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tadpolesonalgae · 10 months

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Rhysand x reader: Peacock Feathers[*]

A/N: yeah, I like this one.

Summary: he always has something fun planned for Date Night.

Warnings: heavy voyeurism, heavy exhibitionism, fingering, not wearing seatbelts, sexual tension, 5.2k words

‘The most flamboyant lingerie set you have. Wear it for me.’

You huff at your husband’s minimal description for the dress code of tonight’s date. You rummage through your draws, flinging open the armoire, even the wardrobe in the corner, riffling for something. What did he even mean by flamboyant? Did he want you to strut out into the night cloaked in nothing but some sheer lace and heels? You bite your lip at the idea. It would be just like you husband to arrange something like that.

Flamboyant…flamboyant…

Flamboyant!

You rush back to the armoire, digging through the neatly set clothes, fingers searching for the material until you find what you’re looking for. You hold it up, and nodded. Yes, it would do. It would do quite well, in fact. Now, to find a way to conceal it…

You know he’s taking you out…somewhere. And unless he’s planning on smuggling you in, wrapped in a body bag, then you will need to find a way to hide the finely made lingerie from prying eyes. You sigh at yet another task to fulfil. You’re honestly going to bite Rhys’ cock off if this fails your expectations—for all the trouble he’s putting you through.

Once again, you search through your wardrobe, gazing at the menagerie of gowns and dresses. An array of satin and silk, garish and gaudy, jewels glimmering in the warm lamp light, winking at you temptingly. But no, you would choose something simple, something that would enhance your underclothes. You think about what your husband is likely to adorn himself in. If he asked you for flamboyant…it could be anything. Still, bright pops of colour weren’t really his style, preferring the brush of dark sleeves and silver cuffs than splashes of sparkling yellows or velvety oranges. The most flamboyant you’ve seen him in is a dark red suit, in celebration of a dear brother—and even then it had been so dark the crimson only showed if the light hit from a particular angle.

Having ruled out most options, you figure your best chances are either white or black, if he’s going to dress in a suit. White or black. You scan the wardrobe for anything that would fit with the lingerie. The choice is easy.

————

“Ready, darling?”

You silently move yourself to the top of the curved staircase, taking the one closest to your dressing chambers. Your husband’s eyes sweep over you, glinting with feline satisfaction as he drinks you in. One step at a time, you descend toward him, moving with elegant precision. You keep his eyes the whole while, basking in the heat of his keen gaze, and you wonder if you’ll even make it out the front doors.

A subtle string of rose quartz beads decorate your throat, the white satin of your gown flowing in smooth cascades behind you. The dress slims to your waist, the mini corset accented with small iridescent sequins that decorate the floral jacquard fabric. The heels you’ve selected hold a thin stilt to balance on, platinum lace weaving around your ankles, ensconced with silver thread keeping tiny beads wrapped snuggly against the ties. A single ring adorns your right glove, resting with grounding weight on your thumb. The band is silver, set with a moonstone, tiny amethysts framing it against the creamy silk of your gloves. Beneath the smooth fabric on your left hand lies your wedding ring, a beautiful sapphire welded delicately into the metal.

He drinks in the dusty red of your lips, matte in their texture and slightly dulled to not pull away from the rest of you. Divine. Enchanting. Refined. Perfectly attuned to him, having not gone too over the top when he’d requested flamboyance. Keeping in mind that you were a pair and would be seen together.

“You look positively delicious,” Rhys purrs as you reach the bottom of the staircase, gliding over to him. You give him a sultry smile, one that has heat shooting straight between his legs. He’s brought back to the Soirée last month, when you’d been sat on your knees between his thighs, dark rouge lipstick blurred at the edges of your mouth, perfect replicas stamped on his cock from where you’d kissed up and down the length of him until he couldn’t take it any more. He remembers how you’d swiped at the smudged tint, glaring up at him teasingly, “why is it whenever you take me out somewhere I always end up with my makeup out of place?”

Then there had been the masquerade party the month before, where you’d been set on keeping those damned masks on, hiding the beauty of your face from him. You’d insisted the anonymity had been thrilling, given a dark edge to the experience. It was this in particular that had him thinking. Turning over different venues and activities until he’s found one he believed would be pleasingly satisfying to your slightly sinister tastes.

“I could say the same about you, husband.” He looks ravishing. Charmingly debonair in his black suit, complete with smooth bow tie and crisp white shirt. Not a crease to be found. A kerchief makes a soft triangle atop his breast pocket, complete with a peacock feather decorating the smooth lapel of his jacket. “I don’t suppose you plan on informing me of tonight’s venue?” You inquire, settling a palm over his heart as you lean against him.

His hand raises to your jaw, tilting your lips toward his. “And ruin the surprise at the last minute? I think not.” He presses his lips to your own, coming away vaguely rosey from the rouge staining your mouth. You pout, fingers circling over his chest, “you like watching me squirm, don’t you? How cruel you are, truly. I cannot fathom—” you press another kiss to his lips, “—why I ever married you.” He offers you a feline grin, “maybe you enjoy the tension. The edge.” His fingers grip your hips, pulling you against him.

You’re pleased when his eyes darken as he feels the pattern of something thin beneath the satin. “What did you choose?” His voice has dropped, roughening and you suppress a shiver at the timbre. You peer up at him innocently, “and spoil the surprise at the last second? I think not.” Your teasing spurs him on, fingers deftly catching on the low collar of your dress, moving to pull it from your skin so he can catch a glimpse of what lies beneath.

Rhys gets as far as bringing a wash of cool air down your front before you’re jabbing two fingers into his chest—down his sternum. “Ah, ah, ah, husband.” You push him back, preventing him from peering down your top. “Leave something for dessert,” you chastise, a low growl sounding in the back of his throat. Pleasure sings beneath your skin at your husband’s antics.

Your fingers waltz upward, delicately hooking beneath his perfectly wrapped bow tie, pulling him downward toward your mouth. “Wouldn’t want to spoil your appetite now, would we?”

“I assure you my appetite is depthless when it comes to you, wife.” His fingers latch onto your own, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. You flush with pleasure, “shameless flirt.”

“Promiscuous madam.”

You raise a single, neatly groomed brow, “a madam?” You echo, then press against his chest, allowing him to feel the soft plushness of your breasts. “And what’s a refined gentleman like you doing in the arms of a lady of the night, hm?”

He growls, grip tightening on you possessively. “She’s taken something from me. Something very precious. Plucked it straight from my chest, weaving her sinful fingers between the bones of my ribs.” His mouth brushes over your own, an erotic caress of his lips. “I fear the day she returns it, for the pain it will bring.”

Your eyes dip as they follow their quiet movement. “I took yours as payment for my own.” You whisper back, “I am merely human, and cannot survive without it.” His arm snakes around your lower back, forehead pressing to your own, sharing in the intimacy. “You took mine first, Rhys.” He releases a soft breath at his name on your lips. “It’s only fair.”

He laughs softly against your mouth, and you keen beneath the sound, pushing up onto your tiptoes, desperate for another taste—

“Shall we?”

He’s pulled back, leaving your chest cold, heat warming between your legs. Your husband holds out an arm, waiting for you to latch onto him, arrogantly expecting. You gift him a saccharine smile, already planning how to overthrow him for the evening, “lead the way.”

————

The lamplights reflect in the puddles as it drizzles. Already you can make out the faint wisps of fog rolling through the dark streets.

“What’s on your mind, darling?”

You turn, propping your chin on your hand as you gaze at him before straightening, looking ahead. “I was thinking whether you’d enjoy the silk of my hands or the velvet of tongue.” You glance at him sidelong, pleased when he stiffens. You could swear you see his demeanour shift to match the darkness of the night. “Do you think it wise to begin this dance so early?” He drawls. You return your gaze to peering through the chauffeurs window, watching them cut through traffic. “That is true,” you contemplate, “it is usually your role to insist on foreplay.”

You turn in your seat, catching the dark glint in his violet eyes. You offer a coy smile, enjoying rilling him up before the event has even begun. He leans over, across the space between you, mouth lowering to brush the shell of your ear, “did you follow my orders for tonight?” You swallow as he pulls back to look at you, shifting to be beside you, the powerful lines of his body pressing to your own shape. “Are you so desperate to see me in my underthings?” A serpentine smile twists the edges of your rouge mouth, “I chose an appropriate set. I think it will appeal to your tastes.”

Again, his eyes dip to that teasing window of your chest, dress cut low enough to reveal mouth-watering skin, but not enough for him to catch a glimpse. No matter, he’ll find out soon enough.

Rhysand straightens, reaching to his pocket, “I forgot to give you this, for the night.” He retrieves a headband, accented with a single peacock feather at it’s crest, set with clear jewel you believe to be a diamond. “Put it on for me?” Your heart beat increases at the deftness of your husbands fingers, brushing strands of hair from your cheeks before setting the circlet atop your brow. “Perfect,” he murmurs, and you wonder if he meant to say it aloud.

His thumb brushes beneath your lashes as he stares into your eyes. You lean into the touch, indulging in the heat of his large palm over your jaw. He looks as though he’s considering kissing you, eyes dipping lower, a deep hunger roiling in their depths. “Go on,” you encourage, shifting your body to face his as your arms snake over his shoulders.

But the chauffeur pulls up a driveway, bringing the vehicle to a stand still.

Your husband pulls away with a grin, “enjoy.”

————

The red windmill.

An interesting name.

He’d guided you to the entrance, your silk encased hand gripping the satin hem of your dress to keep it from dragging on the floor. When the receptionist had asked for a name to place for the reservation, he’d given it over, and then the two of you had been escorted to a private suite. The server had shown you around, where things were, and then left you alone, together.

When the door clicks, you turn to Rhys. “Care to reveal your secrets now, sir?” His lips quirk as he settles in a large armchair, a deep red to match the atmosphere of the chamber, lit by warm lights and accented with blacks, reds and oranges. His legs spread as he gets comfortable, facing you. “Every garment you remove, I’ll let you in on a little more,” he purrs, readying himself for the show you’ll give him.

You roll your eyes, but pull the glove from your left hand, wedding band glinting in the light. He raises a brow at the small movement. “I didn’t take you for a coward,” he taunts, but you simply peer down at your nails, examining them. “Secret, please.” His mouth neutralises into an unreadable line, “we’re here for entertainment.” You roll your eyes again, “obviously.” He grins, silently ordering you to remove another item of clothing.

Teasingly, you remove the other glove, staring him down from across the room as you perch on the arm of the chair opposite him. You drop the silk onto the cushion, the pure white an erotic contrast to the dark colours shrouding the suite. “Both your voyeuristic and exhibitionistic tendencies will be satiated.” You blink, then narrow you eyes at the man. “Have you brought be to a sex club, Rhysand?” He chuckles at the use of his full name—you only use it when displeased with him. “Rhys, you haven’t,” you gasp, “what if someone sees?” Sometimes you really could strangle your husband.

But then he stands from his reclined position, prowling forward, hands wrapping firmly around your waist as his shadow swallows you. “Isn’t that the point?” He purrs, your spine arching against him. “Don’t you delight in their attention? Revel in it?” Heat flushes your cheeks at your husband’s accuracy. “I know how you like being perceived as an object of desire. Isn’t that why you didn’t bat a single, pretty eyelash when I made my request for the night?”

His hands glide up, tracing over your breasts until they cup your jaw, “I’ll ravish you in front of the whole world if it pleases you.”

“But a sex club!” You hiss, making him laugh. “Am I laughing, Rhys?” You snap, making him calm himself.

“I give you my word, it’s nothing as disreputable as a sex club,” he purrs, but the lilt in his voice suggests a loophole. “Why don’t you remove that dress of yours so you can get to the big reveal, hm?”

He steps away, allowing you to stand. To proceed with the show. You huff, turning your back to him as you begin slowly unslotting the tiny satin cushions from their holes. One at a time. Piece by piece.

Gradually, the smooth material begins its descent off the slope of your shoulders. His mouth dries as he finds the thin, platinum straps that loop atop your arms. The satin slowly gives way, showing off the latch of the brassiere you’ve donned. Pure, glittering white. He swallows as the gown lowers over your waist, caressing the intimate skin of your waist; hips.

The dress pools at the poised set of your heel adorned feet, the silver ensconced lace matching the delicious underthings you’ve selected. His breath catches as you glance at him over one shoulder, giving him a partially concealed view of your beautiful face. Your slim fingers waltz over the skin of your arm, trailing down as your eyes follow teasingly. The other hand is wrapped over your hip, playing with the thin band of your underwear: matching lace that clings to the plump curve of your rear.

“Turn around, darling. Let me see you.” His voice sounds rougher; more strained.

Ever so slowly, you step out of the waves of satin, turning to reveal yourself to him.

A low groan sounds at the back of his throat as he slips two fingers beneath the collar of his shirt, apparently in need of some cooler air. You smirk as you begin prowling closer, stopping only when you’re positioned between his muscled thighs.

Your husband enjoys himself as he drinks you down, eyes dragging so slowly over every fine detail, and you swear you can see the plans in his mind fading back to dust. He wets his lower lip, gaze darkening as he imagines where you’d enjoy being touched, whether you would prefer his fingers or his mouth over your perky nipples. Whether you’ll insist on keeping your lingerie intact, or whether you’ll be so desperate as he is by the night’s end that you won’t care about it being hastily removed. Strewn across the rouge carpet.

Sequins and pale glass beads are woven to the brocade fabric, indentations of peacock feathers shimmering in the light, iridescent thread glimmering. Tiny sets of diamond are dotted at the base of the brassiere, looping around your back and over your shoulders. Strings of pearls dangle from the base of the lingerie, hanging in crescent circles like ribs made of moonstone—reconnecting at the clasp. The underwear matches perfectly, accented with the same glittering platinums, silver embossed feathers curling over your hips.

“You’re divine,” he breathes, violet eyes reflecting your warm light. His hands reverently pull you closer, your own settling on the corded muscle of his shoulders as he places a kiss to your navel. “Divine,” he whispers, shakily. Your husband looks up at you, your fingers weaving through his blue-black hair, so soft to the touch. He keens at your touch, revelling in the press of the pads of your fingers, feather-light as you trace the sharp cleft of his cheek.

“What’s the big secret, husband?” You murmur, hooking one leg over his thigh as you slide into his lap. He moves for your mouth, lips parting, eyes sliding closed but you set a firm hand on his chest. “Now, now, Rhys. Behave.” He groans softly at the command, eyelids lazing open to look at you. Lust and hunger dance intimately, barely hidden in the now indigo hue of his irises. Your fingers settle either side of his chin, tilting his jaw toward you, his pupils dilated and burning.

“It’s your turn, Rhys,” you whisper alluringly, hips winding over his. He stifles another groan, “wicked, wicked woman.” A thrill of excitement brushes down your spine at his pained tone. His strong arms snake around your waist, clutching you to his body, hand settling between your shoulder blades, indulging in the drag of your breasts. He grips your ass, pulling you tight to his hips, feeling the prominent outline of something delicious between your thighs—against your stomach.

“Come on, now,” you chide, mouth dancing over his own, a sensual caress of breath. “Make good on your word, husband.” A strained sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest, eyes flicking up to yours. He swallows, and you trace the roll of his throat. Then both his hands drop to your ass, hauling you against him as he stands, your thighs wrapping snuggly around his hips. “Rhys…?” Your tones shifts to irritation and he chuckles.

Your husband moves fluidly through the suite room, opening a door the server hadn’t shown you. You try to turn but he presses your face to his shoulder, hiding the view from you. All you’re able to make out is the general volume of people, but it’s a bit far away, as if from a lower floor. Music rolls up to your ears, fiery, rhythmic, and you want to set your heels to the floor, if only to spin with your husband to the syncopated melody.

“Rhys? What is that?” Your husband sets you down on what feels like a balcony, his grip loosening, allowing you to peer about. “Look for yourself,” he smirks, stepping back a little. Your thighs tighten around him, tugging him back to your chest harshly as you take in your surroundings.

He’s seated you precariously on what is indeed a balcony, thick mahogany supporting you. Large, champagne coloured chandeliers hang from the ornate ceiling, light refracting through the glass diamonds, casting their golden glow throughout the hall. You’re on the highest floor, the room is cavernous compared to the booth he’d taken you to. Below, people chatter and make merry, dressed finely in anything from night robes to stunning silk dresses to flimsy underthings with a fan of feathers haloing their heads like crowns. A menagerie of fluidly colours: purples to yellow, stripes of pink and cream, splashes of oranges and greens, the glittering sparkle of sequins and jewels gleaming in the low light.

At the front of the hall lies what appears to be a small orchestra, and you zone in on the figure at the forefront of the music, just ahead of the elderly conductor. He’s playing what might be an accordion of some kind, the music frenetic, a frenzied tango of notes. “Is that a squeezebox?” You peer closer, still wrapped tightly around Rhys’ hips. He peers with you, “I believe that’s a copy of a French Flutina. Popular in the 19th century.”

You listen closer to the music, trying to place it. Your husband smiles as recognition sparkles in your eyes, “Libertango, Astor Piazzolla.” He nods, hand cupping your cheek, “indeed.” Your hold relaxes on him a little, allowing you more leeway to watch the crowd. His mouth drops to your throat, kissing a slow trail from your collar bones to your jaw. Your breathing deepens, then catches. His lips lift into a smile over your neck, “see anything interesting?” Then he receives a light smack to his shoulder, “Rhysand!” You scold, fuming, “it is a sex club!”

Sure enough, he can make out the groping hands on the floor below, the bent over bodies, the kneeling legs, the harsh snap of hips. All while the musicians play on. A symphony of pleasure singing through the room, a harmony of moans for accompaniment. “They prefer the term massage parlour. The clientele are free to engage with other participants in whatever way they wish. No one here is paid to do anything.”

Your raise a brow sceptically, “you’ve done your research, husband.”

“Only the best for my wife.” Your lower body tingles at the title. “I hope you know I refuse to step foot in that…pleasure hall. These heels are white. And very dear.”

He laughs against your skin, “why do you think I reserved a private room for us, my darling?”

You pout at the cunning man. “How obnoxiously sly of you,” you remark. “I’m always ten steps ahead of you, dear,” he murmurs over your lips, giving you a serpentine grin before twisting you round, so your back is pressed against his broad chest. “Rhys!” You squeak, hands flying for something to grip onto, feet weaving through the wooden beams withstanding the balcony railing.

“Enjoy yourself,” he drawls, opening his mouth over the unmarked skin of your neck, pressing hot, wet kisses to you. You moan softly. All those people, indulging beneath you, hardly an idea of what’s happening above them. “Relax,” he instructs, nipping at the pearled lobe of your ear. You whine. “You try relaxing with the potential of falling to your death,” you manage, even as his arm tightens around your stomach, letting you know you’re safe with him. “You know that, should you fall, I would plummet with you,” he whispers against your skin, drawing a bark of laughter from your throat, the rose quartz beads ringing at the sound. “I would have preferred reassurance you would not let me drop, Rhys,” you snap playfully.

“That too.”

You huff a laugh that turns into a hitch as his hand cups you through the finely woven lace. A moan slips from your lips as heat warms your skin, his fingers deftly rubbing over the apex of your thighs. “Rhys…” He kisses your jaw, “look below you. All those people revelling in one another, taking what they want until they’re drunk on pleasure.” Your breathing becomes shallow.

“Any one of them could look up—some already might’ve—see you spread out on the balcony, with my hand between your thighs.” You preen against him, melting into his warmth as his fingers dip lower, oscillating over your entrance. He pushes the damp silk to the side, scooping up your slick on his middle and forth finger before raising it to his lips, groaning at your taste. You release a sultry laugh at your husband’s actions, spreading your legs a little wider, “take more, if you want.”

Rhysand growls at the invitation, gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at the people below. “How many people do you think are watching you right now, huh?” You. Not us. You. “How many people do you think have seen how you’re dressed—how you’re acting—and hoped to themselves you’ll be gracing their mouths later?” The heel of his palm presses to the top of your thighs, rubbing gently as his fingers circle you, before pushing in. “How many people down there, do you think, are pleasuring themselves to you?”

Your back arches against him, his clever fingers curling and dragging against your walls. You swallow, desperate to find your words, “I…I don’t know…” you manage, and his teeth nip at your throat, biting lightly. “Have a look, darling. Seek them out.” You moan, trying to follow his orders, but the light is fairly minimal, and the bodies are fading to an erotic dance of shadows. “Can’t do it?” He drawls, pressing his fingers deeper, up to his knuckles.

He laughs darkly beside your ear, “down near the front, a little away from the cellist.” You follow his directions, landing on a figure with their head raised, pleasuring themself. “Beside the third exit on the ground floor, wearing red.” Again you follow, finding a figure strewn over a table, gazing upward. “The floor below is, opposite.” You moan loudly, the sound getting wisped away in the music.

In the booth he’s talking about, a woman is bent over the railing, her petite breasts exposed to the air—to the audience below—while an older gentleman stands behind her, and you can see how her body is pushed forward with each snap of his hips. Her lips are parted, and were the room silent you’re sure she would be moaning as you are. Her eyes are hooded, but watching you, watching as your husband’s fingers push into you, how your back arches.

He does something wicked with his digits, and you gasp, head tipping backward onto his shoulder as he presses against your clit. “Rhys…” you moan out, feeling so high already, practically weightless, as if you could fly away. “Easy,” he orders, arms tightening around you as your hips buck. “Not tipping over that edge just yet.” The possibility has your heart rate increasing, adrenaline thrumming beneath your skin, buzzing at your fingertips.

Your eyes return to the couple on the lower floor. “Do you think she’s an escort?” You manage, noting her scandalous clothing and exquisite gems adorning her throat and wrists. “Does it please you to fantasise about their outside lives, hm? Create a story for them, to get off to?” You moan at his words, nodding your head. “What do you think she’s thinking right now?” His fingers fuck into you harder, keeping their pace though the pressure increases over your clit. “I—…” you can’t manage anything: it’s so overwhelming.

“I think she’s wondering how you taste, what it would be like to have her fingers burying into you like this,” he punctuates his words with a flick of his wrist, digits dragging against that glorious spot inside you. “I bet she’s wishing you were coming on her tongue instead.”

You whimper, nails digging into the banister as you draw nearer and nearer. “Maybe she’s fantasising about you, what your story is. Perhaps she’s winding a filthy tale in her head of you being stolen away by a dark stranger, auctioned off to the highest bidder for your virginity.” You pant heavily, delighting in the wet squelching coming from between your thighs, proof of your arousal for your husband. At some point, dancers had appeared onstage, dressed in thinner and even skimpier clothing than you. Jewels, gems, and peacock feathers waltzing across the skene.

“Perhaps she’s creating a story of a failed marriage, love abandoned, so you’ve left to seek out some real pleasure, from someone who will treat this cunt right.” You whimper, so close to unravelling from his silver-tipped tongue. He’s always been quick on his feet when it comes to this, perfectly attuned to the darker parts of your mind, the more private thoughts you have. “Perhaps she’s telling herself you’re nothing but a dirty whore, trying to scrape together a penny or two by selling your pretty pussy.”

You suck in a sharp breath of air as your high hits you, fully seizing your body as you tighten wildly around his fingers, grinding your hips against his hand as he pulls you through the euphoria. “That’s it,” he encourages, “show everyone what a filthy whore you are.” Your cunt is still fluttering around his steadily moving fingers. The hot breath from his mouth brushes over your ear, fanning across your neck, “you’re no better than a prostitute, are you?” He whispers, circling your clit slowly, working you down.

You pant heavily as your heart beat begins to even out in the aftermath. You swallow as his fingers drag out of your slick heat, coated in glossiness that shines in the low light. “Open.” You hardly have time to follow the command before the pads of his middle and forth finger are sliding over your mouth, like an obscene lip gloss. He pushes them in, against your tongue so you can taste your own arousal. His hips buck against your ass.

“So good, aren’t you. My good, little wife.” You whine at the title, and he helps you down from the balcony—carefully. He spins you around, pulling you tight to his hips, pinning you to the railing. “Think you’re all warmed up for me now? Or do you need some time to cool off?” He taunts. You buck against him, “I can take you.”

He chuckles at your enthusiasm but his eyes flick to the stage, filled with dancing song girls. “Looks like some of the entertainment is starting,” he drawls, giving you a light pat on the ass before he’s guiding you to a chair. Your legs give out when he pushes you, collapsing into the soft cushions. “Why don’t we resume after this brief intermission, hm? I’ll fetch us some refreshments.”

When you look like you’re about to stand to follow after him, he sends you a look over his shoulder. Promising more. “All I want you wearing is those gloves when I return.” His eyes darken as they drag over your body, male satisfaction glinting in his sharp gaze as he notes the slick glossing your thighs. “After all, you were so keen on finding out whether I would like your silk or velvet more.”

Heat flushes your cheeks at the reminder, excitement zipping beneath your skin. Your eyes dip to his hips, “do you think you’re appropriate?” You smirk, noting the obvious outline of his cock, your tongue wetting your lower lip. He mirrors your grin, “think I should send you out there in my stead?” He drawls, sparking arousal in the pit of your tummy. “Maybe a dark stranger will whisk me away, auction me off to the highest bidder.”

“Precisely why I will be getting refreshments,” he smirks. “I’ll knock thrice, slowly, when I return.”

“Maybe I should lock you out. Make you wait like you’re doing to me,” you drawl, watching lazily from your half reclined position. His laugh is a lovers caress between your legs, “if you have the heart to.”

“It’s your heart,” you remind him, smiling.

“Exactly.”

Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020

#Rhysand #Rhysand x reader #Rhysand smut #Rhysand x reader smut #acotar #acotar au #Rhysand date night #date night #date night with the bat boys #Peacock Feathers[*]

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i-did-not-mean-to · 1 year

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Cursed Cards - Part 2

As promised, here is the second part of this story (with new art)

Please...admire this new masterwork by @sauroff!!!

A special thanks to @last-capy-hupping for always screaming with me about the art! Modern!AU Russingon royalty that you are; what would I do without your support?

Revenge

Words: 1,7k

Warnings: Russingon (still half-cousin incest in canon)

Context: Continuation of Part I (Did this run away with me? Yes, it did...Will there be a part III? Yes...)

Maglor often liked to pretend that he was the least stubborn, wilful, and resentful of his brothers by giving himself an air of charming insouciance and debonair indulgence.

This, of course, was but a carefully constructed façade. If anything, he was smarter and simply more discreet when it came to taking care of his various grudges and grievances.

Hence, according to his duplicitous and single-minded nature, he was perfectly amiable upon approaching Fingon’s mother on the subject of the accursed photograph that was still being propagated merrily – to his profound and unconditional displeasure.

“Would you not grant me an equally embarrassing photo of your darling son, dearest Lady?” Maglor purred, schooling his face into a bone-melting expression of angelic sweetness. “In the name of fairness and benevolent holiday cheer?”

Anairë – having seen the Fëanorian picture on several occasions – was just as superficially agreeable and polite in her eventual acquiescence, but, once she was bent over her albums, she allowed herself to guffaw loudly for a good, long moment.

She very much doubted that her conciliatory contribution would have the desired effect for Fingon was not ashamed of his childhood pictures and she saw no reason why he should have been either; her oldest son had been an enchanting child and had grown into a handsome young man.

Naturally, she also could hardly understand why Maedhros and his brothers were so enraged and vexed about their own holiday photograph; if one was to ask her, she would have declared it a perfectly adorable depiction of a bunch of truly gorgeous children without hesitation.

Nonetheless, she had promised to provide one of her own treasures in the name of fairness and thinly veiled retribution and so she set to work, much to the astonishment and amusement of her dear husband.

Pride and pettiness intermingled in her bosom for she could be of a mischievously playful nature and so, Fingolfin did not put it past her to dig out something that could indeed be conveniently weaponised by the so woefully wronged Fëanorian brood. Anairë certainly seemed intent on identifying and locating the most mortifying of testaments of their own children’s youth, ploughing through albums with the bright-eyed zeal of one who was already very much enjoying a practical joke in the making.

Several clichés were considered seriously as she staved off waves of emotion and nostalgia before being discarded for being much too flawless and hardly the bludgeon Maglor seemed to believe she had squirrelled away in some dark hole.

Again, she could but chuckle to herself quietly as she rejected yet another stack of potential peace offerings; her children – wild and unpredictable as they were at times – had been undeniably adorable back in the days when potential romantic entanglements had merely made them frown and grimace in disgust.

Unless…Her eyes flashed with wicked glee as her mind travelled back at the speed of light.

Even if her they, whose memory was a haphazard collection of different, overlapping snapshots, could not recall the full extent of their past, Anairë herself remembered the sons of Fëanor perfectly.

The world always seemed so very big to kids, she thought fondly, but – in truth – they had all grown up in the same region and had even gone to the same summer camp for several years.

“Oh, there’s an idea,” she exclaimed and dragged a kitchen chair to the old armoire in the dining room to retrieve the dusty tomes of holiday, graduation, and camp pictures that were taken out the least often.

“What now?” Fingolfin called from the sofa, regarding his wife with a glint of curiosity and Schadenfreude that belied his air of gravitas. “What did you remember, sweet, fabulous love of mine?”

With a sharp cry of triumph, Anairë brandished the photo she had been searching for, waving it in Fingolfin’s face enthusiastically.

“Oh,” he gasped, “you really want this to work out between them, huh? Throwing all our babies under the bus?”

“Quid pro quo,” Anairë grinned. “Nerdë has sent me a copy of their picture as well; I’ve had it framed and I’ve decided to display it very prominently when they come for dinner.”

“You, my darling, are a terror,” Fingolfin laughed good-humouredly. “That slinking, sneaky smooth-talker knew what he was doing when he approached you instead of me. I guess we know where – or rather who – ‘Rissë gets it from.”

Anairë scoffed at that; she had no doubt that her husband would have rolled his eyes and crinkled his nose at the proposition to fight fire with fire, but she was just as sure that he would have come to her later anyway to see if they could not find some small token of solace after all. He had a soft heart like that, and he was too proud of his children to ever miss an opportunity to show them off.

Maglor guffawed as he sat in Anairë’s kitchen a few days later and picked up the picture that she slid across the table.

His finger hovered over the elegant handwriting for a second; she had scribbled a little note into the bottom margin, leaving no doubt as to the source of that hilarious and weirdly touching memento of days long past.

“Is that summer camp? I remember us being there,” he snorted. “Funny that they might have met back then but – as our accursed photograph attests – Nelyo was much too busy keeping us in line to waste any thoughts on anyone else…including his own dear soul.”

He sighed dramatically to cover the shadow of earnest regret and guilt flashing across his soft, open face.

“Yes, that was on family day. You can easily see that our darling girl is no less a savage than your Tyelko. Arakáno was so proud of this bow too.” It was her turn to exhale wistfully. “’Rissë was convinced that she was the better archer – and she was right – and promptly insisted on proving her point.”

Tapping the cliché with her finger, she smiled at Maglor who looked up sharply, stars of pure amusement dancing in his luminous eyes.

“Turgon got more than he had signed up for, I see,” he commented in a light tone, but she could easily hear the petty glee in his voice.

“He was ever a child who preferred to be left in peace,” she agreed, “in many ways not unlike your Moryo, don’t you think?”

“Oh no,” Maglor laughed, “that one would clap and cheer if we were to devour one another; I know because earnest attempts have been made and it was always Nelyo who tried to break us up. He still has a few nasty scars to remind him of it!”

“What is my future brother-in-law staring at? What has him so riveted that he wouldn’t interrupt his younger siblings? I’m sure Nelyo will not approve of such a display of neglectful distractedness!” Maglor then cried out as he brought the picture closer to his face.

Anairë chuckled. “You’ll have to ask Finno about that,” she chirped with a shrug.

“I particularly enjoy how badly they are dressed,” Maglor then said in the mellow tones usually used to extol someone rather than insult them. “This bodes particularly ill for my dearly beloved brother who – as is well known – will wear anything he’s given.”

Despite his words – uttered in melting accents of commiseration – the laughter in his eyes gave him away.

“Ah yes, my husband and I harboured hopes of prolonging our children’s fleeting childhood – and tried to save their better garments from ruin – by packing their most innocuous, charming clothes for summer camp. As you can see, it did not foster goodwill or inspire friendship in the other kids.”

Maglor shrugged pensively. “Jokes aside, I want you to know that Nelyo loves that former young boy dressed like an old man as much as I’ve ever seen anyone devoted to another person adore another person. I am sure that he would have loved him back in the day as well if he had been less mired down by his own unruly siblings.”

He gave a short snort. “Also, I think we’re all lucky that Tyelko did not find a kindred spirit so early in his life. Valar only know what would have become of him otherwise,” he then cackled good-humouredly.

“Thank you for this; I shall cherish it.” He bent down to kiss Anairë’s cheek. “Nelyo will as well. As for the others? I won’t vouch for them as Turgon’s evident discomfort and Argon’s savage glee might be too delightful for them to remember their manners.”

“I am proud of my children,” Anairë declared haughtily, “as is your very own mother of you.”

As she cupped his soft cheek, her fierce frown mellowed into a warm smile. “You’ve grown up so fast; allow us to revel in the times when you’d still wear what we laid out for you. There was a time when you’d come to us with your scraped knees and bitten wrists and we cherish the memory. Can you fault us for that?”

Automatically, Maglor mirrored her expression. “Am I not here, begging for your help, listening to the story behind the picture such as you remember it? We shall always turn to the hallowed wisdom of motherhood when in need, never doubt that!”

Anairë gulped down the tears of emotion that threatened to rise like a flash flood in the inexhaustible wells of her eyes; naughty as he was, Maglor struck her as sweet and loveable in that moment of earnest vulnerability.

“Do come visit us more often,” she grinned as he rose to leave, “it does wonders for our circulation and overall fitness. Maybe, we could all have a picnic together? I have not seen your mother in too long!”

“I’m sure that would be delightful; I even promise to properly pull my weight this time so Nelyo can frolic around with his ill-clad, easily distracted, entirely too cheery suitor. I might even try to protect poor Turgon, how about that?”

When she finally closed the door behind Maglor, merrily sauntering away down the narrow stone path, Anairë chuckled sotto voce; she was very much looking forward to finding out what would come of her small act of betrayal.

The day before "Helleg Nuecht" and the reveal of the TSS, I give you this little gem.

As always, if you like it, please give the artist all your love!!! @sauroff is not only a great, inspired, funny artist (look at the crocs!!!!) but also a darling to work with!!!

As always, lots of love from me!

And yes, there will be a part III about Maedhros' reaction!!! Stay tuned!!! -> Part 3

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cs-c-ocktoberfest2023 · 7 months

Text

Cocktoberfest 2023 Oneshot!

Prompt: Sex Pollen

A huge thanks to @undercaffinatednightmare for the sexy shmexy art, and to @kmomof4 and @pirateswhore for being awesome betas!

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50895643

Emma couldn’t believe what was happening — Rumple was screwing them over, again! Worse, she faced the very real danger of getting trapped in the Enchanted Forest forever.

With a flick of his wrist, the Dark One rendered both Emma and Hook immobile. Panic began to rise up in her gut. Would she ever see her parents again? If she couldn’t get back to their own timeline, would it — and she — even exist anymore?

“He means to kill us, Swan,” Hook growled, staring daggers at his old nemesis. They’d been fools to trust the demon, and now they were paying the price.

“Oh, no no no…I mean to put you somewhere safe! Some place where even I dare not go; where I store the magic that is too dark or unpredictable, even for me!” Rumplestiltskin giggled maniacally, magically transporting them away before Emma had a chance to react.

The next thing they knew, they appeared in a huge room somewhere inside the castle, back in their regular clothes. It seemed like a small comfort that at least they could move their limbs.

“Well, what are we supposed to do now?” Emma shouted into the cavernous space, looking all around them in a state of bewildered shock. It was like they were back in the giants’ castle at the top of the beanstalk all over again.

“We look for a way to escape, of course; until you fix the wand, that is,” Hook replied curtly, raising an eyebrow as he passed. Emma shook her head and sighed dejectedly, placing the wand down on a small black table. It was gone; she just couldn’t feel her magic flowing through her anymore. Deflated, they began to explore their new surroundings.

“At least he did us one favor,” Hook said, stopping when he passed a mirror. She turned around to see him preening at his own reflection. “I’m devilishly handsome again,” he purred, earning a loud snort from across the room.

“I wonder if all this stuff is really cursed…” Emma muttered, wary of touching anything as she gazed over all the odds and ends in the room: there were numerous trunks and tables and chairs, a very questionable looking bench with restraints at both ends, a full suit of armor (missing one hand), a trio of ancient four poster beds, and at least a half dozen cabinets of all types and sizes.

On one of the tables sat a bottle of wine, two loaves of bread, and a pail with a dipper sitting nearby. Emma looked at it longingly, hoping that he’d given them potable water.

Hook didn’t seem to share her reservations, because when she turned around, he was inspecting the contents of an ornately decorated armoire, clearly about to reach for something inside.

“Wait, don’t touch anything! If Rumple’s afraid of this stuff, there’s got to be a reason,” she warned, but he just rolled his eyes, paying her no mind.

“Swan, we’ve got to look. What if the old bastard has something hidden here that can help us, like a magic bean?” he replied, clearly frustrated with her lack of gumption.

“Hook, don’t!” Emma shouted, sprinting across the uneven stone floor. Unfortunately, her sudden movement distracted him, and the corked vial he had in his hand fell to the ground, shattering. Whatever shimmery substance was inside flew into the air, sparkling as it surrounded them, thickening ominously.

“Ohmigod, what have you done?” Emma groaned, trying to find her way out of the pink-hued haze.

“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough, so try and stay optimistic!” Hook quipped, trying to make light of the situation. Emma was about to open her mouth to argue, but her attention snapped to the magical dust hovering in the air.

Slowly, the haze drifted above them, forming a pink cloud. When they tried to get out from underneath, it followed them, showering sparkles down like rain, until the cloud dissipated as mysteriously as it had formed.

For once, Emma had no words, looking to her traveling companion for answers as worry etched itself across her brow.

“I don’t know what the bloody hell we’re supposed to do now either, Swan,” Hook confessed, shaking his head. Trying not to freak out, Emma rolled her eyes, crossing her arms in front of her chest with a frown. For the moment, she was stumped.

“Just, uh, let me know if you start to feel different or affected in any way,” Emma suggested, drumming her fingers on one of the tabletops nearby. Whatever was in that bottle was bad news, and she had the feeling that they’d begin experiencing its effects pretty quickly.

The first symptom Emma noticed was lightheadedness, growing unsteady enough that she felt the need to sit down. She plonked down onto the floor, not knowing what to do with herself, and she decided to stay there in case things got worse.

“Swan, are you okay?” Hook asked, looking alarmed. “Tell me what you’re thinking… feeling… whatever,” he said, sitting by her side immediately, though he kept a respectful distance away.

“I’m thinking it’s best for us to stay alert for as long as we can. You know, in case something comes alive and tries to kill us,” Emma snarked, noticing that her insides had begun to tingle, like butterflies in her belly.

“Hey Hook, do you feel weird inside?” Emma asked, and when Killian looked at her she saw that his pupils were almost fully dilated. He looked high, and it made her want to giggle. She probably looked the same way, she thought, shifting uncomfortably.

“Aye, love. I do feel rather… strange,” he admitted, inching a bit closer to her.

“What do you think it did to us?” Emma asked, as the sensations in her belly traveled lower, and she felt her nipples straining against her bra.

“I don’t know what sort of concoction might scare the Dark One,” he said, “but it provides a pleasant distraction, wouldn’t you say?”

Emma nodded wordlessly as a small whimper escaped her throat. It wasn’t lost on her that Hook’s voice had dropped even lower than usual, and she found it undeniably sexy.

They sat cross legged on the floor, staring into each other’s eyes. Neither of them moved a muscle, and Emma realized that he was probably waiting for her to make the first move.

She also noticed, as the minutes passed, that she was less and less nervous about letting her attraction to the pirate across from her. She cast her eyes over the angular planes of his face, feeling an insatiable need to run her fingers through the scruff covering his jaw.

He smiled easily at her, seeming to know what she was thinking. “Are you thinking about engaging in more pleasurable activities, Swan?” Hook asked playfully, running his tongue over his lower lip.

“Maybe,” Emma whispered, a hot flush spreading over her cheeks and chest. She desperately wanted to touch him, but was it real, or were they just delirious from the powder?

“Do you think we’d be good together?” she asked him, eyes wide as she shuffled even closer. He gulped, and she saw the tips of his ears redden.

Emma didn’t realize it was possible for the legendary Captain Hook to be anything but completely confident in his sexual prowess.

“Aye. I’ve thought so for a long time, but you know that,” he answered softly, reaching out to cup her cheek. “I have something to say first, Emma.”

“What is it?”

“If we’re going to be…intimate, as I expect we soon will be due to the aphrodisiac powder, I want you to know that you have my full consent regarding anything we do under its influence. If you don’t feel the same, it’s best that we stay as far away from each other as possible,” he explained, quickly shifting his eyes away from hers when he stopped talking.

The silence stretched out for 30 unbearable seconds. Then, Emma took a deep breath and just said what was on her mind.

“If I’m completely honest with myself, I don’t know how I’d feel about this…in Storybrooke,” she confessed, gesturing between them.

Then, her lips curved into a flirtatious smile.

“But we’re not in Storybrooke, and I can admit that I’m very attracted to you, Killian. I can call you that, right? I don’t think Hook will work in this, um, situation, but I agree with all of the consent stuff you said before,” Emma told him, right before the lust took over.

“Thank the gods! You can call me any name you bloody well please, but Killian would be my preference,” he managed to say, pulling her in for a kiss. When their lips met it was as if the universe lit a tinderbox, and within seconds both scrambled to their knees, clutching at each other as the slow burning embers of their mutual attraction burst into scorching flames. Clothes were shed in haste, flung off to far corners of the room, and she pulled him toward one of the beds.

“Lie down, Killian,” she commanded with a little grin, straddling him as she pushed her hair back behind her ears. Her eyes raked over his lean, muscular body; she knew he was doing the same to her as he squeezed her hip, trying to urge her forward.

She chuckled, lowering her pelvis just enough to brush the head of his cock through her dripping center. They both jolted from the connection, and he thought fast, sliding two fingers in to check her readiness. Emma was halfway to an orgasm already, her muscles quivering in anticipation.

“No teasing, yet…” she breathed, extracting his fingers and helping him slide her wetness over his whole length. She got up on her knees, and with a final nod, Emma sank down as slowly as she could bear it; their eyes locked as their bodies connected for the first time. She was about to start moving when he brought his fingers to his lips, lewdly sucking each one clean. She couldn’t help but watch, mesmerized by the sight.

“You taste magnificent, like honey and wildflowers in the summertime,” Killian sighed, before quickly grabbing her hip and thrusting up like a man possessed. She came almost immediately, digging her fingernails into his shoulders as a high-pitched wail left her throat, echoing through the room. He wasn’t too far behind, drawing her chest down so he could begin his long-awaited exploration of her breasts.

After their first coupling, every other thought or care ceased to exist except for the pleasure they could coax from each other. The only thing grounding her to reality was the feel of his hot skin pressing against hers, and the heavy drag of his cock inside her slick core. They were insatiable, drawn to each other over and over again; as soon as they finished one round, the next would begin. She had trouble deciding which position she liked best, and it seemed like they had exhausted every possibility, on every available surface.

It was especially thrilling when Killian dragged a mirror over to the bed where Emma lay, stretching her limbs after being twisted into a pretzel-like position Killian had seen in some bawdy sailor’s manual long ago.

“What are you planning to do with that?” Emma asked, tongue firmly in cheek as he clambered back up to join her. He had a lecherous grin on his face.

“Have you really never watched yourself getting fucked?” he asked, slowly sliding up the bed until he was hovering over her again. She shook her head, but the sultry look she gave left no question she wanted to try it.

“I think you should show me what you plan on doing to me first,” she suggested, making herself comfortable against the pillows. Killian smirked at her, getting up on his knees to crawl toward the middle of the bed.

“Two suggestions: either I take you from behind, or you get on top and use me however you’d like…pick your poison,” he teased, counting them off on his long, talented fingers. She stared at him hungrily and without shame as she considered her options. He was already fully erect, slowly stroking himself to distract her.

“Since I was the one who got all tied up last time, I think I deserve a break. You do the work, captain!” she joked, rising to her knees right in front of him. Her hand shot out, knocking his arm away so she could grip him firmly, pumping his cock until the tip was dripping with his arousal.

“Minx,” he bit out, trying to get his breathing back under control. “Get on all fours, and just watch everything I’m about to do to you. After this, you‘ll never be as satisfied by any other man, Swan,”

She obeyed, shivering with anticipation.

“Do you promise?” Emma asked shakily, watching his reflection as he pressed down gently on her back, lowering her chest so that her ass lifted higher in the air.

“Yes,” he said solemnly, catching her eye in the mirror before diving face first into her needy center. He groaned, seeing the slick heat already pooled there.

“Killian…oh fuck!” Emma screamed, and continued moaning loudly as he licked her, adding his fingers and pumping as she watched, she was practically sobbing for release. Sucking her clit into his mouth pushed her over the edge, and she clamped down hard on his fingers, repeating his name over and over until the aftershocks wore off and he withdrew.

“There is nothing,” he began, breathing heavily as he wiped his face, “I swear, nothing I’ve ever seen as erotic as watching you come in that mirror. But I need to be inside you now, Swan, please…”

She saw the desire and raw desperation on his face, and even though her knees twinged, all she wanted to do was make sure he was satisfied too.

“Yes, please, I want to watch you fuck me. I need it, Killian,” she told him just as desperately. When he buried himself inside of her in one thrust, she shrieked, shocked at how quickly she needed him again.

If they kept going at their frenzied pace, her heart would surely burst out of her chest, but Emma couldn’t find it in herself to care. The white hot pleasure coursing through her veins was addicting. The concept of time fell away as they explored each other’s bodies, climbing up and over peak after peak together as the aphrodisiac worked its way through their systems.

They were in the middle of another athletic fuck – this time stretched out on what appeared to be a daybed – when the haze surrounding her brain began to fade. She was faced away from him, gyrating in his lap while he held her up with his whole arm, fingers wrapped gently around her throat for support. His hook was embedded in the upholstery for leverage, and they moved as one, covered in sweat as they hurtled toward completion.

“Go on, love, I can feel your cunt tightening around me again…you’re nearly there,” he encouraged, nipping at her shoulder. Spurred on by his words, she bucked even more forcefully, and he steadied her, wrapping his other arm around her waist.

“Ah fuck, I’m so close! Talk to me, please,” she begged, too far gone to let what she was saying make her feel vulnerable.

“I have loved watching you like this, taking what you need…but seeing your pert little ass wiggling in the air might be my favorite part yet. Emma, I can’t wait to feel you come again,” he moaned, thrusting harder and faster until her orgasm lit up all of her senses, cresting and breaking like a wave over her whole body.

When she came down from her high, Emma realized that the emotional and physical release of tension had brought her to tears. She hastily wiped them away, now wary of him catching her in such a state of vulnerability.

He sat up, pulling her flush against his chest, and the change in angle let his cock slide even deeper, hitting her g-spot with laser precision.

Knowing that this might be the end of their time together, Emma let her mind go blank, focusing on the intimacy and pleasure they had shared. She reached back and grabbed a fistful of his hair, tugging him closer.

“Killian, don’t hold back. I’ve never felt this good with anyone else, and it has nothing to do with the stuff in that vial,” she told him, turning so she could look into his eyes and communicate how much she meant what she said.

To her relief, his sea blue gaze was clear and sharp. He nodded, pressing his lips to hers just before another orgasm crashed through her, stealing her breath and sapping her remaining energy.

Almost simultaneously, Killian reared up and yelled out her name — weeks later, Emma swore that she’d been able to feel the heat from his release deep inside of her, sealing their newly formed bond — and they collapsed in an exhausted heap, shaking and breathing hard.

————

Killian’s brain was still fuzzy from the last of the powder, so it took him a moment to realize that Emma wasn’t beside him. Sitting up against the headboard, he looked around the room until he found her, already dressed in her bra and pants. She was bent over, picking up what looked like some of his clothing as well.

“Swan? What’s going on?” Killian asked groggily, and Emma froze when she heard his voice, pressing his shirt against her chest.

She had already exposed too much of herself to him, literally and figuratively, and now it was time to get back to their mission: finding a way home.

“I’m getting all of our stuff— we’ve wasted so much time already,” Emma fretted, handing him his shirt before she tried to rush away.

“Emma, why are you acting so strangely? You haven’t even tried summoning your magic yet!” Killian asked, already feeling the chill of her walls going back up.

“I know that I don’t have it back; besides you heard what Gold said, we can’t reopen the portal.”

“All he said we need is magic. You’re the Savior, Swan, you can do this,” he urged, but she shook her head, looking at the floor to avoid his eyes. “Weren’t all of Zelena’s spells undone when she died? That means your magic should have been restored.”

She spun around, eyes flashing. “It’s gone! Believe me, if I could make it work, I would. You think I’m faking it, Hook?” she sputtered, using his moniker to put even more space between them.

Killian stared at her, incredulous. Then, he got angry.

“I think not having magic makes it a hell of a lot easier for you to run back to New York and pretend to be somebody else! Well, listen to me, Swan: you’re not. It’s time to stop running.”

“You think I don’t know that? Yeah, I run away, and that’s how I’ve always survived. But believe me, I want this to work,” she insisted, picking up the wand and clutching it in her fist. “I want to go back!”

Her confession surprised the hell out of him, but he understood the enormity of her decision. It brought a smile to his face.

“What’s changed your mind?”

“This whole crazy Enchanted Forest thing, honestly! Being here really made me see things from a new perspective,” she told him, throwing up her hands. “I saw my parents meet for the first time, went to a ball, got sent to Regina’s dungeon…that’s not a regular day in my life!”

Killian nodded his understanding, waiting for her to continue.

“But I also saw my mom die. Then, when she turned up alive and didn’t even know who I was, it hurt so much. The dismissive look in her eyes made me realize that I’ve been keeping her at a distance since the curse broke, and I need to make it right,” Emma sighed, but she looked empowered, not defeated. “Back when Henry first brought me to Storybrooke, I had no idea that he had actually rescued me. He brought me home.”

Her chin was quivering and she hastily scrubbed at her eyes, trying to get her emotions under control. When she looked back up at Killian, he had a smile on his face. Emma looked at him with confusion, wondering what was going on.

“I think your magic is back,” he murmured, gently taking her hand and holding it in front of her. Her mouth dropped open in shock: the wand was pulsing with light, and it looked like her entire arm was aglow.

“Holy crap, this is amazing! Killian, I can feel my magic again,” Emma marveled, gawking at the magic emanating from her entire being. “Wait a minute, I wanna try something. Just stand still for a second,” she said excitedly, closing her eyes before waving her hand in his direction. Her light magic whirled around him for a moment, then disappeared.

“Did you just use magic to clean me up? I feel like I’ve just had a hot shower at Granny’s! That’s pretty impressive, love,” he complimented her, eyes wide.

“I’m glad it worked, because there’s no way we could go back to Storybrooke reeking of sex,” she quipped, and successfully cast the spell on herself. Killian chuckled, delighted that she felt so much better.

“Okay, it’s time to try something a bit more complicated. I know that you can do this, Emma,” Killian told her, standing right by her side.

This was the moment of truth: steadying her grip on the wand, Emma concentrated and pointed it several feet in front of them. To her surprise and relief, a portal flashed into existence.

“Looks like you saved the day again, Swan,” he whispered in her ear, followed by a gentle kiss on her cheek. She blushed at the gesture, realizing that the deadly, dangerous pirate next to her had been there, supporting her, this whole time. From the moment he turned his ship around and took them to Neverland, Killian proved over and over again that he was no villain. She trusted him; and maybe one day, she could even fall in love with him.

“Ready?” Emma shouted over the whooshing portal, grabbing Killian’s hand. He nodded, and on the count of three, they jumped together into the future.

#cscf23 #cs(c)ocktoberfest2023 #cs ff #cs smut #captain swan fanfiction

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ijuststareatstuffhereok89 · 1 year

Text

**SNEAK PREVIEW OF CHAPTER 7**

Pairing: Prince Loki x Concubine!Reader Rating: 18+ ONLY (Minors DNI) MASTERLIST HERE **Please reblog if you like it!**

Aunt Ing,

He has been gone with Hilda for four days now, and I find it drives me in an emotional direction with which I am not familiar. I understand what should be and must be done, but why has he bewitched me so when it was I who was meant to enchant? Have I failed my country so completely already? Less than a month into my endeavor and I find he confounds me most horridly, temporarily putting me off my course path.

I know there will be others. Must be others. And one Other above all must be his wife--

You paused, looking down at the ledger in front of you, opened to a space toward the front cover, yet still several pages deep. Biting your lip, you wondered if writing your thoughts so freely in the book Hilda gave to you just before she left was wise.

“You can have it. The Prince gave it to me when I was still somewhat new, but I don’t like reading and writing, so what use do I have for it anyway?” she said, taking the diary from her shelf and tossing it to you as she packed.

You took to writing in the diary instantly. It was nothing close to having Loki’s actual ear, but it was somewhere for you to log your private thoughts, which was helpful when you found yourself at your most vulnerable. You hid it well, under a loose floorboard you found behind your armoire, where you also left your cloak. You wrote in the diary as if writing to your aunt back home, wishing you could send every missive back, as you found yourself going desperate for some advice.

The more you wrote to express yourself the more you realized that Loki was unwittingly besting you at your own game. There was little denying it: you had feelings for him. Not just for the design of the god (although that certainly didn’t help you in terms of repressing your emotions), but for how he looked you in the eye as he listened to you every time he summoned you. He always asked you if you felt like a walk in his garden of many paths, and you always said yes, because it was in that garden where you had him entirely to yourself.

You loved teasing him with your body now. You loved the satisfied feeling you began to feel when you knew Loki was desperate to empty himself into you, and instead had to resort to his own devices. You’d kept the memory in the front of your mind ever since the night in the garden where you’d exposed your whole body to him for the first time, still acting the part of the unreachable prize to entice your Master further into sexual desperation.

I can’t be falling for him, not when I have yet to fully give myself over to him, so what am I doing wrong?

New chapter drops THURSDAY (due to the New Year's Weekend)! After that, things should go back to the Sunday/Monday release schedule (as long as my next show doesn't eat my time, because against the odds I've already got another musical on my docket). Please reblog me if you like me work, I'd like to get my readership up a bit. Enjoy! :)

@vickie5446 @thedistractedagglomeration @jonquilclegane @lonadane @lokisgoodgirl @just-someone11 @mcufan72 @hypergamer7744 @usagishira @silverfire475 @coleranchdorito @huntress-artemiss @elegantcheesecakecrown @lokixryss @25bohemianmoons @crimson25 @waywardsummoner46 @ladyjames78 @chantsdemarins @sorceresski @ladymischief11 @goblingirlsarah @fictive-sl0th @goldencherriess @marvel-fan24 @trickster-maiden @glitterylokislut @eleniblue @12-pm-510

#loki #beauty and the snake prince #fic preview #fanfiction #mcu loki #loki fanfic #asgard #thor #smut #loki romance #loki smut #Loki drama

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mogulinterior · 12 hours

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In this enchanting realm, bold and eclectic furniture pieces mingle effortlessly with antique Indian doors, vintage armoires, rustic barn doors,

#barn doors #barndoors #carved architectural Doors #carved barn doors #carved door

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indiatrendzs · 7 days

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Vintage Bohemian Hilltop Abode In The California Vistas

Nestled high atop a hill, amidst the breathtaking vistas of California, lies an enchanting bohemian abode. A haven of laid-back charm and eclectic allure, this hilltop retreat beckons visitors with its sunny, sexy, and romantic ambiance. From kamasutra carved doors to brass-studded vintage armoires, every corner of Jackie’s home tells a story of wanderlust and whimsy, inviting guests to embark on…

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frenchantiquefurnituredealers · 6 months

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Best Antique Furniture - Identify The Reality About Them

The allure of antique shops and antique dealers has experienced a renaissance in the age of online price comparisons and auction sites. The value and popularity of antique items, particularly those associated with gardens and vintage furniture, have soared to new heights. To embark on your own journey into the world of decorative garden antiques, antique garden pots, and vintage furniture, the first step is to find reputable antique dealers in your area. Antique dealers are the custodians of history, offering a gateway to the past through their treasure troves of Garden antiques and decorative antique furniture. Just like a connoisseur of fine art, experts have a deep knowledge of items that have weathered the test of time, offering both age and rarity as their defining characteristics. To ensure that you are making authentic acquisitions and avoid any potential pitfalls, it's vital to connect with established antique dealers who operate within a legal framework, ensuring that your antiquing journey remains a safe and rewarding experience.

Across, these seasoned antique dealers are not merely merchants; they are the gatekeepers to the enchanting world of garden antiques and vintage furniture. Their expertise extends beyond mere sales. From antique garden pots to decorative garden antiques, antiquing is more than just a pastime; it's a passion that stirs the soul and captivates the senses. When you engage with an antique dealer, it's akin to embarking on a treasure hunt. As you peruse the intricate details of a vintage armoire or the weathered charm of antique garden pots, you'll find yourself drawn to certain pieces. It's here that the antique dealer's wisdom comes into play. Seek their opinions and insights, for they are the guardians of historical narratives that breathe life into each item. These antique dealers are not solitary figures in the world of antiques. They often belong to associations and groups that serve as confederations of antiques and art collectors, connecting enthusiasts from across the country and even beyond international borders.

Their affiliation with such groups further validates their expertise, ensuring that your acquisitions are backed by a network of knowledge and trust. In the realm of garden antiques, vintage furniture, and decorative antique furniture, the antique dealers serve as the beacon of authenticity. Their discerning eyes can identify the hidden gems among the vast sea of artifacts, jewelry, and other precious items. Moreover. It's not unusual to spot antique dealers at various events, from charming garage sales to estate auctions. These venues often serve as their hunting grounds, where they discover hidden treasures or receive leads on coveted pieces. In this dynamic world of antiques, dealers frequently collaborate and consult with their peers to assess the value of acquired items. This collaborative spirit ensures that every item you acquire is meticulously verified for its authenticity, guaranteeing that your collection remains a true testament to the past.

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habitica · 2 months

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MARCH BACKGROUNDS AND ARMOIRE ITEMS!

We’ve added three new backgrounds to the Background Shop! Now your avatar can breath in the perfume of a Flowering Forest, enjoy a refreshing downpour in the Rainy Rainforest, and frolic at the Dog Park. Check them out under User Icon > Backgrounds on web and Menu > Inventory > Customize Avatar on mobile!

Plus, there’s new gold-purchasable equipment in the Enchanted Armoire, including the Hatter Set. Better work hard on your real-life tasks to earn all the pieces! Enjoy :)

#habitica #gamification #pixel art #habitrpg #productivity #motivation #enchanted armoire #building good habits

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anubianwrites · 7 months

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Lover's Tears

(So I'm making this a very dark little tale, intense and terrifying. It's spooky month so here is the horror. These stories take place in a dark and wild section of a dnd world I created for my campaigns. The Darklands. I tried my best to not be too...graphic, overly sexual and heavy but we are going deep into horror, pain, terror, and in a place of constant danger where traumatic experiences are just Tuesday. So do keep that in mind. TW: sexual content, TW: uncomfortable situations)

The dark sky thundered gently as Martha awoke, gloomy and the wind carried a sickly sweet scent of the Slaughterblossoms that grew outside their cottage. The gentle sounds of the city’s populace bustling, sing to her as she casts off her heavy ornate quilt sewn by her loving but stern grandmother. It was another normal day in Sister’s Respite. Small bat-like shapes swarm around the peak of Blood Mountain, the sentries of Churn keeping watch. Martha watches them as her mother bustles downstairs making breakfast. Martha’s white horns gleam in the dim light that manages to penetrate the gloomy clouds of the Darklands.

The young tiefling dashed back inside as her mother bellowed that the morning meal was ready. Martha flew with mystic speed to her armoire and chose a particularly lovely dress of sky blue with sapphire blue embroidered birds. A set of blue lace gloves hung on the hook matching the dress. A set of blue high heels decorated with sewn flowers and green leaves. As she donned her outfit in her full length mirror Martha hummed a pleasant tune to herself. Today was the day! Malachai’s birthday! The handsome young dark sorcerer that’s captured Martha’s affections. She was excited! She had been planning something special for him! Martha had been saving money for months to buy him a new brooch, something elegant, sophisticated and manly, just like him. Her heart pounded in her chest as she thought about it, her blood running hot. She worked so hard to obtain the money, and had to bind Vol’gorok to a demonic bargain just to convince the Chaos Crystal Emporium’s owner Claire Cursestone to make the exception and set it aside for her! Nothing would rob her of this day, the day she’d finally be able to show Malachai she desires to court him, to make him hers and be his in return. He was also so sultry and gentle with her, his deep, mysterious voice made her spine tingle with delight. His gentle touch of his warm, strong hands made her legs turn to jelly. Martha’s been dreaming of being his woman since they first met two years ago.

The young sorceress had selected the finest brooch, possessed of a chaotic dark magic from the far reaches, it imbued its bearer with a mystic barrier that bolstered it’s bearer’s lifeforce. A dark enchantment with that tinge of malevolence she knew Malachai would be charmed by. The dark green stone held in ornate electrum demon claws etched with deep speech runes really set it apart from other pieces Claire has for sale. The perfect piece to give to her beloved dark mage to win his lonely heart, and make it hers. She would need to also stop by Desmonia’s Grave Bouquets and get a black dahlia to adorn her hair as well. It’s Malachai’s favorite flower! “Martha Demonsblood get down here in this instance! Your breakfast is getting cold!” The lovely young woman snapped out of her plotting daze as she watched the mirror, pinning her hair and adorning the golden rings studded with black gemstones on her horns and ran out the door. She ran into her brother, a tall and handsome older tiefling in his early twenties, nearly knocking him over. He laughed and caught her, stabilizing both of them with his strong muscles.

“Easy there, witchling, you almost knocked us both down the stairs!” He smiled teasingly. Martha huffed, she hated being called witchling.

“Sorry Glory, I was just excited! It’s Malachai’s birthday today! I have so much to do!” The bare chested male rolled his eyes and sighed loudly.

“You should focus on someone else, that guys a douche!” Glory grunted. Martha gasped at the audacity that he would besmirch her love!

“You don’t understand! He’s different! He’s kind and mysterious, and so sweet to me, he doesn’t treat other girls my age like that!” She retorted. Glory scratched the back of his head and shrugged.

“Your funeral, witchling. Hey, seeing Rhellia or Janenneth today?” He smirked, “I could use one of them to use those magic hands on this crick in my neck!” Martha huffed and slapped his shoulder with her small balled fists.

“You raunchy hornball leave them alone! You’re so disgusting! How dare you! Oh!” Glory only laughed at his sister’s outrage and defended himself with his forearms.

“Oh come on, they’re succubi! It’s like their whole deal! Cut it out!” Martha let out a frustrated shout to the heavens and stormed down the stairs and sat at the kitchen table. Glory trotted down shortly behind her and slumped down into a chair. Their grandmother was knitting at the table, picking at her food here and there as usual, the old woman was focused on some deep thought. Martha’s mother, Daisy, a middle aged, beautiful tiefling dressed in a red cotton gown and orange apron with red roses patterned across it. Her brown amber antlers elegantly adorning her head, her long brown hair braided as usual in a fishtail braid. The clean and elegant kitchen was bubbling and sizzling with fresh food. Martha’s mother was a wizard in the kitchen.

“There you are my children. Eat up now! You don’t want your rothe steaks to get up and leave!” she chortled moving around the table to greet her family. “Mother!” she said kissing the old woman’s cheek, which broke the concentration and she smiled warmly.

“Daisy my precious!” she greeted and returned the kiss.

“My beautiful baby girl” Daisy addressed as she and Martha exchanged cheek kisses.

“And my handsome son!” Glory stood and embraced his mother warmly and exchanged cheek kisses with her.

“Morning mother, you’re as chipper and beautiful as ever.” He greeted her. Daisy giggled at the compliment, her son was so thoughtful.

“Don’t you sweet talk, mister! I heard you haranguing your sister up there!” she playfully warned wiggling a ladle at him as she returned to the cauldron of oatmeal burbling on the fire. Glory only chuckled and commented.

“It was an honest inquiry, they are so talented at playing masseur.” He responded defensively and equally playful, his tone sultry.

“Oh don’t you pull that young man. Besides we all know you’re lying with their brothers anyway.” Daisy responded. Everyone chuckled.

“Well the twins are very rough…perhaps I want a more gentle touch today!” Glory defended with a smirk. Martha groaned loudly in embarrassment.

“Shut up about your sluttery, Glory, honestly no one wants to know!” Martha venomously chided. Glory feigned at being insulted.

“Sister dearest, you wound me deeply! My adventurous sexual escapades are the highlight of the day for our humdrum little family’s day to day!” He defended, striking a dramatic pose to match the theater. The old woman then whacked him on the head and horns with her gnarled staff leaning by the table. Glory howled in surprise, the whack was not hard enough to cause injury, but it was a good bonk.

“Enough of your vulgar behavior now! Keep it in your pants for once in your life, young man, or at least be sensible enough to not regale us with such tales of degenerate behavior! Keep it in private, man!” the old woman, Dark Helen Lichbane chided punishingly. Glory sat back down and fell silent, slumping over his food to consume. Martha breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you Grandmother! We have to keep the wild men in line, don’t we!” Martha smugly spoke and eyed her older brother. The old woman snapped with equal venom.

“Oh don’t you act so highly young lady! I know why you’re so fine dressed and eager to fly out the door! Your brother is right for once! That Malachai is no good for you! You should forget him and find a man your own age if you must pursue such frightful dallances!” She chided the young tiefling. Martha gasps in shock.

“Grandmother! I assure you he is a respectable man, and his age is of no import! We were meant for one another! I’m certain he feels the same, he has said as much!” the young woman defended. Dark Helen scoffed and laid back in her chair.

“We’ll see, in time then.” she ominously prophesied as she picked up her sewing needles again and returned to her activity. Martha, flustered, her face nearly red with frustration, ate her food in silence.

The morning hour was waning, Martha sat upon her broom outside the cozy three story cottage home and flew off into the crisp morning air. Her fair blonde hair elegantly wafted in the breeze like golden streams of smoke on the wind as she made her way to the Dark Moon Market District. Soaring over the cobbled roads and seas of clay tiled roofs broken only by the occasional spire. She waved to people she knew walking about the town. She spotted the flower shop just off the main square of the marketplace. The Maggot Lord hollering about the fine deals he has on pilfered rotten leather boots, the occasional maggot tumbling out of his empty eye socket. Martha found the deranged, crazed lich quite charming. He was always nice, if not entirely unhinged.

The bell attached to the door chimed as Martha entered the flower shop. So many exotic and delightfully sweet smells intermixed with the scents of decay. A grim wight of an elf woman was watering a rather large carnivorous pod with a thick purple fluid. The plant's strange purple flowers shimmered with an enchanting quality. “Martha Demonsblood, my dear, hello, good morning, child.” The ghostly voice of the wight breathily wafted. Martha smiled.

“Good morning Desmonia! Do you have any black Dahlia’s?” The wight drifted to the otherside of the botanical and showed her to the back where her greenhouse was. The grim undead floated an arm gesturing towards the greenhouse interior. Lit by mystical purple crystals radiating energies down over the expansive raised beds of nurtured dark and deadly plants.

“Fourth bed to the right at the back, for you my sweet Martha, you’re welcome to as many as you desire.” The wight creaked her sallow face into a kind smile, or as best a withered undead being can. Martha was practically vibrating with excitement. She walked swiftly to the designated bed and poured over the flowers. She needed the perfect one for her hair and a small bouquet of them to gift her beloved Malachai. They were all so beautiful and radiated the elegance of death. Martha picks several perfect flowers, the depths of the black, the radial petals, each perfect. One she puts in her hair and adjusts it in a nearby mirror. She gathers a handsome bouquet of the dark flowers and heads for the register, bubbling and glowing with excitement.

“Seriously, how much do I owe you for these?” She asked kindly. The undead elf smiles with a shallow tenderness of care that rings hollow, a shell of the former kind heart she once had.

“For you, nothing, seeing your happy beautiful face is all I need.” Martha blushed.

“They aren’t for me, they are for Malachai! It’s his birthday today!” she chirped. The wights smile withered to concern.

“I see…all the same, nothing my sweet…I…I know this is not my place, Martha, my darling, but perhaps he is not the right person for you to pursue…he is at least three centuries your senior, and he is not the best kind of man, dangerous.” Demonia warns. Martha smiles, touched by her concern.

“Everyone is so worried, he is a wonderful man! Gentle and kind…” she giggled. “He’s just right for me!” Desmonia smiles softly again and wishes her well. Martha bounds out of the flower shop giddy as can be. Her heart is already pumping hard, and her body is reacting to memories. As she flew off on her broom, the flowers tucked into her satchel, gently the memories washed over her memory.

The hot summer Malachai and she first met at his shop where she bought some of her supplies for her craft. His kind words, his seductive voice, his disarming eyes. She fell for his spell. That whole summer she stalked him, following him around, “bumping” into him and spending time with him. Sitting with him at a play he was attending alone, clung to his arm. The gentle tickle of his lips on her ear as he whispered answers to her inquiries of what the play was about. Of course, she recalls the afternoon it became more serious for her. The day he asked her on a picnic, the day was a lovely shade of gloom and they walked along the bank of the Darkwater river, through the sickly sweet slaughterblossom fields. He inquired if she would like to also join him for casual rutting, how the hot air turns the blood boiling. He asked her if casual romps were her thing, and how it was fine if it was not so. Martha desired him, to make him hers, to possess him as her man. She could not have said yes faster. The whole summer they made love by the river…in his bed…in back alleys…or wherever they were when the sensation struck. Such ecstasy he bestowed on her, such pleasure he made her feel. How she gave into him with all she had. Her heart claimed him long ago at this point. Two years they have kept a secret sexual affair. But for Martha it was anything but casual. Now she wanted it to be an official affair, and today was the day.

Martha swerved her broom snapping back to the task at hand as her rapturous memories nearly led her to smash into a tower. ‘Soon enough’, she thought. ‘Soon enough he’ll be my man and only mine.’

She made her way to the Waxing Moon District to pick up his gift. The cluttered cottages and homes clumped together with small gardens or pits of slime passed beneath her as she set her eyes on the far eastern corner of the district where the casual market lay. She landed in the market square, small, crowded, cramped with stalls and merchants selling wares of every kind. She made her way down one of the store streets to Claire’s. Stepping inside a deep male voice growled in her ear from nowhere. “Well well, the tasty kitten has returned.” his clawed hands on her waist. His flirtatious means of greeting.

“Oh Vol’gorok, you tease. Remember your bond, demon and maybe I can be convinced to give you some extra honey.” she teased back. The demon chuckled and whispered sensuously in her ear.

“Well come in, shrewd little kitten, my lady is waiting to do business with you.” He wraps a thickly muscled arm around her shoulder and gestured inwards to the mystical little gem shop. Glowing mystic stones of raw and refined quality line the tight entryway. Vol’gorok gave Martha and gentle lick on the cheek as he ushered her inside. Martha found the incubus’ flirting fun and exotic, she played into it, but her heart belonged only to her beloved. She could tell the demon enjoyed their casual flirting as much as she did.

Martha squeezed through the narrow entry past the locked glass cases of mystical stones from across the planes. And into the back, the walls lined with enchanted gems, stones, crystals of every shade and some beyond comprehension. The center of the small interior room housing a tall glass column within which a large purple stone undulates with energy, restrained by the powerfully enchanted glass. A beautiful witch sits behind a merchant desk counter, surrounded by more radiant stones of every kind, pendants of sparkling radiant white gems from the celestial realms glitter in the sealed case that makes her desk. And there, near it in a hexed gold lined red wooden box with a glass lid etched with magical sigils, is the brooch. The beautiful witch wears silken black gloves over her hands, an elegant necklace of blood pearls and dark jade. She is reading a book of strange words. Vol’gorok pressed against Martha closely as he enters behind her and announced.

“My love, our smitten kitten of clever wit has returned for her bounty. What a beautiful flower to contrast with a beautiful fair half-demon.” He slid past Martha commenting, not being shy of what rubbed against her as he did, his lips curled in that devilish charming grin. “You are lucky to catch us today, Martha! I’m taking my little witch here at the end of day on our next journey, to distant Feywilds, to several wonderful little worlds there…where I’m going to make her scream with pleasure, and terrify the fey creatures with our ravenous lovemaking.” he growls as he slides behind the witch and buries his face into her neck, nibbling as she cranes her head, letting a moan escape and a giggle.

“Vol’gorok! You’re insatiable!” she smiled at her lover as she stood. He wrapped his thick arms around her waist and continued to lavish her elegant neck with his kisses, his wings curling to wrap around them.

“How can I contain myself when I’m with my most eager and hungry mistress…I simply must please you every moment, you beautiful creature. You inflame the hellfire and rouse the hellbeast to rampage.” He declared like a lover's sonnet in her ear, not caring if Martha heard. Martha knew he loved an audience. Claire whimpered in his grasp before warning.

“You must, love, we have business to conduct…stow your inferno for now…I always make it up to you for the wait.” The incubus kissed her throat again and whispered in the infernal language only she could hear. From the expression Claire’s face made of surprise and delight, she enjoyed his words.

“Anything for you my wicked crystal collector.” He whispered sliding back to stand behind her, his glowing red eyes burning with a lover's flame in the darker section of the shop. He was her protector, lover, and muscle.

The way they acted together, Martha craved for herself. Soon she would, and it would be Malachai nibbling her neck, whispering lovers words, making her blush in public, and sharing his heart with her.

Claire finally composed herself, the demon's lustful gaze at her back making her ever aware of her demon's needs. “So Martha, you’re awfully lucky and clever to have gotten my big boy to help beg me to make this exception, I do hope everythings in order? As you can see, he’s very eager for our next journey.” He smirked behind her.

“And other things…” he added. Claire only smiled knowingly and slide down behind the counter to retrieve the stone. “Oh my love, already on your knees…” the incubus snidely teased.

“If you don’t stop that Vol’gorok I’ll put you in the cage again.” she warned with a sultry grin at him as she emerged to her feet again.

“Promises, promises, beautiful.” he responded, giving her an air kiss as he stood with his legs apart, arms crossed to be intimidating. The witch turned back to Martha who was unable to contain her giggling at their behavior.

“Now then, this beautiful piece from the Far Realms, as we talked, a thousand gold pieces. You sure you desire to purchase it? We are not responsible for anything it may do once out of our hands…Remember not to let direct sunlight touch it, the magic becomes…unstable…and be sure to bathe the brooch in fresh human blood every two weeks to maintain it’s dark power.” Claire informed her. Martha nodded eagerly.

“Oh yes, it is perfect for Malachai! The designs and coloring are perfect for him. It’s practical abilities are also something he can use, he will appreciate such a thoughtful and multi purpose gift!” Claire smiled. Martha rummaged delicately into her bag and retrieved the sack of coins she had been saving. She set the heavy bag on the counter. Claire took the bag and handed the enchanted box to Martha, giving her a slip of parchment.

“The command word for the box to open.” She added.

“Malachai…the Dark Omen Malachai?” Vol’gorok sucked his teeth. “Beautiful man…excellent lover…but as wicked and malicious as they come, do be careful dear kitten.” He smirked. “Of the two of us I'm not sure which is more devil.” He nodded to Martha. Claire’s face turned to worry as she smiled.

“I must agree, he is…a heartbreaker, Martha, do be careful, he’s not the loving sort…he has that reputation.” Claire tried to coax. Martha shook her head, she would not hear of it.

“Oh not you guys too! You just don’t know him like I do! He’s so gentle and kind. He has a bigger heart then you realize! We’ve spent alot of time together, I know him! He’s different with me.” She insisted. Claire relented and wished her luck. Vol’gorok within moments had the witch in his clutches, wings wrapped around them like a cocoon as the little shop was field with cooing and growls. Martha smiled hearing all of this commotion as she hurried on her way. It was almost midday! She had to hurry, Malachai always leaves his home to open the shop in the afternoons on his birthday. She intended on having him to herself for some time. She was so happy, so elated with shimmering delight. She felt light as air.

By the peak of midday she arrived at Malachai’s home and knocked. The handsome man answered the door, dressed in a long red silken bathrobe. He smiled seeing Martha. “Martha! My young beauty, I was just thinking about you. What an exquisite vision for my special day of birth.” His smile could have made her melt into a pool of hot blood and oozing glee. Her face grew hot, her whole body grew hot. He ushered her inside his dimly lit home. It was as elegant as the man. His dark tousled hair unkempt from awakening from sleep recently. His voice made every part of Martha’s body warm, like a velvety cocoon around her. He pulled her close to him, pinning her against the table. “I was so hoping to get you alone today…I’ve thought of you for some time now…and I want you.” Martha started breathing heavily as his heated body pressed against hers. His strong, yet soft hands caressed her waist and slid up her back as his hot breath, scented like rosewater and lavender mixed with a fine wine, sweet, floral. Martha let out a moan. He ran his lips against her neck, his hot tongue delicately teased her flesh, his lips trickled. His soft stubble grazed her. Martha let out a yelp of elated surprise. He moved up to her hair and smelled the flower. “Wearing my favorite flower…why Martha are you trying to take my manly virtue and seduce me?” he teased affectionately. She cooed and giggled.

“I know it's your favorite and I wanted to make your day today special. She produced the flowers from her bag. His piercing emerald eyes sparkled with delight. “Oh what a gorgeous bouquet my dear little Martha…you generous and kind. That’s something I love about you, so thoughtful. It’s not usual protocol but I too have a gift for you…but that can come later.” He said sensually. “First let me put these in some water.” He grabbed her and pulled her against him and he kissed her plump, hot lips. Martha moaned, and so did Malachai. “Be right back, please make yourself at home, my beautiful girl.” Martha was on the brink of hyperventilating, she couldn’t hold herself together. He was even more intoxicating than usual, and that is that heavenly scent of his body…she’s never noticed that until today. But it’s driving her mad with lust. When he returned he set a dark glass vase on the ancient stained wooden table. The flowers were beautiful. Malahcai was too. Martha went to him and panting she kissed him with purpose. He was quite surprised, but he returned the kiss passionately. Their tongues and lips engaged in battle between them as their bodies leaned into each other, Martha could not contain herself any longer. She pulled herself away, gasping for breath.

“I have a gift for you…something special, my handsome Malachai lover.” Malachai’s eyes were fixed on her, that same look in his eyes, that same hunger Vol’gorok had, the same look she’s seen so many times and she knew what it meant. Her beloved Malacahi was lost to his passionate nature. He smiled, flashing his beautiful white teeth.

“It can wait for later, now come back here.” he commanded forcefully that sent a tingle of both warning and exquisite longing down Martha’s spine and she obeyed, wanting it. She surrendered to his will and he kissed her, picking her up and carrying her to the next room, his hands caressing her plump rear as he carried her like she weighed nothing. The door to the bedroom opened as they approached, a squirming, whimpering Martha in his arms, eager for what comes. He set her down gently in front of the bed and delicately removed her dress, letting it fall gently to the floor. He kissed her again, and moved down her neck, his hands touching her, they felt so hot. Her skin was on fire. Martha moaned in surrender to the sensation he was an expert at summoning from within her. Candles in the room flickered to life to create such a beautiful ambiance. Martha broke their kiss as she threw his robe open, panting as she looked over his naked body. She has seen it many times, beautiful, so well shaped. Today her lustful passions raged, and she could have sworn his nude form was even more beautiful than ever, as if carved and sculpted by gods.

They crawled onto the bed covered in messy red satin sheets and black pillow cases of silk. Malachi kissed her feet and moved his soft, hot lips up her body, planting those fiery kisses on every inch of her. She squirmed and let out gasps of pleasure. He reached her lips and clasped his hands to hers. His piercing eyes flickered with a hunger more intense then she had seen before. She let out a gasp of fear as panic rushed through her brain, but it was already too marinated in chemicals of lust. He kissed her again as her legs quivered, wrapping around him as she has done many a time before in this very bed. He bites her lower lip as he takes her invitation. Martha lets out a loud moan as Malachai gently moves down and bites her neck.

Martha felt groggy, she awoke many hours later. The sun had set, her body was exhausted yet still hot and craving more. Malachai is just returning to the room with two glasses of wine. He smiles warmly, those fierce eyes still full of that hunger. His exquisite body exposed before her. “With how loudly you moan I should call you my lark. Here, have some wine.” Martha took the beautiful crystal glass of deep crimson, scented strongly of florals. “It’s a fine vintage I bought from Xinipex’s brewery. I hope you slept well my dear, you’ve been out for nearly another day. You have given me seven exquisite hours of pleasure my dear Martha for my birthday. You made it very special for me, thank you. But I still do have a gift for you.” Martha could barely speak as she drank the wine greedily, it tasted divine.

“A gift for me? It’s your birthday, you get the gifts silly.” She teased. The handsome man flashed his charming smile.

“I did say it broke protocol.” He chuckled, Martha set down her glass on the side table and went to him, running her hands over all his exposed parts, his skin was hot like fire. His scent was like a toxic perfume that captivated her. He set down his own glass and kissed her lips gently. “Close your eyes.” Martha giggled and did as directed. She felt a cold metal slide around her neck like a necklace. Malachai clasped it behind her neck, standing behind her. He moved her long hair and licked the exposed skin of her neck. “Open them.” Martha did and at first she smiled, it was a beautiful steel, silver and electrum necklace with a single heart shaped polished garnet. Her smile faded to confusion when she noticed the keyhole on it.

“Malachi?” She queried.

The man smiled and pressed himself against her, wrapping his arms around her stomach and chest. “It is a special necklace, my lark.” He kissed her shoulder and she cooed. A thought shot through her head, she had a declaration.

“I have something I’ve been wanting to say to you! She smiled.” Malachai moaned softly in her ear.

“Well my lark go ahead, tell me, you can tell me anything.” He breathily moaned in her ear. Martha’s body grew warmer again. She turned around, giddy with delight as she gazed up into his eyes.

“Oh Malachai, we have been running around awhile now, we’ve had so much fun! I don’t want it to end…I…I love you Malachai! I love you so much! Im think you feel the same for me too! I want to make us an official coupling, a courtship!” Malachi smiled and kissed her lips.

“My beautiful lark, your words are inspiring and beautiful as are your kind heart and fair features. You fill me with such sensation and feeling.” He kissed her again and whispered a word she didn’t recognize. Her body felt weird, the wine must have been strong, the satyr that brewed it did tend to make strong spirits. She leaned into him, kissed his lips and he directed her to the bed again. She felt herself move without her command, and a tinge of confusion came back over her. Malachi climbed on top of her on the bed, kissed her back, her neck, and her ear, his soft tongue tracing the edge of her ear as he entered her again. Martha moaned as he did, his hot breath in her ear as he whispered. “I don’t do love, my lark…” Martha gasped. Pain seared her heart, it was breaking within those few words. She tried to speak but could not, she could not move. The necklace he put on her neck felt heavier. Malachai moved and filled her with pleasure, even as tears of a breaking heart welled in her eyes. She mumbled, trying to speak. But she couldn’t, he leaned down over her again whispering in her ear. “And I’m not Malachai.” Martha’s eyes widened as terror gripped her, new tears flooded from her eyes, powerless in this man's grasp, her heart broken.

#writing challenge #october challenge

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mogulinteriororlando · 8 months

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Indulge in the enchanting world of Eclectic Indian Antiques & Furniture, where rich heritage, vibrant culture, and timeless craftsmanship intertwine. From intricately carved wooden armoire to vibrant textiles, this diverse collection offers a unique blend of history, art, and functionality.

#home decor #barn door #eclectic #rustic farmhouse

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finkdennis46 · 9 months

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subqtaneoussmut · 1 year

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The Tea Girl's Gambit (Chapter 3)

Roxa yawned and blinked against the early sunlight flooding the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the curtains a brilliant white. She rose and padded naked to her armoir. Stretching like a cat, she grinned at her own reflection, remembering her dreams. She’d been back home at the Rose Keep, where waterfalls tumbled down fern-covered cliffs of granite and rose quartz, and thousands of birds wheeled and drank the mist and called to each other. She’d been out riding with a lovely girl and they’d returned to the keep and fallen right into Roxa’s silk-sheeted bed…

Roxa made a wry face. It had really been two months, hadn’t it? Lady’s glittering tits, she’d known the Yavanese were uptight about sex, but somehow she hadn’t really expected to suffer the consequences herself. She knew that there was some delightful frisson of attraction between herself and her cute roommate, but it didn’t seem to be going anywhere, and Roxa was not about to push Mila at all if the Opali girl wasn’t ready.

Roxa pulled on a shift and brought out her practice blade for exercises. As she began to limber up, she considered her quiet, self-possessed roomie. As soon as they’d met, Roxa knew she wanted to be friends and had done her best to set Mila at ease. There was something about the girl that made Roxa want her trust, made her want to win her over, to make that firm mouth curve into a smile—Roxa groaned as she finished a set and dropped her arm. She mopped her brow and paced the room a little, breathing heavily.

She was so mysterious! Roxa began another set. Perhaps Roxa was being too much, coming off too strongly? Perhaps Roxa had scared her, made her retreat like a snail into her shell? This thought sank her heart a little because the truth was that Roxa was really, finally feeling like she could be herself, away from the Duchy and away from everyone who knew her as ‘m’lady’ and, most of all, away from her mother’s shadow.

Roxa was the spitting image of her mother, the Countess Sasha Monir—everyone said so. They were both tall and well-proportioned, and moved with a grace that hid spring-loaded, coiled strength. Roxa had her mother’s reddish-golden hair, her pale, freckle-dusted skin, and her sorcery.

Sasha Monir was the foremost enchanter of the Duchy, a legend in her own lifetime. As far back as Roxa could remember, at dinner parties or banquets or on the hunt, her mother was the center other people revolved around. Every conversation in a room would quiet when she spoke, everybody else would dim. It was more than her power as a sorcerer or as a Countess. People just...parted before her like water before a mighty ship. And the expectations!

Roxa finished another set, sweat dripping off her. She carefully sheathed and stowed her practice blade, then dropped to the wood-paneled floor and began huffing her way through push-ups. Adults and children, everyone in Roxa’s life had seemed to conspire to have her turn out the same as her mother. And so...she had? Or at least, she’d tried.

Classes had always come easy to Roxa. Highest marks in her year in Charms, Summoning, Changing and Dueling. Hawking, riding, spycraft, all of them came easily to her. Her classmates and her teachers had always treated her with admiration, respect, even awe—and stubbornly deferential distance. Though Roxa had always had people around her, she’d hadn’t had many close friends. Turns out pedestals aren’t the best foundations for friendship.

Roxa grimaced. She could still hear her mother counseling her on the strategic advantages of aloofness. Roxa wanted to reject that lesson with her whole heart. And when her mother took a diplomatic post at the Imperial capital in Drago, she’d jumped at the chance to study at Harmine, away from her mother, away from those damned courtiers with their pressures and comparisons and conniptions and their bemused indifference to Roxa’s ribald jokes. Good riddance.

She got to her feet, panting, and headed to the washroom at the end of the hall. So this was it, her chance to make actual friends that didn’t know her mother from some broad in an oil painting hanging in the dining hall. Meeting Mila for the first time, she had rejoiced internally. A commoner! A foreigner from a place where they didn’t even have nobility! Someone who had no idea how to treat her as someone special! Someone who didn’t want to use Roxa as a piece in games of prestige! And it had been so easy and liberating to be herself with Mila.

Except...was Roxa doing it wrong? She chewed her lip. Mila was holding herself back, that much was clear. Which was fine, obviously. The only way to play this was with patience and openness—trust at Mila’s pace, on Mila’s timeline. Not rushing or needing anything from her. Roxa nodded, her eyes closed, her face turned up to the spray of hot water, her mind set.

Besides, there were plenty of other students to befriend or to tumble into bed with. If only she could find some Yavanese that didn’t kiss like cold fish. They must exist...

#tumblr writers #writers on tumblr #trans writers #writing #queer #transgender #writerblr #lgbtq #trans #queer fiction #queer romance #queer fantasy #queer smut #mtf trans

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talesofealdancynedom · 2 years

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Scarlet and Amadeus, in casual dress, before Rosethorn Vault. I forgot to include her familiar in the story and illustrations...

35. The Great Garden (chapter 2 - Summer 2/5 ) part 8. Stories of Dreams.

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“Lord Rosethorn, what have you done?” The site manager scolded.

“Destroyed my own property, in a fit of rage?” Amadeus winced. His father Gemini stared him down. “Well then, how much to fix it?”

“Depends if we can find a mage, who can craft mint-hued frosted fairy glass, made from the sands of The Fields of Fire, in The Central South. Everything on this manor is replaced with the exact replica of what was lost or broken; No substitutions are legally permitted,” The manager scoffed. “Besides, your mother’s will states you can’t access Rosethorn’s assets, until you’re a wed adult. She set up everything to automatic payments, I’m afraid.”

“But I need it fixed before winter. The fey could perish.” Amadeus gasped. His heart pounded, realizing his mistake was life or death. Amadeus turned to his father for reassurance; Gemini held his head in his palm, looking away.

“Well, should have thought of that Sir.”

“Fine! My friend Morgan say’s there’s always a mage in Veya; Right by that darn Indonian desert. I’ll give you a letter to send her, and I’ll search the basement vaults for spare panes.” Amadeus said, summoning parchment. On the way out, the trees yelled nasty comments about the manager’s mother; They had siblings in that green house. The manager left to send the letter, hoping said mage would accept a back-payments.

“I’ll get the duct-tape.” Gemini sighed. Amadeus, in shame, drifted in his delicate silver robes towards the patio to brood.

Amadeus called Scarlet to search the lower storage vaults. Which are not to be confused with the attic fey-herb stock room; Nor the food cellar. The storage vault in question, was enchanted long ago to be the size of a royal ballroom. With Amadeus’s cousin Rah gone, and his father and aunt at work, Amadeus needed a partner to fathom the beast. Perhaps with Scarlet, it could be a romantic bonding experience.

The vault doors were the biggest in the basement. Painted black, and carved with the Rosethorn Crest. This meant one thing: Only Amadeus could open it. Scarlet watched in awe, as Amadeus ran his finger gently between the two doors, and their lockk. A series of clinks chimed, as if little locks were unlatching. After a second of silence, the doors went ajar.

“After you.” Amadeus smiled with a bow.

“Thanks. I’ve never seen you do that. Or never noticed,” Scarlet said walking into the astonishingly crowded hall. “Woah, this is an epic space expansion spell… I’ve never seen so much junk.”

“Grandfather’s doing, apparently. After struggling two years searching for Francian sterling A10 dessert forks, imported from Hassburry in the Celtician Northlands, he made it a life mission to buy backups of everything that makes up the Manor and its history.” Amadeus explained. He squeezed behind an ivory Armoire: Eastland vintage, worth over 802,000.95 West Silver.

“The word for that is hoarding,” Scarlet said, squeezing between boxes. “I had no clue the manor had so much stuff…”

“Well yes, I’m rich.” Amadeus sighed. The grandiosity seemed homey when spread around the spacious house, but to rub shoulders with the more valuable doubles, rubbed him the wrong way. Needless wastes of money, akin to his wasted education.

“Does this mean I’m the gold digger? Being the barber’s daughter and all?” Scarlet laughed, reaching for Amadeus’s hand under a coat-rack. “They joke about that with your father. He’s from the Far South of Hispania; Wed into the nation.” Scarlet giggled. Gemini was a great host and valuable Witch, that had a special loathing for his upbringing. Assuming that man gave an iota about money, was a complete joke; Particularly when seeing Gemini and Plumba, Amadeus’s mother, dance at community events.

Finally, against the far wall, they reached the mirrors and windows. Any egregious house possesses too many windows and mirrors; Usually mismatched. Finding the right pain of glass would be difficult. Scarlet pulled out her navy crystal shard.

“My wand’s a shard of Stone Queen Io; Maybe I can use resonance to find it? Summoning spell maybe?”

“I’m enfeyed with a Wolf-Child. I can hear snow fall. A simple frequency fork will do.”

“I don’t have one.” Scarlet shrugged. As a Heartman, her healing magic had little use for Alchemy and transmutation. Then her face went grey. “We could have just summoned it with chalk from upstairs! We know the object and possible location!”

“This is a cursed vault, Scarlet. That only one person can open. Nothing in or out; Even by magic. Must of had a Warlock somewhere in my linage.” Amadeus scowled. He picked up a worn book with a green parrot on it.

“You think as a little child, I didn’t try to summon things out of here when mother took them away?” He smiled. Amadeus remembered his mother reading that book to him. Then his smile faded.

“I bet our kid will love that book so much, it’ll end up right back down here.” She reassured. Amadeus grabbed her hand. He was smiling again. They were both so young, but incredibly eager. He nearly forgot the mechanics of reproduction he considered repulsive.

“I’ll try summoning it inside the vault.” Amadeus diverted.

“Oh, now that I’ve brought it up, we haven’t troubleshooted family planning yet. Don’t have to wait till the wedding late fall. What about AI?” Scarlet continued. Amadeus’s summoning charm resulted in a puff of snow. His backfired spells always resulted in winter magic; Even before he was bound to a fey with such powers. With a scowl, Amadeus rushed Scarlet back out of the vault. Closing the heavy doors with a satisfying thud, and a chime of the locks relatching.

“Amadeus, I’m sorry y-” Scarlet sighed.

“It’s alright. I guess its just another thing that makes me feel like I’m unsuited. I just wanted to be a paladin protecting my friend on quests, marry you, and have a kid. I worked hard towards all these things; But mother’s gone, and I have to be Master Rosethorn. How do I think about children, when I’m such a failure I can’t summon things!” Amadeus yelled. Scarlet looked blankly at him.

“Firstly, I was referring to the glass. Secondly, you think that because you’re landlocked into tending your beloved family home, that means you can’t do any of those things? What’s going on?”

Amadeus slouched with an exhale. “Boy or girl?” He invited. Scarlet shrugged.

“Looks related to us? Incubated inside me? I don’t know.” Scarlet said, leaving him in the cellar. Her words stung Amadeus: Look related to us. As Scarlet was warm as olive, the child would look much like her, but not him. When he looked in a mirror, or family photos, he stood out. Like the white accents of the otherwise obsidian house.

Amadeus had his fathers face and colours; But Gemini didn’t always look like that. He was ethnically tall and swarthy, like most Far South peoples; But he had gone dark in school. The dangerous overflow of ether inverted his appearance, to the opposite of his twin. Then there was Amadeus’s mother, who was as deep and raven as any Southlander. There was no logical reason Amadeus should look like snow. Eerie, yet unnoticeable in a world where magic can change such things. Thus, Amadeus’s birth certificate said ‘magic may have been a factor’, and his paternity and maternity tests confirmed his linage. For his whole life, Amadeus shrugged it off as ‘I look like my father’, or ‘enchantments happen.’

But suddenly, Amadeus became very curious, and self-conscious, about what he might actually look like. Most others weren’t born with their illusions. He wondered if he looked like his mother, if he’d feel better about his obligations. Scarlet’s words only made Amadeus feel even more out of place.

NEXT--->

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#art #Illustration #fantasy #tales of ealden cynedom #short stories #scarlet #Plumba #Gemini #amadeus

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