#in all his undead glory

[justanotherbarrelrat]

Halloween Costume Ideas for Jordie Rietveld

Lifeguard

Ghost

Zombie

[thexsilentxwordsmith]

Zombie!Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

Fandom: Call of Duty

Character(s): Zombie!Ghost, Reader

Summary: Being on the run from the undead doesn't leave much time for more intimate things, but once things start to settle a little an ache begins to form that you havent felt in a long time. What will you do when the only other person you are with is your former lover turned zombie.

Word Count: 4.8 k

Warnings:

Author's Note: here it is as requested. I hope I did it justice. Happy Halloween 🎃

You’d been on the run for months now, never stopping as hordes of the undead nipped away at any temporary calm would you seek to have. It wasn’t easy always having to look over your shoulder, wondering when you were going to get ambushed again or if you’d get overrun and you’d have to make your final stand in a blaze of glory. Something like that isn’t supposed to become normal, but after over a year of living in hell you kind of get used to it… Kind of.

That first month was the hardest since you had been completely on your own because in the chaos and confusion of that first wave as the everything fell apart, including the 141 you were stationed with, you’d gotten separated from everyone. Hiding in the sewers, scavenging for food like some kind of rat, it was torture. But then you came across someone you thought you’d never see again: Ghost.

He was holed up alone in an abandoned farmhouse back in the thick of the woods a town over from the base. What should have been a reunion with someone you knew was thrown off by the fact that he had in fact been turned into one of the undead. Out of everyone that you could have run into, why him? You two had history, the kind where intimate details were something that you shared, and now you were both thrust together once again only this time there were bigger things at stake other than if you’d get caught fooling around by the captain.

The strange thing was that even though Ghost had been fully transformed by the infection, it was not what you expected. You realized quickly that Ghost had kept most of his humanity, though the more finer details of his person were scrambled by the disease. Even though he could not speak anymore due to the fact that his jaw was broken, Ghost was still inside there. And the strangest part of it all was that he remembered you.

It wasn’t like anything you had seen from the horde of mindless undead and so instead of facing the unknown alone again, you decided to stick with him. For over a year you two stayed side by side and although you did not come across any others of the task force, it was enough to just have one another.

Honestly he wasn’t a terrible companion, though a bit of conversation would have been nice. Still, having him with you had its perks. Being one amongst the walking corpses had great benefits and Ghost used them to their full capability to keep you safe so that after a time, even though the world still sat in ruin, you two were not doing too bad. At least you were able to stay in place for more than a day now.

That’s where you found yourself, shacked up in a two story cottage you had found almost untouched and secluded in the middle of the woods. It was easy enough to make secure, as secure as you could having limited supplies, but apart from a few stray corpses stumbling by there wasn’t much action. That anxiety riddled tension that you had held in your chest for over a year began to ease and with that came old stirrings that you hadn’t felt since before the world collapsed.

An old familiar ache brought on by being near someone who you used to share such things with, the one that leaves you begging to be quenched, wormed its way back into your life and now that you had more time on your hands it was becoming a major problem.

You see, adrenalin has a funny way of fucking with your head: heightening your senses, making your pulse race, everything feels so much more intense. You were only human, one who still had needs which had not been met in so fucking long that you couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be touched by another and so having your blood always rushing and your skin tingling, how could you stop yourself from giving in to that most basic of temptations?

It was a shame that Ghost wasn’t an option now; you would liked to have him one more time as the world burned, but there was no way no… right?

So, instead, one evening after the perimeter had been secured and the doors re-bolted, the windows rechecked and the traps restrung, that ache reached its peak and you had to do something before it got in the way of staying safe. Sneaking off to the bedroom you had claimed for yourself upstairs, you allowed that overwhelming need to finally overtake you.

Leaving the door slightly ajar so that you could still be alert to any stray sounds, you laid down on the cushioned surface of the mattress, your pulse racing rapidly in your chest at the prospect of doing this. You made quick work of your jeans, unbuttoning them and pulling down the zipper only enough so that you could access that throbbing between your thighs. Clamping your mouth shut in an effort to keep quiet you slid your hand down the front of your pants, down all the way until you reached your sex. 

A whimper filled your mouth that you choked back down; the last thing you needed was to alert a horde with your desperate cries as you worked yourself. It may have been a while, but you knew exactly what to do and extending your middle finger you split yourself open to find your clit, another whimper rising in your throat as you made the connection and began to draw tight circles around the bundle of nerves.

It was hard not to get worked up so fast as that remembered pleasure filled your mind and snaked its way through your limbs to make your body vibrate and as you stroked that pulsing bean you were brought back to those times when you and Ghost used to get lost in that ecstasy together. You couldn’t be blamed for where your mind wandered, not when you had to be near the one person who knew how to draw your pleasure from you, even if he couldn’t do it anymore.   

Before you knew it, you had flipped yourself onto your stomach and then onto knees to ride your fingers, hips grinding away as you imagined him underneath you. Fuck, the way he used to look staring back up at you with those hungry copper eyes, hands greedily clinging around the meat of your hips as he shoved you down harder onto his cock before he would inevitably flip you onto your back to pound into you; it was enough to make you salivate with need, but still you tried to keep quiet.

You thought yourself sneaky, keeping things to a minimum as you desperately drew out your release, but Ghost was not the same man he was when he was alive. His senses were different now, enhanced like a wild animal’s by the infection that took his life and made him into something entirely new. As he stood in the living room, staring blankly out the window to watch for any signs of undead, something caught his attention.

The scent of pheromones were on the air, enticing him forward to the upstairs. He followed it all the way to the back bedroom, your room. Slowly, silently, creeping towards the door, Ghost peered unblinking through the slit to watch you up on your knees on top of your bed, your pants hanging slack around your hips while your ass point upward towards the door. That motion, he knew it; that back and forth sway of your hips over top of your bed. 

There was another fragrance on the air now, something more familiar. Taking a deep breath, his heightened sense of smell caught the scent of your natural lubrication currently soaking your fingers and it awoke something deep within him like a fire in chest akin to what an animal feels when it goes into heat. His slack mouth began to unconsciously salivate as ingrained memories surfaced, flashes of remembered sensations from times when he too enjoyed such pleasures. Inherent, primal, a reaction as innate as breathing.  

It was then that he became acutely aware of a tightness growing down below and instinctually he cupped his hand around it, rubbing the growing bulge against his chilly palm. Was he actually getting hard? That was surprising as anyone would have expected that to not happen anymore; he had retained much of his humanity, but he had not had the time until now to explore all the facets of what that entailed.

The more he rubbed the more it grew until the front of his pants tented out near the zipper, straining so hard against the fabric that he had to wonder if he could pop the closure without even trying. God, it felt…amazing.

“Fuck, Simon,” he caught the whispered hiss through the silence as you pressed your body down harder onto the bed, onto your fingers, and it sent a shiver up his spine. The way you said that name he hadn’t heard in so long, in that desperate way almost as a plea to your lust to fulfill its unspoken promise and wash that euphoric feeling over you, caused memories to violently resurface. He had heard that before in just that exact way- from you.

Scattered and disjointed memories of you beneath him burst into his minds eye, brought back to life by the sound of your voice: you writhing with eyes closed, your skin glistening with perspiration in the pale light of a dimly lit room, bare breasts bouncing up and down with each of his strong thrusts, crying his name into the silence as you came.

If breathing was something he was still required to do those lungs would be heaving by now to bring in enough air as he was so worked up that he would surely be panting. His hand gripped tighter now around the head of his cock, stroking with more purpose now as his dilated pupils followed the curve of your back all the down to your ass to watch it bob up and down.

The pace of his hand quickened to match your rocking as if fucking you by proxy, stroking through his clothes while transfixed on you. Goddamn he wished he could remember the way you felt wrapped around him, but that sensation had been lost when he succumbed to the disease. All he could do was watch and enjoy the way your body looked while your movements became more sloppy as the warmth gathered in the pit of your stomach, that delicious heat that you had not felt in so long.

“Yes, yes,” you mewled under your breath while your thighs clenched around your hand as you were so close. You brought in another finger to join the first one and with both you slipped them inside your entrance; it was nothing like the way Ghost could fill you out, but it would have to do.

Bearing down hard while you kept the pace steady, your breathing more erratic, you finally reached the peak and spilled violently over the edge, tumbling down as your body writhed and jerked through the overwhelming intensity of that first orgasm. You stifled your cries as much as you could inside your mouth, but they still reached an unknown listener who nearly came himself if he had not had to move quick before being spotted.

…and that left him very frustrated…   

You fell onto the mattress, removing your fingers from your pussy as you breathed out a sigh of contented relief. It hadn’t been clear just how much you needed that until you came and fuck did you feel on cloud nine now. As you rolled over onto your stomach to stare up at the ceiling while you rode out the wave of your euphoric high, you swore you heard a series of strange movement just outside your door; a soft few taps that sounded like they were getting farther away which would have been out of place, but the house you were currently boarded up in was old and so you convinced yourself it was nothing.

Besides, if anything was truly wrong, Ghost would have already alerted you by now. 

It was several minutes you just laid there in the silence before you took one last deep breath to calm yourself as you got up to straighten your clothing and re-buttoned your pants, hoping that your self-pleasuring session had gone completely unnoticed to your companion as you headed back down stairs to double check that everything was still secure.

In his usual spot you found him standing, always watching with that unblinking gaze, but as you stepped into the living room his sight was immediately drawn to you. “Hey,” you greeted him, “everything still okay out there?”

The usual grunted reply was returned and you stepped over to where he stood, just to take a look for yourself. It didn’t hurt to have another set of eyes to catch things and you felt more comfortable checking for yourself anyway. Scanning the area outside you saw nothing out of place, but as you pulled back from the window you were met with those cold eyes directly staring at you.

Silently Ghost’s large hand came up to touch your cheek, rubbing his thumb across a certain flush pooling there that drew his curiosity and he grunted with a nod of his head at it. You diverted your gaze, suddenly self-conscious about how warm they were still, like a fucking beacon calling attention to what it was you were doing upstairs; not that you cared, but shit you didn’t need your business plastered all over your face like that.

“It’s nothing,” you reassured him with a chuckle. “Just got a bit warm I guess. I promise I’m not infected or anything like that.”

Fully expecting him to take you at your word you went to move over to the sofa, but his hand clung to the side of your face to keep you in your place. You tilted your head as he shook his own side to side slowly. 

“What? Don’t believe me?” you picked, slightly concerned about this strange development; he had not acted in such a way before and you did not know if it was a part of the infection or not. 

Again he shook his head before his eyeline lowered down your body until his sight stopped at the crotch of your pants. Shit, had he heard you? Could he smell the trace amounts cum still clinging to your cunt? There was no real way to tell, but the way his eyeline kept drifting down before meeting your own again was enough to indicate that he was aware of what you had just done. 

You cleared your throat. “You know what I was doing, don’t you?” you asked and was met with another nod, this time to the affirmative.

Well, nothing to do about it now; what was the point of denying it? “Look, I just… needed something to take the edge off okay?” you spurted out. “I mean fuck, I still have needs, even if they had to be put on the back burner for a bit while we tried not to get overrun. You of all people should know how I get sometimes. At least I was quiet enough not to cause problems for us.”

Ghost looked back at you with those milky white eyes, but there was something behind them, something that you recognized, something… yearning. Suddenly you were aware that his other hand was on your hip now, tracing sloppy circles around the soft warm skin just under the hem of your shirt. 

Goddamn the familiarity of his fingers lingering over old paths they used to take in times almost forgotten; if you closed your eyes, it was like you were right there back with him. Your chest was tight with the increased thumping of your heartbeat in your throat, the air not filling up your lungs as well now as he pulled you in a little closer to him until your bodies were against one another. 

That was when you felt something against your thigh.

“Can you…?” you risked asking the question. No, there was no way that he could still get hard, right? Right? 

A large, cold hand wrapped around your wrist and brought it down to his crotch where he rested your palm against it and to your surprise the bulge in his pants responded to your touch. Your eyes shot back up to his as your breathing hitched. 

“Fuck,” you murmured and was promptly met with a grunt from him followed by a deep chuckle. 

Perhaps it was the history, the knowledge of what his body used to give you; perhaps it was the need that you had not truly quenched fully yet; perhaps it was your memories that you’d used as you touched yourself; or maybe it was as simple as you still wanted him; whatever the reason it didn’t matter. All you knew was that you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting more of what you started upstairs.  

Hesitantly your fingers grasped at his shirt, slowly tugging at the seam as if to silently ask to be allowed to remove it. Never letting his gaze waiver, Ghost raised his arms and allowed you to pull it up and off over his head. His body was just as you remembered, though quite a bit more pale and the flesh discolored in places, but all the lines and bumps, scars and imperfections were the same and as you ran those delicate fingertips over his skin it all came flooding back.

This is crazy, you told yourself. But it was the end of the world after all, why not go out with a bang?

“It’s been a while,” you said, gaze taking him all in. “God, you always did make my heart race just taking off your shirt, ya know.”

“Uhh,” he grunted in agreement. 

The contrast in body temperature between you both was stark and he enjoyed the warm, tingling feeling your finger left behind wherever they went. He had not felt such a phenomenon in so long that it was like lightening striking inside his mind as nerve endings reignited. It went the same with his pants as you undid them to let them hang loosely around his hips.

Following your lead, he helped you out of your shirt as well so that you stood bare chests facing one another. Your nipples were already hardening as they hit the cool air and he ran a fingertip over the tiny rosebuds to feel them. You were perfection, a sight of decadent flesh that fueled that hungry need he had to abruptly cut off before and the more he stared the more it grew.

The couch sat just behind you and taking your hand in his he moved the few steps over it to take a seat. Grabbing onto your hips and turning you around, he pulled you down onto his lap to sit on top of him. That throbbing bulge barely covered by the pants slipping off him was straining even harder now and you had to open your legs so that it could comfortably stand at attention in between them.

Situated on him you leaned your warm, bare back against his chest, those muscles that you knew by touch alone were now clammy, yet still familiarly fit against you just as they always had. Ghost took those stiff, cold fingers and ran them slowly down the line of your neck to your chest, around the tissue of your breast and down still to the curve of your hip. 

Being touched that way by another, by him, after so fucking long made your skin tingle and you leaned your head back against his shoulder to close your eyes and simply enjoyed the icy prickles his fingers created. He brought those fingers back up all the winding way to your throat and then back down again, except he did not stop at your hip this time. 

Lower he walked those decaying digits into your lap, then inside the waistband of your jeans, and then all the way down until he was inside your panties. You didn’t try to stop him, instead letting your knees fall open to give him more access. The further he went the more he could feel just how warm you were, the damp heat radiating off your cunt and into his pulse-less palm as he cupped his hand around your sex.

“Christ,” you exclaimed in shock as your body jolted against him, your pussy still a good bit sensitive from before. 

“Uhhh,” he groaned in response, intrigued by how much he enjoyed causing such a visceral reaction and wanting to replicate it. 

Again your scent filled his nostrils, those delicious pheromones that he had caught a whiff of earlier, and it began to awaken something primal within him. Taking his fingers, he drug them heavily over the slit of your cunt until they slipped between your petals and into that still dripping core. Again your body jolted into him as those thick fingers rubbed the length until he found what he had unconsciously been searching for: a small bundle towards the top. 

“Ugh,” that deep groan was more breathless this time, as if he were enjoying the feeling of your juices coating his fingers.  

Cool fingers began stroking against your clit with a rhythm that was ingrained in him from past experience and it was like falling right back into old habits. Your hips started to roll over his hand as they were want to do in response to his movements so that it was like a dance of give and take and he had to wrap an arm around your waist to keep you from slipping, but it was worth it to feel the way your body moved.

Like an animal a strange compulsion awakened inside, enhanced by the disease coursing through his veins, and the untamed part of his new nature was flooded with the need to rut into you. The more music you made, the more it filled his chest until the sensation became too much to quell. 

With a growl he moved you both to the floor in a rush, ripping your jeans off of you in one strong tug before pushing you forward and pulling your hips up so that you had to get on your knees. He too knelt behind you as he shoved the fabric of his clothing down enough to release his engorged cock and taking both of your hips into his preternatural grasp, so firm that his fingertips made the muscle sting, he aligned the head with your slit. 

This was crazy, highly dangerous, and slightly insane, but you couldn’t stop, not with how your body felt being pleasured for the first time in well over a year by someone who knew it. Whatever the consequences you’d deal with them later, right now you just needed to be filled to the brim with everything he had. 

Instinct knew what to do and slipping through your petals a few times, he rested the head against your opening and with a strong thrust shoved himself inside as far as he could go. Goddamn you had forgotten the actual feeling of how big he was, but there must be something in being undead that made him even more engorged because his girth almost more than the walls of your pussy could handle. Fuck, you were so full of him that when he finally pulled out of you it would feel so goddamn empty it would physically hurt.

You were aware that his cool palm was on your back now, running up the length of your spine to just between your shoulders where Ghost stopped to shove your top half down further into the ground so that your ass would rise more and without more of pause he began to thrust in and out of you furiously. Each stroke stretched you out more until the sting subsided and that was left was the satisfying euphoria that comes with being filled so full.

“Simon,” you moaned out his name and a dormant part of his brain lit up. Hearing it for the first time upstairs was nice, but being inside of you as you breathed life into that moniker was the highest level of ecstasy he had experienced yet.

And he need more. “UH,” he growled with force as he slammed into you from behind to make your ass bounce off of his hips. 

You braced your hands under your head to steady yourself, but it did little; the man inside of you was gone and all you could do was hang on. Still, even with his roughness, the way his cock still reached those desperate nerve endings inside of you made the arch of your back even more pronounced. 

“Fuck, you feel so good,” you choked out the exclamation as your voice vibrated from the impacts. 

Harder and faster Ghost pounded your pussy from behind, throwing caution to the wind as he grunted and groaned like a beast on the hunt about to capture a fresh kill. You were so fucking warm, so gorgeously wet, that even his dead skin felt reanimated so that each brush of your body against him had him reeling in pleasure. 

This was the closest he would get to feeling like a living thing again.

Stopping suddenly he ripped his cock out of you amidst your begging protests to flip you onto your back, brutishly pulling your ass onto his knees. Your thighs rested high around his torso, squeezing against him as he immediately thrust back into that warm, wet hole and expeditiously returned to that overwhelming rhythm. 

The room was filled with the wet, sticky music of your bodies slapping against each other as Ghost worked your hole for all it was worth with a reckless abandon that you had not seen in him before. This wasn’t love, not something tender, but only pure animalistic lust and the more he stroked in and out of you the more he needed.

And then he felt it; a warmth in his stomach like he had swallowed coals. It started faint, almost indistinguishable until it had nearly filled him full the more he kept going. 

He couldn’t stop, he couldn’t back down, he was so close he could taste it. You weren’t far off either, nearly at the peak of your second orgasm the harder his cock stroked in and out of you, stimulating your clit along with it just from the pressure of his thrusts. 

“Shit, don’t stop,” you pleaded pathetically to him, your toes curling into the air as you focused on your breathing. Right there, it was right there; all he had to do was keep going.   

A few more pumps of him deep in your core and that was it, like a hot flash of white light you cried out in shaky whimpers as your orgasm tore through with such force you shot up as your back arched and your hips bucked harshly into him. “Goddammit Simon, fuck.”

He wasn’t far behind as the warmth that had been building finally shot through his body, coursing like a burning river of fire through his veins as he ripped his cock out of you and through your thighs to cover your stomach in his milky white semen. The roar he released while he drained his cock dry over top of you rang out through the house like a wild animal’s cry until he hung limply over top of you, completely spent.

Everything lay still once again as you caught your breath, allowing your ecstasy to run its course before you even tried to move out from against him. As you came to sit up, once again you were met with his eyes watching you closely. It felt like he was admiring his handiwork: the flush in your cheeks, the sweat speckling your torso, the exhaustion in your limbs. 

He had done that…and he liked it.

You flashed him a genuine smile. “Well, that was something wasn’t it?” you laughed and he chuckled deadoan along with you. 

Maybe the end of the world didn’t have to be so bad after all. At least, now you both knew that there were ways to have a little fun… and oh fuck, were you going to keep having little bits of fun.

[middle-earth-mythopoeia]

The movie dialogue could never measure up to this:

“But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.”

How could anyone cut this?! How?! How?!?!?!?! These lines are so incredibly stirring, so powerful, so moving. “I am no man” doesn’t even come close.

First of all, I like that the negative statement of “No living man am I” is followed by the positive statement of “You look upon a woman.” It’s direct and definitive. She’s been disguised as Dernhelm up until this point—another thing that was cut from the movie—but now she’s revealing who she really is.

Second, in a similar way, I like that she says, “Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter.” It’s like a challenge. It’s like announcing one’s identity before a duel—which is in effect what she is doing.

Third, “You stand between me and my lord and kin.” This reminds me of one of the most poignant quotes from the book: “I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.” It’s very important that Éowyn did this brave deed out of a desire to protect Théoden.

Finally, “Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.” THIS IS LITERALLY SO AMAZING! THIS IS SO COURAGEOUS! I CAN’T EVEN EXPRESS HOW THIS MAKES ME FEEL! I don’t know which part is better—the fact that she threatens him, or that she gives him the choice to forfeit and flee the battlefield.

There’s an incredible heroic resoluteness to the final line, “For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.” This, right here, is the essence of the courage of mortals in Tolkien’s books. It’s the acceptance of death, but the desire to go down fighting—the knowledge that death is inevitable, but the one thing we have control over is how we meet it.

Éowyn is facing Sauron’s most powerful servant, who is almost a personification of death itself, and she is declaring that no matter what he is, and no matter the outcome, she WILL fight him. When she says these lines, she doesn’t know that she and Merry will vanquish him. It’s sheer determination against impossible odds, it’s extraordinary courage in the face of death—and THAT is why this scene is so powerful.

[vivalabunbun]

Let's Look Over The Garden Wall

Summary: One wants an easy meal and one wants to play house. 

Word Count: 9.9k

Tags: Alhaitham x Fem!Reader, Smut(r18+), MDNI, Modern AU, Vampire AU, Contract Marriage, NSFW, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Unrequited love?, Vampire! Alhaitham, Dom! Alhaitham, Human! Reader, biting, pet name? (calls you good girl) TW: Blood & Blood drinking, TW: Death, Terminally ill! Reader, slight orgasm denial, slight corruption kink, wedding night, temperature play? He falls hard, slow fic, tragedy

Authors note: This whole fic was a challenge since I wanted to write it kinda from Alhaitham’s pov. I’m not really knowledgeable about vampires, so in this fic they’re just a type of monster and not undead, and vampire blood can turn humans into monsters. Enjoy!

Side note: Here is the other side, Finale

The secretary had just arrived at the office not too long ago, shift starting at six pm and going until midnight. The typical hours for a creature of the night. 

Like a sweet breeze that blew stray leaves through his office’s open window, a stranger came gallivanting through the boundaries of his door, contract in hand. Faruzan, the office receptionist trailing after you with your proper introduction. 

“Secretary Alhaitham, this young lady here would like to make a blood contract with you.” 

He certainly wasn’t expecting this when he walked through the sliding doors of the building. The biggest company in Sumeru, the firm that specialized in such dubious pacts. 

In an age where humans now outnumber vampires, with new technologies and weapons that can now threaten the once untouchable creatures, immortal beings now have to play by mortal rules. One such rule, vampires can no longer drink human blood. 

Animal substitutes were of course inferior in both taste and satisfaction, any vampire would know this. However, there’s a loophole to this law. Vampires can’t drink human blood legally unless it’s consensual by both parties, established through contracts. Business exchanges for money, power, or glory. 

Of course, this practice is heavily regulated. Hunters who uphold the balance ready to rip the hearts out of those who dare make an unfair deal. Alhaitham is the simple secretary who files these contracts, not one of the agents tasked with such things. 

Still, he’s intrigued. Even in this office there are many who have yet to see the face of this elusive vampire, how did this human identify him? He was looking for an excuse to stray away from dull lines of files, might as well entertain your musings. 

The ashen-haired immortal pulls out a seat for you, nodding to Faruzan sending her out of his office, giving you privacy. Alhaitham ambles to the other side of the polished wood, settling down on his plush office chair.

“The process for filling a contract is straightforward, even though this consultation wasn’t planned, if negotiations go well you’ll then undergo a psychological evaluation.”

You nodded your head lightheartedly, posture relaxed in the chair. 

“So,” he begins.

“What are your demands?” 

“Marry me.”

Dead silence. He certainly wasn’t expecting a proposal this Monday night. Were you wasting his time with a joke?

You must’ve read his unfazed mask. Quickly pulling a pen and notepad from your pocket.

“I’m being serious, I want you to be my husband.” Hands swiftly jotting sentences down on paper.

In your graceless handwriting, you listed all your qualifications. Age, name, blood type, and financial status. You also detailed some self-prescribed personality traits. 

Alhaitham skips over that section. 

Marriage contracts weren’t unheard of, nor were marriages between humans and vampires. He believes such practices weren’t deemed illegal solely because of human morbid curiosity and desires.

No immortal, with their centuries of knowledge and wisdom, would waste such energy on a mortal, without a price of course. It would be a fool’s errand to not have fair compensation.  

“For a fraction of your time, I’ll give you all of mine.” You point the pen toward him. 

How romantic. 

“I’d say you’re getting the better end of the deal, Mr. Alhaitham.” There’s a curl to your lips, resting your elbows upon his polished desk. 

With a slight sigh, Alhaitham pulls out a form, pen swiftly recording the necessary information. There’s going to be a long process of straightening out the clauses, but this should suffice for approval.

“Why me?” He inquires, straightening out the proposal on his desk.  

“You’re handsome, have money, and I like your voice.”

The rustling of papers and pens stopped. Dead unamused silence. 

“Pfft! Too brash? Sorry, sorry, I was only joking,” giggling as you waved it off. 

“Well, to be fair the real reason isn’t much better, to be honest.” You leaned in closer, creeping towards the unseen boundaries of his personal space.  

“I often see you passing through the streets, guess I got enamored from there.” Your smile was shameless but your cheeks were tinted pink. 

A hopeless romantic, that answer suffices him for now. He could’ve easily shown you the door, but life has been stagnant for a few decades. History repeats itself if you live long enough to see it, new occurrences are rare. As the sky deepens from indigo to midnight, two bodies sit across from each other, discussing sentences written on paper.

“I’ll contact you in three business days with the verdict, have a good night.”

“I shall await the news.” You beamed at him, warm and icy hands meeting for a handshake. 

Just as you entered, you left with that same giddiness. Now left with his thoughts, Alhaitham reviewed the documents, he had three days to ponder whether or not to submit them to the legal team, and through the judgment of a certain scarlet-eyed General Hunter. 

As per Sumeru regulations, all offices run by vampires must have uncovered glass windows. An attempt conquered by humans to enfeeble creatures of the night. Alhaitham’s beryl gaze traveled up the length of the building stationed across the street. 

What an ironic placement for a hospital to be facing the biggest firm staffed by immortality. Or perhaps it was strategic, after all the most desperate humans are the ones who lay upon their deathbeds for one last hurrah. 

The perfect scheme to keep the blood contracts flowing in. 

Teal eyes observe the room right across through the glass, it seems freshly vacant. New untouched sheets, new unflatten pillow, and fresh towels. 

Alhaitham can now confirm the validity of your statement, a half-truth. 

When deciding on a contract, one must weigh the pros and cons, to see if they balance or if one side gives away to another. Your demands? You wanted to experience married life, all aspects of it. Your offer? Your everything. 

All your assets together can’t hold a candle to the amount Alhaitham has accumulated for centuries, but it’s a decent amount. Perhaps due to a medical settlement. 

Alhaitham has lived long enough to rein in primal desires, he can suffice off animal substitutes just fine. However, it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t want a taste of the real thing again. You offer him a steady supply, and to give him every last drop after seven years.

Yes, all of this for a mere seven-year contract. A deal heavily tipped in the favor of the vampire, not even a mere fraction of the time immortality offers. However, what piqued his interest the most weren’t the benefits listed.

A garden wall the tall vampire can’t peer over. Insight only attainable by those who near the end of their finite paths. What’s it like to have agency? What’s it like to have such finite time? 

He’ll have seven years to observe. He submits the forms on the third day, delivering your verdict over the phone. Alhaitham agrees to entertain your little daydream. 

On part that it was Alhaitham who personally filed the forms, the approval process went swimmingly, skipping the paper line. Tighnari oversaw the psychological evaluation, test after test confirming the sanity of your mind, speeding up the process of getting that stamp.

–

“What flowers do you like? I’m planning the decorations.” Your legs swinging under his kitchen table. 

The contract was approved, hands held and certificates signed at the town hall, your belongings moved into his house. It’s excessive to want a celebration after all of that. 

“Whichever flowers you want.” 

Alhaitham will hold his tongue, after all, he’s signed to play the role of a husband.

–

The venue was spacious, high ceilings with marble floors and pillars, all of which were lavishly cluttered with Padisarahs, Sumeru Roses, and Kalpalata Lotuses. Alhaitham stood at the altar just off to the side of the wedding officiant. Tuxedo crisp and hands folded together, he scans over the rows of guests invited. 

Since there weren’t any in-laws, Alhaitham assumed you wouldn’t have much of a social network. No one’s correct all the time, he ignores the piercing glares of a few eyes. The all-too-loud tones of a grand piano resound through the room. The previously shut doors open to reveal your figure. Embellished dress and veil perfectly framed by the carved entranceway as you ambled your way up the aisle. 

The twilight hues of the sky dye the white gown in everchanging vibrancy as you passed by the standing crowd, up the steps to the altar, and finally in front of him. The overwhelmingly floral scent of the bouquet itches his nose. 

Alhaitham pays no mind to the soliloquy of the officiant, he simply follows the rehearsed procedures. Sliding the gold band onto your finger and allowing you to do the same to him, lifting the veil to reveal your starry-eyed gaze he places a practiced kiss against your warm lips.

Is this excessive ritual over yet? No.

Alhaitham stands in the corner of the reception hall, hand nursing a glass of wine. The rich spices of the buffet offered to the guest irritated his palate. Supernatural creatures with their enhanced senses, a double-edged sword. Human food serves no purpose to vampires, it’s over-seasoned and pungent. At least your species has created drinks such as coffee and wine, delicacies even immortal creatures can enjoy. 

In the center of the artificially lit hall, you eagerly greeted all your guests as they beamed at you. Giggling and hugging each person as an entourage of three friends helped with that embellished gown of yours. Two pairs of eyes from said entourage occasionally glared at him, their bodies forming a barrier to separate groom from bride. Candace and Dehya were the names you introduced to him. 

Your starry-eyed self blissfully unaware of the silent cold war as the scarlet-haired dancer calls the attention of the two hunters back for the bouquet toss. Alhaitham was nothing more than just a decoration, you just wanted an excuse to prance around in a pretty white dress and throw a fancy party. He’s your husband, he’ll tolerate this daydream.

–

“Did you enjoy the reception?” 

Only after the send-off and closing ceremony of the celebration, when the bride and groom were behind the thick oak doors of their suite, that you seemed to remember the decoration named ‘Alhaitham’. 

“Yes, it was lovely.” The wine provided by the venue was of the highest quality, it entertained him enough. 

“I hope you’re not upset at me being busy with guests.” Your arms found their way around his waist. 

Quite comfortable encroaching on his space huh. 

“I’m not.” Better they talk to you and not him. 

As his cold hands pat the exposed skin of your back, his teal eyes didn’t miss the trail of goosebumps that prickled your skin. Shall he move on to the next scene? The lacing of your dress seems quite complicated, he assumes that it must have taken a few pairs of hands to tie it. Should he be a good husband? 

“Do you need help with this?” His baritone voice was right against your ear, noticing the flush on the tips. 

“Yes.” For once your voice was just barely above a whisper, a blushing bride. 

The lacing weaved in and out of eyelets running down along the length of your back, how troublesome. Always one for efficiency, Alhaitham simply takes a handful of the taught lace and pulls, they snapped like simple threads. Such things offer no resistance to a creature of the night. The gasp that escaped your lips feed into something deep within. 

With the bonds loosened, the embellished dress of yours lost the fight against gravity, fabric pooling at your feet. Revealing to teal eyes the lacy white stockings, garter belt, and panties, all the hallmarks of a wedding night. It’s impossible to deny the hunger crawling up his throat, no force of nature could resist such a sight. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something? It’s rude to not offer the groom some help, no?” His hunger enjoyed that scarlet flush on your face.

Indecisive fingers going for the easiest button, opening the tuxedo jacket allowing him to shimmy it off his broad shoulders. Teal eyes continued to survey your flushed face, the smirk on his waiting for your hands to continue. Obeying his silent command like a good bride, you loosened the bow tie next, finally freeing him from that stiff collar. 

Slowly your eyes peered up, asking if the torment was over yet, the slight rise in his ash brow directing you to resume. From your lips came the beginnings of a whine to which he sternly shushed. If you couldn’t even undress him how would you be able to do the other vulgar activities? 

Finally relenting, your fingers continued with their clumsy attempt at unbuttoning his dress shirt, once a small window of his chest appeared your face pressed against the cool skin, staying there until all the buttons were undone. Oh? So even you can feel shame?

“Shall we continue on the bed, my bride?” 

Your face was still hidden in his chest as you nodded, where did that shameless nature of yours go? With your gaze adverted he didn’t even bother hiding the curl of his lips. Sweeping you off the ground, he could hear the flutter in your chest increasing as the distance between the bed closes. 

Upon silk sheets, Alhaitham settles down with you in between his legs and back against his chest. One key difference between humans and vampires? Body heat, one creature’s cells produces warmth, while the other simply remains the temperature of the environment. Your flushed skin seared itself into his, icy and hot mending together to create an equilibrium. 

Of course, a good husband would warm his wife up. Alhaitham runs his cool palms along the length of your plush thighs and leg, absorbing the warmth as his own, soothing the shivers and goosebumps on your skin. Every now and then boldly creeping up the sides of your waist to twist at your perked nipples, enjoying every jolt and whine. 

“Oh? Since when was this transparent?” 

A firm hand grasps your chin, directing your vision towards white lace panties, the fingers on his other hand tracing over the shape of your cunt through the soaked fabric. Another lovely whine left your lips, face burning even more as you weakly protested in his hold, too powerless to do anything. 

Skilled digits honed in on the nub that made your body jolt away, rubbing the faintest of circles over the delicate fabric, your legs trapped by his robust arms standing no chance to preserve your shattered dignity. As such, you had to follow his desires tonight. 

“Or are you excited just by a few fleeting touches? What a lewd bride you are.” 

It seems that you were telling the whole truth when you exclaimed how much you liked his voice, his finger could feel the slick that began to seep through the lace. Brushing the fabric to the side, Alhaitham allowed his middle finger to collect the slick along your slit allowing the rest of his digits to warm up against your cunt’s soft mounds. His throat felt parched as the sweet scent teased his nose, but now was not the time, maybe later in the night. 

“Will you be honest?” The heel of this palm freely pressed against your clit as his middle finger continued to run up and down your wet lips, every now and then almost slipping. 

Your body couldn’t hide its eagerness, hole clenching at nothing every time his finger passed by. However, he needed confirmation from you. Communication is important in a contract no?

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“I’ll be honest.” You pressed your back flat against his chest, trying to hide your face but his firm hold wouldn’t allow it. 

“Good girl, then tell me what you desire.” His crisp breath provides your searing skin some relief. 

Your plush lips pressed into a thin line as your eyes shut, cheeks heating up even more. It wouldn’t be good if you passed out from heat exhaustion so quickly. He grinds his palm into that sensitive nub, tormenting the answer out of you, nectar now dripping onto the sheets below. 

“I want to c-cum,” You breathed out. 

How direct, close but it wasn’t what he was looking for. 

“You have to be more clear with your instructions, how do you want to cum?” 

“Y-your fingers.” 

“Good girl.” Finally, his finger breached your soaked entrance. 

Pulsating walls welcomed him with unyielding squeezes, dragging his soaked digit further. Your sweet moans and whines resounded through the spacious suite, the volume of your voice directing him toward that spongey spot deep within. You were wet enough for another finger, so Alhaitham adds another, two digits stretching and exploring your soaked cavern. 

“Mmmh! T-there!” Your toes were curling. 

“Mmm.” The hum vibrated in his chest as his fingers went hard at work, thrusting into your quivering walls. 

Each time his palm would slap against your clit your honest hole would clench down so endearingly. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, the muscles in your leg tensing up more and more. It’s obvious that you were close, but before he fulfilled your demands, he decided to be proactive and prepare for the next step. 

Releasing your chin from his grasp, allowing your head to lull back against his shoulder. Alhaitham reaches between your bodies, hands never pausing their pace, swift fingers undoing the confines of his trousers. Allowing for his member to lay right against your back, the jolt of your body at the foreign object pressing against you made his hunger worse. 

“Did you get more turned on? You’re clenching down tighter, did you want it that badly?” 

Even if your eyes refused to meet his, the way your hips grind against his length, warming it up, told him all he needed to know. Your gummy walls constrict more around his fingers, it’s time to wrap up this scene, the next one is even more exciting. So his palm now digs into your clit, circling the now swollen bud in combination with his finger pressing against that nice spot deep inside. 

“C-cummin-” 

How cute, he didn’t even need to ask you to announce it. Letting your body ripple with the force of the orgasm, trembling limbs within his solid hold. If he was merciful, he would’ve continued to slide his fingers in and out, or maybe continue to caress your little nub, guiding you back to reality. However, hunger doesn’t allow for mercy. 

Removing his soaked digits away from your pulsating cunt, teal eyes observing the transparent strings that clung to them with amusement. A small appetizer wouldn’t spoil the main meal, skilled tongue cleaning his fingers of your slick. Your head still limp against his shoulder, eyes rolled back in the throws of pleasure. To bring you back down to earth, it's best to use a new type of force. 

Effortlessly, your hips were lifted up dripping cunt lined up with his impatient length below. In one fluid motion, your walls encase everything, drenched cunt giving no resistance as his tip kisses the spongy spot. Alhaitham lets a hiss escape him, it was as if he thrusted into the sun, your walls quickly bringing his member up to its temperature. 

From your lips another moan was ripped out, oh it seems that you’ve plummeted back to reality. Your cunt trembled yet gripped onto his cock like a vice, coaxing him to go in deeper, encouraging his hunger to abuse your gummy walls even more. Barely riding out one wave of pleasure before another drowned you. 

The hunters at your wedding could stick to your side the whole celebration, they could glare at him all they wanted, and they could try their damndest to keep the vampire at a distance. However, it was all efforts wasted in vain. For it was you, the blushing bride, who walked straight into his arms in the end, so open and receptive. 

As he slides out just the slightest bit, your cunt protested by desperately clamping down, begging for his thick girth to stay in. In response he tightened his grip on your hips, lifting your body back up before bouncing you back down. What a glutton for pleasure you were, even as your little mouth whimpered and babbled, your walls thanked each slap of his hips with squeezes. 

Sadistic hunger wanted more, to thrust deeper, to bully that poor spot inside of you over and over again with his thick tip as your walls stretch to accommodate the girth. His thighs collected the mixture of sweat and slickness from your body at each thrust. Your fingers dug into his hands, fingers white as you tried to grasp at anything to ground yourself. 

“F-fast, too m-much.” There was drool escaping the corner of your parted lips, eyes barely back from seeing the inside of your head. 

“Oh? Do you want me to stop?”

Alhaitham grinds to a stop, member still pressing deep inside you as he pulled you closer so his breath could ghost over your nape. In an instant, your mouth and cunt protested, you should be more clear with your instructions. 

“N-noo.” Crying over the ruined tension. 

“No? You wanted this.” His finger finds its way back to that swollen nub, flicking it a few times to watch the jumps of your body.

“If I let you cum, then I’ll do it my way, is that clear, my bride?” Tormenting your clit with firm circles. 

“Yes! Please! P-pleasee.”

So weak against his voice, the sweet calls of a beast to lure you into the depths of depravity. Such is the fate of a shameless bride. Thus, his hips sprang back into action with renewed vigor. One hand keeps your hips still and the other remains on your clit to force that knot to reappear deep inside you. 

Nothing but nonsense and moans babbled from your loose face, nectar dripping down to his heavy balls as they slapped against you with each pistoning of his hips. Your frantic hands entangled themselves into ash-mint locks as he felt gummy walls closing in tighter and tighter, your toes curling at the end of spread legs. Sinful slaps increased in frequency throughout the room as did the pace of the finger on your clit. 

Your tense body held the warning of another storm, another fall off the edge into the depths. Alhaitham brushes his nose up your nape, the floral scent didn’t distract him from the goal laying just behind the skin. Your nerves were exhausted from the shooting pleasure, now was the perfect time to finally get his share. It’s only fair. 

Prepping the area with a slow lick as his hips continued their brutal pace, incisors brushed against the delicate skin before piercing through. His hand shot up from your hip to your neck, a loose grip holding you still as your body tensed then violently shivered. The frenzy clamping of your cunt on his length was proof of your fall. Loose jaw uttering out broken moans as tears dripped down your chin. 

The fresh scarlet flooded over his tongue and down his throat as Alhaitham continued with his slow suckling. Ah, you were very much like a flower, so delicate, so fragrant, and so bittersweet. It’s been almost a century since he last tasted the real thing, his body celebrated by filling your walls with thick release. An equivalent exchange of some sort. 

A human body is quite frail, losing over two pints of blood borders on fatal territory. It’s not good to deplete a resource so quickly. Alhaitham releases your neck, running his tongue over the wound to seal it up. Teal eyes checked your complexion to ensure his measurements were accurate. Cheeks still with a healthy red flush as your chest heaved with pants, eyes glistening with tears. Such a shameless sight. He allows your head to roll onto his shoulder. 

The rhythm of your heart settles back to its resting state as Alhaitham analyzes the taste he just experienced. 

“I love you,” you breathed into his shoulder. 

Alhaitham stiffens, the herbal aftertaste of your blood was bitter, the tang dried out his mouth causing a drawn-out pause. This is no good, he can’t miss the cue to say the line a bride longs to hear from her groom. 

“I love you too.” 

The choir of crickets from the world outside filled the void along with your pants.

“Pfft! Maybe let’s not say that, it’s too weird.” You shamelessly laughed, lifting your face from his skin. 

What a relief, at least you seem to still have sense. Such words felt forcefully wedged into a script that wasn’t written for it. Might as well remove the line altogether. Moving on from the scene, Alhaitham lets you enjoy the warmth reflected off his body by yours. 

It’s in the clauses to allow you to enjoy all aspects of marriage, so enjoy this honeymoon segment.

“Haitham, can you carry this for me please?”

“Haitham, I can’t reach, can you get it please?”

“Haitham, let’s have panipuri tonight!... Can you cook it please?”

It would’ve been better if he remained nothing more than just a decoration. It would’ve been easier if he was just a view for you to see behind glass. Perhaps Alhaitham’s acute eyes misread the contract, did you want a husband or just a maid? 

Instead of sitting down in his own house to enjoy a book, he finds himself saddled with domestic responsibilities. 

Must you call on him for everything?

Laundry and groceries aren’t that heavy. If you can’t reach the top shelves with the duster, then just get a chair. No ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ could prevent the downward tug of his lips every time you call him that doltish name. Your justification of a ‘nickname’ between lovers was moronic. 

“Huh… Haitham how come you only use salt?”

Why do you make a creature who doesn’t consume such foods cook them? You’re more than capable of cooking for yourself every day. Although, Alhaitham would prefer it if you stopped using such overly fragrant herbs and spices. 

Of course, when two breaths occupy the same space, there are bound to be pieces that don’t fit together, just as two breaths never sync. Alhaitham already factored those into his decision, but this was more proof of why a theory is always second to application. How troublesome the reality of marriage is, no wonder divorce rates are so high. 

A good actor knows how to stay in character, so he’ll keep these thoughts to himself. Just as he lists your quirks silently. 

One, you’re capricious. One moment silently enjoying a drama on the TV you asked him to purchase, body hogging the entire expanse of a couch. The next, you’ll be humming as plates and cups clatter in the sink, or the heavy thumps of your steps as you bound through the house with a mop. Alhaitham prefers it when you’re stationary, at least it doesn’t disturb his reading.

–

Two, you drink tea, an unfathomable amount of it. A warm cup always nestled between your fingers, bitter water mixed with honey. The herbal tang finds its way into your blood, making it taste like medicine. Thus, Alhaitham treats it as such, medicine just to alleviate suppressed bloodlust taken in moderation. 

–

Three, you wanted to celebrate everything. Each square of a calender marked with scribbles. Why celebrate a celebration that’s already past? What is so special about a birthday? The past two years you purchased the same bundle of pungent flowers that made up that bouquet on that day to gift to him. 

“Don’t you want a taste? I saved a slice just for you. Oh, would you eat it if I sprinkled some of my blood on it?”

Alhaitham swiftly accepts the plate from you, lifting the fork of overly sweet birthday cake into his mouth. Useless carbs take up space in his body, but such a thing causes no harm. Better to taste like pure sugar and not medicine. 

–

The worst quirk of yours? You rise as soon as the sun greets the sky, adamant to not miss a single second of a day. Every day’s itinerary is filled with spur-of-the-moment decisions, such as going to a farmers market only open on Saturdays between the hours of 9 am and 2 pm. And how you drag him along. 

 Curses, only a human would drag a creature of the night into the day. What sadistic creatures, delighting in others' misery, you’re no exception. 

“I thought you said vampires aren’t like how TV depicts them.” Curious eyes observe his slouched figure. 

Vampires aren’t like how those dramas of yours depict them. No formal invitation to cross wooden thresh holds, no garlic braids as an effective shield, and no turning into a pile of ash at the mere rays of a star. 

If so, then vampires would’ve been long gone by now. However, just because the sunlight can’t kill a vampire-

“It doesn’t mean it’s not unpleasant.” His stoic voice was too tired to add a bite. 

You continued to stare at him with wonderment, as if what he said was the most complex theory known to the universe. Those dramas must’ve rotted that mind of yours, he concludes. You’re beyond saving. 

“I see.” Gentle hands lift the excessive sun hat from your head. 

Reaching on your tiptoes you place it atop his head, the straw brim providing some reprieve for his irritated skin. Shuffling the hat around until it’s securely nested along his now trussed ash locks. Satisfied, you lower yourself back down. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. We can go home..” 

Tenderly, your hands clasped around his, guiding him into the shade. The whole walk your hands never left his, eyes always searching for the next patch of shadows to lead him into. For the rest of the weekend, you just watched your dramas, the sensation of guilt must’ve muted your voice. 

Good. He celebrated this rare break in his library away from you.

Alas, all good things must come to an end. Monday night rolled around again, as he passes the living room, he spots your loafing body napping on his couch as the TV acted as white noise. Tsk. Regardless, it’s time to get to work, he walks toward the front door.

“Wait,” came a soft command, dripping with sleep. 

From around the corner, your figure comes stumbling towards Alhaitham, his hand still firmly on the knob. Hands busy trying to rub the fatigue away from your eyes, blinking away the pleasant dream you were just in. 

Why did you abandon it? Alhaitham doesn’t know. 

Your frame reaches his, transferring some of your warmth to him, arms outstretched towards his neck. Teal eyes don’t miss the way your drowsy legs were wobbling. To prevent any accidents, he supports your body with an arm around the waist. 

Just as he feels your body steady, clammy palms encase the sides of his face. Pulling it down as your supple lips pressed against his cool cheek. Did you traverse all the way from the sofa just for a kiss? 

“Have a good night at work.” Your shameless smile beamed. 

A habit formed from one of your dramas, a wife bidding goodbye to her husband with a sweet kiss to boost his spirits. Curiosity must have gotten the better of you, or maybe you wanted to amuse yourself, two possibilities Alhaitham devises. 

–

“So, how’s married life treating you?” Kaveh’s smug tone grated against his eardrums as the blond rested an elbow on the bar table. 

Alhaitham couldn’t stop the frown from forming, nor the heavy sigh, so he took a hearty sip of his wine. Emptying the glass in one fluid motion. 

“Heh, I see you’ve been enjoying the spoils of marriage very much,” Tighnari snickered. 

“Sure, if you wish to see it that way.” Alhaitham’s hand found itself pouring another glass. 

It seems that everyone around the ashen-haired vampire was enjoying the spoils of this odd union, everyone but him that is. His miseries fueling the chaff nature of his acquaintances, still he needed a reprieve to drink. 

Not that herbal blood of yours, but something actually palatable like the fragrant wine washing the frustrations down his throat. It’s not marriage, it’s having to work overtime. 

“Regardless, you signed a contract, you must uphold the clauses.” Cyno’s scarlet eyes leered over the rim of his glass. 

Alhaitham sighs, he should’ve drank alone. 

–

The tavern wasn’t a far journey away from his house. The deep hues of night slowly shift to the youthful flushes of dawn. He’s been drinking for quite some time, it didn’t matter, alcohol has no effect on a body such as his. 

Alhaitham twists the key, the door creaking ajar just to reveal your figure with arms crossed. Disappointment ever so clear in those eyes of yours. 

“Where’ve you been?” No chirp in your tone. 

After a few hours of reprieve, Alhaitham is welcomed home with an interrogation. Wonderful. Why should he answer this meek creature standing in front of him? He could just walk to bed and get the rest he deserves. 

‘You must uphold the clauses.’ 

Right, Alhaitham has to play the role of a husband, he signed a contract, too late to just burn the papers now. 

“I went drinking with coworkers,” he curtly answers. 

“Why didn’t you call beforehand?” Your head tilts, disappointed eyes still honed on him. 

Why does he have to inform you of his every movement? Who were you to demand so much of his individuality? Alhaitham couldn’t help the frown that reappeared, directed at you, the hurdle that blocked him from entering his own home. 

The grandfather clock counted the seconds in the background, two sets of eyes locked in a stare-down. One frowning and one disappointed. How long will this last?

Your shoulders slumped as a sigh left your lungs. Eyes finally finding rest behind two heavy lids. 

“My life’s too short for misunderstandings and messy communication,” you huffed. 

Your back straightens again as you lean in closer, eyes recentering on his towering form. They no longer held the burden of disappointment, they twinkled with something else. 

“I’m your wife, and you’re my husband.” You stated the obvious.

“So when my husband, who usually arrives home at half past midnight on the dot, didn’t arrive home until dawn without a single text or call. I got worried.” 

What wasted concern, why worry for an immortal creature?

“You don’t need to report every movement to me, I don’t want that either, but if you plan on staying out please give me a simple text. So I don’t have to spend hours worrying about why my husband isn’t answering my calls.” 

Alhaitham scans over the discoloration hanging heavily under your eyes. An unpleasant sensation crawled up his spine. Phone shut off by habit, unaware of how you were losing sleep as he emptied bottle after bottle. He has to remedy the situation now, it’s what a husband should do. 

“I understand, I’ll do that from now on,” he answers. 

Is he allowed back into the confines of his own house now?

Your hands were now positioned defiantly on your hips, brows quirked up as if expecting something more. 

No. 

“You’re supposed to apologize, ya know. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time, my wife’,” you advised. 

“I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time, my wife,” he parroted. 

The magic words to finally open the path into the house, words that finally returned that grin to your face. Arms outstretched you wrapped them around his neck as your lips warmed up his cool cheek. 

“Welcome home, Haitham.” 

Ah, he knows what that twinkle in your eyes was, sincerity. 

Audiences rarely see the behind-the-scenes of a movie, with directors always handpicking which mistakes are charming enough to be shown as a blooper. Audiences don’t see the multiple scenes filmed then refilmed, they can’t experience the long hours, and they don’t know how many times lines were misread. Three years is enough time for actors to learn their lines. 

“Is my drama too loud?”

Alhaitham peers over the top of the journal, focusing on your face peeking through the entrance of his library. Judging by the apron, he guesses it's almost time for dinner, the dialogue playing on the TV was just above a muffle from here. 

“It’s fine, remember to turn on the kitchen hood.”

“Okay, which wine did you want to baste the meat in?”

“Top left, how long will it take?”

“Pfft, famished already? 15 minutes, you won’t waste away in that time right, Haitham?”  

The ever-so-adventurous palate of yours and the ever-so-drab palate of his. An unstoppable force meeting an immovable object, two existences that bend and twist each other until equilibrium. Equilibrium in the form of a steak basted in red wine, rare for him and medium for you. A dinner that could be enjoyed by both breaths. 

–

“Oh?” Your bewildered eyes blink at the bouquet presented to you. 

A wrapped box held tenderly in your hands. Alhaitham had taken note of a certain scribble marked on the calendar, it was he who got the fourth bouquet. Placing an order ahead of time to ensure the freshest flowers. 

“You said they smelled bad.”

“I’m used to it.” A half-truth. 

Your lips couldn’t suppress its toothy grin, balancing the box in one hand as the other accepts the bouquet. 

“Since you have every book in existence, I got you something else.” You nudged the wrapped present toward him. 

Unraveling the decorative paper his eyes were greeted by the sight of a carved figure of a… what is it? Meeting your eager gaze, the quirk in his eyebrow told enough. 

“It’s a hawk, I saw in storage that you used to collect these decorations.” 

Ah, you found a petty hobby he had decades ago to torment a certain someone. A figure serves no practical purpose in a home, but the eagerness of your eyes was enough to find the endearing gift a place on a shelf. 

–

“How does one make their blood tastier?” You pondered into his embrace. 

His tongue traveled up the nape of your neck to collect the escaped drops of scarlet and to close up the wound. Your bare skin pressed against his, rising his temperature to a pleasant warmth. 

He could feel every shiver as his length shifted within your overstimulated walls, recovering the overwhelming pleasure experienced just moments earlier. 

What an obvious answer, stop drinking that tea of yours. However, Alhaitham prefers when you have the energy to trot through crowded walkways at dusk with him in tow. Bittersweetness is an acquired taste, one that took him some time. 

“Since you have enough clarity to ask questions, I’m assuming you’re up for another round.” His husky breath ghosts over your ear.

“Wait~ I’m still sens-Ah!” 

–

Over time, something as short as five years, even a trickle of water can crave a home for itself in the rocky foundations of the earth that’s existed since the dawn of time.

The side of the polished dinner table with the clearest view of the TV was your side. 

The mug left in the sink with the faint aroma of tea and sweet honey was your mug.

The couch with cushions misshapen and molded by repeated use was your couch.

 Such is the lull of domestic reality, each kiss at the door to bid goodbye and each kiss to welcome him back.

Nothing, not even immortality, is resistant to time.

Due to the crowd you’ve built your circle from, hunters were semi-frequent guests at his home. Much to your delight and his dismay. A husband should get along with his wife’s friends. 

“Your complexion has gotten paler.” Candace’s heterochromatic eyes narrowed, her hands turning your face from side to side. 

“Mmm, I haven’t been going out during the day as much.” Resting the weight of your head within her palms. 

“Bullshit, he’s been using you like livestock,” Dehya snapped. 

“Mmm? Not really, he says my blood taste like leaves.” Halfheartedly lifting your face out of Candace’s warm hold. 

“Don’t cover for that bastard,” the Flame-Mane hunter scowls. 

“Need I remind you ‘that bastard’ is still in the room?” Alhaitham breaks his silence. 

“Who said you could speak?” Sapphires clash with beryls. 

“Who’s home are you currently guests in?” 

Even without glancing down, Alhaitham could tell that Dehya’s hand was twitching to reach for the silver dagger hidden up her sleeve. The hand then falters back down, Candace must’ve also noticed, steadfast eyes sending a warning to the other hunter. 

“Of all people, why did you have to marry this vampire?” Dehya turns to you exasperated. 

“Mmm,” you hummed. 

With the finger pressed against your lip and your eyes wandering up towards nothing, Alhaitham couldn’t tell if you were deep in thought or just faking it.

Your pondering filled the room with silence, three pairs of eyes intently trained on your frame. Eyelids closed as you deepened your thought. After a few beats, they fluttered back open.  

“Because he’s just too handsome.” There’s that shameless smile again. 

The disgusted expression that plastered itself all over the hunter’s face at your response almost pushed a quiet laugh from his lips. However, Alhaitham wanted to avoid a physical confrontation from starting in his house. 

If there’s one virtue you have, it’s that you’re a fair person. You perplex your friends and husband to equal degrees. 

It’s now time for the hunters to start their night, much like how Alhaitham will soon report to the office. The two women and you were now at the threshold of the door bidding goodbye, their skeptical eyes every now and then glaring behind you at the vampire. 

“Oh, one more thing,” your voice perks up. 

Arms encapsulated two sturdy frames, pulling them close against yours. 

“I love you guys.” Your words make the two robust warriors take a sharp inhale, bodies tensing up momentarily. 

“We love you too, very much.” Candace’s voice forced itself to steady. 

“Yeah.” Dehya pulled you closer. 

After a few beats, you pulled away from your friends. Lighthearted grin lopsided on your face. 

“Alright then, stay safe out there,” you chimed, waving at them. 

After their figures disappeared from view, Alhaitham shut the oak door. You still peered out the curtains, daydreaming something as the stars reflected in your eyes. He observes for a moment before he collects the cups and dishes that once held tea and sweets to entertain bygone guests. 

You were already surrounded by love, genuine love. Why did you sell your soul to experience something you already had? Alhaitham will save that question for another day.

Would you try saying that line to him again? Maybe this time he read his line without hesitation.

–

Alhaitham’s heavy lids shot open. The unwelcome greetings of morning birds signaled the time of day. Keen eyes scanned over the empty space beside him, sheets still trussed in the shape of a smaller figure. The bird songs rang like sirens, heightening his senses. 

For once his ageless body left the bed without protest, swift steps pattering through the dim halls until the backyard came into view. Sunlight poured in through the open door, the wooden mounts perfectly framing your slumped figure. 

Tired body balancing upon the basket of damp laundry, halfway from the backdoor and clothes line, you stopped to take labored breaths. 

Swiftly he was by your side, towering stature blocking you from the harsh rays. Alhaitham lifts your fatigued body from the ground, giving your aching legs relief. Even with the sun hanging high in the sky, your skin didn’t absorb an ounce of warmth. 

He takes you to the safety of the dim house, settling you onto the soft cushions of your couch. 

“Don’t push yourself.” Alhaitham shifts a few pillows behind your back. 

“I wasn’t, the laundry needs to be hung,” you huffed. 

“Just call for me.” 

You sounded out a whine of protest, but your breathing steadied. Alhaitham moves to stand back to full height, ready to finish the task awaiting out in the sun. 

“Wait,” came your soft call. 

Plucking your favorite sun hat off, you bestowed it upon unkempt ash locks still dusted with sleep. Fussing with the oversized straw brim until it stayed in place. Once satisfied you beamed, fingers caressing his smooth cheeks before placing a peck from curled lips. 

“Thank you, Haitham.” 

Adamant hands smoothed over the damp clothes, ensuring that they didn’t dry on the line with wrinkles that stayed stubbornly. The morning rays felt like sand against his exposed skin, but the hat bestowed upon him made it tolerable. 

–

“It’s dusk, would you like to stroll through the market tonight?” Beryl eyes inspect the curled figure of his wife among cushions and blankets. 

“Mmm, maybe not tonight.” You sink deeper into your couch, drama long forgotten. 

“I see.” Alhaitham moves to the armchair just adjacent to you, a frequent perch of his now. 

“Come here?” 

Just as you finished blinking Alhaitham was by your side again. Slowing lifting your upper body just off the cushion, you pat the now free space, welcoming him to sit. He wouldn’t be a good husband if he were to deny such a request. So he sits. 

Once the ashen-haired vampire was fully situated, your head found its place upon his thighs. 

“Lap pillow,” there was that giggle of yours. 

Alhaitham sighs, but he couldn’t prevent the corner of his lips from curling up, so he hides it with his book. This must be something you learned from those dramas again. He’ll humor it. 

His cool fingers run along your scalp as his teal eyes switched between your resting face and the words printed along the aged paper.

Maybe not today, perhaps tomorrow when the rays of a selfish star kiss your cheeks.

–

The drinks were served quietly, the tavern didn’t seem as lively tonight. Perhaps because it’s the busy season, Spring air carries with it the signs of renewing life and tax forms. 

“So, how is she, the wife?” Kaveh traverses the stagnant air. 

What a redundant question, Alhaitham knows they can smell the fragrance lingering on his body from you, the aroma of flowers only found in a garden beyond a line immortals can cross. The scent of an ending journey. 

“I’ll send some more Kalpalata Lotus tea, one cup a day should help with lethargy.” Tighnari prescribes, making a mental note to prepare the delivery once he returns home. 

“Thank you, how much would I owe?”

“None, just a gift for your wife.” 

Alhaitham hums in gratitude, and the table continued to play cards placidly. Throughout the rounds, his teal eyes stole glances over to a dark screen. 

The group dispersed at dawn, but it wasn’t long before Alhaitham acknowledged the presence behind him. 

“Alhaitham.” 

He only glanced over his shoulder at the tan vampire. 

“Remember the punishment that awaits those who dare disturb the cycle of life.” A threatening crackle resounded from the curled fingers by Cyno’s side. 

Alhaitham already knows and Cyno knows it all too well. After all, the privilege of a good true death was stolen away from the white-haired man many years ago. Cursing the shorter man to eternity. Thus, Cyno now spends eternity punishing those who dare break the most sacred law.

Alhaitham responds with a nod and with that the two men parted ways as the rosy hues of dawn dyed the sky. You’re probably in bed already, it’ll be his kiss to announce his return.

–

In an age where humans outnumber vampires, with new technologies and weapons that can now threaten once untouchable creatures, immortal beings now have to obey mortal laws. The most sacred of laws, vampires cannot turn humans into immortal beings. It’s illegal, it’s immoral even to curse such fleeting creatures with eternity. 

However, vampires are creatures born outside the grace of god from the very start, lurking in the shadows of iconoclasm. What difference would it make? 

It’s his night to make dinner, steak with red wine sauce. 

What is the difference between blood and wine to the inattentive eye? The scarlet hues could be easily mixed. All it would take is a sprinkle, drops stirred into the fragrant sauce served over the juicy meat, for you to abandon your humanity. For the ticking of a grandfather clock to stop its hands.

Who wouldn’t want more time? 

A scene from a night now long past resurfaces at the front of Alhaitham’s mind. 

–

“Would you want more time?” Came a question that broke the silence after a moment of passion. 

Your damp skin glistens under the moonlight, your chest rising and falling as the lust slowly blinks away from your eyes. Alhaitham’s hand on your back guides you down from cloud nine. You stared at him inquisitively, teal reflecting back to him as he remains silent. 

Ashen hair tussled and scratches fading away from cooling skin, he awaits your answer, schemes manifesting. 

You let out a hum, signing that you’ll humor his question this time, as your face rests against the pillow comforted by his woodsy scent. 

–

If you had more time, he would have more time. More time to pick your brain. More time to search through the archives of your thoughts to decrypt you. More time to grovel at your feet for forgiveness after he rips the humanity away from your arms. 

Alhaitham is a prideful thing, but he’s not a dense fool. He knows when an apology is necessary, insight gained from his time shared with you. 

Teal eyes glance back behind him towards the living room, where your figure sat quietly, attention distracted by the pair of lovers on screen in the midst of a tense argument. Never once turning behind to glance into the kitchen, not one ounce of suspicion. The scene finishes.

–

“I was born a human.” Your lids opened again, meeting his beryl-like eyes. 

Irises pure like the moonlight reflected in them. He hums in acknowledgment, fingers tracing mindless scripts into your tender back. 

“I will die as one.”

He hums in confirmation. 

–

A riddle he couldn’t quite solve to bypass the sphinx who guards the sanctuary of your mind. Humans are greedy creatures of conquest, always wanting more, always hungry for more. That’s why creatures like him exist and thrive, feeding into the natural greed of humans. 

Every human wants more power, more money, more wisdom. Every human wants more and more and more. Every human, so why can’t you want more? It seems that the breeze who gallivanted into his office, proposing to him with a contract, won’t reveal her secret. 

As it was outlined on the paper signed by two names, he shall honor your wishes for now until the end, such is the character of a husband. 

Alhaitham runs his hand under the kitchen sink, shameless eyes watching as the water turns clear again, and as the skin closes up. A feature only a creature born outside the jurisdiction of god would have. 

He finishes the meal with a few sprinkles of freshly cut herbs, serving the untainted sauce over juicy cuts of steak, one cooked medium and one cooked rare. He calls you over to the dinner table. 

The average human life span has increased drastically in the past centuries, it’s now about eighty years give or take. 

Still a mere fraction of the time held by vampires. 

Eighty years, and yet you could only have a fraction of that. You could only offer him a sliver of a fraction. 

–

“It’s been a while since you’ve fed, aren’t you hungry?” Your eyes peered over at him. 

Alhaitham wipes the washcloth along your back from beside the porcelain tub, steamy water carrying the fragrance of Nilotpala Lotuses. The humidity of the bathroom made the shirt cling to his skin like a wet rag, but the moisture helped with your coughs. 

“I’m satisfied.” Another half-truth, teal eyes scan for any signs of discomfort, he can bare it. 

“Really? I’m sure my blood doesn’t taste like leaves anymore.” You rested your cheek again on the warm washcloth, eyes twinkling under the fluorescent lights as you looked into his. 

The gift by Tighnari sitting untouched in the corner of a cabinet. Perhaps you’ve gotten tired of the bitter herbal taste, or maybe because there wasn’t a point in drinking it anymore.

Alhaitham fought the urge to click his tongue at your brash humor, only you would worry about how you taste during the closing days of a contract. However, his lips couldn’t form a frown when you beamed at him like that.

–

On the path to work, beryl eyes landed upon a bouquet arranged with familiar flowers, the petals dyed by the rich hues of dusk. The florist was busy gathering up the displays to bring them back inside for the night. 

“Excuse me, I’d like to purchase this bouquet.” 

That night at the office, the staffed vampires crinkled their noses at the overwhelmingly floral scent that plagued the floor. Alhaitham just shut his office door, bouquet resting in a hastily prepared vase, such a thing won’t kill a vampire it’s such a minuscule issue. 

“I’m home.” He locks the door after him. 

Keen hearing not picking up the pattering of feet along the hardwood floor. Placing the flowers on the entranceway table along with his dress shoes, the ashen-haired immortal trekked through the halls, silence ringing in his ears. 

Behind the solid bedroom lay his answer, turning the knob, Alhaitham feels tense muscles loosen as the steady melody of breaths resounded through the room. 

You’ve been here since this afternoon, body now imprinted into the plush mattress. Still, your blood still runs and your chest still rises, even if there were faint hints of wheezing it was good enough. Quiet as a shadow, Alhaitham removes his blazer and tie before joining you under the sheets. He’s been craving sleep. 

A timeless body doesn’t need sleep, ageless cells don’t require such downtime to recover. However, claiming that vampires don’t enjoy sleep would be a blatant lie. A calm way to pass the endless time offered by eternity, a nice way to escape boredom. 

Or maybe it’s because sleep gives immortal creatures a taste of an experience they’ll never have. Peaceful expiry. 

Teal eyes observe the ever-present curl of your lips before cool lips are pressed against your plush ones. A habit formed after six years. The flowers were still left at the door, but they’ll survive the night. Alhaitham will show them to you in the morning, and you’ll beam that grin at him in the morning. 

–

Fresh flowers rested in a vase gifted by friends on the nightstand, the last flowers of Spring. The delicate blooms give way to the vibrant greens of Summer. Such a cruel season for vampires, with days so long and nights so short. A cruel season that offered your body no additional warmth. 

Alhaitham’s hand brushes against the apples of your cheeks, your unconscious body protests in an instant with shivers and curls away from the thief stealing what precious heat you had. As if burned by fire, the vampire retracts his hand. 

Right, he can’t be greedy. Teal eyes watch every tremor until his legs finally remembered how to walk. Pacing to the closet Alhaitham pulls the Winter covers out from storage, insulating your body with the thick duvet. 

The layers form a barrier protecting you from icy touches as he smooths out the wrinkles. 

When humans walk into a garden, their eyes are immediately drawn toward the most beautiful blooms. Watching intently at how the petals of the young blossom unravel, their senses enjoying the heavenly fragrance. It’d only be a matter of seconds before their inevitable greed takes over, and they wish to claim the flower as their own. 

In this sense, the gods are no different than the mortals who were crafted in their image. Greedy to pluck the most beautiful blooms from the garden for their mere amusement. 

Is that what went on behind the garden wall those born outside the jurisdiction of god couldn’t peer over? Alhaitham wonders if you’d answer this inquiry of his. However, if he wants answers, he’ll have to ask soon. 

How should he say the last lines of this script?

Alhaitham ponders. There wasn’t a director to give a cue, no parenthetical to follow. Perhaps he’s entertaining such futile thoughts to distract himself.

With each wheeze of your chest, the itch in his palm grew unbearable. His thumb begged to dig its nail into the smooth skin until scarlet droplets trickled out. However, it never got its chance for soon your ailing fingers occupied the space, interlocking to halt its motion as gold rings clinked together. 

“My husband is such a handsome actor.” Breathy voice babbling with a giggle. 

Alhaitham’s cool skin hogged your warmth, trying to permanently sear the temperature into itself. 

“You don’t have to play this role anymore.” You craned your neck away with a deep exhale, exposing the vulnerable skin to him. 

There’s nothing viler to a vampire than stagnant blood. Blood that no longer runs tastes rotten, cold blood is worst than bile. Your blood still ran warm, he could sense it. This time it was his incisors that itched. 

Keen eyes don’t miss the way your nape prickled at the breath that ghosted over it as his lips parted. Your lids gently shut, bracing yourself. The incisors brushed against your exposed jugular, but they couldn’t break through the delicate skin. They wouldn’t. They just wouldn’t. 

Like the cowards they were, they retreated. Alhaitham closes his lips, deciding to press a tender kiss on the spot instead. His free hand guides your head back into a comfortable position on the plush pillow. 

“You don’t have to hold yourself back.” Your eyes were open again. 

“I’m not holding myself back,” he spoke the truth, the whole truth.

You were born with blood, it’s only right that you die with it, Alhaitham concludes. 

The ending clause of that contract be damned. 

“What a silly vampire.” Your bell-like laughter twinkled in his ears. 

Yes, he is. Even after all these centuries, Alhaitham realizes he’s still no better than a fool. A shameless fool. An idiotic hypocrite ready to stray away from the principles he thought he held firm. He’ll accept this verdict, he’ll continue this fool’s errand, if and only if you continue to giggle at his antics.

Outside the window came the dirge of Summer crickets, gentle crips accompanying your fleeting wheezes. Alhaitham shifts the thick comforter up your body, smoothing out the wrinkles as the soft warmth lulls you away. 

Your still fingers in between the spaces of his, your head curled within the space between his nape. 

Under the moon’s pure rays, lay two bodies atop soft sheets, curled towards each other, the fleeting warmth long dissipating. Atop silk sheets, one body envisions the two buried under cold dirt and not clean comforters with hands somehow still locked together. Deep under the garden wall.

Once the cruel sun creeps into the sky, and the night flees into hiding with her stars, Alhaitham will have to make a call. 

He’ll have to speak with the receptionist on the other end, with their bright customer service greeting, and get a legal pronouncement of death. Then soon after that, he’ll have to arrange the transportation of your cold husk. He’ll have to lower you into the ground alone.

However, the morning is still hours away, the moon is still here to lend her quiet sympathies. So tonight, just for tonight humor his little daydream.  

Fin~

©️vivalabunbun DON’T PLAGIARIZE, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS. 

[tteokdoroki]

OCTOBER 8TH. HADES

“my sweet, deluded little minion. aren't we forgetting one teensy-weensy but ever-so-crucial tiny little detail? i own you.”

♱ — keigo takami + hate sex.

♱ — synopsis; as a naive little girl in love you make a deal that gets you stuck with the unrelenting god of the underworld, and no matter how sweet he may fuck you…you’ll spend all of eternity hating him if you have to.

♱ —length; 5.4K

♱ — warnings; please read for your own safety! mdni, smut 18+, heavy smut, mentions of death, restraints, marking, branding, creampies, thigh riding, impact play, nipple play, multiple orgasms, possesive sex, hate sex, unprotected sex, fem!reader, hades!hawks. not beta read !

♱ — notes; screee happy sinister saturday !! tonight i bring you hawks beloved besmooched as disney's hades!! i hope you guys enjoy this as much as i did writing it. !! mwah !! - m.list ₊ kinktober m.list ₊ taglist 𓆩♡𓆪

pity. 

you should not have pity for the weak because you are weak, yourself. 

you’re weak because you’re too kind; you hate to see a dying soul twisting through those who end up in the land of the undead, shackled to their fate of never returning where the living are. you feel their desperation, hear it in the woeful cries of lost lives as they make their trip down a stream of decay— to be damned for almost all of eternity and like them, you’re desperate too. the underworld is a place to be hated, you think, tying you down to the stench of death and you’re so desperate to feel the sun on your skin once more…to taste the juice of a ripened fruit and feel the warm breeze against your skin while you brush through locks of silvering hair. 

you miss the air in your lungs, you miss breathing him in like he was oxygen.

touya, was there name of the man you missed most about the world up above— his lips often tasted of sour grapes, his skin was rough from scratches and scrapes too but soft whenever you held a his hand. you thought that he adored you— touya would worship you like the gods had put your portrait in the stars up above and you’d do the same…spending your free time counting the flecks in cerulean eyes while soft white hair flows in the warm wind. he was brave, you knew that, a warrior who was strong and had promised you his hand once he returned from the battles his father had called him upon. 

you were promised, you were happy and more in love than you thought possible— until the day touya tells you that he loves you with his dying breath, a sickness sweeping over topaz fem eyes, and you know he’d take your heart to the underworld too.

“you still thinkin’ about him, doll?” 

the warmth of your day dreams slip away as the chill of his voice fills the stone cold lair. you dare to let your fingertips drift through the river of souls below the wall you lean against. “‘m not in the mood, hades.” the god of the underworld, keigo takami is a nuisance if you’d ever known one. a pain in your ass full of feathered flames— bright blue in all of their glory, they’re colder than most would expect, unbecoming of the colour that sprout’s from the king of the undead’s back. 

“hawks. keigo, baby. c’mon little bird…” his voice is tight with humour, surprisingly playful for someone doomed to be surrounded by lifelessness for all of eternity. all of the underworld is dreary and damp, worn arching mountains made of old bones, skulls and teeth— rocks as sharp as swords that end lives with the sickly green stream of whining dead mortals. you can’t breathe down here…there’s no space for you to escape nor breathe around him and you hate it. “oh sugarplum…don’t play sourpuss! we’re all friends here!” the blonde god that burns cold flames picks your dainty fingers from the acidic pool of death. 

he grinds your gears, and you have nowhere else to go. the thought of being stuck with a man who rules over ruined lives— infuriating you to no end. “i am not—“ you seethe, shoulders raised like a hissing cat or something akin to the three headed dog that guards this place. “your friend. far from it, hades.” the look on your face is far from impressed, discourteous with your lips turned into a nasty sneer and a sweltering spark to your usually pretty docile eyes. 

it’s such a shame, how ill behaved you are after everything the man has done for you. “it’s hawks, honey.” the man reminds you, and in a flash he’s on you in all the ways you despise. his slimey grip of death squeezes your cheeks, dragging you up to his mighty height with your face in the palm of his burning hand. hades…hawks, he’s mean when he’s unhappy— the flames that form the wings of a fallen angel flicker a brilliant red and the temperature of them skyrockets. “‘n this is no way to act after all i’ve done for you cupcake.” despite the fury that radiates from the god…he coos gently. 

“if i remember correctly… i’m the one who saved your little prick of a boyfriend… aren’t I?” even through all of the robes keigo wears, you can still feel the molten heat of his skin against yours as he pulls you in close— though you dangle from his hold, you’re practically chest to chest. you scramble to get away, but the god only digs his thumb further into your cheek. “we had a deal. your soul for his life.” with his free hand, he creates an apparition, tufts of smoke dancing to form people…one showing touya who bends at the knee to take the other’s hand— this one being you. 

at first, the two characters seem happy, and an emotion akin to fondness settles in your bones— but not before touya’s little smoke figure trails away from yours to follow another woman “s’not my fault he left you. don’t take it out on me, doll,” hawks drawls, snapping his fingers to make the apparition disappear, your heart rattled in its place after reliving the scene and you force your gaze away with a grunt directed at the god. “now, since you’re being oh so disrespectful, we’ll add…give or take, another five years to your sentence with me instead of taking away seven. how’s that sound?” 

“fuck you, hades.” turning your head, you spit directly between the god’s eyes, fuelled by your own hurtful rage.

your elevated, living pulse does nothing but serve to piss off the king of the underworld more— his blonde set of locks nearly exploding off of the top his head as he combusts into red hot flames once more. “still so bitter over a man who can’t love you like i do, huh?” keigo says your name, low and raspy, and you can’t remember the last time he’d uttered those syllables. it frightens you, after all you are a mortal in the grip of a man who takes lives for a living, but you’d never let him know that. “that’s almost pathetic.”

that hurts to hear, like a knife twisting in your fragile human gut… and so, kicking your feet, still high above the ground and suspended in the large god’s grip— you throw yourself about and claw at his temperate hand cupping your face harshly. “you do not love me, you wouldn’t know what that meant even if it kicked you in the face!” you yell, biting down on keigo’s hands in a futile attempt. “you’re just obsessed with me and would much rather me be a soulless corpse to keep you better company!” 

“you better watch your tone with me, little bird—“

“you’re vile. you’re disgusting— a fool if you think i could ever see the bright side of being stuck here with you,” you ramble in response, and foolishly so. “i hate you hades, i hate you. did you know that? i want to repeat it for you. i hate yo—“ 

your words are never finished, for a resounding strike echoes throughout the cave like atmosphere on the underworld and you already feel the invisible bruising form under your skin, falling to the floor to cup your wound.

no matter how many times you had tested the god of death, he had never hit you like this before.

and you’ve never looked into his golden irises , never seen them so clearly or seen his pupils like black slits— leaving the amber colour to take over, reminding you of the surface sun. hawks looks almost predatory, hungry red flames for wings willing to swallow and burn everything in their path, including you. 

“repeat yourself. what did you say?” keigo commands easily.

you gulp. “t-that i…”

“that you, what?” your name again, and you tremble. 

“that i hate you,” you breathe. “i hate you.” 

he seems to snap at this. 

hawks smiles, teeth as sharp as razors set on display. “another five years into your sentence, pretty.” with a snap of his talon clawed fingers, the god has fragments of grey smog binding your wrist together, slipping over your nose and mouth to shut you the hell up. “‘m disappointed, yanno. i do care so much for you, i’m so attentive… but this has happened far too long to go unnoticed, little bird.” 

the world around you rushes with air as you’re hauls into the god’s thick arms, you kick and scream muffled through the smoke in your mouth— watching as keigo conjures up a throne made of thorns, pain and bones, taking a comfortable seat into it despite the lost loved ones it might be made up of. “here we go again, darling.” the blonde sighs, not caring if you batter his back on the way down to taking his seat— dragging you into position to sit over the swell of his right thigh. “s’always the same old shit with you. so naughty.” keigo peers up at you through eyes like a bird of prey…watching, knowing the exact effect he has on you. 

hyper aware of how much control he has over you, right down to your soul. 

you squirm away and keigo let’s go of the smoke, letting you tilt your head back but still rooted in the god’s lap. “i hate you.” breathing deep, you try to ignore your body flushing with heat and the urge to buck down against keigo’s surprisingly muscular thigh. 

“behave yourself. sit still,” hades coos, his touch cascades up your body, slipping under your bodice and sending warmth down each of the neurons like a flickering flame until he reaches the swell of your breasts— thumbing over your pebbled nipples in an attempt to pull a whine from between your resistant lips. it’s so cute to watch you try and fail, pretend like your hips aren’t aching to slide back and forth, drag your clit back and forth…back and forth over the man like a desperate bitch in heat, like you don’t want to put your hands in the brightness of his fire and watch yourself burn with lust. you’re no good at acting, pretending you wouldn’t slut yourself out for him, the one who owns you for all of eternity. 

with a click of his fingers, all the power in the world between them pulls up the skirts of your robes, like wisps of a web until the fabric sits at your hips. “h-hate you… s’much,” you repeat though the venom to your voice is lost, shaky and falling into a pathetic moan instead as the god traces the fat at your hips, searing fingers sliding down to your fleshy ass before peeling you away from his thigh— amused at the stickiness that ties you to him. “f-fuck.” 

“yeah sweetheart? you hate me this much?” the amusement is evident in his voice too, a slender digit sliding out from the curve of your ass to touch at your oozing wetness. “oh…i don’t know, doesn’t seem like you don’t like me. you can’t spend forever hatin’ me either; not when i get you like this.” the finger spreads apart your swelling folds, and hawks shifts until his knee is able to bump your clit. “lover boy ever make ya this wet?” you despise the way the god talks down on you, as if you’re just a slave to his cock and thighs and whatever he can give you…dopamine and lust hormones flooding your cute little mortal brain and making you pliant for him. 

the beginnings of your arousal seeps warmly through the robes laying wrinkled against the fiery blonde’s thigh, sweet folds leaving a stain that betrays you in every way possible. touya could never… not like this, you’re soaked and you’ve barely been touched. only just, by feather light grazes against the supple fat at your waist. it’s the taunting pillowy cushion to hawks’ words too, they’re what’s gotten you so worked up— not too mean or too harsh, just enough to make you feel like you’re beneath him. 

with your nails digging to hades’ arm, you cry out his name at a volume barely above a whisper— bottom lip wobbling and face crumbling just like your resolve because it hurts so good not to use him to get off, the shame only adding fuel to the fire in your lower belly. “s-shut up,” you struggle to get out, to mean what you say as your needy hole clenches against the blistering skin of a god. “you don’t make me feel shit…y-you could never be h-him—oh,” keigo flexes his thigh beneath your unloyal pussy, tongue darting out to wet his lips in hunger as your words taper off into a sinful little sigh at your pretty eyes roll back into your skull. “oh…oh fuck you.” 

“watch your mouth.” hades all but snarls, a cruel smirk beginning its horizon on his slightly chapped lips now that you’re finally playing his game, your hips falling into their own rhythm over his thigh—speeding up in their straddled dance over him. again, his hands explore all what your body has to offer and this time you let him, throwing your head back when hawks rips the fabric of your skirt to get a better view of your naked rosy cunt and how beads of glistening arousal pearl between perfect pussy lips. “don’t need to be your shitty little human to make you feel good, sweetheart. i know i’m better than him,” he makes a sick point of reminding you so, leaning back into his throne with a hazy look settling into the embers of his golden eyes, those of which are trained on the way your folds encapsulate his thigh as you get yourself off on him. “i’m your god, you’ll only ever feel the pinnacle of pleasure with me.”

you loath that this much is true, of all the times hawks has punished you for resenting him— talking back and being ungrateful, you’ve never cum as hard with anyone else as much as you have with him. when his flaming hands swallow your thighs, burn their hand prints into them until you can smell the scent of singeing flesh tangled with death, decay and your saccharine pussy you feel like you’re dying. you must be, with the waves of euphoria you’re drowning in, your lungs ache from the near screams of delight that rattle around in your throat with every grind against hawks— especially when he begins to bounce his thighs against your cunt that blossoms for him like a flower from the lands up above.

“you’re awful…” you say, teary eyed despite humping at keigo’s twitching thigh faster and faster with ragged breaths— giving him a front row seat to you losing your mind, to your slit drooling so delicately against him despite how roughly your body moves. his clawed hand reaches the back of your bodice, tearing it into two as if it were nothing and letting the fabric fall away from your bouncing chest.

his mouth is on your breasts within an instant, the heated pink tongue of the god rolling over your darkened areolas and rock hard nipples, standing on end from the cool death chilled air, before the sharpened edge of his teeth sink into your soft mounds. “only just now realising that, honey? when i’m literally the king of death?” hawks let’s go of you with a slick pop, his cheeks flushed red and lips in a state to match— cock and thigh twitching at the little simper you let out from the painful sting of his teeth biting at your skin. your state is no better than his, brows creased adorably in the centre of your forehead, mouth open in a raw ‘o’ shape and your eyes screwed shut while your skin shines with perspiration. a diamond in the rough. 

“fuck, you look so fucking good,” the god of the underworld curses, glowing yellow eyes torn between watching your face contort in lechery and your mound, gliding smoothly over his paled yet golden skin— leaving a trail of slick in her wake. “oh fucking hell,” he beefs, from deep within his chest licentiously, the words caught in his throat when you start to bounce up and down in the god’s lap by your own accord. “that’s right, ride it. ride my thigh like you fucking hate me.” he leers, goading you into lifting your hips and slamming your clit back down on his shaky thigh, eyes a dark and molten gold rolling back at the sight. 

you don’t have the energy to curse him out again, whimpering and mewling like a fallen angel as you reach out to grab keigo’s shoulder in order to steady yourself. your body is wracked with the shakes and trembles even as your nails dig into his shoulder blades, one hand on his hip, using him as leverage to ride him, throwing yourself down on him as the lewd pap of your sticky pussy fills the sex and death tainted air. hawks’ mouth is back on you, biting and marking your neck, licking a nasty trail from your collarbones and back to the swell of your breasts to suckle on them— only serving to make your cunt fish every time it’s lifted from his thigh, ruining his dark robes with slick and making his wings burn brighter like the ball of lust growing between you.

hawks plants his feet firmly on the floor, his hands smoothing over your ass so he can roughly pull your cheeks apart, slamming you back down on his quivering leg every time it juts up to meet your pretty, syrupy cunt. you squeak, the hood of your clit pulled back, blood rushing right too it carrying sex crazed hormones that make your whole body tingle. “oh, just look at your fucking pussy. so, wet. so nasty.” he laughs like the sight of you staining his leg, humping it like a bitch is ludicrous. “you sure you hate me?” you do, gods you fucking do but you can barely talk with the delight pain that sparks at your ass cheeks as keigo marks them with burns again. branding you with the hades name— making you property of the underworld. 

“how can you hate me when you belong to me?” he bleats sweet and soft despite how rough hades is with you, scattering your pretty body with scalding burn marks. “when i make you feel so good that you can’t even remember your own pathetic little mortal name?” he says it then, when he’s growling and smacking a blazing hand down against your bruising ass, making you cry out and howl and drag your nails down his skin. keigo did you a favour, saving your weak and loving soul above all else after your lover had cast you aside— he protected you, nurtured you and all you could do was look at him like he ruined the world for you. so in turn, every time you would act up like this, keigo would fuck you until you were literally an inch from losing your life, reminding you that you bound to him for all of eternity, no matter what you did. 

“you’re mine. remember?” he coos to you when your head starts to loll and you’re hiccuping so hard you can’t even think to breathe right. “my little queen of the underworld.” 

slumping forward, you don’t slow the roll of your hips, the gentle glide of your slippery cunt along hades’ blazing thigh and instead you shake your head, weakly, miserably to the point where he just finds your denial cute. “‘m not…i-i,” you gargle, words incoherent against the molten core of keigo’s chest. “i fucking hate you—uhuh, yeah…i do.” you moan.

like most humans, you’re fucking pitiful but your voice adorned with lust is enticing to a god who hears nothing but deathly wails all day. “keep tellin’ yourself that; baby but look at how you fall apart on my lap. uhuh…yeah?” keigo flashes you his pearly whites through his condescending smirk and tone, using you so bristfully that every time he pushes you back and forth over his thigh you go as far back as to grind your puffy clit against his knee. “that felt good, huh? yeah i know…you’re all mine.” 

you fucking hate him, and that voice of his and how he plays you for a fucking fool. 

you hate how his possession over you makes you needy, makes you melt and how you eagerly nod your head, sore and bruised by flames all over as you push it into keigo’s neck— the knot in your tummy nice and tight, so good that it hurts. “‘m close… don’t stop. please, o-oh fuck!” you cry, coated in your own essence as it splatters every time you slam your pretty pussy down on hawks, clenching around nothing, your sweet words soothing the ache in his rigid dick. “j-just like that. f-fuck! keigo!” 

the way you drawl out the syllables of his name makes a primal urge stir in the god— he circles your hips on him, let’s his calloused finger tips burn their mark against your hips and your thighs and your ass, knowing that the torment gets you off, makes your creamy cunt wetter. “you gonna cum for me? make a mess in my lap? paint your god with your pretty juices?” he teases, short for breath leaning up with a fond smile until your lips are just barely apart. he wonders how you’ll look when you cum this time; if your sweaty swollen lips with hungrily accept his, if you’ll cry with your eyes closed or look him in his own— your sparkling bambi eyes swirling with hatred and dread like they always do. “c’mon…come on. give it to me, sweetheart, lemme feel you come undone.” 

hot fingers, the ones that branded you push into your clit— pinching it as hades writes his signature against your throbbing pussy, moaning with you when you jolt. “yeah, you like that?” he growls, voice hoarse and your body betrays you once more, head nodding into his neck. “mhm, you’re gonna cum like this for me aren’t you? you’re gonna fucking cum for the god you hate. that’s it…oh gods, that’s fuckin’ it, doll.” 

“i-i’m! oh gods, keigo—!” you squeal as the knot of lust within you unravels all at once, your core gushing with release as hades makes you dive head first into a blinding orgasm. you violently shake and your thighs lock around his hand that works you through your high and releases the pressure in your pussy, sweet streams of clear arousal soaking his lap and dripping down your thighs. hawks can’t bring himself to stop, doesn’t know where to look as he draws tighter circles on your little nub, drawing out your orgasm for his own amusement, addicted to how your skin shines with your release. “s-stop! please… s’too much!” you squeak.

the world spins harder on its axis and you barely have time to register hawks flipping your positions, folding you with your back to the throne and legs thrown over the bend of his burly arms. he can’t wait any fucking longer, feeling as if his cock might explode without being inside of you, watching you cum like that having sent him into a throbbing frenzy. you haven’t even calmed down yet, still limp from your orgasm when keigo pushes his length through your seeping, glistening folds, red cockhead catching on the hood of your clit in desperation, poking at your fluttering hole, ready to fuck into you while he lets his dick slap along the length of you. 

“j-just because you’ve made me cum…doesn’t mean i like you, nor trust you.” you pant in denial, trying and failing to open your pretty eyes to the underworld. “it doesn’t mean anything.” 

but keigo, he’s too far gone to care at this point. he could care less if you hate him, if you adore him, worship him or fear him. the only thing on his mind right now is sinking his yearning, pulsating shaft into your slick, slit while you’re still coming down from heaven and back to him in the world below. “don’t give a fuck,” he says, a hankering feeling to fuck you now clouding his mind. “i don’t need your trust little bird, i already know your body fucking loves me.” 

he won’t last long and neither will you, you’re already only just hanging on by a thread. “i-i don’t,” you slur, spit on the pad of tongue feeling heavy, you still haven’t recovered from your orgasm, squeezing down on every inch that keigo pushes into you— even though you’re wet beyond belief, your pink little hole can’t help but resist him, as if your body is finally denying him after everything he put you through on his thigh. “n-no…no no!” you cry out, a mess of dry lips and crystal tears, lifting your ass from the seat of the throne to try and coax hawks back into you. “please…need it, y-your cock…p-please!”

“see look, you’re being so nice now… is that all it takes? play with your precious pussy a little bit and you stop pretending to hate me?” keigo laughs huskily, dragging a thumb over his seedy tip as his fat length sits on your tummy— before shoving the soiled digit against your clit, pressing it into your pleasure nub so loosen you up a bit to take him. “this pussy doesn’t hate me, does she? oh no…she belongs to me.” 

you shudder at his words despite the heat of his flames, and you’re not even given a second to respond or prepare before his ribbed and red hot cock is shoved into your unused hole, his practised hands lifting you higher from the throne to accommodate for all of his size. “oh…oh god, k-keigo,” you coo like a little angel, your gaze losing its focus while the king of death folds you in half against his royal seat, the forked and purpling veins decorating his shaft pressing up against new pulse points, pinging them with ecstasy the further he presses into you. 

hawks bends over your shaky frame, golden and carved abs pressed against the backs of your thighs, the god smothering you with his body once he reaches the hilt, your knees digging blissfully into your shoulders, his cock already nestled against your g-spot from the pure size of him and you feel so full, like keigo is everywhere around you, a pleasant pain thrumming as your squishy insides stretch over his cold. he’s in your guts, your senses, your heart though it’s blackened with hatred for him. 

you’re dizzy and your eyes droop, mind void of thought and you don’t have the effort to hate him anymore— not when he makes you feel like this. “nuh-uh, wake up sweetheart, want you to look at me as i fuck ya, kay?” keigo whispers to you sweetly, his blazen hand smacking down on your face, pulling the dirtiest moan you’ve ever heard from between your lips. “that’s it, wake up f’me. listen to this cunt call my name,” he laments tapping your cheek once more and grins at the branded hand print before golden eyes lock themselves  away— taking away your sunshine from up above. you listen intently, the lewd squelch of your insides bouncing of stacks of bones and towers of skeletons, at a volume much higher than the cries of the undead. “my messy messy girl, so messy you might as well admit that you’re in love with me.” 

while that couldn’t have been further from the truth, you submit to the god who makes you a slave to his cock— slowly withdrawing from your snug walls, pulling out of your sticky selfish cunt. “ain’t it damned shame that lover boy took you for granted?” he growls with a voice tinged with possession. “such a shame that you’re sentenced to slutting yourself out on this cock for the rest of your days…oh fuck, you’re tight.” hips surging forwards, hawks sets a steady pace to rocking his dick into you, blunt cockhead pushing and pulling against sensitive spots that makes you see the stars in the night sky again. and maybe you do consider yourself lucky, without touya fucking you over, you wouldn’t be prisoner to the best dick you’ve ever had. 

you hate him, but hades is so, so good—teeth and tongue latching back onto your bouncing breasts as the heat from his flames spreads through you like a wildfire in a forest and the only thing capable putting it out is his precum sloshing in creamy, loose white against your gummy, syrupy walls. “m-my fucking god!” you manage through stuttered breathes, keening into the swipes of keigo’s tongue across your breasts that he’s burned, as if his saliva will soothe you. he ploughs into you at a god speed pace, skin slapping on skin as his balls slam into the curve of your ass and harmonise with your high pitched wails. 

“that’s right, baby.” he sounds so elated, moaning happily around your swollen nipples, moving to pant happily into your ear, pressing further and further into you until keigo is hardly pulling away from bullying your g-spot, your juices splashing about the places, running down the length of your slit and your ass to pool underneath you on the marble throne. “i’m yours and you’re fuckin’ mine, for the rest of forever…don’t, ah shit, care what you say. hate me all y’fuckin’ want.” 

hawks fucks you like he hates your guts, looking over you, throwing your legs over his shoulder and using his weight to canter into your abused cunt, rocking his throne with a dull thump to each of thrusts. he frees you from the grip that leaves burn marks across your body, to briefly run his hand through sweaty blonde locks, both of you are slick with perspiration, breathing ragged and you’re definitely too fucked out to even see at this point. the sun is keigo; despite the dreary underworld you live in, and the tears blur your vision too much for you to tell this isn’t the land of the living. 

“‘m g’na cum,” you tell hades eagerly, feeling like you’re alive the more he fills you up— sexes slotted together like a match made in heaven when you really feel like he’s your own personal hell. “gonna cum so fucking hard.” the pleasure is suffocating, deathly, but you don’t care, crying from every hole possible, locking down on keigo’s ravaging dick when he slaps your entrance to keep you awake— you jolt, sore from every joint and whine out pathetically. 

“can feel you cummin’ on me again, better give it all t’me little bird— want your fuckin’ mind, your body, your soul.” he sinks his teeth into the junction at your neck one last time, adding another delightfully painful mark to the rest that litter your body. he does it all to numb your pain of touya leaving you, fills you up with love which you mistake for hate because how can a merciless god who takes lives for fun be capable of loving you. it’s not long before your body does as he says, following keigo’s lead, tumbling down the highway to hell as the bright light of his flames flashes before your very eyes, your release staining his abdomen where it’s smooshed up against your clit.

“oh shit, fuck that’s it,” he’s right behind you too, abs rippling while the mighty god of death trembles above you and pours thick white from his angry red tip straight into your bruised womb, lewd clapping noises filling the air as he rocks into you through the last of your highs. keigo makes a pretty mess of you; creaming your insides as his last mark of possession over you. “my pretty little bird, mine eternally.” 

he hopes you’ll forget touya, that you’ll forgive him just this once— stop hating him for once. 

but with your foreheads pressed together, bodies limp and uncomfortable against the throne hawks— hades, has conjured up you quickly come to your senses with closed eyes and lost breath. 

“i hate you, hades.” you grunt, shame burning at you now instead of him, instead of lust. “get off me.” 

[littlebabyyd0ll]

THE LION AND THE LAMB, PART ONE

Forced to leave your home land for the hand of the man your sister had previously been wed to, you find yourself travelling from heaven to hell. Fallen angels couldn’t really be beautiful, could they?

warnings: reader is barb’s sister, explicit themes of death, gothic genre, vampirism, arranged marriages. r’s father physically and mentally abuses her. slight NSWF themes within. you are responsible for your own media consumption.

kinktober day one my angels!!! enjoy!! 18+ only.

main masterlist ! series masterlist ! kinktober 2023

Unbound cobblestone lurches the carriage side to side once more, like an abandoned ship far out at sea, taken captive by the powerful hold of Poseidon. It wasn’t much long ago that you were sea sick from the choppy waves, accompanied by your father and his men on your travels from the bright light of your home, to the drizzling haze that was cast over the country of Hawkins. Oh, how it lived up to its reputation. Hawkins was a dark and dreary place, constantly overcast and damp with the rain that fell upon stone homes and muddied roads. The people of the country watched your bright golden carriage with an unsettling known certainty, a grimace which they all shared under the rule of their king. Draped in their dreary colours of grey and stained white, as though all colours were banned from the land. It haunts you, the undead look in their eyes as you clutch at the windowsill whilst rolling past. 

These were to be your people, your devout servants of the kingdom. 

No life shimmered in their eyes. No hands raised in warm welcomes and waves of the sight of their new queen-to-be. The people of Hawkins were used to this parade, used to the shining golden riches come from afar, accustomed with the cycle that would meet their new queen. For it happened on repeat, to every suitor that King Edward was engaged to marry. You knew, too. For it had been your sister, only months ago. 

Forcing your eyes away from the rain sodden faces of the kingdom’s people, you turned back to the other lively body in the carriage. Your father, crown tall and proper upon his head, paid no attention to the villagers as you rolled on past. His sharp gaze was unwavering on the scroll in front of him, the one composed by the King of Hawkins himself. A proposal of marriage to the King, your father, for the hand of his second eldest child, the last daughter in the line of succession. You. 

Of course, despite what happened with Barbara, your elder sister who was sent mere months ago to be wed to King Edmund, your father had been delighted by the offer, and had readied your things to leave within the hour. You had faced treacherous oceans and sinking roads to get here. All signs to turn back, to rid yourself of this fate, to run and never return. And, yet, here you sat, dress full and far too outlandish for the style of the people here. The sweetheart neckline of your glimmering, ballet-slipper pink dress seems foolish for the weather, as do the puffed sleeves that fall upon your shoulder. The corset is tight and restricting, but the ribbons that cinch the back of the gown are simply delightful and princesslike. You stand out like a sore thumb in a land like this. 

Nerves prickle under your bare skin, and suddenly your tiara weighs heavy. You see the way that your father eyeballs the number of riches that King Edward has offered for your hand and have to force yourself not to sneer at the all too familiar look. The same look that he got when King Edward had written for Barbara’s hand. As your time as princess you have come to learn many things, but one in particular. 

Men will do anything for power, glory and riches. 

“Must you go through with it, father?” Your voice is softer than intended, has none of the strength and authority that your mother once had. You had hoped to plea with him, to present a case like the sinners in court, though you truly were an innocent in all of this. 

There’s barely even a look of recognition as your father’s dull tone fills the emptiness of the rumbling carriage. “The relationship of two kingdoms is not something I am willing to endanger for your personal happiness, daughter. You will fulfil your duty as your mother did, as did your sister.”

“And look what happened to them both.” You interfere, small hands bunching at the tulle of your dress, one of the most expensive in your collection. Only the best to impress your husband-to-be. “They are dead, father. Cold as stone and buried six feet under. Are you not convinced that the same awaits me? Awaits any girl that is forced into the clutches of a powerful man?” There it is; the passion, the fire, the dare. It's the very thing that makes your father’s nostrils flare and has his hand swinging towards you. His jewelled, golden ring pierces the delicate skin upon your pigmented lips and has your face barrelling towards the small window. 

Your surprised gasp is overthrown by his tone. “It is that very attitude that surely killed them both. You will do well to remember your place in this world. You are nothing but a pawn. You are a peace treaty between lands. If your blood is the one that is spilled, so be it. My sons are becoming great men, and they are to be my legacy.” He leans forward, glaring into your tear sodden eyes. He traces the stains that run down your cheeks, sadistic pride fills his bones. He is no more family to you than King Edward. You may share blood, but he is no father of yours. “Nobody will remember the losses of a few princesses. King Edward has ruled for a glorious lifetime. You are not his first wife, and you will surely not be his last.” The words sting at your heart, to know that he is willing to bury you under a gravestone for gold, for numbers on parchment. “That is your fate, daughter. Loathe it, spite it, I do not care. But you will obey it.”

Of course you would. That was your duty. But the truth bares no kindness, no comfort in the depths of its sadness. You force your gaze away, force yourself to stop the rapid rise and fall of your chest, and dab the wound upon your lip with the handkerchief halfheartedly thrown at your lap. Your glossy eyes watch as the bumpy hill rises, and the stone walls come into view. The castle is magnificent, tall spires piercing the swirling skies and mighty defences standing proud as protection, though no one has dared to invade Hawkins in almost two hundred years. The thought had your stomach churning. Gossip of King Edward told a thousand different stories, some say that he is hypnotically handsome. Some say that wives fall dead because they grow jealous of his untimely beauty, one that they could never parallel. Others say that they drop dead at the sight of him, for he is so old that they would rather die than bed him. No one could tell you the age of the king, even when you had offered a satchel of gold. 

Once more, all good fates called out to you, begged at you not to exit the carriage and not to follow the path to the chain strung doors. And yet, a part of your soul yearned for the dark wood cast in iron. You ached to find out if the rumours were true, ached to be wed, ached to live as queen, as you had dreamed as a little girl. Subconsciously, as your father’s men knock repeatedly at the wood door, you raise your hand to the dried blood upon your lip, camouflaged with freshly applied rouge. In the depths of your heart, you hoped your fiancè to be a kind man, a man that did not strike, a man that gave you the best in life, a man that adored you. All you had was hope. 

A great groan comes from the pushing of the heavy doors. King Edward’s men appear either side of the growing gap, heaving with all their might to open the doors. The inside is dark, much darker than the outside of the castle, only the flickering flames of tall candles are enough to lighten the walkway. The carriage is opened for you, yet you await your turn. Of course, your father barges past you and steps on the once pristine fabric of your dress. A muddied footprint stains it now, and reflects the notion that your father will always be one step higher, one step in front, and he can easily kick you back down again. With a shaky breath your hands raise up, adjust the tiara that sits heavy upon your head, and you force yourself to take the hand of the footman awaiting outside of the carriage. 

Drizzling rain falls onto the sapphires of your crown, the very same shade as your father’s surcoat. He talks as though he is the most important man amongst them, his words directed to a very uninterested looking Viceroy. He’s tall, unusually tanned for the people of Hawkins and the constant coverage of clouds. He’s also rugged, knightly looking, with mid length  hazel tassels of hair falling at the back of his neck. The King’s second in command bears scars upon his forehead and upon his cheek, and yet the most noticeable thing about him was how simply bored he looked to be listening to your father. And then, he catches sight of you. 

Timid little you whose dress is stained at the bottom from the mud on the ground. Timid little you that looks up at the magnificent castle with saucers for eyes. Timid little you who bares her neck and chest, all dressed up to appease her future husband. Timid little you, who is absolutely perfect for his King. 

“Princess.” The man calls, voice smooth as he side steps around your father, who does not seem best pleased to be interrupted. You, on the other hand, seem startled to even be addressed. You stand a little straighter, as though all the lady-like lessons that our maid had taught you growing up all came rushing back to the forefront of your mind at once. The Viceroy walks towards you with ease, his outfit a deep murky brown, adorned with the glimmering of shining golden buckles. They each hold the crest of King Edward’s court. He bends at the waist at the same time that you curtsy in greeting, bowing your head and begging that the tiara does not fall off. The chestnut haired man stands tall once more, one arm over his chest, the other proper behind his back. “My name is Steven, your majesty. Sir Steven, and I wish to make your stay here as pleasant as possible. It shall be my name you call if you ever face any difficulty. The king wishes you to have an exquisite time.” 

Sir Steven’s smile is enough to have you enchanted. It distracts you from the meaning behind his words: stay, time. As though none of this is permanent. He smiles at the mere sight of you, pretty in pink and so juxtaposing from the environment around you. The only other signs of colour come from the members of your court, your father, your ladies stepping out from the carriage behind your own. So much alike many of the brides that have come before you. Steven outstretches a white gloved hand towards you, beckoning you to walk alongside him. As you walk, you cannot help your full of life eyes to cast one more glance down the slopes if the mountainous hill that the castle sits upon, and down onto the villages below. You almost feel that if you squint hard enough, you can see where life meets death at the horizon. 

The halls of Munson Castle are dim and dark. The only sounds available in the dinginess are those of your ladies’ shoes upon the wooden floor behind you and the flickering of flames from the torches mounted to the walls. It seemed as though every magnificent window was guarded closed by large drapes of fabric curtains. No sunlight entered the halls, and the flames were just about strong enough to illuminate the paintings upon the walls. Great murals of battles from hundreds of years ago, some even considered myths, aligned the walls. Victors and losers alike, some of your ancestors were pictured in the paintings. Hundreds of years on, you wonder if your marriage to Edward would disappoint them, for he too was an ancestor of many people in the paintings. Thousands of years ago, your two kingdoms had been at war. No more, not with a marriage that came long ago, yet another wife that had died the night of their wedding. 

The thought propels you into memories of Barbara. This place was going to be her home, her beginning, her kingdom to rule as queen. Your heart rate spikes at the thought of how she would react, to your stealing of her husband. Would she get angry? Would she warn you of what had happened to her? She may even haunt these halls, dead in her pristine white wedding dress. For the Kingdoms of the Old, this was an extremely uncommon practice that only King Edward insisted upon. Usually brides-to-be were coated head to toe in gold, silver, bright colours of riches enough to show off the status of the family. King Edward only ever dressed his brides in plain white dresses, the only sign of riches coming from the measly tiara he would have them wear. A flimsy, silver thing with absolutely no jewels whatsoever. At least, that's what the servant’s gossip had said. None of your family had attended Barbara’s wedding, far too at a loss with the death of your mother. Your father had shipped her away without as much as a goodbye. At the very least, you still had his presence. There was always something to be thankful for. 

Your hand still laid delicately upon Sir Steven’s palm as he walked you through the halls. 

“King Edward wishes to convey his deepest apologies for not being able to meet his bride-to-be, princess.” Spoke Steven, motioning for guards to open up another set of large and heavy doors. This one led directly into the throneroom, large enough to host magnificent balls and could just about fit the whole population of Hawkins inside. “You see, His Majesty deals with the court in the daytime, he spends his hours locked up inside of the Place of Arms. He holds his meetings there, you see, and that is your King’s only rule.” Steven suddenly drops your hand, his face deadly serious. You're sure that the expression on your face reflects the swirling inside of your stomach. “King Edward is a kind King and an even kinder husband. He only forbids you from ever entering the Place of Arms during the day.” Slowly, you nod in acceptance of Steven’s words, of your future husband’s wishes. Is that who he is to be? A man you never see in the day, a man who only ever wishes to bed you at night, who does not care for what you preoccupy your time with? “It is imperative that you understand, princess. There is no entrance to the Place of Arms. Never within daylight hours. What goes on behind those doors are for the King’s knowledge only.” 

It’s nothing more than a whisper, your voice. A gentle, “I understand.” And a subservient bow of your head. Just as you had been taught, you are appeasing your husband before having even met him. 

But it is this very moment that Steven takes notice of the state of your bottom lip. His voice gently beckons you upward, encouraging you to look him in the eyes. He does not meet yours, however, chocolate irises far too entranced at the dried blood. “How did this come to be?”

The gentleness surprises you, and in a fleeting heartbeat, a moment of misjudgement, your eyes betray you. They fly towards your father’s figure, watching as he scrutinises the two thrones upon the raised flooring of the great hall. Though they are far more magnificent than those of your home, the ones that your brothers will surely kill each other to sit upon, he stares at them as though they are nothing but a spec of dust, floating through the air. 

Steven notices immediately. “I will have word sent to the King.”

“No.” You instantly reply, eyes growing wide at the brashness of your tone. You sputter, “Forgive me. I-I just mean that it is nothing worth consulting his majesty over.” Your eyes tell a thousand stories, rhymes and riddles of all the times you have had to cover up injuries before. “Please.”

“He will find out, princess. Either through me, or the gossip of the servants.” Steven is sincere in his words, only looking you in the eye. “Let me soften the blow. He won't be best pleased, your grace.” 

Something aches within you. Had he taken a keen interest in Barbara like this? Does he pretend to care for all of his wives before they are cursed with untimely deaths? You wish not to know, face pale and hands shaking. 

“Would you be kind enough to take my daughter to her quarters, Sir Simon? She ought to ready herself for the ball tonight.” Your father approaches with his loud voice and his even louder footsteps. You are quite sure that if it were practical enough, he would have shoes of gold. “A perfect bride takes hours to perfect her beauty for her husband.” slowly, he takes a stand of your hair and curls it around his finger. An act which would seem harmless for some, yet you know its true meaning; a warning. Do not disappoint him. 

In your mind, the idea of your father’s obnoxiousness makes Steven more likely to tell the King that he had been the one to strike you. Perhaps that is what possesses you to speak so harshly. “His name is Sir Steven, father. You will do well to remember it.” 

Regret will surely come soon enough. But for now, you allow Sir Steven to escort you out of the ballroom, and all the way to the east wing, to your new quarters. 

Everything is ready for your arrival. The room is simply divine, despite its darkness. The sun is soon to set, so you believe. Everything is magnificent, the four poster bed, the mirror tall enough to be a giant, a great vanity and even soft, plush chairs for your relaxation. You gaze at it with fearsome admiration, a look that your ladies lining the walls have never seen before. Steven watches you with a growing sadness from the doorway. For you hold the same look in your eye that your sister had before you. And he knows that you too should await the same fate. But for now, he lets your girlhood run wild, and allows you to bask in all things prenuptial. 

“I will be back to escort you to the ball, your majesty.” He turns to the girls that watch you adoringly. “Ladies, this could be the most important eve of her life.” He turns back to you with a smile. “Make her feel like the fairest of all.”

And he disappears, closing the door with an unknown swiftness. It takes a mere moment before the act of your ladies drops, and they too fawn over all that is around you. You each squeal and laugh, completely enamoured by the riches and the newness of it all. Ladies Nancy, Robin and Erica gush over the luck you are presented with, and they tell you that you are destined to be the one true love of King Edward, that this marriage will be different to all those before. They speak whilst undressing you and leading you through a little side door into a spacious room, one with a sparkling golden bathtub at its centre. 

For the hours that follow, you are simply girls. The best of friends, readying one for a night of parties and celebration. New beginnings lay ahead of you, and yet they look at you the same way that they always have. With love, the same way that you used to look at Barbara. They tell you the quickly acquired gossip as they scrub underneath your nails and rake their fingers through your hair. 

“The King’s maid said that he is of fine beauty.” Nancy giggles, lightly fingering at one of the crimson rose petals that float on the surface of the water. Her sapphire coloured sleeves are rolled up as she leans over the tub, head resting against her arm. “And he is most kind, treats his people with only the best.”

“Am I the only one who saw the villagers as we rode in?” You murmured, watching robin as she fiddled with your fingernails. “They seemed so… lifeless. They bore no excitement to have a new queen. Everything here, it’s so different.” The words fall slowly and riddled with anxiety, and your ladies share a knowing look. “I wonder if she felt the same, coming here. If she were as scared as I.” 

“There can be no man worse to wed than your father, princess.” Erica speaks from behind you, gathering water to push away the soap in your hair. “The king, though his lovelife has been misfortunate, appears to be a good man. He has restored peace, it has been years since the last war broke out. The maids say that he is compelling.” You sigh quietly. “You cannot allow yourself to live in fear of what you do not know. The future is exciting. You ought to breathe, and forget about everything. Tonight, you are nought but a princess, a fiancé, about to meet her husband-to-be.” You can hear the way that she smiles through her words. “And we promise to make you look so saccharine that you take his breath away.”

They do. They always do. You almost can’t believe yourself as you look upon the mirror. The dress that had been brought up to your room was a deep blue, the blue of your court. Its neckline delved into your chest and dropped into ruffles of timeless lace that led straight to your waist, cinched by the strength of three girls and a corset. It fell all the way to your toes, where you had grown a few inches from the heeled shoes presented to you. As before, a mighty tiara sits pretty upon your hairline, glimmering in the candlelight. The ladies had pushed half of your hair up and styled the rest to cascade down your delicate shoulders. Nancy had insisted upon your collarbone being visible, insinuating that the show of skin would have your betrothed hardly able to control himself.

You weren't so sure that you liked the sound of that. 

“He will not be able to breathe when he gazes upon you.” Robin gushes, lightly adjusting the pearl necklace upon your neck, right over your pulse point. “He will wish to move the engagement from a week long to no more than a day.”

You roll your eyes. 

“It is true!” Nancy murmurs from behind you, her dainty hands laying delicate little forget-me-nots, the flower of your kingdom, into the flowing locks of your hair. Thank heavens that they had thought to preserve and bring the flowers, for the land of hawkins was half dead, You haven't seen much more than overgrown shrubbery on the way here.  “We have truly outdone ourselves, though it helps to have such an exquisite canvas.” 

“You ladies are really working hard to ensure I have you in my favour.” You laugh, adjusting the tiara in the mirror. Your ladies had also changed into their ball gowns, though nowhere near as regal and outlandish as your own. “Once I am wed I assure you that finding you the most perfect Lords will be at the top of my list of priorities.” 

If I live past the wedding night, you think, but do not speak. There is no purpose in killing their uplifted spirits. 

“Tonight is about you. Do not fret upon us.” Erica grins, shooing away Nancy and Robin, helping you down from the pedestal in front of the mirror in your larger-than-life room. Her hands are warm against your skin, despite the ever growing chill of the castle. You grip onto her for life, holding on to something so valuable, something of home. Erica turns you slightly, giving one last adjustment as Nancy and Robin both come to stand by her sides. They each hold a matching grin, watching you with a lifelong earnestness. “Our princess.”

“Your future Queen.” Comes another tone, much deeper than possible of the three girls that stood in the room with you. You each turn to the now somewhat familiar man, Sir Steven, as he lingers upon the doorway. He still bears the dull brown colour, though now his uniform is much more exquisite. His tunic is stark blue, matching the colours of your Kingdom. He also wears brown and red on his overcoats, the colours of his kingdom. It is a peaceful statement, the joining of two kingdoms. 

You wonder if he wore that to Barbara’s engagement ball. 

Steven looks at you with his big brown eyes, taking in the sight before him. Even you have to admit, you feel like a glowing star. “You look divine.” He murmurs, lifting his arm and outstretching it towards you. Your dainty hand falls into the crook of his elbow effortlessly. “The king shall admire your vision for years to come.” 

And it suddenly hits you. Tonight is about you, this is all for you. You and your future husband, who you will meet in mere moments. He is mere rooms away as Steven escorts you towards the throne room, and you suddenly realise that these could be your last living moments. If the rumours about King Edward are true, this could truly be your last eve alive. You could fall dead at the very sight of him. Perhaps he is a terribly old man who wants nothing more than for you to bed him and give him heirs. A pretty plaything. A pawn to another man’s game. 

You shudder a breath, one that has your chest pushing harshly into the unforgiving corset. There’s a burst of light in the depths of the dark hallways. It comes from the cracks in the ajar door of the trone room. There is a faint tune of music, great orchestral music alike. Your footsteps sound faintly as you grow closer, no match for the chatter and music and dancing. Steven can feel the sudden sharpness of your nails through his overcoat, and murmurs lowly. “Relax. You will be perfect.” 

You wish you could. 

But the nerves do not die as you stand with Steven in front of the great double doors. Your heart pounds wildly as the herald by the door announces your name in a great bellowing shout. You tense as the double doors begin to widen, and the light becomes ten times more eminent. Steven drops his arm, and your weak arm falls limp at your side. The dancing and chattering has stopped, and the music has become mellow, gentle to welcome you into the room of your new kingdom. The first thing you can see is the bright glowing lights, candles everywhere, and suddenly the room is anew. There is no darkness, no shadows creeping down your spine. The room is alive. As are the faces that stare back at you, so many Lords and Ladies, perhaps even royalty of different kingdoms. It is easy to spot who is of Hawkins, their red emblems pinned neatly to the breasts of both tunics and dresses. They part like waves of the sea, and the aura inside the room bides you in without thought. Some greater nature pulls you in, tugs you by force, and has your feet moving one step after the other into the middle of the room. 

You stop in the middle of the ballroom, beneath a magnificent golden chandelier. The gold flickers and shimmers with the flames around it, like stars overhead. You hope that all good fates and gods are watching you now, and will bless your soul. For right now, you feel like a fox against a pack of archers. Every person in the room stares at you, at only you, and yet they do not whisper a word. You turn, spinning on the spot, trying to identify someone, anyone. To find some familiarity amongst strangers. It does not come, the sense of relief that you so desperately sought. Instead, as you stop turning, a group of people in front of you begin to move, parting once more from one another. And then, the music begins to pick up, something deep and meaningful, a tune of the kingdom. Your eyes do not part with the scene in front of you, and still no pair of eyes stray from your figure. Scared. Alone. Until you see.

Black polished shoes graze against the wooden floor. They dazzle in the light, leading to an obsidian pair of breeches, belt loops adorned with hanging golden chains. A flowing material flutters behind the figure lightly, connected to his shoulders, hung by a golden chain to his frilled tunic. The sleeves of his shirt are long, yet his arms are defined enough to be conveyed. The figure that your eyes rake up is tall, taller than any man you have ever known. Your heartbeat impossibly quickens as your eyes meet raven curls, twisting up towards the most handsome face you possibly had ever seen. Sharp jaw and cheeks, dark features enhanced by his pale skin. King Edward looks celestial in all of his grace. He stops a foot or two in front of you lightly trembling form, and he’s so tall. Not lanky, built enough to convey his strength and he fills out his clothes. But that is not what captures your attention most, no, your future husband’s eyes are something of a fairytale. He stares at you softly, despite the sharpness of his eyes. They're brown, yet so much deeper and darker than Sir Steven’s. You swear that something swirls within the depths of those irises, and you are sure not to be mistaken when there is a flicker of gold and blood red, at the closest points to his pupils. 

The King is magnificent. 

Suddenly you feel as though you might fall to the wife’s curse, for his looks and beauty are far  too fine to be of this world. 

He could be an angel, or he could be the devil. His motivations seem unclear, for if he were just marrying for the nations, he would never stare at you the way that he does in that moment. King Edward looks at you as though you are the rarest jewel in the land, something to be cherished for millenia to come. He looks at you how the most adoring, caring husband would to his dearly beloved wife. It burns your chest. What is all this for? Is he merely just a shining actor, ready to do what he will to get you into bed?

But the King does not speak, he only moves. His eyes remain the same as he slowly circles around you, soft, gentle, yet observant. He is vetting you, ensuring that you would be the perfect wife, the perfect woman. You can remember the way that the maids in the castle back home had gripped at your hips and told you how a king would adore them, what they could do, what they could create. They saw you as a baby making machine. It’s not the same now, for you can feel the icy cold tingle left in the wake of King Edward’s stare. He observes your hair, fingertips grazing the ends lightly before he plucks one of the clusters of forget-me-nots out, and pockets it next to his neck tie. Blood red and sapphire blue. His eyes continue around you and his hand falls back to your hair, slowly pushing it away from your shoulder and neck as he comes back towards your line of vision. He seems to take in the sight of your pearl necklace, and Nancy was right, for you swear that his eyes darken at the sight. You flush at the realisation; The King wants you. He finds you more than pleasing, and you seem to have passed his evaluations. Relief floods you – the poorly hidden cut upon your bottom lip had not deterred him.

You feel tiny under his gaze. You can barely breathe, and you feel as though your heart is trying to escape from your chest. It would be impossible to match him, to be acquainted with his wealth, his power. You would surely forever be known as the princess who did not deserve such a man. 

And yet, King Edward falls down to one knee. He lowers himself, far lower than you. At first, you believe him to be bowing. But the reality is far different. The King produces a golden ring, a deep, dark ruby red jewel encrusted with a halo of darling diamonds. It sits proudly between his own ringed fingers, presented to you, and is probably worth more than anything you have ever owned. Across the room, you can practically hear your father encouraging you to take the ring, to take the King as your husband. 

“Princess,” his voice is so unlike anything you have ever heard before. So rich and smooth, yet intoxicating and deep He speaks as a King, with power and authority. His voice can be heard over the orchestral music, he is so respected. So adored. “I present you with this ring as a symbol of our unity. Of two kingdoms. Take this ring, and I will give you anything you could ever ask for, anything your heart could ever desire. Swear yourself to me, as my wife, as my Queen, and you shall have eternal glory.”

You raise a trembling hand towards him. Words cannot convey the sudden compelling that you have, the need to take his hand, to fulfil what he has promised for you. You feel air-light as you speak almost breathlessly, “I swear myself to you, King Edward.” 

The pressure of your corset seems to have faded. You can breathe freely as soon as the ring slips onto your finger. His hand is cold as he reaches for your finger, chilled as the winter’s snow. You jolt, though do your best to contain it as your skin makes contact with his own. You’ve surely never felt something so cold before, and yet never felt so warm. Heat and bliss dance around you as the ring slips over your knuckle, and falls perfectly into place against your skin. 

You admire the jewel for a moment, take in the fact that it now resides there, upon your very own finger. You take in the fact that King Edward had not seen you and rejected you in a moment, instead fallen to his knee and presented you with a glistening ring. Your heart soars, and your eyes travel to meet his. Those around you have began to dance once more, shouting their cheers for their king. You are certain that you heard Robin’s squeal in there somewhere. He watches you intently, as though a creature so beautiful had never existed before. He seems mystified, perhaps even as much so as you are. The King looks at you as though there is a halo upon the crown of your head, and God had delivered you here on a silver platter himself. 

Edward raises your entwined hands, presses his cool lips against your knuckles, and drags you further under his spell. You spin and spin, until you realise that it isn’t only in your head, and the two of you are dancing, hand in hand, his other at the curve of your waist. You can feel the way that his thumb glides over the fabric of your dress, the subtle admiring of such fine clothing. King Edward is a force that hits you like a storm.

“You are a rarity.” He murmurs to you, eyes flickering golden. His lips entrance you as they move, something so compelling yet familiar to you. Did those lips ever meet Barbara’s? How many of his past wives has he held this way, presented such fine jewellery to? King Edward has ruled for a glorious lifetime. You are not his first wife, and you will surely not be his last. It is as though he can detect a disturbance within your aura, the King moves to pull you closer. Your breath hitches as you feel the solid wall of his chest, the brushing of his thigh against your dress. “A fine jewel, something men like I could only ever dream of.” The forget-me-not in his necktie sways with the movement of his dancing. His voice lulls you, but his hands have you more alive than ever before. “The stars are shining down upon me tonight. Being King has brought me many fortunes, but you, my heart, are the most supreme of them all.”

You can almost hear your maids back home, telling you what to say, how to bat your eyes, how to smile. Yet it almost comes on unconsciously as you speak to your newly betrothed. “I wish nothing more than to prove myself to you, my King. I will serve you well as your Queen. Forever, I am indebted to you.” 

There is an incessant presence between the two of you, something that shifts in the air and pushes the blood through your veins. Though you have never felt it before in your life, you know what it is – arousal. Something you only learned of after one of Barbara’s ladies was caught in the stable with a young knight, and Robin spent the eve explaining the ways that people come together to procreate. You wonder how soon after the marriage King Edward will want to consummate. It is a clear thought in his own mind, for he looks at you as though you are the most divine meal, served on a silver platter. 

“I am the luckiest man in the whole kingdom.” He murmurs, eyes flickering from your neck to your eyes. “Sir Steven often overexaggerates, but he did not lie when it comes to your gentle beauty and charm. You are the finest bride-to-be.”

And, suddenly, something stirs within you. His words push you head first out of the trance he had gently swayed you into, and now you remember the absurdity of it all. The fact that Barbara was here, in your place, and now dead. The burn of arousal turns to a burn of fire, churning deep within you. You blaze. 

“Finer than my own sister?” You do not allow yourself to physically sneer, not in front of all these people, but your tone is enough for the King. He watches as you lean yourself away from him. “Or even the wife before? Will you say the same to one of my nieces, when they turn of age?”

But Edward does not falter. He does not grow angry, he does not shout, he does not strike. His eyes remain that same calm and cool. Golden, brown. His gentleness is suffocating. “I understand how–”

“The girl forgets herself.” A drunken tone interrupts. One you are all too familiar with, one that you avoid with great caution. Your dance with King Edward falls apart as you both turn to the stumbling figure of your father, who just happened to be passing as you spoke out of tone. A goblet is gripped tightly between his fingers. He drinks enough for half of the ballroom. Your father sneers openly at you, raising the goblet. “Nothing a simple drubbing won’t fix. She will take it, your highness, she will grow to understand her place.” Your father grumbles, swigging his mead. “Just as her mother did.”

The king straightens beside you. 

You can feel his energy change at the mention of harming you, the idea that he should be the one to set you right with a physical hand. The King towers over both you and your father, and in the short time that you have known him, you are determined in your knowledge that he has far more power and authority than your father. 

“I hope you make jest,” the raven haired man speaks your father’s name lowly. Said man lowers his chalice, waveringly glancing between you and Edward. “The princess knows her place…” King Edward steps forwards, his dominance unmistakeable. Your father gulps. “She is the future Queen of the most powerful kingdom in this corner of the globe. She is my bride-to-be. I had hoped that my loyal servants had lied about the cut upon her saccharine lips. Perhaps, you forgot your own place? I would loathe to have to prosecute you ‘pon means to harm the future Queen.”

Your heart soars. Your lip stings dully. Your eyes are glassy and the shape of hearts, because nobody has ever, ever stood up for you like that. It is clear to you now - Edward is a fierce lover, and a loyal man. He works to protect you, protect his kingdom. You ache for the harsh words that you had previously spoken, how you had intended to harm his feelings. Here he is, protecting you from the torture of your own flesh and blood. Forget the rumours, the curses. In front of you is a human man protecting his newfound love. Perhaps you are different to all of his past queens, for you are sure that he cannot fall this quickly each time, cannot care so. 

Your heart begins to beat for the King of Hawkins. 

Your father breaks the stare between them first. He is no match for the pale, tall and built figure in front of him. Not to mention the sword-clad guards lined up against each wall of the ballroom. Sir Steven has drawn closer at the scene, his fingers grazing the metal of the hilt of his sword. His eyes are dangerous and dark, watching intently as your father begins to stumble backwards, his aged brows pulled together. 

Edward watches him go with a blank stare, yet still so intimidating. Most of the crowd around you are still dancing their hearts out, feet uncontrollably moving. As though they are destined to never stop, not unless their King tells them to. Perhaps it is not you that is a pawn, but them. 

A cold, gentle hand falls at your elbow, gripping lightly. Your eyes reach those of King Edward’s, but they are suddenly unfamiliar. There is no gold, no hint of red. They are almost obsidian black, the same tone as his curly hair. You can feel the invisible string pulling your brows together as you take in the sight, dainty hand moving up towards his face. The warmth of your skin caresses his cheek, thumb ghosting across the skin under his eye. 

“Your eyes…” you murmur, wracking your brain for a logical answer. “They have changed.” 

“They have not been the same since I set my sights on you, princess.” The King’s free hand meets yours, sandwiching you between his cool skin. “They will never be the same again.” 

You believe him wholeheartedly. You can see the meaning of his words within his eyes, and your heart bleeds for him. In fact, you are sure that you have already passed over your heart to him, pushed your hand inside your chest and dug around until you reached the beating organ, your vessel of life, and handed it over to him. 

The feeling lingers, once more underneath the spell of King Edward, throughout the eve. You are enamoured by him as he walks you through the throne room, introducing you to the strange people of Hawkins. Some of them look at you as though you are a piece of meat, and you are sure that you can feel the King’s grip on your waist tighten. They all seem to have a similar aura about them, like they share a hidden secret. They stare intensely, but you assume it is because you are an outsider. Still, King Edward puts you at ease. He speaks so freely, so smoothly. He shows you your future throne, shows you the deep, red ruby set at the crescent of the golden chair. It matches your ring entirely, and the King does not comment when you speak on their likeness. What else could you expect? It is the colour of his court, after all. You are still enamoured when he sneaks you away from the courtroom, when he steals you from the knowing stares of your ladies, who happily let him take you away. They steal your chalice of wine and usher you with shooing hands, winking wildly. 

You grin like a child, unable to contain your excitement,  in a way that you haven’t in so many years. Not since the last festival of light, back in your home kingdom, with your mother, when she had sang to you, span you in dance, braided your hair. You had not known a giddiness quite like this in such a long lifetime. You cannot help the way that you giggle as you run hand in hand through the flame lit halls. Your hair sways behind you, flowers surely falling from their neat positions. The clipping sound of your heels fills the hall, and King Edward’s somehow fall silently. You suppose in hindsight that it is due to his meticulous battle training, his tactics. 

The King takes you out to a courtyard, one that is filled with some of the first signs of life that you have seen since arriving in Hawkins. Flowers bloom in the midnight moon, something exotic and unseen of your land. Some are bright red, others variants of orange and yellow. They hold so much life, so natural and yet completely supernatural at the same time. He speaks their names slowly, guiding you through them with a gentle hand against your spine. You have never heard of the plants before, never been so in awe of the world’s beauty. 

King Edward watches you. His eyes take in the way that you kneel to be closer to the horticulture, the gentleness of your fingers as you test the leaves. He grows to quickly adore the soft nature of your voice, the inquiries of your genuine questions. He answers them with the same love in his eyes that you hold in yours, and suddenly you feel as though you could be his wife blind. Help him rule his kingdom without as such as a hiccup. 

“You will make the most beautiful Queen.” He speaks to you towards the end of the night, when the two of you have tucked yourselves away in a corner of the ballroom that Sir Steven made you return to. King Edward looks down at you as he speaks, large hands holding a chalice which he tips towards your lips. Obediently you open your mouth to him, the red wine burning upon your tongue as it slips past your healing lips. “So adoring, so fine. I wish for my people to serve you as they do me. I will arrange for you to visit the townsfolk with Sir Steven tomorrow, to see how they live.” You try not to think of their solemn faces, the death in their eyes. “You will grow to love them as your own, Princess.” 

“Anything you wish, My King.” The words come after a swallow of the alcohol, the King’s eyes following a falling drop of crimson as it cascades down your chin. His eyes flicker once more, a new sort of hunger hidden behind them. “Will you do me the pleasure of accompanying myself and Sir Steven?” 

His gaze shifts again, and something swirls in his chest — you can almost see it happening. 

“My duties lay elsewhere in the daytime, Princess. I did ask Steven to assure you of this,” 

“He did.” You’re quick to interject. “It was merely wishful thinking, my King. I apologise.” 

“You never have to be sorry.” He murmurs, dark eyes injecting a cooling sensation into your very veins. King Edward has put a spell on you, a spell that would surely soon have him chasing after you.

A spell that will have you running from the daylight. 

[rainystarters]

๋࣭ ⭑𓆩✧𓆪🗡ྀ࿔ 〖 stories and songs . . . 〗 a collection of sentence starters inspired by various codex entries from the dragon age rpg series. some prompts usfw. adjust details as necessary.

the wind that stirs their shallow graves carries their song.

heed our words, hear our cry.

oh, fair damsel of the garden!

surely your work is far too vital to be interrupted by one like me.

i was a fool to pluck that flower.

you are not a man known for your honor.

you allowed me to live once, and so now i do the same for you.

i am humbled by your words.

but some things cannot be repent.

there is something in here with us.

death is certain, either way.

you have been my rock and my shield.

strike true, do not waver. and let not your prey suffer.

as the sapling bends, so must you.

you are lost, and soon you will fade.

go forth and claim the empty throne of heaven.

you have brought doom upon the world.

magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.

they shall find no rest in this world or beyond.

there is but one truth.

all things in this world are finite.

each night in dreams you may always remember me.

the light shall lead you safely.

i am but your faithful servant.

if blood must be shed and used, so be it.

step away from this folly, before it consumes us all.

i long to dance with you beneath the moonlight.

do not despair. for it is not you, it is of me.

my most heartfelt apologies for the ripped bodice.

such depravity i have never been forced to suffer!

let them hunt, and dread finding me.

truth will hold you for that is what truth does.

i shouldn't have doubted your resolve.

please accept my humble apologies.

in truth, it is i who has been most vulnerable.

the seals are already weakening.

it must be protected at all costs.

of unknown metal and magic keen, a finer blade there's never been.

any army is only as good as its equipment.

blessed by the vine in spring, i shall not fear the winter's sting.

only fools ignore the history of the ground they walk and the people they meet.

i could use an extra pair of eyes to keep watch at night.

i hope they found peace.

blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.

in blood, my will is written.

we are forever in your graces.

the oath you have taken is all but broken.

can you be forgiven when the cold grave has come?

once we raised up our chalice in victory.

why change the past when you can own this day?

the wolves are our allies.

always keep an eye out for the noble owl.

nothing burns like the first cup.

gallows master, hold they hand. hold it back awhile.

look away, look into the sun.

you know we all are dying.

alas, i cannot stay.

we'll beat down the bastard, and then we'll get plastered!

what of the old secrets the burn in our hearts?

now we pray for a dawn that will never arrive.

but it is our blood he seeks.

you will realize the smiles are false, and behind them lies revenge.

for all your fancy intrigue, you have spent your life creating nothing of worth.

it moves on without you, uncaring.

who could bear the weight of a people destroyed by his hand?

what was your vision of our purpose?

so buy the lads a round.

i'm ashore for the night and seeking company.

i'd still rather die.

why be what i am when i can be more?

have you threatened to cut out anyone's tongue today?

for have i not grown in skill and measure?

binding a demon of higher power is dangerous...

let it be my choice to have served and died.

i'm not staying to watch you die like a fool.

the undead you have been fighting are people i killed with my own hands.

here is my soul, trapped in a cage of bone.

turn around, face the shadows. don't blink.

just going to lie here for a while.

chopping off their heads should do the trick.

i am empty, filled with nothing.

arrogance becomes our end.

i'm here to die. but i won't go quietly.

i don't want to die like this.

cry for the past; only there does glory dwell.

so the forest grows, a reflection of our might.

mourn the past and all that was left there.

mastery of the self is mastery of the world.

suffering is choice and we can refuse it.

pride disguises itself in its surety.

[dangeroussheepcherryblossom]

𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐧 — 𝐋𝐞𝐨𝐧 𝐒. 𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝𝐲

❝Leon was completely in love with you. He already knew he loved you even before the incident in China.❞

ɴᴏᴛᴇs: Hey, folks! English is not my native language, so I'd like to apologize for any mistakes you may find! Feel free and enjoy this short story about our favorite police officer!

Leon Kennedy is a man of simple tastes. He accumulates sketches and Polaroid photos in a box in the attic. He likes small apartments and his cup of coffee - sugar-free - every morning before checking emails.

However, Leon Kennedy is a very different man from the 21-year-old police officer who arrived late on the first day of work. Leon acknowledges that the worst part of living a life as an agent of the American government is this: he has an excellent memory for everything, good and bad. A monotonous grayscale, with growls of creatures whose shapes once belonged to ordinary people, covers most of them. He is a hero. Leon Kennedy is a veteran in the war against bioterrorism. He rescued the daughter of the President of the United States and became the best agent in the entire DSO. He found a glory he didn't seek. Something many desire in life, and that was a standard too high for that Raccoon City cop to imagine - and his standards were pretty high back then.

But this was not the life he desired. He desires and enjoys a simple life.

Leon is not a hypocrite: he prefers a peaceful death, lying in his bed, rather than being consumed by the undead. He is aging and needs something to lean on, a place to rest, to enjoy the pleasures of a simple life.

Fix what was broken. Leon knew he would have taken a checkmate just for desiring you.

Find a thread of hope. Undo the ashes that covered your life and give way to a palette of colors as beautiful as the dawn in spring.

All thanks to you.

Leon met you in one of the darkest moments of his life. How, he thought, can the world become a better place when so many horrible things have happened?

But you destroyed every barrier he built over the years, causing delirium with the thought of hurting himself or even losing the lovely sound he made when the characters in his favorite book got together. Leon knew he had taken a checkmate just for desiring you.

He was younger, and so were you. He remembers your eyes, large and doe-like, full of endless curiosity. He also remembers your smile, the shy way your palm covered your lips when you laughed. Leon never imagined himself a nostalgic man, but your presence adorned most of his favorite memories.

Leon remembers as perfectly how you two became friends easily, long before entangling into his apartment with your tacky coffee cups. Every night spent in a training gym, your company preventing him from walking out the door and surrendering to bottles of whiskey and cheap beer. Your jokes and sarcastic comments that he would have found irritating, but the desire to suppress a smile often found its way one way or another.

"Stop frowning before you break your face.''

"It would be so sad, and you'd cry for depriving yourself of this beautiful face.''

"Oh, screw off," he says.

And then the subtle compliments began - compliments about your hair that could be mistaken for insults, anonymous wildflowers left on your bedside table, the gentle touch on your forearm when you started to fidget with your fingers, a habit he soon understood as a sign of anxiety.

Gradually, you also turned to his touches - and began to seek them out. You held his hand under the table during meetings, always bought two cups of coffee on the way to the DSO, and sat together in the morning to review paperwork, your distraction with toe-tapping boots hidden beneath the table.

Leon was completely in love with you. He already knew he loved you even before the incident in China.

A frustrated sigh left his lips as Leon inspected your face more closely, trying to hide his concern with the head wound and the now-dried blood that marked a trail from the hairline to the chin.

"I'll kill him. I'll hurt whoever hurts you," he promised, his fingers brushing against her chin.

Two weeks after that mission, Leon invited you to wander the streets away from the center of New York. As they walked in slow steps, the city buzzed with activity.

The sky had a perfect shade of blue-green, filled with thin and shiny clouds, and Leon couldn't help but tilt his chin back, admiring its fluffy composition as they hovered in the sky. Some children passed by them, running after each other with short, quick steps, and their laughter spread through the crowd, blending with the low hum of conversation among friends and the cheerful chant of store owners.

Vendors were shouting, advertising their products, trying to lure people into buying from them, and it took a lot of Leon to contain a woman who wanted to devour everything at any moment. You turned your head from side to side, up and down, trying to process every tiny detail of the area. Your heart raced in your chest, and your heart-shaped lips were smiling. Oh, did this store owner just move to that area? Great! You promise to be his most loyal customer.

To your left, an elderly woman with brown hair was selling second-hand cauldrons. Then, in front of her, was a cart overflowing with hundreds of thick books with new and colorful hardcovers. You leaned forward, gray eyes examining the dozens of covers, looking for something that stands out in the crowd. Your lips were pressed into a thin line, your forehead furrowed in concentration. His eye twitches. Leon bites his lip to suppress a smile and reaches for the stack, pulling out a book and passing it to you.

Leon bought four books for you that day.

The hours passed quickly, unlike what they usually do when waiting. You drank too much and danced all night.

Leon thanked all the lucky stars for that night.

Because when you smiled over your shoulder, Leon felt completely sober. Your lips touch in a chaste kiss of just a second. And he holds your hands close to his heart. His tongue traces your lower lips, brushing the edge of your teeth before merging with yours. It was gentle, as he could say all the things he kept hidden in his heart.

Well, and now here he is: Leon Kennedy, the war hero, at 67 in his small and simple apartment.

His hair was gray, shoulders slouched, but he never seemed happier. He woke up early that morning, poured his coffee into his cup with tacky letters "for the best dad in the world," while checking the messages left on the answering machine.

"Hey, Dad, how are you? I'm leaving campus now and should be home by late afternoon. Can't wait to get there, I miss you. Love you."

Leon smiled.

He also couldn't wait to see his boy again. The blue eyes - his blue eyes - and infectious smile that had long filled that apartment.

Leon Kennedy loved his son in a way he never imagined possible. It was as if this love was enough to kill him.

Oh, he had a beautiful life.

And he was looking forward to savoring every last minute of it with you.

[cowboymarston]

John Marston -

Strangers, Survival & Tempation

Undead Nightmare John.

Female reader, no Y/N or oc name used.

CW : Sex, lots of of unprotected sex. Cunnilingus, blow job, fingering, more unprotected sex, finishing inside.

Word count : 4029

You were surrounded by zombies, each one getting closer and closer. Your gun was out of bullets.

You screamed for help, but you knew this was the end since you were in the middle of nowhere, during a zombie apocalypse no less.

Your scream gets interrupted by gunshots, before you can even register what has happened, all the zombies lie headless on the ground.

"Miss? We need to get out of here, right now! More of them are coming." Your saviour shouted from on top of his horse.

His horse looked weird.. almost as if it was on fire.

You didn't question it as you grab his hand and fling yourself onto the horse. You wrap your arms around the man as he starts riding away fast.

"Thank you, mister uhh.." You mutter.

"Marston. John Marston. I'm taking you to my ranch, it's not safe here."

After about 15 minutes you two reach his ranch, Beecher's Hope he called it.John led you into the house, it had a nice country charm to it.

The windows and backdoor were barred up.

"Well, this is it in all its glory. Make yourself at home, you can stay here until it's safe again." He smiled at you as he walked to the fireplace and started lighting it.

"Thank you, for saving me..and bringing me here. I'd be dead without you mister Marston."

"It's no trouble." He said as he pulled out a flask from his pocket and offering it to you. "You look like you need it."

"Thanks, I do need it." You say, grabbing the flask and taking a long sip.

John sat down at the table and pulled out a deck of cards. "Do you know how to play black jack?" He asked, shuffling the cards.You nodded and joined him at the table.

"Well, if you're gonna be staying here, we might as well enjoy ourselves." He said, flipping over the top card of the deck. "Okay, hit or stay?"

The two of you laughed and joked throughout the night, talking about anything and everything.

The sun started to rise and John groaned as he stretched his arms out. "Damn, we must've been playing for hours." He chuckled.

You rub your eyes sleepily.

"We should probably get some sleep now. You can sleep in my bed, I'll take the couch" He suggested.

"No, John I couldn't possibly-"

"I insist. Please." He interrupted you.

You eventually give in and open the door to his bedroom. "Goodnight mister Marston., and thank you again:"

"Goodnight, and please, call me John." He smiles as he walks to the living room couch and lays down.

You walk into his bedroom and close the door behind you.

As the hours flew by, you woke up to your stomach growling. You realized you hadn't eaten anything in days.

You groan as you get up slowly, you heard footsteps from the kitchen as you approached it. John was already up.

John was over by the stove, making what smelled like grits.

"Good morning, how are you feeling?" He said as he noticed you walking in.

"Hungry." You say groggily.

"Yeah, I figured. Go sit down, I'll bring you something." John chuckled as he stirred whatever was in the pot.

You slowly walked to the dining area and slumped onto a chair. You noticed the table was already set.

A few moments later John walks over with the pot and sets it on the table.

He took your bowl and piled grits onto it. He set the plate in front of you, took grits for himself and sat down.

You couldn't resist devouring the entire bowl in a spawn of a few minutes, you were starving.

John looked at you, noticing that your plate was empty.

"That good?" He chuckled.

Suddenly, he froze as he stared out of the window between the blanks.

"Did you hear that?" He whispered.

"No, what did you hear?" You whispered back.

"I heard something outside, it sounded like a zombie."

You both sat there in silence as you listened to the rustling outside.

John motioned for you to follow him as he stood up from the table, grabbing the rifle that was leaning against the wall.

You grab your newly loaded gun too and you two make your way to the front door.

John opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. You could see the sun wasn't up yet, and a heavy fog made it impossible to see much.

Then, you heard something behind you.

You turned around in terror, seeing a figure right behind you. His face was covered in wounds and dirt, his clothes torn and stained with blood.

He smelled rotten. He looked at you and bared his teeth as he growled. He grabs you, making you scream.

John turned around as he heard your scream, aiming his rifle at the figure.

He pulled the trigger, and a single shot pierced the zombies skull.

The zombie released you from its grip as it dropped to the floor, leaving a puddle of blood on the porch.

"Are you alright? He didn't get you, did he?" John asked frantically, checking you for bites and scratches.

"I'm okay.. Thank you." You say, panting as you collapse onto your knees.

"C'mon, let's go back inside." John helped you up and led you back into the house, closing the door behind him.

It took you a moment to catch your composure as you sat down on the couch. John sat down on the chair next to you, he looked tired.

"That was too close.." He noticed you were also exhausted.

He stood up and grabbed a blanket from the cabinet placing it over you. He started walking into the kitchen.

"I'm gonna make myself coffee, you want some?" He asked.

"I'd love some, thanks John."

John nods and goes into the kitchen, a few minutes later he comes back with two cups of coffee.

He hands the other one to you. "Just be aware, I didn't have any sugar."

"That's fine." You take the cup from him and take a sip of your coffee.

John hummed as he placed his cup on the coffee table.

"Are you okay, missy?" He asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Alive atleast. Are you okay? You look really tired, John."

"Yeah.. It's been a tough couple weeks, I won't lie. Haven't really been able to sleep."

"You should take a nap, I'll keep watch, okay?" You offered.

John nodded and walked towards his bedroom.

As he walked off, you could hear him talking to himself softly as he climbed into bed and turned off the light.

You spent the next two hours keeping watch, but nothing happened.

Until you hear a loud bang outside.

You jumped as the noise startled you.

To your surprise, John didn't wake up to it.

You could feel the hairs on your back stand up as you listened closely for other sounds. Nothing.

You go out onto the porch, with your gun in hand. You heard a faint moaning sound from the distance.

It seemed to get closer and closer.

A zombie emerged from the fog, it shambled its way towards you as it moaned again.

As more zombies emerge, you shout for John with all your might but he doesn't wake up.

You couldn't see well in the fog, but you knew they were getting closer. You start to back away towards the door.

You shoot the zombie closest to you and shout for John again.

As you shot the zombie, another one emerged from the fog.

The noise of the gunshot combined with your shouting immediately woke John up.

He jumped up from his bed, only wearing a union suit, with the upper half pulled down and wrapped around his waist.

He grabbed the rifle and ran to your aid as the zombies approached you. You watched in fright as John shot all of the zombies.

He turned to you with a worried look on his face, he was about to say something before you interrupted him.

"Look out!" You shouted as a zombie approached John from behind. You shot it in the head and it fell down.

More zombies approached you both as you and John kept firing at them. You noticed that the fog was starting to dissipate, as light illuminated your way.

The light made it easier for you to see the zombies, making it possible for you to finish off the rest of them.

After several minutes of shooting, all of the zombies were destroyed.

You and John panted.

"Well, that definitely woke me up!" John chuckled. He still looked exhausted.

"I'm gonna make more coffee." He said as you two walked inside. You finally noticed he was only wearing a union suit, which made you blush.

John walked into the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee for himself. You watched him do this out of the corner of your eyes, feeling oddly attracted to him.

His muscles flexed as he lifted the cup to his lips, which only made your attraction grow as you watched him.

He didn't notice your gaze even when he walked back into the living room and sat down on the chair.

You could feel your cheeks turning red as your gaze wandered below his waist, the way the union suit was wrapped around him left a little bit of his happy trail peeking out.

This caused you to stare for longer than considered polite.

John stopped drinking, you stop staring quickly. He had noticed you staring at this stomach.

"What?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.

He shifted in his seat as he looked down at his body, making everything even more visible to you.

"Nothing!" You said.

John looked at you, and he noticed that you were blushing. He looked a bit confused but he didn't mention it.

He then sighed and put his coffee cup down. "I'm gonna get dressed." He said and stood up.

Your gaze wandered to his thighs and his... bulge? Your face turned even redder.

John noticed that you were staring. He cleared his throat as he walked out of the living room and over to the bedroom,

grabbing a pair of jeans and a shirt from his closet. You watched as he put them in, your eyes remaining in the same spot.

You felt your face getting hotter and hotter, as it felt impossible to look away from his quite huge bulge.

You finally manage to look away as he steps out of the bedroom.

"You alright? You're really quiet. " He asked, tilting his head.

"I was just uh... dissociating." You lie.

John raised an eyebrow as he looked at you.

"Are you sure? I thought you were looking at something." He looked down at himself again.

"Do I have something on me, like a stain or something?" He then asked.

You could still see his bulge as he sat back down on the chair.

"Huh? No, no." You shook your head.

John looked over at you, his face filled with confusion.

But he soon let out a laugh, "I'm just joking with you! I think I know what you were staring at." He said with a wink.

You heard the floorboards creak as he slowly moved his foot, causing his bulge to move slightly.

The action made your face burn as you tried to avoid looking.

The heat was almost unbearable, and you started to wonder what it would feel like to touch him there, what he would feel like inside you.

"I wasn't looking at anything, like I said, I was dissociating."

"Oh, come on, now." John said, his eyebrows raised.

"I noticed your eyes looking down there." He looked over at your face as he spoke, seeing that you were still burning from embarrassment.

"I like you looking there." He said as he moved his foot, causing his bulge to become even more noticeable.

You let out a low, quiet growl at his response.

John looked down at your body as you let out that growl.

He looked back up at you, seeing that you were staring at his body.

He smirked, "Like what you see?" he asked, moving his foot in a way that made his bulge bounce slightly.

He then looked down at himself. He pulled his shirt up slightly, showing off his fit body, muscles and happy trail.

John smiled, "I think you love what you're seeing."

He could see you gazing at his body, looking at every inch as your eyes traced each muscle and curve.

Your eyes met his as you stared at him.

"Do you like this?" he asked, biting his lip.

"Do you.. like this?" You unbutton your shirt and slide it off, leaving you in your bra and jeans.

John's eyes widened slightly as he took in your beautiful figure.

He remained speechless, not able to process what was happening in that moment.

His eyes traced every curve, muscle, and detail as he took in your body.

Then, he cleared his throat and nodded.

"Yes." He said after a moment. "I... I love what I'm seeing."

You slowly got up from the couch, slid off your jeans and got on his lap, straddling him.

You could feel his bulge pressing against you as he looked down at you.

You could see the heat in his eyes, as he took in your gorgeous body.

"

You know you didn't have to do that," he whispered, biting his lip.

"I wanted to.. I want you." You whisper in his ear as you rub yourself against him.

His breathing became heavier as he watched you rub yourself against.

His hands gripped the armrests tightly as he tried to keep control over himself.

The heat between you increased dramatically as you both started getting aroused by one another.

"Jesus Christ... Fuck..." he whispered under his breath.

You kiss him as you keep moving. He moaned into the kiss, feeling his desire grow as he felt you pressed against him.

He felt himself getting even harder as he continued to kiss you.

You unbutton his shirt slowly, sliding it off. Your fingers traces his chest and all the way down to his happy trail.

He groaned softly as he broke away from the kiss, panting heavily as he stared up at you.

"Please.." he begged quietly, reaching out for you. He wanted nothing more than to have you right now.

His hands sneaked behind your back and he unclasped your bra.

His eyes widened as he saw your breasts, his mouth falling slightly open in surprise.

He could feel his body shaking as he watched you. "Fuck..." he whispered, reaching out to touch them gently.

You moan softly as you feel his mouth wrap around your left nipple.

He began sucking hungrily on it, flicking his tongue across it as he did so. His hand reached up and cupped your other breast, squeezing it gently as he suckled on it.

You pulled his jeans down just enough to free his cock, you spat onto your hand and gave his cock a few strokes.

You pushed your panties to the side and aligned his cock with your entrance. He groaned as you slid down on his cock.

His hands gripped your hips tightly as he felt you wrap yourself around him, taking him fully inside you.

He felt his body tense as he felt how tight you were around him. He couldn't believe how much he wanted you right now.

You rest against his chest, moaning in pleasure and pain from how big he is. His cock was filling you up so well.

As you rested against him, he wrapped an arm around you and held you close to him.

"Oh god... You're so fucking perfect, so tight" he said breathlessly, looking deep into your eyes as he thrust slowly but firmly inside of you.

"You're so big.." You groaned against his neck.

He chuckled softly.

"Is that a complaint?" he asked teasingly, beginning to pick up speed as he fucked you.

You moan against his neck, gripping his shoulders as he fucks you.

He moaned too, kissing along your jawline as he picked up pace.

"Good girl..." *he murmured, continuing to pound away.

He could feel you tighten around him as you kept moaning, his own release building up as he continued to fuck you.

He could no longer hold off, his own orgasm crashing through him as he pounded away inside of you, his cum spilling into you as his body trembled.

"Oh my.." You say, panting.

He smiled weakly."Yeah? Was that okay?" he teased playfully, still buried deep within you.

His voice was shaky from exhaustion, but he didn't want to stop yet. Not until he knew you were satisfied too.

"Fuck.."

He gave you a hard and fast thrust, going as deep as he could.

"Oh yes, John!" You scream out in pleasure at the unexpected thrust.

He laughed happily, grabbing your hips tightly as he began slamming himself into you even harder than before.

"That's what I thought.." he growled huskily, burying himself completely inside of you once more.

He was determined to make sure you got everything you needed tonight.

He could feel you clenching around him as he fucked you, your body responding perfectly to his every move.

It made him even more turned on, his pace never slowing down.

His hands tightened their grip on your waist as he slammed himself deeper inside of you, moaning loudly with each movement.

The sound alone sent shivers through you, making you squirm on top of him.

"Ahh..fuck!" He groaned.

He kept up his intense pace, feeling like he could go on forever with this.

Your moans of pleasure were the best reward he could ever ask for.

"That's it...take it.." He felt you tighten around him as he continued to pound you.

His breathing became heavier as well, sweat dripping down his face.

His entire being seemed focused on just getting you to climax.

He finally gave one final powerful thrust, holding it there as he let out a loud moan.

He filled you with his warm seed, not stopping even when he was done.

You moan loudly as you orgasm, your walls clenching around his cock.

He pulled out of you then rolled you onto your stomach on the chair.

He entered you from behind, pounding away at you as he rested his chin on your shoulder.

"Like this?" You nod in response as he continued to fuck you, playing with your clit as he held onto you tightly.

He could feel you starting to tense up, just before he felt you orgasm on his cock and fingers.

He groaned loudly, pushing himself deeper into you as he felt you clenching around him again. He followed shortly after.

"Good girl..." He kissed your neck softly as he finished filling you up with his cum again.

"That was so good.." You groaned. He chuckled.

"Yeah? You liked it?" He asked teasingly, pulling out of you slowly.

"I think I should clean you up.." He winked playfully.

He got onto his knees in front of the chairs and spread your cheeks.

Running his tongue across your slit gently, causing goosebumps all over your skin.

You grab onto the chair and moan. He smiled, kissing your inner thigh.

He stuck his tongue out, licking you slowly as he pushed your legs further apart.

He kissed your clit gently, running his tongue over the sensitive bud.

"Don't stop.." You moaned out.

He kept going, alternating between sucking on your clit and flicking his tongue over it.

Your breathing became heavy as you started moaning louder. As you got closer to the edge, he sped up.

His hands gripped your thighs tightly as you felt your orgasm approach.

You groaned as you came again, your body trembling. He didn't stop until you were completely spent.

"Such a good girl," he whispered softly in your ear before pulling away from you and standing up.

He slapped your ass and groaned as he watched it jiggle.

You slowly slid off the chair, getting on your trembling knees in front of him.

You take his cock into your hand and give it a few strokes before getting closer to it and taking it into your mouth.

He groaned, his hips jerking forward as your lips wrapped around his cock.

His hands ran through your hair, gently guiding you up and down his shaft.

"That's it baby.." He whispered.

After several minutes of this, he pulled himself out of your mouth.

"This can wait, I need you." He pushed you onto the cow pelt on the floor.

He hovered over you, slowly kissing his way down your neck, tracing your body with his eyes.

Your body was now pressed up against his as his hand moved up your thigh.

You could see the lust in his eyes as he lowered his head towards your chest.

He kissed your chest gently, kissing his way to your nipple. You let out a soft moan as his mouth and hands began to explore your body.

His hands moved lower and lower, as he looked up at your face with lust.

You could feel your heart racing as John kissed his way back up.

His lips met your neck again, sending shivers down your spine.

"Oh, god," you whispered, breathing heavily.

You felt a wave of pleasure go through your body as John slipped a finger inside you, trying to push his cum back into you.

You felt your legs tense up, and your body slowly tensed.

John moved his free hand over your chest, and gently massaged your nipple with his fingers.

He moved his finger slowly, getting you used to the feeling before adding another.

He moaned as he felt your wetness around his fingers.

He kissed your neck, whispering in your ear. "I'm gonna make you cum so hard," his words make you moan.

His fingers leave your nipple as he rests that hand on your hip for support.

His fingers curve and his thumb rubs your clit. He felt his cock growing hard again as he pleasured you.

He added a third finger, curving them as he fucked you slowly, thrusting them in and out of you.

Your body tenses and you let out a small cry as John's fingers hit that spot.

You begin to move your hips in rhythm with his fingers, pushing back against him.

As he thrusted his fingers in and out of you, he leaned down and bit your shoulder softly, enjoying how much it made you squirm.

He continued kissing your neck, sucking on your skin softly. You let out a soft moan, your hips rocking against his hand.

You feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge.

You moaned loudly, unable to hold back anymore. You felt yourself getting closer, your hips bucking against his hand wildly.

"Yessss.. come for me baby.." His voice deepened as he moved his fingers faster inside you, feeling you get closer.

Your hands gripped his shoulders tightly, squeezing him as your body tensed up.

You let out a loud moan as you came, juices flowing from you onto his hand.

He grunted as he kept fingering you until you calmed down.

He pulled his fingers out slowly and sucked them clean.

He kissed your neck and teased you with his cock, as positioned himself at your entrance once more.

He slowly pushed in, feeling every muscle tighten around him as he did.

"Oh fuck.." He cried out happily, burying his face in your neck as he began to thrust.

He picked up your legs and placed them on his shoulders as he pounded into you, moaning with every thrust.

He reached between your legs, rubbing your clit with his thumb lightly.

"Oh yes!" You moaned.

He kept going, still rubbing his thumb against your clit while thrusting hard enough to make you breathless.

His grip tightened around your thighs as he neared his climax.

"I'm so close baby..." He panted, looking deep into your eyes as he thrusted even deeper inside you, wanting to watch you come undone.

You moaned loudly, feeling the waves of pleasure crash down on you as he continued to fuck you.

You screamed his name over and over again, your voice hoarse from all the shouting.

His thrusts became even harder and faster as he felt you getting closer.

You let out a scream as he hit your g-spot perfectly, bringing you to one of the most intense orgasms of your life.

He let out a growl as he reached his orgasm, his semen filling you up as his thrusts slowed down.

Your walls squeezed tightly around him, milking him for all he was worth.

He groaned deeply, burying his face in your breasts again, biting one nipple roughly this time.

He let go of your nipple and collapsed on top of you. His cock was still buried inside you, twitching every few seconds.

After a few minutes of rest he finally pulls out.

"Let's take this to the bedroom" he says, picking you up and carrying you to the bedroom.

Kicking the door closed behind you, he lays down gently and places you on top of him.

"Ride me baby," he growls.

[revelisms]

Antichrist Copia theory has overtaken me yall. I was not expecting to crank out a full thing on this, but, uh...if you're looking for one big indulgent braindump on Terzo trying to unpack his feelings on this while Copia gets possessed by a demon, look no further?

Quick context setting—I'm still working out these headcanons a bit, but what I'm generally tinkering with here:

Everyone tied to the Emeritus bloodline has some degree of magical abilities, which were formally "awakened" in an oath-taking ceremony at a point in the boys' childhood. This is the Sight mentioned here (i.e., whatever is up with the white eye), and each of the brothers have a slightly different angle for it: Primo can see into the minds of living things, Secondo can see into the past, Terzo can see into the future, and Copia can see into the realm that bridges life and death—and is somewhat a literal bridge, himself, between those planes of reality.

The Exaltation ceremony is a formal handoff from each Papa to the next heir, in which their Sight is tapped to its greatest potential in preparation for becoming head of the church. This typically involves a delivery of rites, a magical blessing, and an opening of the Gate between worlds (which, in this context, is technically Hell itself).

Basically: mayhem ensues.

here we lie

4k words | Rating: M | Terzo-Centric | Antichrist Copia | CWs: Ritual magic, dark imagery, near-death experience, blood, language, existentialism, doomed fate, whump, anger issues, dysfunctional family dynamics, hurt/comfort. Also on AO3

The exaltation ceremony goes wrong.

By all accounts, it shouldn't have.

As with any long-standing traditions of the church, the ritual had been perfected to the scrape of dust one was allowed to wear on their boots—and, as such, had been prepared with the expected flurry of pomp and circumstance.

The esteemed Monsignor Emeritus, firstborn, blessed with the Sight, had cleansed the air thrice with dishes of althea and frankincense and bistort: enhancements for protection and divination. 

Sister Mariella, well-familiar with the customs, had laid down the sigils for the Gate flawlessly: shadowed by the slow-prowled growlings and page-turned rites of Secondo Emeritus, Archbishop of the Eternal Light.

The ceremony, as was custom, was set to be led by the head of the church: their Exalted, sheened in black from neck to toe, the points of his clawed gloves glinting in the lowlight—for whom the Sight of premonition had seemed both a blessing and a curse, and never more so than now.

He was distracted, perhaps. Dehydrated, maybe. Dreading the moment he would stand at the door to the realm beyond—a threshold of time and space untethered—that would soon devour the faceless flesh-form of a ghoul cast back to the shadow (his One, his All, his own); a door he himself, in time, would one day find himself crossing, with body and soul split, head and neck cleaved, heart and mind shattered.

From the moment he'd slopped a spoon through the breakfast his secretary had slid on his desk that morning, he'd known, instinctually, that this damned thing could turn so haywire, if only because he'd been the one shackled with it.

His jittery magic, his restless brain, and Copia—

Well. 

Copia has been anything but normal, from the day Sister carted him up the chapel steps.

Terzo knew he had magic—the likes of which few could fathom, even from his sticky-fingered child days. The night the little rat had taken his oaths, the air had sung with it: a strange buzz of sensation that felt like the sun had tipped off-center. 

And now— 

Now, the Gate is laid open beneath Terzo's hands, the unseen ink of his spell-marks glowing a blood-lilac fuchsia, bright enough to glare violently through his clothes, and the void of Hell itself screaming in its glory—and Copia is not imbued with the Dark One's majesty, as he should be—is no man, is not living, has flames for eyes and claws for teeth and wings like the undead and is screaming—

"Close it," Secondo snarls at him, a blurred tower of shadow and piercing white—

—and Terzo knew this.

Knew this boy-man-beast-hellspawn of Christ-Shadow Beholden always was. 

He'd looked him in the eye—kneeled there in the cat's cradle of a pentagram scraped in chalk, hands fidgeting at his cassock—and gave a crook of his head: murled, Ready? like a tease, though some part of him had meant it as, You'll be alright, eh?

But unblessed saints and demons below, Copia isn't.

What writhes before him now is a creature that terrifies him to the bone—one that may not abandon his brother completely, should he fail at this any farther than he already has.

"Terzo." Primo, now: an urgent hiss at his shoulder. "Close the gate—"

"I know." His magic burns at his fingertips, sears through his blood. "That—thing hasn't released him—"

A thing with claws cradling Copia's head like ceramic a hairline from shattering, spitting a pained growl through his teeth.

The sacrament in Mariella's hand shakes. "Papa, what's...?"

"I don't know." The flamelight flickers unnaturally against the domed walls: a great breath that lapses to darkness, sparks back again. "Shit, I—I don't know."

"Terzo—"

"Close the gate—"

"Hell Satan—will you all shut up?!"

There are horns in Copia's hair, slick-red-gold between his grappling fingers.

His stomach is in his head. His brain in his feet.

Mariella swallows. She's always been a strong soul—far more than him, now: level-headed in a storm, vibrant in a fog; a presence that guides as much as it grounds.

"How long can you hold it for?" she whispers, firm and calm. 

He pulls dry air into his lungs. "As long as I need to." 

He steps forward, spellwork singing in his veins, and lets his hands unfurl. The air whips at his vestments, wailing with the bone-deep unease of voices old as Creation straining to be heard.

Somewhere in there is Copia's own. He'll drag it out by hand, if he has to.

"You imbecile!" Secondo is shouting, muffled behind the blurred opalescence of the Veil: a wall that glows off the circle Terzo crosses, consumes him with the prickling unease of a limb losing its circulation. "You can't reason with it!"

The flames warp again. A shadow like death bends over the walls. 

Terzo's no stranger to the taste. His dreams have been riddled with the stench of it, from the day the Sight was force-gifted upon him. And like he had, then—a child with battered elbows and bruised knees; a not-man with awkward limbs and disdain for the old orders of this world; a Cardinal with paint on his teeth and a straightjacket of woolen expectations—he repents.

"I call on the spirits of the Then and the Below." A twitch strings through his fingers: with it, a flare of violet light. "To the Beings of those Beyond, the Eternal, I speak now, and speak only—" The pitch of his voice mangles, ragged with the corded growl of a beast: the underbelly all their half-human souls peel clean, when drowned deep enough in this waste. "In my Blood, see my will. In my Sight, my path—"

"What is he saying?" Mariella asks, her voice muffled as though through glass.

Primo calls a sharp warning: "Don't cross it—"

The air whistles with a faint singing of metal—and splits. It grapples at his clothes, twisting his hair with a gravitational pull unseen. 

He breathes in chalk dust, sighs out knives.

Beneath Copia's shivering limbs ripples the black expanse of the Gate: an aether so endless one couldn't capture its history in a millennia: a presence so indefinable that even Primo, with years of such history under his belt, can only stare through the blur, voiceless and rigid at the sight of it.

With twitching claws and lightless eyes and Hell beneath his feet, Terzo beckons.

"Bare yourself to me."

The room shivers. The walls shriek. The flames stagger, flutter, wheeze again—and snuff out, completely. 

In the pitch, it is only the Eternal, and the glow within his veins, and the white of his eye, and Copia's beast-man-beast-man-fanged grin with a split lip— 

A Being that takes the air of the room by the throat, and speaks in a voice that thunders.

"It is time."

Terzo feels its presence slithering up his legs. The weight of its All on his lungs. 

He keeps his hands steady, his intent clear, even for the exertion that leaves his arms quivering.

"Not here," he grits back, a strange echo in the ringed light that encases them. "Not now."

A hand that is not Copia's, is scaled and rotted and red, slaps to the stones. "When?" The shriek hits his ears like a thunderstrike. A chill is crawling under his veins: a heaviness that isn't right, is this thing more than his own blood. "When?"

Primo's magic is wafting through the air—some swift-casted attempt at a ward around them, far too late now. The scent of it itches on Terzo's tongue: dragon's blood, rose-ash, frigid at his back. His own aura swats it off like a gnat, too distracted to let it in, to think.

Fuck, he needs to think.

A stage—

The Being wails.

His downfall—this one's own Ascension—

Ice knifes into his ankle.

A stage and heat and lights and purple-bleeding-black and blood on his throat—a syringe in his brother's own hands, a demon masqueraded—his Unnamed's voice gristling in his ear, Be still be still be still now—

Mariella squeezes a talisman in her palm, smoking sweetly with the taste of Secondo's own protection charm. 

"Papa," she calls out: her voice a muddy, drowned thing.

His lashes flutter open, heavy as lead. 

"Coward!" the Being retches. Hellfire blisters against its silhouette, a nebulic haze. "Tell them of your death. Of Our purpose. Where We were sewn. You know it—"

Mariella holds the stone out to him, guided through the surging current of Primo's ward. The air wrestles like a gale through her sleeve.

"You know it!"

His claws catch at her palm—not his gloves, but his own, thick and black as talons. The talisman burns a sunspot-bloom through his marrow, bright as a thousand stars.

"Thirteen months." His speech is one he doesn't recognize: child and entity and Bloodline infinite. "On a black dais, surrounded by your flock." The talisman melts like a balm into his skin: an unseen shield that ripples with half-lit iridescence. The chill biting into his skin flinches. "You will know it," Terzo grits on, "and now is not it."

He thinks he hears Copia's voice through the fray. He can't be sure.

"And then?" snarls the Being.

Not a being. Not a thing. 

No—this is Lucifer-incarnate.

An orchestration.

"It won't be finished, then." The shell of magic around them snaps like embers in a flame, a jolt wrestling up his arm. So much time. So much weighed down—and he weighs it down, still, his breath shuddering. "You'll have years to go—"

"And then?"

Scraped nails, dead eyes, bloodied horns, Copia—

Secondo's gloved palm tears through the gleam, squeezes like a noose around his bicep. "I won't say it again, you fuck," he spits, the words warped and crackling. "You're going to get him killed—"

He can't shake him off quickly enough. 

"Close it!"

Copia's eyes. Copia's soul, trapped in the All. Right there—

His magic flares like a supernova, spears through that gate and holds: a cosmic blast that shouts his throat raw, knocks Secondo nearly off his feet, leaves him lightheaded and with blood on his teeth—but he has him—

"Thirteen months' time," the Being roars, "and you'll be taken with it."

Terzo hisses, his claws scraping at his brother's skin. 

"So is the Rule."

The Gate grapples at his silks. 

Copia's gloved fingers shake, snatching desperately at his arms. His own voice breaks through the loom. "Terz—"

"I've got you," Terzo spats. Sweat sticks at his neck. 

The fibers of his magic are fraying at the edges. 

Red eyes glare up at him. "Do you accept it?"

The portal whines.

"To the day it is marked, you'll have it. As it is written." His claws slip on Copia's sleeve. "As it always was."

The Being grins. "And so it will be."

It spits his brother out.

His hold on the Gate snaps like a wire—and shatters the well of magic, with it. The howl torrents through the room with a cello's blare, and whips to a bee-winged nothingness.

With the loss of it, gravity lurches in his gut. He cracks to his knees, catches himself on the stones just enough—gloves still intact, not torn through, only clawed with gold—and heaves blood. 

"Papa!"

And his brother. His damned demon brother: rubber-legged, staggering, Copia gasps like a man near-drowned.

Unscathed, somehow—Satan willing.

Primo is across the room, in an instant. "Copia. Unblessed beneath, are you alright?"

"Ye-Yes, yes, I—shit." Primo catches him, his gloves slipping at his sleeves. Unsteadily, he veers back on his feet. "What...what happened?" 

It's too dark. Too quiet. Too loud.

Terzo swallows down bile; chokes on blood and phlegm. Mariella's habit swims in his vision.

"Papa," she hushes, clear as crystal now. "Papa, look at me." 

Secondo, halfway between them: "Is it gone?"

Her fingers skim through the sweat-dripped mess of his paints: press cooly at his temple.

"Is it gone?"

"Yes," she breathes.

Hazily, lashes flicking, Terzo tips out of her touch. He chokes on his words, the first try; rasps them, the second. "Where's the rat?"

"He's here," Primo answers him. "He's fine."

There's a clumping of boots, a rustling of silks, Mariella scurrying from the floor.

"What in Hell's name were you thinking." Secondo's hand jerks at his sleeve, wrestles him half-blind back into his bones. "You could have doomed us all. We never—never—speak to the Unnamed without wards in place. You know that—"

"Brother," Copia croaks.

Secondo rips his head over his shoulder. "You shut your mouth. I haven't even gotten to you." With a firm grip, his hand slips under Terzo's arm, helps him slowly to his feet. "Get up," he huffs. "Come on. Are you alright?"

"I'm—fuck. Fine. I'm fine."

His elder brother scowls down at him. "Good. And you better stay that way, because I have half a goddamned mind to put a fist through your teeth—"

"Dino," Primo snarls, "This is helping nothing." Years of practice in such misguided events has left him rationed, calm: a quiet glance turned to the pale-faced attendant behind him, who stands shell-shocked, having seen unwantedly the darker veins of their Order—and ones their customs would soon have him forget. "Jean," Primo says, waiting for his eyes to drop. "We will need a medic. Say nothing to the All-Father."

Secondo scoffs. "Oh, yes—Nihil will have this one's ass, when he hears of this—"

"Saints—ignore him, young one. A medic, and Priestess Diana. Quick as you can."

The boy nods and takes off through the hall's doors, stumbling up the stairs in his haste.

In his absence, the room holds a collective breath, the eyes of the siblings still in attendance fixed like rabbits on the four men clustered in the center of the room.

"We're alright," Primo says to them all, in a tone that is more order than reassurance.

It couldn't be more of a reach.

Terzo wheezes a snarl, a laugh. "Alright." The stones sting beneath his feet: five paces that drive him out of Secondo's iron grip, steer him straight into the path of Copia's saucer-wide blinking: eyes blue and white and younger than they should ever seem, in a face that has grown so weathered, as all of them have.

And he knew.

He lifts a clawed finger, his breath too slow. "I knew."

Primo, sharp as steel: "Do not take this out on him—"

He couldn't give a shit. 

He almost killed him.

The bastard wasn't living.

"What are you, mh?" Terzo licks his lips, tastes the bitter metal of blood. He lifts a shaky hand. "No, no—what did she make you?" He smears the leather against his mouth, the heat of his stare unwavering, a knife-edge sliced from shoes to frazzled fringe. "That—that Aether just within you, eh? Always that, under there?"

Copia shakes. "I didn't," he blunders.

"This is why she brought you, isn't it? Satan, of course—"

Secondo wrestles for his elbow, a steadying squeeze. "Terzo—"

"You saw it—!"

His brother's eyes simmer: one black in the lowlight, the other white as a moonbeam. "I saw you."

His bites his nails through his glove. Rattles in a breath.

"Calm down, the both of you," Primo says coldly, a hand still on Copia's shoulder. "It was reckless—but you managed. We are all still in one piece." He steps between them, pointedly, studying Terzo's face like a leech. "Your Sight will be strained for weeks, after that. You did not have the power to even attempt that on your own."

Terzo snuffs. "A good thing one of us sorry shits did."

Behind the sharp slope of Primo's shoulder, Copia shivers, eyes downturned. "I—"

"Don't." He drags a gloved hand through his hair. Shaking—still shaking? Outraged—always. Horrified, still. "You're good," he tells his brother, tells himself. "It is all good. You're alright. Okay."

Primo's eyes stare through him, see a bitten-lipped boy with a bandage on his cheek.

Terzo turns away. "Okay," he hushes again, and walks, past Secondo's stone-still glare, Mariella's worried frown, and walks, and walks, and walks—

"You are not running away, now—"

"Dino. Leave it. Copia, do not linger on that, alright? Don't listen to it. You know how he is. It is not your fault—"

"But what—what was that? What happened—?"

—up the gnarled stairwells, out the maze of lower halls, stumbling over the grasses, and sits like a stone on the side-entry's steps. Like a ghost.

Sits for an age.

He must—because, by then, the medics have come, and the stench of that room has been dragged open, and Mariella's whispers are drifting across the corridor's arches—after he's ripped off his gloves, dug his fingers through his hair, tried to breathe and not think—and he expects her. 

He expects her fear, her pity.

Not Copia.

The fool's boots scuff on the stairs.

"Is it, eh..." His brother muddles over a breath. "Alright if I—?"

Terzo doesn't have the mind to fight it—not with sweat still cold at his back. He swats his palm, some attempt at allowance, kneading his other fingers over his brow.

Copia slumps down to the steps. Just stays there, in awkward, insufferable silence.

Finally: "Shit—it's chilly today, isn't it?"

Terzo leers through his fringe. "Going to talk about the birds, next?"

"I'm just saying."

"Just saying. Yes—and you'll be singing, after." He combs back the half-tamed waves of his hair, hangs his hand across his knee. "Old chamber smells like a cesspool."

Copia manages a smile, the thistles of his mustache wrinkling. "Bleh. Nasty place. I've always hated it, down there."

"All the more reason to, now, huh?" Terzo forces a sneer of his own, glaring away. He sniffs. Pits his tongue against his teeth.

For a beat, his brother says nothing. Then, his gloved fingers squeaking over each other: "I'm alright."

Terzo chuffs, furrowing his brows. "Barely."

He can feel the rat's eyes on him. It makes his skin crawl. "Primo...told me. What it—well." Copia frowns at his boots, at the graveled path beyond. "Did you mean it?" he hushes, lifting his eyes. "That you've...seen it, before?"

Terzo bites the inside of his lip. "Seen lots of things."

"But—that. It's—I've always thought...er...felt that, maybe, she'd..."

"Sister?"

"Mother, yes—"

"Your mother."

Copia's shoulders twitch.

"I—sorry," Terzo mumbles, shifting his fingers over his thumb. "I know it's not..." 

His fault, his intention—his anything, right?

But it is. Isn't.

Should be.

He flexes his hand, pitters his fingertips together. Looks away. "Anyway."

A breeze rustles cooly through the shrubbery that flanks the stairs: a feathered hush along the pines that tower over the grounds.

"Anyway," Copia repeats, shifting his tongue around his mouth. "It's just...you, eh...you have seen it, before," he says again, watching the air ripple through the leaves, "haven't you?"

Terzo glances at him. Sister's sloped nose. A paintbrush-smattering of freckles. The white of his eye, fixed on the swaying branches. Lanky little thing, as he's always been. The mirror to his own placelessness, own purposelessness, own forced mantle he never asked to have thrown upon him—but craved, clawed for, claimed, nonetheless.

"Told you, little thing," he says, tipping his heel off the stones. "Seen lots of things."

"But I know. I've always...felt it, I just haven't—" Copia fumbles, lacing his fingers. "Had the words, I guess." 

"Rare thing, for you."

"Shut up."

"Heh—even rarer for me, eh?"

"Ugh."

They breathe in unison, the air thick with it: hope, despair, magic, emptiness.

"When it...when that...thing took over me, did it...say anything to you?"

Terzo's mouth ticks.

Thirteen months. Poison in his neck. His body tossed through the gaping maws of the realm beyond.

He stares at the points of his boots, still speckled with his own spit and blood, and scuffs his thumb at it.

"Eh...not clearly. Hard to make out, in the muck of it."

"None of it came through?"

Terzo tilts his chin on his shoulder, fixing him with a narrowed look. "It wasn't you, Coppie," he says. "Just...forget what I said, before. Old temper of mine, rearing its shitting head again."

"But what if—"

"It wasn't." Terzo plants his palm on his brother's knee, chipped black on his nails, and squeezes. "It wasn't," he murmurs again.

Copia stutters. "Well, even if it wasn't—it—it felt like I was..."

"Delirious?" He perks one brow, fox-grinned in his usual reach for deflection, distraction. "Dead, even?"

"Whole."

The smile wanes. 

For a breath, he tries to hunt for that beast beneath his brother's skin—the way he so often does in the steamed glass of his own mirrors, and so easily sees it in them: the spire-teeth, the winged limbs, the eyes half-living. 

He finds only a quivery little boy, tucked in the cage of a man's body. The same one who spent years, against all odds—against his own stupid, spiteful jealousy—clinging like a barnacle to his side.

He slides his hand away. "The Sight does it to all of us, little rat. Strips away the Veil." He picks at his thumb, the gravel hazing to a fine blur, and swallows: white stone crisping to clarity, again. "Catch an Emeritus in the right light—even a clueless one can see the Fallen in them."

Copia frowns.

Maybe it's not a comfort. All the more proof that he isn't one of them, as he has so often feared.

The Other, above all else.

"But what if I am?" he says quietly. "Whatever that...thing was? Will, eh...will something happen, if that's true?"

Terzo lifts his eyes to the sky—grayish with cloud-cover, damp with the chilled humidity of a storm along the way, something to wash this whole mess clean—and lies through his teeth. 

"Happen?" he snides. "What is this—Armageddon, itself? You worry worse than Nonna, Coppie." He wrinkles his brows at him, his smile thin, his paints half-smeared off his face. "And even if you were—would it be so bad? All of us are hardly human, eh? Perhaps you are just farther along the evolutionariness—the truest Creature of the Night, of us all." His eyes widen, teasingly. "I mean—psh! I will have my fangs, no? And the pincher, his wolf-pelt, and Primo will, eh...Hell, what would the old goat be?"

Copia rolls his eyes, leaning into the cradle of his elbows. "A zombie?"

"Feh—the Nihilist is the rotting corpse, surely."

His brother rolls into a snicker. "Sea creature?"

"Agh—not the lagoon man! We will insult the dear river's integrity, with such things—no, no." Terzo sniffs, feigns smearing away his paints instead of the heat itching at his eye, and smiles wryly again. "Let's be realistic, here—the old gardenia will be the enchanted plant that traps one's bones for the witches, yes?"

Copia wheezes on another laugh.

Saints, he hates that laugh. Godawful sound, a mimicry of his own: a snort and a tea kettle and a giggle all in one. 

The brightest sunbeam of any.

"He has to be the, er—the witch, right?" Copia wonders, giving him a teasing glance.

Terzo flashes his teeth. "Now, if that is the category—I will rule above them all, no?"

And his brother laughs again.

Their little brother, little demon, little star. The highest heir of them all, doomed to a path he should have never been put on—as all of them are, in their own ways. Always have been; always will be.

Terzo ignores Primo's shadow in the corridor, flanked by Mariella's quiet eyes. Ignores the hawkish leer of Secondo's folded-armed scowling, waiting to deflect the plague that will no doubt burst into the halls, once news of it all has reached the ears of their Highest.

At least for this moment, he can pretend.

Flit away what is yet to come, like a bottle tossed to the sea—Nihil, Sister, this brother tressed in silks and jewels for a price he hadn't the slightest knowledge would be paid—and goad another laugh out of him, and another. 

Relish in the denial that this is all that ever was. Ever could be. 

Copia: blushing, teary-eyed but toothy, knocking his shoulder into his—unable to do anything but choke at the idiotic scenarios he conjures for the four of them, in all their monsterly glory. As distracted as he deserves to be, after that wretched thing. The memory of it all forgotten, if for a moment.

And that's enough, Terzo thinks, the cool tang of rain on the gales.

For now, maybe, that's enough.

[amywritesthings]

the better strategy. / astarion x tav

summary: After successfully saving Druid Grove, Astarion has one goal in mind: secure his safety. His strategy? Seduce Tav. But what if that plan goes horribly wrong and he falls for his own game? pairing: astarion x tav (female, she/her) word count: 3.9k tags: act one spoilers, non-sexual intimacy, hand kink/hand holding, astarion's pov, miscommunications, allusions to astarion's past, selûne worshipper!tav // mature for thematic elements

part one. / part three. | masterlist.

PART TWO: THE REPRISE.

.

He can still feel the tickle of moving fingertips when he flexes his hand.

It’s positively psychotic, to think an undead runaway such as himself truly, and willingly, spent an entire night sitting side by side with a cleric of Selûne — a goddamn messenger of a moon goddess whose never earned more than a spit to her worshipping plaque in Baldur's Gate from him.

Not only sitting side by side, however, no.

They were stargazing.

They were stargazing and holding hands, for fuck’s sake.

Like the wretched gentleman he’d been mesmerized into becoming overnight, Astarion walked the little wood elf back to her tent once the wee hours of the morning crawled near. He sent her off and bid her goodnight like a caller — like a godsdamn suitor vying for her affection.

Then they parted ways, and Astarion was left alone to lay in his tent where he spent the morning hours staring at the peak of his tent with a confusion he hadn’t felt in…

Well, ever.

They were supposed to have sex.

He was supposed to give it to her so damned good that she’d stay by his side and only his side. 

He was supposed to secure his safety within this group as they traveled from the grove to the Githyanki creche, to the Underdark, and beyond.

Seduction was the only thing he was good for. It was the only thing he was good at. Yet he got rejected, twice, without it ever feeling like a rejection at all.

Because Tav still wanted to sit with him, right?

She still wanted to talk his ear off about Selûne  this and the moon that, right?

And he allowed her to trace the lines of his palm without questioning her intent, good or bad, and stayed against his better judgment — right?

She chose him that night. She never strayed to another tent.

(He stayed up to make sure.)

So what the fuck does it mean when he’s stuck at the back of the party listening to Gale drabble on about magic while the self-appointed Mama K plays personal bodyguard and Wyll strolls leisurely at the front with Tav?

That’s supposed to be him.

Astarion is meant to be the one to influence Tav. Astarion is meant to advise her on what to do and what to avoid in these ghastly ruins. Astarion is meant to steer her in a direction that will keep them both safe — because she’s the only one who can keep him from going back.

Yet it’s Wyll who’s charmed her, made her laugh with his Blade of Frontiers glory stories, while Karlach makes sure that not a singular hair falls out of place as the two women walk elbow-to-shoulder across a shadow-infested bridge.

They’re a pack of wolves vying for her affection — even Lae’zel has exceptionally warmed up to the wood elf upon their perilous endeavors to a sacred Githyanki creche. 

Each person has been touched by the cleric and wants her approval, her affections, but he has one thing on Saint Tav that the rest do not:

Her blood.

Her very life essence flows through his veins because she has willingly, consensually, offered her neck to him — a decision that cannot be made lightly, not for the living, not when he held his truth from her for so long.

Yet every morning she arrives like clockwork to his tent, bringing pleasantries and whatever vile breakfast Gale has made for camp. She asks him about sleep — he doesn’t have the courage to tell her he’s never slept so peacefully in his undead life. She asks him how he’s feeling — he doesn’t know how to answer that honestly.

Then comes her offer, and what lowly little spawn would ever say no?

(You can feed on me tonight, if you’d like.)

He still doesn’t know why she does it.

Nonetheless, Astarion will play up the charm and leer like she’s the most delectable thing in Sword Coast — because Gods, with a track record of one living person under his belt, nothing tastes quite like her.

Nothing probably ever will.

(My sweet, there is nothing I’d like more.)

Tav has a bleeding heart, but surely she must know that the benefits of this arrangement are purely one-sided. If he’s not fucking her, then what the hell can he give her? Extra protection in battle, maybe. Extra coin from pick-pocketing and lock-picking, sure.

But there is nothing — he is nothing.

At the very least, Astarion has tried to make the experience of drinking her blood as painless as possible. 

When Cazador bit him, it hurt. Brazingly so. 

The vampire spawn never wants Tav to know such discomfort.

He likes when her hand holds his bicep, squeezing at the first pinch when teeth breaches skin. He likes feeling that grip lessen, relax, when he flicks his tongue over the wounds as an apology. I’ve got you.

In a way, it’s twistedly romantic.

People have always romanticized a vampire’s bite. Perhaps he’s simply romanticizing Tav.

He found cradling her head helps eliminate the strain in her muscles. And, if he uses his free hand to hold her hip, then Tav makes gentle noises in his ear — he likes those the most.

A suppressed whimper not of pain or disgust, but a misplaced euphoria.

Sometimes he’ll find himself threading his fingers through her thick locks, testing the softness — it’s always feather-light. Sometimes he’ll leave her hip and press a palm to the juncture of her neck and jawline and glide his thumb along her chin, too much of a coward to touch her lips.

And sometimes — Gods, more than sometimes — his stomach will sour at the notion Tav only allows him to feed from her body out of some heroic obligation, a dubious consenting victim bared raw to a bloodthirsty monster that she may considerably fear.

But what does it matter? This is about his survival, not hers.

(It must matter, deep down, because he’s fallen into the habit of waiting with his lips against her neck to ask one make-or-break question: are you sure?  

Nothing is sweeter, nothing is more divine, than her breathy response: I’m sure.)

By now, most of their party is aware of the most interesting deal. It didn’t take long for Gale to look sickened and for Shadowheart to appear intrigued by such a proposal. The consensus fell to a unanimous one: as long as it wasn’t one of their necks, then it didn’t matter what the hells was happening after the sun went down.

Because Tav said she trusts him. So they, in turn, trust Tav.

Yet somehow, even with the leg up on the rest of these idiots, Astarion finds himself in the bloody back of the pack while Gale absently flips through his book of helpful (see: incredibly unhelpful) spells, occupying his brain with anything other than his goddess.

“Here.”

Tav’s voice makes both men stir from their own worlds to look at her as she points to a seemingly untainted alcove. 

“According to Halsin’s instructions, Moonrise Towers isn’t far. We shall rest for the night, get our bearings, then soldier on in the morning.”

“Oh, thank the Gods,” Karlach groans, flopping instantly onto a tree stump. “My poor feet. They’re ready to fall off.”

“Do you need help with your tent, Tav?” Wyll asks Tav as he leans closer to her side, causing the cleric to look into his eyes.

The man smiles at her, clearly meaning it in a helpful way, but—

“No need!”

Astarion calls, holding up a flamboyant finger as he glides through the thick of their companions. 

“I’m sure the magic men are better suited at securing a protective perimeter with our stock of torches. Surely we’ll need to use plenty of them to ward off any pesky problems in this dire hellscape.”

He’s quick to grab Tav’s pack before Wyll can even touch it. 

“Go on,” he ushers with a disgusted sneer, “go do magic things. I’ve got this.”

This, as it appears, is a grave miscalculation on his part. The entire party stops and stares with varying degrees of confusion at Astarion’s sudden bout of helpfulness. Even Lae’zel, who couldn’t be bothered with any of their drama, has a deeper scowl than usual.

When Astarion looks around the pack, however, his attention falls on Tav’s rounded eyes that stare back at him.

The cleric’s lips part in that funny way when she’s at a loss for words, straddling kindness and honesty, and Astarion cannot help but feel smug about it.

Yes, he murmurs in his mind’s eye, as if the tadpole will relay his thoughts. Look at me. Only me. See how useful I am to you, darling.

“You’ve got this?” Shadowheart breaks the tension, souring the mood.

“Magic men?” Gale adds with a deep frown.

“We don’t even do the same things,” Wyll murmurs, brows knit as he turns to Gale to deliberate.

“Last I recall, it took hours for you to pitch your tent,” Shadowheart adds, squinting in a way that’s downright annoying to the vampire — trying to figure out where his niceties derive. “Are the days of the Grove so far behind us already?”

“Your attempts were most pitiful,” Lae’zel quips, upper lip twitching at her passive agreement with the Shar cleric to her right.

“Astarion.”

There — Tav’s voice cuts through all the noise, and the vampire focuses on it. Revels in it, that she lets go of her pack so that he may swing the strap heavily over his shoulder. The vampire refuses to let it fall, gripping tightly to the handle as Tav addresses everyone with her eyes.

Thinking.

Always thinking. Always assessing. Always trying to do the thing that makes everyone happy.

“You don’t have to,” she murmurs, and suddenly his good mood goes to waste. 

Right. She’d rather Wyll help her. She’s not obsessed with him as much as he’d—

“But I want to,” he blurts quietly, and her expression softens.

The effect of his feigned selflessness is instantaneous, and he blinks his crimson eyes several times to comprehend.

Is this how he wins the game? Not by fucking her until she can’t walk — that will come eventually, he’s sure of it — but by simply… doing what she perceives as the nice thing?

Oh, he could vomit.

It’s such a fairytale approach, and he is in no part a prince.

Regardless, Tav smiles and turns her chin towards Wyll. “Astarion has the right idea. I trust you and Gale to secure the perimeter of camp while the rest of us set up the tents. Would you like us to take care of yours while you’re busy?”

What?

He didn’t offer to fucking touch Gale’s tent—

“You’re lovely to do so,” Wyll tells her, genuine in his gratitude, “but we’ll take care of ours once we return. Thank you, Tav.”

Gale, still speechless in his confusion, slowly follows the warlock when Wyll presses his palm to the wizard’s shoulder and guides him towards the perimeter.

The moon lantern’s glow makes it easy to track everyone in this eternal darkness, but Astarion isn’t watching or caring whether they make it to the banks safely.

Shadowheart, Lae’zel, and Karlach go about their own business, choosing to situate their own tents. It’s only when he realizes how elaborate this shit is — the tapestries, the poles, the… maddening holes they need to spear into the dirt — does he regret his impulsive decision.

“Something on your mind, Astarion?” Tav finally asks, screwing some poles together with a suppressed smile. “I thought you hated setting these up.”

“Yes, well,” the vampire relents, picking up a metal pole with a grimace at the packed dirt touching his palm, “Wyll felt the need to keep you all to himself the entire way here.”

“I wouldn’t agree with that version of events,” the wood elf replies, clearly amused as she bends over to wriggle the pole in the dirt. “Karlach was right beside me and—”

“Stop.”

Tav blinks, the worry spreading instantly. Is she always this nervous to displease others?

“What did I—”

Astarion holds out his palm, brow quirked. “I said I’d help.”

She looks lovely bent at the hips like this, her travel-worn hair cascading over her shoulder. Usually he’s ready to stare at the neck that will be at his mercy in just a few short hours. Instead he’s so hellbent on staring at all of her, the complete image of her, as she assesses.

Then she relents.

Tav gives him the pole, and Astarion gets to work. It’s miserable — the tapping of dirt, the prodding to see where it will take best, the shoving and the turning and everything in-between. He utterly loathes the feeling of perspiration on his skin, but he knows Wyll wouldn’t complain.

When did he start to care so fucking much about what the bloody warlock would do?

The wood elf crosses her arms over her chest, watching for a spell, before dropping her knees. “Wait, you didn’t loop—”

“I was getting to that,” he hotly argues, waving her hand away, and she giggles.

Gods above, she fucking giggles. He’s almost two centuries older than her yet he feels no older than when he was given immortality when she laughs like that.

“I believe you,” Tav tells him, patting him on the shoulder before leaving to start work on the back half of the tent.

Astarion takes a moment to watch her leave, to get engrossed in her task, her laughter echoing in his mind.

He’s losing his touch.

“I figured I spend so many of my nights with you,” Tav starts again, turning her chin to watch as they prepare her tent for the evening, “that it would be wise to check in with the others.”

Is that her version of an apology, for ignoring him? Astarion snorts. “Is that what we do? Spend the nights together?”

“In our way,” she replies, securing the back corner of the tent. She moves towards the west end of it, disappearing behind fabric.

Astarion freely rolls his eyes when she’s out of view. “I visit, my dear. I have yet to spend.”

“Then would you like to?”

The rogue question from the cleric almost has the man fucking up his stringed knot.

He lurches forward, briefly, crimson eyes wide and…

His stomach leaps into his throat, partially with relief and mostly with dread.

Did she just suggest what he thinks she suggested?

He’s grateful for the obscurity from the tent, allowing his facial expressions to run through the motions of what Tav may in fact offer at this moment: the one thing he’s been trying to get her to agree to, to want, to desire, since they met.

Him.

His company. His words. His… body.

He sharply inhales through his nose and smirks, sauntering towards the west of the tent. The pale elf peers around the fabric to see her staring back at him with a bright, warm smile.

“You wish to share this evening?” he purrs.

Tav gives a one-shoulder shrug, securing her pole to the ground. (How the hells did she finish these tasks so fast? He’s not even started on the final corner.) “It would be easier than pitching two tents, is it not? We’re only here for the night, and you were nice enough to—”

“No need for an explanation, darling,” Astarion cuts off, expression darkening. “I will see you and your delicious little self tonight.”

He doesn’t remember finishing the final anchors of her tent.

He doesn’t remember whatever they spoke about between her proposition and the midnight hour.

He doesn’t remember Gale and Wyll returning, the camp eating their remnants of a dinner, before promptly falling asleep without ever questioning Astarion’s lack of shelter.

Astarion crawls into himself to scheme, plan, prepare — she’s finally admitted she wants him in her tent after dark not just to feed, but to share.

To stay with her. 

He wasn’t born yesterday. He knows what this will lead to.

Then why is he so fucking sad that he’ll have to deceive her, toy with her, become everything she’s ever wanted — when this is what he’s wanted, too?

They near Baldur’s Gate with every passing sunrise. Cazador’s palace will be just over the Shadowlands and into the horizon of the Lower City. He’s already wasted so much time in uncertainty — he cannot afford to lose now.

Yet when he opens the flap to Tav’s tent, anticipating her trousers to be on the floor or her gaze to be hungry, he’s met with… well, with a woman sipping wine alone on her bedroll, not the least bit fazed by his entrance.

“Hi,” Tav greets, all smiles and no seduction.

Astarion clears his throat, remembering to close the flap behind him. “Hi.”

(Smooth. So fucking smooth.)

Tav pats a seat beside her, and Astarion lamely sits down beside her. He ought to be ravishing her. He ought to be pushing her shoulders down, finding out whether she loves dirty talk or sweet nothings or—

“I didn’t really wish to sleep alone tonight.”

Blinking twice, the vampire turns his chin belated to the cleric who watches the front of her tent like a hawk. The smaller wood elf shifts in her seat, drawing in a slow inhale as if to…

He can sense she’s nervous, but not about what he’s so used to.

"It's embarrassing, I know," she admits, fidgeting with her fingers. "Though I suppose no one else will know it."

"They're all asleep," he coos. "I checked. Your secrets are safe with me. Speak freely, darling."

(Nothing is safe with me, he wants to scream.)

Tav scrunches her nose, nodding. Agreeing, somehow.

"Well, it's just that I don't... this place, it's so... I can't help but feel... fear."

“You’re afraid of the Shadowlands?” he bluntly asks, squinting with accusation.

Tav, bless her soft heart, shrugs. The string front of her tunic loosens with the movement. “I know my goddess is somewhere, not so much far as she is near, but it’s so… bleak. You can hardly see the moon out here.” 

She turns to look his way, all rounded eyes and parted lips, and if he had a heart? It would break for her.

With each passing second, her bravery and wisdom diminishes, stripping her of her armor until she’s laid bare beside him.

“I’ve never been away from my goddess since my vow to her, not once. Not even when I woke up on the ship with the mind flayers and the tadpoles. But it is dark out here, and I feel… consumed, by it.”

Tav frowns, searching his face for answers the vampire does not have. He looks just as in the dark as she feels. His own lips part to mirror hers, uncertain of how to proceed.

“It is terrifying without Selûne. I am terrified without Selûne. But if I cannot have my goddess here to protect me, then at least I have you near."

The wood elf has a funny way of rendering him speechless.

Time and time again, he proves to her that he is not trustworthy — that he is not noble like the Duke’s son, or honorable like the tiefling that escaped Avernus, or bold like the Githyanki who defied her own queen’s will.

He will use her and throw her away when the time comes to keep running.

Right?

“I could be…”

His voice is but a croak. Astarion is surprised to hear it in the quiet of the night as they stare at one another. Tav’s eyes round, inquisitive, and he clears his throat.

“I could be nearer, if you’d like.”

This is the moment he has to take the reins; to kiss her, to devour her, to push her onto her back and make her sing his name for all of their companions to hear.

 — but he cannot.

Tav tilts her chin just so, asking without speaking, before Astarion takes the plunge.

His arm closest to her lifts off of his side, held out to invite her in. He’s seen people in taverns do this in times of need, in times of grief, when he’d stalk the lonely ones at the demand of his master. He’s seen the act of comfort with bodies outside of sex, but he isn’t quite sure if this is how it works.

Tav pauses, brows knit for just a second, before she speaks five words he’s never thought another person could ask someone as vile as him:

“Are you alright with that?”

She knows — knows what he’s done, what he’s been subjected to, under Cazador’s spell. 

Agency is something of a fairytale for vampire spawn. Quite frankly, even with the tadpole lodged in his head, it still is.

But she asks anyway.

When Astarion nods, forcing his body to comply with her question, Tav slides close to his side and rests her temple against his chest. She fits so perfectly against him, even if she still keeps a triangle of space between them at the hip.

His arm remains outstretched, uncertain what to do. He can feel himself panic — fearful he may blow this, that he may say something out of turn, that he may suggest the wrong things — but the sensation of the back of her hand gently resting on the top of his thigh expels all anguish.

It’s an offer.

A beckoning, against all better judgment.

Thickly Astarion swallows and reaches for her palm. Their hands glide together, smooth and cold and soft.

How is she always so soft?

“Thank you,” she murmurs against his tunic, and Astarion doesn’t respond. Can’t, not when he wants to scream and yell and tell her all of the wicked things he planned to do tonight, and every other night, since the tiefling party.

All he can do is relent — his arm finally wraps timidly around her shoulders, pulling the scent of her hair closer to his nose.

He rests the lower half of his face against the crown of her head, breathing her in, as his eyes stare at a corner of the tent he didn’t properly secure.

“Better?” he murmurs into her hair, too afraid to say anything more.

Her body relaxes into his arm, his torso, and he can feel it — her fear, her anxieties, melt with such a simple gesture.

She nods wordlessly, cheek pressed against his shirt, and folds her slender fingers over his.

After a half hour, he feels it: the way her body slumps heavier against his, back expanding and contracting against the length of his arm.

Asleep.

Tav, for some unfathomable reason, feels safe enough to sleep beside a vampire spawn.

Beside him.

Jaw clenched, Astarion forces himself to keep watch on that fragile little corner of her tent.

To stay completely still for hours, so as to not wake the wood elf gently snoring at his side.

To remain right here, with her, until sunrise.

[mistergandalf]

ULTIMATE TOLKIEN BLORBO ROUND SEVEN: SECOND CHANCE BRACKET

“But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him." - Éowyn

“I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.” - Faramir

ÉOWYN vs. FARAMIR

See the ULTIMATE TOLKIEN BLORBO MASTERPOST for details and follow #ultimate tolkien blorbo to cast your vote for the blorbiest blorbo of all!

[mackdizzy]

[my gift for @thecooleraveragejamm , for @mcyt-valentines !]

Okay, so!

My giftee was interested in c!Technoblade and a playlist, so I made a little song cycle! The cycle is in 8 parts (acts) with 7 songs each, and the whole thing will take just under 3 hours to listen to, with each individual act being 20-25 minutes. I'm posting the graphics, song lists, and spotify playlists (there are 8 separate playlists) in order, but if spotify isn't your jam, isn't accessible, or if you'd rather all in one go, at the end of this post (along with some more info about the cycle) is a youtube playlist that contains all 56 songs all at once!

Act 1: World Conqueror • I'm Born to Run (American Authors) • Taking Over the World (Coyote Theory) • Aulon Raid (The Mountain Goats) • Renegades (X Ambassadors) • Ends of the Earth (Lord Huron) • Everybody Wants to Rule the World (Lorde) • Immortals (Fall out Boy)

Act 2: (We Have) The Blade • The Horror and the Wild (The Amazing Devil) • Revolution (The Score) • Riot (Hollywood Undead) • Legend (The Score) • The Phoenix (Fall Out Boy) • Raging Fire (Phillip Phillips) • Unstoppable (The Score)

Act 3: Interlude; Peer Pressure • Borderline (Tame Impala) • Angry Too (Lola Blanc) • Victorious (Panic! at the Disco) • Blood (End Credits) (My Chemical Romance) • Bang! (AJR) • Sinners (Barns Courtney) • Never Going Back (The Score)

Act 4: Die Like One • Pale White Horse (The Oh Hellos) • Point of No Return (Starset) • Let's Kill Tonight (Panic! at the Disco) • Rebels (Call Me Karizma) • Enemies (The Score) • Born Ready (Zayde Wolf) • This is it (Oh The Larceny)

Act 5: Retirement or; • Thousand Eyes (Of Monsters and Men) • People I Don't Like (UPSAHL) • Whatever it Takes (Imagine Dragons) • Under the Pressure (The Score) • Another Way Out (Hollywood Undead) • Monster (Willyecho) • Ghost (Confetti)

Act 6: Welcome Home Theseus (Minor Acts of Terrorism) • Play Dirty (Kevin McAllister [SEBELL]) • Emperor's New Clothes (Panic! at the Disco) • Wrecking Ball (Mother Mother) • Glory and Gore (Lorde) • Bang Bang (Hippo Campus) • Allies or Enemies (The Crane Wives) • Novocaine (Fall Out Boy)

Act 7: It Ends Today (I'm a Person) • Roots (Imagine Dragons) • Wolves (Sam Tinnesz, Silverberg) • My Songs Know What You Did In The Dark (Light 'Em Up) (Fall out Boy) • Fire (Barns Courtney) • Wine Red (The Hush Sound) • Take Me To War (The Crane Wives) • Ready Set Let's Go (Sam Tinnesz)

Act 8: Sic Semper Tyrannis • Bit by Bit (Mother Mother) • Up The Wolves (The Mountain Goats) • Creature (Half • Alive ) • Kings (Tribe Society) • Run Like A Rebel (The Score) • The Ballad of the Broken Bones (The Low Anthem) • Hieroglyphs (The Oh Hellos) ━━━ ➼ ━━━━

I tried to pick music that aesthetically, musically, and lyrically matched c!Techno's vibes--the playlist follows his story from pre-DSMP to post-Doomsday (so not the whole thing, but a nice, peaceful ending point). The intention is for you to follow c!Techno's journey as you listen, and I think this playlist has a rather nice message about finding yourself and finding peace through rather hostile circumstances and worldviews. It gave me a lot of peace and joy to make, and I hope you enjoy, giftee and anyone else, and have fun listening! Youtube Link

[silverskye13]

(sorry if this got sent twice, internet is very spotty at the moment) Rotating RnS Helsknight in my mind. I keep debating what dnd paladin oath he'd swear. Glory is fitting but also seems TOO obvious. I almost want to say Devotion just for the irony/contrast of it, and since he genuinely wants to make Hels better, and it would make RnS Wels lose his entire mind if he found out

Oooo I have a soft spot for this, because in my Curse of Strahd campaign right now, my paladin Ashborne is just beginning-of-RnS Helsknight. I couldn't think of a good character so I just built Helsknight as a fire genasi, except instead of Tanguish he has a shadow god sitting on his shoulder telling him to kill people, and instead of a crippling fear of death its a crippling fear of never being used to his full potential by his god.

........ Anyway.

DnD Paladin Helsknight rambles under the cut!

In my opinion, I kind of have to agree that Helsknight best matches Oath of Devotion. The oaths especially line up almost perfectly with his knightly tenets:

Courage. Never fear to act, though caution is wise. [May you meet every obstacle with courage, for just as all that emits light must endure burning, all the courageous must make a brother of their fears.]

Honesty. Don't lie or cheat. Let your word be your promise. [May your word be binding as chains.]

Compassion. Aid others, protect the weak, and punish those who threaten them. Show mercy to your foes, but temper it with wisdom. [Any sword raised to the innocent or unarmed in cruelty is blackened by its shame.]

Honor. Treat others with fairness, and let your honorable deeds be an example to them. Do as much good as possible while causing the least amount of harm. [May you respect the honor of your fellow helsmet, that none may know you cruel or slave to vice.]

Duty. Be responsible for your actions and their consequences, protect those entrusted to your care, and obey those who have just authority over you. [May you persevere to the end of any enterprise begun, for the folly is theirs that, through unfinished business, never gain wisdom from deeds done.]

There's also stuff that hasn't been breeched in the plot yet that are... Eerily similar to plot points I have planned. Holy Weapon, for example, I think in the Colosseum Helsknight uses a flamed sword, which is functionally the same as enchanting your weapon with holy damage for the coolness factor [Channel Divinity: Sacred Weapon]. And if you outright asked Hels if he was inspiring, he would probably say no. But anyone within 10ft of him probably wouldn't be charmed against him by someone persuasive like the Demon [7th level Aura of Devotion]. Given how handily I think Helsknight fights Welsknight, and how I think he negates Wels's... For the sake of DnDing I'm going to say fey energy and persuasiveness, Purity of Spirit is a good match.

[Don't have a lot to say about the Lvl20 Holy Nimbus, because tbh that's one of the weakest level 20 paladin boons I think there is. Flat 10 radiant damage every round for enemies within 30ft of you is handy, but the saving throws only have advantage if the spellcasters are fiends and undead, and there are many, many big angry critters in DnD that are neither of those two monster types.]

I do think a Helsknight with access to the spell Flamestrike would be absolutely terrifying though lol.

On a more vibes level, when I started the story, I thought Helsknight was a lot closer to Oath of Conquest, with how he treated Welsknight specifically [which is, incidentally, why my CoS paladin Ashborne is Oath of Conquest]. The tenets don't match Helsknight's too terribly well [they're mostly to the effect of "kill all your enemies so dead that everyone is too terrified to stand against you."] However the Channel Divinities of Conquering Presence [everyone you can see is terrified of you now] and Guided Strike [I'm so pissed at you specifically that I will kill you supernaturally easily] align well with angry chapters 1-8 Helsknight. And one could argue every time he's angry, Tanguish is cowering under the Aura of Conquest [anything scared of you is now too scared to move and takes psychic damage.] And I think in text Helsknight does Scornful Rebuke on the regular [anytime something hits you, they are psychically punished for their audacity up to your Charisma modifier.]

[Level 20 Invincible Conquerer basically turns you into a barbarian paladin, which is badass. Helsknight can't do that, but that's so so cool.]

For the spells, Armor of Agythis as Helsknight's thorns armor is compelling to me, and Command, Hold Person and Fear are just things Helsknight can do to people when he's angry enough [also Compelled Dual, but all paladins get that].

If anything, I feel like Helsknight started RnS as Oath of Conquest, and then when he became friends with Tanguish, switched immediately to Oath of Devotion.

[Meanwhile if I had to make Tanguish a paladin, I think he would be Oath of Redemption, but I'll save that rant for some other time.]

[sorenvii]

Dammon x Cleric (GN) Tav

Imagine a scene where the attacks on Last Night Inn brought harm to all, including Dammon. When bedding that night, Tav pays extra attention to healing him.

-Got this idea just by looking at the blue glows of healing spells in Baulder’s Gate and thinking they’d look pretty along skin-

The wind snapped sharply along the skin of those rushing for shelter within the Inn. The stench of blood already mixing in with the foul smell of the undead.

Everything was set in a panic, Isobel and Shadowheart healing as many as possible within the medical ward- unbeknownst to their own. Jaheira yelled words out to her Harper’s, ordering to defend the area in case more attacks came.

You had found yourself in a daze, rushing past the groans and shouts of orders. Stepping outside into the harsh winds as they festered. You needed to find him soon, there weren’t too many casualties from what you’ve seen, you just needed to be sure. Rounding the corner to the temporary Smithery, your heart dropped at the sight of Dammon clutching a wound bound at his stomach.

His eyes looked up to meet yours, an immediate sense of relief flooded in him as he saw you. “You’re okay.” He’d croaked out, a shaking smile on his face that quickly dissipated with a hiss as he keeled forward. You immediately helped him up, whether holding him up by his shoulders or carrying him in yourself. You had both ended up in a spare room with crumbling wood walls and creaking floorboards. But it was more than enough for now.

You’ve had multiple, countless experiences in helping the wounded, yet even so your hands shook. He’d been breathing harshly, lying down on the dusty bed. His soft eyes gazing into yours with nothing but admiration. His hand went for yours, squeezing it three times before planting a delicate kiss on your wrist. “I’m fine, I promise. I’d only been cut from a piece of wood rushing by.” He spoke plainly and calmly, a go-easy look on his features.

You scoffed and squeezed his hand back before ordering him to remove his clothing with your help. As you helped in lifting his working clothes over his sensitive horns, you murmured, “You’re still injured, I should be more than worried.” You spoke in a quivering voice, betraying your act of confidence.

“What about you then? You’re surely damaged as well. You’ve fought a lot harder than I had that’s for sure.” His brows furrowed as he sat up, not for long though as you immediately pushed him back down softly with a knowing look. “I’ll be fine, I need to make sure you are completely okay right now though.” You gazed into his eyes once more, pleading for him to side with you this once.

He sighed, a worried glance still present on his face but biting his own tongue. Knowing you both were stubborn in making sure the other was fine this wouldn’t progress anywhere. In fact throughout your relationship he’d supply you with armor or weapons he’d spend hours on. Sometimes you’d watch by his side. Simply basking in the comfortable silence you brought one another. For he’d be swooning at the sight of his hero basking in the light of the glory, adorning the armor and weapon.

After throughly cleaning the wound and inspecting the groves of his infernal body for other signs of hurt, you determined he’d been fine. You’d been so focused that you didn’t even realize the adoring stare or the tail wrapped tightly around your thigh, curling in the way of a snake. You’d bandaged his waist in a similar fashion, making sure that you’d check it tomorrow as well.

After breathing a sigh of relief you heard your lovers soft voice. “Everything alright with me then doctor?” He’d chuckled softly at the term he teasingly used for you. Bringing a small blush of embarrassment to your face. “You’ll be okay, as you said. The cut wasn’t anything bad but you’ll need to be extra careful of movement for the next week or so.” You murmured, looking upon his body once more. He took in your words with a nod and replied, “What’s next then? Will we be going to Moonrise and fighting the blasted curse-bringer?” His words held malice, angry at the events that occurred on otherwise a peaceful night. So many were hurt tonight, he’d only wish he were more powerful. Powerful enough to help you in all your adventures come forth. But this would do for now.

“Probably, we can’t risk another attack like this soon. We’ll probably head out within the next two days.” You spoke these words, calculated thoughts pouring in before turning to the tiefling. “Other than you, you’ll be here recovering.” Emphasizing the last word to get your point across while pointing at his wound.

Dammon sighed and tugged your thigh closer to him with his tail slithered around you. “Let me bask in your light once more, before you decide to go save us all again.” He murmured, pulling you down next to him on the bed. You snuggly wrapped your arms around him, finding place in his neck as you felt a small purr rumble in him. His tail coiled around your waist, pulling you flush against him, still careful of his wound. “How lucky am I to have a devoted healer such as you.”

He purred the words into your hair, finding respite in your lips as he had many times previous. Peppered kisses flew between the two of you, upon faces, wrists, hands, and necks.

Each kiss you landed on his fragile skin, embedded with your deities help. Each flutter having an ounce of healing properties within. Your hands were no stranger to this either, as they softly glided over his ridges and curves. Finding placement in his chest, hair, face, and beyond.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t scared. That you weren’t worried what the coming days would bring. Sometimes even the light of the gods on you felt worthless in moment like these. You can only find current peace in knowing he’s here. That he’s here and alive in your arms. For what are the comforts of flesh, when there is a lack of.

[cripplepunkbarbarian]

Bad Kids Class Swap (with some light "evil" influences) AU featuring:

Artillerist Artificer & Shadow Sorcerer Riz. Undead Warlock Kristen. Ascendant Dragon Monk & Fathomless Warlock Fabian. Storm Sorcerer Adaine. Vengeance Paladin Gorgug. Wildfire Druid & Zealot Barbarian Fig.

I have many thoughts about those class+subclasses but they're all very disjointed since I also haven't thought up a more cohesive way of getting them all in the same party since their "evil" influences all come from the different seasons.

I won't get too deep into it but the general inspirations are,

Riz: Artificer > Rogue, less focus on mysteries + more focus on his parents legacies. Shadow Sorcerer levels are developed after deepening his connection to Kalina, again reflecting the deeper focus on his relationship to his parents.

Kristen: She starts as a Devotion Paladin of Helio. Dies. Starts doubting the church. Becomes an Oathbreaker Paladin. Dies again. Is brought back by The Nightmare King as an Undead Warlock. Drops her levels of Paladin to focus on that connection.

Fabian: This one is the most canon divergent tbh. Has a more strained relationship with Bill. Doesn't take that 2 year gap to travel with him. Monk > Fighter is meant to reflect the shift in dynamic there. Ends up falling in with Dayne since they're closer in school year now, eventually learns from Kalvaxus (hence Ascendant Dragon). I still think Bill would eventually die and that death would impact Fabian. A Fiend Warlock would be more reflective of their canon dynamic imo so Fathomless helps separate that.

Adaine: Starts as her canon class, Divination Wizard, but her connection to magic is altered by the spirit of the former Oracle upon being awakened. Forcing her to lose her Wizard levels and pick up Storm Sorcerer, as like a "corrupt" Oracle. Honestly I could maybe see her eventually picking up levels of a martial class to regain some sort of control in regards to her adventuring experience.

Gorgug: Also starts as his canon class, Berserker Barbarian, but never goes down the Artificer route and is influenced by Porter into reframing his relationship with rage towards a pursuit of righteousness. I think Gorgug would've been leaning more towards Oath of Glory but Porter would've seen it as too passive and pushed for Oath of Conquest. Oath of Vengeance is what ends up being the "happy medium".

Fig: Instead of her infernal heritage coming out as her tiefling status, it presents a bit subtler with her connection to a Wildfire Spirit. I think that would allow her to live in denial about her heritage a bit longer since her mother has such a clear connection to nature, putting her in a more vulnerable position to be influenced by Porter as well. When the dots eventually connect, he acts as a "support" system encouraging (and actively empowering) her to channel and work with rather than against her rage. Hence levels in Zealot Barbarian.