand, matching the deep blood gems that decorated her collarbone and fingers, making you wonder if they would be soft in your hands, if her body would be truly cold if she was on top of you. Her long eyelashes fluttered open and closed with each blink, but it seemed to you as if the entire world had gone slow, every breath and movement suddenly taking centuries when they used to take seconds. Perhaps you were drunk already, inhibited simply by her, but you could not find the power to speak, to voice your concerns or to simply compliment her, your eyes kept watching how drops of silver moonlight fell from her lashes into her chocolate eyes, taking you back to a moment when instead of ginger curls there had been peppery ringlets in between your fingers. Still Avis was the only woman you could focus on, Lilia a million miles away from this very moment, pushed to the back of your mind like a forgotten thought, making your heart constrict and sting as if Avis’s hand was wrapped around it, her palm squeezing, her nails digging deep and making you bleed. 

You could imagine her licking the crimson liquid from her palm as she stared at you, as she held your still beating heart like a prize, knowing that she had you at her mercy. Avis swerved the car to the right, sending your body closer to hers, your left hand on the back of the seats, nearly touching her shoulder while your right hand shot towards the dashboard. From the corner of her eye, she saw the way your gaze travelled to her legs, the satin allowing you to see the lace of her stockings closer, your knee inches away from her. In that moment, your breath held in your lungs, she turned her head slightly to watch you, a smirk painting her lips after taking a long drag from her cigarette, the smoke puffing out of her nostrils.  God, every inch of her skin was sublime, her red lips begging for you to get closer, her rosy cheeks asking you’re your fingers to touch her, but it was her eyes, her utterly beautiful eyes, that were speaking to you, ordering you to not to a thing unless she gave you express permission. And so, you sat there, inches from her, your body temperature skyrocketing to a point that you were wondering if steam was coming off of your skin, aching in your core and wishing she would speak, tell you exactly what she wanted you your restless hands could finally do what they were practically begging to do.

Avis could already smell you, sending shivers of arousal all over her body, her foot stepping on the gas a bit more to get her mansion as fast as possible, growing restless and feeling how there were only a few threads keeping her control at bay. Flicking her cigarette out the window her eyes returned to the road, her house only a couple of streets away, feeling your body moving away from her to return to your previous place but she didn’t want that. Her hand shot to grab your thigh, stopping you in your tracks. It startled you just how cold her hands were against your scorching body, but it was a delicious contrast. As you two got closer to Avis’s place the headlights of her car dimmed, leaving the silvery glow of the moon to bathe her face almost exclusively, rivers of platinum tracing the shape of her gorgeous nose and kissing her lips, bright red mixing with silver. The engine slowed down in front of a set of big metal gates that were slightly opened, almost as if someone had been waiting for you both, the hood of Avis’s Cadillac pushing them open gently until there was enough room for her to drive through and park on her specified spot. And in all that time her hand had never lifted from your thigh, ensuring you stayed put.

Had you not been under her spell you would have noticed the front of Avis’s gorgeous house, the pillars, the neatly trimmed bushes and trees, the expensive fabrics of her curtains shining under the headlights for an instant before the car was turned off. Now there was nothing but darkness, no source of light to protect you, just the feeling of Avis’s touch on your leg to reassure you that you weren’t alone, that you would not be at the mercy of any horrid creatures that might be lurking in the night, your boss, the woman that had been trying to get your attention for weeks, shielding you. And it felt good. She was there when others had stayed behind, when the tender touch of hands filled with rings was nothing more than a ghostly sensation in the back of your mind, peppery curls and the perfect smell of incense somewhere in an apartment that you could only vaguely recall. Moonlight briefly vanished from the world, the sky cloudy, threatening storms approaching, and it was then, in that thick darkness that Avis’s hand travelled to your inner thigh, her body closer than ever before, velvet touching flesh, cold breath that no longer smelled of scotch, only nicotine, caressing your ear.

-You are going to do so well for me. Put in all the work I want, will you?

-Ye… Yes.

-Such a good girl. I have one rule that you must follow at all times, if you fail to do so, I will punish you. Severely.

-I understand. – her perfume was making you dizzy, lust seeping from every pore in her body, clawing and getting under your skin, fuelling the need for her even more, your underwear ruined at this point. Drenched practically and she had barely touched you. – What is the rule ma’am?

-The moment we cross the threshold of my house I won’t be Mrs. Amberg or ma’am anymore. Tonight, you take care of mama, tomorrow, she might take care of you.

And with that the wheels were set in motion. It was a dream the way Avis’s lips landed on your cheek in a gentle and short peck, her skin finally making contact with yours, and although her mouth was as cold as her hands, they left the imprint of fire on your flesh. In an instant the moment had ended, and just like that she was stepping out of the car, tracing her lips with her tongue to savour the taste of your skin, an appetiser of sorts, hints of what was to come. You sat there, frozen until you heard the click of the passenger door opening, her silhouette visible under the moonlight that had finally escaped from in between the clouds, her curves glowing under silver beams, her neck and cleavage drawing your eyes from where she had been sitting only moments before, claiming your full attention. There would never be a sweeter moment than the instant you begin to peel all those gorgeous clothes off of her, needing to know what laid underneath. Stumbling slightly, you stepped out of the car, following Avis towards the house as soon as she locked the car, her hips swaying from side to side far more than was needed, but you weren’t going to complain. 

The front doors seemed heavy, but Avis pulled her keys out of her purse and pushed them open with very little effort, stepping to the side to let you go in first. Should you actually step inside? There was a quiet voice in the back of your head telling you not to but her eyes, her goddammed eyes were telling you to follow her, to walk into her arms and you could not fight them, you needed to drown in them, fall so deep inside Avis that you would never ever be able to escape. So, against every coherent thought you stepped inside, the door closing with a screech until the thunderous sound of wood shutting and keys turning told you that there was no escape, not anymore. You did not have time to explore, to observe the grandiose hallway you stood in, not that you would be able to when everything was pitch black, before your body was pressed forcefully against the doors, hands on your hips, fingers digging so hard through your clothes, you were sure there would be bruises there in the morning. Avis’s body was completely moulded to yours, her breasts squashed against your chest practically spilling from her velvet blouse as her face moved until it was inches from yours, her lips brushing your skin in such featherlight touches that she was drawing goosebumps all over. Berry perfume filled her lungs, but it wasn’t overwhelming, not when she could practically smell your blood under your skin.

-It is so rare to find someone like you.

-Li… like me? – your knees buckled slightly when you felt her hips pressing against yours, her hands slowly travelling over your lower back towards your ass to pull you closer, feeling every layer that she was wearing underneath her skirt.

-Untouched. Pure. I would almost say that you were innocent, but I wouldn’t buy my own lie. I’m sure your mind is full of depraved images, isn’t it?

-I…

-Don’t be shy. Tell me. – for a moment your mind could not even begin to register her words, not when her lips were pecking under your ear, licking the skin of your jawline, but in the end you managed to pull yourself together enough to let one single fantasy escape your throat, your hands pressed firmly against the doors as you had not been granted permission to touch Avis. – Tell mama what you have imagined doing with her.

-To watch… to watch as you fuck me mama. To see us in a mirror as you fuck me.

-Is that so? Fuck, it’s always the innocent ones, isn’t it?

No other words were uttered after that, no, Avis simply grabbed your hand and pulled you with her towards the stairs, your feet stumbling slightly over the tiles as the speed at which she was moving was almost too fast for you. The fingers that were wrapped around your wrist was definitely going to leave bruises, but you were lost already and would watch as Avis ripped you open and feasted on your body if she so desired, and would never even consider complaining, though what she was going to do to you would be consider borderline torture. Walking up the stairs was a chore when your eyes were adjusting to the dark, trying to make out the way her ass was moving with each step while also fighting your clumsiness, avoiding narrowly falling down the stairs a couple of times. Reaching the landing was a miracle but you didn’t have time to catch your breath before you were being rushed into a bedroom, every item around you blurry, barely shapes when your eyes could not stray from her. Your body could not stay upright when she pushed you quickly into what you assumed was the mistress bedroom, falling to your knees close to the foot of the bed, your hands scraping on the carpet.

The sound of a faint click had barely been audible as you winced and tried to see if you had injured yourself on the fall, but you sure heard Avis’s heels over the tiles, each step slow, far too slow, calculated almost and the fact that your back was to her sent shivers of anticipation and fear down your back. What on Earth did she have in mind? Did she want you on your knees at her feet? Carefully you turned your body, crawled to see her, and for some reason what your eyes met left you breathless. Not a single window was covered by its curtains, beams of moonlight drowning the room in silver halos that bathed her body, fingers with perfect manicured nails toying with each button on the front of her blouse, right underneath her bust, walking towards you over waves of platinum and rubies, the three feet that separated you vanishing inch by inch, exactly the same way velvet unwrapped form her body when the corselette she was wearing underneath began to make itself known, peeking and caressing her ample breasts. Your heart was rushing so fast you feared it might escape your chest, and you were positive she was hearing it and thriving on the fact that she could terrify you and excite you equally, your veins enlarged as your blood sped through your body.

She had been barely a foot from you when you made the stupid decision to try and stand, thinking that she would want to be face to face with you, but she had no desire to see you any other place that on your knees. The sole of her heel met the fabric of your dress and part of your skin when she placed it on your chest, the strength on her leg keeping you in place, black polished stilettos stepping on you, keeping you in your rightful place, one hand leaving her blouse to grab the hem of her skirt. Velvet and silk slid over her shin, caressing her knee and the soft flesh of her thigh, letting your eyes feast on her nude stockings and the skin underneath, although your eyes did drift under her skirt and in between her legs. Your mouth became dry. Was your brain playing tricks on you or was she not wearing anything? The fabric had gathered around her thigh, almost right above the lace of her stockings, hiding her from you, leaving you unable to answer your own question, the need to know, to see for yourself growing with each passing second, but she made no effort to move the skirt any further. Instead, she bent forward to make her point clearer, her breasts nearly spilling form the top of her corselette, velvet caressing the sides of her bosom.

-Did I tell you you could stand? – your throat was dry, like sandpaper, your vocal cords refusing to cooperate with you and make a sound, perhaps for the best. You shook your head, knees digging onto the wrinkles of the rug, hands pressed against the ground on each side of you as your gaze drifted from her foot, following the shape of her leg all the way to her chest, tracing invisible steps up her collarbone to her face. – Then be a good girl and never, ever, take liberties. I command you, you breath for me when I tell you to, you bleed if I wish it, you will spread yourself if I so desire it and if you don’t comply, I will make sure you regret it. Have I made myself clear?

With one single nod the stern look that had painted her lips vanished, mouth smirking, letting your eyes catch a glimpse of her white fangs that shone under the silver moonlight, her fingers caressing your cheeks, nails leaving red, angry trails over your skin. Part of Avis wanted to pepper kisses over your unblemished flesh, to memorise every inch of it until the only thing in her mind was you, but there was part that wanted to shred it to pieces, to unravel you like a ribbon and see the perverted creature that laid underneath because there was a feeling in her dead. Her cold heart that was telling her you were far less innocent that she had been led to believe. Not when you had flirted with that stupid girl and she could smell the kisses of a woman she knew very well on your cheeks, her perfume lingering lightly on your clothes. She hadn’t noticed at first, far too focused on enchanting you, but when she had caught a glimpse of that picture on your desk, and your perfume gave away to hints of Lilia’s her need to claim you, to ruin you and steal you grew even stronger, it wasn’t a simple want anymore, it was a need that made her bones ache and there was only one way to sooth it.

-May… May I touch, mother?

-Such a well-behaved child. You may touch me. Please mother.

Her wish was your command. Her body straightened even if her foot didn’t leave your chest, a dull pressure over your breasts from where the heel was digging slightly but it didn’t bother you. Gentle fingers began to caress the silk of her stockings around the arch of her foot, the polished black shoe cold against your skin when your hand brushed it slowly, your palms around Avis’s ankle. Her calves were muscular but still held a softness that made your heart ache, your body bending without you even realising it, your lips ghosting over her shins, small freckles visible under the silk, your eyes pleading with Avis’s oak ones, asking for permission. Her hand on your hair was all the affirmation you needed, kissing her body slowly, perhaps too slowly for her liking but she wanted to know how far you could get before she had to take charge of the situation. One single drop of control on your lips was all she was willing to give you.

Every touch was so soft, so caring that Avis wondered if you actually could ever match her temper or if you were so weak that she would be able to do as she pleased with you over and over and you would never complain, always taking everything she was willing to give you, always swallowing your pride and letting her use you like a sex toy for her own amusement and release. The idea wasn’t unappealing at all, she thought, as your kisses trailed higher, towards her knee, your hands massaging her thighs, fingering the lace at the top of her stockings, toying with the garter that connected with the corselette. Your heart hammered so fast against your ribs as your hands trailed higher and higher that you feared you might have a heart attack, perhaps slightly in fear of what she would do if you overstepped, but you kept going. It was surprising just how soft the lace was, perhaps it had been handmade, you could not be sure, and knowing just how rich Avis was, you wouldn’t put it past her. Even the rug you were kneeling on was as expensive as your whole apartment.

In your current position with her foot on your chest you could not quite give her the treatment she deserved, so without asking you lifted it and placed it on your shoulder, an action that made Avis’s brows lift in surprise, lips turning into a smirk. One mistake, well, well, well, how many could you accumulate before the consequences turned severe? How many before Avis had you on all fours on the ground with your hands tied to the bedpost? You were just giving it to her on a silver platter. Her breathes became a tad bit faster when your fingers pulled the lace down a little, giving your lips a bigger surface to kiss as you pecked above her knee all the way to midthigh, turning your head enough that the first real contact with her skin was the softest flesh you had ever felt in your life, her olive-kissed skin perfectly covered in the smallest freckles you had ever seen cold under your lips but you could not find it in you to care. You were kissing Avis Amberg’s inner thighs, and she was letting you, her fingers rubbing on your scalp as she closed her eyes, thriving on these sensations that she hadn’t felt in so long. Her boys were good for one thing, but they lacked tenderness, her girls were far too innocent to actually know what to do without guidance. You were a most wonderful surprise, one that was perhaps too curious for her own good as your hands moved under her skirt, touching her hip and lifting the fabric enough for your eyes to see beneath velvet and silk.

Oh, fuck! This glamorous woman that spent every day surrounded by people, mainly young boys who thought they could get in her bed to aim higher in the industry, this woman that had had three meetings with producers today, who had gone down to check on a couple of films while surrounded by pretty young girls and muscular boys, had been wearing absolutely nothing under her skirt. Not. A. Single. Thing. You could see her perfect pink folds, glistening with arousal under the moonlight, a most perfectly trimmed patch of ginger hair over her pubic bone, the smell of her engraved inside your lungs as your kisses got closer and closer to her, almost as if you were being called but this wasn’t how she had planned the night. Three mistakes she counted so far, it was about time she started with the punishment. The sudden pain that enfolded your head made you yelp, confused for a moment about what was going on until your brain registered that Avis had forcefully pulled you away from her, your head pushed back slightly so she could look at you as the sting of hair being pulled from your scalp expanded. Her eyes were mixed with lust and fury, perhaps there was a hint of amusement behind them, but you did not see that, you could only focus on the pain and the danger that seeped from her skin onto yours like rainwater.

-You have one single fucking rule to follow, and you can’t even do that. You are a failure, a slut, so eager to get what isn’t yours. Don’t even fucking think of arguing with me, doll, you don’t want to make it worse.

One moment she was acting all kind and tender and the next she was practically telling you that she was going to make you regret your existence. Your hands had dropped from her leg as quickly as if you had been burnt by her freezing skin, allowing Avis to drop her foot on the floor, velvet hidden her away from your greedy eyes, but no matter what she did you had the image of her, already wet, engraved in your mind, her smell leaving phantom touches on your tongue. You were in the perfect position for her to step over your head and let your mouth do its job, but she desired to have you trembling and begging, crying, and she wasn’t going to go easy on you. With your body perfectly still at her feet she had the chance to rip the front of your dress with her other hand, nails scratching your skin as the sound of fabric tearing filled the room, your creamy flesh glowing in the soft beams of platinum that broke through the windows, mirrors and vases reflecting the light like melted snow. You were so utterly perfect, not a single spot on your young body, only the redness that her hand had caused, tender breasts nearly spilling from a rich yellow brassiere that cupped them in small lemon flowers, the thin material of your gown hanging loosely from your shoulder as Avis exposed you to her, a hunger you had never seen in your life shadowing her features.

Well, well, well, you sure were hiding jewels under those proper clothes you always wore. All those flowy dresses patterned with flowers and bows that never went past your knees and were buttoned up to your collarbone had been hiding your exquisite body from her and she wasn’t going to forgive that easily. If you had assets, you should be able to show them off, dress for your body type and not let the clothes simply be worn. Perhaps she would teach you a thing or two if you took her punishments well, it would be heartbreaking to have to kill you when you were so delicious and she truly had no desire to take you away from Lilia like that, but it all came down to you and your performance. Fingers traced the shape of your collarbone, brushing the top of her nail down your sternum and over your breasts, fingering the top of the brassiere, her eyes narrowing when she felt that so well-known tingling that was Lilia’s essence. That woman was truly all around you, dressing you and hugging you even when she couldn’t be with you, and it made Avis’s blood boil. She hadn’t had the balls to fuck you and make you hers and yet she went around pulling shit like this, thinking that pretty underwear and her perfume on your clothes made some sort of claim over you? You would forget all about that witch by the time Avis was done with you.

Your ass was resting on the balls of your feet, heart hammering inside your chest at just a pace that it nearly made Avis dizzy, but she pushed through, in fact she pulled your body upwards by your hair, drawing out a wince from in between your rosy lips so your entire weight rested on your knees. Your thick thighs jiggled slightly at her actions, nipples brushing against yellow lace when your body jerked upwards, faces perhaps a foot away. Like that linen slipped down your arms and pooled over your calves leaving you just in your matching underwear that Avis caressed with her fingertips, following the shape of the hoops under your tits and the waistband of your knickers. If she was aware of the pain she was inflicting on your head she did not care, tears threatening to fall from the outer corners of your eyes but you still held her gaze, pupils so dilated that you could not see any of the deep oak that had enchanted you in the first place, only last and hints of fury that furrowed her brow and thinned her plump lips tightly, almost as if you had wronged her in ways that you couldn’t even comprehend.

-Such a whore. Did you wake up and decide to wear such filthy things? Were you expecting to be fucked by that bitch you were talking to in the canteen? Were you hoping your girlfriend would take pity on you and finally make a move? - Your head was spinning. You knew what she was saying, you knew who she was talking about and yet it was as if your brain could not filter anything she was saying, just the consequences of it all. The lace between your legs was ruined, soaked and sticking to you in the most uncomfortable way possible. – Or were you wearing this for me?

It was but a whisper in your ear, but it raised goosebumps all over your skin, shivers running down your spine like electric shocks. Not one step could be given without her consent, not a single breath could be taken if she didn’t want it and yet every single thing in your life seemed to have been created, every choice made, to drive her into a rage storm, a life that she had had no power over, until tonight. Your eyes looked at her slightly scared, a feeling that Avis thrived in, glistening with tears that threatened to fall at any moment, your lips agape practically gasping for air, rosy lips that she believed were far too lonely.  Kisses were peppered over your skin, from right under your ear, over your jawline to your cheek, inching closer and closer to your lips, feather light touches caressing the corners of your mouth until finally her carmine wasn’t a simple taste around a cigarette. They were softer than anything you had ever felt before, a whimper of relief echoing inside your chest, as if you had been waiting for this moment all your life, to feel her kissing you, her hand cradling your chin and pushing your head back to deepen it. Scotch and tobacco mixed on your tongue when you felt her prying your mouth open, giving in without a fight, letting her dominate you, the tip of your timid tongue daring to trace her teeth slowly.

Feeling you moaning quietly into the kiss as you caressed the shape of her fangs sent a wave of arousal down to her core, surprise and delight melting into Avis’s movements at your actions. Most people would never dare to touch her like that, let alone find her nature appealing or exciting, not the way Lilia had, but perhaps she would have to thank her. It was obvious she had had some sort of influence on your views of supernatural beings, and she intended to exploit that fact for all eternity. It was so easy to move her hand from your chin to your throat, forcing you to stand without breaking the kiss, your oxygen supply restricted when you felt her fingers wrapping around your neck with far more force than was necessary. She wasn’t choking you fully, simply toying with you, using your human weaknesses to her advantage, feeling your rushed pulse against the pads of her fingers, knowing that very very soon all that sweet, pure blood would be spilling inside her mouth, sliding down her throat and around her lips in a macabre spectacle that would mix in the most sinful way possible as she seduced you, an erotic dance of sex and death. Your hands shot out to grab her arm out of instinct, but you made no attempt to remove it or fight it, drowning in her kiss still as she moved along with you around the bed, your feet slipping out of your shoes, padding barefoot over the carpet. Your body was practically naked, temperature spiking to insane peaks of fire that were so far away from Avis’s freezing skin, a delicious flesh that was still hidden by her expensive clothes.  It wasn’t fair, really, but would she allow it if you asked?

-Mother, please. – breaking the kiss felt like the most horrid thing in the universe, as if you were ripping your heart in half with your own bare hands, carmine smeared all over your mouth, lips swollen and wet. It did not go unnoticed the way Avis’s body pressed against you in need.

-Oh, you want to say something? – the grasp on your throat loosened slightly, air filling your lungs fully after a few minutes, your head nodding at her words like the good girl you were. -Go ahead. Tell mama what’s in that pretty head of yours.

-Can I… can I undress you? I want to see mama’s beautiful underwear.

-Such a polite little slut. How much do you want to undress me?

-I want nothing more than to take off the clothes you’d let me and see your beautiful body mama.

-Mhm… How can I refuse when you are begging so deliciously? Undress me.

Christmas had arrived and Avis had been left under the tree for you to unwrap, and of course you weren’t going to make her wait. With the kindness of her cold dead heart, she removed her hand from your throat but not before scratching the soft skin with her perfectly manicured nails, her other hand releasing your hair and smudging the lipstick that had transferred onto your lips even further with her thumb. Watching her bring that same finger to her mouth to lick it made your thighs clench together, the lace of your knickers providing a small bit of friction, but it wasn’t enough. Four out of six buttons had been undone by Avis’s skilled fingers minutes before, a gorgeous black corselette cinching her body to the perfect measurements, though you were positive that the moment it slipped from her frame, landing on the floor, your heart would instantly stop until her mouth revived you with its rough and demanding kisses. Your hands were trembling slightly as they made their way the front of her blouse, feeling the soft red velvet on your palms, the boning of her underwear firm under her clothes, deep breaths making her chest rise and fall, but they couldn’t match the speed at which your lungs ingested air, as if the world was about to run out. Shaking, your thumb rubbed small circles on her waist as you took the opportunity to pull her a bit closer, a motion and request that she answered by actually stepping inside your personal space without so much as a raised eyebrow.

Had she been Lilia you would have taken hours to undress her, kissing every inch of exposed skin over and over, but Avis held an air of impatience that you didn’t want to tease, because you already knew that she wasn’t going to be kind or soft with you, and you had no desire to make everything worse. Inching closer to the buttons, tracing the shape of the black embroidered roses that seemed to bleed from their petals tears of darkness that felt freezing under your skin, souls that she had threaded into her clothes as a reminder that one by one they had given their existence to her. Unhooking them was easy, probably the easiest thing you had done all night, and the moment the blouse was pushed back, hanging from her shoulders you saw that the corselette wasn’t only black. Deep red blooming roses cupped her breasts, so dark that you almost didn’t see the thin thread until moonlight shone over her body, white soft poison ivies hugging her waist from the sides like dead skeletal hands that held her and lifted her. Your hands itched to feel each single pattern firmly under your hands, but you fought it and instead brushed your fingertips over the top of her breasts and collarbones until you could grab the neckline of the blouse. Surprisingly it slid down her arms without effort, revealing sun-kissed skin peppered in freckles and knowing that she would be upset by it but without being able to help yourself you pulled her closer until your lips could kiss the soft flesh of her shoulders, following the journey of her unmoving veins down her arms.

Every alarm and sense of danger had been completely turned off in your head, every bit of your attention focusing solely on her body, on pleasing her no matter what. Crouching down to kiss her hands you ended up on your knees once again but this time out of your own accord, holding Avis’s hips firmly as you looked for the zipper, that just happened to be perhaps an inch to the right on her left hip, the sound of her skirt coming undone matching the hurried breaths that you could not quite get a hold of. Waterfalls of rubies flowed around her pelvis and down her legs, pooling at her feet and over your knees, her body nearly bare before your eyes. Your throat was dry and raspy, a deep burn vibrating in your chest at the sight of her in just her stockings and corselette, no knickers to hide her, your mouth water at the thought of burying your head between her thighs all night long, and lost in that lustful daydream you barely noticed the way your hands kneaded her ass, enthralled. So many mistakes Avis thought, so many liberties that she had let you have, but not anymore. You touched and kissed what wasn’t yours to claim and did it without remorse; well, not anymore. She had kept her own needs under control for far too long and she was not going to do it anymore.

In a blur of motions and limbs your body was pushed back onto the carpet, right in front a big golden mirror that reflected part of the bed and a couple of open windows along with trinkets and vases that you only got a glimpse of for less than a second before Avis was on top of you, straddling your hips. The pain on your scalp returned without mercy, pulling your head back so far back you feared your neck would snap but she knew very well what she was doing and there was no need for that, you were far more interesting and exciting alive, trapped under her spell. Traces of carmine were left down your neck, but they were no match to the bruises that her lips were painting your flesh, sucking deep and hard until pale flesh turned purple and blue, making you wince as your hands dug onto the carpet. It would be so easy to stab her fangs on your pulse point but where would the fun be in that if you weren’t begging and whining to be fucked over and over? She did scrape her teeth over it feeling the thing layer that kept your blood inside you yet, a moan nearly escaping her lips while thumb and index finger traced the hem of your bra, sensing Lilia’s magic deep in the fabric, but you weren’t with her now and she did not want a single sign of that witch in her home. Ripping fabric reached your ears, a gentle chill brushing your breasts as they spilled from the torn brassiere, a mix between a gasp and yelp reverberating out of your mouth, and as a new part of you had just been exposed for Avis to feast on, she wasted no time before her head was buried in the valley between your breasts.

She wasn’t going to drink from you yet but that did not mean she could not leave marks all around you for that girlfriend of yours to find, biting down softly over your sternum before sucking the soft and plump skin of each breast. In her effort to taste every single inch of your sweet flesh, your body pure, your essence like honey maybe even perhaps like the juiciest strawberries money could buy, leaving that acidic and sweet flavour on her tongue with each lick of your plump tits, she accidentally bit down harder than she had anticipated. The sharp pain made you yelp loudly, hands shooting to grab her by the shoulders as your brain slowly registered what had happened. Drop after drop of blood slid down your skin from a bite mark on the side of your right breast, the deep crimson liquid contrasting with your creamy flesh. Avis’s instincts  took hold of her senses, and licked it from your chest.

God, she had never had something as delectable as you, as delicious and untouched as you, sweetened mixing with its metallic taste only to be assaulted by that tingling she knew so well, those sparks of Lilia’s magic that had seeped deep under your skin and into your bloodstream. You had to be kidding. A single drop of blood was sliding down her chin as she pulled back, your eyes watching how she seemed to frantically be searching for something, hands all over your body, nipples aching to be touched but the last vanished into rage when she saw a small rune engraved on the side of your hip, nearly invisible to the naked eye, clearly meant only for Lilia’s eyes to see. She just had to be everywhere! Claiming things that weren’t hers to keep, fucking Avis and pushing her away after everything that she had achieved?! And now she had to taste her on you and see her fucking magic on you?! With brutal force she yanked you from the floor and onto your knees before she pushed you on all fours, ripping the shredded bra from your body, turning your head forcefully to look at her.

-Don’t move a fucking inch, if you do I’ll suck you dry and send you back to your fucking girlfriend all shrivelled up and dead, understood? – you were too stunned and turned on to do anything else but nod, limbs shaking slightly but it was as if all the fear you had been feeling had vanished, perhaps locked away somewhere deep in your mind that would prevent sanity from actually making you think. She had properly lured you in with no chance of running away.

You saw yourself in the mirror, watching as Avis stepped out of frame and began rifling through drawers, pushing pieces of clothes aside in search for something. What was it? No clue. There was a thin trail of droplets that had stained your breast and that were slowly falling one by one on her very expensive carpet, a fact that had your heart on the verge of escaping your chest and yet you didn’t move, almost didn’t even breath. The ruffling of fabrics and grunts of desperation and frustration were so loud that if your blood hadn’t been rushing through your veins at the speed of light everything would have been overshadowed by her and her little but too damn enticing sounds. A golden watch caught your eye, right above a marble chimney, the handles ticking incessantly, showing you that time was not standing still keeping you trapped in some distorted bubble with her, the hours were passing by with no possibility of going home. If Avis’s fury let you go home.

After a couple more minutes of ruffling fabrics every noise stopped. One step in your direction. Then another, heels muffled by the carpet. A third one and a soft glow of silver moonlight met the edge of the mirror, your breath held in your lungs in anticipation, and then you saw her. She had not removed any clothes, much to your dismay, but her lipstick was smudged, and a few curls had fallen from her perfect updo, framing her angelic face even though she was a wolf dressed in sheep’s skin. Such a vicious, lustful creature that you couldn’t get enough of. But it was any of those assets that made your eyes widen as your lips stood agape, it was the deep red cock that had been strapped around her hips, a thick dick of perhaps seven inches that made your pussy clench in worry and need. With one last step she was standing behind you, black heels on her feet that she almost placed on your back to keep you right where you belonged, legs dressed in nude silk and slightly spread with that thick cock standing proudly in between them, your eyes catching a glimpse of her nearly dripping folds, breasts nearly spilling from that gorgeous contraption that was her corselette, nipples almost peaking, but it was her mouth, that fucking wonderful mouth of hers, that made it all come together. A smirk on swollen and blood tainted lips that made her an erotic goddess that you would give your soul to. 

-Turn around and face me. – you didn’t miss a second, crawling to meet her at her feet, the material of the rug nearly burning the skin on your palms and knees. – I’m sure that pretty mouth of yours has had far more in it than Lilia’s cunt, sucking cocks to get this job, so show mama what you can do with that tongue. Suck mama’s cock, get it all wet.

Avis could see the shame in your face, how your cheeks had turned three different shades of red that under the moonlight seemed like a deep pink, but that was just it, she knew you hadn’t done it, she could taste only Lilia in your blood, no man’s devious intents rotting you from the inside out, which made her even more curious as to what you were able to do out of pure talent. So far you had proven to be far more entertaining than many of the virgins she had had, God, maybe even half of the men, and she had an inkling that your tongue was about to be magical without Lilia’s interference. Like a good girl you sat on your knees and while still holding her gaze your hands wrapped around her cock, feeling the rubber on your palms and fingers, testing the material and girth before your body bent forward. From the base to the tip your tongue made one long but slow swipe, hands holding it firmly so it wouldn’t flop on your face or pull on Avis’s hips. It was pure instinct what you were doing, praying that it was to her approval as you twirled your tongue around the tip before taking a leap of faith and taking part of the cock in your mouth, breathing deeply as you bobbed your head up and down gently. She’d let you get acquainted with it for a short while, watch how you worked it well, how your cheeks hollowed so you could suck her the way only a good girl could, but not for long. Meticulously you seemed able to take a bit more of Avis’s cock each time you pull back and then took her again, your breaths ragged and fast through your nose, tongue moving arrhythmically around it, thin trails of drool nearly making it past your lips but you fought to keep this as clean as possible thinking that was what she wanted, another mistake to the ever growing list.

Grunts and gasps were vibrating from your throat without you realising it, oak eyes locked onto yours as you gave her the first, and hopefully best, blowjob of her life, hands shooting to grab her by her hips when you felt her fingers hold onto your hair again, ground your body for the assault that was coming. She gave one gentle thrust that sent the cock deep inside your mouth, your gag reflex making your eyes water but you kept going, taking her, sucking her as if she could actually feel what you were doing, and perhaps she could, because her breaths were as inconsistent as yours, moans echoing against the walls in between pants, her big thick cock fucking your mouth faster and faster. Tears spilt down your cheeks as you tried to breath, drool falling down your chin with each hard thrust, those sinful sounds of you gagging on her cock almost sending Avis over the edge, but she held back. You just looked so pretty with your mascara running down your face, ruined lipstick and her cock inside your mouth, though she was positive you would look so much better with it buried deep inside your pussy. Without warning she pulled out completely, your lungs greedily gulping for air, phantom thrusts still making you gag lightly but unlike Lilia, Avis did not care to let you recuperate, though she was quite pleased with the show you had put on for her.

-On your knees facing the mirror.

The ruffling of bed covers reached your ears as you moved, your trembling and need for air making your motions slower than you had wanted but Avis didn’t seem to notice as you were already facing the mirror by the time she threw a pillow on the floor behind you. If she had let herself fall on her knees and taken you without mercy you would have expected it, almost been prepared for it, but of course Avis was always one step ahead, throwing you of your balance while she remained perfectly still on her toes, never letting you know what her next step would be. She spread her legs wider, stelling her body above your, hips aligning vertically, leaning until her breasts were barely inches from your bare back, cold hands tracing the shape of your spine, caressing your sides until her fingers wrapped around your tits. If you kept biting down on your lower lip you were sure you’d draw blood, not that she would mind as you watched her standing again with a droplet of crimson, hot liquid, on her thumb, her cold and yet burning tongue licking it with closed eyes. Simply delicious. Raking her perfectly manicured nails all down your back Avis slowly stepped until her hands were resting comfortably on your ass, lowering her body gently onto the pillow all while your perfect skin shone with reddish marks, hands sliding over to your hips. A sharp gasp tumbled out of your mouth as you felt her cock pressed against your butt cheeks, cold and wet, lubricated by your own mouth, a fact that made you shiver and so desperately soaked between your legs that you nearly begged her to remove your knickers.

All is good to those who wait, Avis thought, the words reverberating in her mind finally letting a full smirk paint her lips, dark shadows cast over her features showing you the side of her that she kept hidden every single day, eyes flashing a deep red before her control vanished completely. The sound of ripping fabric reached your ears for an instant before you felt the tip of her cock aligned with your entrance, folds so wet that Avis almost thought she could have skipped you sucking her, but you had just looked so pretty with your mouth so busy. One singular thrust and she was five inches deep inside you without warning and without giving you time to adjust, the stretch stinging lightly and making you moan and whine in discomfort at the intrusion, a sound that Avis wanted to change into cries of pleasure and pleads of more, your arms nearly giving out under your weight. Very slowly she pulled out, surprised that you had taken her so well and so easily, before she plunged back inside you hard, filling you nearly completely and drawing out a sharp cry out of your throat. Never before had you been so full, so stretched, sensations nearly overwhelming you, but you had to push through, you had to please her, after all you were hers. Wasn’t that what she had wanted all this time? To have you? As seconds ticked by the discomfort slowly vanished, her cock pulling out nearly all the way once again only to slam her hips fully against your ass, all seven inches inside you hitting so deep that all you could do for an instant was close your eyes and let your mouth hang open, your vocal cords unable to make a sound. God, you were taking her so well, letting her fuck you better than anyone ever had.

-Open your eyes. Watch as mama fucks your pretty virgin pussy.

It was a herculean effort, but you did as told, eyelids fluttering open to see one of those fiery curls of hers bouncing as she pulled out and slammed again, picking up a slow but steady rhythm. There was nothing else in your mind but pleasure, the sight of her body slamming against yours driving you insane with lust and desire, nothing of this sort having ever clouded your mind and judgment, your frame jerking forward with each powerful thrust. Hands bruised your hips, finger digging with brutal force that matched the way in which her pelvis crashed against yours, the sound of flesh hitting flesh echoing against the open windows and dressed up walls of the grandiose room. Every pant, every strangled cry and moan that fell from your lips floated like invisible smoke around the two of you, the warm night breeze snatching them and taking them out into the dark world outside her house, not a single noise either of you were making staying within those four walls. You could almost imagine Avis’s moans caressing the rose petals in her garden the same way her fingers were now tracing the shape of your spine, but there would have been a delicate tone to her touches if you had been a flower, tender kisses around your pure white petals, something that she was denying you now. Nails felt sharp against your skin, and you were sure that as she went up to your neck the thin flesh of your back had been ripped and was now bleeding bright beads of sweet blood and of course who was Avis to deny herself the pleasure of having a taste? Tis was but a starter, a spoonful of caviar that her refined palate would taste before the main course.

Her previous pace, slow, perhaps even tender in its strength, had you already shaken, trembling slightly with each thrust that stretched your walls and sent a sharp but delicious wave of pleasure all throughout your body, a feeling that you had craved for so long and that now Avis had been kind enough to give to you. If she were the Devil perhaps you had been praying to the wrong God. How could you not believe that this was exactly what you needed, fate granting you the wish your mind had never truly had the courage to think about, when the only woman you had considered unreachable and that plagued your dreams and nightmares alike was now buried deep within you. Lilia was always so warm and caring, her kisses and caresses tender and loving but Avis was the opposite. She was demanding and controlling of every aspect of this encounter, but she did not lack passion or desire, things that you had longed to see in your girlfriend and that now your boss was giving you without you even asking. But it was her freezing touch and fake gentleness that was fuelling your desire with each passing second. Sharp icy blades were dancing on your skin, drawing out goosebumps the same way that each thrust was drawing out moans, the once slow pace that let you adjust to her girth and length now nearly punishing, making your hips ache as well as your pussy but you could not bring yourself to tell her to stop, not when she was making you feel like this, not when she looked so enticing on that mirror.

Pins fell from her perfect updo, bouncing off her bare shoulders and landing around her knees, under the pillow, fiery locks cascading down her back like a rain of rubies that your eyes could not stray from, her red lips slightly agape in complete surrender. With trembling limbs, you watched as she leaned forward, the soft fabric of her corselette brushing your bare back as her lips pecked the scratches she had caused, the tiniest droplets of blood staining them that got smeared all over your skin as she kissed her way up your back. It stung, the pain radiating lightly around your ribs but it wasn’t as if your brain could comprehend what you were feeling when her rhythm had become steady and fast, flesh slapping, the wound of your wet pussy as it was fucked by Avis’s cock filtering through the curtains out into the night, one hand keeping an iron grip on your hip while the other slid around your pelvis towards your front, heart speeding inside your chest as she inched closer and closer to where you ached the most. You could not prevent curse words from sliding past your mouth when the pads of her fingers twirled your engorged clit softly, hips buckling until your ass was matching her thrusts, grunts and moans reverberating form Avis’s chest that were muffled by your back. Unbeknownst to you the straps were brushing on her clit, making her bite down hard enough on your shoulder blades that she felt the rush of hot metallic blood on her tongue as you yelped in pain.

The overwhelming taste of you threw every ounce of delicacy that she had in her system out the window, her hips slamming brutally against yours, her cock so deep inside you that you could almost not take it, but her fingers rubbing fast on your clit helped you swallow it completely, from tip to base until you could feel the rubber balls of the strap hitting your bare ass. Moans were no longer moans, they were grunts and pants mixed with screams that were being ripped from your chest, leaving your throat raw and hoarse, thoughts gone, every synapse in your body chasing that high that was coiling fast and hot in your core. You fought with the urge to let your eyes roll to the back of your head as the thrusts became nearly impossible to count, Avis’s true nature taking a hold of every part of her being, clouding your mind with such raw pleasure and desire that you could not comprehend nor control. Your orgasm was clawing at your core so fast that your entire body had begun to shake, your arms giving way and leaving your face resting over the carpet as high pitched screams filled Avis’s head. Such deliciously filthy sounds that vibrated inside her brain, your walls clenching desperately around her cock making it slightly harder for her to pound into you, but she still did, your juices coating her fingers and dripping down your thighs telling her you were inches from falling down the abyss, but you didn’t deserve that. You would wait until she was willing to give you the release you so desired, making you crave her every minute of your life, even when you were with Lilia. No, especially when you were with her.

She was done waiting. Done playing nice. The hand that had been on your hip shot to grab you by the hair, yanking your body upwards and away from the floor until your injured back was firmly pressed against her chest. The new angle made you see stars, a sound you had never made before just escaping your throat before you could stop it, her cock having hit a spot inside you that you had your entire body on fire, moaning and whimpering for more like a slut, Avis’s slut. “Open your eyes” she grunted in your ear, voice husky and raw. You hadn’t even noticed that your eyes had rolled to the back of your head, but you did as you were told, watching in the reflection of that golden mirror the way a thin trail of blood had run down your abdomen from your breast, face flushed and sweaty as your hands shot to hold onto her thighs to steady your trembling body.  Her pounding never ceased or slowed but now you were able to ride her better, rising and falling on her cock as fast as you could though it would never match Avis’s movements. Fuck, you looked so pretty with your pink folds wide open as you rode her, swallowing her completely, maybe more than before even, you could not tell and did not care. If she had known you looked like this while being fucked, she would have done this way sooner because she just couldn’t get enough of your ruined make up and swollen lips, mesmerised for a few instants by your bouncing breasts but there was a more enticing spot for her. Blood rushed and pumped inside your veins, the spot of your pulse point just so perfect, creamy and smooth and welcoming her with each beat of your heart.

Her tongue traced the shape of your artery from the base of your neck all the way to the underside of your jaw. Finally, the moment she had been waiting for, that sweet craving she had had for weeks about to be satiated all while she fucked your pretty cunt. If your God could see you now, he would fall from grace and join his brother Lucifer in sinful rejoice, watching as Avis claimed your body and soul, because how could angels and demons alike not wish to see a creature of the night as powerful and cunning as Avis doing these unspeakable things to a pure soul like you? If Eve had been blamed for Adam’s wrongs every woman since then had the right to shun away from salvation, after all there was no fun in being good forever, not when the other option was what Avis was doing to you. Victory red carmine stained your jugular, lips sucking hard until you could feel the familiar sting of a bruise forming and it was then and only then, with thin and sensitive skin that your eyes locked with her in the mirror. You had seen them, had felt them and yet when she opened her mouth and your eyes got a glimpse of pearly white fangs, your rational mind peaking through her spell for an instant before she sank them onto your skin and artery a sharp agonising cry reverberating from your chest but it only lasted a second, perhaps less than a second, you could not be sure, before every ounce of pain turned into a deep pleasure that had your head swooning and body howling in need.

Sublime. Exquisite. Blissful. Every drop that filled her mouth was the most delightful she had ever had, not a trace of shame or sin, only that sweet flavour of white truffles that coursed through your veins, delectable just like those gourmet dishes she had had when she had visited Italy only they were only now mind-blowing as she gulped your essence down, hot, dizzying blood caressing her throat all while she still slammed her cock deep into your cunt.  She had spent a lifetime waiting for someone like you, desperate to smell you, to taste you and make you hers for all eternity, to drain you from every single drop of blood she could until your body was pale and cold against her dead hands, but she could not bring herself to part with such an enchanting young thing as you and condemn you to an endless life roaming the earth in her shadow. She would much rather have you pressed against her chest with her hand pulling on your hair, watching you in the mirror as trails of bright crimson stained your perfect skin, mixing with the tears that you could no longer keep from falling. Never before had your body been on the edge of crumbling, pain and passion interlacing so deeply that you could no longer pull them apart without ripping the other to shreds, every cell in your body, every synapsis of your mind running down a road you had never thought you would set foot in, the chances of turning back gone, not that you would have wanted to. As life slipped away from your grasp Avis’s veins filled with power, a once frozen heart pumping as her lips curled around your neck even though your blood overflowed her mouth and spilled all over her neck and chest in a greedy need to take as much as possible.

Merely seconds had passed before she tasted her on you. It was unmistakeable, that sharp citrusy essence that she had had on her tongue and in her bed for decades and that her heart both missed and despised more than anything else in her existence. It made her furious, her movements inside you past brutal, now wounding and so harsh that you could do nothing else but scream, your core waiting for one tiny spark to happen before exploding and taking you to another dimension, and yet Avis could not hate Lilia as much as she wanted to. Her hands were almost gentle all of a sudden, as if they belonged to a different person after the scratches and bruises, melancholy dressing her invisible injuries and scars, the ones Lilia had inadvertently inflicted the day she left. Memories threatened to overwhelm her head, the once steady rhythm now faltering slightly, and perhaps if she been more human than creature of the night she would have allowed them to wash over her and ruin the moment, but there was very little of that woman left, maybe nothing at all, and the anger and desire were far stronger than anything else. Avis had wanted you before she had known Lilia was involved with you, and she would have you regardless of the fact that she knew now because she was not going to change her plans for her, not anymore. Digging her fangs deeper, ripping your skin, a pathetic mewl fell past your lips, and she began to think that perhaps you were getting everything you had ever dreamt of while Avis stood behind you with a shitty consolation prize, unsatisfied in ways that she was sure you would excel in. And she couldn’t have that.

Every single drop that escaped your veins brought on waves of dizziness that you could not control, cheeks flushed a weak pink as the tips of your fingers and toes became cold with each passing second, terror finally making its way through the cracks. And even then, when you could feel death through Avis’s touch, in every brush of her fingers over your hip and clit, as her nails scraped your scalp and the base of your neck, with each breathtaking movement of her lips, you could not deny her or push her away. Death had never been a pleasant thought but there was something poetic about you slipping away while Avis gave you life, warm breezes that carried faint traces of the ocean kissing your bare body, every wound stinging but it could never compare. There would never be pain that could match what her fangs were doing to you, what her nature had inflicted upon you without permission, without a care. Movements became lethargic, hands clammy on Avis’s thighs, details that no one else would actually pay attention to but of course she did, she felt everything that you were going through as if your thoughts were written in your blood, knowing that you needed her to stop before things went too far. But you were so delicious, and she could feel that you were standing on your tip toes at the edge of the cliff begging in mumbled words for release, letting you go now would leave Avis hungry for far more than just your heart and flesh and she wasn’t feeling as kind now that truffles became oranges on her tongue. The scream that was ripped out of your throat when she let go of your neck, skin battered, broken and bruised, echoed in the night like a banshee that brought omens of darkness and death, a calling for every errant soul that crawled over the dirt of her pristine garden.

-God, you are just delectable. I could drink from you forever, keep you riding my cock as I take what I want. Is that what you want? – you could barely form a thought let alone an answer, blood sliding down your chest and over your breasts, droplets falling in slow motion from your nipples onto the carpet even though your whole body still moved at a punishing pace jerking up and down. Your silence wasn’t welcome. Avis’s hands shot to grab you by the waist keeping you seethed deeply on her cock unable to move, pathetic whines mixed with half sobs breaking from your chest. – I thought I had made myself very fucking clear. I ask a question, you answer it.

-Ma… Mama… I’m sor… I’m sorry.

-An apology isn’t enough. Words mean nothing to me when you defy me and don’t answer what I asked! – fingers dug deep over the already forming bruises on your hips, her mouth so close to your ear that her cold breath brought on goosebumps all down your spine as the overwhelming stench of metal filled your lungs. – That beautiful neck of yours could snap so easily if I wanted to, it wouldn’t be the first nor the last time I kill someone who doesn’t please me. I suppose you call yourself lucky that I haven’t sucked you dry when you are so fucking enticing. I see why Lilia was so eager to mark you.

-Mama…

-I’m talking! The disrespect is unbelievable. Is this how you treat your boss, the woman who can give you the most pleasure you could ever feel?

-I’m sorry! I do… I do want to be whatever you want! Please!

-Pathetic. You think that will persuade me to give in? – walls contracted around her, trembling limbs on fire at her words, the blood loss affecting your mind and yet it fast became a thing of the past. – Do you want to cum?

-Please! Please mama.

-Earn it then. Make mommy happy and then and only then will I allow it. Maybe.

The world around you swayed between a fog of denied passion and the blood loss suffered as her words sank in, locks of gold stained red when you managed to focus your eyes on the reflection in that huge mirror. You had her body moulded to yours practically and yet your shadow and her hair kept her face hidden from yours, every expression a mystery, even her frame was hidden by your naked body, only memories of how she looked rushing through your mind. There was no warning before she pulled out of you completely, the feeling of sudden emptiness making you cry out, body nearly collapsing on the floor with fire burning underneath your skin, your pussy aching to be filled by her again and to be granted the relief of sweet release she had promised in between the lines and silences that had echoed in the room as she had fucked you. If it hadn’t been for her arms wrapping around your waist your face would have collided with the floor, over the spots of crimson that painted an abstract masterpiece in between expensive threads of wool and silver, a work of art that Avis might decide to keep. Maybe she was growing soft for you already, but she was gentle enough to lift you off the ground and place you over the soft linen covers of her enormous bed, not caring if she had to throw them away or burn them tomorrow; it wasn’t as if she couldn’t buy as many sets as she wanted.  

It was more comfortable than the floor, of that you were sure, your knees red and angry from the rug digging onto your flesh, your walls clenching around nothing, missing the sensations that had enfolded your mind and body so rapidly, your breaths still coming in fast as what blood she had left pupped through your veins making your ears ring. You could still feel hot crimson liquid sliding from the punctures on your carotid down your shoulder, slow thin rivers of death that Avis eyed from her position standing by the bed. Moonlight vanished for an instant leaving the room in complete darkness, your senses confused and dizzy as you tried to keep your eyes on her figure but to no avail, if she had left you had no way of seeing it, if she had moved and was hovering over you your oversensitive body should have been able to feel it but there was nothing. She was simply standing there with her deep chocolate eyes fixed on your panting and bloody form as her skilled fingers removed the soaked strap, it falling over the carpet with a muffled thump that made you jump slightly over the covers. Panic was sure as hell now breaking free from her spell, probably caused by the blood loss you thought, forcing you to rest your weight on your elbows and raise your shaky body from her luxurious bed, bedsheets smelling of rich vanilla and amber, perhaps a hint something floral hidden in between her pillows, you couldn’t be sure.

Time ticked away, handles of pitch-black metal moving in an orb of glass and gold, determined to show that seconds were passing you by while for Avis they stood still, not having moved for decades, and no amount of diamonds or rubies or gold embedded watches would change that. Avis had been put to rest in a cherry blossom casket, curls the colour of royal sunset lilies spread over white velvet, her heart dead, cold, her blood still but never rotting, no warmth in her hands on in her lips, just the curse of eternal death masked as the lie of an eternal life, and laying in that casket she watched as the world around her turning all while knowing that she would be buried six feet under and no one would ever hear her pleas or cries, just the deafening silence of a voice that had left the day her humanity had been stripped of her. She sometimes missed that naïve woman she once had been, and cursed her existence from time to time, but she could not say that her life had turned out too bad, not when she had built it stone by stone and turned herself into who she was today, murders and such occurrences aside of course. A woman needs hobbies to entertain herself after all. One single wave of platinum bathed the room, ruined black lace and silk wrapped around Avis’s torso, vines that once had been a pearly white now tainted and stained the same way your skin was by splatters of your blood, a sea of fiery locks cascading down her back and shoulders as your eyes locked with hers before directly looking at her mouth. How was it that that deep but bright shade of crimson red seemed to suit her far better than her signature Victory red?

Her lips curved slightly at the corners in a sweet and dangerous smirk as her chin and neck were presented to you with long trails of blood that journeyed south towards her breast, hiding the damage caused by with her corselette. She was far too overdressed you thought, and it wasn’t fair when you were completely naked and bruised before her. She seemed to have read your mind. Perhaps under other circumstances she would have let you undress her but not tonight; she wished to be pleased as soon as possible, and she had no time to let your soft, trembling hands unhook her. She had an inkling that Lilia still liked it slow and you had been an avid learner, but she wasn’t Lilia, and her patience had gone out the window long ago. Her hands were surprisingly clean, not a peck of red anywhere except for her nail polish as they traced the shape of each rose with her ring and middle fingers, the ones that had been circling your clit not minutes before, your arousal still coating her skin. You were sure she would start popping buttons in a moment but of course, she did the opposite of what you wanted her to and instead slid her hands down over her abdomen and towards her thighs. Her right leg was raised and placed on top of the bed, actually her heel was resting on your abdomen giving you a beautiful view of the red mark her strap had left on her hips and thighs and of her dripping folds, your mouth watering at the thought that perhaps she might let you taste her after all. For some reason you no longer had the need to be fucked raw and dumb but to see her coming undone under your skilled hands and tongue.

It was mesmerising to see her fingering the edge of her stockings, the pads on each finger selectively sliding and lifting the fabric before letting go, the sharp sound of the elastic drawing out a hiss from Avis that had your mind reeling and hips begging to grind onto something. This fucking woman was the biggest tease you had ever met in your entire life, and you had been with Lilia during that hippie era of no touching but going around the house completely naked. One quick motion had her clip on the front undone, hands travelling to her back to release the other, the pressure of her heel on your stomach leaving the imprinting of her sole on your skin. She was quick to do the same with her other leg, but this time the tip of her stiletto was purposely brushing the underside of your breast, your palate tasting that bitter dark chocolate that you liked as her eyes locked with yours, unable to stray from her, not even when she lifted the elastic of her stockings and moaned at the feeling of it landing on her skin again. You feared that if her fangs didn’t kill you all this teasing would. You hadn’t even noticed the grip your hands had on the covers, knuckles turning white at the force you were using to keep your hands away from her since you hadn’t been granted permission to touch her. She stood before you again, hands brushing the sides of her body, glancing at the blood smeared by her shoes over your taunt stomach, until finally her fingers reached the top of her corselette, your breaths hurried as her skilled hands unhooked it gently, one by one. The sight of her breasts spilling through lace and silk had you writhing, mad with lust and need to pull her to you and do the same unspeakable things she had done to you. Or more, whatever your depraved mind could come up with really.

Crimson rivers had flooded the valley between her breasts and pooled on the top of each plump tit, craving to see if there could be a sea of red over her hidden skin, if your blood had carved itself over her flesh in the shape of tilting roses, maybe even caressing the soft freckles that covered her body with the imprint of phantom kisses. As soon as the last hook came undone, the garment being held together by the pressure of her hands, your lungs stopped their incessant movement of pants, air held deep in anticipation. Time and space were relative; they could exist or be intangible theories that held no meaning in either of your lives because you could have sworn that nothing existed the moment she let go and revealed herself to you. Perfection. Utter perfection. No other word in the English language could describe what your eyes had the honour of witnessing, they all sounded weak, perhaps insulting to the beauty before you. Angels were forbidden from looking at her should they feel jealous of such beauty, demons demanded to worship the air she breathed and the ground she walked upon, and yet no God, evil or good, could claim her as their own for she was her own deity now. You were her most faithful apostle now, not the first, but the one that was given the gift of survival and that could never compare to anyone else, her church built of the bones of those she had considered inferior. Her abdomen held a softness that made your fingers twitch in need, the small pouch above her pubic bone dressed in pearly stretch marks that made your mouth water, hints of her muscles visible through the tenderness of her body that you could not help but compare to a Venus.  

The skin of her chest was strained by the weight of her ample breasts, the wrinkles that had been caressing her figure now nearly gone as they had been red from her underwear and rested heavily above her abs, so full, so enticing. Her whole body reflected the silvery beams of moonlight as if she was made out of marble, every curve chiselled with the utmost reverence and patience, your eyes allowed to see, your hands allowed to touch. No more barriers separated you from her, a fact that pleased her as much as you as she climbed into bed, crawling like a feline over Egyptian linen that was already clinging to your perfume, her body slowly hovering over yours, straddling you. She had had the upper hand all night, commanding, dominating every single aspect of this encounter but for a moment you might get the chance to get a glimpse of her control, of that power she carried in her DNA, even if it cost you your own release. Because she wouldn’t actually kill you if you did this, would she? Looking at her now that her lips were following the line of your ear down to your collarbone licking off as much blood from you as she could you thought that perhaps it was a risk you were willing to take. A life of safety and innocence was a life wasted, all wrapped in cotton with nothing else to do but watch as everyone else did as they desired while you became nothing but ether, not even ink in someone’s diary.

And so took a leap of faith. Your hands shot to grab her by her forearms when her lips began to follow the shape of a vein down your neck and in between your breasts, your feet moving until the rested on the outside of her calves trapping her between your thighs and your ankles. The moment Avis felt your legs moving she lifted her head to look at you with an arched eyebrow and as you were feeling foolishly brave your lips curled into a smirk. A surprised yelp escaped her lips as you used a sudden burst of strength to turn the tables, or in this case your current positions. Avis’s body fell with a thud over the already stained covers, your figure now hovering over hers, all that gorgeous hair sprawled over white, framing her gorgeous face where your blood was slowly beginning to dry and crack. She was definitely surprised by this bold side of you, perhaps amused even though she shouldn’t be as thrilled, but it had been so long since someone had actually taken the lead in bed that wasn’t her that she had nearly forgotten what it was like to be pleased not only because she demanded it. And God, were you good at this. She had to give you credit because she truly had mistaken you for nothing more than a naïve little twat who loved to turn people on and then act as if you had never done a thing and in fact you were perhaps more like Lilia than she had anticipated. You had definitely had a good teacher. You had her arms trapped above her head, held down firmly while your legs kept hers spread open unable to move, trapped under you but she had no desire to take control of the situation now, she wanted to know exactly what you had in mind. Your lips caressed her cheek, brushing the cold flesh before you moved over to her ear, biting down and drawing out a moan from within her throat, one that had been waiting all night to be released.

-You want pleasure mama? – her lungs stuttered when trying to take a breath, the heat in her core burning with a heat she had not felt in a long time. Avis nodded barely. – Then relax and let your girl do exactly that. I’ll make you feel so good mama.

Oh, she knew you would. The world shifted for her, switching her kisses and caresses to hands holding onto the bedsheets as your lips followed the line of her jaw, your rosy lips stained bright red as you reached her chin and instead of heading down to her breasts, something you very much wanted to do, you decided to head upwards. Her mouth was inches from your, eyes locked in a gaze that could make time stop in every universe and although you knew you would not taste tobacco anymore you could not let the opportunity of kissing her got to waste, not when she was letting you do whatever you wanted. Inches became a thing of the past when your lips met hers in a soft, gentle kiss, nothing like the one she had given you before, all full of lust and power. This one was simple, unaltered adoration that you wanted to make sure she felt with every the brush of your lips, with the tip of your tongue tracing her bottom one until she opened her mouth, granting you access, the overwhelming taste of blood with it’s metallic essence brutal for an instant but somehow there was something sweet to be found under all that iron and you had an inkling that it wasn’t you, just the gentle notes of honey that dripped from Avis whenever your body moved to press against her releasing a melody of moans from her chest. Sounds that never reached the air around you as you swallowed them deep.

You were unsure if her spell was still clawing at your skin and mind or if you had surrendered to her already but all the terror that had clung to your heart moments before was gone, and as your tongue traced the shape of her fangs, goosebumps and shivers alike running all over Avis’s body, you only felt curiosity. Avis Amberg was a vampire, that much was clear to every soul on this planet, but you weren’t scared, why? Was it perhaps the fact that she had had the chance to kill you many many times tonight and she hadn’t, regardless of the threats? Or was it perhaps that she had drunk from you and the moment she had felt you dizzy and clumsy from blood loss she had stopped herself? This woman could be cruel and dangerous, murderous if she desired it, and yet you felt as if she was giving you a treatment not many people had ever got before, maybe no one. You weren’t entirely wrong, but you weren’t fully right. She was giving you the same treatment she had given Lilia, even though part of her mind knew that you could slip through her fingers just as easily as the other woman had, although she hoped you wouldn’t do it too soon. There was a softer side to Avis, and she might build up the courage to show it if she thought you were worth all the hassle of trusting you and opening herself up to you. Emotionally, of course, she was already quite open for you in every other aspect and dripping onto her expensive linens.

A loud moan echoed inside your mouth when your nails dug slightly on the sensitive skin of her wrists when your lungs began to plead for air, much to your dismay, and so your parted from her, hints of her carmine left around her cupid bow. Your journey began then, setting sail from the port of her mouth, following the stream of her neck, freezing but calm waters welcoming your kisses and the crystal clear waves mixed with tainted red currents on your tongue, passing the hollow of her neck where you made sure to through a mark overboard and sucked around it until you could see faint purple bruises appearing. On the horizon you could see the top of two stunning hills, soft, ample and splashed with patches of deep red roses that had taken root on the pools of your blood, your boat named “The Traveller” sailing through the valley of her breasts with easy, feeling her sternum underneath each kiss before you went on a trek through each hill. There were no bird or wild animals on the roads but the sounds that reached your ears were like songs that you wish you could record and listen to every time you found yourself lonely in your boat, pants, gasps and moan when your hands, the hands of gardener, of a sculptor and a surgeon, kneaded her flesh and caressed the petals of each of her roses knowing that your hands would be stained with your own blood, not that you cared. It was simply delicious to taste the plump flesh at your disposal, sucking and licking like a starved beast that was feet away from a fountain of pure water to sooth your thirst, right at the top of the hill, where your lips latched on to her stiff nipples and drank in every yelp and scream that she made, watching in awe as her hands gripped the covers above her head while her eyes fluttered shut, waves of pleasure coursing through her body like the winds that preluded a storm.  

As much as you wanted to stay there forever, tasting her and toying with her breasts like this, pushing buttons that had Avis completely at your mercy it was clear you had to continue your journey before she changed her mind and released thunder and Hell on you and your little boat until you sank to the depths of the ocean, and so you returned to the valley but not before marking each breast with as many bruises as you could, violet contrasting with her tone in a most perfect pairing of colours. The waters you sailed on as kisses were placed tenderly on her stomach, the softness of her body simply breathtaking under your hands led you to beautiful but untold stories chiselled on her figure in the form of stretch marks, delivering gold and spices when your lips made sure to cares each and every one of them. She had them everywhere, around her upper arms, sculpted on the sides and underneath her breasts, around her lower abdomen and in perfect shapes that hugged her hips as well, marks that showed just how much she had lived and how her body had changed along with it. She might never get news ones or get rid of the ones she had, but there wasn’t a most beautiful thing to you than a body that showed just how much it had changed and adapted, how much it had gone through and how it had survived because it meant that Avis’s soul, cursed or not, had been there fighting through it all. Your tongue tasted thousands of memories interlaced with her DNA with each kiss you delivered, and even though they were silent words, you felt like the richest woman in the land, hands filled with gold and rubies as your palms held onto her hips.

Every sensation, every touch would fade into memories soon, your journey down her body soon reaching its destination, but it wasn’t something that made you feel sadness. No, you had conquered mountains and bathed in pools of sanctified water were her sounds echoed against marble walls and vines of rich red roses, you had kissed and tasted and had her in your arms but there was still time, still more to come before everything ended and you could not say that that wasn’t a thrilling journey of its own. “The Traveller” slowed its speed over gentle waters where the air smelled of saffron and salt, perfect ginger curls welcoming your lips with each kiss you left on her pubic bone, her arousal making them damp as your chin brushed against them. Her breath hitched in her lungs when your hands rested on the soft skin of her inner thighs, forcing her legs to spread even wider than before, your line of vision allowing you to feast on her dripping folds while also watching her face, slightly flushed, meeting your gaze in lustful waves that made you even wetter than you already were. Her skin was as delectable as you had always imagined, and her body as tender and responsive as you had expected her to be, squirming when your teeth nipped at the skin, the soothing heat of your tongue over the reddish marks nearly making her whimper in need, but she caught herself before it could slip out. She was giving you so much already, arching her back when your mouth had latched on to her breasts, biting down to keep from moaning wantonly when in truth she had failed miserably at that, thrashing and holding onto the bed covers until the linens were on the verge of ripping, she had to keep some mysteries to herself.

You would never do this for that girl at the canteen, only for Lilia, and now Avis, you thought as your kisses got closer and closer to where she needed you the most, her salty aroma making your mouth water, because that young thing meant nothing. She was pretty, yes, but she could never match either of the ladies you had the utmost pleasure of having under your body, screaming themselves raw when your mouth made them weak, a task you were very happy to fulfil for Avis now. She could never match the feeling of Lilia’s messy curls in your hands, Avis’s expensive perfume filling your lungs as you kissed down her neck, Lilia’s cold rings brushing your bare back when she pulled you to her or the sight of Avis soaked and ready for you as a gentle rain of silver fell over both of your bodies. One long swipe of your tongue had her arching her back, her folds the most sublime thing you had ever had the honour of tasting, salty with a spicy undertone that fell far from the usual sweetness you gathered from Lilia every time she let herself be loved by you, pleasured by you. A string of moans fell in quick succession from her bloody lips every time you sucked on her folds, your nose brushing on her clit with feather light touches that sent jolts of electricity all over her limbs, from the top of her head down to her toes, curling inside her black stilettos.

In under a minute you found a good rhythm, using two of your fingers to spread her open and fuck her with your tongue before wrapping your lips around her clit, sucking gently at first, twirling it slowly with your tongue until one of her hands shot to grab you by the hair to keep you in place. Fuck, you really could suck a clit. She had expected you to be good, Lilia was a very needy and sexually active woman so it was obvious she would have taught you a thing or two, but she hadn’t seen this level of expertise coming. Teeth grazed her swollen bud, spreading a white fire all over her body that matched the screams that her hoarse throat was giving, commanding you to go faster, to fuck her when in fact she had no control now. You could keep her wanting more, slowing down and then sucking and rubbing fast again and snatch her orgasm from her right when her fingers were about to wrap around it, almost daring to imagine how she would look pleading and crying for release like you had just done, like Lilia did whenever you had her at your mercy. Wouldn’t it be beyond erotic to have them both in your bed, one riding that big deep red cock while the other allowed you to eat her out, both moaning and begging to be fucked like sluts? Your sluts, all wet and lost in lust. Imagining that made your walls clench around nothing, missing the feeling of being so full even though you were slightly achy and sore, and the noises Avis was making along with the taste of her on your tongue certainly didn’t help the situation.

A singular synapse in your brain suddenly sparked an idea when the tips of your fingers teased at her entrance, pants high pitched and hips thrusting up to get any kind of friction that would get her exactly to where she wanted to be, but you didn’t push them in. You actually pulled back from her completely without a warning, a whimper at the loss falling from bloody lips before Avis lifted herself up and rested her weight on her elbows ready to call you out and angrily ask you what the hell you were doing. The words had already began to migrate from her vocal cord to the tip of her tongue when you rushed to the edge of the bed, your ripped panties sliding down your thigh, and bent to pick up something form the ground, leaving her quiet and curious as to what the fuck you were doing. The instant you straightened your back again her eyes caught a glimpse of black straps and a red tip and understood immediately what you were going to do, lower lip trapped between her teeth to avoid a moan at the thought of your fucking her like that.

It was clumsy to put it on like when you were still keeping her legs wide open with your body but after struggling for a few moments you tightened it, feeling the unfamiliar weight over your pubic bone, but you’d adjust to it fast you thought, your mouth returning to suck on her clit. You only needed to keep her dripping like this, and she would take you perfectly, your body moving to hover over hers as you aligned her own cock with her entrance, watching in delight as her eyes fluttered close when she felt the tip pushing a bit but never truly invading her. One of your hands tenderly grabbed hers and pulled them back over her head, inches away from her headboard while the other teased at her clit with your nails knowing perfectly well that she was more than ready, body sweaty and flushed. She didn’t scream, she made a noise so deep and guttural that she startled herself when you gave one hard thrust and buried yourself completely inside her, your hips perfectly moulded to hers, her ample breasts brushing against yours as her back arched and legs wrapped unconsciously around your thighs.

-Oh God!

-No mama, there is no God here. – pulling out slowly gave Avis the chance to feel every little detail on that cock, her cock, your mouth against her lips, ghosting over them but not quite kissing her yet. – Such blasphemy when you know that he would never fuck you like I’m going to. Mama is above such things and her girl will make sure to show her just how ethereal she already is. So, make sure to remember that I’m fucking you mama, not some God, just me and I will make you cum so hard that his name won’t ever be spoken again in this room.

She could have cum just from hearing you speak like that. The words, the husky tone, the power you held, or that she actually had given you for now, and the feeling of you filling her up so well, so deep and stretching her so good, it was like the most perfect cosmopolitan she could ever have, burning down her throat and spreading like a gentle tingling all over her body. You did not give her a chance to retort or gain any kind of leverage, you pulled out almost completely only to slam back into her until your hips were bruising hers, her hard nipples rubbing the sides of your breasts as your lips met hers, quieting every moan and scream of pleasure that was falling out of her. You had never dreamt you’d be fucking Avis Amberg like this, not even in your wildest fantasies, but life definitely has a way of surprising people in the strangest ways, or in the most delightful ones, because you could not describe those sinful sounds as anything else. Your thrusts were slow, fucking her with the tenderness she had forgone you, holding her hands over her pillow feeling her body shaking in pleasure and anticipation. She swallowed your cock with such ease, her pussy spreading itself to accommodate it with pools of arousal all around it, jerking upwards as every movement became faster, harder in execution against her pelvis, sounds that your lips couldn’t covered up as your lungs begged for air, filling up the room. Groans, pants, moans… and you couldn’t get enough.

-Fuck, Y/N. Harder, please. Fuck.

You could not say no to her when she was already begging, when her hands were fighting to hold onto the headboard for leverage. She wanted to be fucked good? Harder? Faster? She was going to go on a fucking astral journey when you were done with her. Both your hands reached to hold onto her thighs, your movements never faltering, and pushed her legs towards her chest, forcing her pussy to spread even wider, taking your cock deeper than before, so deep that the new posture had you touching all the sweet spots inside her. Avis’s back arched off the mattress, her head thrown back as the balls of her feet dug into the sides of your ribcage, meeting your thrusts at a brutal speed that she could take without issue.

-YES! FUCK! So deep, so full!

There was no self-control now, only the need to see her coming undone, to see if her screams could reach a point in which she could not manage sounds anymore, just frantic motions to show you that you were doing a good job, though you already knew that. Perhaps there some ego showing around the edges, but Lilia was to be faulted for that, she was a very very vocal teacher, and praises fell from her lips as much as profanities when she was riding you, though her strap was smaller than Avis’s, something you might have to fix. Being a virgin didn’t mean you lived in a convent. The sound of flesh slapping flesh filled your head, your lips kissing down her neck as your blood dried and crack in between her breasts and on her chin, quelching noises of you fucking her furiously mixing brutally in an orchestra of perfectly tuned instruments that your fingers played. She was already clenching around you, holding onto her headboard for dear life moving her from side to side, almost lulling it back every time you sent fire coursing through her. She had fucked and been fucked so many times before, some of them actually making her lose her breath and weakening her legs but for some strange reason that her brain could not understand, or make the effort to right now, you were fucking her so well she could not compare it to anyone. Except Lilia, though you would not be insulted by it, of that, she was sure. Your hand retuned to her clit, engorged and absolutely soaked in her juices, your nails scratching in between circular motions.

-DON’T STOP! YES! YES! OHHHH

It was sudden, fast and mind blowing. For an instant there was nothing, no feelings or sensations, no thoughts, just time and space standing still and then a wave of white fire and electricity set her aflame. Your name fell from her lips over and over like a promise, a prayer, as her walls clenched brutally around your cock making your thrusts more difficult, but you did not stop, you carried on, with her body arching off the mattress and her hips losing all rhythm as she reached her high. Pleasure had her mind blank, cloudy with lust, tasting her own blood on her tongue from how raw her throat was, screaming her head off practically. You had to be thankful for her big garden, or her neighbours might have come to knock on her door already. Her juices gashed all over your cock and dripped down over the stained covers, but she was still in the peak of it all and had no intension of slowly her own thrusts down, matching yours with her breaths sharp and shallow, her heart on the verge of actually pumping again. After a few moments, perhaps minutes, or hours you finally felt her movements still and her body drop heavily onto the bed, resting her face against her arms as her legs trembled and slackened around your sides, the signal you needed to stop moving and let her catch her breath. She might lack a certain softness, perhaps a trait from her nature, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t receive it from you, your hands rubbing her thighs tenderly as you pecked her jaw and cheeks, allowing her time to relax her body and bask in the afterglow, knowing that she was okay when one of her trembling hands began to caress your hair in soft pets.

-Did mama feel good?

-Mhm… Very…

-I’m glad I was able to please you.

-Oh, doll, you did. Just don’t think you hold any kind of power here. I’ll be very quick to put you back in your place.

-Of course, mama. I won’t step out of place.

-Good girl. Now, why don’t you let mama reward you? – excited you gently laid her legs on the bed, a small whine escaping Avis when you pulled her long and thick cock out, watching her juices drip out of her and onto her linens before she collected herself again, a tired but still sweetly dangerous smile painting her lips while her eyes locked with yours. - You have done so well, and I think you have definitely earned the right to have mama please you.

-Yes, thank you, mommy.

-Come up here. I want to taste you.

Did she mean…? She was making herself comfortable on top of the pillows, gathering part of the blood that had not yet dried around her collarbone and tasting it with a pleased smile and hum. Oh, yeah, she definitely meant what you thought she meant, and you could read it in her relaxed but seductive posture and in the way her eyes lingered on your body while not even considering getting up. You were fast and a tiny bit clumsy in getting the strap off along with your ripped knickers, but you didn’t want to make her wait and end up being forced to sleep or go home all hot and bothered like this, so the rubber cock practically flew off the edge of the bed as soon as you removed it. Crawling up her body was like walking home after a long day, letting her hands caress the sides of your body and pulling you briefly against her when your neck was withing range, her tongue cold but soothing against the bite marks she had inflicted upon your body before, gathering fresh beads of blood on her tongue before the marks began to slowly heal. Scars would be left behind, but she very much knew that. She wanted Lilia to know exactly what she had done to you, to feel her anger in the air when she saw you weren’t her pure little human anymore, perhaps to lure her out of her hiding spot and face Avis, giving her the opportunity to show that witch exactly what she would do to you every single night.

Of course you’d let her lick you, and if she had wanted it you would have let her bite you again, oblivious to every thought that was crossing her mind, her revenge, her sexual haze, her memories, all mixing in a turmoil that she stomped on and crushed when her tongue traced your sternum and her hands gripped your hips, forcing you to move faster up her body. Her fingertips had brushed and caressed your breasts, pushing you from where you rested over her abdomen as her need to have you grew exponentially, feeling every inch of your creamy skin until your soft thighs stelled on each side on her head, your dripping pussy hovering a few inches from her face. Angry red marks followed her nails over the parts of your body that had remained perfectly pure and pale, mostly on your inner thighs, making you shiver as your fingers threaded through her curls while your other hand held onto the headboard, letting Avis kiss and lick and explore as much as she wanted, as much as she needed. The femoral artery was right there, inches away, almost calling her. One bite, that’s all she needed to suck you dry or to let you bleed to your death in seconds, but she had already made up her mind about what she was going to do with you: too sweet and fucking good with your tongue to kill you. Her hands traced the shape of your ass, kneading you and spreading you wider, unconsciously forcing you to lower your body towards her, that gorgeous nose of hers so close to touching you that you were shaking with anticipation.

Her lips kissed and licked her way up to the joint between your leg and your pussy, sucking little marks that only you, Lilia and she would see, bruises that made her crave just a small taste of you before she pulled you down completely. The small groans you were making turned into a loud gasp when you felt her biting down, screaming softly when her fangs pierced your skin and your blood began to seep into her mouth once again. She could consider this primeval need for blood as survival, as a deep hunger that could never cease, but drinking you, as her mouth flooded with the flavour of your being, she could only think that you had become an addiction, and one that she would never ever recover from. This time though it was truly just a taste, a sip of the sweetest wine after a satisfying meal that would keep her full until the next day, floral and earthy tones tainting her tongue when reluctantly she released your skin, beads of crimson liquid settling on her lips for an instant before she wiped them with the tip of her tongue, soothing the irritated flesh and watching it heal slowly. Two thin trails of blood were travelling down your thigh, but she was quick to gather them and clean you until there wasn’t a single trace of red anywhere. Her hands rested around your bruised hips, a hiss escaping through gritted teeth as she pulled your body down slowly, almost at a speed that didn’t make you realise what she was doing as her lips were still kissing and soothing your bruised flesh. Stars filled your line of vision the moment you felt her tongue lapping at you like a starved dog, her nose brushing against your clit at nearly the perfect pace, catching you off guard.

-Oh, fuck… So good.

Avis moaned loud against your pussy, sending vibrations through your body that had you shaking and holding onto the headboard for dear life, trying your best not to pull on her gorgeous curls and end up getting reprimanded in any way. She was methodical, slow with her tongue, sucking on your folds and pulling then with her sharp teeth as her hands kneaded your ass, holding you in place with very little effort, thriving in the mix of flavours that were clouding her senses. You weren’t just sweet in your blood, you were sweet everywhere, a festival of sensations that made her feel like she was having the most delicious chocolate martini she had ever had. Your arousal was like a sharp and burning pour of vodka on her tongue, sliding down her throat with the sugary tones of chocolate that throbbed around your clit when your hips began to move, seeking friction, pleasure, anything Avis could give you. But of course, she wasn’t getting drunk and high on just your juices, but on the noises, you were making, soft mewls and gasps that matched the flavours of your blood that had her lips painted in a deep shade of red, that delicious martini forming in her mouth with the sweetness of the baileys your blood had provided. It was just perfect, sublime, the cocktail mixing with each movement of her tongue, vodka, chocolate syrup and baileys swallowed deep with the garnish of Lilia’s golden sparks, and all poured into an hourglass cup that was your body. She’d sip from you until her senses were gone and your body was begging to cum all over her gorgeous face.

It wouldn’t take long though. She had fucked you so well before and you had been so close to the edge, still were after having watched her come undone underneath you, that every touch and every movement of her mouth had your dripping and moaning with your head thrown back, basking in every sensation. With her tongue she gathered every drop that was pouring out of you, moving her head back and forth to tease your engorged clit, gasps drifting through the open windows whenever a sharp jolt coursed through your veins, the tip of your toes and fingers tingling. Jesus fucking Christ! She pressed you closer, your pussy moulded to her face, your clit twirled and fucked by her nose, flicking it from side to side as her tongue slipped into your entrance, still sore and achy form having taken her seven inches all the way to the base, causing your whole frame to shake and moaning her name loudly, so loud that you could have sworn her mirrors were reverberating to the sound. Who was being blasphemous now Avis thought as her hands slid from your hips down to your ass aiding you in rocking your hips, letting you fuck her face, imagining the way your tits were bouncing and your face contorted in unadulterated pleasure while she ate you out.

-FUCK AVIS!

Her whole palm had collided with your ass cheek in a hard slap, your cunt gushing and clenching around her tongue as pain spread and blended into pleasure in a matter of seconds, your core ablaze, burning in wildfires that were so close to burning you completely. Your hips were losing rhythm against her mouth, lost in lust and passion, forgetting that she could kill you if you stepped out of line and pulling on her hair for leverage to fuck yourself. She knew you were close, so close, begging in pathetic pleas in between pants for an orgasm you were supposed to have had long ago, tears nearly spilling from the corners of your eyes. And she couldn’t quite leave you unsatisfied and needy; Lilia could finish the job when you went home and steal the opportunity of seeing you come undone from Avis. Another slap landed over your reddened skin, a scream ripping from your hoarse throat, but that was only a prelude, the honey she was dripping on your lips before the spoonful of exquisite dessert. Her mouth moved upwards so she would wrap herself around your clit, sucking hard and scrapping it with her teeth as she pushed two fingers inside you, fucking you hard and fast while curling them to hit that marvellous spot inside you without waiting for you to adjust or even grasp what was going on.

-GOD DON’T STOP! YES! AVIS! AVIS!

Supernovas exploded, the universe collapsed in waves of stardust and black matter that came from your body and soul bursting in a tsunami of passion and pleasure. If your back arched any further your spine would break, if you kept riding her face at such speed and with such force, you’d break her nose, but your brain could not form a coherent thought when you were being electrocuted, set of fire and elevated to a whole new state of matter. Avis could no longer push her fingers in and out of you, your walls trapping them in the most brutal orgasm you had ever had, the screams that had left your throat bloody no longer slipping out only silence as your voice had been stolen from your vocal cords, but Avis didn’t mind, she was quite busy twirling your clit softly to help you ride your high while gathering every drop that was pouring out of you, gulping it down so fast that she seemed to not have had a single glass of water in centuries. Your vision had gone black for an instant as your eyes rolled to the back of you head but a few seconds or minutes after your soul left your body it returned, and your hammering heart and hurried breaths could finally take air and slow down, your hips stilling their movements and releasing Avis from your iron grip that had kept her breathless for several minutes, but neither of you had to worry about her choking or suffocating, breathing was pretty much an accessory to her lifestyle now.

Your body trembled and shagged against the headboard, small sparks dancing under your skin, raiding goosebumps when Avis caressed your sore ass and kissed the wound on your inner thigh with a tenderness that had your hazy mind thinking it was Lilia for a moment, but you knew better even if your synapses were still under Avis’s spell. Or were you? In truth she had let you go long ago, practically when you had knelt in front of her like a lost puppy begging for a treat, so every single thing she had done to you and that you had done to her had been of your own free will. You had pushed your fear and terror to the back of your head, you had interlaced the memories of Lilia with Avis of your own accord all through the night, and never, not for an instant had the ginger forced you through magic to do anything, just sheer dominance and power balance, a fact that you clearly liked. You felt the shift in weight on the bed underneath your weak knees and hear the ruffling of linens behind you as Avis slipped from under your tired body and pressed herself against your back, the scratches stinging lightly and almost drawing out a hiss from your lips, but you were still in could nine and couldn’t even begin to form a single word. Her arms snaked around your waist and pulled you into her personal space, your head falling comfortably on her shoulder. The room was a mess, blood staining the carpet, the floor and the bedsheets, clothes spread all over while the strap hung from the edge of the bed along with Avis’s stilettos, rubies reflecting the platinum beams of moonlight as her jewellery rested on the chaise long at the foot of the bed. 

-You did far better than I had imagined Y/N. If I had known you could match me this well, I would have done this ages ago, but I shall not dwell on lost time, not when you are going to be with me for a very very long time. - Avis’s bit down on her wrist, rich blood pouring in gentle swirls over her freckled skin, but she did not make you drink. No, she would not be so cruel to herself as to turn you into a vampire, she would be selfish instead. The wounds on your neck were nothing compared to the way her fangs pierced your pulse point this time, your mind collapsing like a sandcastle as the pain radiated only to be set alight when she pressed her wrist to your neck and drop by drop her blood mixed with yours. Voices screamed around you both, souls that tried to steer you away, to make you run and never return but they were nothing, just like the smoke of her cigarettes that faded into the air, like the breeze that brushed your naked bodies. Those pathetic shadows meant nothing, but Avis… Avis was everything. - Lilia will have to thank me for this. A gift of sorts to bury the hatchet. An eternal one.

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part ii)

a/n: such a cute chapter seriously, kooky Claere tries very hard to fit in and nearly succeeds

Cregan Stark felt an unexpected warmth stir within him as he stood at the cold threshold of Claere’s chambers that morning. She hadn’t noticed him yet, past her table overcrowded with steaming choices for her finicky appetite, her attention fixed on her slumbering dragon outside the frosted window. It was the first time, in weeks, he had seen Claere appear so... alive. Always, she remained untouched by the glow of the fires or the company of others. Yet here, framed by the muted sunshine, she was no longer the spirit of assumptions, but something more tangible—more real.

Her ivory hair, neatly brushed and woven into elegant braids, glinted in the soft morning light. A rare flush graced her ashen cheeks, lending an unexpected warmth to her pallor, while her lips, usually discoloured, now hinted at a shocking vibrancy. Her thickset leather gown, tailored to fit, cinched snugly to her form, warding off the biting winter chill. One could question her sanity or wisdom—but never the timeless beauty that clung to her like a second skin, untouchable and undeniable.

"Leave us," Cregan announced, breaking the quiet spell that lingered in the room.

The subtle command had Claere's handmaidens hurrying to obey, scurrying as they retreated from the room. Only one remained—the worried young girl who had raised her concerns to him—hesitating for a breath as she passed him.

"My lady is yet to break her fast, my lord," she mentioned before slipping away, casting a fleeting glance at Claere as though she feared leaving her alone.

Cregan’s gaze wavered on the closed door before shifting back to his wife. Claere’s violet eyes met his unflinchingly, but there was something delicate beneath the surface, a thread of tension woven through the air between them.

He divested his weighted fur cloaks and sword, then turned his attention to the table. He surveyed the spread before him—an abundance of food, more than enough to feed a small army. Golden loaves of bread, platters of roasted meats, a tray brimming with two hot pies, and rich, steaming pots of chicken porridge adorned the surface. Yet, despite the lavish display, it all felt strangely hollow.

His brow furrowed as he took in the untouched offerings. “This is more than enough for a feast,” he said to her, casting a sidelong glance. “Yet you’ve chosen to starve yourself.”

She was gaunt enough, pale enough—he could not bear the thought of her fading further into herself. Claere did not spare him another look or a reply, tucking her knees under her chin and continuing to stare blankly at the grey skies beyond.

"Come, try this. The venison is one of my favourites, the best you’ll ever taste," he attempted, his voice quieter than he intended, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile silence between them.

He skewered slices of the tender meat and placed them on her plate. "Especially rare this season. Smoked to perfection."

It was met with nothing. She didn’t move, didn’t even blink. It was like talking to a marble statue. Cregan’s tolerance waned, but his determination remained. He tried again.

"Perhaps some fruits from the capital?" His eager eyes flickered over her pale frame. She had grown up surrounded by the opulence of King’s Landing, maybe something from her past would awaken her hunger.

At last, a response—her gaze shifted, just barely, in his direction.

"Apples, cranberries. Oranges from Dorne," he murmured to himself, unaware.

That caught her. Her violet eyes brightened, if only for a second. Her head turned ever so slightly, just enough to show she had heard him. It was a faint glimmer of interest, the smallest shift in her otherwise impassive demeanour. Cregan seized the moment.

"Yes. Blood oranges, all the way from Sunspear," he continued, his voice gentle, as though coaxing her from some distant reverie. He reached for the bowl of oranges, their vibrant colour standing out amidst the endless grey.

"Sweet and ripe." He peeled one slowly, letting the tangy scent of citrus fill the room. "The taste of sunshine, I hear," he remarked, cutting into the orange and setting a few slices on her plate beside the untouched venison.

For a moment, the room held its breath.

He sat beside her, not prodding further, allowing the zest of the fruit to permeate through the chill in the air. It waited as a peace offering between the two of them. Although his hands itched to reach out, to grab her, shake her, force her to acknowledge the danger of her disinterest, he held back, knowing that force was not what she needed. Not now. He would start slow; small.

The moments stretched on, though his patient gaze never left her.

Then, slowly, almost unnoticeably, Claere reached forward. Her fingers touched one of the slices, and she brought it to her lips. The smallest trickle of juice touched the corner of her mouth, and something unspoken shifted between them. Another followed and another, until the orange slices disappeared.

Cregan said nothing, only watched, as though witnessing some small, hard-won victory. He reached for a second orange, peeling it with care, and setting the fresh slices in front of her.

"I don’t eat meat," Claere said suddenly, her voice clear as day, shattering the silence.

He blinked. For a moment, the absurdity of it all struck him. This was Claere Velaryon—the mysterious princess they all feared, who, in their minds, feasted on flesh like some beast from old Valyrian folklore. The one who terrified even her own attendants.

And here she was, delicately picking at oranges, refusing meat, no more grotesque than a rose bracing against the cold.

It hit him then—why she had not eaten a morsel at their wedding feast, why she never showed face at suppers, why she had been refusing to eat all this time. She wasn’t what they claimed, made of stone and shadows. She was simply, achingly, human.

Cregan stifled an amused grin, the irony too sharp to ignore. "Duly noted," he murmured, glancing at the untouched venison beside her. "I’ll take that."

He took her plate and switched his empty one with it. He managed to fill it with natural foods on the table—bread, butter, and fruits. Certainly, Northerners depended on their beef and mutton rather than daily grains. Anything hot and juicy to bear the brunt of the cold.

Whilst silently biting into a slice of buttered bread, Claere continued to scrutinize her drowsing dragon through the windowpane. Luna could’ve been mistaken for a snowy cliff by the treeline, her silver scales tough enough to brook the battering breezes outside. It should have been awake by now, trilling for Claere to come join her. Yet, peculiarly, the she-dragon continued to doze through the day.

Cregan followed her gaze, a frown tugging at his features. "Did you fly too far last night?" His concern edged through his voice. "It's been asleep too long."

Just then, Luna unfurled her leathern wings, flapping away the snow before digging her snout back into the earth. Steam sizzled off her throat and belly, a spot of the everlasting fire she harboured.

Claere took her time to respond, her voice almost proud. "She is overfed."

He scoffed under his breath. "That beast could swallow half the North, and still—"

"I took her out to hunt, my lord," she interjected, her tone soft but deliberate. "Just this morning."

His hand froze mid-motion, tightening ever so slightly around the knife as her words settled in.

"You took her to hunt," he repeated, glancing at her once he’d wrestled his wrath back under control.

She nodded, matter-of-fact, as though she were recounting an uneventful ride instead of defying his explicit orders. To Cregan, it was a quiet betrayal.

"You flew alone? Down to Castle Black?" His voice dipped into treacherous waters, barely containing his growing irritation.

"We only rode a little past Last Hearth, never crossed the Wall," she responded patiently, her tone so measured it made his irritation feel misplaced. "Luna caught some wild boars there. I reckon she’ll be sated for a few days."

Her calm, composed words felt like a blade twisting in his side. The frustration simmered beneath the surface, no longer containable. He leaned back, tossing the half-sliced apple onto the table with a heavy thud, the act punctuating the helplessness he felt. There was no forcing her, no bending her will—just standing by, powerless, as she made decisions he could neither influence nor control.

"Have I defied you, my lord?" she asked abruptly, her violet eyes watching him closely, an unexpected spark of interest flickering within them.

Claere held his gaze, unblinking, unperturbed by the smoldering in his eyes. There was no trace of fear, no hesitation—just that infuriating calm that always seemed to shield her from his concerns, as though the dangers of the world brushed past her without consequence.

He inhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to dispel the misplaced rage bubbling up. She hadn’t crossed the Wall; she hadn’t endangered herself, not in the way he feared. She had simply done as she had always done—navigating the wilds with a certainty that unnerved him.

He sighed despite his frustration. "No, you have not."

He reached for a cluster of cranberries, carefully plucking them from the vine and placing them onto her plate, trying to make the gesture feel routine, almost tender.

"You are the Lady of Winterfell," he continued. "You have as much right to defiance as I do."

She studied the crooked smile tugging at his lips, her brows drawn in thought, as though she couldn’t quite decipher the mystery before her.

"Do I not repel you?" she asked quietly, her voice betraying the faintest trace of genuine curiosity.

Cregan furrowed his brow, caught off guard by her question. "Whatever made you think that?"

Her fingers touched her chest as if pointing out the obvious. "You think me mad. The way the others do."

Realization softened his expression. "If that were true, I would not be here." He paused, his gaze more intent now. "Just as the moon is to the night, you are, to me. Distant, yet always prevalent. I have come to be curious."

A slight frown creased her forehead. "Curious?"

"About everything," he said, the softness of his smile deepening. "I want to know everything."

The silence between them grew thick, loaded with things unsaid. She wasn’t accustomed to being seen this way—not with such intent. For so long, she'd been surrounded by whispers and wary glances, all feeding into the myth of her coldness, her distance. But now, here was Cregan Stark, looking at her not with suspicion, but with inquisitiveness. That simple admission seemed to unnerve her.

"You want to know everything?" she echoed, disbelief threading through her voice.

He leaned in slightly, the firelight casting flickering shadows on his face. "Yes."

Her gaze dropped to the plate of fruit he had arranged with such care. Her fingers toyed with the edge of a piece of bread as if contemplating whether to trust him with whatever weighed on her mind.

"There is not much to know," she murmured. "Everything is plain in sight."

His smile returned, warmer this time. "Then you're not as impervious as you appear."

Her lips parted as if she were about to say something, but hesitation froze the words in her throat. For a brief moment, it seemed she was on the cusp of revealing something that had been buried for far too long. But just as quickly, the moment passed. She closed her mouth and turned her gaze away, her hands folding neatly in her lap, retreating back into herself.

Cregan watched the subtle shift, the way her posture tightened ever so slightly, the way her eyes retreated into that familiar, distant place. He had nudged the door open, but only a crack. It wasn’t enough to draw her fully into the light, but it was something. A start.

"You don’t have to tell me everything right away," he said gently, his voice shaking with laughter. "It will take time. And I will be here until then."

She looked at him then, a faint expression—almost like fondness—ghosting across her features. There was a tenderness in her eyes, nonetheless guarded, yet undeniably present. She gave a small nod, her voice quiet and uncertain.

"Perhaps one day, my lord," she promised.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Her gaze drifted back toward the window, back to Luna, her sleeping dragon. She seemed lost again, caught in her daydreams, her thoughts wandering far beyond the walls of Winterfell. Cregan leaned back in his chair, watching her in silence, his gaze tracing the curve of her face and her breath's steady rise and fall. Luna and Claere, both wrapped in an ancient mystery he was only beginning to understand.

The barriers between them had not yet fallen, but a door had been opened, however slightly. For now, that was enough.

For the first time since their marriage, Cregan allowed himself to believe—perhaps, just perhaps—there could be something more than the looming noose of duty between them. Something honest. Something soft.

X

As winter’s dawn closed in, Cregan’s quiet affections for his wife burgeoned like an arrow loosed from a bow, swift and certain. As she was known to the people of Winterfell, Lady Stark remained the same distant figure veiled in cold beauty, a foreign wife to their lord, a creature of dragon lore. She made no effort to blend into their world, and they met her aloofness with cautious smiles and bowed heads, unsure whether to approach or retreat. Claere drifted through the castle like a morning mist, silent, elusive, always keeping to the shadows, never quite a part of Winterfell’s daily rhythm.

But unlike the rest, Cregan began to take notice. Rather, it was incredible to watch unfold.

Beneath the layers of distance and impassion, there was another side to her, subtle and easy to overlook if one wasn’t paying attention. Claere was still unfamiliar, avoiding scrutiny and taken by the darkness, yet she had begun to tend to her littler assignments as a lady of the keep. It wasn’t grand or overt—there were no loud declarations or public displays of command—but she moved with purpose.

She listened more than she spoke, and when she did, her words were often strange, riddles of foresight that left the common folk wary. To the unsure blacksmith, who sought her blessing for a new forge, she meekly said to him—"Strike iron before the bell tolls twice. On the third, the flames will consume more than metal."

Whispers continued to follow her wherever she went: the dragon witch, the phantom of King’s Landing. Still, Claere remained unfazed. She attended her duties with modest accuracy, stitching herself into the rhythm of Northern life, even if it repudiated her.

Gradually, some saw her walking the cold halls, her footfalls deliberate, attending to the tasks that had once been left to the servants. Lord Stark had heard whispers of her wanderings of late—through the kitchens in the early hours, startling the cooks who were not accustomed to their lady appearing so near the hearth. She frequented the stables, her pale eyes watchful of the stablehands, though she never interfered. Most strangely, she had taken to visiting the kennels where the pups—the direwolf cubs born just before the first snowfall—played.

It was an odd sight to behold: Lady Claere, who rarely engaged with the people of the keep, standing among the yapping pups. She never knelt to pet them, never extended a hand to ruffle their fur. Instead, she would watch, as if the simple act of being near them was enough to quiet her mind. The small, wriggling wolves nipped at her skirts, tugging with playful insistence, but she remained still, observing them. Understanding them.

"They are quite fond of you, my lady," the kennel master remarked one day, eyeing the scene with amusement.

Claere glanced down at the pups nipping at her fur-lined cloak, her expression unreadable. "Then why do they attack me so?" she asked, her voice lilting with dry bemusement.

The kennel master chuckled, tossing scraps of meat at her feet. The pups immediately abandoned her skirts, their attention fully captured by the morsels. They tumbled over one another, growling and yipping as they fought for the food.

"I hope that answers your question, my lady," he said, his grin widening.

She looked at the scramble of bodies and fur, her lips pressed in a thin line, as though she was still unsure.

And on the rarest of occasions, Cregan would find her by the ancient weirwood tree in the godswood, her hands clasped to her chest, staring into the carved face of the old gods. The white bark seemed to cast her in a radiance, a lone figure amidst the snow-covered branches. Her eyes, those pale violet eyes, seemed lost in thought, as though she communed with the far beyond, elsewhere.

Likewise, her deeds—those small, almost invisible deeds—spoke volumes. Cregan had once found a handkerchief waiting for him in his study after a particularly gruelling day. The little fabric was sloppily stitched, the pale blue thread forming what he could only assume was meant to be a dragon—Claere's touch, unmistakable. Despite the uneven embroidery, he carried it with him always, tucked close to his chest beneath his leather coat of plates. It was the smallest of gestures, but to him, it was the great deal of effort she had put in for him.

But formality, he decided, did nothing for them.

One night, he summoned all the courage he had left, sweeping into her chambers with a boldness that surprised even him. He found her sitting near the hearth, her slender fingers too close to the flames, seeking heat from the piercing frost that had begun to seep into Winterfell's very bones.

"I would like to," Cregan began, his voice betraying a touch of nervousness beneath its usual strength, "sleep here tonight."

She turned to him, startled, her violet eyes dashing briefly to the bed. She blinked, slowly understanding the meaning behind his words.

Her lips parted, and she spoke with faint surprise. "You desire an heir."

Cregan's heart lurched in his chest, his eyes widening in shock. "No. No, princess," he half-laughed, quickly stepping forward, his voice dropping to a gentler tone. "You mistake me. I want no such thing from you."

She remained quiet, her gaze searching his face for meaning. "You do not?"

"I do, of course. In time, yes. Heirs." He scratched his jaw nervously. "I implied that I merely..." He hesitated, struggling to find the right words. His hand moved toward her, hovering in the space between them before finally resting gently upon her cold hand.

"I simply want to be close to you. No titles or expectations. You and I."

Claere stared at his hand on hers, the firelight dancing across her face, her expression caught somewhere between bewilderment and awareness. She had never imagined such a request from him. To her, as preached by her mother, marriage had always been about duty, obligation, and the future of his line.

"You mean to sleep here," she repeated, her voice softer now, doubtful.

"Aye, I do," Cregan replied, his hand still resting over hers, warm against the cold of the room. "I would like to be with you, as we are. If that would please you."

Her eyes flickered with something he couldn't quite place—an emotion she rarely showed. Vulnerability, perhaps. She nodded slowly, her gaze dropping to the flames.

"Very well," she whispered.

Then on, he cherished those quiet nights spent by her side, even while she remained true to her unstinting oddities. For all that surrounded her, she had, in her own way, become his constant.

The gentle strumming of her harp in the dead of the night became Cregan's personal lullabies, even if was hair-raising to the rest of them. He found her wandering through the corridors in the small hours, her movements slow, as though she drifted through her dreams. It should've unsettled him—the sight of his wife, half-asleep and roaming as if the world outside fell to nothing at her feet. Whenever the night sky beckoned her, she would climb the ramparts, sprawling herself across the ancient stone, her hands and eyes tracing the constellations. Sometimes, in the earliest hours of dawn, he would wake to find her already gone, Luna’s shadow a fleeting blur in the sky as she took flight.

"The court grows restless, my lord," the maester had said cautiously one time, his voice a quiet murmur as they stood in the Great Hall. "They believe Lady Claere's patterns... worry the people. A lady shouldn’t wander alone, especially not at such hours."

Cregan's rubbed at his brow, frustrated. "What would you have me do? Chain her to her chambers? Berate her like a child?"

"They mean no harm, my lord," he continued, trying to tread carefully. "You appease her too much. Her place is—"

"Her place," Cregan interrupted, his tone final, "is wherever she chooses to be."

He couldn’t bring himself to curb the parts of her that made her who she was. She wrought no trouble to anyone. Besides, stopping her could bring about dire consequences he knew little about.

One evening, after hearing her footsteps echo along the parapet walls, he quietly followed. Of course, for a dragonrider, such a height would not bother her, but his heart raced faster at the reflection of slippery death. Claere was already there, gazing up at the stars with a look of quiet reverence. He carefully lay beside her, trying to see the sky as she did, wondering what enigmas it held for her.

"Do you see them?" Claere asked, not turning to face him.

Cregan followed her gaze, his breath clouding in the crisp cold air. "Their radiance comes to nought with your presence," he said in all honesty.

Her eyes still fixed on the heavens, simply nodded, offering no smile, no warmth—just that silent acknowledgement that always seemed to deflate him.

"Untouched," she told him, an awed confession, "since I first laid eyes on them. Even in King's Landing and Dragonstone. Here. Yet they tell me a distinct story every night. Of old, of the things yet to come."

Cregan found himself leaning closer on his elbow, her calm conviction tugging at his control. It was easier to touch her nowadays, never past a soft squeeze of her palm or shoulder, but nevertheless, he basked in her liberties to him.

He traced her hairline by her temple, tucking a curl behind her ear. He was afraid she was going to melt right through his fingertips, vanish into steam.

"What do they say to you tonight?" he asked.

"Iā gēlenka qogron," she replied, her Valyrian tongue as smooth as the silks she wore, getting across his skin like a breathy caress.

He shook his head. "I can't understand your language."

"A silver lining."

For the first time in a while, she looked at him, a faint smile playing at her eyes, like two streaks of comets in the night. An elfish smile spread on his lips, his soul wrecked and decimated at the mere sight of it. A softness that she allowed just for him.

The aforesaid silver lining came on two fronts, both owed to his good wife, though neither understood immediately.

The first glimmer of change came as Claere sat by his feet one evening, quietly weaving another garland of winter roses upon a vine. He wondered what significance it was to her, why she had taken a liking to such an absurd, sweet thing. It was rare in these parts, yet she always had a throng of them every fortnight.

Instinctually, he reached out to gently touch the back of her head, brushing his fingers down the silvery hair that was left loose from her plaits. That gesture was enough to impart the warmth from the chill around them. Then, without turning to him, she spoke softly; suddenly.

“You could grow things here. Even in the cold.”

Cregan frowned, tilting his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

She did not answer right away, her fingers hesitating on loops of the vines, thinking. "Like these roses. They rise out of the ice."

He flickered his gaze to the withered flowers in her pale hands.

“The hot spring beneath the castle,” she sounded off. “It could heat the glass. Protect the plants.”

“Glass?” he asked, perplexed, trying to piece together her words.

She saw her nod, turning her head just enough to catch the slope of her nose and bow of her murmuring lips. Such a distracting sight.

“A house of glass. With the heat from below and light from above, you could grow food. Even in the blackest winters.”

Cregan sat back, stroking his lip, unsure if she was speaking in riddles again or if there was some truth hidden in her quiet musings. A glass house? In Winterfell? He mulled over her words long after the conversation ended, unseeingly staring at her sleep, wondering if she saw something he didn’t, or if it was simply another of her cryptic thoughts, floating like a wisp of fog, impossible to catch.

Days passed before the idea began to take shape in his mind, the pieces coming together as he considered the hot springs that ran beneath the castle, the ancient warmth that had always been a part of Winterfell. The more he thought about it, the more her words made sense—elusive at first, yes, but not impossible.

“She has clever foresight beyond her years, my lord,” one of the builders remarked when Cregan indistinctly shared the concept, the man’s eyes widening at the simplicity of it. The Glass Gardens, so it was named.

“To grow fresh produce in hard frost… it could change everything. But it will take great labour, and the men—”

"Insignificant," he interrupted, anticipating the instant objections. "Use every muscle we have, builders and stewards alike. Stop at nothing. Winter is coming."

X

A heavy silence draped the great hall as the Lord and Lady of Winterfell sat together at the head of the long table, their presence commanding every eye in the space. The low light of the hearth flashed, candles careened, casting long shadows against the weathered stone walls, the flickers dancing across Cregan’s gruff yet relaxed features and Claere’s hypnotic beauty.

The hall was teeming with people, the sounds of clinking plates and jovial laughs—lords of vassal houses, bannermen, and their ladies—but not a soul dared to question their sights. They watched, breath held, as the husband and wife dined in quiet harmony after weeks of isolation. Yet, the silence wasn’t strained. There was something subtle between them, implicit but unmistakable, a warmth that didn’t need words to be discerned.

Claere, shrouded in a grey fur-lined cloak, a gift from Cregan, picked at the peas on her plate. To those watching, she remained in her customary quietude, never quite fitting into their climate. But Cregan saw something else. He could sense the effort in her posture: the way she held herself more present tonight, despite her usual evasive manner. She wasn’t quite comfortable, but she was trying. And he was prepared to help.

Cregan’s watchful grey eyes, sharp as winter but softening with each glance, rushed often to his wife. Though she barely touched her food, he noticed her little, doubtful movements—the way her fingers skimmed the rim of her goblet, the way her eyes lounged on the stagnating hearth, her mind a million miles away.

He tore a piece of bread and placed it on her plate, a routine gesture between them now. He gently squeezed her hand over the table, bringing her back to reality.

"You must eat something," he murmured, meant for her ears alone. There was no force in his words, only a gentle concern from his growing care.

Claere’s violet eyes flickered toward him, surprised at first, but she didn’t resist. She took a small nibble of the bread and sipped the spiced broth, hesitant under the weight of so many eyes upon her. Yet, when she met Cregan’s gaze, just for a heartbeat, something shifted. An unassuming smile tugged at his lips, softening the edges of his usually stern features.

The tension in the hall, once thick with curiosity and judgment, began to ease. The subtle exchanges between the lord and his lady had not gone unnoticed by their audience. How his smile grew when she looked at him, a rare sight for those who knew him.

It wasn’t until a shift in the crowd drew the noble couple's attention—an approaching woman with two small children clutching at her skirts—that the atmosphere around them began to change.

In their small hands, they carried something bright—gleaming in the candlelight like polished stones. As they came closer, Cregan's brow furrowed in confusion. The sight of what they carried made him lean forward, his voice low with disbelief. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Bless me. Are those...?” he drawled out in wonder.

The woman’s hands shook slightly as she stepped forward, her eyes darting nervously between Cregan and Claere.

“Lord Stark,” she stammered, her voice trembling. She strained a pleading gaze at Claere. “This is too generous of a gift, my lady. We cannot accept this."

In her hands, and those of her children, were dragon eggs from Luna's most recent clutch—small, vibrant, coloured crimson and green. The sight of them made the hall grow quieter as if the very air had thinned with the enormity of the gesture. The children, however, clutched the eggs to their chests, unwilling to part with them. Their small hands curled protectively around the gleaming shells, eyes wide with the wonder of it.

Claere’s gaze flicked to the children, and then to the mother. "They earned them."

"They are unaware of what these symbolise to your bloodline," the mother refused. "Dragon eggs don't belong in the hands of people like us."

“Are you to refuse gratuity from your lady?” she said, with the quiet authority that left no room for argument. Claere regarded the children with a measured gaze, her expression still cool.

"They are gifts for your family. I owe the little ones a keepsake for their bravery today."

"Bravery?" Cregan questioned.

"We helped her locate Luna's clutch, m'lord," the young girl confessed in a mumble.

"And Lady Stark let us keep some of them," the young boy finished. "We found five so far."

"Two out of five is scarcely anything," Claere subdued the stressed mother. "I have plenty to spare."

The children, despite their mother’s soft pleas, clung tighter to the eggs, their fingers wrapped around them as though the treasures belonged to them alone. The mother’s face flushed with embarrassment, her hands trembling as she tried to gently pry the eggs from her children’s grasp.

“But, my lady, this is—”

Claere’s attention had already drifted to her plate. Her expression tightened for a brief moment, something unspeakable crossing her features—a subtle unease she hid from the hall, but not from Cregan. Ever observant, caught the unease settling into her posture, the slight tightening of her fingers around her goblet. He saw the far-off look in her eyes, and his heart sank.

Claere, at that moment, glanced down at the eggs in their small hands, and her gaze seemed to shift—becoming distant, as though she were looking far beyond the walls of Winterfell. Her eyes briefly lingered on the older boy, trained right through him, a flicker of foreboding.

Sensing this, Cregan squeezed Claere's thigh to summon her attention. When he did, he gave her the most infinitesimal shake of his head, searching her eyes. For a quiet moment, she remained frozen in place, still cold-eyed, as if deliberating some far-off future.

But then, with the smallest exhale, she relented. The tension in her shoulders melted, and her gaze gentled. Turning back to the woman, Claere’s voice was soothing now, in a way that almost made her seem more benevolent.

“Your son will grow strong,” she said, softly touching the boy's head. “He will see many winters, and live long." Then she nodded at the girl. "So will she. Great things await in their morrows."

The woman’s eyes filled with gratitude, her children clutching their eggs close as they looked up at her in awe. She bowed deeply, her voice cracking with emotion.

“Thank you, milady, truly," she said profusely. "Thank you.”

As the woman and her children backed away into the crowd, their wide-eyed wonder a stark contrast to the stunned silence that had settled over the hall, Cregan relaxed into his chair, his gaze still fixed on Claere.

He was the perfect blend of amusement and concern. “You mislike lying," he claimed.

Claere, still staring after the departing family, shook her head, her expression contemplative. “No,” she said, her tone almost introspective. “I do not care for it. The truth is simpler.”

Cregan arched a brow, the corner of his mouth lifting in a teasing smile as he sipped his ale. “You avoided the truth."

"Akin to deceit."

He set down his mug with a sigh. "Fair enough. Whatever did you see?"

Her eyes tightened, toying at her sleeves as if thinking over revealing this to him. "The boy will live long... but he will be sentenced to takeing the black for assault. His path is laid."

Cregan absorbed her words, and the dinner noises got louder. He rubbed a hand down his mouth, nodding to himself.

"That boy's future is his to shape," he relieved, his eyes locking on hers. "No sense in weighing down tomorrow with troubles that haven’t come. Perhaps knowing less will allow him to make other choices."

She quirked a side of her lips to an imperceptible smile, a shared understanding evolving between them. "Perhaps."

He gently caressed the back of her head. "Maybe don’t make this a habit. I don’t fancy sharing my ale with a doom-monger every night."

Her laugh surprised him. It was soft, barely more than a breath, like a secret that had slipped free—genuine, and entirely unexpected. Cregan blinked, caught off guard. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted to hear it.

"You laughed," he noticed breathily.

Claere paused, her brows drawing together as though she hadn’t noticed it herself. “Did I?”

He nodded, still watching her, his eyes softening. “Aye, you did. A sound like that could warm even these old stones."

She looked down at her lap as if trying to recall the moment herself. Her fingers resumed their nervous picking at her sleeves, but there was a faint flush on her pale cheeks, a subtle shift in her usual guarded demeanour.

“I suppose I did,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Cregan leaned closer, nudging her arm, gentle but teasing. “Well, don’t stop now. I think I'm rather fond of it.”

Claere’s thin lips graced a vague curve, so sweet and humble, though she quickly turned her gaze away from him, her fingers smoothing the fabric of her dress.

Gently, unable to stop himself, he reached out, cupping the side of her pale cheek. This time, she did not flinch or shy away. Instead, she closed her eyes, allowing herself to lean into his touch, indulging in the warmth of his hand, even if just for a fleeting moment.

For Cregan, it was another crushing triumph. For Claere, it was the first time she permitted herself to feel something other than the cold isolation that had surrounded her since arriving at Winterfell. And for those watching, it was a glimpse of an undue union slowly becoming more than mere duty.

There it was: Cregan's second silver lining, with far less fanfare and more consequential than the first. A quiet tempest of affection began taking root in the frozen North, thawing what had once seemed unreachable—the first warmth of spring after a long winter.

X

[and-claudia]

Bound by Winter (Spencer Agnew x fem! Reader) Prologue

Warnings: angst, arranged marriage

A/n: check out some of the easter eggs I have left in the story and comment if you find them (even the obvious ones like the characters)

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Bound by Winter Masterlist

header made by yours truly

The parchment trembled in my hands, though I’d like to think it was the wind coming off the bay that made it shake. The seal was unmistakable—black wax, pressed with the crescent-winged owl of House Agnew. Cold just to look at. My name was written below it, spelled perfectly. Like they’d known it all along.

My feet carried me without much input from my brain, and I found Father in the observatory. He was staring out at the sea as if it might answer him. It never did. That was my place. 

“You knew,” I said. “Didn’t you?” Although my voice was quiet, it cut through the air like a knife. 

He didn’t turn around. Just nodded, slowly. His hair looked more silver than gold in the firelight.

“There’s war coming, daughter,” he said, voice low. “And it won’t be fought with swords alone.”

The words hung between us like a noose. War. The kind that cracked kingdoms open and left bastards like me to be swept into its bloody tide.

“So, I’m to be married,” I said, letting the taste of it sour on my tongue. “To Spencer Agnew. Of Caerwatch.” 

At that, my Father finally turned. His eyes were red-rimmed, not from crying—I’d never seen Rhett McLaughlin weep—but from sleeplessness, from drinking too much of the smoked plum wine he saved for council nights.

“Virelia is splitting,” he said. “The East is sharpening its axes. The throne is weaker than it admits. We need the North. And the North won’t move without a binding reason.”

“So you’re offering me like a damned mare,” I snapped. “For peace.”

“For your people,” he corrected, harsher than I expected. “For Seastar Hold. For your name.”

My name. The one he gave me. The one I had held so dear to my heart, knowing he gave it to me when he could have easily left me in the brothel to be raised along with the other bastards. But no. He chose to take me in. To give me the honor of bearing his name. And now, I’d have to give that up.

I looked past him, out to the horizon. The clouds were purple—sunset bruised. In a week’s time, the torches would be lit, the courtyard filled with laughter and smoke and shouting. It would be time for our annual Fall Feast. The one he and Uncle Link threw every year with their strange fire-breathers and spiced meads and indecent songs. They called it a tradition—Mythical Evening.

I’d never missed one in all my life.

“Will I be here for the Feast at least?” I asked, already knowing and dreading the answer.

He didn’t answer right away.

“The marriage is set for the fortnight,” he said. “They ride to claim you in three days.”

So no. I would not be here for the Feast. I would not drink the amber firewine. I would not sit beside my Uncle Link while he made rhymes too filthy for a lady’s ears. I would not laugh until my ribs hurt, or dance with barefoot servants in the kitchen after midnight.

I would be on the road. Bound for frost. For a stranger. For a husband.

For a war.

“So, I am to go alone then as well?” I asked. 

Silence once again. 

“I’ve never even been to the north. All I’ve ever known is Seastar Hold and Brightmere Keep. I’ve never left the Mythic Reach… And now I am to go out alone?” I said, panicked at what the future may hold. 

“You won’t be alone, Lord Agnew has assured that he has sent his best men to bring you back with them to Caerwatch Keep. You will be well protected, I made sure of it.” My father said, in an attempt to soothe my worries. 

“His best men? When war is looming over us all? I doubt that. And what, my betrothed didn’t have the decency to accompany them to steal his bride away from her home?” 

“Yn,” My father sighed, clearly exasperated, “They are not stealing you away from your home.” 

“It feels like they are…” I said sadly. 

“I’ll send the handmaidens to your chambers to help you pack… I hope to see you at dinner. Your Uncle is riding here as fast as he can to see you before you leave.” My father said, dismissing me without actually doing so. 

I left the observatory with tears stinging behind my eyes, but I refused to let them fall in public. I saved those for my pillow late at night. When I got to my room, I found my most trusted handmaiden, Emily, there. 

“What’s wrong?” She asked upon seeing me. 

I said nothing, just handed her the parchment I had been handed earlier by Maester Chase. 

“Are you fucking serious?” She asked, never one to be afraid to use colorful language in the presence of her lady. 

“Yup. Spencer fucking Agnew… his reputation is horrible. I’ve heard he’s not even the true heir to Caerwatch.” I said, opening my wardrobe and browsing which dresses I should take, not that any of them were remotely close to being able to keep me warm so far north. 

“Yn, do I need to point out the obvious here?” Emily asked. 

I went to speak but realized she was right, I was being a hypocrite, being a bastard myself, “That’s not what I meant… I mean, you’ve heard the rumors. Some say he was raised by crows and ghosts, that’s why he’s so different.” 

“Yn, they’re an old house, they have lore like that in all the old houses. Though his reputation in court is… lacking.” Emily said, preparing my trunk for me. 

“I know. Did you hear about how apparently the Crown once tried to summon Spencer to the capital, and he declined? Who does that? I mean, short of lying on your deathbed, I don't believe you refuse the crown without consequences, and yet he did. He acts as if he’s above politics. And yet he’s knowledgeable in them. I can only assume he is also knowledgeable in a battle, a house doesn’t live this long without passing on past battle wisdom.” I said. 

“I did hear that. I also heard that he has the eyes of a hawk, but the motivation of a house cat. He sees everything but doesn’t care enough to do anything about much. And when he does do something, it's usually a battle of wits that he never seems to lose.” Emily said. 

“That’s honestly what worries me. I don’t expect him to love me, but at very least I would like for us to grow to care for each other… but how could I expect someone who yawns at the thought of being challenged to a duel? He doesn’t care about anything.” 

“Well,” Emily began as she folded the few dresses I had laid out, “it could be worse; he could be known for his temper.” 

“Is that worse? His sarcasm alone is just as dangerous as wrath, honestly. I’ve heard he says just enough to start fires, but then walks away before they catch. In some ways, that’s far more dangerous who brings the fire already raging in his wake.” I said. 

However, before Emily could say anything, there was a knock on the door. 

“Who is it?” I called out. 

“It’s just me, here to see my favorite niece!” I heard my uncle call through the door. 

I smiled as I stood and rushed to the door, thankful for the brief distraction. 

“I’m your only niece, Uncle Link.” I said with a laugh as he wrapped me in a hug. 

“I brought something for you. I’ll have it brought up to your chambers during dinner.” He said, offering me his arm to escort me to dinner. Since it was just my uncle visiting, there was no need to use the grand hall for the dinner, so we’d be dining in the smaller dining room. 

“Emily, go ahead and eat dinner yourself. Meet me back here when you’re done.” I dismissed her before leaving with my uncle. 

“So, what did you get me?” I asked curiously. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He teased, “Well, before I tell you, please don’t be cross with your father or me… I have known about your marriage arrangement for as long as he has.” 

He paused to gauge my reaction, but I kept my face neutral as I nodded for him to continue. 

“I was not sure when it would be, but I knew it would be soon. So I had your favorite dress maker in Brightmere make something for you. It was hard to get her hands on just the right fabric, but she’s made you a beautiful wedding gown. I asked her to keep some semblance of home in it, the bottom is embroidered with your father’s sigil as well as your future husband's.” He explained. 

“It’s an odd mix. Ocean waves and snow owls.” I commented. 

Link nodded, “Yes, but sometimes the oddest pairing makes for the most beautiful in due time.” 

I sighed, “Did my father ask you to say that?” 

My father and I tended to butt heads. I’ve always been told that although I am the spitting image of my late mother, I had inherited my father’s temper, and perhaps even then some. The two of us cared for and loved one another fiercely, but when the two of us disagreed, gods help those caught in the crossfire. My uncle and I, however, were the complete opposite. He was softer than my father, more sensitive. He was the one to articulate what my father was feeling when he was too stubborn and coarse to say. 

He shook his head, though. 

“No, I truly believe it. You know, your aunt and I didn’t know each other until a week before we were wed. Would you believe that by looking at us now, all these years later?” He asked. 

I shook my head, “No, you look at her like she hung the moon and stars just for you… But you two came from the same place. You’re both from the west… Spencer and I couldn’t be more opposites. I'm from the western shores of Virelia, where the sun shines for nine months out of the year and even in the colder months you’d be hard prest to call it cold. Even now, with autumn beginning, the heat still flows through the halls. I was raised in the sun and salt. Spencer is from the northernmost part of Virelia. It snows more than it doesn’t up there. I doubt they go a day without wearing fur-lined cloaks. He was raised in shadows and ice… I don’t see how the two of us will get along…” 

“Just give it time.” He said gently just as we arrived in the small dining hall where my father was already sat waiting for us. 

I took my usual seat beside where he sat at the head of the table, and my uncle sat across from me. 

“I had the kitchens make your favorite.” My father said once we were settled. 

“Thank you.” 

I noticed the air was stiff, and not just from the lingering heat of the day. This wasn’t going to be one of the dinners where I got to smile and laugh at stories my father and uncle told of their times before children. No, this dinner was much more solemn. 

“We need to discuss your marriage a bit more.” My father began, “You understand what a queen's purpose to her king is, right?” 

“Yes… But-” 

“What is it?” He cut me off. 

“To provide him with children. Specifically, male children to be his heirs.” I said. 

He nodded slowly.

“House Agnew is not like us. They’re an old house- a respected house, especially by their people. You remember your history lessons of the major house of Virelia -how House Agnew was once a kingdom itself?” 

“Yes, it was before the Crownfire War, before the Shattering of the Watch. I believe one of the books says, ‘They broke the Owl's Eye, and the North wept.’ Now only Caerwatch remains.” I said, remembering the history books my father would read to me as a child. 

“That’s right. Although they are not on their throne any longer, their people still view the Lord and Lady Angew as a king and his queen. So, when you marry Spencer, once he becomes the Lord of Caerwatch, you will become his queen.” My father explained. 

“Oh, I’m sure the people of Frostspire will love to see a southern bastard as the Lady Queen Agnew,” I said sarcastically as I reached for the flagon of wine between the three of us. 

My father sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as I poured my wine, admittedly more than what would be deemed proper for a lady at dinner. 

“They may not love you, but they will respect you.” My father said. 

I sighed, taking a sip of the deep red liquid. 

“Fine. But why do you bring up heirs? I mean, I knew that would be part of getting married, I didn’t think you would have to point that out to me.” I said. 

“Well, because I have no male heirs. I had planned to name you as my heir, allow you to have some say in who you married, but the threat of war has forced me to change those plans… I am too old to be marrying and trying for a male heir, so I am temporarily going to name your cousin, Charles, as my heir… that is, until you have two sons. The first would obviously be named Spencer’s heir, then the second I would name as mine. If something were to happen to me, Charles would be acting Lord of Seastar Hold until your second son came of age.” My father explained. 

“Oh. So, now you really are selling me off like a brood mare.” I snipped. 

“Damn it, Yn! Please don’t make this any harder than it needs to be. Do you think I want to send you off? Do you think I am reveling in the fact that my baby girl, the last memory I have of the woman I loved and was too afraid to wed, is locked away in the north? Do you really think I am happy about this arrangement?” He finally snapped, and I swear this is the closest I had ever seen my father to crying. 

“You’re father is right, Yn. No one is particularly happy with this arrangement. That’s no secret. However, having an open mind about it may help you see the good it could bring. And… if nothing else comes of it, and you can’t bring yourself to love him and he can’t do the same for you, then do your duty as his queen and pour your love into the children he gives you.” My uncle said gently. 

I nodded, knowing he was right. The rest of dinner continued quietly. Once he was finished, my father excused himself from the table and disappeared. 

“Your father loves you, you know that, right?” 

“Yes, of course I do.” “I wasn’t supposed to share this with you, but another reason he sending you to marry Spencer is for your protection. Our houses are new, our names are not ancient like others in the realm. We have a target on our backs. Especially your father, who aided so much in the last war. There is talk that the first attack will be here, on Seastar Hold. If you stayed here, you’re life would be at risk. Your father also doesn’t have the men. Don’t get me wrong, the fishing villages along the coast are fiercely loyal to him, but they’re not real fighters. Next to the royal guard, House Agnew has the largest army, nearly 15 to one of the next largest. Your father needed this arrangement to protect you and Seastar Hold. I know it’s not ideal, and I know it’s hard to see it this way, but he did it for you.” My uncle explained gently. 

“I guess I never considered something like that… I’ll try to go into it open-minded, but you’ve heard the rumors about Spencer Agnew… he’s a silver-tongued lord to be with, seemingly always better things to do. I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t sound like someone particularly marriage material.” I said, slouching back in my chair in such a way that if she’d been present, Septa Stevie surely would’ve scolded me. 

“I know someone else who’s quite silver-tongued themselves.” My uncle said, sipping his own glass of wine. 

I smirked at his comment.

“And as for the rumors,” He said, leaning forward, setting his goblet down, “They’re rumors. Court gossip. You won’t know what he is truly like until you meet him.” 

I nodded, “You’re right.” I conceded. 

“I often am.” He said, leaning back, arms crossed clearly proud of himself for getting through to me. 

I shook my head in amusement before excusing myself and heading back to my chambers. Just as he had said, the wedding dress was hanging in my room. I was utterly speechless when I saw it. It was the perfect shade of deep, storm-silver silk, like the color of thunderclouds gathering at sea. The bodice had the softest dove-gray velvet that I recognized as Brightmere velvet that had been used on previous dresses my uncle had made for me. The velvet was stitched in a subtle wave pattern, making me smile to myself. The neckline was off the shoulder and trimmed in a delicate lace. I could tell there was a train on the dress as well, not anything crazy, but definitely one that would drag slightly behind me. The bottom of the dress was absolutely beautiful. My uncle had already told me about the embroidery, but I was blown away seeing it in person. The two sigils of my father and future husband were woven together in a looping, mirrored design: wave and wing, sun and moon, stitched in an endless knot. Where the wave crests, the owl takes flight. Where the moon wanes, the sun rises. 

“Do you like it?” 

My uncle’s voice caught me off guard as I spun around to see him and my father standing in the corridor outside my door. 

“It’s stunning… I- I don’t know what to say.” I said, truly at a loss for words. 

“Why don’t you try it on so we can have one of the tailors here make any alterations needed?” My father said, standing with his hands behind his back. I nodded, “Give me just a moment.” I stepped forward after Emily, who had been standing off to the side, entered my room and pushed the door closed. 

“Yn, this thing is gorgeous. If Spencer doesn’t fall for you once he sees you in this, Seven Hells, if he doesn’t, I just might.” She said, helping me out of the dress I was currently wearing. 

I laughed at her words. She carefully took the dress off the hanger and helped me into it. It was a lot warmer than I was expecting it to be. It was definitely a style I wasn’t used to. I was more accustomed to sleeveless, light, flowy dresses, which were a stark contrast to the long-sleeved, thicker, more structured dress I was now wearing. Once she finished, I did a once-over of myself in the mirror before nodding for her to let my uncle and father in. 

“So?” I asked. 

“It looks perfect.” My uncle said, and my father nodded. 

I looked at him and waited for him to say something, anything. Nothing. 

“Did you see the bottom? It has our sigil on it.” I said, kicking my foot forward to show the detail better. 

Once again, he nodded. 

Then, after a few beats of silence, he spoke, voice cracking as he clearly fought back tears. 

“You look beautiful, Yn.” 

Link caught Emily’s attention and nodded to the door before turning to leave with her following behind, pulling the door behind her. 

“I um… I have something for you.” He said, finally bringing his hands from behind his back. 

In his hands was a clearly handmade twined circlet of pearl and sea-glass. The pearls and class were all white, save for one pearl, in the front that was the most beautiful seafoam green I had ever seen. Having grown up playing in the tidepools on the shore, I was no stranger to pearls. I knew one of that color and size was rare to find. In fact, it was the second one I had ever seen, the first being set in a ring on my father's finger. 

“It’s a McLaughlin tradition to make their daughters a headpiece for their wedding… I know it’s not fancy, but I did my best-” 

“It’s perfect. I love it. Will help put it on to see it with the dress?” I asked, cutting him off. 

“Of course.” He said, lifting it up and carefully fixing it on my head. 

It sat perfectly, the seafoam colored pearl was on beautiful display in front.

“Thank you.” I said, catching his eye in the mirror, “Where did you get the green one? They’re so rare.” 

“When I found this one,” He held up his hand showing the matching one in his ring, “It actually continued two green ones. One larger one, one smaller.” 

I noticed then that the one on his ring was actually bigger than the one that sat upon my head now. 

“I kept the smaller one for this reason. I wanted you to wear it on your wedding day. Though I had always envisioned you getting married here. It still will keep us connected.” 

At that, I turned away from the mirror and threw my arms around him tightly. He didn’t hesitate to hug me back just as tightly. We stayed in our embrace for a few moments before he lessened his grip and placed a kiss on the top of my head. 

“I’ll go get Emily so she can help you out of this. I’ll have a special crate and jewelry box to transport them in before you leave.” He said, pulling away completely. 

“Thank you, I love you, Father.” 

“I love you, too, dear.” He said before walking out. 

As Emily came back in, I began to think that maybe this arrangement might not be so horrible. Just maybe. 

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