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targaryen-dynasty · 22 hours

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THE CURSE OF CURIOSITY.

Aemond Targaryen x twin sister!reader

"While your brother searches the library of the Dragonkeeper Elder for something new to read, you come in contact with some unlabeled fluid. You both learn that it's something meant to aid in the breeding of dragons, however, it also has a unique effect on humans. But lucky for you, your twin is there to help you through the ordeal."

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT—MINORS DNI; canon typical incest/targcest, dub con, sex pollen (rather fluid lol), p in v, breeding kink

WORDS: 4 K

NOTES: Hope you enjoy me having literally zero grasp on English. 🤭

❗️𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

“It’s far too late for us to be here,” you huff, almost annoyed, as you watch Aemond graze his fingers along the spines of the several books kept in the currently deserted chambers of the Dragonkeeper Elder. “What are we looking for here anyways?”

The room is barely lit by anything else than just a handful of candles. Your twin holds a lantern of some sort in one hand, using it to make out the writings that are carved on the books backs.

When there doesn’t immediately come an answer from him, you start to slowly walk around the room, inspecting its decor. “I have exhausted the castle’s libraries, and hope to take something of their collection for my own,” he murmurs, carefully selecting two books.

You stop in your tracks and turn to look at him. Although you’re just a few moments younger than him, sharing the same attributes with your long, silver hair and lilac eyes, you have a much gentler nature than he does, one that doesn’t lend itself to the same mischief you had pursued together as children anymore.

“And you couldn’t have just taken Floris with you? You ought to wed, and doing something together would do no harm to your future union. One sparsely sees you two around court,” you note, slightly annoyed your brother chose to wake you instead of his betrothed.

Knowing all too well that just the mention of the betrothal is going to set him off, you choose to play with fire. If your brother wants your company, he’ll have to put up with your teasing. And just like expected, the notion of being forced into a marriage he doesn’t want to be in irritates him, audible in the sigh he releases. His resentment of the situation has become worse over time as he feels more and more suffocated by the ordeal.

“The girl is as dull as stones. Besides,” he replies with a shrug, “she knows nothing about our family’s history, much less about dragons.” The topic of dragons is something your twin is very passionate about, and you know that the fact that his wife-to-be cares so little about his passion infuriates him. It might be one of the main reasons for his dislike of her. “I have no desire to have Floris at my side any more than she does me.”

His annoyance is palpable, but you don’t feel bad about making it worse. For all the hours he has spent teasing, taunting and annoying you while you grew up together, he gets it back twice and three times over. And although he hasn’t spoken it out loud, you know you’re one of the few people he trusts blindly to be himself around.

“That aside, it would be foolish to read with Floris,” he continues, your silence coaxing him to speak more, “as all she does is gossip with her friends and prattle on about pointless nonsense. You of all people know best how I feel about this match.”

“Floris isn’t so bad, you know,” you defend with a low voice. “And you’ve barely tried to get to know her. Surely you can find at least one thing to like about her. If you did, you might just see she’s not as terrible as you’ve decided.” If you both have to spend your days withering away in marriages sealed by your father and mother, you at least could find a little solace knowing your twin wasn’t as miserable in his.

Aemond sighs in frustration. “You sound just like mother,” he comments dryly, finally moving to look at you from over his shoulder. “Can you really say that you like her? She is dull and naive. I am certain I couldn’t find anything to like about her even if I had all night. There is nothing for me to like about her. Nothing at all.”

Finding yourself at somewhat of a loss of words at this, you open and close your mouth without any words leaving it. Part of you wants to disagree with your twin, as Floris hasn’t been entirely unpleasant to spend time with at court, which makes Aemond’s dislike for her appear entirely without reason to you. On the other hand, you’ve known your brother long and well enough to know when he is resolute about something.

“Just promise me that you won’t be a terrible husband to her. Even if you don’t like her, don’t make your lifes awful,” you finally blurt out.

As you allow your gaze to trail through the chambers once more, you spot some small vessels standing lined up on the desk in the far corner with books and scrolls littered around them. You don’t wait for Aemond to reply as you make your way over, determined to inspect the small containers. The liquid inside of them resembles milk of the poppy, although it’s slightly more permeable to light when you hold it to one of the candles.

You hardly think about the dangers coming with it when you open the lid to inhale a whiff of the fluid. Not smelling entirely unpleasant, it still has you scrunching your nose as a slight burning grows prominent in your nose and throat.

Placing the vessel back down rather quickly, it stands too close to the edge of the desk. You’re not quick enough as it falls to the ground with a clatter, the vessel shattering into pieces and the pale liquid spreading across the floor.

“By the Seven,” you mumble, sinking to the ground to collect some of the larger shards.

The sound of breaking glass and your sighing is enough to catch your brother's attention again. Where he has read the spines of the books before, he makes his way over to the source of the commodation now. “You shouldn’t have dropped that,” he comments dryly, which prompts you to shoot him a heated glare. “Oh, you don’t say, mh?” you reply, your voice laced with sarcasm.

Reaching for another shard, you pull your hand back with a hiss when it cuts your finger. “Ouch!” you exclaim and rise to your feet, soon enough spotting the crimson oozing out of the cut.

Despite his annoyance at your clumsiness, Aemond’s good eye is drawn to the cut you have given yourself. It’s no deep wound, but even the hint of your blood makes something akin to guilt bubble in his stomach. “What were you doing with that?” he inquires, as he takes your hand to inspect your finger, nodding towards the vessels still standing on the desk.

You watch him twist and turn your hand to have the perfect look of the wound, the stinging pain suddenly not too bad with his warm skin on yours. “I… I just wanted to see what they keep here. It is unusual for anyone other than the maesters to store unmarked liquids,” you reply, hissing as Aemond pinches the cut finger a tad too tightly. “I shall see Maester Mellos. Mayhaps this needs stitching.”

“That’s an excellent idea.”

Aemond fetches the books he has chosen from the collection, holding them under his arm as he brings the other to you to place a hand to the small of your back, guiding you out of the Dragonpit.

On your request, the cut on your finger is stitched by Maester Mellos, although he has voiced that it wasn’t quite necessary. But something tells you the opposite, especially when you catch him staring at your face and checking your temperature more than once. “Is everything alright, maester?” you ask him with a soft voice, a yawn following.

Aemond towers over the both of you, carefully watching each move of the needle in the elder’s hands, just waiting for him to make a wrong move that’s meant to hurt you – he’s familiar with being stitched up after all.

The maester seems to be out of his mind, and only reacts as he hears you say his name. “Maester Mellos?”

His eyes are wide, but he nods quickly. “Yes… yes, princess. The wound should be able to heal calmly now.”

He is quick to pack his utensils up again, and even faster to leave your chambers at once. And while Aemond hurries after the old man, trying to catch up on him outside of your chambers, you don’t wait for any of them to return again with sleep coming over you.

The crackling of the fireplace is the only thing audible when you stir awake, a sheen of sweat covering your skin, making your nightgown cling to it uncomfortably. Your body feels as though it’s on fire when you squirm from one side to the other, not finding back to sleep. A tingling spreads in your loins, and each time your thighs squeeze together, it surges up your spine.

“Gods be good,” you whine, utterly bewildered with the feeling of liquid fire coursing through your veins.

Aemond not so silently rises from one of the chairs close to the fireplace, and comes closer to the bed, though, careful not to startle or frighten you as you regain your bearings. He has hoped you’d sleep through the entire ordeal and wake up as if nothing has happened, but that hope slowly dissipates with each passing moment.

“How are you feeling?” your twin asks, concern in his voice. Suddenly, hearing his voice allures you, and doesn’t diminish the burning at the apex of your legs.

As you clench your thighs together again, it releases some of the tension your body holds, and makes you whine in despair. “Aemond…” you pant, your chest rising and falling with your heavy breaths. “What are you doing here?”

The thin sheets covering your body do little to conceal what is happening beneath, and your brother just assumes it’s your way of trying to suppress your bodily urges ignited by the pale liquid you came in contact with before.

“I…” his usual confidence and boldness completely deserts him at the state you’re in, and he can barely find the words to tell you what he’s been told by Maester Mellos.

As he watches you writhe and writhe about on the bed, he’s unsure of how much longer he can just stand there and do nothing. But his concern and love for you cause him to make the decision to act, approaching you and reaching out to grasp your hands.

At the contact, the feeling of his warm hands fully engulfing yours, it’s like something overcomes your mind and body, luring you in to move, staring up at him with wide eyes as you sit on your haunches. “Dohaeragon nyke… kostilus,” you whimper, strands of your silver hair clinging to the damp sides of your face. “Ziry ōdrikagon.. sīr bāne. Nyke sepār – dohaeragon nyke, lēkia.” Yet you don’t quite know what exactly you’re begging for. Help me… please. It hurts… so hot. I just – help me, brother.

In the dim light of the candles, you spot his eye widening as you shift and squirm, looking up at him in such a vulnerable state with your innocent eyes, pleading for him to help you through your ordeal although you have no idea of what’s wrong with you right now. He can’t help but notice how your hair clings to your skin, seeming as if you’ve just bathed, and that your movements seem to contribute to its dampness.

“Mellos has told me what the fluid is that the Elder keeps in his chambers,” he states, trying to stay calm and not let your state affect him too much.

But with his proximity, all effort of you to process what he’s saying is fruitless. You pull on his hands, as if you want to encourage him to join you in bed, and when he doesn’t budge, you rise on your knees, and start to fidget with the buttons of his coat – solely driven by your urges. “And that is?” you mumble, not really listening.

His cheeks run hot when you start to undo the buttons, and his hands capture yours once again to put a stop to it, making you pout. With furrowed brows, his grip finally has you looking up at him. “It’s something used to aid in breeding the dragons,” Aemond states. “He told me it’s also used to increase their stamina and to make them more…” he trails off, his body slowly growing tense as the implication of what he’s going to say settles into his mind. “... receptive to breeding.”

“Mh–Mh,” you hum almost nonchalantly, and watch completely mesmerized as your fingers graze along his, the warmth and softness of his skin only intensifying the tingling in your loins. Aemond is hesitant, unsure whether or not what you’re doing is entirely due to the potion’s effect, or if there is genuinely some desire for him on your part.

You lick your lips and free your hands from Aemond’s to shrug the opened coat off his shoulders. The fabric of his tunic is pinched between your fingers as you tug on it once again to beg for him to join you. With him taking his sweet time, you find yourself clenching your thighs every now and then to soothe the aching burning at the apex of them.

“He also informed me that ‘tis necessary for someone to… help you through it,” he murmurs quietly, his voice almost sounding shaky as he speaks, “... for it will burn you from the inside out if not.”

Even though you’re fully acting on your body's desires, you do notice the way his widened eye trails down to your thighs, lingering there for a moment before it returns to yours.

You don’t give a verbal response to his words, and instead, your only reactions are subtle ones. Nodding your head slowly, as if you’ve understood what he is implying, your hands squeeze his tunic further into his chest. He can practically see your body tensing with each movement of your fingers, almost as if you’re trying to hold back.

With your eyes firmly locked with his now, you slowly trail your hands beneath his tunic, pushing it up to remove that as well from his body to get further access to him – if it wasn’t for him not raising his arms.

Exhaling a deep breath, you sit back on your haunches. His reluctance does little to quell the fire raging within you, no, it only fuels to make you even more desperate. The lacey hem of your nightgown rides up your thighs as you spread them, and fully exposes your undergarments the moment you bring your hand between your legs. A breathy whimper falls past your lips as your fingers finally make contact with your clothed cunt, and then something akin to mischief flickers in your lilac eyes.

“And… will you help me, brother? Or shall I ask Jacaerys for help instead? We ought to wed in a moon's turn after all,” your voice is honeyed as you speak, dripping with feigned innocence. “But you don’t want that, do you? That’s why you’ve stayed.”

You spot the exact moment his breath hitches in his throat. He suddenly feels a wave of heat overcoming him, your words triggering something in him that is more than just the usual desire to protect his younger sister, something primal. You sound and look so vulnerable asking for his help, secretly begging for him and him only.

Intertwining your fingers with his, the intensity of your grip increasing as your senses become more heightened, your twin finally moves as you pull him onto the bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight as you watch him come closer, and when he is close enough, you reach and pull him down onto you in a quick motion. You don’t waste a second more and lock your lips with his, your hand slowly traveling down his back. But before you can grab his tunic and pull it over his head, Aemond pushes you back to lie flatly on the bed, pinning your wrists above your head. His eye burns with hunger as he gazes down at you, visible even in the dim light, and it makes you yearn for more.

“Well, if I chose to leave you here to your own devices, would you crawl to your betrothed for help? I do not think so,” he says, his voice taking over a mocking tone. “No, in fact, I’m certain you would come to my chambers instead.”

When he doesn’t touch you, you try to wrap your legs around his body to grind yourself against him, but Aemond is quick to catch your hip with one hand, keeping your body still as it's pinned to the mattress.

“Sir, dohaeragon nyke,” you beg, voice shaky enough it comes close to a whimper. But when you notice that speaking in the tongue of your ancestors is not having any effect on him at all, you choose to coax him to tend to you in the Common Tongue. “Touch me, Aemond. Help me… please.” Now, help me.

Aemond is silent for a moment, visibly dragging his eye over your squirming frame. One hand still holds your wrists above your head, while the other slowly but surely releases your hip. “I shall take care of you,” he reassures you. “But you will have to let me, do you understand?”

You gaze up at him with wide eyes and slowly nod your head, only for you to pounce on him the moment your wrists are released. The tunic is gone as soon as your body collides with his, causing a strained gasp to leave your twin’s lips. While just the thoughts of his warm skin on yours have incite your mind already, seeing his bare chest sets your body alight.

His demeanor changes in the blink of an eye, and he has never treated you as roughly as he does when he pushes you off of him. It leaves you dumbfounded for a moment, more so when he moves between your parted legs, towering over you.

“Look how dull this fluid has made you,” he mocks, the condescending tone of his voice sending a shiver up your spine. Aemond notices that you’re not shying away from him, no, you keen at that. “Just because you couldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”

“If I help you,” he warns, “no one else, let alone that bastard of a nephew, is ever allowed to touch you again, do you understand?”

It might be the liquid-induced state, or the despair to have him do anything to you already, but you’re far too eager to nod at his words.

Aemond’s hand wanders below the hem of your nightgown to heartily fist your undergarments and peel them off of you. He can already feel that the linen is soaked with your arousal, but still can’t stop himself from licking his lips as he sees your now exposed cunt glistening in the light of the candles.

“Now, we do not want you to suffer any longer, hm?” he asks.

And you nod once again. “Gods, yes, please. I need you, Aemond.”

You don’t have to beg him any longer. He undoes the laces in the front of his breeches and pulls out his throbbing cock, painfully hard and aching to be buried inside of you. It’s slightly curved and thick, and if you have to guess, you’d say that you need both hands to pleasure him, and even then there’d still be a bit of him that would be left abandoned.

Aemond wastes no time in lining himself up with your entrance, pushing into you as you both moan in unison. You don’t expect him to set up a merciless pace almost immediately upon fully bottoming out, but you’re not disappointed either.

While you’ve been able to talk before, he’s quickly reduced you to a whimpering and whining mess, relishing in the delicious burning of accommodating his sheer size.

“Does it help?” your twin asks through gritted teeth, desperately trying to keep his sounds of pleasure at bay. But you’ve been fucked into a stupor by him already, not even able to keep your eyes open. “Mh-mh,” you hum.

Putting some of his weight onto you, Aemond’s hand finds your throat like the most treasured necklace you only take off to sleep, taking up the entirety of your neck and leaving no room for you to shift even the slightest.

It was subtle at first, but the merciless pace slowly changes into something more determined, his hips rolling with each thrust as if he wants to make sure the tip of his cock really brushes your sweet spot every time. He’s seemingly spurred on by the way you’ve lost all inhibitions, not that the fluid allowed you to have any in the first place, and the wanton moans that spill past your lips.

One of your hands grabs his wrist, keeping his hand around your throat, while the other finds solace on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. Your nails dig into his alabaster skin, and you’re sure that crescent shaped marks will bloom there not long after, staking your claim on him.

“But you need more,” Aemond grunts, and you can’t do more than whimper a pathetic string of yesses. “The only thing that will truly help you is for me to fill you up with my seed, to breed you.”

Your head tips back in plain bliss, and you’re not sparing one thought to the possible repercussions of him putting a child in you. If anything, there is something buried deeply inside of you that has waited for this moment. You have waited for this moment. You grew up thinking you’d marry your twin one day, only for the rising tensions inside of the family to force you to marry your nephew instead as the final straw to mend the chasm.

Aemond’s stamina doesn’t seem to be able to handle the way your body reacts to him and his words – not when a renewed wave of your arousal drips from your cunt at the mere thought of you carrying his child. It’s running thin, ready to burst at any given moment, hence he brings a deft finger to your pearl, rubbing it with frantic movements that should bring you to peak just in time with him.

The pressure brought to your pearl has your body squirming, not anticipating it and the shiver of pleasure that comes with it. You arch your back and moan, yet a tight squeeze of your throat is enough to bring your attention back to him.

“Do you want that?” he pants, dark blown eyes fixed with yours. “Want me to put a babe in you?” It might be his way to ask for your reassurance, and while your body’s reaction should be enough with your walls clenching around him so tightly, he stills wants to hear your voice.

Your cheeks grow hot as his words finally seem to settle in your hazed mind, a whiny ‘yes’ slipping past your lips. “Fill me up, Aemond… please. I want it,” you all but beg, your voice croaked with him squeezing your throat.

The confession flips a switch inside of you that allows you to let go, your body shattering beneath Aemond with a pathetic whine. He relishes in the way your walls flutter and spasm all over him, utterly mesmerized as relief etches itself into your features.

With a groan, the first wanton sound of pleasure you’ve heard of him, Aemond spends himself inside of you. He connects your lips in a heated kiss that has you swallowing down each grunt and groan he unleashes. Working you both through the blissful highs, his hips only stop once he’s sure he’s fucked his seed as deep as possible, determined to put a child in you.

Aemond topples over into the vacant space next to you, his breeches soaked with your arousal and his chest heaving with his breaths.

The sudden loss of friction makes you whine at first, but is quickly overshadowed by the feeling of relief. “Thank you,” you whisper through heavy breaths, turning your head to look at him.

“I won’t leave now,” he says softly, although there is a linger of mischief in his voice. “I would be remiss not to aid my sister in her hour of utmost desperation… so, I shall stay the night just to make sure you really get through it.”

Aemond Taglist: @persephonerinyes @dr-aegon @schniiipsel @thekinslayed @baizzhu @legitalicat

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thecampjuicebox · 4 months

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Glorious Suffering

Pairing: Abdirak x Tav(f) x Astarion

Rating: 18+ NSFW, Minors DNI

POV: 2nd person

Warnings: SMUT, sadomasochism, use of objects for hitting, blood, bruising, biting, voyeurism/exhibitionism, orgasm denial, oral, fingering, p in v penetration, minor game spoilers

Trying out a new writing format to put better emphasis on dialogue. Let me know what you guys think!

The stench of blood and unwashed bodies lingers in the air like a thick blanket. It stings in your nostrils - singes the hairs with gut churning ferocity. Putrid. It makes your eyes water. Your stomach turns and bubbles as your breakfast threatens to make a second appearance. The once grand Selunite Outpost has since crumbled to near ruins, the occupation of goblins tainting its beauty and grace in a matter of days. Filthy pests, they are. You turn your head up, eyes watering from the scent as you climb the stone stairs toward a hallway of small rooms. Your group follows close behind reluctantly.

"This place is disgusting." Astarion whines, tip-toeing around small piles of bones and viscera.

Cautious eyes peek around corners. The first room is brightly lit with candles and lanterns, a young man strapped by the wrists and ankles to some sort of torture device. Two goblins swing maces and whips in his direction, shouting obscenities and asking for information. Information the man clearly doesn't seem to have.

"Pathetic. All of them." Shadowheart huffs, turning her nose up at the display with obvious disdain for what she's seen.

"They can't even properly swing a mace to cause actual damage. Lady Shar would be displeased."

Astarion grins at the sight. Excited fingers crawl against the stone brick wall to take hold of it as he leans into the doorway, his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip and trace the sharp points of his fangs.

"Let's stay and watch." The spawn's flirtatious nature can be so insufferable sometimes.

"Astarion, come. We have other business to attend to." Your voice is sharp and stern, seemingly the only way the elf will listen to you.

"You're such a bore." He groans, pulling away from the wall and hooking his index finger into the back of your leathers, giving them a playful tug toward him as he presses close to your behind and mumbles into your pointed ear.

"Doesn't that device look like such fun? We should give it a try once the little green ones have no more use for it."

Your cheeks burn crimson and a disengaging elbow flies out from behind you, connecting with Astarion's abdomen hard enough to force him to let go of your leathers.

"Not now, you tease." With a cough, he puts some distance between the two of you - an insidious grin lingers on his lips.

The second room draws closer and the quiet mumble of a man inside makes your ears perk up. His voice is strained, the occasional sounds of mace to skin ringing through the hall. He cries out, and every hair on your body stands on end. Astarion rounds the corner first, stumbling upon a man with medium build, knelt down in front of one of the rear walls of the room. He stands and turns to your group slowly, eyes falling on you first. His gaze is almost.. Comforting. Silver eyes pierce through you like the sharpest dagger. It nearly knocks the breath straight from your lungs. His chest and abdomen are alarmingly bloodied and bruised, little cuts and scratch marks speckling his skin. Astarion clears his throat once he notices your eyes locked on one another and the human offers a kind smile.

"Greetings, child. I've met few aside from Goblins here. Are you also here to assist with the prisoner?" He questions, motioning toward the room just next door.

You shake your head slowly, averting your gaze to the floor for a moment. Warmth swirls in your belly. He's incredibly handsome, the salt tones in his blonde hair showing his age. His voice is low and raspy and it sends shivers up and down your spine when he speaks - like sweet red wine to your ears. Delicious and intoxicating. His face contorts into a grimace as he crosses his arms over his chest and rests his weight on one foot.

"Hm. While I was thrilled to be invited here, I must confess I find the goblins and their methods.. Crude and primitive." He leans forward at his last word, eyes narrowing toward you. "Pain without purpose is a terrible thing. Wouldn't you agree?"

Your cheeks involuntarily flush that deep shade of crimson that clearly gives you away. He awakens something within you. You'd recognize his garb from miles away. A follower of Loviatar, the Maiden of Pain. The things this man has probably seen. The things he's done. It excites you in a way that's almost embarrassing. A familiar ache pings in your core and you can't help but cross your legs, squeezing your thighs together tightly to dull the desperation. The inherent need. The human before you certainly notices and takes a step closer, inhaling slowly before he speaks. He's toying with you now. He must be. Astarion can smell the growing eagerness in your blood, hear the way your pulse quickens, life force pumping into different parts of you now. He smirks and keeps quiet, but gods, is he painfully aware.

"Forgive me -" The man interjects, pointing directly at you now. You gulp. "but that look in your eyes. Something terrible has happened to you."

You cross your arms over your breasts, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. "Clever man. How did you know?"

"Because I see those same eyes when I look in the mirror.. Dear one." His hand reaches out to caress your soft cheek and goosebumps raise by the millions on your skin. "We've all suffered in these.. Dark times. It is little wonder you bear scars of pain and anguish. Please. Let me.. Alleviate this pain."

"What exactly would this entail?" Astarion's voice cuts through your thoughts and your eyes shift to him in disbelief.

"Well, the Maiden of Pain, Loviatar, teaches us that pain is a most powerful and sacred sensation. And, should our pain delight her, she will grant her most sacred of blessings." His hands clench into excited fists in front of him. "If you would permit it, I could show you first hand."

A knot forms in your stomach, twisting and tangling, his words sending jolts of arousal and excitement throughout your entire body like bolts of lightning. This experience would be new, however. The idea of such an act being performed in front of your newly acquired companions, and the man you'd started to have feelings for, makes your brain fuzzy. Gods, they'd for sure say no. Maybe even leave you to find a cure for the wriggling parasite behind your eyes by yourself.

"Sounds like a wonderful show. She accepts." Astarion beams, his eyes fixed on you, scanning up and down as your heartbeat quickens further. "As long as we can stay and watch."

"Surely Shadowheart has some reservations about watching, right?" You ask with an air of desperation that's almost laughable.

She grins and places her hands on her hips, quirking an eyebrow at you. "Lady Shar would frown upon me if I were to miss something as deliciously torturous as this. Go on."

"Oh, I have something exquisite in mind." He rubs his hands together, a devilish grin smeared across his lips. It makes your core ache even more. "Disrobe, face the wall, and we can begin. And by the way.. You may call me Abdirak."

Disrobe? Gods, this was not on your list of things to do today. Kill some goblins? Sure. Save a wildshaped druid from death? Easy. This? This may be the most difficult thing you've ever done. Astarion waves a hand toward you, motioning for you to obey the Servant of Loviatar. Your confidence wavers for a moment. Not only are you about to willingly endure what is essentially torture, now you must do it.. Naked. You gulp and set your backpack down at your feet. First goes your boots, next your leather harness, your head turning to look at Astarion who is enamored by the sight of you slowly undressing, his back pressed against the cold stone wall. Another gulp. How embarrassing.. Shadowheart snickers quietly at your obvious discomfort. Trembling fingers struggle with the laces of your tunic and in a bout of frustration, you quickly tug it over your head. The white linen falls to the floor at your feet, your perky breasts bouncing ever so slightly from the rushed movements. A quiet sigh emits from Abdirak and he quickly looks to his table of various weapons, hand hovering over the selection.

You finally tug your leathers down past your knees, kicking them to the side with reckless abandon just to get it over with. Your lack of underwear earns a barely audible groan from both Astarion and Abdirak alike. Naked and exposed, you shiver, hands resting at your sides.

"Well, go on, darling. Don't be shy."

Astarion's words give you the final push to step forward. You face the wall as instructed and chew at your bottom lip as the human lifts a mace into his hands, turning it over to inspect its condition. A quiet "Yes.. This will do nicely." stoking your fire as you wait. Abdirak approaches you from behind, reaching down to guide your hands toward the wall, foot kicking between your ankles to spread your legs apart. The cold metal of his mace traces along your spine and you shudder, teeth chattering at its frosty bite. You wait with baited breath. Brace for the imminent kiss of pain. Abdirak rears back and lands a blow to your back hard enough to knock an involuntary yelp from your throat. Astarion chews the tip of his thumb, his right hand lowering to the front of his leathers to palm at his growing erection. The half elf stood close beside him eyes him carefully, and then you, arms crossing over her chest now, completely unamused.

"The pain you suffer will cleanse you. Do not fight it."

A loud sob follows Abdirak's words as you process the pain, blood trickling from a new gash on your skin. You beg for mercy, plead for the pain to stop, your knees nearly buckling beneath you. But this is only the first blow, there is so much more to come. Somewhere deep down inside, you're enjoying this. Your companions watching as you stand there, completely vulnerable, bloodied and bruised. Open to the elements and whomever wanted a taste. The human licks his lips.

"Your voice sounds so sweet, dear one. Keep going."

"Don't wear her out entirely, priest. We may have use for her yet." Shadowheart grins, eyes narrowing on your trembling frame.

Her mocking tone and underlying breathiness strikes an interesting chord with you. Exciting. Stimulating. Blood pumps in your ears - a deafening drum beat that only you can hear. You sway your hips to the rhythm and Astarion chews at his bottom lip, ready to pounce. Hunger burns in his stomach. Emptiness. Even though he'd fed on you just hours before, his mouth salivates like he's positively starved. He intends to devour you in one way or another.

Your tormentor rears back to land another blow, this time to your ass, and it nearly knocks you forward into the wall. You grit your teeth and stifle a scream and Astarion groans at your strained noises. He's enjoying this almost as much as you are, you're just much better at hiding it. Arousal soaks your folds. Your walls flutter around nothing and you chew your bottom lip to stifle a moan as Abdirak lands a third blow against your thigh. Nails dig into the stone bricks, almost bloodying your fingers. Gods, you want more. Need more. Abdirak takes a step back to admire his work, rubbing the tip of the mace up your inner thigh, dangerously close to your cunt. You whimper and he quirks an eyebrow. In a sudden change of mind, he swaps the mace for a paddle, little circles cut from the wood to increase the sensations. A quick smack earns a loud cry from your lips.

"That's it, dear one! Let Loviatar hear you!"

"Not the worst technique, priest. Good wrist movement. Lots of.. Enthusiasm." Shadowheart interjects again plainly.

Astarion continues to palm at his cock as he watches, eyes fixed solely on you. The way your blood bubbles up and trickles over your flesh. The scent of your arousal. It's the sweetest perfume and he can hardly control himself.

"You're being so good for him, darling. Keep going."

The vampire spawn's voice is breathy and low. You moan just from his words and Abdirak lands another smack to your opposite ass cheek, a large red print immediately surfacing and swelling on your skin. "Fuck!" You cry loudly. Tears sting in the corners of your eyes. The human grins and sets the paddle down, moving behind you to trace his fingers over each bruise, cut, and mark he'd left. Little trophies of devotion. His goddess will be pleased. You shiver at the contact of his fingers.

"Sweet child.. You bore the pain like a true believer. I am proud to have served you this penance."

"Th-Thank you.." You muster quietly, bottom lip still trembling at the threat of tears. "I enjoyed myself."

Abdirak tilts his head back and sighs heavily, one hand reaching down to trace over your bruises once more. His cock throbs beneath his garb and he presses a free hand into it, groaning at the friction.

"As did I, dear one. Loviatar herself found your performance.. inspiring."

He grins and steps to your side, leaning close to your ear. His breath is warm and smells of a metal. More goosebumps speckle your skin as he presses his lips to your pointed ear and whispers quietly.

"And on a personal note.. Thank you. That was positively divine. This doesn't have to be the end, however. You've proven yourself perfectly capable of accepting such exquisite pleasure. I'd love to show you so much more."

"She'd love that. May I assist?" Astarion murmurs, approaching the two of you with confidence.

Normally you'd be incredibly irritated by the vampire spawn speaking for you, but now, Gods you couldn't be more grateful. A cold hand cups your cunt suddenly and you jolt at the sensation, back arching forward as Astarion's middle finger presses just barely into your folds and against your clit.

"Mm. She's so wet for us."

Sharp teeth just barely pierce your shoulder, a sensation you've become all too used to ever since you discovered the pale elf's affliction. You'd let him feed on you when it was needed, and sometimes purely because you enjoyed how he'd hold you close to him. How he'd savor your taste and lick your skin clean. His sweet words of encouragement as he'd bite into another place. And the way he'd talk you through the dizziness once he was finished. Your brain whirs with arousal as Astarion coos quietly against your skin and presses little kisses to the now bleeding spot. He drags his fangs over your flesh with torturous slowness, exhaling heavily at the salty taste of your sweat and blood combined. The finger pressed to your clit begins moving in circles and you nearly fall apart right there. Your legs tremble. Toes curl against the stone beneath your feet. Abdirak picks up the paddle once more and eyes Astarion. They exchange a glance of approval and the paddle makes fiery contact with your skin once more, over the same swollen spot it had assaulted before.

A mix of pain and pleasure courses through every vein in your body and your vision goes white. You could cum at any moment. Another smack. And another. And another. Astarion lowers his hand from your cunt, landing a smack of his own against your folds and your knees nearly give out at the force.

"Gods, please.." you whimper loudly, head falling between your shoulders.

"Yes, beg for it, dear one. You're doing so well for us."

"What a good girl you are, darling."

Their combined praises is enough to push you over the edge, but you hold on tightly. You can't cum. Not yet. Astarion's fingers circle around your slick soaked slit, playing with the clear sticky fluid for a moment. One digit slides inside first and you whine loudly, hips pushing back against him.

"M-more.." you beg.

A second finger slides inside and stretches your entrance ever so slightly, the cold digits pressing firmly into that spongey spot that could stop your heart.

"More!" You cry, and both men behind you grin at your desperation.

Abdirak slides his index finger into his mouth to soak it with his spit before lowering it between your thighs, forcing it inside of you atop Astarion's hooked fingers. The stretch burns in the most delicious of ways.

"Please.. Please more.."

A second finger of Abdirak's slides inside and finally you're sated, hips bucking back against their hands rhythmically. Astarion kneels down and sinks his teeth into your left ass cheek, blood trickling from the flesh and down his chin as he sups of your nectar, his eyes rolling back in his skull. He can taste your orgasm building. Your arousal and desperation. Your every need and want. His fingers pump in and out of you with bruising speed and Abdirak follows suit, his free hand reaching around the front of your waist to pinch your clit between his thumb and index. He rolls the sensitive, swollen bud between his fingers and presses sloppy, open mouthed kisses down your bloodied ass and thigh, savoring the metallic tang of your blood and the sweetness of your sweat. A delectable treat for all of his senses. Your moans grow louder and louder, jaw hung open and drool falling from your mouth in a steady stream. An eager hand reaches up to shove itself into your mouth and cover itself in your spit before moving back to your clit, spreading the wetness around.

The knot in your belly grows tighter and tighter, wound like a bow string, and you squeeze your eyes shut at the near painful overstimulation of your slit. Still the fingers work furiously against your walls.

"I'm gonna - I need to - Gods please!"

"Ah ah ah, use your words, darling. What do you need?"

The spawn drags his tongue over the globe of your ass to clean the remainder of blood from your skin. A quiet groan escapes his lips and he stands again, free hand taking hold of your hair to stand you fully upright.

"I need to cum.. I'm gonna -"

Just as you're about to topple over the edge, both sets of fingers are pulled from your cunt, a thick rope of slick still connecting you with the two men standing behind you. You keen at the emptiness. Your walls squeeze and contract around nothing. Abdirak lands a hot smack against your clit, and then another, and another, grinning as you sob loudly at the strikes. His pulls his hand away reluctantly, slipping his slick covered digits into his mouth to suck them clean. Astarion flashes him a toothy grin.

"N-no please.. Please!"

All you can muster are pathetic pleas and raspy whines, your feet stomping in frustration against the dirty stone beneath you. Astarion's fingers wrap themselves around your throat from behind and yank your back against his front, the threat of his angry erection rubbing back and forth against your bruised ass. You're fully exposed. Vulnerable. Writhing and crying for release. Such a beautiful sight to the vampire spawn and the servant of Loviatar. This is torture.

"Shadowheart, my dear. Are you sure you're not interested in some fun?"

"I'd much prefer to watch, thank you."

The half elf smirks and leans against the wall, eyes scanning over the scene just a few feet away. Her eyes narrow on you and you can feel her gaze burning holes into the back of your head. Does she approve? Do you even care? Skilled fingers work the front of Astarion's leathers open and his cock springs up and out, a soft slap against your ass startling you from the heavy daze filling your head. Your brain feels like cold snow slush. Your legs are weak, growing weaker by the second as Astarion rubs the tip of his weeping cock against your hungry slit. You nearly pull him right in and he hisses at the tightness. The invitation. Abdirak lowers himself to his knees in front of you, both hands finding purchase on your hips to keep himself steady. Gentle kisses pepper your abdomen, hip bones, and your stubbly mound, a shiver running up your your spine at the warmth of his breath against your sex. You wiggle your hips, both to tease the vampire spawn behind you, and to beckon the human's lips toward the spot you need him most.

Without warning, Astarion slips inside. His size surprises you. The delicious burn of the stretch, how he's nearly in your guts before bottoming out. Gods, he's huge. A careful push of the hips nestles him fully inside and he waits there for a moment.

"By the nine hells, you're tight.." He murmurs, lips pressed tightly to your ear now.

Abdirak's tongue flattens against your clit and he lifts his head to slide it up and over your mound, repeating this same movement to go back down. His strokes are slow and calculated. The combination of sensations makes your legs tremble like leaves in the winter air, and your hands fly down to tangle in the human's hair and guide his head. With a tut, Astarion reaches around to quickly grasp your wrists and yank them behind your back - you're pinned in place, forced to submit to his quickening thrusts and the skilled swirling of Abdirak's tongue. Your frame bends forward just slightly at the force of the spawn's thrusts, your legs spreading further apart instinctively. Again, that familiar knot twists and tightens in your belly and surely you'll cum at any moment. Astarion's free hand moves your hair away from the side of your neck to expose the still-healing bite marks from just the night before. He lines his fangs up perfectly re-open the wounds and you hiss at the sting. Like shards of ice in your veins. Overcome by pleasure and blood loss, your vision goes fuzzy. Drool drips from your lips and down your chin. Positively cock drunk.

Not even a soft moan is able to escape now. Only heavy exhales and gasps making your lungs burn and your throat raw. Abdirak's tongue works with surprising artistry against your clit still, lips sucking and tugging at the bundle of nerves to earn any sounds he possibly can from you. The loud slap of skin against skin rings throughout the stone room. Surely the rest of the outpost could hear you. You're surprised you don't have an audience gathered in the door way, watching the way you're being devoured and fucked into oblivion. The vampire spawns teeth leave your neck with a soft slurp sucking the last little drops of your blood through the puncture wounds, his tongue swirling around his lips and teeth to collect the remnants. Astarion's thrusts begin to lose their rhythm and you can't help but grin as his cock twitches erratically inside of you. Abdirak quickly releases your clit from his swollen lips, ducking his head further to use his tongue on Astarion now. The tip of the human's tongue traces the furry outline of the vampire spawns sack before sucking one ball into his warm mouth, massaging it in his jaw. The he switches, and the primal growl that escapes Astarion makes your heart flutter.

"Fuck, I'm cumming! Oh gods, I'm cumming!" He groans loudly, nails digging harshly into the plush meat of your hips as he quickly pulls himself from your constricting walls and spills his seed onto the small of your back.

Your end draws near, Abdirak's fingers finding their way into your cunt with impressive speed. They hook forward into that perfect spot and you cry out loud, finally able to make some sort of noise. The spawn behind you rubs his softening cock against your ass, keeping a tight grip on your arms behind your back still. Quiet squelches and slurps from the human between your thighs make you grin. Disgusting. Cold hands keep a careful grip on your trembling body. One restraining your hands, the other wrapped tightly around your throat now, playing with the pressure against your arteries. First a soft squeeze. Then it builds, and your hearing muffles. Black spots invade your vision. The spawn releases, and all of it comes rushing back. You gasp loudly for air, lungs on fire. Playfully, he repeats this again and again - bringing you to the brink of unconsciousness then quickly yanking you back. Soft coos and words of praise work you up to your climax.

"Such a good girl. So obedient. You like that, don't you? You like when I tell you how good you are?"

You nod in agreeance, unable to speak. Words feel foreign on your tongue. Your mouth is dry now, like you've filled it with linen. Still your end builds. Loud cries, sobs, and screams alert all of Faerun of your pleasure. You should be embarrassed. Ashamed, even. But you couldn't care less. Not now. You nearly topple over the precipice of pure ecstasy when suddenly.. The feeling disappears. Abdirak moves back from his original spot. Your cunt aches. Empty. A soft whimper escapes you and your head falls back against Astarion's broad shoulder.

"You thought we were going to let you cum? Little love.. How naïve."

His words sting like bees. Little Love. The degradation should upset you. Should ruin whatever arousal you have left. But it doesn't. If anything, it adds oil to the fire. You're more wet than ever. Heat rises in your ears and the tips turn a bright red, your fists balling up behind you in frustration as you try and wiggle out of his grasp. Through gritted teeth, you growl. A pathetic performance, on your part. Abdirak stands before you and circles his index finger over both of your nipples, smirking at you with half lidded eyes as each one perks up.

The half elf across the room giggles in amusement.

"Positively cruel."

"Patience, dear one.. You'll meet your end soon enough."

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #abdirak #abdirak smut #abdirak x tav #astarion #shadowheart #astarion x tav #astarion smut #astarion x tav x abdirak

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moris-auri · 4 months

Text

King and Lionheart

Aemond x reader (mentions of Aegon x reader)

WC: 3k

WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, p in v sex, explicit

Prince Aemond has summoned you.

It is the last thing she expects.

To be summoned by Aegon is one thing, but by his brother? The very thought of it fills her stomach with a sense of dread that she’s not felt for ages. Her stomach twists unpleasantly, a wave of bile rising like sour wine in the back of her throat, tasting bitterly like the food she’d eaten not that long ago.

She glances downward, seeing but not seeing the words etched onto the pages of the tome settled atop her knees, fingers tightening as she grips the spine of it with near whitened knuckles. The action makes a twinge of pain shoot up her arm and she all but pushes the book to the side, uncaring when it lands by her feet with a dull thud, flexing her hand to dispel the ache.

In the weeks and months since she, a girl with no background or family, had first set foot here, in the halls of the keep that had become little more than a gilded cage after she had caught the eye of the King’s firstborn son, she cannot recall one instance where he has spoken or so much as looked at her save for brief, almost dismissive glances.

Not that she expects anything of him, of course. He is as much of a stranger to her as she is to him, and in all truth, she prefers it that way, the near anonymity she has despite the more than open knowledge of her position within the royal household as Prince Aegon’s paramour.

She has heard rumors about him, though, the one-eyed Prince. She knows, just as well as everyone in the Keep, what had happened to him, the boy who lost his eye claiming a dragon - though she does not say that out loud. She has heard tales that he is as callous as he is cruel, that he is as much a scholar as he is a soldier, the rider of the largest dragon in the realm. She ignores them, for who is she to put stock in words spoken from the mouths of courtiers?

The day all but flashes by, her mind empty of nothing but the sentence that rings in her head like a bell. It echoes over and over and over again as she wanders the Keep like a ghost before retreating back to her bedchamber, pacing back and forth restlessly, twisting the blue fabric of her sleeves between her fingers.

Prince Aemond has summoned you.

Before she knows it, the sun is bathing the sky in vivid shades of orange and red as night falls, and that dread returns, bringing with it an anxiousness that pools syrup sweet low in her stomach. It feels ominous this time, and her unease grows as she follows behind the nameless servant given the task of escorting her to his rooms, their path guided through the empty corridors by the dim flickering of the sole lantern dangling in front of her.

She keeps her eyes focused straight ahead, gaze locked on the pale headpiece, feeling her heart thud behind her ribs when the doors suddenly loom in front of her, and she barely notices when the other servant turns, duty done, growing smaller before disappearing behind a corner altogether.

She lifts her hand, fighting the nerves as her trembling fingers wrap around one of the iron door knobs, the thump of the door closing behind her as loud as a drum.

“Come closer.”

She has barely stepped foot inside, barely has the chance to look around before the command comes, almost immediately, sliding over her like frigid water, all but freezing the blood in her veins to icy tendrils. Stiffening, there is little she can do but turn, forcing her suddenly leaden feet carry her towards his direction.

“Prince Aemond.” Somehow she manages to keep her voice flat, concealing the thoughts churning inside her roughly like the waves of Blackwater Bay.

“So you are my brother’s bedmate.” There is no malice to his words, only an unmistakable curiosity, and that alone, miniscule as it is, is enough to make some of her unease fade to a faint, lingering wariness in the back of her mind.

“What do you want, my Prince?” She gritted out, feeling like an animal backed against a wall.

“To see what has thoroughly enthralled my brother, is all,” he murmured, drumming his fingers one more time before sitting forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “My brother is as fickle as they come, as I'm sure you’re aware.”

She smiled, though it was little more of a grimace, a tense curl of her mouth, his insinuation not lost on her. “I am, yes.”

He hums at that, almost as if he’s amused by her, his hands returning to the arms of the chair before he goes quiet again, yet his eye remains locked on her face. She can feel the heat of it against her skin as she lets her gaze drift over him, sliding over the silver of his hair and the black eyepatch before dropping to take in the almost elegant way he sits in the chair, languid and half relaxed, one leg crossed over the other.

“If that is all, my Prince-” She raises a brow, carefully keeping her voice courteous, watching as his eye flicks upward, the almost assessing look in it as sharp as any sword.

“No,” he muttered quietly, shaking his head, strands of his silver hair sliding over his shoulders like water as he shifted, unfolding himself from the chair to turn away from her, stalking towards the ornately carved desk.

She all but seizes his brief distraction with both hands, taking the time to glance over his chamber as her curiosity gets the better of her. Nearly every inch of it is filled with items that befit his royal status, down to the drapery, the tapestries on the walls depicting some scene from Old Valyria to the rich velvet hangings around the dark wood of the bed against one wall.

She startles at the sound of the heel of his boots scuffing against the stones as he turns around, drawing her attention away from the wall to wall shelves filled top to bottom with books and scrolls in a heartbeat. His eye widens for a split second in surprise, his gaze following the direction of her gaze before his expression flattens back into something unreadable, yet she can see it though as she leaves, the slow flickerings of interest swirling in the depths of his eye that he doesn’t suppress.

The next time he sends a servant to bring her to him is days later. She knows why this time, knows without a doubt the reason for why he wants to see her. For despite the Queen’s dogged attempts to silence and squash the rumors, they are all over the Keep by now, from the high bred courtiers all the way down to the servants’ quarters, the knowledge of his brother’s proclivities for over indulging.

Unlike the first time, he isn’t in the chair situated when she enters. Instead, his voice comes from the corner, quiet and faint, drifting on the near nonexistent breeze floating in through the open windows like a feather, his silver hair bright against the dark of the bookshelves he stands in front of.

“My Prince.”

He let out a low hum in acknowledgment, the sound near indistinguishable over the crackling pops of the wood in the hearth, but didn't turn around. She drifted closer, the refraction of light off the gilded words imbued into the leather binding drawing her in like a beacon, a moth to an open flame.

It was near impossible to ignore the heat coming from him as she stills beside him. “What book is it?” she gestured loosely towards it.

He turned to answer, lips parting with the words on the tip of his tongue, only for his eye to dart down to her throat, narrowing at the sight of a fading bruise. His fingers lifted, brushing back the curtain of her hair as he leaned closer, his breath puffs of warm air against her skin. “Did he hurt you?”

She could practically hear his teeth grind in his attempt to keep his anger at bay. Her cheeks flushed with color as she shied away, more than desperate to put even the smallest amount of distance between them.

“No.” She bit the inside of her cheek, her voice sounding higher than she meant it to, suddenly threaded with nerves. “He’s never been harsh, though you know as well as I do that it's worse when he’s in his cups.” she exhaled, unwilling to say more.

He made that sound again, the hum, though this one was harsher, rougher. “Aegon-” she started to say, fingers brushing over the leather of his forearm, but whatever she meant next to say was cut off, and she fell silent when he raised his hand, agitation burning in his eye as he looked down at her.

“Aegon is a fool,” he all but snapped. She could hear it clear of day, the way his tone shifted, going from soft and quiet to harsh and rasping in barely a second, bitterness woven between the words like the tightly spun silk threads of a loom. “Blind to see what is right in front of him, handed on a silver platter.”

He began to pace, his arms behind his back. His posture was as stiff as wood, the expression on his face tight, and coupled with the way the light from the fire and the shadows lit the angles of his face, he was nothing sort of ethereal, lovely in that strange way all Targaryens were.

He spun on her, a blur of black and silver, the harshness bleeding from his face slightly, giving way to the barest hint of desperation. “If I offered you coin for passage? Would you take it?” He scooped up a pouch on the surface of his desk, shaking the bag lightly, yet firmly enough to make the contents clink inside it, and her lips parted, eyes widening at the sight of it. “You’d be free. Free to go anywhere you wish,” he added, almost too quiet for her to hear.

She swallowed, caught by surprise. “Where would I go? He will not let me go quite so easily-”

“Leave my brother to me.” She turned her face up to his again, a question in her eyes, watching as he took a step towards her.

Suddenly he was so close. Too close, with little more than a hairsbreadth between them, and the proximity was enough to make her head spin and every thought inside it disappear.

She wondered what kissing him felt like, and she looked down, feeling the weight of his hand settle on her hip, the calluses on his palm scratching against the fabric.

“What-”

Her breath caught, freezing for a split second in her chest when his lips brushed hers, tentatively at first, before pressing more insistently against hers. She let out a squeak, startled when she felt the chill of the wooden shelf flush against her back, bleeding through her dress, making a wave of gooseflesh rise over her skin.

“Aegon-”

Aemond hissed something unintelligible against her mouth at the mention of his brother’s name, the fingers of one hand digging into her side to keep her still, the other twisting into the hair at the base of her skull, tugging the strands from the loosely done braid. She gasped, fingers instinctively lifting to press against his shoulder blades, the sudden, sharp smell of him enveloping her completely in a cloud of spice and leather and dragon smoke that was so unlike the sole smell of wine that clung to Aegon like a second skin, drowning out everything else.

“Aegon… can… oh Gods-” he panted, choking on the words. He sounded half out of breath, and she thinks she’s never heard a prettier sound, pulling back just in time to watch color bleed over the high curve of his cheekbones, painting a ruddy stain against his pale skin.

It barely feels like hardly any time has passed before he is flush against her once again as he chases her mouth, greedy and wanting, his hand untangling from her hair to curl around her jaw. His kisses are softer this time, and she sighs against his mouth, the wild, erratic thumping of her heart lessening with each second that went by. The desire that had burned inside her was still there, but it was fainter now, little more than a dull ache between her thighs.

She doubts that she sounds any better than he does at that moment, her heart thudding wildly against her ribcage, more than thankful for the hard wood behind her.

He let go of her when she pushed at his chest, once, twice, the heat from his body fading as the distance between them grew. She half turned away from him, slumping backward as she pressed the side of her face against the cold wood, eyes closing halfway in relief.

Aemond’s promise rings true as Aegon grows more and more disinterested in her as the months go by, his attention sloughing away from her like melting ice, like she was some shiny bauble that had lost its luster.

Some part of her should hate him for it, how easy he did it too, but she doesn’t truly mind it. It’s almost freeing in a sense, the way the attention on her dies, fading to nothing as if it had never been on her at all.

“Please-” she fought the not quite whine clawing its way up her throat, her hands fisted against his chest as her moans reached a near fever pitch, echoing loudly in her ears, silenced in a heartbeat by the hand that covers her mouth.

“Do you want them to hear you? Hmm?” His chest is flush against her back, chin digging into the curve of her shoulder as he hisses in her ear, breath fanning over her skin.

“N-no…” she says, exhales more like, so faint is her voice, and all she can do is bite her lip, pulling it between her teeth to keep silent as she grips the edge of the table tightly with one hand, the other digging into the back of his neck as the desire burning hotly under her skin all but turns into an inferno, licking a trail up her spine.

“Sȳz riña.” His hand falls away when she goes quiet once again, dipping under the dark red fabric of her skirts, tracing a path up the inside of her thigh as he hums against her, a smug, pleased sound. The weight of him against her is the only thing keeping her upright, half ready to collapse to her knees in a pool of red.

He'd grown insatiable since that night, and the ones that succeeded it, one after the other, were proof that the blood of the dragon ran hot indeed. It was as if every touch from him, every kiss, every brush of his fingers on some part of her body set her nerves alight in a way Aegon’s hadn’t. He was addicted, taking her on nearly every surface in his chamber, on stone and wood and fabric, splitting her open on his fingers as her moans echoed off the four walls like bells in the Sept.

Possessive; a dragon in all sense of the word.

The sweat hasn’t yet dried on their skin when the urge to kiss him returns, and she gives into it without a second thought or a moment’s hesitation, pressing her lips to the very edge of his mouth, biting the inside of her cheek when he lets out a ragged breath, his arm tightening around her waist before he all but pulls her on top of him. Her legs tangle with his, fingers moving as light as a feather over the muscle and sinew shifting just under his skin to weave into his hair, tugging at the strands.

He hisses at the sensation, the ends of his fingers digging into the flesh of her sides as he kisses her again. “So perfect,” he half groans the words, his voice rasping against the shell of her ear, his breath fanning across her face when he pulls back for air minutes later, and the sight of his eye, blown wide, the violet of his iris all but an indistinguishable parchment thin circle, draws a low whine from her chest.

She moaned his name again, mindlessly dragging one leg up, pressing the heel of her foot against his back. His responding groan reverberated inside her head, one arm curling around the width of his shoulders as his forehead dropped, pressing into the hollow of her throat, one hand skirting up blindly to knead at her breast as his fingers tightened in her hair.

Her hand drifts, edging lower before stilling at the base of his throat, feeling his pulse thrum against them. He was so very pretty in this light, she mused, watching the shadows dance over the planes of his face. Her hand started to grow numb again, the ends of her fingers tingling with the threat of falling asleep on her, and she curled against his side, cheek flush to his chest as she feels his fingers begin to trace up and down the curve of her spine lightly, drawing gooseflesh as she shudders.

She could lose herself on nights like this, bathed in the glow of the setting sun that shines in through the curtains, caught up in nothing but Aemond and the feel of his body moving against hers. Could easily ignore the voice in the back of her mind that lingers almost constantly, the nagging fear that this won’t last, that it is nothing more than a fever dream.

taglist: @black-dread @bottlesandbarricades @orcaunionleader @zae5 @barbieaemond @lexwolfhale @sylasthegrim @helaelaemond @queen--kenobi @toms-cherry-trees

(bold i cannot tag)

#my fics #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond fic #aemond smut #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen smut

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yellowocaballero · 1 year

Note

milagro!!! i LOVE GL!milagro stuff. is guy still the first GL she meets? i am v curious what his story (and john’s) ends up looking like in this au in general, but my first exposure to him was in jaime’s bb run so i’m hoping that pseudo mentorship still exists here somehow

IS!! THAT!! A GIANT!! GREEN!! FIST!!

Green Lantern Milagro is the most god-tier take and we need to return to it. My "Kyle rebuilds the GLC to be woke and Milagro is the most feral Lantern" idea is actually super old - I think it's in the Reverse Robins Universe, in some unpublished stories - but it's still good. Let the furries make the judicial system. Do it. Let them free.

Let's say:

Guy Gardner was the second Green Lantern on Earth. Everything that Hal was, Guy is not. He's a hothead, meathead, go-getting action hero wannabe who has to be the biggest, the best, and the strongest. He's abrasive, selfish, mean, and short-sighted.

Guy Gardner is exactly like Hal Jordan: an All-American hero, angry and rude in a way that his colleague John Stewart could never get away with. He's part of the NRA and thinks Trump has some points. Too wimpy to make a good President, though. Give him a President who can last five minutes in the ring with Guy Gardner!

Despite his differences with the more professional and cool-headed Hal, he was shocked and horrified at Coast City's destruction. Where other heroes expressed sympathies and turned away in discomfort with his overwhelming pain, Guy stayed with him. He doesn't like to spread it around, but he's a registered school councilor - doubled with his middle school gym teacher thing - and he stayed at Hal's side through his grief as long as Hal let him.

When Hal disappeared, Guy was the one who knew in his heart that he had killed himself. He had been expecting it.

He had not been expecting his ring to break.

Guy loses it all. His power, his respect. He can't go back to who he used to be. He's not a gym teacher or school counselor anymore. He's Guy Gardner. You can't ask Guy Gardner to be a civvie.

The only thing he keeps is his Justice League International membership. He wanted to quit, but his friends (family, but none of them would admit it) needed him to stay. They had already lost the second Blue Beetle so recently, and they can't lose anybody else. Booster Gold's grieving his husband too. In that way, in some way, Guy's still needed. Guy has to be needed. But Guy has to be a hero too, and he feels like he's dying slowly by degrees in powerlessness.

Then Booster calls the JLI, drunk as a skunk and deep in a panic, saying that there's this kid in El Paso running around with Dan Garret's scarab in his SPINE, how did this even HAPPEN, how did he get it WORKING, where the hell is TED - Ted's dead, he's still dead, what the FUCK do we do, he's a baby he's gonna DIE TOO, everyone's gonna DIE -

A gym teacher and licensed counselor knocks on he door of a house in El Paso.

Booster was right. Jaime Reyes is a snot-nosed kid who's getting his ass kicked up and down to Sunday in every fight, and either he's gonna get himself killed or he's gonna blow up the city. Nobody else but the JLI ever gave a shit about Ted, and nobody's gonna give a shit about this kid with an orphaned legacy. He needs a personal trainer and mentor and he needs one right now. Jaime Reyes needs a hero, even a washed up old asshole like Guy Gardner.

And his little sister throws a heck of a punch. Oh, Guy is keeping Milagro. She's learning boxing!

An asshole, shallow kid enters the scene. A new ring appears. The last Green Lantern disappears to find the truth. Guy leads his own life. It's not like his old one, but it's good. That kid Jaime's become a good hero, and his little sister is the coolest kid on the planet. A Trumper on the street says something shitty to Jaime and Milagro about illegals and Guy lands on him the signature Guy Gardner punch. Trump's an asshole idiot, anyway. Next time, Milagro lands the signature punch. She has learned well.

A young man returns. A truth is told. A fucked up orange ring is on Guy's finger. And now he'll have to learn how to be a hero all over again.

The orange ring isn't powered by bravery and willpower. It's powered by greed. It's a greedy, cruel ring. It's mean. But Guy's pretty greedy too. And Guy's a mean son of a bitch.

Guy Gardner is the first Orange Lantern. And he's everything Hal Jordan is not: a man with a voracious need to protect and help. A man with an endless appetite for love, and to give love. A school counselor, and a mentor to some pretty nifty kids. Guy can never get enough of being a hero. He'll never stop. And he'll always help.

Because he's Guy fucking Gardner!

#this is my “the JLI are Jaime's awful useless drunk superhero family” agenda #my writing #guy gardner #jaime reyes #milagro reyes #green lantern #this features a lot of comic characters but i can't explain them all #just trust me fam

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lillian-gallows · 7 months

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Kinktober Day 1: Leather with Charon

Pairing: Charon x Reader/Lone Wanderer (Neither (Y/n) nor LW names used) Word Count: 3650 Warnings: Leather kink, Oral (F receiving), vaginal fingering, P in V sex, unprotected sex (Wrap it before you tap it), aftercare, lil bit of dirty talk, feelings (These bitches in love). Kinktober Master(sub)list.

Minors DNI

My arms ached as we trudged through the metal door to our shared home in Megaton, the sound of Charon closing and locking it behind himself followed me up the stairs as my heavy feet carried me to my bedroom to drop my pack before I went to prepare the pair of us some dinner before the inevitable crash that always came after weeks on the dusty roads of the Capitol Wasteland.

“Bring your guns down with you, they need maintenance.” His low gravelly voice broke the non-silence of the house as I was shucking my Tunnel Snakes jacket off, preparing to change into lounge clothes.

The deep timbre of his voice sent a shiver down my spine that I was too tired to acknowledge right then.

“Yeah.” I called back before unzipping and messily stripping out of my vault suit, leaving it and my boots in a heap on the floor for tomorrow me to deal with, it needed washing anyway so it’s not like a night on the floor will hurt anything.

The worn soft material of my Brahmin skin pants was a welcome change from the skintight blue I’d been wearing for the last two weeks. It was a good thing that at this point Charon and I were used to each other’s smells, because I was sure I reeked, but bathing, just like laundry, would have to be a problem for future me.

With my pistol and assault rifle in hand I made my way back downstairs with heavy steps, softened by the Brahmin leather house shoes I now wore. “What sounds good? I’m thinking a couple cans of cram?” I asked the room at large, though I could see him sitting on the couch with his shotgun already in pieces.

“Got anymore of Jenny’s Mirelurk cakes in the fridge?” He asked, a question of such casual nature would have been unheard of 6 months ago, when it was like pulling teeth to get any kind of verbal acknowledgement from the large ghoul, but we hadn’t been quite so close then.

“I think so, don’t know if they’re still any good.” I made a face, though he wasn’t looking at me, I was trying not to look at him as I set my weapons on the couch next to him that was for certain.

I knew he was still wearing his leather armor, and out on the road there were enough distractions to keep me from thinking about how he looked, the way the thick material wrapped around and stretched over his muscular arms, the slight creak it would give when he flexed just right, and the way it made my lower belly feel like fire in the best way.

But here at home, where we were safe? There was nothing to help keep me from staring, nothing to help keep my brain occupied and not thinking about how much I desperately want to fuck my partner, a title that we’d agreed to use after a test run to make sure the mental conditioning wouldn’t cause him any issues.

It was right around that time that he started opening up more, about himself and just in general, like a switch had been flipped. Now, he still isn’t the chatty type, still content to stand behind me and stare menacingly while I do all the talking, but that was for the better, he’s not much of a people person.

And as he opened up, the schoolgirl style crush I’d gained on the man had evolved and after a near death experience I’d admitted to it, which resulted in…Whatever we were now, more than fuckbuddies, but the L word hasn’t been uttered though there were definitely feelings involved, I guess one could call it ‘going steady’ but we don’t exactly go on dates, seeing as the only options for that would be to go to Gob’s Saloon or the Brass Lantern, and we have booze and food at home, but I digress! The important part is that we haven’t taken any physical steps yet.

I’d asked about it once, why he hadn’t put the moves on me the way boys in the Vault had before they decided that I was untouchable. He’d said that he’d been around for a long time, and he was content to take our time, go at whatever pace I needed, and when I was ready, he was too.

At the time I’d been thankful for that. I’m no virgin, but this was a much deeper relationship than any other I’d ever had, so I didn’t want to fuck it all up by jumping into bed too fast, but it’s been 3 months and I was getting antsy, and that damn leather armor wasn’t helping!

It drove me insane, and it made it harder to keep my mouth shut, especially when he took off the top half and left the pants on, usually when he had to make repairs to a shoulder pad or something, giving me a beautiful view of the plains of his chest and back, rough patches of scarred skin over thick muscle that I knew was for far more than show.

“(Y/n)?” His voice saying my name damn near had a whimper falling from my lips as I snapped out of my thoughts to realize I’d been leaning against the counter staring at him this whole time. Shit, real fucking smooth Rad-for-brains…

“Hmm?” It came out a little dumb in my efforts to sound casual.

“You okay?” He sounded so genuinely concerned and it made my chest ache a little, still unused to being cared for.

“Yeah, why?” I asked, voice a little higher pitched than necessary as I turned to get our dinner ready, sniffing the plate of Mirelurk cakes and nearly gagging at the smell. “The cakes went bad.” I announced, still trying to sound casual, but then I heard him moving behind me.

“I said your name three times before you answered me.” He said from much closer than the couch, and a look over my shoulder revealed that he was standing in all his black leather glory about three feet from me. “And you were making the face you make when you’re thinking about something.”

I make a thinking face? And he noticed it? Could he get any more perfect?

“It’s nothing, just getting lost in thought, you know how I get when I’m tired.” I shrugged, and it was true, I turn into a total space-brain when I get too tired.

The sound of him moving met my ears and I could feel his heat at my back, he was close to me now, probably less than a foot away. “That wasn’t your space-brain face.” He said lowly, inches from my ear. “Talk to me.” I felt his rough hand wrap around my forearm soothingly, the warm weight was grounding and it made something zing down my spine when I saw the black sleeve of his shirt.

Setting down the unopened can of Cram I let out a sigh and closed my eyes. “Leather.” I said, like it would explain everything.

“Leather?” He repeated and I could picture his confused face.

“Your armor, the leather…It…” I let out another sigh, harsher this time as I got annoyed with my inability to just say it. “Your leather armor turns me on. Like really bad, and I can’t stop thinking about it and how much I want you to pin me down and fuck me within an inch of my life every time I see you in it.” The words came out in a rush, but I was sure it was clear and coherent enough for him to understand, he’s always been good at deciphering my ramblings.

I felt him get closer, till his chest pressed into my back, pinning me between him and the counter. “Do you want me to do something about it?” He had, voice somehow lower than ever before and husky and his breath is hot on my neck as his free hand wraps around the curve of my hip and gives a gentle squeeze of the softness there.

My brain ground to a pleasant halt at his words and actions, words seemed miles away now, so I nodded instead, and he let out a quiet “Tsk” before he turned me to face him, wasting no time to crowd back into me once he had me where he wanted me. “Words, Baby…Need to hear you say it.”

His foggy blue eyes were burning into mine with a heat that I’d seen before but hadn’t been able to name, usually after he watched me do something smart like hack a terminal or talk our way to a better bounty for a job, now I knew the name, it was lust.

“Please, do something about it.” The words were so quiet I was worried I’d only mouthed them for a moment, but then a small slow smile curled the corners of his lips before he leaned down and pressed them to mine.

We’d kissed before, plenty of times, usually in the privacy of camp or here at home, but it was normally just little pecks, never proper making out, and certainly nothing like this. His lips were as rough as they always were, but he moved slow, like he was savoring it as much as I was. He had his hand on my chin to tilt my head back for a better angle as he tilted his head to the side, running his tongue over my lower lip, pulling a soft gasp from me that he used as an opportunity to slip his tongue into my mouth.

My hands, which had felt almost numb hanging at my sides seemed to find their life again as one came to rest on his chest, curling around one of the pads of his armor and into the fabric, while the other rested on his cheek tenderly, thumb brushing back and forth along his cheekbone.

He had an almost death grip on my hip, keeping me pulled flush to his body, letting me feel every curve and angle he had to offer though the thickness of his clothes, which included the very solid presence in the front of his pants, the realization of which made my pussy ache for him.

Taking some initiative, I pressed my hips to his, grinding as best I could with our height difference, and he let out a shuddering breath, soft and warm against my lips.

I felt his muscles flex under his armor seconds before he was lifting me, a hand under my ass while the other held my thigh, prompting me to wrap my legs around his waist as he pulled back from the counter and started toward the stairs, taking me with him.

As we went, I set to work undoing the buckles and belts of his armor, determined to feel and see more of him.

By the time he was laying me out on my bed, the door kicked closed behind us, all he had to do was shrug out of his shirt, which he did before dropping to his knees between my legs, hanging off the edge of the bed.

His hands deftly worked my pants off, slipping them slowly down my legs to reveal I wasn’t wearing anything under them, giving him a perfect view of my slickened pussy.

I watched him lean in then stop inches from contact to look up at me, gazes locking, pupils dilated and questioning, like he thought that I would stop him now of all times. I nodded my assent, and he wasted not a second more before diving in, pressing kisses first to my thighs, still plush from my time in the Vault but more muscular than they had been from all the walking.

The kisses turned into bites that punched a moan from my lips, my hand flying down to grip his where it wrapped around the outside of my thigh, I felt rather than saw him smirk before he ran his tongue from the bottom of my cunt to the top where it flicked my clit, sending a zing through my body.

“Just started and your thighs are already shaking…” He murmured before repeating his previous action, making my back arch a little. “God you’re perfect.” He sounded like he was saying it more to himself than to me, and I was too lost in him to respond anyway. “All this just from some kissing and seeing me in leather…” He chuckled teasingly. “Poor thing, you’ve been desperate for so long, haven’t you?” He looked back up at me, waiting for my response, but as I managed to put together words, he slipped a thick finger into me and curled it into something that made me cry out. “I could live off the sounds you make.”

He set a slow rhythm, a steady in and out, curling on the way out into that spot over and over while continuing to flick over my clit. I could feel the knot building in my belly, and he must have noticed because he added a second finger and went from flicking to sucking.

“Fuck! Charon…!” I whimpered, grip on his hand tightening as he drove me up the hill faster than I’d ever managed on my own.

“Come on, pretty, give it to me…” He coaxed slowly, the low timbre of his voice nearly ended me right then, but no, it was the way his eyes never strayed from mine, the expanse of blue so open and waiting. I tumbled off the cliff in a show of whimpers and gasps, thighs shaking and eyes rolling closed. “There it is, atta girl.” His fingers slowed but didn’t stop, letting me ride out my orgasm.

Once I’d started teetering on the edge of overstimulation I tugged his hand, a wordless request for him to join me on the bed, one heeded with a sweet curl to his lips. He settled over me, hips resting between my thighs, the tight leather rubbing against the slowly bruising skin, and pressed a kiss to my forehead, then another on my cheek, then my nose, then finally his lips met mine and I sighed into the contact, pressing up into him with my whole body, thighs tightening on his hips in an effort to pull him closer.

He let out a shuddery breath as he rolled his hips down against me, the smooth front of his pants delivering sweet friction to my sensitive clit. “Charon…” I breathed his name to get his attention and his eyes cleared as they locked on me, waiting patiently for whatever I was going to say. “Please…” I pleaded, and both of us knew exactly what I was asking for.

His eyes grew hazy once more as his lips pressed to my neck softly, leaving a tender trail down to the hem of my shirt, where his hands followed to tug it up and off, baring me fully to his hungry eyes.

He wasted no time in continuing the sweet trail of kisses down to my chest, where he latched onto one of my nipples to give it a soft suck, the other not left neglected as his hand came to cup it, a rough thumb brushing over the pebbled tip.

He only lingered there for a few moments before sitting up, giving me a full view of his muscular chest and tummy laden with a layer of fat that made him look soft yet didn’t detract from the powerful strength I knew he possessed, and for a moment I wondered if he’d had a happy trail in the same shade of red as his hair before he went ghoul, but that thought lasted only till my eyes met the edge of those damned leather pants, where his hands were working the front open.

As if sensing that I was neither willing to wait that long nor have him move away long enough to fully remove them, he just shoved them down far enough to free his cock, letting out a sigh as the pressure that the front his pants was putting on him was relieved.

He truly is beautiful, all hard plains of scarred muscle and hands that were only gentle for me, light eyes that see into my soul and lips that make my heart sing. I could die a happy woman if it was in his arms.

He stroked his cock a couple times, spreading the precum that had clearly been leaking for a bit over the whole length, my fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and touch, but I knew neither of us had the patience for that right now, and there would be time later, so instead I let out a hum to get his attention.

The diamonds that made up his eyes flashed up to meet mine at the sound, looking half as if he expected something to be wrong and half like he could fall off the edge of sanity at any moment; I understood the feeling.

When I let out another hum and shifted my hips against him the worry in his gaze turned to understanding and he let out what might have been a chuckle if not for his breathlessness.

Shifting his knees where they pressed into the mattress just under my thighs, he leaned down till his face was inches from mine, so close we could share breaths, and pressed the tip to me, not pushing in, but a firm presence.

I only had eyes for him as he held there, he searched my face for a moment before seeming to find what he was looking for and pressing in slowly.

He was thick, thicker than anyone else I’d ever been with, but then he was also the largest man I’d ever seen, so it made sense.

There was a slight burning stretch that a depraved part of me loved, knowing it would leave an ache for the next day or so after we were done, and it made a pleased whimper shiver its way out of me, hands gripping his shoulders to pull him closer while my legs wrapped around him, unable to meet in the middle to lock ankles, but he seemed to understand what I was trying to do as he bottomed out.

He stayed there for a couple moments; forehead pressed into the crook of my neck as his breaths came in ragged puffs that warmed my already flushed skin. It took a moment for it to dawn on me what he was doing.

He was trying not to cum.

I ran my hands up and down his shoulders, arms, the back of his neck, anywhere I could reach soothingly, content to stay like this as long as he needed.

After a couple moments he pulled his face from its hiding spot, eyes half lidded and dark as he looked down at me. He looked like a starving man that’s been given a feast.

I barely had time to react to the shudder that that look sent through me before he was rolling his hips into me, a slow in and out, the curve of his cock brushing hard against that same spot from before on the out stroke and reaching my deepest point on every in stroke.

There was no control to be had over the sounds coming from between my lips, whimpers and gasps and half-finished cries of his name were carried on every breath, and he was no different as he let out soft grunts and sighs, eyes rolling back for a second before locking back on mine once more, like he couldn’t bear the thought of not watching me fall apart under him.

All too soon I felt the building of that sweet release, and just like before he could tell, as one hand, which had been pressed into the mattress next to my head, moved down to make tight circles over my still oversensitive clit, causing me to arch up into him with a sharp gasp.

The climb up the hill was shorter this time, and the plunge off the edge was grander as my vision went white and my body was wracked in shakes. At some point tears began to fall, leaving lines in the dust that still clung to my face from our time on the road.

I had barely enough wherewithal to feel the flood of heat that filled me as he followed me right off that cliff.

When I came back to earth, it was to the feeling of his weight carefully rested on me, most of it on his knees where they rested on either side of my body, and an arm resting next to my head, the other hand now running through my hair slowly.

Turning my head, I found him looking at me, eyes soft.

“Hi…” I whispered, voice a little hoarse from breathlessness.

A gentle smile curled his lips, eyes shining with mirth. “Hey…” He returned, the depth of his voice sending a rumble through my body.

I curled around him as best I could from my position, not caring that his softening cock was slowly slipping from me to free the mess that I knew he’d made of my insides.

We stayed like that, basking in each other for a while, before he got up to get a rag and a can of purified water. When he returned, he gently cleaned me up, then himself, then made me drink half the can before laying back down with me.

I was on the edge of sleep when his voice broke the silence. “So, leather huh?” He teased, and I could hear his smirk.

Sleep became a thing for later as peals of our laughter filled the darkness, light and happy.

#kinktober #kinktober 2023 #fallout 3 #fallout 3 charon #fallout 3 fanfiction

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writefasttalkevenfaster · 4 years

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Aaron Hotchner / Alaska

Summary: The Alaska episode where Hotch looks v cute in his jacket and you find out that he is very much worth it to you -- despite the complications

Word count: 1,927

Warnings: None, Fluff, Garcia being the best friend everyone needs in their life.

A/N: Here is a little short thing while i work on longer and more complicated things *glances at pile of WIPs*

“Are you cold?” Hotch glances up from his paperwork, and you stand holding two mugs in hand, steam rolling off each one, “I managed to sweet talk the inn owner into letting me make some hot chocolate. But I thought you might prefer a black coffee.”

Even in the safety of the inn, the cold Alaskan air permeated every corner and crevice, clinging to the air as if it too sought refuge from cold winter.

“How’d you know?” he says, as you settle beside him on the couch, pouring over the files on the residents in this small town. The dim lights of the inn didn’t do much good, so a collapsible lantern sat at the edge of the coffee table, casting the room in an eerie glow. But you weren’t scared — not of ghosts and monsters, but maybe something else — you glance at Hotch, warmth settling over your cheeks — something far scarier.

“You aren’t that mysterious, Hotchner,” you lean against your elbow, pressed against your thigh, “not as much as you want to be.”

“Glad to hear I haven’t escaped your notice,” he chuckles, you can nearly feel it, your thigh brushing his as you hope he doesn’t notice you biting your lip. And he shifts, draping the blanket that was over his lap onto yours, “you must be cold too.”

“How did you know?” and he gifts you a rare smile, warmer than any hot chocolate or blanket.

“Let’s just say you haven’t escaped my notice either,” his voice is as dark and rich as the coffee he sips at and your heart thumps against your ribcage, but he sighs, laying back against the sofa, placing the mug down on the table. He runs his fingers across his brow, pinching the bridge of his nose, before throwing his arm over the top of the couch, “but this unsub really has.”

Work. Always work.

“I think we both could use some sleep,” you lean back too, his arm brushing your shoulders. It’s a game of chicken — if he will move away or if you will. But you are much too comfortable, his presence much too comforting for your own good. But you wait for it — you wait for him to move away, to pull away. But he doesn’t. You turn your head to face him, only to find him looking at you too.

“And that’s why we got up two minutes ago and went to bed right?” his voice is nearly raspy, dulcet tones sending shivers down your spine, as he relaxes beside you, his brown eyes utterly sleepy.

“Right,” you hum, your eyes flickering over his outfit, lingering on the brown jacket he wore, snug, his polo barely peeking through, “Did I mention you look really cute in this jacket?”

He raises a brow, “I look cute?”

You hum, a heat climbs your cheeks, “Don’t be so surprised, even you can look cute, Hotch, and you do,” this time he meets your gaze, amusement dancing in the low light of the lantern.

“How cute?” he asks, and you swear he’s daring closer, your knees now touching.

“Very cute,” you breath back, looking from his eyes to his lips and back, heart in your throat — he’s pulling you into his orbit and all you can think about is him, his lips are an inch from yours, “Hotch—”

You hear screams come from outside, and your heads snap up. Its unspoken, both of you draw your guns, covering each other’s back as you sprint towards the screams, realizing the source — Garcia.

All of you are too late, as the entire team and locals make their way out, Morgan pulling Garcia away from the body, already turning cold, the last of his warmth dissipating in the freezing Alaska night.

And you glance at Hotch.

Yet again.

~~~

“I can’t sleep with Morgan tonight,” Garcia says when she bursts into your room, “and no jokes.”

“Penelope—” you start, and she shakes her head.

“I don’t need another lecture. I don’t need another person telling me it’s not my fault. That I couldn’t have done anything,” Penelope paces back and forth, waving her hands, “Right now, what I need is a distraction. I need something.”

You furrow your brow, crossing your arms, “Well, I think me and Hotch almost kissed,” and she freezes, “will that do?”

“Yeah that’ll do,” Penelope stares at you, sitting on the bed, “don’t just stand there. I need details. What, where, when, and how. No detail is too mundane.”

You bite back a laugh, shaking your head, “Nothing! We were just talking and sitting on the couch together outside, and I told him he looks cute in that jacket—”

“So the dad look really works for you, huh?” you shoot Penelope a look, and she holds up her hands, “do I need to remind you I just had a traumatic experience?”

“Fine, fine,” you sigh, “anyway, we kind of started to lean in and then we got interrupted by—- well you know.”

“I do, I do know,” she presses her fist to her mouth, before she gasps, “do you like Hotch?”

“I don’t know,” you cross your arms, “I think so. I think I kinda always have,” but you groan, scrubbing your hand down your face, “but it’s Hotch. It would be so complicated. Our jobs, our lives, Jack—”

“Would you be willing to make it work? Is he worth it to you?”

You bite your lip, “I think he’s worth everything to me,” Penelope squeals, a hot flush climbs your neck, and you groan, sitting beside her, covering your face, “this is why I don’t want to screw this up, Penelope. This is huge. I—”

There’s a knock at the door, and you both stare at it. Penelope speaks first, “Who is it?”

“It’s Hotch,” and Penelope elbows you harshly, he says your name, “can I talk to you?”

Penelope gets up before you can manage, throwing open the door, “Sir, I was just stopping by to say good night. I’ll leave you two alone to talk,” and she smiles broadly behind his back, mouthing, ‘tell him,’ before she shuts the door quietly behind her. He steps into your room, looking utterly misplaced.

“Subtlety isn’t her strong suit, huh?” he asks, and you shake your head, a small smile on your lips.

“Not unless you discount her entire personality and wardrobe, then yes,” you clear your throat, impossibly dry, “is there a specific reason you came or?”

“I wanted to talk about what happened,” he says, arms crossed, “when we almost—”

“I am familiar with what happened,” a nervous energy thrums between you, and you’re afraid — afraid he’ll reject you, afraid he won’t want you, afraid that he doesn’t feel the same, “it’s okay Hotch, it’s okay if you want to forget that it happened—”

“Who said I wanted to forget?” he steps closer, a smile pulling at his lips, “If I did, would I be here?” and then his brow wrinkles, “unless that’s what you want—”

“No, I don’t,” you say all too quickly, another step closer, but that only makes him smile broadly, “Hotch, what about work?”

“I think we can figure it out,” he’s in front of you now, his hand finding yours, fingers slowly intertwining with yours.

“What about Jack?”

“We’ll figure it out too,” his palm finds your cheek, and you can’t help but lean into his touch, nearly melting under his attention.

“What about—” he says your name, tilting your head upwards, his thumb dragging down your lips.

“I think you look really cute,” he whispers, and you smile, “I always have thought you’ve looked really cute.”

“Hotch—” but he steals your words from you, leaning ever closer to you, “I—”

He’s hesitant, his tongue darting against his lips, an unspoken question attempting to be spoken, as your noses brush, “Can I—”

And you kiss him. You taste the bitterness of the coffee on his lips, but something utterly addictive too, as your hands wind their way around his neck to deepen the kiss. He melted into the kiss, hot and warm and somehow sweeter than the hot chocolate he could undoubtedly taste on your tongue, slipping into his mouth. His moan reverberates against you, his arm hard against your waist as he pulls you even closer.

“Aaron,” you breathe, as his lips part from yours, but you can’t pull away, your lips burning a trail down his jaw, his neck, tugging at the collar of this godforsaken jacket that had pulled you into this mess. You need to know more, you want to know more of him — not just him, physically, you want to know his thoughts, his worries, his fears, his dreams — everything.

There’s a rap at the door, Morgan calls your names, sending you two jumping apart, “There’s been a development in the case. We need you downstairs.”

“Coming,” Hotch replies, surprisingly even for someone who just was making out.

“We have a penchant for being interrupted,” and your hands find his with ease.

“It won’t always be like that,” he promises, his gaze impossibly earnest, and it only makes more affection bloom for him in your chest.

“It could be fun,” you press a chaste kiss to his lips, your fingers trailing down his chest, “makes the heart grow fonder.”

“Makes the mind grow weaker,” he sighs, as he presses his forehead against yours, “when we get back, can we go somewhere and talk?”

You lean back, “Are you asking me out on a date, Hotch?”

“Badly, but yes,” a small smile on his lips.

“I would love to,” he smiles again, feeling it against your lips as he kisses you again, “but we should really go.”

“Yeah,” he presses a kiss to your forehead, “we should.”

~~~

“We’re not being obvious are we?” you whisper to him, trying to look absorbed in your book, when in reality, you were completely enamored in the way his hand engulfed yours underneath the plane’s table.

“I don’t think so,” he replies, trying to ignore the way your fingers were now drawing patterns against his thigh, and focus on the paperwork in front of him, but in truth he spent the last five minutes reading the same sentence over and over again, “but then again, I am a little distracted.”

His eyes flicker to yours to see your lips pressed into a thin line, the corners of your lips threatening to pull into a smile. He had to resist the urge to press a kiss to each corner, instead, pressing the end of his pen against his lip, “Well you better get used to it,” your fingers trail a little higher, and he shifts in his seat, “because I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” he smiles at you, “because neither am I.”

~~~

Morgan glances over his shoulder, “Do you see what’s happening over there?”

Reid frowns, squinting, “They’re just talking?”

J.J. shakes her head, “No, Spence, but look at how they are talking,” he glances again, his mouth slightly agape, “there you go.”

“Who had this week?” Prentiss asks, sighing.

“I did,” Garcia grins, holding out her hands with a grin, “pay up my pretties.”

“Why do I think you had something to do with what’s happening over there, mama?” Morgan raises a brow as he pulls the money from his wallet, and Garcia only grins, tucking the money away.

“I didn’t do a thing,” Garcia replies, glancing at the two of you with a smile, “not a thing.”

~~~

Tags: @therestisconfettii, @realtrashcan, @rennejackson, @bobfromfinance, @ange-must-die, @honeyshores, @hurricanejjareau, @elle88531, @lghenry4, @unsocialized-nerd, @supernatural-assbutt-universe, @bc-nof, @joemazzello-imagines, @ephemeral-barnes, @giveusbackourbucky, @stardust-fray, @lovebodymindstuff, @ivetastedbloodanditissweet, @emma-alysee, @twilightlover2007, @zeldasnackman, @vivianabakshani, @a-dorky-book-keeper, @pann1247, @harrypotterfan1239, @volleyballplayer1022, @lovestorey98, @violentvulgarvolatile, @potterhead-of-ilvermorny, @arabellathorne, @missdowntonabbey, @greengrassandcyansea, @jdougl-love, @winterscaptain, @afuckingshituniverse

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner imagines #aaron hotchner fanfiction #criminal minds imagines #criminal minds fanfiction

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joonie-beanie · 4 years

Text

Bath Time

Pairing: Diavolo x Reader

Word Count: 3,970

Preview: During another one of Diavolo's "weekend retreats" at his castle, you manage to wander into a bathing area where you find the Prince...naked.

He invites you to join him.

What could possibly go wrong?

** Please note that this is a cross-posting **

This chapter was originally posted on 3/8/20 as a part of my “Devil Doms” series on AO3.

Lucifer explicitly tells you to not wander around in Diavolo’s castle at night.

But, with a gaggle of boys currently in your room arguing with one another about pointless things, you can’t help it.

The Prince of the Devildom has decided to hold another retreat—basically a weekend long sleep over—for all of his court and exchange students to enjoy. Which means, another weekend of everyone shoved into close quarters, making horrible decisions, and causing trouble.

You, for one, want to avoid being chased by Henry in the dungeons beneath the castle again. So, when Mammon starts plotting to go see what he can steal, and Beel is ready to go and raid the kitchen, you decide that maybe it’d be better to…get away.

Apparently lucky, for once, you manage to sneak out of your room unnoticed. You leave the arguing behind you, and cautiously begin to pad your way around the seemingly endless castle. The halls span long—ceilings high—with every turn branching off into a new path.

After walking and walking and walking (your feet are actually starting to get a little sore), you finally find yourself standing in front of a marbled archway. Through the archway, you can see a split path—one leading left, and one right. In the distance, you hear the quiet splashing of water, and your nose picks up on a sweet, hypnotic scent.

“Mmm~,” you hum, and step forward—tempted to find the source. However, logic makes you pause, and your feet root to the ground once more.

You have no idea what exactly is beyond this archway, or who. Should you really be venturing into unknown places alone?

However…

You bite your lip, temptation getting the best of you.

You’re not in the dungeons, and you doubt Diavolo keeps any pet monsters up here, so…what could go wrong?

Forgetting that Lucifer may actually maim you in the near future for your actions, you walk through the doorway. But…now you’re plagued with choosing a path.

You turn your head left, and again, you’re overcome with that sweet, addicting scent, and the quiet sound of water. To the right…you can smell the same scent, mingled with what you can only guess are other herbs and aromatic items.

Well, shit.

Taken in by the aroma to the left of the junction, you find yourself stepping in that direction.

You move slowly, cautiously—being careful of your footsteps and the tapping of your feet against the wooden floor boards.

Finally, when you reach the end of the short hall, there’s another doorway. Your fingers clutching the open frame, you peek your head out, eyes curiously scanning the open room before you.

The sweet smell is stronger than before, a contented shiver rolling down your spine as you breathe it in. The aroma is heavy in the hair, wafted up by the steam rising from the large tub in the middle of the room.

Or—less of a tub, and more of a replication of a traditional Japanese onsen. Beyond the stone lined bath is a miniature bamboo garden, and all around the room you spot wooden lanterns—producing just enough warm light to keep the room’s features illuminated.

“Wow…,” you breathe, enchanted by the area before you.

However, as you speak, there’s the sound of splashing water. Your eyes immediately flit to the bath—clashing with gold. Your heart nearly stops.

“Y/N?” the Demon Prince himself asks in surprise. There’s a wooden bowl held in his grasp, fresh droplets of water rolling down his handsome face. You follow the water's path down his neck, and across his muscled chest, before it disappears back into the tub.

His tan skin is marked by curved black lines—gold tipped wings and horns sprouting from his back and head. It’s clear from what you can see that Diavolo is completely naked. Luckily, the milky water keeps you from seeing…too much.

…man, your cheeks feel hot already.

“What are you doing here?” he speaks up, his tone friendly, but genuine question is reflected in his gaze.

“I…,” you straighten up a bit, stepping out from where you’d been peeping. “The boys were arguing again, so, I kind of…started wandering around, and ended up here?”

Diavolo smiles at the embarrassed blush on your face, your hands knit together in front of you nervously. Honestly, he’s not mad in the slightest. Sure, it was a bit shocking to look up and see you standing there, but he’s glad to see that you feel comfortable enough in his home to walk about freely.

“I’m…so sorry,” you begin to say, foot moving backwards. Your heart is racing in your chest, an uncomfortable and unexplainable knot in your throat as you stare at the Demon Prince. You’ve seen him in his demon form a handful of times—taken in the sight of his flawlessly toned body—but for some reason, today, it’s really doing a number on you.

“I-I’ll leave you to bathe. I didn’t intend to interrupt—”

“No, no! Please—join!” Diavolo smiles heartily, opening his arms to you. “This is quite possibly one of the nicest bathing areas in all of Devildom! I’d be overjoyed to share it with one of our precious human exchange students!”

Lips parted, you stare at him, wondering if he realizes exactly what he’s just invited you to do. Aka – get naked and join him.

“Lord Diavolo, the offer is very kind of you, but—”

“I really insist! Here--!” he cuts in, suddenly pressing to his feet. You squeak in surprise, immediately turning your gaze away from him, and the demon pauses. He glances down at himself, realizing his state of undress, and laughs.

“Sorry, sorry! Let me just—,” he begins wading through the water to the side of the bath, and fetches a towel. He fastens it tight around himself, and then turns to face you once more. Face still red, you take a peek over at him, your eyes immediately falling to the pronounced V of his hips. The towel is barely large enough to cover…him…from the looks of it, but you appreciate his quick thinking. There’s already a strange, warm feeling settling throughout your torso, and you have a sneaking suspicion that seeing the Demon Prince in all his glory may have made your heart actually explode.

“I suppose I’m not used to having company in spaces like this,” he laughs a little sheepishly. Diavolo wades through the water towards you, his golden eyes still pleasantly locked with your own, and you nearly bite your lip—entirely too tempted to let your gaze roam his sculpted body.

“Actually, I’ve been bathing long enough already—why don’t you use the tub alone?”

“Lord Diavolo, I really appreciate the offer, b-but—,” your voice hitches as he finally climbs out from the steaming waters, now just a few feet shy of you.

“I would like for you to enjoy your time here in my home,” he speaks, voice tender. His feet pad against the wooden floor boards as he approaches you, and each audible step has your heartbeat drumming loudly in your ears.

Honestly, what has gotten into you???

Finally standing within a mere foot of each other, the Demon Prince reaches out and takes your hand. He brings it to his lips, pointedly looking into your eyes—his lips curving into a handsome smile against your skin.

“Please, it would make me very happy.”

“I…okay,” you finally agree, voice soft. Satisfied, the demon pulls back, releasing you. Your hand falls to your side—skin tingling where his lips had touched.

“Good! I’ll bring you a fresh towel once I’ve finished fixing myself up,” he says, his face radiant. You nod in acknowledgement of his words, and Diavolo dips his head, turning and heading towards the wall on the right side of the room. You watch him in confusion, because it’s not like there’s a door in that direction, but apparently this castle is full of many surprises.

Raising his hand, Diavolo raps his knuckles on the wood twice, and a door-sized panel pops open. Your eyes widen and the Demon Prince winks at you, chuckling, before disappearing. The panel clicks closed behind him, and suddenly you’re alone.

Your eyes shift back over to the steaming bath, and you hold a hand to your chest.

You really could use a space to unwind for a little bit…and whatever is in the water does smell tantalizing.

Taking a deep breath, you reach down and tug at the hem of your shirt. Within the span of a minute, you manage to rid yourself of your casual clothing—the outfit neatly folded on a stool off to the side of the tub.

A little self-conscious, you hold your arms to your chest, lip caught between your teeth in anticipation as you sink your toes into the steaming water. Almost immediately, warmth spreads through your limb—climbing up your leg, and making goosebumps rise.

You sigh blissfully, wondering if onsen always feel this good.

Without any ounce of hesitation—all of your worries melting away the moment the water hits your skin—you’re quick to sink yourself into the bath. The sweet aromatics of the water flood your senses, and your eyes flutter shut as you recline against the rim of the tub.

The warmth that had spread up your leg is quick to flood into the rest of your body—and you assume it’s because your muscles are relaxing. However…the warmth slowly begins to overwhelm you—licking at the inside of your stomach. You feel your nipples harden, and your pussy clench around nothing, and you quietly moan.

Brows furrowed, you lower a hand between your legs—two fingers curiously pushing at your clit, and the hungry groan that rips from your throat surprises even you.

In the back of your head, you know that you should stop. This is inappropriate—to be touching yourself while inside the walls of Diavolo’s castle—especially considering he’s likely still nearby, but…you seriously can’t stop.

A whimper tugs at your vocal cords, thighs rubbing together as the pads of your fingers grind circles against your clit. Your head rolls forward, tiny, wanton breaths fanning into the steamy air in front of you.

“W-why…?” you whine, pleasure growing in your gut. Your brain is flooded with a hunger—a need for a hand on your skin, a pair of lips on your own, and a cock between your aching walls.

This is wrong--! You think to yourself, embarrassed at your own actions, but your body doesn’t reflect the feeling. The sweet aroma of the bath assaults your senses once more, and you choke on a quiet cry, forcing your hand to still. Your fingers shake—resisting the urge to keep going.

Biting your lip, you brace yourself against the edge of the tub, and attempt to press to your feet. Your thighs quiver. You feel weak—each nerve ending on fire as a throbbing desire battles with your inner morals.

“Fuck…,” you sob weakly, knees shaking.

However, before your body gives out beneath you, and you plunge into warm water, you hear a door open behind you.

“Y/N!” Diavolo calls. The Demon Prince dashes to the edge of the tub, his strong arms reaching out to grab you as your body finally collapses. Normally you’d express your thanks, but when your mouth opens—it’s a moan that comes out. The feeling of his skin against yours is nothing short of a taste of heaven.

“I’m so sorry,” he speaks, meeting your gaze. Regret is painted on his face. “I didn’t realize that the ingredients in the bath would have an effect on humans until Barbatos explained it to me.”

Eyes half lidded; you manage to look past Diavolo to see Barbatos standing there—brows furrowed.

“My Lord…,” he speaks.

“How do we fix this?” Diavolo asks hurriedly, one of his hands lifting to gently brush the hair out of your eyes. You’re acutely aware of every inch of skin the two of you are currently sharing. His contact provides relief, yet increases your yearning at the same time.

“Well…the effects of the bath should wear off in a few hours, naturally…”

“We can’t keep her like this for so long,” Diavolo shoots back, watching the quickening rise and fall of your chest. You’re flushed all over.

“The other option would be to provide relief,” Barbatos continues, professional as ever. There’s a brief silence, then the Demon Prince speaks again.

“Leave us.”

“Yes, my lord.”

You watch as Barbatos bows and then disappears back through the hidden door. Once the wooden panel has clicked closed, Diavolo carries you to the side of the tub. He seats himself in the warm water, cradling you in his lap—and you feel like a baby in comparison to his large stature.

“Y/N…I’m so very sorry. I hoped you would be able to relax, but it seems I’ve gotten you into an even more stressful situation,” he says, laughing bittersweetly.

“Wh…what’s g-going on?” you ask with effort, desperately trying to fight your body’s urges. Because currently—your brain is screaming at you to ride his dick like you’ve never ridden a man before.

Diavolo sighs. “Apparently the ingredients in the bath are an aphrodisiac to humans. It may explain why you were drawn here in the first place, but…”

He looks you in the eyes once more, and you can see his regret, and hesitation. Despite feeling like you’re drowning in your own arousal, you’re still smart enough to realize what Barbatos had meant by “provide relief” as the cure to your current affliction.

Diavolo feels responsible and wants to help, but he’s also the lord of this realm, and you’re his precious exchange student. He doesn’t want to cross lines.

“Touch me,” you beg, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. His eyes widen.

“There will be no hard feelings, I promise. I’m not mad. I don’t blame you. I just need you to touch me. Please.”

You talk quickly, finding the strength to sit up. You straddle him without hesitation, thumbs brushing against his cheeks as your eyes fall to his lips. The Demon Prince can see the desperation in your gaze—feel it in your every move—and his hands naturally lift to grip your waist.

“Y/N…I…”

His golden eyes drop to your pink lips, and your fingers shake against his skin. You need this now, more than ever.

“Please,” you beg, surging forward—your breasts squishing against his chest. Your hips unintentionally roll against his own, and you feel his semi-hard length against your thigh.

“I need you, My Lord,” you breathe the words against him—voice wanton, and tempting--and in the next moment, he’s stealing your breath away. His arms wrap tightly around you, his lips devouring your own as he lifts you into a heated kiss.

“Mmm~,” you moan into him, unconsciously grinding into his lap. In your right mind, you’d never be so bold—but at the moment your body is acting on its own accord. Your tongue sneaks into the Demon Prince’s mouth, and he’s quick to turn the tables—swallowing your lewd sounds. He holds your torsos flush together, and your chin is angled high in order to kiss him.

You thought that Beel was a giant, but he’s got nothing on Diavolo. You’ve never felt so small before—and the realization is a huge turn on.

Breaking the kiss, you grip his biceps and grind rougher—more desperately—against his growing bulge. The Demon Prince makes a strangled noise, half way between a moan and a curse, and you can’t help but smile with pride. Leaning in, you pepper kisses against the flesh of his chest—tongue licking against the taut planes of skin as you taste him. Above you, Diavolo chuckles, and suddenly you feel his grip around you loosening.

Immediately a whine rips from your throat—the intense desire for contact flaring within your gut as his touch leaves you—but it’s not gone for long.

His hands find your waist, and he picks you up with no effort, turning you so you’re sat with your back against his chest, and with his cock pressing incessantly between your legs.

“Diavolo,” you pout, forgetting to add “Lord”, but the demon doesn’t seem to mind.

“Shhh~ I’m supposed to be the one touching you, remember?”

His hands glide from your waist to your breasts—his palms cupping the soft mounds and giving them a firm squeeze. Immediately you’re biting your lip—little mewls of pleasure rising in your chest as he bids your chest some attention. His fingers pinch at your nipples—rolling and tugging at the sensitive buds, and you can’t help but jump at the sensation—a needy cry tumbling past your lips.

“P-Please, more,” you manage to beg, and Diavolo easily concedes. He leans forward, pressing open-mouth kisses against the skin of your neck and shoulder—the occasional lap of tongue, or nipping of teeth making you moan.

You wonder if he’s being gentle due to his sense of guilt or responsibility, but can’t bring yourself to ask him to be rougher with you. Mostly because you’re so fucking horny still that you’re bordering on incoherency.

For what seems like forever (but in reality, is only a few minutes), Diavolo indulges in fondling your breasts whilst painting an array of hickies across your neck and shoulders. It’s not until you begin grinding down against his cock again that he seems to remember what it is you really need.

Sliding one of his hands down the front of your torso, his fingers slip between your folds and locate your clit. Almost instantly you gasp—shuddering against him—and he chuckles quietly. If he were anyone else, you’d likely have turned and smacked him because how dare he laugh at your horny suffering like this?—but he’s literally a prince, so you restrain yourself.

“I guess that feels good, hmm?” he breathes against your ear. You nod, desperately gripping at his forearm as his fingers begin to work circles against your clit.

Humming happily, Diavolo lifts his free hand to turn your chin (your tight grip on his arm clearly no type of deterrent to him), and he kisses you once more. You moan into his mouth, your hips instinctively beginning to grind against his fingers.

Finally, you’re starting to near your orgasm. You can feel the pleasure building inside of you—white hot like the sun. However—

“A-Aren’t you going to put your dick in me?” you ask shamelessly, breaking the kiss to do so. Diavolo stares at you seriously.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Mmm~ That just makes me want it even mo—”

He cuts off your words with a forceful kiss—his tongue pressing into your mouth—and you immediately forget whatever you were going to say.

As Diavolo’s fingers work deftly at your clit, he continues to swallow your desperate moans and whines with his lips. His cock throbs against your pussy—your hips grinding oh-so-deliciously against him, but he makes no move to relieve himself.

Instead, he rubs at you until you’re bucking in his hold—orgasm lurking just beneath the surface. His other hand is on your neck with his fingers splayed up against your jaw—keeping your head angled so he can continue stealing kisses from you, even as you come undone beneath him.

Your fingers dig into his arm as your hips twitch—his fingers dutifully continuing to rub at your clit as your orgasm finally washes over you. Almost instantly, you feel the fog of horny desperation begin to dissipate from your mind, and you sigh with relief—your body slackening against the Demon Prince.

“Lord Diavolo,” you breathe against his lips when you finally find your voice. Your clit pulses beneath his fingers with aftershocks, and two half-lidded golden eyes stare back at you when you peel your eyes open.

As the two of you stay seated in the warm water of the tub, you feel an all too familiar heat begin to creep up your toes once more.

“Get me the hell out of this tub unless you want to go for round two.”

That gets the demon chuckling, and he is quick to maneuver you into his arms.

Held princess-style, he lifts you from the water and carries you across the room. Your clothes left behind, he clicks open the hidden panel with his knee and carries you through the doorway. On the other side of the wall is a sizable room lined with towels, robes, candles and what you can only guess are herbs and other aromatics for the bath.

Diavolo carries you to the rear of the room where the robes and towels are, and then gingerly sets you atop the table nearby. As soon as his grip leaves you, however—the Prince turning to fetch you a towel from the nearby shelf—you reach out and gingerly grab his wrist.

Blinking, Diavolo allows you to pull him back to you. You, sat in front of him in all your glory—fresh love bites scattered across your skin from shoulder to shoulder. Pink has risen shyly onto your cheeks, and when you glance up at him, your bottom lip is caught between your teeth.

“Thank you for being kind enough to take care of me, Lord Diavolo,” you start off saying, and he flashes you a small smile. “I really appreciate it.”

“Of course, Y/N. It would have been wrong of me to just leave you in such a state. I only hope I didn’t hurt you, or do anything you disliked.”

At that, he frowns a little, and you’re quick to shake your head—both of your hands moving to grip his own reassuringly.

“I…no, I wouldn’t worry about that, if I were you,” you say, your face getting hotter by the second, and you hear Diavolo laugh. He leans in to kiss the top of your head, and then steps away—turning his back to you as he does so.

For a brief moment, you wonder why he’s purposefully showing his back to you, when all of the sudden you remember.

“You know, I wouldn’t mind helping you out in return Lord Diavolo,” you say, your boldness surprising even yourself.

Maybe it’s the fact that you’re aware he’d gotten hard while touching you that makes you feel a bit braver.

“It’s only fair—and I doubt you would hurt—”

As you speak, Diavolo finally turns to face you, and your eyes immediately fall to his cock. It’s thick, and veined, and big—nearly reaching his navel as it stands curved against his lower abdomen.

“…me…”

Your mouth goes dry, because god he’s a monster, and Diavolo has the audacity to laugh at you.

“The others are likely wondering where you are,” he speaks, acting as if he isn’t standing there with the king of all cocks attached to his already god-like body. “I would recommend drying off and going back to them.”

He throws a towel over your head, and then leans down—his hands gripping the table on either side of you as his hair brushes against your cheek. You can feel his lips against your ear, and you shiver as he speaks—his voice a whisper.

“And for the record, I have no qualms with properly making love to you, Y/N. We simply do not have the time or needed items to…prepare, and I will not have my precious human injured.”

With that, he presses a kiss to your cheek, and retreats whilst shrugging a robe over his shoulders.

Despite not being in the tub, you’re feeling hot all over again.

#om!#obey me #diavolo x reader #diavolo x mc #diavolo smut #obey me smut #obey me fic #tagging is the bane of my existance #diavolo

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dalgikiss · 4 years

Text

Lifetimes // t. kamado

index

part 7

v. you know where to find me

Tanjiro dreams of a house with a huge wooden door and tulips that grow in the front. He dreams of a bright blue sky and chalk drawings on the road around it.

You are there waiting for him like always, nails painted a soft red like his hair and he wonders if you did that intentionally for him. A giddy smile makes its way onto his face at the thought of that.

“Hi!” He greets you excitedly, hands eagerly clasping onto yours, “How have you been?”

You seem at ease with him, sparkling eyes meeting his own. “I’m good. Missed you though”

Tanjiro can’t help the shiver of happiness that racks his spine when he hears that, the smile on his face reappearing ten times wider. You pretend to cover your eyes when you see it, chortles of laughter dangling off of every word you speak, “Woah, too bright. You’re not supposed to beat the sun, you know”

“Sorry, sorry” Tanjiro frantically apologizes, “but I missed you too! I’ve been really looking forward to seeing you!”

Tanjiro says it so earnestly, you have no other choice but to believe him, shifting so he has slotted his fingers into the space in between your hands. “That’s good,” You muse. You turn to face him with a grin that tells him you know something he doesn’t.

It’s the same grin he saw when he first met you here. “I think we’ll see each other very soon”

“We will?”

You nod your head, delighting in his excited facial expression, “Yup, I think so. Take a good luck at this place okay?”

The world fades away into nothingness and he wakes up in his dorm room, Zenitsu and Inosuke curled up on either side of him. Zenitsu brings his knees closer to his chest and Inosuke grumbles, throwing his leg over Tanjiro’s waist.

Tanjiro strains to see the calendar hanging on the wall, did he have class today? No, Tanjiro struggles to maneuver his arms out of the way, today is Saturday. The three of them stayed up late watching a horror movie where Zenitsu cried miserably & Insouke screamed loudly at the TV - normal Friday nights go like this.

They’re supposed to go away today, to celebrate the ends of finals week at a party, Rengoku invited them and Tanjiro could never say no to him.

“Uzui is hosting it,” Rengoku’s voice was as loud as ever, booming through the student union, “He says it will be extremely flamboyant and expects you to come.”

The day streams past like a show being fast forwarded until they find himself sitting in the driveway of the house where the party is hosted.

The four of them - they picked up Nezuko along the way because Mitsuri explicitly stated to bring her and while it was a suggestion, Obonai glared at them until they understood this was a command - play ‘rock paper scissors’ until a designated driver has been assigned.

Tanjiro sighs and shakes his head when he realizes he has lost, the only hand that has thrown paper in a midst of scissors and - Insouke what is that supposed to be? - apparently a machine gun, according to Inosuke.

Tanjiro stands in front of a house with lanterns in the front and worn out steps in the back. There is a lake in the back and cherry blossom trees with buds that have not yet bloomed and Tanjiro feels a sense of deja vu, as though he has been here before.

I think we’ll see each other soon

There are crickets hidden in the tall leaves that sing a melody he knows and Nezuko has to pull him up the stairs so he does not just gawk at the door.

Just remember what this house looks like okay?

The party is in full swing, Nezuko being whisked away by Mitsuri, Shinobu is reprimanding Inosuke for a brand new injury that he has and Zenitsu has found Genya tucked away in the corner nursing a cup of soda.

Before Tanjiro can go off in his search (he has a feeling you’ll be on the front porch soon), someone trips and he immediately sticks his hand out to catch them before they fall onto the floor.

When you look up, the world seems to move in slow motion. Tanjiro’s breath quickens when his eyes meet yours and yes, your nails are even painted that soft red he remembers seeing in his dreams.

“I- you- It’s you” He splutters, “I found you”

You raise an eyebrow but the smile is still on your face, bright like the sky. “Yeah, I guess you did find me”

He laces his hands into yours and tugs you outside to the front step where he is used to seeing you. Somehow holding your hand now is better than anything he had dreamed of. There are less people out here, shouts of laughter heard from the lake behind them.

You settle onto the step he remembers seeing you peel oranges on and he follows your example but instead of fruits and tea in between them, there is nothing but space. Hesitantly, softly, Tanjiro lets his thigh brush against yours and when you do not flinch, he sits closer and closer until your shoulders are pressed snugly up against his.

“You still have that scar I see,” You brush his hair away from his face, letting your fingertips dance around the edges of an old burn mark he got from trying to save his younger brother from a falling kettle pot.

“Yeah,” His hand covers the one you are using to trace the edges of his scar, “Like you said, some things just don't change no matter how many lives we live”

“Is that so?” Your grin seems to grow wider and something hard pushes at his gut when he sees it, waves of happiness that smell like sea salt and sunshine rolling off you.

“Yeah,” He nods, gently putting the both of your hands onto his lap and the smile on his face is hard to hide. You laugh at the giddy expression on his face as he plays with your fingers, still trying to process that you were here.

“Can I ask you something?” He asks you after a moment of silence and you nod, letting your fingers trace the veins on the back of his hand.

“Sure,”

“I always dreamed of you and this house,” Tanjiro gestures to the house that is currently vibrating in time with the bass. There is laughter inside and if you are lucky, you can even hear Giyuu intermingling with the rest of the voices, “Why this house?”

Your answer is simple, straight to the point, “This is where you will always find me”

“What about back then?” Tanjiro presses, “Did i find you here too?”

You hesitate, fingers stilling for the quickest of moments. Did you want to tell him he has not met you here in a long time? You look up to where he watches you, his hopeful and innocent eyes staring at you expectantly. You couldn’t hurt him. You clear your throat, choosing your words carefully. “You have always seen me here”

Tanjiro nods, satisfied with the answer and you calm your beating heart and gently tug him closer to you, if you could even do so, determined to make up for the lifetimes you did not get to see him, lifetimes where you watched him live his life from afar, watching out for him like a guardian angel.

“Were you lonely?” Tanjiro’s question catches you off guard and you stare at the dirt covered tips of your shoes.

“A little bit,” You admit and Tanjiro’s face drops, “But I’ve grown fond of the feeling”

“How many lives have we lived together?”

“Quite a bit”

“How many lives have you been alone?”

“A little more than the ones we have lived together”

Tanjiro falls silent at this, lets the weight of your words settle themselves in the crevices of his body, the consonants and vowels tracing their way over his skin.

“I’m sorry” he apologizes because he does not know what else he can say. His heart is stuck in his throat, beating painfully so and he is sorry, sorry, sorry

You wave his guilt away like this is normal, that you are used to the once-in-a-lifetime of all the lifetimes, like this is just how the universe works and he wishes it wasn’t so. “It’s fine. This is how it goes anyways. We spend a lifetime together and then the next few apart”

There is a smile on your face that makes you look unusually vulnerable as you continue talking, eyes staring away into the distance at something he cannot see.

“But you always come back to me, and I, always to you”

It is just the way it goes, you have grown used to the empty lives you live where you remember it all and he doesn’t, the weird ache in your heart that is always present, always constant even when you laugh the night away because how can you laugh the night away when he isn’t by your side?

It is a feeling you have grown used to, a phenomenon you cannot do anything about like when stars collapse under their own weight or the way the moon pushes and pulls the tides. It’s okay, you have long forsaken the idea of being able to control how the heavens work, it is okay to have this lonely ache in your heart when you are apart because all it does is remind you to keep searching.

Tanjiro seems unconvinced, eyebrows furrowed at your words. “How do I know that won’t change?”

“You don’t,” You shake your head laughing, strands of hair floating in the wind and Tanjiro thinks your laugh holds a song that can put birds to shame. “You don’t know if it will change but-”

Your hand in his squeezes a little tighter, “I will always be looking for you- from the beginning to the end and every lifetime in between, I have always looked everywhere for you”

You rest your head against his shoulder and it rests in place like it should have been there his entire life, the missing puzzle piece he did not know he was looking for and everything is right with the world once more.

The stars shine and twinkle as though they are proud of themselves for being able to finally bring the two of you together. Tanjiro wonders if you are star crossed lovers- but that doesn’t sound quite right because it implies you both will never see each other again, like intersecting lines or that one shirt you swear you washed but never reappears in your closet again.

He wonders if there is a better way to describe the two of you, lovers that always return to each other, lovers that always find their way back to the other and if there isn’t, he will simply have to make one up.

Tanjiro nuzzles his nose into your hair and you hum with pleasure, giggling when his fingers skim past your ribs to poke into your sides.

“Promise me you’ll come find me, always”

You interlock your pinky with his, holding it up to where he can see it and press your lips against his thumb.

“Promise”

#kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba imagines #kimetsu no yaiba fanfiction #demon slayer #demon slayer fanfiction #demon slayer imagines #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer x you #tanjiro kamado #tanjiro x reader #tanjiro x you #kny tanjiro kamado #kny imagines #kny fanfic #kny x reader #kny x you

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thrownsoul · 30 days

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@lifeforms

god, she feels stupid. all night on the bus to metropolis and now she's stalled out, cooling her heels in front of the qilin office. nah. absolutely not. she keeps accidentally unplugging the headphones from her ipod nano because of how violently she's twisting the cord. anyway, she's pretty sure she didn't download jimmy eat world, so that's a conversation she needs to go back to home to have with sarah.

they probably just do social services. what was she thinking?

she startles, then steps out of way. not inside. "oh, sorry. i didn't mean to block the entrance."

#lifeforms #lifeforms001.#v; a spine like lanterns.#it's been so long. let's take it from the top #let's go back to the beginning and do it all again (time loop of rping with me)

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theheartsmistakes · 4 years

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The Last Night Part XIII

More author’s Notes at the end because it may contain spoilers!

But if you’re just joining us... where the heck have you been?

Here are the previous parts vvv:

Here is Part I

Here is Part II

Here is Part III

Here is Part IV

Here is Part V

Here is Part VI

Here is Part VII

Here is Part VIII

Here is Part IX

Here is Part X

Here is Part XI

Here is Part XII

Part XIII

They had moved Cordelia to the best guest room in the Institute, small but comfortably furnished with a narrow oak bed and a simple writing desk, but pleasantly decorated with blue striped wallpaper and flowery chintz curtains. A lace-skirted sink, with running water, occupied one corner, and a large window stood open to the night and the fragrance of the garden. In the distance, a shimmer of silver indicated the sun on the Thames.

James walked in carrying an impressive stack of literature he’d taken from the library under his arm and in his free hand he carried a lantern illuminated with the soft bluish glow of a witchlight. He saw Cordelia first, her red hair vibrant against the white pillow case. Color had returned to her skin and the thick black veins that ran underneath it were now gone. The thick top quilt was pulled up and tucked around her chest so that her shoulders and arms were out and rested by her sides. She was modestly covered by an ivory cotton gown. Every once in a while, her fingers would twitch against the fabric of the top quilt and it felt as if the weight of the stack of books weighed on James’s chest.

He set the books on the foot of the bed and sat on the wooden stool beside Cordelia. Wishing more than anything, that miraculously, she would open her eyes and turn towards him with a smile.

“Dickens, Chaucer, Wilde, Homer, Sophocles,” said Jem as he sifted through the books James had brought. “Interesting choices.”

“I brought things that might encourage her through the darkness,” said James.

“Nothing like a good epic to encourage one through dark times,” said Jem, as he set The Iliad back on the stack. “She was administered medicine not long ago, so she is peaceful and still, but do not be alarmed if she cries out. If she begins to sweat or claw at the blankets, come and find someone immediately. If you find yourself growing tired and in need of some rest, you will also need to find someone to take your place.”

James remembered his father and the fierce devotion he had shown his mother when she had fallen ill after transforming into her clockwork angel during the war. He never left her side, not even to eat or drink, or so James was told by relatives and maids. And any time Tessa would fall ill, succumb to an injury, or give birth, Will remained by her side until she made it back on her feet again. His parents remained his highest example of love and devotion. After nearly twenty years of marriage, they still seemed to illicit in one another the emotions of young love: a bit reckless, always public, possessive, but demure, and full of endless patience. James hoped to one day find a love as eternal as the one his parents shared, and he thought he had when he met Grace Blackthorn. To learn that his feelings were simply the product of an enchanted piece of jewelry left a sinking feeling in his chest. Not because of the loss, his feelings for Grace always felt burdened, troublesome, and lonely. He grieved for the love that had the potential to burn as brilliant as his parents.

A sharp pain burst across the center of James’s forehead. He leaned forward, his eyes shut tight, and tried to rub the pain away.

“James?” Jem came beside him and placed a light hand on his shoulder. “What is it? Are you all right?”

“Yes,” said James. “It’s nothing. Just a bit of head pain is all.”

“How long have you had it?”

“It comes and goes,” said James, and waved his Uncle’s concern away. “Thank you, Uncle Jem. For allowing me to be here with her.”

“It is what is best for Cordelia,” said Jem. “She needs the familiar voices of the people she is closest to in the world. Your sister was in here not long ago. While I admire Lucie for the incredible talent that she possesses, someone should warn her about her overuse of adverbs.”

“Are you volunteering?” asked James.

Jem scarred mouth twitched.

“Coward,” said James and turned to look at Cordelia. “Can she hear us talking? Even now?”

Jem nodded. “Yes, I believe she can.” Jem placed a hand on James’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “When I return to administer her medicine, I will bring you a vial for your headache. I’d also like to examine you tomorrow, to be sure it’s nothing serious.”

Jem left with a quick click of the door when it closed behind him. Now alone with Cordelia, James felt as awkward as he had when he was a fourteen year old school boy attempting to speak to his crush.

With a sigh, he moved the stool closer to Cordelia and the witchlight that flickered on the nightstand. Her fingers twitched against the bed cloth. He picked up the hand closest to him and held it in both of his. Her skin felt so soft. Had it always been so soft, he wondered. Memories of her finger tips grazing his skin in the orange light of the Whispering Room made his mouth run dry. Unsure what possessed him to do such a thing, he brought her hand up to his face and pressed his cheek into her cool palm.

“Daisy, my Daisy.” The name he’d given her didn’t seem to match her anymore, but there was a familiarity in it that he clung to. He hoped that maybe she could cling to it too. “If you’re able, will you grant me the smallest reassurance that you’re alright in there? When we were young, Math and I would communicate through small signals in class when our Instructor would be droning on about the history of runes, which I should have paid closer attention to, but my mind was otherwise detained on some personal dilemmas at the time… Forgive me, I’m rambling.” He brought her hand down.. “Squeeze my hand once if you can hear me?”

His eyes went to her face and watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest. He waited for the coveted pressure of her fingers gripping his with the desperation of a sinner languishing for forgiveness.

When it never came, he lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a quick kiss to her knuckles. “That’s all right. Your focus should only be on healing. I brought some books to share with you. Personal favorites from the library that I thought you might enjoy. Mostly classics, because I thought you might like something familiar and those damned contemporary authors and their quest for enlightenment; squandering on about transcendentalism.

“I thought we could start with…” When he reached for his father’s beloved copy of Great Expectation, he caught a vibrant red leather bound book with gold lettering on the spine that glistened in the light beside the bed.

Layla and Majnun

He picked up the copy and stroked the letters with curiosity. He recalled Sona and Alastair calling Cordelia, Layla, but never understood the reference; being so enamored with another woman and his personal throes, he didn’t think to ask.

Cordelia expressed a desire to read it together some day, but under the circumstances, he didn’t think that she would mind.

James kept Cordelia’s hand in his own. With his spectacles perched on the end of his nose, he propped the book against his thighs and opened the cover and found a small inscription on the left hand corner. It read:

Dearest Layla,

I hope this book brings you pleasant company during your travels. You have always wondered and asked why I call you by the name that this most divine tale is titled after, this may bring you some clarity. Please believe that my absence from your life is in no shape your fault and do not burden yourself with trying to understand it. Please know and forever keep in your mind, that I love you and your brother and your mother. Nothing is forever, my darling, we will be together again.

Be omide khodâ,

Bâbâ

The words were slightly smudged in some spots, as if water had dropped onto the ink. The pages were all wrinkled and torn in some places. For a moment, it felt to James like he was opening something sacred: a journal, a personalized letter, a love note, but he couldn’t help himself from turning the page. He turned until he found where one should always start a new story— at the very beginning.

As he read, he smiled to himself when he approached the part about when Layla and Majnun first met. It reminded him something of the first time that he saw Cordelia. When he really saw her. Away from the blinding manacle around his wrist. She was beautiful, but more than that, she was pure light. When he approached a passage, his tone slowed:

[His soul was a mirror for Layla’s radiance: how could he keep such reflections to himself? She shone in him like the sun at noon in a cloudless sky: how could such light be concealed? How could he turn away, even for a second, from the only thing that gave meaning to his life? Kais’* heart was out of step with his reason, and however hard he tried to hide his love for Layla, he failed miserably. Without her, he felt the arrows of reproach from a thousand bows; without her, the pain of separation cut into his heart like a knife.]

When he finished reading it aloud, he felt the faintest flutter from Cordelia’s hand against his, and when he looked up, her mouth was slightly open. The book nearly tumbled out of his lap as he leaned closer to her.

“Cordelia?” He picked up her hand in both of his again and tightened his hold, bringing it to his chest. “Cordelia, can you hear me?”

Her eyes fluttered back and forth underneath the hoods of her eyes.

“I’m here,” he whispered and climbed into the small space on the bed beside her. Carefully, he tucked her head underneath his chin and straightened the quilt around her again. “I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

___________________________

The cottage of Cecily and Gabriel Lightwood was a low, thatched building standing amid the fields in an arrangement of a perfectly tended garden. Ivy grew on the green-painted windows, and the eaves and the plastered walls. The front gate hung open, slightly distressed on its posts, and a bicycle lay carelessly toppled against the porch, where two large glazed pots, of the most intense blue, foamed with flowers in hues of Mediterranean pink, orange, and red. The cottage should have inspired only disdain for its tumbledown air, but instead Grace Blackthorn, who was raised to despise her adopted uncle and aunt, found it strangely romantic.

From the rough stones of a back hall, she emerged into the kitchen where a most egregious ruckus was coming. Since arriving at the Lightwood cottage, she’d spent most of her time either in the garden reading or in the kitchen talking to the housemaid who seemed to be the most interesting individual in the house and who didn’t seem to mind Grace’s presence especially after recent truths had risen to the surface like bloated dead fish. The kitchen was always orderly. On a wooden table in the center, a tea urn hissed above its small burner, a stack of old blue and white china teacups waited to be filled. A cake stand held an assortment of the usual small sandwiches and the plain rock cakes that were popular now. Only today, atop the counter, kneeled someone in tweed trousers, one leg bent on the counter and the other outstretched for balance as they reached for something in the cupboards above. She quickly recognized him as the young, illusive Christopher Lightwood.

She leaned her shoulder against the door frame and crossed her arms over her chest.

Since her arrival at the Lightwood’s, she’d rarely seen Christopher. They’d pass each other in the hallways or sit across from each other at meals, but he would be scribbling in a notebook, his face covered in some type of grime. She never attempted a conversation with him considering her relationship with his friend and cousin James. She had the impression that he didn’t care for her so much.

She could hear him whispering to himself. “Where are the damn tongs?”

“Bottom drawer,” said Grace, “to the left.”

There was a terrible clamber as Christopher looked over his shoulder at Grace, resulting in his leg slipping off of the counter. He reached for a ceramic bowl for stability but ended up taking the kitchen utensil down with him. She could not prevent a cry of fear as he hit his back upon the impact.

“Are you all right?” she cried as she ran around the wooden table. “I’m terribly sorry.”

His glasses were askew, as were the dark brown tendrils of hair that mirrored his father’s, fringed at the ends as if burnt. “Fine,” said Christopher after shaking ceramic out of his hair. “I’m fine.”

“Allow me to help you,” she said. Christopher, she had noticed, had the kindest eyes out of all of his friends. She reached her gloved hand out to him.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Christopher, not unkindly, but rather sheepishly. He grabbed a hold of the table’s edge and hoisted himself back to his feet. He brushed his hands off on his trousers, but seemed otherwise unscathed. “Sorry if I disturbed you. I was looking for the—“

“Tongs?” Grace pointed to the drawer by Christopher’s left hip. “They’re in the top drawer. And there is no need to apologize. I was the one who startled you.”

“Not at all.” He turned and opened the kitchen drawer, moved things around a bit, and finally retrieved the tongs from the far back. “A-ha!” He clapped them together several times. “Wonderful. Thank you. Our housemaid likes to hide them from me.”

“Why is that?”

“Possibly because I’ve melted the last several,” he said, and though she could not detect any note of humor, she couldn’t help but laugh into the back of her gloved hand. Christopher looked at her perplexed, his cheeks turned a soft shade of pink.

“Melted them?” she asked. “How on earth did you manage something like that?”

He examined the tongs in his hand. “Uh, it’s difficult to describe.”

“Could you show me?” she asked, shocked by her own bravery, or her desperation to escape her lonely isolation. “I’ve heard so much about your experiments and I really admired your discovery of the cure for demon poisoning.”

“I conduct most of my experiments in my Uncle Henry’s basement,” he said. “He’s not really my uncle, but I’m close enough to Matthew that he might as well be. I have a few experiments in my bedroom, but I don’t think that it would be appropriate for us to be alone in that regard.”

Grace hesitated, but there was no hint of condescension in Christopher’s tone, and his blunt face showed worry in a single vertical crease between his eyes. He was trying to treat her well. She understood that in the past couple of months, or years, she had lost some trust in how people would treat her. She blinked her eyes and nodded once without a word.

“Of course,” she said. “I’m embarrassed for suggesting it.”

“That’s quite all right,” he said, as he examined the tongs. “You must be terribly bored here.”

She was, but she felt it rude to say it. “It was very kind of your parents to allow me to stay in their home considering the grief my dear mother has brought to them.”

“Lucky for you my mother does not share my father’s grudges.” He meant it in fun, but he noticed the dubious look on her face. As she ran her finger through a spilt pile of flour on the counter, he wondered how all of the time he could have mistaken Grace for being so cold and plain when she looked saddened and lost. “Perhaps you could help me with something.”

Her gray eyes lit with curiosity. “With what?”

“I need an assistant to conduct one of my experiments,” said Christopher. “Since Thomas is spending time with his family after their recent loss and the four of us are not meant to be spending too much time together as punishment, but perhaps we can conduct some sort of arrangement for you to be my assistant of sorts. If it’s not too forward to ask.”

Grace fought to keep her emotions respectful, but inside she felt the quick bubble of anticipation that she had not felt in some time swell in her stomach. “As long as I wouldn’t be in the way and your comrades wouldn’t mind us spending the time together.”

“There’s no need for them to know,” said Christopher, straightening his glasses up higher on his nose making his eyes appear abnormally large. “Besides, they don’t seem to take much interest in my experiments anyway. Thomas is with his family. Matthew is under Charles’s watchful eyes, and James is—“ Christopher flushed.

“Is what?” she asked.

She already suspected that they all knew the truth behind the bracelet that she had given to James, but no one cared to ask for her side of the story. Why she did what she did? It was probably for the best. She wasn’t entirely sure she could tell them the truth of it anyway.

“James is with Cordelia.”

“It’s all right.” She pressed her lips together, and began to wonder if it was a mistake to have entered a conversation with him. “What I did was terrible and I won’t pretend to see it otherwise. I understand if you are disinclined to trust me.”

“Can I ask how you did it?” he asked. “How did you enchant the bracelet?”

The question took her off guard. Most people that have approached her with the question asked her why she felt the need to do it. James Herondale was more than inclined to give her his affections on his own; there was no need for an enchanted bracelet. Her answer was often some variation of the same lie.

“I would prefer it if you didn’t ask me that question,” she said. “Only because I cannot answer it. But would it help to know that it wasn’t me who did it?”

“It would,” said Christopher. “It does.

Grace folded her hands in front of her and felt a strange weight removed from her shoulders; grateful that while her truth remained hidden, some of it could be shared with someone else. And while she didn’t believe herself to be entirely innocent, there was some relief in not being entirely guilty either.

The housemaid entered through the swinging doors from the servant’s quarters, humming a Irish melody, which was cut short when she found the two of them in the kitchen. Her cheeks flushed as her watery eyes drifted down to the tongs in Christopher’s hands.

She switched her basket of fresh veggies over to her other hip. “Are you doing the cooking for supper tonight, boy, or are you just polishing the silver again?” she asked. “Because I know you’re not taking my good pair of tongs to use for your little experiments.”

(Author’s notes: Hello! Thank you for reading. I appreciate each and every one of you for indulging me through this quarantine while I pine and wait for Chain of Iron to be released. So a few things, I think everyone knew the book James reads to Cordelia would be Layla and Majnun... it would have been insulting if it was anything else. If you’re not familiar with the story (here is a link if you want to check out a preview), Majnun’s name at the beginning of the story is Kais. SPOILER: when Layla and Kais separate, he becomes mad with sadness and the town people call him Majnun, which means ‘madman’, so that’s why in the passage he is referred to as Kais... in case you were wondering. It’s such a beautiful story. I highly recommend everyone to read it. It gives me strong Romeo and Juliet vibes. There are so many variations of the story, but I really liked this one, and I believe it’s mostly accurate to the original source-- correct me if I’m wrong.

Also, I’m not sure where that Christopher and Grace scene came from. I wanted to experiment with their characters in a friendly way and I wasn’t mad at it, so I thought I’d share. There is a purpose for it in the story. I hope you enjoyed it. As always, if you liked it, please give it a heart, give me a follow, pop in with some comments about what you liked and even what you didn’t. I really appreciate you all. Next update will be Sunday, 7/26. Cordelia is waking up and things are about to get messy.)

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alexandralyman · 4 years

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Summary: A Hook/Emma angel/demon AU. They hide in plain sight, the servants of heaven and hell. The angels and the demons, who can save your soul or damn it. They stand on opposite sides, they are the bringers of light and the agents of darkness, they are enemies in an eternal war, but what happens when an angel and a demon are inexplicably drawn to each other?

Read on FF.net here or on AO3 here

Part Twenty-Four

The Sistine Chapel - May 6, 1527

The long train of her gown made a faint whispering sound against the floor as she glided the length of the chapel, the heavy gold satin rippling and flowing in waves over the fine marble and intricately laid mosaics. They would have been a showpiece in any other cathedral, but here they paled in comparison to the splendour of a thousand years' worth of papal wealth that surrounded them. A few lanterns were still lit in the niches and alcoves set into the walls but the light was dying, flickering and growing even more dim with each step she took further and further into the shadowed heart of Christendom. It was in this place where a new pope rose upon the death of the old, crowned and gowned and bequeathed the Keys to the Kingdom as he ascended upon Saint Peter's seat.

The ancient throne lay empty and abandoned on this night.

Her hair was a loose spill down her back and she wore no hood or veil to conceal it, normally an unthinkable breach of protocol for a woman entering the sacred site and a grave offence to the Church. But there was no one left to bar her entry, not that any mortal man could actually stop her from passing through any door to any room in this place, where even the holiest of relics, the priceless texts of scripture and verse, the sacred hearts of saints, the swords carried into battle during the Crusades, all paled in comparison to her.

Not a single candle was left burning by the altar where a figure was just visible in the gloom, garbed as a monk in sober dark robes. But he was no more a lowly cleric labouring anonymously in the depths of the Vatican in his humble attire than she was a wealthy Roman noblewoman in her rich gown and while her head might be uncovered, it was far from bare. She wore her own diadem above her brow, it was made not of gold or gems, but of an unbroken circle of Heavenly light. Divine radiance illuminated her path while the astonishing frescos that the Florentine master, Michelangelo, had laboured over for the better part of a decade looked down from the ceiling above, now silent witnesses left behind when everyone else had fled.

Almost.

"His Holiness has left in the company of the Swiss Guard and the Emperor's army is about to breach the walls. Rome will fall to the wolves and it will fall tonight, it's too late to stop it now."

Emma delivered the news to the figure's back, as still as any of the painted prophets and saints that surrounded them. For several long moments he didn't move and if it was anyone else she would have thought he didn't hear her. But he heard everything, and when he finally turned the hood of his monkish robe fell back to reveal one who was both prophet and saint, known by many names and titles in different languages and traditions. In the chronicles of noble knights seeking the glory of the Holy Grail he was the mysterious and powerful Merlin, possessor of magic and esoteric knowledge beyond that of mortal men. In truth, he was a Prince of Heaven in his own right, an Archangelus, the patron of healers, lovers, and guardian angels and one of the highest ranked of the Blessed Ones along with his brothers Michael and Gabriel.

The Archangel Raphael.

Like all angels he was captivating to look at, with a face that Michelangelo would have given his own soul to capture in marble. Strong brows, full lips, and large, liquid eyes that were fixed firmly at some point in the distance before his attention turned to her. Pleas for salvation were echoing in the back of Emma's mind like a thousand hands all reaching out from the shadows to clutch at her train, while the Pope had been spirited away to safety many innocent souls had been left behind, unarmed and completely defenceless against the rampaging horde of soldiers about to descend upon them.

Raphael spoke in a low voice as his gaze drifted again, to the shadows that veiled the splendor around them and grew more with each passing moment. "Yes," he exhaled, and painted heads turned as his breath gave the little figures miraculous life. "They will come from the north...an army sent to expand an empire and lay waste to all who stand in the way...cities fall one by one and there will be death and destruction and war."

An exasperated huff escaped her lips. "Will be? War is already here!"

He shook his own head, his hair as close-cropped as any monk's in place of the flowing locks usually depicted in the many portrayals of him that adorned chapel walls and illuminated texts. The shapeless robes stirred about his legs, lifted by a cool breeze that swept through the nave and made the lanterns flicker and the frescos cower. The light dimmed even more with it and didn't recover, more faint, misty glow now than illumination.

"No, I don't mean this. What is to happen tonight will fade from history and be all but forgotten within a generation, though the effects will linger. This is not war, this is two mules eyeing each other balefully over the same pile of hay.

Only an angel would openly refer to the two most powerful men in Europe, the Supreme Pontiff Clement VII, who held dominion over all Catholic souls, and the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, who ruled most of the land those souls resided on, as nothing more than humble pack animals fighting over a mouthful of feed. But the description was an apt one, it was their mutual stubbornness and refusal to cede any ground that had led to an army the Emperor could no longer control poised to lay waste to everything in its path and the Pope abandoning Saint Peter's throne to flee like a thief in the night instead.

"Charles and Clement may be nothing more than mules, but even a mule's kick can be fatal," Emma argued back. "And when a Hapsburg aims for a Medici, he doesn't just strike his rival. Tell the people of Rome that this is not war when they're burned from their homes and slaughtered without mercy in the street."

Raphael sighed and statues wept. "His Majesty and His Holiness are not the only ones possessed of an excess of stubborness. Now is not the time for debate about the constitution of war, it's long past time for you to go home, beata Emma. The army is not the only wolf howling at the gates tonight."

Emma lifted her chin, not giving quarter even to an Archangel. "And the innocents will suffer all the more for it."

His voice was firm and the warning in his tone was clearer than any bell. "The darkness will always seek to snuff out the light, in every form. Always. We can't save them all, Emma, and we are not meant to. He gave them the freedom of their own will be they prince or peasant, and as such they are capable of so much beauty and so much ugliness in equal measure. That potential they all hold within is His gift to mankind and we must allow them to choose their own path. You can not interfere in this mortal quarrel and if you stay, it is inevitable that the darkness will seek to find you."

She knew what would follow the soldiers in once they descended like locusts from the plagues of old and began to pillage the city. Even in the very heart of the Vatican itself she could sense them faintly in the distance, just beyond the seven hills.

Waiting.

Damnate Infernum.

The Damned of Hell.

"I do not fear the darkness."

Her voice didn't rouse the frescos or move the carvings to tears as his did, but her voice was steady and her shoulders were squared back in her elegant gown. She carried no sword, no heaven-forged blade like the one that had made it into legend alongside Raphael's tenure as Merlin appeared in her hand with which to repel back a demonic horde, but she couldn't leave, not when so many voices were out there and calling to her with their pleas for salvation.

"You do," the Archangel intoned with a raise of his brow. "Oh, you are brave and your heart is pure, but no one, not even an angel, is immune to fear."

He smiled then, a breathtaking sight that eclipsed even the glory of the grandeur that surrounded them. Emma felt her own lips lift in response and the candles that had been left unattended at the altar all ignited, filling the air around them with the scent of beeswax and sweet oil. Raphael's smile turned melancholy, his pupils twin golden flames from the reflections but also flickering with something else, beyond what Emma herself could see. The Merlin of tale was a prophet and that wasn't the fanciful imaginings of a twelfth-century cleric, Raphael had the divine gift of prophecy as all the Archangels did and in truth, Emma was afraid to ask what he saw when he looked at her now.

Another breath of wind swept through the chapel, cold, and decidedly unnatural. It licked a shiver down her spine and the candles went out again from the force of it, wisps of dark smoke curling up to the ceiling in serpentine ribbons. All save for one long, pale taper that continued to burn alone in defiance of the attempt to snuff it out. Raphael looked at it for a long moment and then he nodded once, as if in acknowledgement.

"A single light remains. If you truly wish to stay through what is to come, I won't forbid it. But Emma, you must keep in mind that the most divine of gifts can also become the heaviest of burdens. To listen and stay silent is not easy, you can find yourself longing not to hear them at all when you can't answer. Perhaps even for eternity."

She couldn't imagine even considering such a notion, one that trod so dangerously close to a path that led away from Heaven and only a few had chosen to follow since He first separated the light from the darkness as painted above.

"Is your gift a burden, beatus Raphael?"

His handsome face shifted, becoming softer and more wistful at the question. "My gift is wonderful. And terrible. I see such marvels to come, each more astonishing than the last as they continue to embrace art and science and learning, even when they stumble along the way. Then there are the horrors that have yet to be as well, when they fall into ignorance and loathing. But that is the future and as pleasant as it might have been to be gifted with visions of only the former and not the latter, without both, I would be blind in one eye."

With that, he made a motion with his hand and the candle that still burned lifted from the altar on unseen wings, crossing the bit of distance to float between his cupped palms. The little flame grew even stronger and for a moment that was an eternity unto itself the whole chapel blazed with light. Frescos acted out their stories in miniature, Passion Plays in pigment and plaster. The First Man reached to his Creator, the waters rose as the Flood washed over the banks and the Serpent hissed in triumph as the Forbidden Fruit was consumed and Man fell from grace.

Raphael offered the taper to her and she accepted it, his hands closing over hers so they both formed the ancient gesture of prayer. When he pulled away the flame returned to nothing more than a tiny spark, the painted figures were still and his eyes no longer reflected that which fate had hidden to all but him.

"They will follow you by this light, beata Emma."

She dipped her chin. "Gratias tibi ago."

The Archangel Raphael stepped back and folded his hands solemnly in his sleeves. A papal audience would conclude with the kissing of the fisherman's ring, but angels wore no jewelry. Her own fingers were bare of any adornment despite the richness of her attire. Still, she recognized she was being dismissed and she turned, satin gown rustling with the movement.

The candle illuminated the path back out of the chapel and no more, saints had retreated into shadows and all that remained of the dazzling splendor was a solitary angel. A glance back revealed what she already knew, Raphael was gone and she was alone.

It had already begun, Emma could hear the hue and cry quickly spreading across the city in advance of the army. She picked up her skirts and started to run, flying not with her wings but on her faith instead, trusting that it would take her where they would find her, whoever *they* were.

When she reached the closest set of doors that led outside they opened into the darkness of the night, the sky above indistinguishable from the ground below even with the candle in her hand burning bright. The space between the ornately carved wood gaped like a maw, and she could smell the smoke in the distance as her own prophecy came true and the fires were lit.

Rome had fallen.

When she reached the threshold the finely laid mosaics abruptly stopped, giving way to the drop where the Pope would slowly descend to the cheers of the waiting masses come to pay him homage in His name. Adoration had turned to debasement, cheers to screams, and as the floor fell away from beneath her feet Emma didn't ascend.

She leapt straight into the storm instead.

Lower Saxony, Germany, 1943

Bright sunshine shone down on the tall stone walls of the medieval Schloss, an imposing structure that dominated both the surrounding countryside of forests and fields and the picture postcard village nestled in the valley below, all nearly unchanged from how it must have looked centuries ago when the Hapsburgs still ruled this part of the world with absolute power not as mere kings like in France and England, but as emperors anointed by Rome.

Killian stepped out of his car and tilted his head back to take it all in, squinting into the light. It really was like stepping back in time, his was the only vehicle he'd seen on the winding road that connected castle and village and, unlike in every other city and town across Germany, there was no hint of the current turmoil to be seen or heard. No armed checkpoints on the roads, no soldiers posted at the town hall, not even the distant roar of the Luftwaffe in the sky overhead that was ever present now in even the most remote provinces far from the hive of furious activity that was Berlin. It would be curious, if Killian didn't already know exactly who was currently residing behind the ancient walls, someone who was far older and had the power to keep everything that was going on at bay.

For now, at least.

Inside, heavy damask curtains were drawn tight across every window and he was plunged directly into the darkness upon entering what was almost certainly enemy territory. It would have been disconcerting to anyone else, but Killian could see perfectly in the dark and his eyes adjusted at once with a flash of crimson to take in the artwork that crammed every inch of the walls in ornate frames. Far from an unusual sight in a castle, but these weren't the expected solemn-faced portraits of family scions or middling landscapes by unimportant artists like the one Emma had been so enamoured with before the French decided to give their entire aristocracy the same treatment as Herod gave to John the Baptist. Killian recognized the unmistakable hand of Titian in a red-haired siren and Caravaggio's signature chiaroscuro in the depiction of a saint, there was a Rembrandt that, as far as he knew, belonged to the Dutch royal family, currently exiled in Canada, and a half-finished sketch that he would wager a literal king's ransom was a Da Vinci. It was a veritable Aladdin's cave of priceless treasures, and none of it was owned by the noble family who had given their name to both the Schloss and the village and were now conspicuous by their absence. War had redrawn the European borders once again and, like the sacking of Rome by another German army four centuries prior, spoils had been taken and even more innocent blood was spilled. As Damnate Infernum, a Demon of Hell and corruptor of human souls Killian had seen it all before, he'd been standing on the hill when the city gates were finally breached on that May eve long ago and the holy city itself started to burn, but this conflagration was the closest he'd ever felt to the End of Days and the war destined to eclipse all others.

The Final Battle.

The artistic splendor was marred by the presence of an imp, lounging on an antique chaise in an insolent sprawl with one leg slung over the back and a grin that revealed a mouth packed with too many teeth.

Killian detested imps.

"Corruptor," the lesser demon practically purred, drawing the title out like it was a juicy treat. "What business have you with the illustrious Dark One? Have you come to make a deal?"

He would sooner be tortured by the Inquisition again than make a deal with Rumpelstiltskin and he bared his own teeth at the imp, white and far sharper than they looked.

"Tell your master that I'm here to speak with him, and that he needs to keep his pets on a tighter leash. I've heard what you've been up to when he lets you run loose. Bad form, even for an imp."

The rebuke in his voice made the imp's head snap back hard against the padded velvet, but instead of being chastised, it let out a high-pitched giggle that quickly melted into an obscene moan.

"Do it again!"

Killian grit his teeth, trying to keep his hellish temper in check. As much as he would have liked to teach the imp a painful lesson in the proper amount of deference owed to a higher demon, he was here for something far more important and anything else was a distraction.

Besides, the infernal creature would probably enjoy it.

"Fetch. Your. Master," he repeated, each word snapping in the air like the crack of a whip.

The imp stood and gave a mocking salute, clicking its heels together and bending its knees like a ballerina doing a plié. Killian didn't return the gesture, despite the uniform he was currently wearing.

"Aye, aye, Kapitän."

He felt his eyes narrow at that as the imp disappeared down the hall, dancing and whistling a jaunty tune through those piranha teeth as it went. The sound seemed to echo long after the imp was gone until Killian realized he was hearing someone else instead, his head turning in the direction it was coming from and following on silent feet until he found the source.

A pair of narrow doors stood ajar with a sliver of light peeking out and through the gap he saw that it was the castle's library, tall stacks rising right to the ceiling and filled cheek by jowl with leather-bound books. He gave the door the tiniest of nudges and it swung open fully, revealing that the curtains were tied back in heavy swags unlike in the other rooms he had passed, letting in the sun. The reason why quickly became obvious, there was a ladder attached to the bookcases to allow access to the higher shelves and perched on it was a soman, her back to him as she dusted along a row of books and hummed to herself in a sweet voice. Unlike the imp she was mortal, entirely human, her petite figure clad in a modest blue dress and her chestnut hair falling down her back in thick curls. Killian supposed she was Rumpelstiltskin's chambermaid, but strangely for someone in a demon's employ there wasn't a whiff of corruption about her. As one whose entire purpose was to corrupt and defile he could always detect it, to him it was like the scent of overripe fruit about to spoil. It clung indelibly to those falling away from the Light as their souls blackened and shrivelled like the half-eaten apple left behind in the Garden, so perfect and unblemished on the Tree until temptation proved too much for Mankind to resist. Whoever the woman was, she was still innocent, and curiosity had time taking a step closer because he was never one to resist temptation in any form.

The doors both slammed shut in his face before he could cross the threshold, with enough force to make his teeth rattle and the sweet humming was abruptly cut off, replaced by the harsh scrape of a lock being turned.

"Corruptor."

His demonic title was spoken from behind him in an oily voice and Killian turned smoothly on his booted heel, away from the library and the woman now locked within.

"Dealmaker," he acknowledged.

Rumpelstiltskin's thin lips went even thinner, but he couldn't fault Killian for addressing him in kind and not by his preferred moniker. He was attired in current fashion from the knife's-edge part in his hair down to his two-tone loafers, but he still carried the silver-tipped cane that Killian remembered from Paris, in the midst of another time and another war. The handle was shaped like a reptile's head, fitting for an ancient demon with such a cold-blooded disposition. The ebony tip rapped sharply against the floor when he turned and started to walk back down the hall without another word, not bothering to check if Killian followed. The dealmaker was more arrogant than any king in his newly acquired castle, and Killian rolled his eyes behind the self-styled Dark One's back before falling reluctantly into step to the metronome of the cane against the polished stone, each strike echoing loudly in the silence.

More incredible art adorned the walls on either side of them, one long corridor was completely lined in fourteenth-century tapestries that were somewhat faded with age but remarkably intact, depicting a typical medieval hunt. Killian had participated in his fair share of them under his many different noble aliases, he immediately recognized the scenes. The elusive quarry managed to evade the hunting party for several panels, leaping through glens and peeping defiantely at them through a copse of trees just beyond their reach. It almost slipped away, but the pursuers were determined and the freedom of the forest was fleeting, as the tiny woven arrows landed straight and true at the end.

Rumpelstiltskin came to a halt by another pair of doors where the imp was waiting, bowing like a well-trained footmen when he approached, fawning and obsequious now in the master's direct presence instead of mocking and impertinent. Rumpelstiltskin lifted the tip of the cane off the floor and used it to raise the imp's chin, forcing the creature's head back at what on anyone else would be an unnatural angle.

"Wait for me outside the library. It's currently locked, and it stays that way."

The order was clear and the imp ran off again, not bothering with any theatrics this time to scuttle away like a cockroach instead. Killian watched it scurry down the hall, his interest piqued even more while Rumpelstiltskin entered what looked like an ordinary sitting room. Tufted chairs, a wireless in a walnut case, and a china tea set left on a side table, nothing unexpected at first glance. A closer look told a slightly different story, there was a copy of the current evening edition of the London Telegraph folded next to the flowered cups, even though it wouldn't be out for another two hours across the Channel. There was no picture of Der Führer hung in place of pride or copy of his odious book on display as there were in every patriotic German household, and even ensconced as he was deep within the dark heart of the Glorious Reich, Killian suspected that Rumpelstiltskin had his long, grasping fingers stuck in all sorts of pies.

"Did the local count bargain away both his Schloss and das Mädchen?"

Killian sat down in the tallest chair without waiting for an invitation, pulling out a silver cigarette case engraved with his monogram and flicking it open. He lit one without a match, inhaling deep and blowing out not a mere smoke ring, but a smoke serpent that rose in the air and hissed right in the other demon's face until it dissipated from an equal flick of Rumpelstiltskin's finger, his expression clearly unimpressed by the showy display.

"She made her own deal with me and is therefore off limits to you, Corruptor," he said. "Don't think I've forgotten the last time you interfered in my affairs."

Killian hadn't forgotten it either, and he couldn't say he felt any remorse for assisting the courtesan Maleficent settle her affairs behind Rumpelstilskin's back. The letter she had written had been delivered safe to her daughter while the daughter's husband was away from the house and unable to confiscate it, Killian had made sure of that. It hadn't been a deal, not exactly, just an offer made to give the woman a bit of comfort with none of his usual strings attached because he felt like being magnanimous. Besides, he'd always enjoyed Maleficent's elegant salons. He took another drag on his cigarette and did his best to look contrite, even though they both knew it was completely insincere.

"Speaking of which," Rumpelstiltskin continued, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "what happened to that angel you were so damn adamant about? I heard rumours that an angel finally smited that irritating succubus Zelena in Paris and yet by some miracle you appear to have walked away from that encounter completely unscathed. How curious."

Killian hadn't forgotten the Dark One's interest in his angel either, an interest he had no intention of encouraging. Emma hadn't fallen, not yet, and until she did and he could claim her openly for his own, she was fair game to any demon that crossed her path. He was certain that he was the only one who could seduce her, but the others would be all too eager to attack a Blessed One and try to destroy her. Including the demon who sat across from him now.

He needed to tread very carefully.

"She flew beyond my grasp," he said, blowing out another lungful of smoke that turned into an image of Zelena's face, rendered as delicately as any of the paintings on display. Her mouth split open in a silent pantomime of her final, agonized scream when another breath of smoke spilled over it just as the holy water had in life. "Zelena thought she could take an angel on herself, if she had stayed on her back where she belonged and out of my way, then maybe she wouldn't have ended up as nothing more than effluent in the Paris sewers alongside the contents of every royal bowel loosened by the steel kiss of Madame Guillotine. But I can't say I mourned her untimely passing, not after she spoiled my plans and let the angel escape."

Zelena's image finally melted away just like the succubus herself when he stubbed the cigarette out into a crystal ashtray, leaving behind a smear of ash as dark and thick as her infernal blood had been when it spilled over the blade of his iron knife. Rumpelstiltskin's gaze followed the movement, unblinking even through the eye-watering haze of smoke that now filled the room.

"Indeed. Perhaps you'll have another bite at that particular apple, one day. Although it's already been what, a hundred and fifty years? Taking the definition of eternity rather literally, aren't we now?"

Killian knew it was a jab at his apparent failure and he let his expression twist into a scowl. Little did the Dark One know of all the nights since then when he'd succeeded in "capturing" Emma, her wrists pinned fast by his grasp that could so easily become shackles from which she'd never escape, caging her with his body while she was wound in his sheets, close, so close to surrendering to him fully and not just to his carnal temptation. He'd savour his other victories privately until then, how he'd coaxed out her name the night they met, worked to gain her trust over the centuries, her confession that she could hear him, each far more valuable and rarer than any painting or tapestry Rumpelstiltskin could acquire.

He'd get what he wanted, in the end. Patience might be a virtue, but he was willing to be virtuous for this, and he'd rub Rumpelstiltskin's nose right in his success whether it took ten years or a hundred. Losing a little face now was a small price to pay.

Turn the other cheek, as it were.

"I'm sure it didn't take you nearly as long to accumulate your little treasure trove, did it, Dark One? And all strictly for the glory of the new German empire, I'm sure."

There was a flash of amusement on Rumpelstiltskin's face at the sarcasm in Killian's tone.

"I've held up my end of all the bargains I've made on behalf of the empire. What you see here are merely a few trinkets kept for my private collection."

Killian thought that "looted" was probably a more apt description than "kept" for the fortune crammed onto the walls, but he didn't say it out loud. And he was the one who'd once been called a pirate. Still, the dealmaker's penchant for trinkets was the whole reason why he'd come and he made a photograph appear, held delicately between his fingers like the cigarette before he set it on the table and slid it over.

"Is this one of your new acquisitions like the artwork and the decorative young girl, perhaps?"

The image was grainy, a faded sepia and foxed at the edges from age. Rumpelstiltskin looked down at it and while his expression didn't change the blue haze in the air from the cigarette smoke rippled around him, like a stone dropped in a still pond.

"It's called the White Hilt," Killian began, watching the other demon carefully as he spoke, "among other names, and was said to have been made from a remnant of the sword wielded by the angel who drove the First Man and First Woman from the Garden, where it was cleaved in two by their sin."

While the photograph was badly faded, the object pictured was still recognizable and had even retained a bit of gloss, forever reflecting the flash that had gone off when the image was captured for posterity. It was a blade, long and narrow and oddly shaped. Both sides were curved several times along the edge, so that it resembled less of a knife and more like a lick of flame made metal. Despite the name the actual hilt wasn't white, it was so dark in the picture that it was probably black or nearly to it, and was studded with what looked like a large jewel at the top.

"There was legends about it, like those about the Holy Grail and the Spear of Destiny, but they fell out of fashion and out of history and only a few scholars have even heard of the White Hilt now, including those that Der Führer has combing every pilfered record he can get his hands on thanks to his new obsession, the occult sciences."

Rumpelstiltskin gave him a contemptuous look. "Spare me the lesson, I'm far more versed in these tales than you, Corruptor. More than one soul has tried to barter with me for holy relics, thinking it will bring them power and glory. A blade forged from Heavenly light is an attractive idea, especially to one who has styled himself a Saviour of the people."

"While he exterminates those who don't fit his definition of the term," Killian added.

It wasn't spoken of openly, but people knew where their absent neighbours had gone. Yellow stars were left behind on the lintels of empty houses, paint flaking away in the elements and the sin cut deeper than any knife.

The other demon lifted one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. "Sieg Heil."

As before, Killian didn't return the sentiment. He gestured to the photograph instead. "This was taken sometime before the Great War, in this very castle."

He flipped it over and revealed the writing on the back, done in an old, copperplate hand. There were only three lines, the name of the Schloss they were currently sitting in, an illegible signature, and below them both was a word written first in German, and then, perhaps more tellingly, in Latin.

Dagger

Rumpelstiltskin eyed his uniform, one that gave him near absolute authority in the name of the would-be king. "I suppose you've come here as the knight on a noble quest?" he asked, tone still laced with contempt. "Shall I address you as Sir Killian instead of Corruptor then, collecting shiny tribute for your new master?"

Killian ignored that jab as well and focused on what the dealmaker might have just accidently let slip instead.

"So it is here?"

He met Rumpelstiltskin's gaze head on across the table. It was like staring into a well, his eyes were fathomless black depths that seemed to ripple from deep within. A mortal soul would fear what lurked unseen at the bottom and glance away from it, as Damnate Infernum in his own right, with power far beyond what the rank on his collar granted him, Killian didn't blink.

When Rumpelstiltskin spoke again it was through teeth gone serrated as a crocodile's. "I don't answer to you. Or to Der Führer. You think I'm somehow unaware of his more esoteric interests and attempts to collect such objects? Napoleon went to Egypt in search of Biblical treasures to strengthen his laughable claim, Charles V sent his troops to Rome to seize Saint Peter's throne, and now Adolf Hitler seeks a broken sword with which to rule the world. An emperor in all but name, and like those who came before him, doomed to inevitable failure. Just as you've failed in your pathetic attempt to intimidate me."

He started to rise from his seat then, cane in one hand and clear dismissal in his voice. "You can see yourself out now, Corruptor."

Killian remained where he was, idly examining his rings. The large, square cut ruby that he'd owned for centuries sat on his finger and winked up at him, he refused to don the honours that went with the uniform and wore his favourite pieces in their place instead. He rubbed his thumb over it and admired the fire within before rolling his wrist and snapping his fingers without looking up.

"Even in this modern world, I find that some still cling rather stubbornly to the old ways, don't you, Dealmaker? Especially those who used to hold power. They still style themselves with the titles they lost in the last war in the hope they'll regain them one day, prince, duke, count, and they still arrange marriages for their children. Marriage is a sacrament, and there is nothing more sacred to these people than money."

Rumpelstiltskin snatched up the papers that had appeared on the desk at Killian's command, his face a mask of utter fury as he scanned them and obviously realized his error. The marriage contract was clear, the bride's wealthy family had provided a considerable dowry to the impoverished but noble groom, on the condition that she be granted sole ownership of his ancestral seat and all the contents within upon the wedding, a hedge against a future divorce. Furnishings, carpets, silverware, there was a complete inventory right down to the number of teaspoons.

Including; "an antique jewelled dagger of unknown provenance."

"I confess I may lack your level of expertise," Killian continued, acting as innocent as a virgin at Mass, "but I do know that you can't put up what doesn't belong to you as collateral. Your contract was only with the husband. Mine is with the wife."

Her signature was next to Killian's own on the document the Dark One now held, granting him possession of the castle and surrounding estate. Marriage was a sacrament, and adultery was his favourite sin. He lit another cigarette from his silver case, filled as much with smug satisfaction at having pulled the rug out from under Rumpelstiltskin as the smoke he drew into his lungs. Another demon couldn't interfere directly once a bargain was struck and they both knew it. But Killian hadn't, since the deal was never valid to begin with. "Good faith" was not a doctrine demons followed, and Rumpelstiltskin had no choice but to accept that his own carefully wrought deal was now completely null and void.

"You don't answer to me, that's true. But you do answer to the Fallen One, so if you care to argue this further we can always take this little disagreement to him for a final ruling, if you desire."

The papers fluttered back down and spread across the table in an untidy heap while Rumpelstiltskin's dark gaze went sharper than any dagger. Despite his easy posture with the cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers, Killian was inwardly as tense as a bowstring. They were both bound by the same rules that called for the other demon to acquiesce, however unwilling he was to do so, but he looked to be on the verge of breaking those rules completely and refusing to relinquish his claim. If he did it would come at a considerable cost, and Killian's entire plan hinged on the Dark One being unwilling to pay it.

"That's twice," he said at last. "Believe me, there won't be a third time."

With that, Rumpelstiltskin lifted his cane and slammed it back down on the floor. The sound was like the strike of a match flaring to life, only magnified a thousandfold and everything in the room rattled from the force of it. For a split second Killian could see what lay beneath the unassuming countenance that had slithered unnoticed and forgotten throughout history for so long, the Beast without his human form to conceal him. He braced himself for the attack that was sure to follow, fingers tightening on the arm of the chair and ready to leap up and fling the lit cigarette right into the demon's face.

It never came. The Dark One was gone instead.

His boots made no sound when he stood up from the chair and walked around the table, the tip of the cigarette flaring crimson as he took another deep inhale. A chasm had opened in the floor like a sinkhole, right where the cane had struck. Killian crouched down to examine it, taking a final drag before flicking the cigarette into the hole and watching it fall end over end until it was swallowed up by the darkness. The chasm was deep, impossibly so, and for a moment he wondered if Rumpelstiltskin had decided to appeal to Lucifer after all and returned to Infernum itself to do so, as the Fallen One rarely left his kingdom below. He waited a few moments, but there was no summons under his skin that compelled him to follow and a check of the castle revealed that most of the treasures had been removed as well. The walls where the tapestries had hung were bare, the exquisite paintings were gone, furniture was draped in dusty cloths and there was an air of disuse and neglect as if everything had been shut away and left untouched for months. A check of the hall outside the library revealed the imp was nowhere to be found, and now that he'd established himself as master the door opened as soon as Killian touched the knob.

It was empty.

Not just the maid, a lot of the books had vanished alongside her. There were holes on the shelves that hadn't been there before and a few of the ones left behind had toppled over completely without the others to hold them in place. Rumpelstiltskin had withdrawn in silent acknowledgement that he'd been outmaneuvered, but he'd obviously taken everything from his other deals along with him. Using that much power at once could nearly cripple a demon, even one as powerful as the dealmaker.

When he returned to the sitting room he saw the rent in the floor had sealed itself back up and all that remained where it had been was a small black mark, perfectly round, left by the tip of the cane. His shoulders dropped with relief under the tailored wool of his jacket that his gamble had paid off, in truth, Killian hadn't wanted to involve the Fallen One either and the invocation of his authority had been a bluff.

The edge of the photograph peeked out from underneath a page of dry German legalese, Killian picked it up and read the words on the back again. If the White Hilt truly existed, then it was a holy relic of the highest order and one he would not allow to fall into Nazi hands. That madman in Berlin could make do with the ramblings of false prophets and the bones of apocryphal saints to fuel his insane crusade, anything genuine was exceedingly rare and he had his own reasons for searching such objects out, reasons he didn't share with those who only thought the commanded him. Just as it had the last time he'd been part of a German army, it was to serve his own purposes and not the other way around.

"Find it."

He didn't have any imps at his disposal so he sent his shadow to begin the search instead. The dark shape moved along the wall of its own volition and sank into the stone like water sinking into the sand, if the dagger was secreted somewhere within the Schloss then he'd find it no matter how well it was hidden. If it turned out to be a medieval copy then he'd return with it to the capital and graciously accept the Reich's accolades, but if it was real, then his coded dispatch would report that the legend of a blade forged from a sword once wielded by a holy angel was just that, a legend, and nothing more.

Night had fallen by the time Killian went outside for some air, frustrated by what appeared to be a fruitless search. There was no jewelled dagger anywhere to be found and he couldn't sense the presence of anything holy. He'd known the odds were exceedingly slim to begin with, and yet for some reason a part of him had believed that not only did the White Hilt exist, he would find it here. Learning that Rumpelstiltskin had chosen this of all the estates he could have had for a wartime headquarters had only increased that belief, it was too much of a coincidence that the demon who coveted power above all else could be sitting unawares on such a prize.

A single line in an inventory that had been prepared years prior and a photograph even older still. It could be real, or it could be nothing more than a wild goose chase and there was no way to tell without the dagger itself. He'd know immediately, just as he'd known that Emma was an angel. The damned always recognized the divine.

A light appeared high in the sky above and drew his attention up. It wasn't the holy light that had drawn him closer on that night in Rome when war had raged unchecked and the city burned, it was the Luftwaffe, flying on steel wings to rain fire in the form of the bombs dropped nightly across the Channel. A falling star streaking across the heavens with a deafening roar, and as it passed overhead he felt the disturbance in the air even from the ground.

The feeling didn't go away after the plane was gone, if anything it increased, hairs on the back of his neck rising and a prickling under his skin that usually meant one thing. Something else caught his eye, a tiny bit of movement that was nothing but a pale smudge against the deep indigo at first. As it grew closer Killian saw that it was a bird, a dove, with something held in its beak.

Not an olive branch, it was a note, falling straight into his hands while the dove flew away. There was only one who correspond with him in such a fashion, and it wasn't another demon. When he unfolded the square of paper letters appeared as if by magic in gold script, addressed at the top in a familiar hand to, "Damnate."

Killian quickly scanned the lines, his brow creasing with a frown. Once he'd secured control of the castle his plan had been to keep following the trail of the White Hilt if it wasn't there, he had some other leads and records that pointed to where it might have gone and the war was the perfect cover for his pursuit. Now that the Dark One knew of his interest, it was even more important that he maintained his cover and moved as quickly as possible. He wasn't bound to answer the summons he held in his hands, the promise he'd made could easily be broken.

"...as you once agreed to give me safe passage I ask that assistance again of you now…"

"...I need you…"

"...please…"

It was signed at the bottom with a single initial in lieu of a name, E, and he brushed his thumb over it.

His answer was silent to all but her.

Belgian Countryside, 1943

"Someone's coming."

The whispered announcement made everyone freeze for a moment before they hurried to the dusty windows in a flurry of palpable dread, dousing the old gas lamp they'd been using for light and pulling the tattered curtains back to peer out into the gloom on the other side of the glass. Outside it was pitch-black for miles around and silent as a tomb across the barren fields and empty roads that made up the ancient Flemish countryside, with not a soul to be seen nor heard from in days. Or it had been, at least. Now there was a distinctly mechanical hum in the air, quiet and barely audible at first, but growing louder and louder and a collective gasp echoed around the room when the long drive to the abandoned farmhouse where they'd taken refuge suddenly lit up with twin oblong lights. As yellow as the predatory eyes of a serpent poised to strike and moving even more quickly, they were unmistakably headlamps, from a large vehicle that was making its way directly towards them at breakneck speed.

"Soldiers!"

"Germans!"

It was a single cry of alarm that was taken up at once by the rest of the ragged group, white-faced and trembling with both exhaustion and fear. In the shadows Philippe and Richard shared that kind of unguarded embrace that would send them straight to the camps as sexual deviants alongside Isaac and the other Jews who sought shelter under her wings, while the Mother Superior had her arms wrapped comfortingly around little Gretel, as thin and delicate as a baby bird fallen from the nest.

Emma forced herself to her feet despite her own utter fatigue and lurched towards the door, tossing a hurried, "Stay here," over her shoulder as she went.

"Emma, Emma come back!"

"Emma, wait, no, it's too dangerous, you don't know who's out there-"

She heard them, but there was another voice that was even louder and she didn't heed their warnings, already on the sagging porch with her shoes scarcely touching the ground as she practically flew down the steps and flung herself headlong into the path of the oncoming car. The light found her immediately and there was an ear-splitting squeal of metal as the unseen driver behind the wheel slammed on the brakes. Gravel flew from under the tires like shrapnel and the car skidded to a halt scant inches from where she stood, so close that Emma could feel the searing heat from the engine, a shocking contrast against the cooler night air. A door opened and a tall figure emerged, standing just beyond the pool of light with his face hidden under the brim of his hat. His appearance elicited another shriek of fright from behind her when they caught a glimpse of his uniform, the glint of silver on his collar and the armband red as blood. Her little flock hadn't listened and had followed her outside, staying close to their shepherd and bleating in fear like orphaned lambs in the dark. Their presence pulled at her to return while his pushed her back, his damnation attempting to repel away her divinity and she swayed back and forth where she stood, caught between warring instincts until he stepped into the light and there was nothing except him.

"Engel," Killian murmured when she threw herself at him, straight into his arms and burying her face in his shoulder. His voice rumbled through her, equal parts amused and concerned. "Oh blessed one. What have you done now?"

There was a shuffle of footsteps behind her and she felt him stiffen, his attention shifting to the small group she'd guided from the Dutch border and across half of occupied Belgium. Emma knew she should pull herself away and try to come up with an explanation as to why she was embracing what appeared to be a Nazi officer who'd just appeared out of nowhere in a car more suited to a film star than a soldier. It must look like their shepherd had delivered them straight to the wolves instead of the safety she promised and she should step back, reassure them, ease their worry...but her head was too heavy, weighed down with innumerable unanswered prayers that flickered behind her eyes in an endless loop. People were suffering, starving, dying, and it was too much for even her wings to carry. Her fingers curled into the dark wool of his jacket and when they called her name again it seemed to come from very far away. His voice was among them but she couldn't answer, her hold loosening and her knees giving out, buckling like an ancient tree gone hollow with age and unable to withstand the force of the wind any longer.

"Killian."

His name fell from her lips in a whisper and she was falling with it, the hard earth below rushing up to meet her and the heavens above, dark, and devoid of stars.

The demon caught her before she hit the ground.

#cs ff #cs fic #my fic #Between Heaven and Hell

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xaphrin · 4 years

Text

The delicate sound of the bell above the doorway made her heave a sigh so deep that she was certain demons roaming beneath the earth heard her. Honestly, at this hour? She turned the page of the book she was reading, not bothering to look up.

“I’m sorry, we’re closed for the night.”

“I’m aware.”

Oh.

Her spine straightened at the sound of that soft, low hum, tinged with an accent she couldn’t quite place. It made her look up, and heat stained Raven’s neck, curling towards her ears. She slammed the cover of her book closed, trying to still her beating heart as Damian Wayne took a careful step into the shop, pausing to flick the lock into place behind him.

Raven chewed on her lower lip and took another breath, letting it out slowly. The Waynes had been part owner of the shop since before she inherited it from her bastard of a father (the only good thing he left her when he finally died), and they had been nothing but kind and supportive. She was the only woman bookseller in the whole city, and the Waynes were surprisingly progressive about such things.

Damian, however, had taken a particular interest in the workings of the shop, and had been coming by more and more, in spite of his obvious trust of her business acumen. For a moment she almost considered that he might be paying interest in her, but… she shouldn’t think too hard on that topic. He was only coming around so often because he had financial stock in such a small business, and he was worried about losing money. That had to be the only reason he was here right now.

Damian looked somewhat disheveled as he stood near the front of her shop. Well, as disheveled as a Wayne could be. His cravat was untied, hanging loosely around his neck, and his vest was unbuttoned, showing a deep V of dark, olive skin that made her heart jump into her throat and beat wildly. He looked flushed and out-of-place, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing here, but somehow knew he didn’t want to leave.

He stepped deeper into the shop, his fingers running along the cover of a book left out on the counter. Raven’s eyes watched the way he stroked the letters almost absently, as if he wasn’t quite reading the title, but wasn’t ready to meet her stare. Raven let herself enjoy the way the light from her lantern hugged every sharp angle of his skin and bathed him in flickering shadow.

His eyes finally met her own, and there was a weighted silence that settled over them, like the calm before a storm. “I came to see if you have a book that I seem to be missing from my collection.”

Did he now?

Raven stood up from her small reading table towards the back of the shop and straightened her skirts, smoothing her hands over her stomach. Her fingers stopped at her waist as she realized, with no small amount of mortification, that she had removed her corset earlier that evening. Oh hell. While she usually admired the comfort of being without a corset, it was typically in the privacy of her own living quarters upstairs. Now, here she was, only halfway dressed and standing in front of her patron. Color crawled up her neck, but she chose not to say anything. Damian didn’t seem to mind either.

“Which book are you looking for?”

“Mm?” Damian stepped forward again, and Raven felt as though he was filling the small space. He looked far too large for the tight space between the stacks, but he kept moving towards her, like he was prowling.

Heat burned in the middle of her chest, and she felt like her clothes were suddenly too heavy and too tight. She wanted to rip them from her body and leave herself bare for him and him alone. She wanted to feel the heat of his hands slide along her, trace and the curves of her body, touch her in ways she barely understood.

“Which book?” Raven asked again, feeling like her voice was a breathy whisper that didn’t quite meet anyone’s ears, her own included. Her mind was suddenly wandering again, and her stare kept being drawn to the exposed line of his throat, and the flutter of pulse that beat beneath it. She swallowed another shaky breath, smelling the spiced scent of him on the air. He was… intoxicating, and it should have frightened her, but somehow didn’t. “Which book are you looking for? For your collection.”

Damian seemed no longer concerned with books of any kind. He stepped up to her and rested his hand along her rib cage, fingers splaying out along her curves. It was like she could feel every ridge of his fingers and ever scar on his palm. The spark of excitement in her stomach turned into a bright, hot conflagration, burning along her skin and setting her whole body aflame. It was only her will clinging desperately to some ridiculous sense of propriety that kept her from gathering her skirts in her hands and shoving them up her hips.

She wasn't so innocent, and she knew what it felt like when hands stroked her in all the right ways. But, here in this moment, with Damian practically towering over her, looking like a parched man in a desert, she desperately wanted to know how his hands felt along her bare skin. Raven pushed at a stray lock of hair and took a deep breath, never breaking contact with the darkness of his stare.

“If you’re going to do it, then do it.”

Damian blinked, as if he was clearing a spell from his thoughts. His head tipped to the side and his stare slipped from her eyes to her lips and then lower. He murmured something in the back of his throat, a low rumbling noise in a language she only heard him speak when he was upset, and it sounded somewhere between a curse and a prayer. Raven tilted her head up to his face and felt her lips brush against his jaw. It was a ghost of something more, and it was like the first hit of a drug - addictive and dangerous.

The lamp behind them let go of a soft snap as the flame flickered, and then Raven felt the whole world drown in rich, heavy darkness.

Damian’s mouth sealed over her own, drawing out whatever breath was still clinging to her. Her trembling hands right up and tightened in the soft linen of his undershirt, pulling herself up a few scant inches to try and get closer to him. His kiss was so hot it was branding her, ruining her for anyone else who might dare try to come into her life. Raven’s mouth moved over his own, exploring him like he was a delicacy that she had never tasted before. He was heat and spice and desire all twisted up into a single person, and she wanted him. She wanted him in a way she had never wanted anyone in her life. It was like she was drowning and he was the air she needed to breathe.

Damian’s hands burned a trail down her ribs before resting against the swell of her hips. He twisted the folds of fabric in between his fingers and pushed her backward, until she found herself pinned between a bookshelf and the immovable weight of his chest. Raven let go of a sharp breath, and Damian took the opportunity to nudge her mouth open further, running his tongue along the curve of her lower lip. A moan escaped and she pushed up into his mouth, feeling as though she couldn’t get close enough to him.

He let go of another growl in the back of his throat, and pulled her tight against him. Underneath her touch, she could feel his own desperate breath and rapid heart, and it made Raven feel unhinged and wild. She chased after his mouth, pulling him back down to her when he pulled away to try and say something to her. She didn’t want to talk. He made her not want to talk. He made her want to do something.

Damian’s mouth left hers to kiss down the neck, biting and lapping at her pulse. She cursed through clenched teeth and tipped her head back, feeling the scrape of teeth along her skin. He smiled against her collar bone, his hands twisting up more fabric of her skirt, lifting it higher and higher until the hem brushed scandalously against her calves. She almost pulled it up the rest of the way herself, until she was completely exposed to him. But his tongue ran back up her neck and he nipped at her earlobe.

He muttered to her in his native language again, his voice a low rumble of promise and sin. Raven sagged against his chest, worried her knees would give out under the weight of his own need. Damian nuzzled the tender spot underneath her ear, kissing it and sucking on it just enough to leave a pale mark.

“I have forgotten the title.” He let her skirt fall back to the floor, and took a step back, letting much needed cool air fill the space between them. Pushing at his hair, Damian let his eyes sweep over the length of her. He was trying to look calm and collected, but Raven could see the wildness in his own eyes, and she felt drawn to it. “But if I think of it, I will be sure to visit you again.”

Raven took a slow breath and let her own eyes wander over him. His muscles tensed and his hands flexed at his sides, as if even thinking about touching her was too much for him. Like he could easily lose control of himself. Her eyes drifted lower, and she could see his erection press against the neat line of his pants. Heaven on earth. Heat fanned out over her cheeks, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from him, and Damian caught her curious exploration with a soft smirk.

“I will see you at the gathering at Drake’s estate.”

It wasn’t a question. If Raven had any reservations about going to a party filled with people far above her station, it died at the sound of his command. Defying him was not something he would have allowed in any capacity. Searching for a response seemed useless and futile, and she swallowed and nodded, her eyes finally meeting his own. “I’ll be attending.”

“Mm.” He smoothed down the front of his shirt and made his way to the door. Raven watched as he stepped onto the street, waiting until he disappeared into the darkness of the street before she sagged against the bookshelf behind her.

#damirae #regency au #demonbirds #look I know I have 800 other things I should be working on #but this was just fun and distracting #and I enjoyed myself #PLUS #I managed to work through some things for the next chapter of Shadows #so..... score

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