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another-lost-mc · 9 months

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Can you imagine the om! cast flirting with mc and thinking they're mc's only romantic interest when mc already has a booty call at RAD? There are no feelings involved, just intimacy, but still. I think the cast is too arrogant to ever think mc could be interested in anyone else.

(English is not my native language, so please excuse any possible mistakes)

a/n: that’s fair! I mean, mc has needs too, right? maybe trying to hook up with one of the avatars is daunting, but a hot lower-ranking demon lord who promises a good time every once in a while? that could be fun.

➤ when they find out you have a fwb | the demon brothers

0.9k words | nsfw | suggestive | gn!reader

c/w: jealousy and implied dark themes/sketchy behaviour squints at beel and belphie

read more: the dateables | when solomon is your fwb

Lucifer finds it hard to believe at first. Once he knows the demon’s name, he watches you two interact more closely. He picks up on the shared glances and flirtatious touches he somehow missed before. He’s been stewing in his own desires and feelings for you all this time because he wasn’t sure the best way to declare his intentions. He thought subtlety and patience would be best, but perhaps he can admit just this once that he was mistaken. Learning about your dalliances with someone else finally gives him the push to show you what a real demon lover can offer you. Once you have the Avatar of Pride to warm your bed, you'll be satisfied with no one else but him.

Mammon is one part incredulous, one part jealous, and just a teensy bit turned on. He can’t stop staring at the blurry photo Asmo managed to take of you sneaking out of a utility closet at RAD. His cock twitches when he takes in the image of your rumpled clothes and the way your forehead glistens from a light sheen of sweat. He wants to make you look like that, not some random nobody that doesn't deserve you. His mind races when he imagines his own fingers tugging your clothes aside for better access to your naked body. What did you sound like when you tried to muffle your moans so no one would hear you? Mammon would give anything to take that demon’s place. Y’know, both of you have a spare period after lunch—would you follow him into one of the dark corners of RAD for a little fun if he offered? Maybe it’s time for him to find out.

Levi is seething. Mostly he’s angry and jealous and he wants to tear the building to pieces. He’s also ashamed because the fantasy of you dragging him into an empty room at RAD for a midday fuck is hot as hell. He doesn’t think he deserves you, but he knows that the demon you’re fucking doesn’t either. What do they have that he doesn’t? He’s burning with curiosity about your little affair, but he’s incensed by the idea that he might not be good enough for you. Envy can make him a little desperate. He's tempted to beg you for even a morsel of your love and affection. If he's pathetic enough, maybe you'll even take pity on him and oblige.

Satan is furious because he should’ve realized something was going on. The signs are all there and he missed them somehow. It takes all his willpower not to hunt down your little demon friend for daring to touch you that way. Satan is well-versed in human world literature—maybe declaring his intentions with a romantic gesture would convince you to give him a chance instead? Or maybe sweet and romantic love isn’t what you crave. If fast and rough is more to your tastes, all you need to do is mention your friend’s name—you’ll be too fucked out of your mind to remember it by the time he’s finished with you.

Asmo’s reactions are all over the place: he’s giddy that you’re so daring (fucking at RAD of all places!); he’s devastated that you turned to someone else instead of coming to him; and he’s frustrated that he didn’t realize sooner this was even happening. He pays more attention after he catches you the first time, and it seems so obvious when the current of lust between you and your friend flickers with interest throughout the school day. He finds reasons to keep you two from sneaking off together and pretends he’s not jealous every time he interferes. Perhaps when you’re frustrated enough, he can finally entice you to join him for a little pampering session in his room. You seem so frustrated today! But don’t worry—he knows exactly what you need to loosen up.

Beel is one of the few demons that understands what hunger and starvation feels like. Sometimes you need to do whatever it takes to satisfy those cravings, even on a temporary basis. You’re important to him, and he cherishes your friendship. He’s hidden his true desires from you because he doesn’t want to risk losing control if he’s too hasty, too rough, or too demanding before you're ready to embrace being with someone like him. His love is all-consuming and you're a constant strain on his self-control. If you weren’t turning to someone else for affection, maybe he could be patient and satisfy his urges for you elsewhere. Now that he knows someone else has had a taste of you, he wants you even more. When he finally confesses his desire to be with you, he hopes for both your sakes that you feel the same.

Belphie lashes out with barbed insults and backhanded compliments to hide his own hurt and jealousy. You’re not that bad looking for a human, I guess it was only a matter of time before someone wanted to fuck you. Once he learns the truth about that demon you’ve been fooling around with, he’s suddenly glued to your hip like he can’t stand to be parted from you. He’s selfish with your time and clings to you in his bed during naps. He sneaks his way into your dreams because he wants to make sure you’re not dreaming of anyone else. He might even have a private chat with your little friend, but he doesn’t tell you since it’s nothing for you to worry about. It’s a shame that your fuck buddy suddenly decides to call things off between you after that. At least you still have Belphie to comfort you and wipe away your tears. He appreciates you, even if that random asshole doesn’t—the only demon you ever needed has been here for you all along.

#obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #lucifer x reader #mammon x reader #leviathan x reader #satan x reader #asmodeus x reader #beelzebub x reader #belphegor x reader #obey me smut #obey me x reader #x reader #gn!reader

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secretmellowblog · 2 months

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I saw Les Mis live for the first time the other weekend, and the surprising standout performance for me was Kyle Adams as Grantaire. He is a performer who has obviously read the Brick, and uses all of his stagetime to convey as many aspects of Brick Grantaire as possible; he also reads Grantaire’s love for Enjolras as explicitly gay and romantic (there’s a moment I’ll talk about later where he blows him a kiss.) I was actually surprised by how much he managed to convey in so little time!

Some highlights:

When Enjolras is asking for a “report on the strength of the foe,” Grantaire enthusiastically raises his hand, posturing and gesturing wildly at himself to volunteer. Enjolras casts him a disdainful look like “anyone elSE?” And that’s when Javert jumps in with his “I can find out the truth.” It’s like a small silent version of the Barrier du Maine scene; Grantaire was really giving that “je suis farouche.”

In general, there was this repeated Thing where Grantaire obnoxiously acts out in order to get Enjolras’s attention, and then flails around uselessly whenever he actually has it. Very in character.

Grantaire often goes on uproariously and jokingly about love; then, whenever he’s approached by Enjolras, he doesn’t seem to understand what to do about it.

Whenever Enjolras is singing dramatically about revolution— during Red and Black, Do You Hear the People Sing, and One Day More— Grantaire gazes at up at him with a amazed, awed, and overwhelmed look on his face, sometimes with his hand on his heart.

During Red and Black, there’s a moment where Grantaire “jokingly” caresses Enjolras’s face. Then during Do You Hear the People Sing, Enjolras passes Grantaire by and casually caresses his face; Grantaire acts a bit stunned, as if surprised Enjolras would deign to touch him. Finally, there’s a dramatic “reassuring face-caress” during the gay verse of Drink with Me.

There’s a repeated thing where Grantaire keeps offering Enjolras a bottle of wine, half-jokingly, only for Enjolras to reject it. In the last verse of Drink with Me, after Grantaire finishes his verse and walks away, Enjolras finally accepts a bottle of wine (though another character gives it to him.)

Iirc Grantaire doesn’t join in the fighting initially; he just stares at Enjolras in awe, and then mainly stands by Javert to “guard” him. I mainly mention this because I think Javert and Grantaire are a very funny duo, just as a concept. I think “being forced to listen to Grantaire monologues” is an excellent punishment for Javert.

During Marius’s verse of Drink with Me, Enjolras climbs to the top of the barricade, standing in the light. Grantaire is at the bottom in the shadows, attempting to sleep. As Marius sings about his love for Cosette, Grantaire raises his bottle to Enjolras, and then blows him a kiss. It’s very “let me sleep here until I die here.”

Finally, Grantaire has his "book death." After he spends the entire musical on the fringes being skeptical, he joins Enjolras in the final battle. He climbs up the barricade and says (I was close enough to hear) "Long live the Republic! I am one of them."

I'm genuinely impressed by how much of the Brick characterization he managed to convey with so little time-- some ad-libbing and lots of silent acting moments! It really gave me a greater appreciation of what a strong performer in a musical can do, and how they infuse even 'smaller' parts with lots of nuance and personality.

#les mis #grantaire

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arcielee · 2 months

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sinful

Summary: Lucifer shows you what Adam is lacking. Paring: Lucifer Morningstar x Reader Word Count: 2k+ Warnings: 18+, Reader AFAB, sexual discomfort hinted, sexual inexperience, kissing, oral (f receiving), fingering, cunnilingus from the leader of all demons, and also Bible verses being used to create sexual tension?? Author's Note: Well, I have fallen headfirst into the Hellaverse and needed to get this smut out of my system. Bible verses being used are 1 Corinthians 9-10 & Galatians 5:17. This was inspired by the artwork created by cluffy_25 from IG & TikTok. Maybe now I can finally get some sleep. I hope you enjoy! 😭

On that fateful day of your creation, there was a palpable shift in paradise from the jealousy that was sown into the earth.

Lucifer was first in the shadows, just another specter amongst the watchful wonderment as the rib pulled from Adam was crafted, flesh intricately woven; the sight of you was a holy splendor, surpassing every and any expectation imagined. When it was proclaimed that your image was the likeness of Yahweh, he had scoffed, ignoring the chorus of angels recoiling; the truth–which he spoke out loud–was that your beauty was a novel artistry all its own.

He continued that nothing, that no one, could even compare to you.

It did not help that the praises above echoed this sentiment and further seeded a growing resentment, its envious tendrils wrapping and rotting Eden from within. With it, your novelty was peeled away, but Lucifer remained enraptured with your ethereal grace, with your careful consideration you showed to all living things as you learned your surroundings.

He also saw the covetous gaze cast from the angels and how they poorly masked it with a cold reserve that was met with your every interaction.

Lucifer saw how it began to chip away at the kindness you gave freely. He burned when he saw the hurt that touched your lovely features, he fumed at the sound of your disheartened sigh of acceptance that this was all you could expect from this life given.

Your isolation called to his loneliness, and with Lucifer, you found a kindred spirit. You were grateful with how he returned your genuineness, even finding a sense of comfort, of validation, at the tip of his brazen tongue that did not fear consequence. With him, you found your thoughts could be shared, the ones you carefully clutched to your chest, and would not be met with any judgment–your shy whispers on your divine purpose that came knitted with your existence and the gilded cage that it created.

Though he seemed an empathetic creature, always kind to you, you were also aware of the stories and his lore. You caught a glimpse one day when you let slip the chore required of you to lay with Adam, a duty you tried to complete quickly and quietly when he demanded.

The air around you thickened, and you saw the demon that thrummed beneath the surface: the flash of red in his eyes, the heat from the flame on his furrowed brow. Something powerful, something dire that came and went with your heartbeat.

This was an intimate subject that Lucifer always precariously balanced on the precipice of, always alluring to something unknown by you. He hinted at the shrine you possessed, giving you just a taste of something sinful, of something more that was within your reach. He spoke of pleasure that could be found, but when you mentioned this to Adam, he only sneered.

For man did not come from woman, but woman from man; neither was man created for woman, but woman for man.

“But do you ever wish for more?”

It was another day in the garden. Adam had been swept away by the angels who remained in awe of the First Man, but this never bothered you. You welcomed the reprieve, slipping away to return to the natural arbor by the river weaving through the oasis.

Here the branches curled overhead, light streaking through and the leaves blanketing the ground. Your legs were stretched to feel the sun that fell through, allowing Lucifer to lay his head on your plush thighs. His eyes were watching you, waiting for your response to his question.

Your lips pursed. “I already have all that I could ever need.” You were careful with your words, your fingers moving to comb through his golden hair.

He hummed with your touch. “I did not say need,” his eyes were still trained to you, an upwards curl to his lips. “I asked if you wished for something more, for something else.”

“What else could I possibly want?” Your brow quirked. It was part question, part curiosity. The fallen angel seemed to speak in riddles.

His eyes glittered. “Free will.”

“But I have free will.”

“Free will allows you choices all your own,” he argued, still smiling. “Would you have chosen Adam if you had not been given to him?”

Lucifer grinned as he watched his words catch in your throat. It was another intrusive thought he always seemed to uncover, pulling to the surface. Your blood stained the apples of your cheeks and your tongue wet your lips.

“Adam,” you began, pulling your hands away and placing them at your sides, “was created in the likeness of God.” This was the repeated mantra sung from the heavens, words you spoke now without any conviction. “To not choose him would be to not choose the one true…”

But it faded to obscurity once you became aware of his close proximity; he pulled himself upright before facing you, leaning in with his intensive gaze. “Adam is not God, but only a man.” His voice was low, fanning against your cheeks, and your skin flushed hotly with his words.

This was not the first time he reminded you that Adam was just a man, merely created from the dust of the earth. You never defended whenever Lucifer spoke of Adam’s failures, his certainty that Adam did not give this pleasure you deserved.

It was a topic that piqued your interest, but you felt too bashful to continue it before. But now…

“Free will should allow you the option to choose for more,” his honeyed tone continued. “Should you not experience all that this life has to offer?”

For a moment, you could only hear the orchestra life created, the rustle of the leaves with the soft breeze and the water that flowed. You had always thought Lucifer was handsome. There was something captivating about him, and right now, you were entranced with the new emotion that now played in the amber glow of his eyes.

Like what, you dared to whisper, eyes wide.

Lust of the flesh, he replied with an elegant arc to his brow, with an impish curl to his lips.

You felt your skin prickling, something that flitted along the seams of your being before returning to coil in your abdomen. It was something that pulled you to the precarious ledge he seemed perpetually perched on.

And you kissed him.

It was gentle and it was quick, though your heart bruised against your ribs with your bold action. You felt the embarrassment flood your features, but when you tried to pull away, his hand caught the back of your neck, his fingers curling into your nape. His mouth captured yours with vigor and your mind splintered from the softness of his lips, from the warmth of his mouth; a sensation that screamed throughout you, craving for more.

Flesh lusts against the spirit…these are contrary, the one to the other.

He stopped the moment you tensed, pulling back and allowing you a breath. Your lips were swollen and flushed, your eyes glassy as they came to focus on the Prince of Darkness. “This does not have to go further unless you wish it to,” his voice soft with his emphasis.

The choice presented like a thick haze that swirled around you, drawing you towards him again. This pleasure promised trilled your veins, and your hands moved to grasp and pull him closer for another clumsy kiss.

Your body sang from his touch as his fingers skimmed over to grab into your hips, his warmth alighting your every nerve. His mouth moved to your jaw, to the curve of your neck and lower, nipping at your collarbone. You giggled, squirming against him, and his hold moved to cradle your lower back, a guiding press backwards until you were laying on the grass.

“Trust me,” he whispered against your skin, his hot mouth trailing lower.

Lucifer nestled between your thighs, his hands never leaving your body so you were aptly aware of his next movements. His head turned to press a kiss on the inside of your knee, following along with licks and nips of his teeth and tongue, plumes of color following his wake. It was a slow pacing, creeping towards your core, feeling how your blood simmered beneath, your body blossoming with his methodical ministrations.

Your legs widened, welcoming him and his intimate touch. His fingers pressed a v-shape to spread your folds, his exhaling tickling against your cunt, swollen and glossy with your arousal. He moved closer, a tentative touch of his tongue, and you melted against his mouth. He groaned with your taste, briny and begging for more; his hands curled under your thighs, canting your hips to meet with his lips.

It was a sensation that seared through your veins, a bolt straightening your spine. You gasped again, your hands grabbing fistfuls of his hair to ground yourself as his forked tongue moved with precision and with purpose.

He was mindful of your every sound, your bated breath and your sweet sighs, the mewling noises that spilled like nectar from your lips. He pulled you towards a plateau of pleasure that resonated throughout your core, rattling your bones beneath.

You felt him swell against you, burning between, and your thighs clenched around him. Your chin pressed down to see him, truly for the first time: his horns curling up from his blond hair, the blood-red glow of his eyes pooling onto your skin.

Your mouth fell open, shock and pleasure twisting from your lungs.

Lucifer lifted his head, meeting with your teary gaze, his sharp smile gleaming from your slick. “You may grab onto them, if you need to.” His voice was low, husky.

Your hands trembled to touch and their smooth texture was warm against your palms. You reverberated with his low chuckle as he dipped his head back to the apex of your thighs, his vitality unleashed. He feasted on your essence, and your hands gripped the base of his horns as his forked tongue carved into your sensitive flesh, a pulsing pleasure that poured hotly in your core. You cried out with the prod at your entrance, and he pressed a quick kiss to soothe as his finger curled within you.

“You are doing so well for me,” he crooned as his finger searched, brushing against a spot that brightened your vision, curling your toes. He hummed again, and you felt his satisfaction curling on his lips. “Can you take another one for me?”

Your back arched with his touch; the tandem of his tongue and fingers thrilled you, the pulsing pleasure coiling so tight it was as if your heart was beating outside your body. It unfurled, a blinding light, a sobbed release, this euphoria wrenching the air from your lungs and your muscles contracting around his digits; and Lucifer continued his come hither motion to your completion.

You were eventually brought back to your body, feeling a gentle breeze against the sheen of sweat, the grounding weight pressing to the inside of your thigh. You blinked, seeing Lucifer with his head resting against you, his fingers drawing lazy designs on your skin. His wicked grin was splayed, watching through hooded eyes at the slow rise and fall of your chest as you regained your breath.

You blushed furiously, feeling the dull throb between your thighs, the last remnants of your pleasure he craftily pulled from you. But there was also an ache, a contrast of emotions playing in the haze of your mind: the purpose you were given and this newfound pleasure had.

These are contrary, the one to the other: so that ye cannot do the things that ye would wish.

The blood drained as you pushed to your elbows, a prickling fear that followed the curve of your spine. You stammered, your tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. “W-what did you say?”

Lucifer tilted his head, his brow furrowed, confused. “I only said that you were beautiful,” and he pushed up, moving to kiss you, softly, sweetly. “You are beautiful just like this.”

You allowed his kiss to comfort you, rekindling the fire he had found within you, with the sweet taste of your sin on his lips.

arcie's masterlist

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fanfiction #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer morningstar #lucifer x reader #lucifer x f!reader #lucifer x you #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer morningstar x you

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charmandabear · 4 months

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Office Hours - Chapter One

Summary:

Your colleague Dr. Ancunin is a smug condescending bastard and you can't stand him. But you also can't get him out of your head.

Pairing: Astarion/F!Reader Rating: E Word Count: 5.2k Tags/Warnings: unprotected p in v sex, creampie, no breeding kink, masturbation, vaginal fingering, vampire bites, modern au, college/university au, urban fantasy, enemies to lovers, like the briefest mention of suicide while talking about Hamlet

This would not exist without @zipzoomzaria's gorgeous glasses screenshots because PROFESSOR, PLS. Go follow her bc her edits are out of this world. The masturbation scene is also heavily inspired by @astarionfreak's "Are You Satisfied, Darling?" If you haven't read it what are you doing???

Read on AO3 ~ Masterlist

There’s something about him that rubs you the wrong way. It could be his arrogance, or the condescending way he peers over his glasses at you and your other colleagues. It might be the overpriced cashmere turtlenecks that hug his figure perfectly or the stupid silver earrings adorning his stupid elf ears. But every time he opens his pretty little mouth you feel a snarl growing deep in your throat.

This is the first university you’ve worked at where the theatre and English departments shared an office. Theatre and music, sure, even theatre and dance. But theatre and English? It feels insulting, honestly. English PhDs are some of the snobbiest people you’ve ever met, and they always speak to you like a child. Is it because they’re unimpressed by your MFA, like it made you less deserving of your position? Who knows. But Astarion Ancunin is no different.

“Grace, would you mind making twelve copies of pages 219-254 when you get a chance?” You hand the administrative assistant the heavy book. “You can leave them in my mailbox, I’ll pick them up later.” Grace opens the book to the instructed page.

“Oh, Much Ado About Nothing! I love that one!” she squeals with delight. “That Beatrice and Benedick,” she sighs, stroking the Complete Works lovingly. You smile at her cordially.

“They’re great, they’re basically the non-problematic version of Kate and Petruchio,” you respond in agreement.

“How tragic that Taming’s writing is better.”

You whirl around to see Ancunin walking in looking at something on his phone. He doesn’t even look up as he inserts himself into your conversation. You glare at his interruption. He looks up at Grace, bypassing you completely.

“Good morning, Grace darling, how are you today?” He sweeps over to her and takes her hand in his, planting a kiss on her knuckles. Gods he’s fucking insufferable. Not to mention unprofessional. Grace, however, blushes and giggles like a schoolgirl.

“I’m doing well, Dr. Ancunin, and yourself?” The tiefling’s voice jumps up about three pitches and her tail starts swishing excitedly.

“Leagues better now that I’ve been blessed with your presence,” he coos at her, voice positively saccharine. It takes every ounce of your patience to keep from rolling your eyes. He casts his gaze to you, and even you need to turn away from those piercing red eyes.

“Good morning, professor. Starting Much Ado with your students, I take it?” he asks with a light smile that makes you bristle.

“Yes, it’s a great way for them to practice switching between verse and prose,” you respond coolly, more than a little defensive.

“Of course, one of his best.” He glances down at the volume still in Grace’s hands and his eyebrows raise, peering over the top of his round glasses. “Going with the Bevington, hmm? Interesting. I’m more of a Norton man, myself.” He runs a slender finger along the binding as you grit your teeth. Is he really patronizing you over your choice of edition of Shakespeare’s Complete Works? Of course, he’s an English scholar.

“The Norton is a great tool dramaturgically, but the Bevington is a much better resource for actors, so, yes.” Your voice is steady but there’s an undeniable venom in it. Can he tell how much he’s bothering you? Probably, he’s almost certainly getting enjoyment out of riling you up. His little smirk would seem to suggest it, at least.

“Well certainly, and who knows acting resources better than our resident classical acting expert?” he intones, voice still dripping with honey. You narrow your eyes at him, unsure if he’s taking another jab at your degree.

“Well, as much as I enjoy standing around and debating the merit of various editions of the Complete Works, I’m about to be late for a meeting. Grace, thank you so much, I’ll be back later to pick up those copies. Dr. Ancunin,” you turn to his smug face and he looks back at you innocently. “A pleasure, as always.” You grab your papers and leave the office, feeling the heat of his gaze boring into the back of your head as you leave.

***

“Yes, Thaniel, come on in, have a seat,” you call out to the freshman loitering in the hallway outside your office. He comes in and drops his overfull backpack next to the teal club chair across from your desk. You close your laptop and smile at him warmly.

“So, Hamlet, that’s ambitious! I think it’s a good choice for you, but it’ll be a lot of work,” you say, glancing at your own copy of the monologue.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here,” Thaniel says nervously. “I’m fine with the scansion and stuff, that I get, but I still don’t get the actual words. And I know you said how important that is.”

“For sure, I can guarantee all of the bad Shakespeare you’ve seen has been because the actors had no idea what they were saying. Have you used the Lexicon?” Thaniel looks off to the side, embarrassed.

“No, I don’t really get how that works either,” he says, an air of chagrin creeping into his voice.

“No worries, it takes practice. Here, we’ll do a few lines together. So first off, to be or not to be, that’s fairly obvious, right?”

“Yeah, he’s talking about suicide, right?”

“Sure, but what is he actually saying about it? To take arms against a sea of troubles/And by opposing, end them. What’s ‘them’ referring to?”

“The sea of troubles?”

“Right, the aforementioned slings and arrows. So even though you might know what those words mean individually, look them up in the Lexicon to see if they have a different context here. But you’re right, he’s trying to figure out if it’s better to suffer through the shittiness of existence or to take your fate into your own hands and, well, end them.” You highlight the line and lean over your desk to show Thaniel. A voice pipes up from the doorway.

“That’s not exactly what he’s saying, you know.”

The paper crumples in your hand slightly as your fist instinctively tightens. You plaster a strained smile on your face and look up at him.

“Dr. Ancunin, thank you for gracing us with your presence. Care to elaborate?”

He’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, face in shadows. Your office is unusually dark because of the storm outside, and so the bright fluorescents in the hallway give him an almost ethereal halo effect

“It’s a common misconception that Hamlet is contemplating suicide here. Life and death, sure, but ‘to take arms’ isn’t metaphorical, it’s literal. He’s contemplating dying as a result of killing Claudius, not taking his own life,” he says, almost sounding bored. You stand abruptly, your office chair skidding backwards.

“How can that possibly be true? He says ‘to take arms against a sea of troubles.’ He’s using the active voice, deciding whether or not to continue his life or end it. To be or not to be. It’s the first line in the monologue. He’s not talking about the consequences of killing Claudius.” You try to keep your voice from shaking. You know that you don't sound nearly as eloquent as him, and it’s pissing you off. He shrugs nonchalantly.

“You’re oversimplifying it, it’s exceedingly more complicated than that. The whole soliloquy is filled with war imagery. He’s at war with himself, the part of him that wants to kill Claudius and the part of him that is afraid to die.” He pushes himself off the door frame and steps back into the hallway. “But apologies, please don’t let me interrupt your instruction.” And like that he was off, leaving you to stew in silence. Thaniel looks up at you and looks back at the doorway where he stood.

“Should I…” he starts, but you cut him off with a wave of your hand.

“Dr. Ancunin comes at this from a very different angle as an English academic. He’s more interested in the words on the page, rather than how they translate to the stage. But,” you sigh, loathe to give him any credit, “it’s a valid interpretation. We can go down that route, if you want, or we can look at it through this lens.” Thaniel chews his lip while he considers his options.

“I think what you said makes more sense, the suicide bit,” he finally decides. You nod and pull out your copies of the Shakespeare Lexicon.

“Great, let’s go over how to use the Lexicon again,” you say as you flip through the book, looking for the entry for ‘slings.’

***

You drop off your bag and toss your keys into a bowl on the counter. Fucking exhausting day. You unzip your boots and kick them vaguely in the direction of the shoe rack, stretching and curling your toes for relief. You hang up your wet coat and shake rain from your hair. Your eyes dart between the refrigerator, wherein resides a bottle of white wine, and the bathroom door, contemplating how good a hot bath would feel. Both? Both is good.

You pour yourself a generous glass of Riesling and strip your clothes on your way to the bathroom. One of the perks of living alone. Sitting naked on the edge of the tub, you sip your wine as the bath fills.

Fucking Ancunin.

You’re a little shocked at how much he got under your skin today. Normally you don’t think twice about him, excepting the few times you have the misfortune of passing him in the hallway. But today the fates decided to throw you together and your schedules aligned. Well, in your defense, you didn’t seek him out that second time, he was the one who decided to crash your office hours.

You don’t even like Hamlet that much. You certainly don’t care about alternative interpretations of “To be or not to be.” But you’re mostly annoyed because he had a fair point. His read makes Hamlet a more interesting character rather than a cowardly incel romanticizing suicide.

You slide into the bath, hissing slightly as the hot water flows over your chilled skin. Without prompting, Ancunin worms his way back into your thoughts. Hmmph. You take a gulp of wine to try to wash away the taste of the unpleasant image.

Well… not entirely unpleasant. He’s a good looking man, you’d be a fool to deny it. But gods he’s so smug. And interrupting your meeting with Thaniel was wildly inappropriate. Leaning your head against the edge of the tub, you try to focus your thoughts elsewhere. You’re not about to let him interrupt you again, and when he’s not even present, no less.

But there he is, in your mind, crimson eyes looking over the top of those metal frame glasses that you’re, like, 99% sure he doesn’t actually need to see. You take another swig of wine to drown his stupid face. With his stupid cheekbones. And his dumb fucking earrings that you want to bite.

Nine hells, what is happening? You’ve been drinking your wine quickly and aren’t thinking straight. You grab your phone and open Spotify, letting your daily mix play through the bluetooth speaker on the counter.

Now Playing: Hatefuck by The Bravery.

If I put my hands around your wrists, would you fight them?

If I put my fingers in your mouth, would you bite them?

By Mystra’s fucking grace, seriously? You growl at the growing heat between your legs. Between putting off dinner and chugging your wine, your head is swimming. You might be better off getting it out of your system.

The wine glass hits the tub edge with a clank as you angrily put it down and sink into the water up to your chin. You are satiating a purely physical need, nothing else.

You still shiver as you slip your hand between your legs, lightly running your finger up your slit. You can see his face, looking down on you through those glasses - those infuriating glasses - and your lips flutter. What does he look like under those sweaters? He’s so thin, but his clothes fit incredibly well. It’s not hard to imagine a sculpted body beneath. You spread your legs further and let the warm water tickle your folds.

His silvery curls would look so good between your legs, slender fingers wrapped around your thighs while he laps you up. At least then he’d shut up. A gentle moan escapes your lips as you run your finger along your inner lips, pretending it’s him. You could grab hold of those perfect locks, yanking on them to control where he can go, fucking his face.

You move your other hand up to your breast and start teasing your nipple, feeling his lips around it. You give it a little tug and groan, just like if he nipped at it.

You imagine sitting on his pretty face, pointed ears flushed and hair a mess. Your hips buck into your hand as they might on top of him and your toes curl. You make gentle circles around your clit, thinking of all the other uses for his silver tongue. You whine and squirm at the sensations of heat radiating through your body. You slip a finger inside and hiss as you can see his pale digits entering you in your mind’s eye. You curl it upwards and gasp, his imaginary eyes looking up at you through those long lashes and a smirk playing across his imaginary lips.

“Are you ready for more of me, darling?” You can hear him murmur into your ear.

“Yes, gods yes,” you reply breathlessly into the cold bathroom air. You slide another finger in and feel that delicious stretch. The ghost of him moans, coming undone at the sight of you. You could leave him speechless, for once.

You reach over the edge of the tub and grab the box of waterproof toys. You frantically sift through your collection of dildos, trying to find the right one. Here. It’s long and svelte like the rest of him, but bright shimmery purple. You suction it to the bottom of the tub and hover above it on your knees. It sways lightly in the water, tip of it teasing your pussy just like you’d love to do to him.

Gods, to see him beg for your cunt. To see him reduced to a babbling mess, pleading to let him inside you. Your breath quickens at the mental image of him pulling on his own hair waiting for you to satisfy him. You sink down onto the dildo and your groan of pleasure mirrors what you’d like to hear from him.

You start sliding yourself on the purple dick, feeling its ridges glide against the walls of your cunt as you continue to finger your clit. You imagine your hand splayed across his chest, your black nails standing in contrast against his pale skin. You claw at the bottom of the tub as you increase your pace, desperate to see the pink raised skin that your nails leave behind. The fingers on your clit speed up as well, and you can feel yourself getting close.

“Oh gods, Astarion, don’t stop,” the words tumble from your mouth unbidden. You will absolutely hate yourself for that later, but right now all that matters is your ecstasy. You bounce atop the dildo, disregarding the water that splashes over the side of the tub as you chase your finish. Your moans increase in pitch and fervor as the various images of him in all sorts of positions flash through your mind. Between your thighs, sitting on his face, riding his dick, even fucking pegging him from behind because why the hell not?

“Astarion!” You cry out his name as you crash over the edge, legs shaking and pussy pulsing. Your orgasm reverberates throughout your whole body as you ride it out. Eventually, your movement slows and the water gently sways around you. You look down at your hand, milky juices swirling in the now tepid tub water.

Shit.

***

The next day at work, you avoid him like the plague. You keep your office door closed, usually an unthinkable act but entirely necessary right now. You double check the hallway before leaving to go teach, and then after class you immediately duck back into your office and close the door again. You even avoid the main office for fear of running into him there.

You can’t look at his face right now. You can’t possibly look him in the eye.

When 5:00 rolls around, you glance out into the hallway. Most of the other professors are leaving. To play it safe, you decide to work until 6 so that you can be sure that he’s gone when you leave. You absentmindedly grade performance responses. After you’ve read one paragraph about Miss Julie maybe a half dozen times, you realize that it’s probably time to go.

You slowly open the door and glance out into the hallway. You can’t tell from this angle if his door is open or not. You grab your bag and coat, take a deep breath, and make a beeline for the stairs. As you approach his office you realize it’s open.

Fuck.

It’s fine. You’ll just walk past it and get to the parking lot and then you won’t need to worry about it. He might not even be in there. Or if he is, he probably has his head down and won’t notice you walk by. It’s fine. You’ve got this.

“Oh, professor, a word?” His voice floats into the hallway right as you’re passing his door. Are you fucking kidding? You turn to see him sitting at his desk, head down, writing something. He doesn’t even look up at you. Prick.

“Yes?” you ask, not budging from your spot in the hall. He glances up at you over his glasses. Those fucking glasses. You want to rip them off his face and throw them out the window.

“Do you have a moment? I think we need to talk.” His voice is low and cool. Does he fucking know? There’s no way he can know.

Right?

You tentatively take a step into his office. It’s surprisingly cluttered for a man who always looks so put together, but it’s still warm and inviting. You can barely see the walls for being covered corner to corner in bookshelves full to bursting. He’s got a big mahogany desk in the middle of the room - significantly nicer than the university-issued one. It’s covered in stacks of papers, books, weird little knick knacks; it’s amazing how he’s able to get anything done on it. There are two chairs facing his desk, much like yours, but a rich plush velvet instead of a scratchy cotton weave. He’s got a scent diffuser somewhere, giving the room an aroma like an earthy spiced tea.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the cushy red chairs across from him. You stand there, clutching your bag, staring at him like a deer in the headlights. When he realizes you’re not going to sit, he gets up and crosses over to the door.

“Do you mind if I close this? It’s… a bit embarrassing,” he asks with a crooked smile. You can feel the heat in your cheeks rising. Your mouth goes dry and you try to swallow the lump forming in your throat.

There’s no way he knows.

Right?

But something compels you to nod, so he closes the door and walks back to his desk, but rather than sitting behind it, he leans back casually on the front of it. He’s taken off the blazer he usually wears and is down to just the turtleneck, sleeves pushed up just below his elbows. He crosses his arms in front of his chest as you stare, waiting.

“I wanted to… apologize. For yesterday.”

You blink at him, the conversation not going in the direction you expected. You had been so focused on yourself, that it took you a moment to realize what he was referring to.

“It was inappropriate to barge in on your meeting with your student. You were mid-instruction, and I needn’t have inserted myself into your conversation.” He leaned back on his hands, stretching out his lean figure to impossible proportions. The grip on your bag slackened and you couldn’t help but drag your gaze over the length of his body. He looks at you quizzically.

“I get the sense that you don’t very much like me,” he muses.

Now it’s his turn to give you the once-over, and you feel practically naked before him the way he looks at you. “Then again,” he adds, and pushes himself off his desk. He slowly advances toward you, though whether like someone approaching a vicious beast or a predator stalking its prey, it’s unclear. You retreat while holding his gaze until your back is flush against the door.

No escape now.

He gets precariously close to you and takes an unsettling whiff. When he speaks again, his voice is a husky growl.

“I think it’s entirely possible you like me… quite a bit.” He’s got at least a half foot on you, and he looks down on you with heavy-lidded eyes. The heat in your face has fully reached the tips of your ears now, and your breath comes out ragged.

“I’m sure I-” you start, but it comes out thick and raspy. You clear your throat and try again. “I’m sure I don't know what you mean,” you finally manage with all of the composure you can muster. He cocks an eyebrow at you, then slowly takes off those infuriating glasses.

“No? Then perhaps I’m mistaken, and your heart rate hasn’t increased by approximately 20 beats per second in the past few minutes.” His eyes continue boring into you. “And maybe that smell between your legs is completely unrelated.”

An undignified splutter comes out of you as you press your thighs closer together. He takes a half step back to let you respond.

“If I am indeed mistaken, then I’ve said my peace and you’re free to go.” The seductive honey is gone from his voice, and in its place is a politely professional tone. You fully feel that he’s giving you an out, that you can both laugh on this as an embarrassing moment and neither will bring it up ever again.

But on the other hand…

“You’re not mistaken,” you choke out in a whisper. The lazy smile is back and he lifts your chin with his index finger.

“What was that? Speak up.” His command weakens your knees and you wither under his gaze.

“You’re not wrong,” you say more boldly, trying to meet his energy. His smile broadens, and for the first time you notice two pointy fangs slip out beneath his upper lip.

Fucking

vampire??

That explains how he could track your heartbeat, and even more his ridiculously keen sense of smell. Doesn’t make it any less humiliating.

“No, I don’t suppose I am,” he snarls and suddenly he’s kissing you roughly, hands twisting in your hair and one knee sliding up between your legs. He pushes you against the door and lifts you off your feet slightly. You’re desperate just to keep up as he devours you, hands weakly grasping at his hips, shoulders, neck. But he’s fully in control of the kiss, and after a moment you let him take you.

He breaks the kiss but doesn’t pull away, and you’re both breathing heavily, air cycling between your lungs. Your head feels full of a thick fog and you can’t fully see straight. His hands are still in your hair, tight but not pulling - yet. You get the sense that might not last long.

He drops to his knees and you nearly double over from the sudden lack of support. He runs his nose and lips across the hem of your black denim skirt, inhaling again. Your fingers lace into his hair, but not even remotely in the dominant way from your fantasy. At this point you’re just trying not to collapse.

He looks up at you, flashing another fang-bearing grin. His hand slips up your skirt and his thumb runs across your pussy, barricaded by your sheer tights and panties.

“Darling, you’re positively soaked,” he hums contentedly. “You’d have a hard time hiding this from anyone.” You bite your lower lip, trying to keep the needy whines at bay. But when he fiercely rips the crotch of your tights and presses the flat of his tongue against the drenched gusset, you can’t stop the cry from escaping your throat. He sucks lasciviously, the debauched slurping noise ringing in your ears. Your knees buckle and he grabs hold of your hips, hiking your skirt up to your waist to get better access to your dripping cunt.

He stands and kisses you again, the taste of you lingering on

his lips. He grabs your ass and digs his fingers into your flesh, spreading them until you gasp into his kiss. In one fluid motion he sweeps up your legs and wraps them around his waist, carrying you over to that incredible mahogany desk.

He plops you down on the hardwood and you hear books and papers tumbling onto the floor behind you. He presses his bulge into your mound, this time the sound of both of your moans mingling pleasingly. He tears at your chiffon button down, trailing hungry kisses down your chest as you throw your head back in pleasure. He makes quick work of fully removing your top, though you’re certain he sacrificed some buttons in the process. You hardly care as you paw wantonly at the back of his neck, desperate for him to get his lips onto every single inch of you. He pulls the lace cup of your bra down with his teeth and starts sucking on your nipple, pressing his hand into the small of your back. You arch into him, his hands working you like a soft clay.

So much for the pleading mess that you pictured last night. Instead, you’re the one who's been reduced to shambles, begging for satisfaction.

“Puh-please,” you stutter, and those devilish eyes lock onto yours again. He snakes his way back up your chest and bites your lower lip.

“Puh-please what?” he mocks your stammering, but makes up for it when he rolls his hips forward, dragging that delicious hardness against you. You squirm, trying to pull him closer but he’s got your arms locked in his grip. His lips leave yours and ghost over the flesh of your neck. He very gently scrapes his fangs across your jugular, eliciting a ghoulish moan from you in return. By all the gods, you hadn’t even considered that as a part of it. His movement made it clear that he won’t bite unless you want him to.

But holy hells do you want him to.

“Gods Astarion,” you gasp, and you swear you can feel his cock twitch at the sound of his own name. “Fuck me then bite me, or the other way around I don’t care, but please get in me!” The string of words almost sounds foreign to your own ears, but you’re well beyond the point of trying to sound clever. In an instant, he’s undone his belt buckle and his erection springs forth, bouncing and already dripping precum. He roughly shoves your panties to the side and sinks his cock and teeth into you simultaneously, drawing out your cry of both pain and pleasure. You wrap your legs and arms around him, trying to pull him in deeper. You can feel his mouth filling up with your hot blood just as your cunt fills up with his dick.

You’re panting as you grow more lightheaded, clinging to his neck. Unthinkingly, your fingers stroke his ears, playing with those tiny silver hoops. He lurches and pulls away from your neck, looking absolutely feral with your blood dripping down his chin, which only sets you off more. You angle your hips toward him, trying to get him to start thrusting into you. He pushes your back down onto the desk and hooks his elbows beneath your knee high boots. Then he starts pounding into you properly, and you feel like you’re close to losing it. You grab onto the edge of the desk as he revs up his pace, his cock stretching you out as he keeps your legs close to your ears. You can feel the heat mounting in your core and you know it won’t be long before you come. But at this point you’re just trying to hold on for dear life.

“Fuck, gods, Astarion, I’m-” You finish before your sentence does. He doesn’t relent as the orgasm wracks your body, if anything, he fucks you harder. Just as you’ve barely come down off your climax, he pulls out and yanks you off the desk, spins you around and pushes your face down into the smooth mahogany, warmed from where you had just been. He enters you again, this time from behind, and already you’re working your way up to a second one. Your bare tits squish against the polished surface and he grabs your hair, pulling your head up and arching your back into him.

For the first time you notice the mirror on the opposite wall across from his desk. But rather than both of you, you only see yourself, disheveled and well-fucked, lips swollen from his abuse. Your hair is pulled up by an invisible force behind you. Another unexpected aspect of vampire fucking.

You desperately wish you could see his face because you can feel his thrusts getting more uneven and erratic. You try to turn to get a glimpse of him, but his grip on your hair remains tight. But even if you can’t see him, you can hear him, his grunts and the low string of incoherent swears pouring out of his mouth. The sound of him getting lost in you is enough, and your own moans start building and mixing with his, an utter symphony of epicurism.

His hips give a few more broken thrusts and you can feel his climax, setting off yours. The throbs of his cock match those wracking your cunt, and you hold onto the edge of the desk as the waves wash over you. Once they’ve come to an end he pulls out, and you can feel his semen dripping out of the sudden emptiness and running down your leg. You quietly say a thankful prayer for your IUD.

You’re both panting as he collapses onto your back, planting a half-hearted kiss on your spine. You weakly push yourself up off the desk and see the devastation of papers, smears and fluids. You turn yourself around and relish in his appearance. Your blood is splattered on his fine cream sweater, his usually perfectly coiffed curls damp and sticking to his forehead. You reach up and wipe the remainder of your blood off his chin. He smirks and kisses you, significantly more gently this time.

“That was good,” you murmur through steadying breaths, “but next time, keep the fucking glasses on.”

#astarion #astarion fanfic #astarion fic #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #baldurs gate astarion #baldurs gate fanfiction #astarion ancunin #astarion smut #baldurs gate smut #fanfiction #smut #professor astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x you #office hours

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sidekick-hero · 2 months

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(steddie | teen | 1.2k | tags: rockstar!eddie, drummer!steve, secret relationship, part of @thefreakandthehair and @firefly-party and mine project pickup note | @steddielovemonth prompt love is staying in bed for five extra minutes because you can't tear yourself away from them just yet by @starryeyedjanai | art by Kei | story in the same verse by Lex | AO3)

Steve came to slowly, like swimming through molasses, his mind caught somewhere between dreaming and being awake. In his dream, he had been lying in the sun, his head cushioned in Eddie's lap, Eddie's fingers running through his hair, humming a soft melody Steve had never heard before.

Slowly, the melody changes to the sound of soft snoring, and the soft thing under his head isn't Eddie's lap, it's his chest, gently rising and falling with each snore. Steve presses his smile into the warm skin beneath him at the thought of Eddie's face when he tells him he snores.

Some things are worth waiting for, though, and he knows the perfect moment to reveal this particular piece of information will come.

He has no idea what time it is. Judging by the morning light filtering into the room, it's just after sunrise, the sun's rays piercing through the blinds and casting a warm, golden glow that gradually fills Steve's hotel room.

Moving as carefully as he can, he cranes his neck to check the aged alarm clock on the bedside table. It tells him that he was right, it's 7:58 a.m., and the sun has risen just minutes before him. The light filtering in is soft and diffused, making the colors seem muted yet rich, with shades of pale orange, pink, and yellow dancing across the surfaces. Long shadows stretch out elegantly, accentuating the contours of furniture and objects in the room.

It's Steve's favorite time of day. There's a sense of quiet serenity in this early morning moment as the world slowly awakens. It offers a brief respite before the hustle and bustle of the day begins.

These days, early mornings hold an even more special place in his heart because it's the only time of day he can just look at Eddie.

Sometimes Steve thinks Eddie is like a hummingbird, always moving until all his energy is used up and he falls into a deep slumber that almost looks like he's dead to the world. It allows Steve to soak him up undisturbed and unabashed. His fingers carefully exploring the hills and valleys of hard muscle and soft flesh, he can drink in the swirling ink on Eddie's pale skin.

It's such a stark contrast from the rest of the day.

Eddie often seems driven. By the perceived expectations of others, by his own fears of falling short. By his own demons, which Steve has only glimpsed. But as the darkness of the night gives way to a new day, Eddie looks at ease.

It's probably too soon to think, but Steve hopes it's because he's now sharing Eddie's bed. That Eddie feels safe with him, safe enough to let go of all the things that plague his beautiful but sometimes overwhelmingly loud mind.

That's why it pains Steve to be the one to wake Eddie from his peaceful slumber and bring him back to reality. But they have a sound check at 9:15 because the venue has had some problems lately and they need to make sure everything goes off without a hitch tonight. This whole tour means too much to them, to Eddie, for it not to be perfect.

Pressing a gentle kiss just above where Steve can feel the steady beating of Eddie's heart, he softly calls Eddie's name. Not surprisingly, nothing happens, so another kiss follows the first, this time on Eddie's collarbone.

"Eddie, c'mon," he tries again, this time closer to Eddie's ear, eliciting a soft murmur. "We have to get up, the soundcheck -"

"Mm, they can check the sound without us," his - Eddie's - voice comes in a slightly drawn out tone. "Don't wanna get up."

Eddie, obviously not fully awake yet, wraps his arms around Steve and buries his face in Steve's hair.

"I know, ba-" Steve stumbles over the pet names that want to come out more and more now that they're so much closer than when he first started touring with Corroded Coffin. "I know. But we can grab a big coffee with enough sugar in it to put an elephant into a sugar coma, and when the check is done, we can come back to the hotel and sneak into your room and I can make it worth your while."

Steve's tone is low, almost a purr, as he says this. The others don't know about them yet, although Steve thinks that at least Robin and Chrissy have their suspicions. And Jeff has been watching them more closely as well. He's sure that they'll tell them soon, but first they want to enjoy getting to know each other this way, without their friends getting involved.

"Five more minutes and I will make it worth your while. Whaddya say, big boy?"

Before Steve can answer, most likely telling Eddie no, we're going to be late and how are you going to explain that to the others, Eddie rolls them both over until Steve lands on his back with a soft umph. Above him, Eddie is smiling down at him, suddenly much more awake than seconds before.

"Hi," he says, nudging Steve's nose with his own.

Steve doesn't even try to fight the dopey smile, even as he rolls his eyes at Eddie trying to get what he wants by playing dirty. It's so Eddie, just like the wolfish grin on his face.

"I'll make this the best five minutes of your life, Harrington. Scout's honor."

Steve snorts. "Scout's honor? I doubt you ever talked to a scout in your life."

"Oh yeah. In fact, I'm sleeping with one. And I'm about to kiss one before I rock his world."

"See, that's where you're wrong."

"Is that so?"

This makes Steve laugh out loud. "You're ridiculous."

"And you love it," Eddie replies, then hesitates as his choice of words seems to register with him.

Before the moment between them ends in awkwardness, Steve leans in to kiss Eddie on the nose. "How did you know I was a Boy Scout?"

Steve's distraction works, and the worry in Eddie's eyes is replaced by mischief. "Just a guess, but good to know."

"Ass."

"I have it on good authority that you like my ass," Eddie teases, and Steve has to agree. He really does. As much as he likes everything else about Eddie. How much is becoming a problem.

Instead of saying any of these things, Steve looks over at the alarm clock, which now reads 08:04. He clicks his tongue in mock disappointment. "I think your five minutes are up, and I have to say, not the world-rocking I was expecting, Munson."

"Oh you..." Eddie growls before swooping in to capture Steve's lips in a deep kiss. It turns into another, and another, the dim light in the room growing brighter around them as they become lost in each other.

Eddie makes it to sound check just in time, while Steve is ten minutes late, carrying five cups of coffee. He hopes no one notices the bright grin Eddie flashes with the first sip of his overtly sweet coffee, or the wink he gives Steve.

A promise is a promise, and Steve intends to keep them all when it comes to Eddie.

#steddie #steddie fanfiction #rockstar eddie munson #drummer steve harrington #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things fanfiction #steddielovemonth #day 16 #love is staying in bed for five extra minutes because you can't tear yourself away from them just yet #my writing #pickup note

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illyrian-dreamer · 3 months

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Dance with the devil – Part 1

Rhysand x fem!reader series

Summary: You attempt to rob the High Lord of the Night Court.

Words: 3.3k

TW: Violence, death

Notes: Morally grey Rhysand below the cuff 😈😈😈

»»——-　★　——-«« ★ »»——-　★　——-««

Tick, tick, tick.

That stern voice nagged in your mind, laced with forewarning and impatience that only frustrated you further.

You had just minutes to find the scroll and get out.

With gritted teeth, you leaned closer, drowning out that voice - likely your mothers - as well as the drumming of your heart, waiting for that final click.

You were versed in charming locks, picking them when you had to, just as you did now. And what waited on the other side of this door was worth every swallow of bile, every rise and swell of panic that begged you to think of the consequence - of what would happen if you were caught.

It was only a half-moon prior that you had snuck into the infamous libraries of the Day Court while the city slept, hunting concealed maps and etchings of Helion’s castle. You studied the corridors and winding staircases of the impressive home, squinting through the flickering glow of the small fae light you had allowed yourself to cast, anxious eyes lifting reluctantly every so often, humouring the phantom furl of a page or shiver down your spine.

So you pressed those routes to memory – sewers, plumbing, hidden passageways marked in some maps and not others. They were your only true salvage if things went wrong.

Weapons were now strapped to every part of your leathers that would allow, layers of magic shielding your scent and sound so strong it made your joints ache, as if buckling under their weight.

Easy in, easy out, quick on your feet and don't look back.

That mantra was your only comfort as you silently slipped into the lavish guest suite, a breath of relief that its layout matched your efforts of breaking into the libraries. Because although night never found this court, there was only a small window in which the High Lords were away from their suites, and time was a persistent foe.

It was incredibly risky to break into the guest quarters of the High Lord of the Night Court, especially after Hellion had declared his home a neutral grounds for the High Lord’s meeting. But what Rhysand possessed was invaluable – that scroll of ancient tongue, the only one of it’s kind. It was worth the risk of your own life, of certain death if you were caught.

Careful, gloved fingers sifted through the papers on the desk, making sure not to leave anything out of place.

The details you had gained on the High Lord were valuable – he was neat, more than neat, really – his room immaculate and organised. A paper left rippled, a chair at a slight angle, even a stray hair on the sprawling marble floor – all were things he would surely notice.

But you could tread lightly, could play to that game of fine detail. Nimble as a mouse – that’s how your father had always described you, affection warming his face as he compared you to your boisterous brother.

With a clench of your heart, you forced the memory out. Once you had that scroll – soon. You would be together again soon.

As you crouched low to sift through the chestnut draws, mahogany carved with the kind of finery that made you sick, a hint of gold gleamed from the corner of the room, the light catching your eye.

Padding with quiet creaks from your boots, you allowed yourself only a moment to admire the array of scrolls that lay in the wooden chest – it’s lid tipped open, beckoning to be explored. In the centre perched the most exotic of the artefacts. Boring rings of gold, it winked at you, a true diamond in the rough.

With gentle inspection, you traced the characters etched in it’s casing, a cryptic ode of ancient tongue.

A whisper of magic kissed your face, stray hairs dancing as goosebumps prickling beneath your leathers. It was waft of excitement, danger, magic aged by civilisations – this was a powerful scroll indeed.

With a hand on each end of the casing, you gently lifted the scroll into your satchel, careful not to knock it or disturb the casing. You would return it after all, once traced.

There was a shift in the air then, and a sinking feeling rippled through your abdomen, like a stone dropped into still water.

Get out – that voice urged.

You had spent too long here already.

Swallowing the fastening hammer of your heart, you raised from your knees, eyeing the unsuspecting cupboard – behind it a hidden door, and behind that a winding pathway would lead you clear to the gardens.

You almost scoffed – this was easier than you had thought.

How could the High Lord be so reckless to leave something of this value lying about?

The pit of your stomach deepened.

Too easy – much, much too easy.

An open, gaping well.

Oh gods, this was a–

And then darkness – everywhere.

You gasped, catching glimpses of red and blue as you staggered back. Your back hit something solid – no, someone. Strong arms gripped yours wrists, pinning them behind you. You tried to yell, but your breath hitched as violet eyes glowered amongst the tendrils of midnight smog, choking any sound that whined in your throat.

“Well well, what do we have here?” a sultry voice purred, a refined silhouette emerging from the darkness, tall and broad.

A gleam of teeth pulled with a feline smile, the figure prowling closer. Dangerous, lethal, ever knowing with a hint of cockiness.

And as tendrils of night magic cleared around their master, the High Lord of the Night Court was revealed.

Rhysand’s eyes danced with amusement as he watched realisation set in – your own features taut with horror.

“Hello, Y/N darling.”

You were dead meat.

A heavy, intrusive sensation caused a shiver to rack through you as phantom claws tore through your useless shields, and you were suddenly overwhelmed by the scent of your own fear.

Rhysand’s pretty grin only grew.

In a hopeless attempt to flee, you barely moved an inch as you tugged against the impossible grip on your arms.

He was closing in, coldness seeping from him as his magic curling in on itself, devouring any hints of warmth from the room, from your own veins.

And then he stopped, just one agonising pace shy from your heaving chest.

Here he was – High Lord of the Night Court. Wickedly cruel, arrogant and unnervingly calm, a cat who toyed with its food. The legendary villain of whispered rumours and horror stories exchanged amongst children of your village in the court of Dawn, parents so tired from their youngens loss of sleep that he was a banished name from many households.

Your eyes danced with a panic as instincts forced you to look for any chance of survival. Dressed with finery, but not a weapon on him – that was good.

But as the shadows began to clear, another male was revealed perching patiently against the wall behind, blue siphons flickering as he stood with wide legs, arms crossed and face stoic. Azriel, the Shadowsinger and Spymaster, waited patiently for your attempt of escape, his own shadows at the ready.

Fuck.

That meant the male that bound you was Cassian – Warlord and Chief General of the Illyrian armies.

You were as good as dead.

Your breathing stuttered as you swallowed the plea for mercy begging at your lips. They were going to kill you, that was certain. You could only hope they would do it quickly.

“My my, Y/N,” Rhysand drawled, his voice playful and sensual. “We weren't certain if you were going to take the bait.”

Placing hands on knees, he lowered himself to your level, those violet eyes captivating you, their depth incomprehensible. You tried to break Rhys’s gaze, but you rendered helpless, realising the cruel use of his magic.

“But I’m so glad this is how we get to meet.”

He was expecting you?

You glared back, your breaths quickening at the dangerous proximity.

If not at his mercy, you would have spat at his condescending manner. But instead you fought aimlessly against Cassian’s hold, the male pulling you back against his chest with a jarring tug, his grip tightening until you felt your pulse in your wrists.

Your mind was scattering with each second, frantic eyes dancing at the High Lord before you. You hadn't expected him to be so… handsome.

“Why, thank you,” Rhys cocked an eyebrow at you, that cat like grin exchanged for a lob-sided one.

Had he just–? You scowled, cursing him silently. His abilities as a deamanti also deeming true.

Rhysand chuckled at your foul words, his laugh unexpectedly soft. “Such a feisty thing you are,” he commented, raking his purple eyes down your body. You suddenly felt incredibly exposed, despite the layers of leathers and weaponry you wore.

“Let me go,” you spat hoarsely, heaving against the General once more.

“You’re not in any position to make that request,” Cassian huffed, pulling back on the little distance you had gained. His voice was gruff as it hummed through your back.

You turned your head to look at the Warlord for the first time. He too, like the other males in the room, was noticeably handsome. His long hair fell into his face as he looked down at you, his eyes almost as amused as his High Lord.

Were you just a joke to them?

“Oh, sweet Y/N, you’re not a joke at all. We’re actually quiet impressed by you,” Rhysand toyed, his eyebrows raised with a mocking tone. “We know you’ve been trailing us for months, Azriel here picked up on your movements in our court a whole quarter year ago.”

You flicked your eyes to the Spymaster, his position and face unmoving at his mention. You couldn't help your scowl at the male who was responsible to securing your death.

“What we didn't expect, was for you to make it this far,” Rhysand continued with a chuckle, his head shaking in playful dismay.

Great – now on top of everything else, you were completely insulted.

“That’s why we set this trap for you. So we could finally meet.”

You frowned at Rhysand. You had been so careful, so stealthy about all your work in spying on the High Lord, slaving over maps and reports until you could no longer keep your eyes open, using the little money you had to buy off secrecy, and always covering your tracks. But it still hadn't been enough.

“Don’t look so disheartened, little mouse,” Rhysand purred, before he picked a piece of lint off his fitted black jacket. “The fact that you were able to break into my quarters alone is incredibly impressive.”

It had in fact, taken a lot of work. To sneak into Hellion’s home had taken three disenchantment spells, and compromised a suite of his guards who were yet to rise from their enchanted slumber. The locks and spells on Rhysand’s chamber were another thing in itself.

“What will you do with me?” you gritted, glaring between the males in front of you, desperate to know your fate.

Rhysand dipped his head back and laughed, his posture too calm, too casual.

“What will we do with you, hmm?” he repeated, and a shrinking instinct finding you, one that you hadn't felt since you were a child.

“Perhaps the question is, what would you like us to do with you?” It was a lovers voice, sensual and suggestive.

You couldn't help the thunder of your heart as his scent filled your nose, crudely laced with arousal as it found you with a phantom wind.

Rhysand was on you then, his face inches from your own as swirls of night filled your vision, his violet eyes the only light you could see.

You gasped at the sight before you – it was beautiful, but so, so deadly.

“I don’t like having my things taken from me, Y/N.” Rhysand growled, his voice now cold, unforgiving. Those same claws that tore your shields now traced the outskirts if your mind, talons sinking slightly in warning.

Despite the little pain, it was instinct to scream.

You tried to make quick peace at the thought of his violet eyes being the last thing you would ever see.

Open your eyes, he commanded mind to mind.

Without realising you had closed them, you found yourself unable to disobey.

Rhysand withdrew as quickly as he had pounced, his darkness disappearing with him as he slid his hands into his pockets, rocking on fine shoes. His behaviour was erratic, such a contrast to the moment before.

“Of course, it would be such a waste of good talent.” He shrugged nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t toyed with your very consciousness just moments before.

You watched him pace, your eyes flicking to the spymaster once more, before noting the exits of the room you knew well.

“You don't stand a chance,” Azriel spoke plainly, his hand fingering one of many blades strapped to his strong frame. A warning, from one spy to another.

Rhysand grinned between you two, running a smooth hand through his black-blue hair.

Was he entertained by the idea that you were willing to give a fight?

You felt a low rumble from Cassian’s chest, all three males daring you to challenge them in their own way.

Azriel was right – it was suicide to try.

Rhysand hummed with pleasure, reading your submission as your body sagged every so slightly.

“I’ll tell you what, Y/N. I’ll make you a deal.”

A bargain, a promise, and perhaps a riddle from Prythian’s deadliest High Lord.

“I’d rather you kill me,” you said tightly.

Rhysand laughed again, and you felt the movements of Cassian’s chuckle from behind.

“Oh, sweetheart. Surely there’s a tad more fight in you than that?”

You scowled in return.

Rhysand approached you again, now holding the scroll of ancient tongue.

“What do you know of this scroll?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

You winced. “I don't know anything.”

Rhysand tutted. “Little liar,” he grinned at you, his violet eyes sparkling with challenge. “I’ll ask one more time,” he sang.

You felt them again, and it took all you had to not crumble at Cassian’s boots at the flooding pain as Rhysand dragged a singular, scraping talon across your mind and back.

“Resurrection!” you yelped – a half breath, half scream escaping you as your legs gave out. Cassian held you up, your body rigid as Rhysand’s talon pierced your mind further. The pain was blinding, eliciting a howl from you as your vision flashed with white.

Yet Rhysand’s icy threat cut through. “I have a lot of enemies, Y/N. I don't suppose you are hoping to fetch a pretty penny for anyone who might seek to bring back the rightfully dead?”

“No, n-no!” you gasped, your body spasming and contorting as he continued to toy with you. “Please, it’s for m-my family!”

Rhysand left your mind as quickly as he had entered it. You sagged in relief, Cassian gently setting you down as your crumpled to the floor, your body shaking and twitching.

You had just enough energy to raise your eyes and meet the High Lord’s stare. Gone was his expression of cruel amusement, it was now replaced with a frown of serious, deep thought.

He had seen them – your family, their smiles and laughter as your memory flashed at their mention. That meant he had also seen their deaths, their limp bodies piled for you to find in your own home.

“You wish to resurrect them?” Rhys asked softly.

All you could do was nod. You were sure you weren't noting a sense of sympathy from the male.

Rhys shook his head, his eyes closing. “If it were that easy Y/N, I’d have the missing kin to my own family here today.”

You looked up at the High Lord through heavy lids, exhaustion overcoming your body with an occasional twitch.

“I have to try,” was all you could offer, your voice small and unsure.

Rhysand stared down at you with furrowed brows, serious yet unreadable. After a few moments, he blinked, a few stars returning to his eyes as he raised them to Cassian with a quick nod.

Strong hands unfurled from your arms, and Cassian stepped back, providing you some space on the marbled tiles as you shook.

Death then, at last. May the Mother have mercy, let it be quick, you prayed silently.

A gentle pull of your hand from your face, and your fingers were forced to close around a ovoidal object.

Rhysand was crouched in front of you, his face unreadable as his cold hand kept your fingers pressed to the scroll

“I’ll tell you what Y/N. You find a way to decipher this scroll and bring back your family. And when you do, you share that information with me, so that I may do the same.”

You pulled your hand back, eyes darting between his violet ones as if you read the trick that undoubtedly hid beneath his offer.

“And why in Mother’s name would I trust you?”

He smirked humourlessly. “Unless you prefer the alternative –“ Rhysand’s eyes blackened instantly, and your heart skipped a beat at the promise of death that beheld them. “– I don’t believe you have a choice.”

Make a bargain with the High Lord, or die. Not in a thousand lifetimes could you have predicted an ultimatum so soulless.

“Do we have a deal?” Rhysand offered his large hand as he still crouched before you, his eyebrows raising with a hint of impatience.

You flicked your gaze between Azriel and Cassian. Both of them watched patiently, their stances neutral, obedient of their High Lord’s business. It bothered you – how were both of them so complicit to his evil?

Looking back at Rhysand – you ignored the voice inside you that screamed at you not to trust him.

Letting out a short breath, you lifted yourself to your knees and clasped your hand in his. “It’s a deal.”

A gasp escaped you as a stinging heat spread across the hand held in his, and etched it’s way up your forearm. With wide eyes, you watched the burn and itch of a ink-like pattern forming on your skin. Swirls now covered your once naked arm, the picture of one hand shaking another stark on the inside of your palm. It was your hand in Rhysand’s – a symbol of the bargain you had just agreed to. For eternity, or until you deciphered this scroll you realised, with no lack of nausea.

Rhysand grinned, marvelling the matching tattoo that now tainted his skin. “I’ll be checking in on your progress frequently, Y/N darling.”

Unable to find the right words for you distaste, you snatched your hand away and pressed against your stomach, willing your self not to be sick.

You were now indebted to this hellish, sinister being.

Rhysand appeared as unfazed. “Perhaps you would consider a job in my court with Azriel?” he mused, flexing his fingers as he continued to take in the impressive detail of your bargain. “Again, we were quite impressed with your work.”

He was teasing of course, and Azriel’s hazel eyes winced with humour as all three males watched for your reaction.

You scowled at Rhysand, glaring up at him again. “I prefer my freedom, actually,” you snarled.

Rhysand laughed in his sensual way, before grinning a wicked smile down at you. “Or what’s left of it.

He straightened then, his wig men moving to his sides with grace – a practiced dance for all three.

“I suggest you excuse yourself from my quarters the moment we’re gone Y/N, I’ll know otherwise.”

With a clasp to his shoulders from Azriel and Cassian, the three males were gone in a ripple of odourless night.

Until then, little spy, Rhysand’s voice echoed in your mind.

»»——-　★　——-«« ★ »»——-　★　——-««

AN: Ok new series let's gooooo!! Welcome to DWTD! Hello morally grey mosthandsomehighlordofthenightcourt 💞😈 I am so so excited to explore this series with y'all. Pleeeeease let me know what you think of part 1, I wrote this over so many months lol I hope it tied together. General tag list is tagged, but if you'd like to join a tag list for this series (DWTD), comment below! La la love you guys, hope you're all safe and doing ok 💞

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ladykailitha · 6 months

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If I were to do a A/B/O story with Steddie this is how I would do it (I've never done omega-verse for any of my fandoms, but damn there is something about Steddie that just screams it, you know?)

Steve was sold to a place that uses infertile omegas as sex toys. Rut servicing, gang bangs, orgies, or even just pretty arm candy for special events. The point is that the Harringtons sold him when they found out he couldn't be sold to the wealthiest, most influential alphas as a broodmare.

They are pretty much indentured and have to pay off the debt of how much the company paid for them. Steve pays off his debt and stays. Most omegas leave, but he loves what he does. He really loves rut servicing. It's his favorite because he has all the control during the three to four days the alpha is sex crazed. He also loves that he can take care of them without them thinking he's in for the bond bite.

Steve's at some gala or event or whatever on the arm of an older alpha, probably a senator or someone important like that when he meets Eddie Munson, frontman for Corroded Coffin.

They're introduced and they hit off, until Steve mentions offhand that he's infertile. Because that angers Eddie for some reason.

Eddie sets up Steve to be his rut servicer and demands that Steve be placed on some kind of birth control. It's a strange request, but it's granted.

When Steve arrives, Eddie tells him under no uncertain terms that either of them are going to be barebacking. Condoms are required.

This pisses Steve off. He's infertile and these demands are just ridiculous. He can't get pregnant.

Eddie scoffs. If he was infertile it would reflect in his scent. It would be sickly sweet, like overripe fruit. Cloying almost. But Steve doesn't smell like that. He smells darker, woodier, more like spices then fruity.

Steve frowns, he hadn't heard that about omegas, but it made sense, his other co-workers did have that sweet smell, but never really thought about it being different than his own.

But before they could talk it out, Eddie goes into his rut hard. Harder then it's ever been and Steve is pretty much scrambling to keep up with the sex.

At the end of the five days, Steve is worn out and ready to pass out for the next week, but he needs to know what Eddie was talking about.

Eddie tells him that he's not infertile, he's an ultra-fertile omega. So rare that they present in only 1% of the human population as a whole. Red-heads are more common they are.

Basically they are only fertile during their heats, but instead of having only a 1 in 5 chance of getting pregnant like omegas do in heat (1 in 8 out of heat), they can get pregnant 4 in 5 chance of getting pregnant. In fact, they are so revered that they can have their pick of the best alphas in their country. Some of them even go so far as casting their net over the whole fucking world.

Steve isn't sure he believes him, but his parents never tested for it because it was too rare. So it's possible that he could be, it's not like he can test it now. The test needs to be done at the time he presented. The only way to know for sure is if he shared a heat with an alpha (he's not allowed to as service omega to spend it with anything but toys) and he doesn't know of any alpha willing to take the chance that he might be some golden omega.

Only Eddie is totally willing. Willing to even bond Steve, with or without the ultra-fertility.

Steve is shocked. He's even more shocked when he goes into heat just from being so close to Eddie. Because he's on blockers, that's not supposed to happen.

While Steve is still cognizant he consents to Eddie helping him through the heat, suddenly grateful for the condom and birth control stipulation is suddenly very welcome.

It's only a light one that lasts a couple of days, but it's the best he's ever had. The first he's ever shared with an alpha. And he loved it.

He found out that in order to share Steve's heat, Eddie had to pay a lot of money for the privilege so he just bought Steve's contract as a whole. The one he made because he brought in so much money to the company.

They talk about bonding and sharing Steve real heat. The reason Eddie was so insistent on the contraception measures is that his scent had been known to break blockers in the past.

Which makes sense, some alphas just have that strong a scent. It's not a thing like an ultra-omega, but just something that could happen. The company tended to screen those types of alphas and made sure that the omega would be safely whisked away. It just never happened to Steve before.

Eddie courts Steve properly and they bond. And sure enough Eddie was right Steve gets pregnant, and suddenly Steve's parents are banging on the door demanding they be compensated for the fact that he's an ultra-omega and could have been sold for lots, lots more money then the company gave them.

But Steve tells them to fuck off and slams the door in their faces. And Steve and Eddie live happily ever after with their growing family.

First chapter of the full story here.

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #a/b/o verse #alpha eddie munson #omega steve harrington #sex worker steve #rockstar eddie munson

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ohimsummer · 3 months

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✎ . . .❝ KISS ME, THEN. ❞

— poly! satosugu verse, satoru x reader, fluff, a first kiss :p, he’s such a lovesick fool My God.

Gojo doesn’t think he’s ever gotten totally lost in someone before; not like he has with Geto, anyway. But that was before he met you, a person who actually kept him intrigued and imbedded themself in his fickle thoughts. At some point after Shoko introduced you to them, he became trapped—blue of his eyes left wandering amidst the hue of yours, mind tangled in the string of your comebacks that rival his own. Gojo’s never met anyone else so good at keeping him on his toes.

“Kiss me, then.”

A lump shoves its way down his throat at your taunt. The sun has almost fully departed, spare edges of it peeping over the horizon to cast a golden light over the empty park. Deep shades of purple and orange cascade throughout the sky, a wondrous sight who’s an expert at captivating—but all Gojo can focus on is your lips, upturned in a smirk and coated in a distracting sheen of gloss.

Admittedly, his confession was bold, an ‘I want to kiss you’ that’s been lingering on his lips the last half hour you two have been talking. And your response was unexpected, as is a lot of your words and actions towards him and Geto. A playful remark to call his bluff, though the way you steadily eye his lips too pushes Gojo to believe you want him to kiss you just as much.

You sense a waver in his never ending confidence. “Well? I’m waiting.”

Blue eyes finally meet yours, and Gojo does an anxious nibble on his bottom lip. “Shut up. Give me a second.”

Aw, how cute, you think. “What, gotta hype yourself up first? Where’d all that confidence go, Satoru?”

The way you flow out his name to be swept away with the wind makes Gojo’s heart stutter. He could never answer your question, because admitting that your teasing words had drained him entirely of self-assurance filled his throat with sand. But if there was one thing Satoru Gojo was good at, it was faking.

He feels you tense beneath his tentative palm, cupping your face and your skin sets fire to his fingers. You’re warm, chasing the cold from his hand as he rubs a thumb over your soft cheek. Despite the playful smirk still gracing your lips, Gojo can recognize the anxiety in your eyes because you’re a faker, too.

Breath hitches, and you watch as he leans in a little closer, your heart pounding faster and faster as Gojo nears you. The faint smell of his cologne dances around in your nose, your restless fingers gently tugging the hem of his shirt. Your lips brush, and then he’s giving you a short peck, fleeting and cute and enough to have red painting him from ears to neck. Satoru lingers for a split second, desireful gaze on your lips still—you’re sweet, like the strawberry dessert he shared with you when you got here, and Gojo so desperately craves another taste. And you give him the perfect excuse to do so.

“Again.”

tagz: @anthoosies @staryukis :3

#Suguru’s meeting you two in the park btw #shows up and immediately knows u two kissed bc he can just feel it in the air LOL #satoru gojo imagine #gojo satoru x reader #satoru imagine #gojo satoru x reader fluff #satoru x reader #satoru x reader fluff #jjk x reader #jjk imagine #x reader #I TYPOED TWICE IN THE TAGS CRIES FREVER

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perplexingly · 7 months

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I've been wanting to write a description of the Watermill Theatre's Lord of the Rings musical for these who were unable to see it, so I'll mention some of the things that stood out to me.

Also first of all, I saw that @emeraldskulblaka was kind enough to compile a masterpost about the musical, sharing the available videos and audios here

Now to the Watermill production:

The audience was encouraged to come 30min before the start of the show to celebrate Bilbo's 111 birthday.

During that time the actors were playing music, talking with the audience, playing games with the audience, I almost got hit in the face as Gimli in front of me failed to catch a ring that was thrown at him : D I saw there are some recordings of this part around, eg:

youtube

While still outdoors, the play started seemlessly with Bilbo's iconic birthday speech. After his disappearing act (in a puff of smoke), we moved indoors and while the audience was settling down, Frodo sat on stage all sad perusing letters

This stage is very tiny but they used it in a clever way; eg. there were moments when, to show the distance, the actors would say their lines behind the audience on the upper ring. They would also utilise the doors at the center stage or the ladders on the sides to climb on. The lighting also gave each scene a lot of character:

Also each actor doubled as a musician, often playing on the edges of the stage but still in full view, giving this interesting illusion of environment.

I think my favourite moment of using actors as parts of the environment was during Sam and Frodo's Now and for Always duet: once they started singing, Bilbo came to sit on the edge, in the shadow, just looking at them, and with each verse a new hobbit/musician came behind, hanging out in the shadows and giving this dreamy idea of Shire. And when Sam fell asleep, there was Rosie coming a bit forward to caress him.

Another such wonderful moment was near the end, when Frodo could go no longer and Sam helped him. The earlier situation when Sam fought off Shelob with Eärendil's light reminded the viewer of Galadriel's - and the elves - indirect help. And when Sam put his arms around Frodo to guide him, quietly, in the shadows around them illusions of elves appeared to show them the way and to catch them when they stumbled.

Speaking about the plot point - act 1 encompassed the first of the trilogy while the second act the other two. To achieve this condensation in the second act, most characters that were not directly related to the fellowship were either removed or merged with other, eg. Denethor and Theoden were combined into one, with the Rohan/Gondor politics removed altogether. But honestly, I thought it was the smarter choice, as we get the time to get attached to the main cast.

One more thing I'd like to mention were the practical effects. While ents were just an off-stage voice, when they were talking there were leafs falling down from the ceiling. But the most impressive was Shelob, which was a giant puppet with real-like leg movement, mostly in shadow except for the reflective eyes. I saw that there's an early test for Shelob posted on Instagram:

Also, I talked about Gollum in an earlier post, but I just wanted to make a quick illustration of the adorable moment between Gollum and Bilbo that I saw in the epilogue:

#lord of the rings #gosh I want to watch it again so bad #I didn’t want to write every single thing but it turned out long anyway hdhdjd sorry

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shakingparadigm · 8 days

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Speaking of Guardians, I'm just going to make a list on the information I have on the ones associated with the main cast so far.

Note: the information here is mostly from official material (patreon interviews, merch, the videos themselves etc) but some portions of it are my own assumptions based on this information as well.

Mizi -> Guardian Shine

Guardian Shine is a prominently pink and white alien that wears a peaceful expression and bears resemblance to certain aquatic creatures, most predominantly associated with the jellyfish. Their body largely consists of floaty pink frills.

Guardian Shine is the only alien of the main cast that is explicitly stated to have a close and loving relationship with their human pet, treating Mizi like a "daughter" and ensuring that she is happy and well-provided for.

Guardian Shine created Mizi's performance dress for ROUND 1.

It seemed that whenever Mizi accomplished something good in the Anakt Garden, she would become ecstatic and excited to tell Guardian Shine about her victories.

Sua -> Guardian ???

Not much is known or seen about Sua's Guardian (the information isn't public, at least), but from the glimpses we see in MIZISUA, her Guardian is a rather luxurious and feminine alien with clawed, ring-laden hands and a lower half akin to a flower-patterned dress. It seems as though they are wearing a pale-colored fur coat.

In the disc:mizisua artbook, its stated that Sua was raised by influencers, which seems to be why her Guardian is dressed so lavishly.

Sua's Guardian did not particularly care for her, only raising her as a means to "show off".

While Guardian Shine warmly entertains Mizi before her departure, Sua's Guardian has their back turned and is instead busied with an interview (as seen by the alien holding the microphone next to them).

Because Sua's Guardian didn't care for her and only raised her for public image, they dressed Sua in doll-like clothes without care as to how it would fit her. The book states that despite it's lovely look, Sua's dress was stuffy and ill-fitting.

Till -> Guardian Urak

Guardian Urak (in earlier iterations) is a humanoid alien with a predominantly white color scheme, most recognizable by a covered upper face and floating chair. (I highly suspect the alien from ROUND 6's first verse to be the new Guardian Urak design, but I could be wrong.)

Similar to Sua's, Guardian Urak seems rather neglectful and maybe even physically abusive to Till, as seen by the multiple bruises left on him even before he's thrown at the wall. If the head alien in ROUND 6 is confirmed to be Urak, this is further proven by the first few scenes.

In an interview for a magazine portion of ROUND 2, Guardian Urak is shown to be easily dismissive of Till's misbehavior as long as it garners them a win.

Guardian Urak believes that a human's bizarre behavior is synonymous with their talent. "The more talented humans, the more likely they are to be freaks." Urak apologizes for Freddie's murder on Till's behalf, but doesn't seem to care about it beyond the surface level.

Urak barely seems to invest much into Till, at least not as much as the other Guardians do for their own pets. Till's stage in ROUND 2 is the most plain, unlike the other rounds where the stages are unique and decorated with different designs and lights. Till's outfits are also the most plain among the cast.

Ivan -> Guardian ???

Ivan's Guardian is a large, slightly Cthulhu-like alien dressed in dapper clothing, which many fans find akin to that of a mafia boss. They are dressed in colors of mainly red and black, a color scheme that their followers seem to align with as well.

Ivan's Guardian is well-known in alien society. Due to this, Ivan makes sure to behave carefully and properly while out in public as not to sully their name.

It also seems as though they are incredibly wealthy, seemingly involved in a business of some sort.

Ivan describes the relationship with his Guardian to be more like a business partnership rather than something parental.

Ivan's Guardian seems to have invested a lot into Ivan's success. Adopting him from the slums, cleaning him and remaking his image from a lowly slum child to one of the most famous, talented, and influential humans of the current season. Ivan states in an interview that he will always be grateful to them for taking him in.

Due to the investment, Ivan's performances are always of high quality, his costumes intricately made and his stages flamboyantly themed.

Since their relationship stands on business, it's most likely that Ivan was able to connect and partner with several brands due to his Guardian.

Ivan's relationship with his Guardian seems mutual, Ivan himself states it's "not bad". His Guardian provides him with what he needs to succeed and in return Ivan is obedient and always excels at what he's assigned to do. It seems as though Ivan's Guardian is often pleased with him, patting his head when he passes preliminaries and gathering other aliens to celebrate. One of the aliens even presents a bouquet of flowers, clapping their hands together.

Luka -> Guardian Heperu

Guardian Heperu is an alien with a round, squat head, bulging eyes and a pronounced neck. They seem to don a robe of some sort, paired together with a small hat.

Guardian Heperu seems to be yet another influential figure in alien society, possessing the resources necessary to invest in Luka's intensive training.

They also ensure that Luka's performances are always phenomenal, going so far as to rent out a special site for ROUND 5 (iirc, they performed ROUND 5 on the corpse of a large and powerful alien, hence the spine and bones you can see in the back of certain shots).

Guardian Heperu is an extremely envious figure who wished for a pet to trump all others, to stand above all the competitors unmatched.

Luka's unnatural conception and strict training is a result of Heperu's insecurity, the need to remain at the top constantly. Perhaps this desire ended up seeping into Luka as well.

Luka never fought back against the aliens, most likely because Heperu conditioned him to be the epitome of performative perfection since birth. How Luka interacted with his fellow humans was irrelevant, what mattered was how he interacted with the aliens who's opinions were of far greater worth. This may be why Luka seemed to be an outcast in the Anakt Garden yet a beloved prince in the eyes of the alien audience.

Luka directly refers to Heperu as "Father".

Hyuna -> Guardian ???

So far, Hyuna is the only character without even a sliver of alien connection. It makes sense, of course. She cut herself off from everything so long ago.

However, a sketch of Hyuna's alien was drafted all the way back during the production of Sweet Dream.

I'm not gonna spoil anything, but let me just say that's one hell of an alien.

Hopefully we get to see them soon!

#alnst #alien stage #alien stage guardians #idk how to tag this help

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ghost-1-y · 7 months

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Temptation

Angel!Mitsuri x AFAB!Succubus!Reader

Content Warnings: MDNI, dark content, sacrilege, blasphemy, religious themes, dubcon (aphrodisiac), manipulation, sexual content, dom!reader, sub!Mitsuri, unprotected sex, oral (reader receiving), scissoring, virginity loss (Mitsuri), corruption k!nk, praise k!nk, degradation, hair pulling, concepts of "purification" and "chastity", concepts of sex and sexuality being "dirty" and "sinful", slight mentions of blood (not in a sexual context), use of bible verses (in italics), references to bible passages/stories, people who are religious may find this content offensive, please read with caution

Summary: Mitsuri had always done what she was told to do, glorifying her god and helping those who needed it. She never once thought about breaking the rules – much less her vow to chastity, until she found what initially appeared to be a human in a darkened alleyway in need of help, unknowingly falling into a trap that would corrupt her from holiness for the rest of eternity.

Word Count: ~3.3k

Divider Credit: the wonderful @/benkeibear

A/N: so, I used to be religious (Christian), so a lot of this might've come out of my own personal traumas that I experienced (eg. the concept of purification and chastity and being ashamed of having "dirty" thoughts). Obviously, I no longer hold these views (as evidence by writing these fics LMAO), but that somewhat influenced how I wrote this fic, maybe some of y'all will be able to relate? I hope you enjoy!!

Let your light shine before them in such a way that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven.

Mitsuri loved the world, she loved humans and nature and all the beauty that existed in between. She would watch the sun rise upon the earth and how it would cast its rays upon trees and cities as life basked in its holy light.

She loved the night as well – how it brought tranquility and peace as those she watched over rested until the sun peeked over the horizon once more.

She sometimes wished that her light would not interfere with such serenity.

But the world also saddened Mitsuri, she mourned as those she loved from afar returned to dust underneath grassy knolls; her heart broke as she witnessed fighting amongst nations and arguments amongst lovers. She knew that loving the world would bring grief upon her, because the world was infested with sin.

The world would never be perfect, yet she loved it anyways.

So Mitsuri spent her eternity by helping those who needed it – taking on a human form so others wouldn’t be afraid. She helped by working in food banks and soup kitchens – oh how she adored those humans who set such wonderful services up – and would afterwards walk along roads to give food to those who, for whatever reason, found such services inaccessible to them. She would volunteer in hospitals, helping the sick in whatever way she could, and would listen to their stories and offer comfort should they share their suffering with her, holding their hand in hers to offer support – however small.

It was not a coincidence, then, that she caught sight of you, a human lying alone in a darkened alleyway, isolated from the bustling street that was doused in sunlight. You were covered in shadows to the point where it looked like darkness emanated from your body itself, curled up and alone – hiding within the stench of garbage and discarded roadkill.

Mitsuri approached you – her kindness limitless and unbounded by fear as her light blessed your shadowed figure, gentle and warm – a light that was neither blinding nor dim as you looked up at her.

“Are you alright, my love? My name is Mitsuri, I saw you here and wanted to help,” she smiled sweetly. It didn’t matter what language you spoke, since Mitsuri’s words would translate perfectly once they fell from her lips and graced your ears.

Burning lips and a wicked heart are like a potsherd covered with silver dross.

Teary eyed, you smiled up at her, “Thank you, I didn’t think anyone would come, but you’re here now.” Mitsuri’s gentle eyes looked over your condition, a cut on your forehead which was seeping a dark red, and smudges of dirt all over your body.

“Oh, love, let me get you cleaned up a bit!” Mitsuri exclaimed as she secretly materialized some cotton pads, pretending to fish them out of her pocket. She wiped the blood that was dripping down your face, “I don’t have antiseptic wipes on me, would you wait here as I go get them from a convenience store?” You nodded, staring past her shoulder.

If Mitsuri knew any better, she would’ve thought you could see her wings.

Mitsuri rushed across the street and bought the antiseptic wipes, more cotton pads, and a couple bottles of water before running back to help you. She knelt beside you, and began cleaning up your face. “You know, you should take better care of yourself,” she smiled softly as she wet the cotton pads with water and began wiping away the smudges of dirt on your skin.

You said nothing, letting Mitsuri work on you. Once finished, she stood up and held out her hand, “Are you able to stand?” she asked.

You looked down at her hand and reached for it, slowly encasing it in yours, with your index finger pressing against the pulse in her wrist. A strange flush of warmth spread through Mitsuri’s arm and to her chest, causing a shiver to move up her spine. She shook her head, and helped you get up.

The warmth continued to spread and fester within her, and she couldn’t figure out why – you were human, or at least looked like you were.

You gave her a saccharine smile, “I appreciate your help, angel, but I have to get going – I’ll see you around, no?”

Mitsuri’s eyes widened at the pet name you let slip – you couldn’t possibly know what she was – it was a coincidence, that’s all.

She who trusts in her own heart is a fool,

But she who walks wisely will be delivered.

Still, it caught her off-guard, and if she wasn’t flustered before, she definitely was now, slightly panicking despite knowing that humans wouldn’t be able to see her wings, or halo for that matter.

Mitsuri stuttered, “Of course, I– see you around.”

Days passed, and Mitsuri started to believe you’d fallen off the face of the earth – completely unable to sense your presence or soul. Yet, the warmth she felt from holding your hand did not fade – rather, it worsened, beckoning her to drag her dainty fingers along her stomach and downwards.

She shook herself out of it, but the heat lingered and pooled between her legs, so much so that it started to drip down her inner thighs – yet she wouldn’t give in to the temptation, she couldn’t – it was against everything that she was taught, everything that she believed.

Or were the beliefs forced upon her?

It wasn’t until after forty days and forty nights that she sensed you once more. It was early morning, so early that the sun had not graced its rays upon the world quite yet. You sat underneath a lamppost, its artificial light illuminating the bench beneath you, but oddly failing to reflect off of your own soft skin.

“You’re not human, are you?”

You looked up at her, a glint of mischief in your eyes as you shook your head. Standing up, you walked towards her, causing Mitsuri to take a hesitant step back.

“Don’t be shy, angel, I don’t bite – not unless you beg for it.”

“I– I’m not begging,” Mitsuri muttered, as though she were trying to convince herself more than anything.

Submit therefore to God. Resist the devil and she will flee from you.

You approached her once more, and she remained still. Taking her wrist in yours, you slowly graze your nails over the skin of her arm, tracing up and down as she spoke. Her cheeks were red, flushed hot with both the strange warmth that found its home within her soul and now the shame of actually seeking what she desired.

You both sat down on the bench, a shrub blooming with jasmine flowers alongside it – the rich scent flooding her senses as her eyes locked with yours.

Do not desire her beauty in your heart,

Nor let her capture you with her eyelids.

“Do you ever get tired of it?” you asked, fingers circling the pulse point on her wrist.

Mitsuri frowns, “What do you mean?” You take your other hand and place it on hers, tracing your thumb across her skin, sending butterflies into her stomach.

“I mean,” you started, “do you get tired of kindness? Of righteousness?” you questioned, “do you ever wish to know beyond those things?”

“Um…I–” she paused, swallowing thickly, “N-Not really?”

It was a lie, and you knew that.

“Oh, well that’s too bad,” you pouted before leaning in towards her, “because I could show you things you’ve never even felt before, angel.” You glanced up at her, and you could see her eyes pooling with the desire to accept.

“I– I really can’t, it would– it would be against my nature.” An excuse, but a truthful one. If she consented, she would be damning herself – condemning her soul to the farthest reaches of hell.

It was something unthinkable for a being like her.

“Hmm, but nature changes over time, does it not?” you questioned, “if I’m not mistaken, I can see the want in your eyes. You desire this change, yet you won’t grasp for it. Why?”

“You– you wouldn’t be able to understand,” she stuttered, retracting her hands from yours as she formed fists with them in her lap.

“Angel, I think I understand more than anyone else,” you smirked, "to me, you seem lost – you're falling, aren't you, angel?"

You got up from the bench, eyes flashing a brief red as you looked down at her – causing Mitsuri’s breath to catch in her throat.

For the lips of an adulteress drip honey

And smoother than oil is her speech;

But in the end she is bitter as wormwood,

Sharp as a two-edged sword.

Her feet go down to death,

Her steps take hold in the house of it.

“If you wish for more than the mundanity of your everlasting life, you know exactly how to find me,” you told her, and before Mitsuri could look up at you once more, you were gone.

—

Mitsuri knew that it was wrong, she knew that it would go against her vows, her duties, her entire purpose, and yet – she found herself walking past that same alleyway each day, only peering into it out of curiosity before collecting herself and continuing on her way.

Until the seventh day, when she decided to stop in front of the alley, the sun beaming down on her as she stood just outside of it, as though the lined buildings on either side created a threshold that she couldn’t bring herself to pass.

As Mitsuri peered into the shadows, she saw a figure stand up and walk towards her. She couldn’t look into the being’s soul – it was as though it didn’t have one at all. It approached her from the dark, and its silhouette depicted that of sharpened horns and a long tail which was pointed at the end.

“Have you made up your mind, angel?” you asked sweetly, extending your hand past the threshold for her to take, “I promise, you’ll love how it feels to let go.”

Mitsuri hesitated, but as she looked into your eyes, a fire ignited deep within her once more.

My child, if sinners entice you,

Do not consent.

It was all she needed to extend her own hand and place it in yours.

Shocks of electricity traveled up Mitsuri’s arm, much more intense than the warmth she felt before, it traveled deep into her gut, and her face flushed red as she was pulled into the shadows, fully enticed by you.

You pinned her against the wall, her back facing you. Her wings shuddered in excitement as you leaned in towards her ear, “I’m proud of you, angel,” you whispered, your breath hot against her ear, “I know how difficult it must’ve been to give in, I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” You grazed a finger along her left wing, nail lightly scraping against the feathers. She whimpered, her blush hot across her face as heat pooled in her stomach.

“I– I know you’re a–ah…” Mitsuri started, swallowing thickly before a soft moan escaped from her.

“A demon? Yes, angel, I am,” you chuckled, grabbing at her hair to pull her head back, “but I’m not here to hurt you, love, no, I’m here to make you sin.”

You turned her around and kissed her fervently, your lips sweet against hers. It felt euphoric, Mitsuri had never been kissed by anyone before – it was always said to open the doors to lust.

Then when lust has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and when sin is accomplished, it brings forth death.

However, she melted into your kiss, malleable and pliable – eager to feel more of it, the fire inside her being nurtured and stoked as you continued to kiss her innocent lips. You licked at her, and bit down on her bottom lip before parting – a string of saliva connecting her lips to yours, binding her into damnation as she uttered her next words.

“Please, I need more.”

You smirked, and leaned in towards her neck, licking a long stripe with your tongue before kissing just below her earlobe, with Mitsuri letting out tiny mewls and gasps every so often. You traveled further down her neck towards her pulse point. You left marks deep in burgundy upon her as she moaned into your ear.

“I love the sounds you’re making, angel, make some more for me,” you purred, bringing your hand down towards her heat, pushing aside the white linen to rub your fingers along her entrance. “Oh, you’re so wet for me,” you cooed.

“Nngh, n-noo that- that’s dirty,” Mitsuri whined, and you smirked.

“Trust me, you’ll learn to love feeling this way.” Your breath was hot before putting her into yet another searing kiss. She whimpered, but kissed back, slowly accepting her growing addiction towards them.

You circled her clit with your finger, and she whined, face flushed as she tried grinding onto your hand.

“That’s it, angel, take what you need, such a good girl,” you encouraged her, rubbing her clit slightly faster as she ground into you, a blushing mess as she did so. Mitsuri’s moans got progressively louder, loving the sensations once unknown to her.

“Mmh–! I– I feel strange…like something’s building up in me!” she whined, “what– what’s happening–!?”

You kissed her once more, quieting her, “shhh, angel, that’s a good thing, just relax and let it build up, okay?” She moaned again, grinding harder into your hand as she obeyed your words.

“I– It’s gonna–! I’m gonna–!” Mitsuri’s eyes rolled back, letting out a strangled moan as she came all over your hand, juices gushing into your palm as she rode through her orgasm, her hips undulating until she couldn’t take it anymore – quickly becoming overstimulated from the feeling of pleasure coursing through her veins.

“Too– too much! Can’t– no more!” she cried, tears falling down her cheeks. You licked at each stray teardrop, the saltiness of it coating your tongue as you stopped your movements with your hand.

“Such a good girl for me, angel,” you praised, and she hid her face behind her hands in pure embarrassment. You took her by the wrists and held them down.

“Don’t hide your pretty face from me, I want to see every last bit of your pleasure.”

Mitsuri whined and asked “can you– can you do that again, please?” Her tone was so sweet, begging for more like a pathetic slut who has abandoned all of her morals.

However, you refused, “if you wish for more of that, you’ll have to please me, first.” Mitsuri looked at you, confused, before you shoved her down to her knees, her face in line with your hips – the pretty lingerie you were wearing disappearing in an instant before you took her by the hair and pulled her towards your weeping cunt. “Make me feel good, angel, and I might consider actually fucking you this time.”

Mitsuri’s eyes dropped from your face down to your pussy, admiring how sweet and juicy it looked.

When the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, she took from its fruit and ate.

So, she went entirely off of her own instinct as she brought her mouth to your heat, before licking at the wetness of it with her tongue. The sweetness of it coating the inside of her mouth like syrup; Mitsuri had never even thought of committing such lewd acts before, but now that she’d gotten a taste, she couldn’t help herself.

She started off shy, with kitten licks and tentative kisses on your clit. She may not have experience in giving pleasure, but she was there in the beginning when humans, angels, and devils alike were all created in the same image, and so she knew the insides and outs of their bodies unlike any other.

Her tongue delved deeper into your cunt, licking up any juices that seeped out of it, earning soft groans and grunts from you as you pulled at her hair. She adored your taste – it was addictive, a taste that she would gladly sin for if it meant she could feast upon it for the eternity of her damnation.

Her lips pursed around your clit before sucking gently, your eyes rolling back as she looked up at you. She whimpered, wishing you’d make eye contact with her and tell her she was doing such a good job – instead only receiving a few strokes through her hair as you thrived off of the pleasure that her mouth was giving you. Her own cunt was weeping, the heat from her abdomen becoming unbearable as she continued licking you up with her tongue – so much so that she reached down between her legs with her fingers, but before she could provide herself even the slightest bit of relief, you yanked her by the hair.

“You think you can touch yourself without my permission? Think you’re allowed to make yourself feel good? No, angel. Only I am allowed to do that. Any and all pleasure you receive, any and all sin that you commit, will be caused by me – for my sake.” You leaned down closer to her, breath hot against her face, “do you understand me?”

Mitsuri nodded, only to wince as you gripped her hair tighter.

“Say it.”

“Yes, I– I understand,” Mitsuri spoke softly as she removed her hand from between her thighs.

“Good girl.”

You pulled Mitsuri up once more and, in an incredible display of flexibility, she raised her right leg so that it pointed up toward the sky, with you supporting her by holding her up by your hand.

“Hah– you’re no angel, are you? Angels don’t act this way, y’know– you’re just a pathetic little slut, a pleasure-seeking whore that can never get enough,” you panted, before mounting your foot against the wall so your cunt was flush against hers, grinding against her wet heat. You grabbed her by the jaw and forced her to look at you.

“What are you, hm? Tell me.”

“I– I–” she whined, “I’m– ‘m your slut…oh shit, ‘m your slut!”

“That’s right, you’re nothing but a stupid cumslut, aren’t you? Raised to be holy and perfect, but look at you, drunk on lust all because some demon tempted you. How pathetic.”

Mitsuri whined as you ground into her, feeling absolutely no shame as she condemned herself further with each movement of your hips. The familiar tension in her gut started to build up once more as she took everything you gave her.

“Nngh– it- it’s happening a-ah– again!” she moaned, and you ground against her faster.

“That’s it, slut, cum all over my cunt. Sin for me.”

Mitsuri’s thighs trembled as her orgasm flooded through her in waves, her mind addled with euphoria and lust as her pussy gushed all over you, her moans so raw and unbridled as she allowed you to claim her as yours, knowing she will never find pleasure like this through anything or anyone except you.

You are my God, and I give thanks to You;

You are my God, I extol You.

“My– my God,” she panted, “you– you are my God.” She knew it was blasphemous, yet she didn’t care, for she found a new being to worship, to love and to praise as she damned herself for the rest of eternity, certain that she would choose this over holiness in every lifetime if given the honor to do so.

For Yours is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever.

Amen.

Taglist: @oreo-creampie, @k-a-t-h-r-i-n-a, @wow-im-gay, @peanutpunchy, @love-me-satoru, @crazycatlddy, @pastelbluecloudy3, @dinosaur-crime-scene, @thisbicc, @gojoscumslut, @bisexuawolfsalt, @everyonesfinaldestination, @leehoonii-i, @kyojurismo, @briefrebelfanalmond, @izuoyarmin, @ahashiraswife, @d1gitalbathh, @homo-homini-lupus-est-1701

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I hope you all enjoyed!!! 💕

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 2 years

Text

dōnus riñus (sweet girl) │ Chapter 3: Morning

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: As the second-born daughter of Aemma and Viserys, you never expected to be married off to your uncle, Daemon Targaryen. The morning after your wedding has arrived.

(Set in Episode 6 - however, Daemon never married Laena, and he's returned to King's Landing after ten years in exile.)

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, age gap, dubious consent.

You are awoken far too early the next day. Though the sun has well and truly crested over the horizon, you feel as though you have barely closed your eyes. You squint muzzily at the encroaching light forcing your lids open, your head lifting slowly as consciousness takes over. You do not feel ready to wake.

Groaning, you turn lightly, burying your face into the pillow to block out the sun. The events of the previous day rush over you.

You are married. You are married.��You are married. To Daemon.

You had not been lying to yourself when you reminded yourself of the alternative—one afternoon with Lord Jason of House Lannister was enough to make you scream with frustration. You did not care about gold or riches. And why would you care so greatly for Casterly Rock? You live in the capital. It is no surprise to you that the man, who had even once tried and failed to pay court to your sister some summers back, still had not found himself a bride. But even so, the notion of wedding your notoriously hot-headed uncle had been the cause of great trepidation over the weeks of your courtship.

You did not understand why he was bothering—save for an heir or two, he had no need for a wife, and even less need to woo her with pretty words and rare trinkets. Ladies are to do as they are bid by their fathers, after all. Back in the capital after an extended stay across the Narrow Sea, your uncle was free to do as he liked. With whom he liked. And yet, he chose to spend his time in your company.

A voice calls out across the garden. “Niece.”

Your head snaps up from your book in alarm, casting about for the intruder. You relax only minutely when you see your uncle across the path. Your brow furrows.

What is he after this time? you wonder.

He had been interrupting your routine for days now, and while it is kind of him to take interest in your pastimes—having accompanied you to visit Athfiezar, joined you in the Godswood, taken tea with you and your family—you are unsure of his motives.

“Uncle,” you say, a note of caution in your reply.

It is no matter. He takes this as permission to proceed forward, strolling across the grass to stand before you with his arms resting behind his back and his gaze lowered upon you. He blocks the afternoon light, and it haloes violently around his figure, casting him into shadow. You squint up at him to try and gauge his expression—you have no intention of standing up.

There is a moment of silence as you look upon each other. He moves, settling beside you, a little closer than you are comfortable with. You squirm slightly but make no move to back away—you were here first.

“What are you reading?” he asks.

You glance up from the page. His eyes are directed down toward you, but you have no idea what exactly he’s looking…

You snap the book toward your chest abruptly when you realise. He has positioned himself cleverly; such is the difference between your respective heights that he is quite comfortably able to peer down the neck of your gown. You blush scarlet and curse yourself for wearing something loose-fitting enough for his impropriety to take advantage of. For a moment, you ponder upon the reason for his looking; it is not as though you are one of his paramours.

You stammer your reply. “Ah—a book of Northern legends.”

Your uncle smirks knowingly, gently tugging the book from your hands, and you know he knows you caught him in the act. He does not attempt to address it, though; instead, he merely chooses to flick idly through the pages, humming with interest. “Hm. What drew you to it?”

Inanity is not his style. What is he really asking? What does he want from you?

“I like to learn,” you say, staring confusedly at him as he turns the pages, “and Northern culture is one I am unfamiliar with.”

He smiles. The breeze from the sea rustles through the garden, tousling your hair softly. It is unbound today, cresting in waves down your back.

“A good quality to have.” He closes the book with a thud, offering the tome to you; you make to take it back, but he does not let go. “Though, remember what I told you—books will only get you so far.”

You remember. You remember being a child, back when the world was brighter and made just a little more sense, though it grows hazier by the day. You remember being your uncle’s little princess, his small chattering companion, though the years had distanced you to strangers. You remember the warmth of his love, how safe he had made you feel; now, it seems an undercurrent of something dark, something dangerous lingers in every look and word.

“Well, books are what I have, and I take what I can get,” you say grumpily.

This conversation is bewildering you—you can feel an oncoming headache threaten your peace. You have no idea what he is after. You successfully pull the book from your uncle, holding it firmly in your lap. He chuckles. He is staring at you once again, and you are tongue-tied still. He makes you nervous.

“I have something for you.” He reaches into a pocket and pulling out his mystery gift.

He offers his hand to you; you reach out hesitantly, and he drops a chain into your palm. Your eyes widen—it is a necklace, dark metal inlaid with gold, shards of onyx and diamonds.

“Valyrian steel.” Your fingers brush along the pendants that drop from the centerpiece. “I remember being obsessed with the necklace you gave Rhaenyra,” you divulge, struck with rare verbosity and a need to impart something of your life that he might recall. “During feasts, Rhaenyra would sometimes sit me in her lap. That necklace was the only way to keep me still as a child—I loved playing with it as it hung around her throat. One day, she just… stopped wearing it. She stopped holding me in her lap at feasts after that, too. It felt like the world was suddenly … lonely.”

You swallow reflexively, the feeling as though you are doing something wrong rising in your gut. It is poor taste to engage in whatever this is with the long-held object of your older sister’s affections.

You look up at Daemon. He has not responded to your confession, but merely stares pensively at the glitter of precious stone and metal in your hand. Jewels are not your gift of choice, but a piece of your Valyrian ancestry is hard to come by.

“Thank you, Uncle,” you say softly, interrupting his contemplation. “I will treasure it.”

His eyes flicker up. He smiles, moving closer to you and grasping for the chain held loosely in your hand. “Lift your hair for me, riñītsos.”

You oblige, shifting your hair up and to the side and turning away obediently so that he may have an unhindered view of your neck. The chain swings softly, settling into the hollow of your throat. Daemon is hot at your back, and the scent of sun-warm leather and spice tickles your senses as he fastens the clasp. It slides down slightly when he settles it against your skin, and you shiver as his fingers trail against the fuzz of hairs at your nape.

“Lovely,” he whispers.

He is near enough that the sensation of exhaled breath whistles across the raised skin of your upper back, just barely concealed by the neckline of your gown. You drop your hair, startled.

“Princess,” calls Ser Criston.

You cringe internally when you realise the scene he is like to think he has come across, but make no move to distance yourself from your uncle. That would be an admission of guilt, and—technically—nothing of note has occurred; a family member giving a family member a gift, nothing more or less.

The knight stands at the garden entry, face blank with the staunch professionalism you have grown accustomed to since Alicent assigned him to your service years ago. “Your sister looks for you.”

“Which one?” you ask, casually collecting your things—placing the book into the light pack you use to carry precious items to and from your favourite leisure spots—as you speak. You elect to ignore Daemon, who has not moved from his place behind you. “I have two.”

“The elder,” Ser Criston answers stiffly.

You know he dislikes Rhaenyra greatly, though have not yet learned the reason. All of your attempts to subtly glean this information from him—and from your sister, and even from Alicent and Papa—has been met with naught but avoidance or placid redirection. It has something to do with the death of Ser Joffrey at Rhaenyra’s wedding, but you had been preoccupied by trailing after your disappearing uncle at the time. Thus, you had only ever heard rumours and hearsay of the event.

He clears his throat, startling you. “She is waiting in her solar for you.”

“I will go now, then,” you say, pulling the strap of your pack over your shoulder and standing.

You turn back to your uncle, still seated; he is the very picture of roguish disregard, settled comfortably on the grass, without a care. You envy him—what it must be like, to be a man in a man’s world. You cast about for the right word to denote this time with your uncle. You cannot say ‘enjoy’, for this entire exchange has been too confusing for you to claim any delight in. In a way, you suppose, you have welcomed this window into a man from nebulous recollections of girlhood, from stories told at court and fond reminiscences of Rhaenyra.

“Thank you, Uncle. I have—appreciated your company.”

“Take care, niece,” is all that he says in response, eyes glittering with mischief and mysterious intent.

You wonder what he is up to as you walk to Ser Criston, out of the garden and toward your sister’s rooms. How confusing.

The bed shifts, breaking you from your musings. You turn upright to face your interrupter. Daemon is seated on the edge of the mattress, looking down upon you. He is already dressed in a doublet of sable damask over a burgundy shirt, his pale hair neatly pulled back, as princely as always.

“Good morrow, Uncle,” you say uncertainly, unsure as to how you will be received. You have been intimate with his body—he has been inside you—but you do not know his mind.

The corner of his mouth quirks. “Sȳz ñāqes, dōnus riñus.” Good morning, sweet girl.

You blush as you recall his words from the previous night. Sh, little girl. His hand comes to rest on your head, brushing the hair from your eyes, stroking down the back of your neck. It feels safe—it feels almost paternal.

“How did you sleep?” he asks.

“Well, I think,” you say. Truthfully, you have no idea—it is too early to tell. It is only polite to ask him the same. “How was your rest?”

“My slumber was… gratifying.” He pauses, and the innuendo is obvious. Your eye twitches lightly. “I always sleep deeply after thorough exertion.”

He is teasing you now, and you sit up to escape the feeling that he is looming over you. His hand drops to the outline of your waist beneath the sheets.

You falter as he turns further to face you, leans in. “I’m—glad.”

“Do I make you nervous, little girl?” he murmurs, cheek against the shell of your ear. His voice thrums through your skull, almost like a cat’s purr. His hand presses tighter against your covered body.

You nod. You have always been possessed of a contradictory nature. The curiosity of youth and a keen desire to understand new things had overridden any lingering uneasiness over the act of coupling itself the previous night, your anxieties focused more on the prospect of performing for your father and his councilmen, for Rhaenyra and Laenor and Alicent. But direct confrontation is hardly your strong suit, and the authoritarian presence of your husband hovering over you in your marital bed feels like a battle to be fought.

Daemon laughs, mouth upturned in a cynical smirk. “You are sweet, aren’t you?”

His lips surge against yours, and his calloused palm is hot against the flesh of your throat as he controls the angle of your head. The motion itself is threatening—but it feels warm, safe with his hand there, taking your control, letting him lead you where he would.

He parts from you abruptly, his face just inches before yours.

“Fuck,” he says quietly. He grins apologetically at you when you look upon him with concern, tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. “It isn’t a good idea to start something we cannot finish,” he explains.

You don’t understand—you had been enjoying that.

“But why?” you ask, pressing your lips together to force away the tingling sensation his kiss has left upon them.

“Eager, too.” He smirks. “My, haven’t I won myself a prize?” The flattery warms you. “Nonetheless, it would not be wise to press my husbandly rights upon my freshly broken-in bride. I don’t want to pain you further.”

You redden at his crass reference to last night’s activities.

He pulls away from you, standing and turning to you. He holds his arm to you, palm up, inviting you to take his hand. “Besides—my brother has requested our presence in the King’s solar, to break our fast with our beloved family. Though,” he adds, his tone shifting to humour as he helps you from the bed, “I suppose I can start calling him ‘goodfather’ now. That should annoy him endlessly, and provide me with the entertainment I’ve been lacking.”

You wince as the pains from last night make themselves obvious, balking at the joke—it had not occurred to you that your father is now your goodbrother, too. What a mess.

You resist the urge to sigh as Daemon makes good on his goal to irritate your father upon entering the solar, arm clasped tightly with yours.

“Happy morning, goodfather!” he says, leading you to the table and pulling out a chair for you.

Rhaenyra snorts across from you; Papa sighs. Your uncle tucks you in before claiming the chair next to yours, pulling himself closer and already taking his selection of the fruits, cheeses and cold meats laid out.

“Brother.” The King’s greeting is gritted out through clenched teeth. He turns to you, much warmer. “Daughter. Did you sleep well?”

You ignore Aegon snickering down the other end of the table; he has been glancing at you oddly since you arrived. You do your best to ignore him as usual.

“Yes,” is your response.

“Good.”

The conversation lulls. No one has anything to say.

How does one converse with the people that watched me couple with my uncle in my marriage bed?

“The wedding was so lovely.” Helaena interrupts the discomfort. “Everything was so extravagant, even the food! And you looked perfect together.”

You are overcome with grateful affection for your sister—you know not if she has piped up in ignorance of the aura permeating the room, or if she has made a deliberate move to break the stand-still that has overtaken your family. Helaena exists often within her own world, ethereal and strange, but she is not ignorant; she uses it to her advantage from time to time.

“Thank you, Princess,” Daemon says to her. He turns to you, winking. “I happen to think we’re well-suited together, also.”

Aegon snickers again. You blush.

“I hope my wedding someday is as lovely as yours was.” Helaena sighs.

Alicent has been watching you and Daemon with narrowed eyes, silent and judging. She reassures her daughter from beside the King. “Of course it will be.”

“It is particularly delightful to have a royal wedding without any… unfortunate displays,” Laenor says weakly, sandwiched between Rhaenyra and young Lucerys. The jest falls flat; ten years, and the court still remembers the horror of Joffrey Lonmouth being beaten to death by Ser Criston Cole at the royal heir’s wedding.

“Yes.” Rhaenyra is uncharacteristically quiet, though she smiles reassuringly at you when you look upon her in question. “Delightful.”

“And were the proceedings afterward delightful, sister?” Aegon asks. He has finally decided to speak what is on his mind. You can hardly believe he would ask such a question, and then you remember who he is. Of course he would.

“Excuse me?” Your refuse to address the insinuation without direct confirmation.

“I heard it was an entertaining spectacle, ‘tis all,” he says, leering. You stare in shock. He would dare say such a thing in front of everyone? “I heard you were particularly—”

“Is everything in order, then?” Your uncle turns abruptly to your father. The King hums in question, eyes fixed upon his meal; with only one hand, he must focus on his plate to ensure the food does not fly off as he pierces the morsels with his fork. “The bedding. Everything to you and your Council’s satisfaction?”

The King coughs on his grape. Alicent is already moving to refill his goblet of wine, rubbing his back and pressing the cup to his mouth. Your father pushes her away gently, clearing his throat. “Ahem—yes.”

“Good. I do hope you’ve not thrown away the sheets.” Daemon’s words are acerbic. You sit silently beside him, looking down at your plate, wishing you were not in the room. “I’d like them back, I think—a souvenir for an evening well-spent.”

You long desperately for the chair to swallow you whole.

“Kepus,” you hiss. What a vulgar thing to say.

“My apologies, wife,” he says instantly, his hand coming to rest over your own clasped on the edge of the table, your knuckles white with the force of your grip. You relax despite yourself. “That was indelicate of me.”

Your family resumes the meal, the only noises in the room being the scrapes of utensils across plates and the sound of eating. Then Aegon pipes up again.

“I assume you will be travelling with Rhaenyra to Dragonstone, Uncle.” Aegon’s eyes glitter with ill intent. “Now that she is leaving.”

You have heard all about this—Alicent has complained to your father yet again about the long-standing conflict between her sons and Rhaenyra’s, carefully ignoring the role Aegon often plays in joining his nephews in teasing Aemond. Evidently, Rhaenyra has decided to depart the capital for the ancestral seat of the Targaryens. You frown lightly at Aegon’s question. It is loaded with unspoken intimation, and you think he means to imply that your sister and your uncle are… well.

“Why ever would I do that, nephew?” Daemon’s reply is too polite. “My wife hasn’t informed me of any wish to accompany Rhaenyra.”

“I did not know she was intending to depart so soon,” you say quietly.

“You are welcome to come with us,” Laenor offers, brightening. He would enjoy sparring with your uncle in peace, you think.

“Of course,” your sister echoes.

Aegon grins nastily. “I do hope you and Lord Laenor are well-versed in entertaining yourselves, sister. It is clear to see why our uncle thought marrying you was such a good idea—you and Rhaenyra are so close.”

“You ought to watch your mouth, boy.” Your uncle’s voice cuts across Aegon’s. His disposition is relaxed, but you can tell this is a carefully-crafted display; there is an undercurrent of danger about him, and the rest of your party is tense in their silence as they look on in witness. “Lest something unfortunate should occur to your tongue.”

“That’s enough!” your father snaps, banging his remaining fist against the wood of the table. “Let us have one—one—meal in peace, damn it all!”

Your husband wisely chooses to resume eating. Aegon does the same, though his petulant expression and glares at Daemon and yourself across the table make you all too aware that this is not over.

Wonderful.

“Why did you marry me?”

You are safely ensconced in your chambers once more, and Ceryse and Senna have readied a bath. You had sunk in appreciatively, eager to wash away the remnants of last night—the fluids and dried blood that have coalesced in the crevices down below, chafing uncomfortably as you had walked to and from the King’s solar—and the crawling sensation that had settled upon you during that awful meal. It was not until you had heard the scrape of chair upon stone and opened your relaxed eyes to see Daemon had settled himself behind you on a stool, goblet of wine placed on the table beside the tub, solicitously gathering your hair and winding it up so that it would not become wet.

“You oughtn’t listen to that twat of a brother of yours,” Daemon says shortly.

He grabs the soap and cloth, gently beginning to wash the skin of your neck and upper back, so often hard to reach without help from your ladies. You suppose a husband would work just as well in this endeavour.

“Please,” is your entreaty.

Am I just a replacement for Rhaenyra? A way to get close to her? The words are stuck in your throat, and you do not have the courage to bring them forth. You know you will not avoid this conversation forever—but it can wait for now.

He sighs; pauses; his brow furrows in thought. You would be embarrassed at the way his eyes fall on your form, distorted by the water but bared to his view nonetheless—however, it is clear that he is not actually looking at you in this moment.

You turn more fully to him, and wait for him to consider his words. Silence reigns for a time.

“As a young man, I lived for… violence, chaos. I sought it in the battles I pursued, in the whores I fucked, the games I played at court. I enjoyed a certain senselessness in the people I surrounded myself with. But I am older now; wiser, too.”

He sighs, leaning forward to grasp his goblet from its place on the table beside the bath. He takes a swig of his wine, coughing lightly. He returns to his previous task, now running the soapy cloth down your arms. You oblige him by lifting your arms for his roaming hand and then immersing them in the water, rinsing away the lather.

You barely breathe, fearful of shattering this spell. It is the most you have ever heard him talk and speak something real.

He continues. “I’ve grown weary of it—the vicious cycle of fighting and drinking and fucking without a damn for anyone or anything. Of… chaos, and destruction. But you.” He looks up at your face, eyes luminous. “You are bright, and beautiful, and good. Unspoiled. I look at you and I see… hope. The promise of something better. A future where I can be happy.”

You are suddenly desperately sad for this man, your husband; the longing in his voice for that unknown contentment is so palpable you feel it worm its way into your throat, settling to an ache in your chest. He sounds lonely, and you can understand that feeling. Caught between two sides of a family conflict, you have been alone in weathering the storm of Alicent and Rhaenyra’s bitter feud, too old to play a part in the domesticity Alicent has created with your father and her children, a family unfractured by circumstance—and too young to understand why. It eases you somehow, that this was not a confession of a love that could not possibly have grown in so short a time. You are immeasurably thankful to him. It would have been easy for him to lay thick pretty words of ardent devotion and tender adoration.

You do not have his love, and nor had you been expecting it—but you could be his happiness.

You lay your hand over his, where it rests on the edge of the tub. You look at your hands, your smaller one laid over his, as he turns his palm up. Your fingers clasp together softly.

“I will make you happy, valzȳrys,” you whisper. Husband.

It is a promise.

“I know you will, sweetling.” He smiles at you, at your words, spoken in that soft, shy voice, the steel undercurrent of your oath contradicting the childish innocence of the pronouncement. “And I’ll do my very best to deserve that—and you.”

You sit for a while in the tepid bath water, your husband holding your hand, saying nothing.

It is not love, not yet. It could be.

It will be.

Read on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/41942436/chapters/105397914

Taglist (wow I have a taglist, wtf go ME thanx ma dude):

@eddiemunson17

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #house of the dragon #daemon targaryen x oc #terms of endearment │ daemon targaryen x reader

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