Yet all owed obedience to the petite young woman lounging on a throne of obsidian: clad in a pure, pristine white ballgown absolutely covered in floral patterns made of writing blood. Countless magical flowers kept at the edge of sprouting, held in place by will alone. Most would struggle and fail to control even a single creation of such complexity, much less dozens of varying purpose and use, yet she managed such an impossible feat with a coy little smile.
As if to ask the world: ‘What, like it's Hard?’
Shalom approached, just out of arm’s reach, and knelt as described in the old ways: drop to one knee, hide her hands in the folds of her dress, spread the gown wide and bow deeply. The pose must then be maintained, despite the discomfort, until she was given leave to raise her head. It may have been a trick, but Shalom would swear Coquelic inhaled sharply at her efforts.
Or perhaps it was the things this pose did to her appearance: she’d dressed in a form-fitting gown black as night, carefully threaded with countless star-stolen gemstones filled with her magical power. When standing the neckline straddled the ragged edge of salacious, but in her current position Coquelic had a splendid look straight down her cleavage. And to ensure her assets attracted the well known debauched Lord’s attention, she’d worn a beautifully crafted leather collar with a gleaming blood-red centerpiece.
A year of effort to craft the flawless gemstone from her very blood, crimson essence interwoven with the subtlest of fascinations. Little more than a momentary distraction, but often that was all she needed and this time was no different.
“Look at me, supplicant.” The rest of the room fell to one knee as Coquelic spoke. Her voice was light, dainty, hedonistic. Perfect.
“As you command, my Lord.” She obeyed, finding the desired surprise and lust in Coquelic’s eyes, for all that her expression was stern and controlled.
#ptn #pathtonowhere #Shaquelic #shalom #coquelic
Wholly inspired by @cookiesteman.bsky.social 's one vampire Shaquelic art. Sometimes the story writes itself.
archiveofourown.org/works/628119...
