#and the hounds bay for blood

[mediumsizedpidegon]

cannot believe that out of all the shows I enjoy, it's fucking naruto that has got me writing songs again after like. five years

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Run Away To Me (III)

AU MASTERLIST || FINAL CHAPTER

PAIRING: Blacksmith!Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Runaway Bride!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 5.1k

WARNINGS: Blood, wounds, medieval period-esc standards for women, arranged marriage, toxic family dynamic/relationship, blood, angst, protective Johnny, violence, hurt/comfort, speedy relationship, talks of sex/intimacy (nothing in depth) & virginity pertaining to marriage, religious symbolism & mentions, etc.

A/N: That's it for this AU - onto Werewolf!Ghost next.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You’re kept behind Johnny’s back as you both exit the treeline, and you feel yourself quivering with unease. 

What would Lord Wilkin do to you? Drag you back? As the shelter of the trees leaves you, you tighten your grip on the blacksmith’s tunic, breathing out a shaky puff of air. Cobalt eyes look back at you, trying to reassure you as the first calls start up from the guards.

Johnny whispers out, his accent deep. “It’s gonna be just fine.” 

“She’s here!” 

Hounds dash forward but with a sharp bark of, “Get back!” They skid along the dewy grass and halt with rabid barks instead, fur bristled and spittle flying. The men surge forward, and you gasp as they grapple at Johnny’s arms. 

One tries to snatch at the neck of your cloak, but a strong arm traps the armored wrist and twists it sideways, snapping the bone as you stare wide-eyed as the guard screams; jerking back and stumbling to his knees. With a fluid motion, Johnny grasps the handle of the downed guard’s sword as he writhes with agony, unsheathing the blade and laying it upon the breast of the other with a dim call. 

He glowers and glares, eyes like burning coals. 

“I suggest you step back,” you watch, holding your breath from over his shoulder as the blacksmith leans closer to the man, one arm kept behind him and resting on your hip. “‘Fore this gets bloody.” The guard raises his hands and backs up quickly, fear splashing his eyes. 

All of the others watch nervously from the sidelines, either reigning in steeds or holding their hands to the pommels of their weapons. Waiting. 

You swallow the saliva in your throat and ask, quietly, “Are you alright?” 

“Don’t twist your head about me,” Johnny reassures, eyes traveling around the homestead as the guards shuffle and share glances. The Scot grits his teeth and tries to think of a way out of this. 

If you had run, just as the man had anticipated, they would have caught up in no time.

The clop of hooves from your left draws both of yours’ attention in a quick succession of perked heads and pounding hearts. You feel your blood drop to pool in your feet at the face that meets you. Johnny growls and shoves you farther into his shadow as Lord Wilkin comes closer with a horse of bay coat, decorated with all the finery of his station. Gold, great coat with an embroidered tunic, and riding boots. Strapped at his waist was a dagger encrusted with gems made of blood and diamonds.

Never mind all that wealth, he looked ugly and cruel to you—a glint of arrogance in his eye. You glare and grit your teeth, rage coming off in waves from Johnny as well as yourself. 

Wilkin’s old face is the same you remember smirking down at you as he drove the ceremonial blade into your palm, and your entire hand flinches in memory, digging your nails into the Scot’s waist. 

He puffs a sound of reassurance but otherwise doesn’t move an inch from in front of you.

“And who might this be holding my bride hostage?” The Lord’s voice is sly. Black eyes dart up and down Johnny’s form and the man you latch to has to restrain a rabid grunt of anger. Stay his molten tongue. “A blacksmith?”

“It’s MacTavish, to you,” Johnny calls, tone dead and laced with danger. Your body restrains a shiver as his warm skin sinks into you; the memory of his lips on yours is addictive, even now. “Be best for you to remember it, eh? Considerin’ I’m the one who supplies your fucking guards with arms.” 

Lord Wilkin utterly ignores him, his gaze sliding to you halfway through his sentence. You stay silent, lungs tight inside of your ribs. The unfortunate truth was that Johnny still had more standing here than you did, anything that you said would come up as null and void; in fact, it would be better to be completely mute. 

But with how the Lord was looking at you, your teeth had to bite into your lip to silence yourself. You had to come up with a way out of this. Soon. 

“Take my bride away from this brute. Chain him.” Wilkin hides a smirk, pulling at his steed’s reigns to shift the beast away with a snort and a flick of a dark tail. “I want his head on the block in the town square by tomorrow. I have a wedding to finalize.”

“Let the fires of hell go cold if I go anywhere with you,” you say, stepping out slightly from behind Johnny, much to his hesitation, but still, he watches over you and lets you do as you please. The blacksmith would rather not have this Lord’s eyes anywhere near you if he’s being honest with himself.

This Scot had made you bold—his words gave finality. If he said nothing would happen to you, you believed him. Perhaps that made you foolish, but his word meant far more than anyone else. Johnny kept his promises.

Lord Wilkin’s horse is jerked to a stop, its head snapping back and forth with a frothing mouth. His eyes travel back and a slow sneer pulls at his lips, sitting under a mustache of white hair. You restrain a cringe, and Johnny barks an order to the advancing guards to stay back as his large feet set themselves. 

“If they grab me,” he mutters, speaking over his shoulder, “run, Little Lady. I’ll be sure to give you an opening.”

Your eyes widen in shock and horror, but before you can answer, your husband-to-be calls to you. The Blacksmith’s expression is the picture of defense as he angles the sword in his grip at the far-off Lord when even the barest hint of his tone indicates you.

A low grunt was ringing in his throat like that of an animal—as if the bear fur inside of the house had come to life and was a shield of muscle and iron shavings.

Your eyes blink, and something begins forming in your head, but it’s gone before you can really grasp it.

“My Lady,” Lord Wilkin states, his guards taking up places beside him, glaring. The hounds have still not gone silent, and Johnny eyes them nervously. “I believe you’ve been overcome by some…” He grumbles and gnashes his teeth in rage. “Spell of disobedience. I’ll have a physician examine you and keep you in my home for a stay of recovery—”

“The lady said she’s not goin’ with you,” Johnny seethes, pupils slits. Your hand rests on his back, spread over the swell of his broadness as you feel his pulse. Hot and racing. “So pack the fuck up and scatter! And take the bloody mutts with you!” 

You spare a worried glance at the back of his head. The blacksmith can’t possibly believe that threatening them will make Wilkin pull back, and when he meets your eyes, you know he doesn’t just by the wrinkles by the sides of his lids. 

He’s nervous, shifting his feet in small increments to try and push you nearer to the tree line. Your body hardens. 

You’ve already made your mad dash—there was no more running. Certainly not if your new center of affection and protective build wasn’t coming with you. 

Wilkin raises a brow. “Quite demanding for the man surrounded…Woman!” You flinch at the sudden shout, the quick rage of his snapping head, and the quick switch. Johnny glares and his hands are strangling the hilt of the sword, white and held still. The Lord barks, “Your parents gained valuable gifts for your well-bred hand—would you enjoy them being taken away? I can do so.” Dark eyes sweep over you. A smirk. “Forget this spark of madness and consummate what you know to be done.”

Johnny lunges with a snarl, eyes burning with horrible anger and the intent to cut the head off the snake. The guards meet him as he yells to you, “Run, Dearie!” 

But your feet are stone.

When the man realizes you’re going nowhere without him, his eyes gain a sheen of panic as his blade clashes with sparks of steel with another. A dance of feet and wit that speaks to years of careful study; practice from both parties. Wilkin looks smug as Johnny lets off a loud curse and has to turn his attention back to the fight.

“Seems the woman’s come to her senses. Praise God, perhaps there’s hope for her yet.” You breathe heavily, hands clenched under your cloak. Your mind wished for a dagger—one to show this pathetic excuse of a man how much it hurt to try and have someone mark you for the pleasure of ownership. Like some common branded cow. 

Wilkin nods to you as Johnny gazes on in horror, narrowly dodging a swipe at his side before he elbows a guard in the face, splaying him out along the ground in a heap of leather and fabric.

“What are you doing?” He yells, voice booming out over the forest. You don’t look at him before you suck down a breath and steady your nerves; standing taller and setting back your shoulders. 

The trained grace that had been shoved down your throat on a silver platter came back easily. Forks and spoons sliding under your teeth, all engraved with images depicting holy scenes of sanctity while the blood of your flesh spills at the poke of thorns sitting on your head. A halo of bloody martyrdom. 

A tool. 

You can be a tool, you decide, flinching when Johnny’s body is tackled to the ground; form ricochetting as he growls and writhes. His sword clatters to the ground. They have him in binds, cheek shoved into the dirt, and great shackles that skirt the line between animal and human restraint. A guard’s hand forces his face deeper into the earth and Johnny bellows, ordering with wild eyes, “Run, dammit! Get out of here!” 

Sending a stiff glance, you stare blankly into cobalt eyes and blink away just as quickly, standing and staring down Lord Wilkin as he watches in contentment at the scene of the raging blacksmith and his seemingly placated bride. At the twitch of his lips, you raise your voice high. 

“Release him.” Dark eyes turn to slits before they slowly slither back to you. 

“Pardon?” You grit your teeth and feel Johnny glaring, a snarl ripping out of his mouth as he coughs through the grass. 

“Dearie, no!” A punch hits his stomach as he’s jerked up to his feet and attacked; chains rattling as hounds bay for blood. You sense your gut roll with bile as Johnny fights back—tree-like legs laying a kick square into one's abdomen. 

The two guards hang onto his arms, shouting at each other to try and restrain him further.

“I ask my husband-to-be to release the man that graciously gave me shelter during the storm,” staring hard, you’re trying to stop yourself from running to Johnny. You know you have nothing to help him with—it would be pointless and utterly stupid. 

Your brow raises, but a nervous twinge is still in your voice. “Does My Lord not take pride in the fact that the men of his fiefdom are so open to taking in those less fortunate than themselves?”

Wilkin’s cheeks go tight, skin pulling as the eyes of the free guards travel to him. The struggle gradually dies down across the way; cobalt eyes darting back and forth with panic. 

“Don’t bloody do what I think you’re doin’!” 

A trade would happen, but only for a moment. In your head, you were whipping past possibilities and scenarios. There was something on the cusp of discovery—so close to giving you the upper hand, but what was it? Like a thorn in your foot, you continue to walk over it; ready and willing. 

Johnny had your back last night, it was time you had his.

“Let the honorable blacksmith go,” you level. “And name your price.” 

The response is immediate. A flashing smirk. “Deal. I’ll take my bride back, just as was intended.”

“No!” Johnny’s tunic is all ripped up, tears from gripping hands only making the damage larger—nail scrapes along his hardened flesh from the guard’s ruthless hold. Skin white from the force.

If you look at him, you’ll lose your mind.

Under your cloak, your hands shake as Wilkin descends his horse, coming closer. 

“Keep your fuckin’ bastard hands off of ‘er!” 

Think. His footsteps march closer—thin and sly-looking like a sharp-eyed Egret. Think! 

Before his hand can snap at your wrist your mind sparks in a panicked moment, and you’re exclaiming with a loud voice before you can stop yourself or think the sentence through. You stutter at first but quickly gain your footing. 

“I-In good faith, I cannot accept—I am unfaithful to you, Lord!” 

The entire homestead goes still, and those struggling with Johnny’s binds freeze. Lord Wilkin goes confused, his wrinkled visage peeling in like a rotted corpse. But no faces are quite as good as the blacksmith’s, who goes so pale and wide-eyed before he can school himself in secrecy; his jaw loose. His heart pounds in his breast, shreds of tunic waving in the wind. You continue with utter conviction, so much so that you even start to believe the lie you’ve crafted with a swift mind. “See the evidence upon the blacksmith’s sheets—where we lay last night in the throes of lust; I am no longer a pure bride.” Breaths get caught in throats; eyes bugging to a nonsensical degree. You swear someone choke. Your face burns as you continue, faking a shameful falling of your chin. 

“I cannot marry you!” It’s almost enough to break you, the realization on Johnny’s expression as he darts his vision to your hand—which you hide inside your cloak; wrapped around your waist with false fear. Blood on your hand. 

Blood on the sheets.

“It would be shameful to do so, do you not understand? I am not but a used good.” Fake or not, the last comment still makes Johnny’s hands clench his jaw working itself with a restrained growl. 

But pride furrows his brow. A smirk was forced back from his lips.

You just took away what Wilkin loves more than anything else—control. 

The older man halts, his mouth going agape and a vile sheen coming to his cheeks. He stutters, “I...what?” It’s a violent snarl, but the man balks back from you as if you’re infected. “You dare lie to me, Girl? Play off this fallacy?” 

“It’s no lie,” you say, gaining confidence with how Johnny watches you closely, only once rumbling at the guards that hold him when they tighten their grip. “The evidence is plain as day in the Blacksmith’s bed.” 

Wilkin’s eyes flash, and he barks an order to one of his men to enter the main house. Only when his dark eyes are off of you do you spare a look at Johnny. 

You sag softly, shoulders losing some tension. 

Blue eyes lock with yours, firm. Sending an apologetic squint of your eyes, the man only slightly shakes his head, mouthing out, “Don’t worry your little head about it.” A quick, barely-there smile flashes his lips—but then you have to look away before you let the shaking of your body be known. No matter how hard you plead with your muscles to stop vibrating, they do so instinctually. 

You know what lying about this will cost you, successfully or not. You’d be labeled for the rest of your life; separate. But Johnny’s eyes on you ease the pain. Lets you breathe. If the worst thing that could happen to you was living out your life in his homestead and being at his side, then perhaps social execution was the only thing that pleased you at the moment. 

You just hoped that it didn’t lead to an actual execution.

“Lord!” The guard returns as Johnny continues to watch you, panting, with sweat dripping down his chin. His ribs hurt something awful, but he only glowered at the men holding him and stayed his violent tongue to let you work your strengths like fine iron wrought in the fire of his hearth. 

Wilkin’s lackey was hurriedly carting the length of the Blacksmith’s sheets behind him—clutching in his fist the vibrant red stain of your blood and displaying it to the light. Thinking about what they saw it as, instead of your wound opening, you cringe and restrain a sound of disgust. 

Even being around Johnny for as little time as you had, despite the kiss and infatuation, you had forgotten how crude the rest of these men could be. It’s like this sanctuary of trees and dew-soaked ground was in an entirely different world, and these intruders were wrecking it. By Johnny’s face, he felt the exact same.

Half of the Scot wanted to save your honor and tell them you were lying, but the desperation of the situation was far more serious than that. He couldn’t let you go back to Wilkin—he’d promised. So Johnny took down a tight breath and stayed silent; face burning and glaring at the ground with clenched fists shaking for blood. 

The guards holding his arms slightly release their grip, listening intently themselves.

Blanking, the Lord’s eyes lock onto the stain as the man brings him the fabric. Not a moment later his hand snaps out to drag it to his face, looking daggers into the redness as his eyes snap from place to place.

“...You did this on purpose,” the slow dead tone takes you aback, hands around your abdomen digging further into your flesh as a dread spills into your stomach with blossoming unease. 

“M-my Lord?” Johnny tenses, eyes sharp like a wolf.

“You did this so you could spite me, you little,” the encrusted dagger is unsheathed from its scabbard. “Whore!”

“Shut the fuck up!” The blacksmith bursts with wrath, jerking forward so violently that he drags the guards holding him along the ground, their calls of alarms making the hounds go ballistic. 

You take a small step back as Wilkin gets nearer to you—the point of the blade setting itself right under your chin; tilting your head up. Breath going tight, you stare with wide eyes and a pounding heart. 

He wouldn’t kill you…would he? 

The Lord’s eyes are brimstone and deeper than Hell, holding sinners in the bars of his pupils while devils of brown specks prod the pool of obsidian. If a man could be on fire and still be living, Wilkin was an inferno incarnate. 

“You belong to me,” he grits his teeth as Johnny’s voice blurs in the background, having to be forced to his knees by three men yet still nearly throttling one with the force of his arms. “I paid for you.”

“Then you should find it a lost investment,” you shakily reply, not knowing how you have the strength to stare into Wilkin’s eyes. But you do. You stare and you hold your hands tight into your flesh until the skin under your gifted fabric aches. A small prick of the blade makes you suck in a tight inhalation, a tiny droplet of crimson sneaking down your throat.

It’s a battle of wills, and before you say what you’re thinking, you’re nearly sure that in less than three seconds you’ll be grasping a slit throat. 

You clear your throat softly and speak in a dim whisper. “How will your guards react to you killing a woman in anger?” Expressions freeze. “What does God say about that?” You swallow, throat bobbing. Hit him where it hurts. “...What would the townspeople say? Mercy is not above our great Lord, that is an earthly prospect. I believed that was your greatest quality, is that not what everyone believes?” 

Wilkin stares, his mustache twitching. Dead face. Dead eyes. 

It’s a long, long moment before anything else happens, and when it does, you flinch.

The dagger disappears from your chin and you instantly back up several steps, breathing unevenly. Pointedly, you place your uninjured hand on your slowly dripping skin. 

Johnny’s taken down three of the guards, their faces bloody and your blacksmith’s nose broken. He yells and screams curses. You feel your heart constrict at the sight, pain zooming down your veins in bursts of adrenaline, but it’s seconds later that Wilkin speaks, loudly so that everyone can hear.

“I would never harm a woman,” you hold back a violent scoff as your hands shake, wanting to be taken into Johnny’s arms now more than ever—feel his heat and inhale his scent. Wrapped in a blanket of steel and ash. “In my good graces, I will pray for your salvation, Miss. But being soiled—” 

“Bloody piss off!” You send Johnny a quick glance at the outburst. He’s forced back face-first into the ground with a grunt and sputtering of grass in his mouth. 

“I no longer wish to be joined with you in holy matrimony. It would be dishonorable to my station.” Dark eyes swim with hatred, but the tone of his voice is easy and pliable. The Lord was a good fake—he plasters on an appeasing smile for his men and waves a quick hand in the air as he turns to his horse. “Release the brute. Let the pair roll in their sin of carnal desire. God will be their judge.”

Johnny struggles as they unlock his chains, but the second he’s out he’s springing full-force towards you; his skin sliding across your cloak as you’re guarded far better than any loyal hound or King might be. 

“Johnny,” you grapple at his biceps, sighing raggedly in relief. He doesn’t brush you off, only curling his side around you and angling his head to the mounted horses; pupils slits and lungs heaving. His nose looks awful. “Don’t, don’t,” you plead, “It’s over.”

The man doesn't respond, looking feral as his hair goes this way and that; coiled around your body about to strike at anything that comes close. 

“I’ll kill him,” Johnny grunts. “I’ll rip his damn throat out for speakin’ to you like that—for puttin’ a knife to your throat. I’ll rip him into bloody bits and pieces, you just say the word, Little Lady.”

Your arms encase the one of his you’re holding, dragging the limb to your chest. Cobalt eyes dart back to your face. It’s a long moment, but his expression softens slightly—the wrinkles beside his eyes easing while his lips twitch down. Blood drips off his lower face, spread around his under eyes, and stains his stubble with crimson gore.

“Please,” you mutter. 

He looks down and nods stiffly, even if he doesn’t like it. 

The horses are rallied, the hounds called, and with a throw of dirt from their hooves the convoy is off. Silence returns in slow increments of nothingness. 

Wind, the call of a bird, and the babble of a far-off stream echo through the pines. Only when they’re entirely out of sight and the dust has cleared that Johnny swiftly moves, picking you up into his arm. You squeak as he carries you speedily into the main house, rushing to place your backside on the table. 

His large hands immediately tilt your head up to spy the tiny mark from Wilkin’s blade, and you feel his shuttered breath against your throat as you go heated. 

“J-Johnny, what are you…” But you don’t get an answer, the man disappearing before coming back with a wetted rag. Once more, the man cleans your wounds with delicate presses of the cloth—ridding you of all blood. 

His jaw is clenched, and as you watch, your hand in your lap twitches. 

In a broken act of pain, you lightly run your fingertips over the swelling of his nose. The man stops, but serious eyes stick to your throat—unable to meet your gaze; there’s a red sheen to his neck and ears. Anger or embarrassment, you know not.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, guilty, and his widened gaze rips itself to lock with yours. Your vision blurs, afraid to touch him fully as if it might burn him.

“No,” he’s shaking his head. “No, you never tell me that. What you did, Dearie…I,” Johnny stutters, closing his mouth before opening it again. “I should be apologizing to you. It wasn’t fair to make you do that. Any of it.” 

A wobbly smile flicks your lips.

“Are you saying I should have left you?” Johnny moves his face farther into your hand, blood contaminating your skin but you don’t pull away. You let him sag into your palm instead, reveling in the scrape of his stubble against your soft hands. 

“I’d not see you harmed,” is all he answers. 

You sigh and blink away your tears, stealing the man’s rag so you can dab at the bloody nostrils. Johnny’s pulse is still fast under you—like the pound of his hammer. 

“Well,” his eyes dig into yours and you smile. “I believe my priorities are the same. I may have only met you yesterday, but I’ve grown quite fond of you.”

“Aye, well, everyone will know how fond soon enough.” He’s more worried about this than you are, a stubborn and almost grumbly tone to his words. 

“Is my purity that much of a sore point for you?” You can’t help but tease him, even in the circumstances. “I had no idea.”

His face goes more crimson than his own blood, and he blinks at you rapidly. 

“I…That isn’t what I…” You chuckle gently and press your forehead to his, whispering. 

“I was just joking.” He sags with relief, his hands coming up to rest on your hips with the care of a man unbefitting to his station. Again, you have to ask yourself how an individual so intimidating can be, at the same instance, kind and generous. 

His lips mutter, brows tight. “Are ya sure you’re alright, Hen?” 

You think, wondering about the run through the forest when this all began, the plea for shelter. Such a deep coincidence that you’d end up here—perhaps the most safe place in the entire fiefdom. Everything had lined up perfectly, barring a few bumps in the road. You doubted Wilkin will mess with this place after the spreading of your ‘promiscuous’ behavior.

He was too sly for outright violence if given the option.

“Yes,” you know, and thin your lips. “What about your nose? A-and everything else?”

“Don’t think about it,” the Scot smiles, eyes still glinting with worry. So many hours and you’d barely gotten any sort of break. “I just want you to rest, then, eh?” 

Maybe it was outwardly obvious, but the entire ordeal had left you drained; shaky, and still coming off of panic. What if they had killed Johnny…? 

You’d go back to Wilkin and live as his wife, producing heirs and locked away in his estate for the remainder of your life. What kind of existence was that? No, you knew, you’d never live like that. 

You’d never live like that here. 

With a shaky breath, you watch Johnny’s eyes flash with concern for a moment by your silence, but before he can speak you’re pressing your lips to his in a firm and honest kiss—sinking in every emotion you could. 

The man grunts in surprise, but doesn’t move back; if anything, his grip on your hips increases, sliding up to your waist. 

After a moment of tasting flesh, you pull back and whisper, “Thank you.”

Johnny breathes heavily, a glimmer in his blues, “Well,” he grumbles, “I’d say you did most of the work.” 

You both share a chuckle before you’re lifted again, carried gently over to the bed without sheets. You’re placed atop the bear fur and wrapped in that instead after your cloak is unclipped and folded neatly, set on the floor. Outside, the call of a far-off storm hits your ears and you blink to the window. 

“Stay with me?” You ask before you can stop yourself or can even think. 

The blacksmith’s breath catches, his fingers flinching as they were pulling the fur tighter around your neck. 

It’s a moment before he asks in a quiet tone. 

“You sure you want this, Dearie?” His lips go tight, eyes narrowing in inner conflict. You stare and already know the answer just by how he speaks to you. “I’m no King. I…I can’t give you fine jewelry or fancy clothes. There’ll be no grand suppers beyond the game I catch or what I can afford to buy. Long winters.” 

The air goes quiet with worship, and your eyes go wide with care. His broken nose is crooked, but it doesn’t seem to bother him at all. You wonder if that was for your sake or his.

“I’m not someone worthy of your beauty,” he rubs at the back of his head, bending down by the edge of the bed. “Certainly not your smarts. I’m only a blacksmith, Little Lady.”

“Only?” You huff a chuckle. Johnny looks at you in confusion as the black clouds outside roll in, seen through the window of this quaint and lovely home. The hearth is warm, the scent of food still in the air, and the memory of a dash through the forest behind you. 

“If you’re only a blacksmith, Mr. MacTavish,” you’re sent a fake stern look as the back of a hand goes to brush your cheek. You shiver. “Then I’m only a runaway bride.”

“Aye,” Johnny admits with a growing smile of adoration, “but still a bonnie one, at that.” 

“...Stay with me?” You ask again. 

The man breathes out, “Tell me why.”

“The trees do not deny what they need to make them whole, Blacksmith,” you whisper. “Why should I?” 

He’s clambering under the fur, wrecked clothes, and blood on his face but never feeling more whole. Is so little a time enough to fall in love with someone? What deity had tied your souls together so soon with ribbon soaked in rainwater—tinged with blood? 

His lips meet yours as you sigh into him, hands gripping his arms as they circle your waist tightly. Johnny breathes you in and lets his hands span your back, fingertips digging into your clothes. Into his mouth, you whine a plea for him to keep you close and hold you tight. It’s all your need from him. It’s all you want. 

For the wise know best: there is nothing better than a simple life.

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[aemondsbabe]

A Kindness

summary: you're finally ramsay's most favorite toy, but is that really a good thing?

pairing: ramsay bolton x reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, dark content it's ramsay hello, blood kink but no injury/gore, mentioned major character death (again, no injury/gore), slight au (ramsay wins battle of the bastards), choking, rough sex, dirty talk, humiliation/degradation, slapping, piv sex, unprotected sex don't be silly wrap ur willy, hair pulling, creampie, slight breeding kink, puppy play, boot humping idk how to else to phrase it, slight angst but a happy ending for ramsay lmao, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 6.2k

a/n: my first foray into dark or at least semi-dark writing and my first time writing ramsay! i've had this one in my head for such a long time so it feels really good to actually get it out! hope everyone enjoys and please make sure to heed the warnings with this one!

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

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“Dip the cloth again, you dolt,” you snap, looking up from the scroll of parchment rolled out before you on the table when you hear the coarse woolen cloth begin to scrape dryly across the silver Ramsay’s… thing was supposed to be polishing, “If I have to remind you of that one more time, I’ll tell him you tried to touch me. I wonder which part of you he’d hack off for that, hm?” 

Reek’s eyes go wide at your threat and he nods his head frantically, quickly reaching over and dunking the cloth into the small bowl of vinegar before him. “Yes, m’lady. Apologies, m’lady.” 

A small sigh leaves your lips as you rest an elbow on the table, nose scrunching up slightly at the sour smell that seems to hang like a cloud over the room, the small one by the kitchens.

 Probably where the staff ate, you think, staring blankly at the fire crackling away in the hearth. You’ve tried hard to picture it – Winterfell in its former glory, trussed up with wolf banners and filled with children’s laughter, how it was when the Stark’s called it home. 

Your eyes linger on Reek and for a second, you’re halfway tempted to ask him about it – what it was like living here, being one of them. You don’t, knowing the question would fall on deaf ears at the least, or send him spiraling to the point of being unable to finish his chores, and then it would be your head on the chopping block as well. 

Distantly, you hear the familiar baying of Ramsay’s hounds and your eyes flick up to the narrow slit windows on the wall; you do your best to ignore the way Reek’s head swivels to the sound in the same instance yours does, the way that adrenaline so keenly rushes through you – a burst of panic leading the charge before you have the chance to correct it. 

Anticipation, you remind yourself, jaw clenched, Passion, excitement. 

Your eyes vacantly scan over the parchment you’d nabbed from the library earlier that morning, an account of the birth of Arya, apparently the sister of the one that had actually managed to escape some weeks back, no doubt frozen now in one of the snowy forests that surrounds Winterfell. You don’t really care, your thoughts once again reverting back to Myranda. Bitterly, you remember how he never made her stay behind when he went hunting, never made her watch over his man-servant, never made her second guess.

The last one is a lie, the truth woven deeply into the many nights you’d spent up with her – listening as she fretted about each word she’d uttered to him that day, hoping each one had been right and had been said at the right time, that he wouldn’t find some made-up cause to punish her. Tendrils of jealousy had twisted into you even then, even as she painted a picture of what he truly was. 

Just as men’s voices filter through the windows from the courtyard outside, your lips quirk up into a mean, victorious little smirk. 

It’s her body he fed to the dogs, you think, the voice in your mind a proud hiss, Just like Violet’s and Tansy’s and Kyra’s. You remember the day well enough, remember the shock of seeing your friend's body laying in the courtyard as you’d run out to greet Ramsay, teal eyes staring at nothing. It had been you that had warmed his bed that very night, and all the ones after it. 

“There you are,” a familiar voice sounds from behind you, nearly making you yelp as Reek scrambles to stand up from the table. Before you even have a chance to, a strong hand clasps over your shoulder, stilling your movements, “No, no, don’t get up on my account.” Rusty copper stains color his hand, dried blood outlining each of his nails. You don’t let your mind linger on what the source of it could be.

You whip your head around and swallow nervously as he chuckles lowly, “Ramsay!” You breathe in greeting, the corners of your lips tilting up into a tentative smile, though that’s quickly washed away as you take in the messy splotches of red that stain his coat and tunic, that snake their way up the pale column of his throat and dot the sides of his face. 

He looks every bit the hunter and you wonder, not for the first time, what that makes you. 

“You seem quite comfortable here, pet,” he drawls, leaning down until he’s eye-level with you, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re more at home down here with the help,” he continues, hand tightening to the point of pain on your shoulder, making you grit your teeth, “Than you are in our chambers where you’re meant to be.”

Our chambers. A privilege he never granted her. Stupidly, your heart sings. 

His hand tightens on your shoulder once more, finally drawing a pained whine from your lips.

“Y-You told me to watch him! To make sure he –” You’re cut off as Ramsay unceremoniously hauls you to your feet, clawing at your leather doublet. A cry leaves your lips as the hand on your shoulder tangles into the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging as he forces your head back, blue eyes flicking to your neck as you swallow thickly. 

“I told you to be in our chambers when I return from hunts,” he corrects you, standing to his full height as he holds you tightly, forcing you unsteadily onto your tip-toes, “That I expected you to be at the door, ready and waiting for me.” His lips ghost over your ear as he speaks, his voice a low growl that shouldn’t excite you the way it does. 

“I’m sorry,” you wince internally at the way your voice comes out as a pained little squeak, your hands scrambling to hang onto his forearm, nails digging into the stained quilted fabric of his jacket.

“You know how I get after a hunt,” he suddenly pulls away from you, his hand pulling out of your hair, a gasp leaving you as your heels drop to the floor. You blink as he reaches up, not flinching from years of practice, though instead of striking you or harshly gripping at your jaw like you expect, his hand cups your cheek. Your chest rises and falls as he strokes his thumb over your cheekbone, blood stained fingers now delicate against your soft skin. 

“Today’s was a special one, too. Don’t you remember?” He questions, icy eyes sliding from yours to the red-headed man still standing by the table, glimmering cruelly as he smirks. 

Still, you nod your head, knowing Reek won’t answer. “To celebrate killing Jon Snow,” you breathe, gripping at the leather of his tunic, desperate to win even a scrap of approval.

Surprisingly, he grants it – fixing you with a proud little grin, like how an owner would look at a dog that’s just mastered a new trick. “That’s right,” his hand ruffles the hair on the top of your head, a gesture that should feel demeaning, yet it sends a tingle of pride through you instead, “Seems you can remember something after all.” He pulls away and traipses over to Reek, hands clasped behind his back.

“Surely you remember too, Reek? You were in the kennels that evening when the dogs had their treat, were you not?” He taunts, the playful inflection in his voice entirely for show, “Our little problem’s been dealt with and now we hold not only the Dreadfort but Winterfell as well! What do you think about that, hm?” Ramsay studies the other man carefully, eyes flitting over his face as he takes great pleasure in the subtle twitches of pain that still manage to flicker through the harsh conditioning he’d endured. Your eyes stay fixed firmly on the stone floor. 

“A… A great victory, master!” 

“Yes, a great victory, indeed,” he smiles, watching Reek for another moment before turning back to you. His smile morphs into a cold, callous frown that ties your stomach into knots, each of his steps making your heart hammer faster in your chest. “You know, it’s actually rather amusing,” he starts, bloodied fingers twirling a stray lock of your hair, “How my hounds seem to be continually more well trained than you, pretty little idiot.”

Pretty, pretty, pretty! Your heart thumps dumbly, a rabbit in a snare. 

“I’ll do better!” You whimper, shaking your head frantically as your eyes meet his, “I can do better, really, I was just confu–”

The hand in your hair shoots down suddenly, yanking several strands with it as he clamps it around your neck. “Confused?” Ramsay murmurs, watching with rapt attention at how you struggle in his hold, lips quivering as the words die in your throat, “Really? I give you one task, I ask one thing of you, and you can’t even figure that out? You still disappoint me?” 

He’s not expecting an answer, you know this, and yet you still try to give one as your mouth opens and closes, like a fish out of water, only the faintest little whines managing to escape. You feel faint, both from his grip around your throat and from the myriad of emotions coursing through your veins – your heart twists at the thought of failing him, your stomach is in knots as various punishments flash through your mind, and yet your center still sparks, still sends little glimmers of arousal through you. 

His grip loosens enough to allow you to suck in several shaky lungfuls of air as he snickers, endlessly amused at how eager you still are, how you still yearn so deeply for him. Again, he pats your head condescendingly, muttering little hushes as if you were a crying puppy. “Lucky for you, pet, I have plenty of experience training stubborn bitches,” Ramsay chuckles, blue eyes glimmering with mirth when he feels you swallow apprehensively, “I think we’ll have your behavior corrected in no time, won’t we? Even the stupidest of beasts can still learn a trick or two.”

Before you have time to react, the hand cradling the crown of your head harshly grabs at your hair again, tugging you suddenly toward the door. “Ah!” You yelp, stumbling as he all but drags you behind him, your hands shake as they struggle to grab onto his forearm, “Ramsay, pl–!”

“You should be grateful I am allowing you the kindness of walking!” He growls, sparing you a glance over his shoulder as he leads you through the Great Hall, “Pity I’m so protective of you, really, I’m sure it would be quite entertaining for my men to watch you crawl.” His drawled threat sends a spark of fear down your spine and you pant, chest heaving, as you shuffle behind him; your cheeks burn as several of his soldiers sitting at the long wooden tables catcall as you stagger past them.

Finally, the two of you reach your shared chambers, that fact sending a little torrent of satisfaction through you even now. Unceremoniously, Ramsay all but tosses you inside and you whimper as your hip collides with an edge of the decorative table just inside the door, no doubt hard enough to bruise but at least it breaks your fall. 

“It’s quite unfortunate, normally find your impudence amusing,” he starts lowly, pressing the old wooden door closed with a thud before sliding the lock into place with a self-satisfied grin, “But I know you know better, don’t you, little one?” He asks as he stalks toward you.

Your breath catches in your throat as he stands before you, studying you silently for a second in the same calculated way he studies a deer through the sight of his bow. Not knowing what else to do, you silently nod your head as your eyes slip down to the floor, like a child being scolded. 

“You’ve been with me the longest now,” he murmurs as if you don’t know, one bloodstained hand grabbing at your waist as the other fits around the back of your neck, once again forcing your eyes to his face, “We grew up together, you and I. You know my ways, my rules, isn’t that right?”

Again, you nod your head, bottom lip trembling with the want to explain yourself, although you know that would only make things worse.

“That’s what makes your disobedience so frustrating,” his blue eyes bore into yours as he speaks, his lip sticking out in a mocking pout, “Because you do know better and yet you’re stupid enough to act out anyway, hm?” His tone is sharper now, dangerous like the pointed tip of an arrow.

“I wasn’t acting out!” The words claw themselves out of your throat before you can stop them and instantly you know you’ve made a mistake, but now you’re desperate to remedy it, “I wasn’t, really! I j-just misunderstood you, that’s –” 

Your pleas come to a screeching halt as his hand smacks across your face, the other grips at your jaw tightly, tight enough to make you whine softly in his grasp. Your eyes squeeze shut for a second, cheek stinging, before they open and lock with his again, wild and desperately. 

I wasn’t being insolent! You scream silently, hoping he can somehow hear you, that maybe all of your years with him would’ve granted that ability, I would never! I was doing as you said, like always! 

“I was wrong earlier, wasn’t I?” Ramsay mutters, so close to you that your foreheads nearly touch. Your eyes widen slightly at his words, heart thumping in a hopeful little staccato, though he wrenches that away quickly enough, “You’re not a dog at all, no, a dog would be obedient and docile.”

Your brows knit together with confusion at his words, biting so hard into your lower lip that you’re shocked you don’t taste blood. Although, you can’t help the surprised little gasp that leaves you when his hands begin quickly tugging at the laces of your bodice as your own remain in white-knuckled fists at your sides, the whole of you determined to stay still like a statue, a plaything. 

“No, you my sweet little pet,” he growls sarcastically, low voice morphing into a pleased chuckle as he tugs your bodice off; the shirt below it quickly follows and a small part of you blooms with pride at the happy little sigh he lets out at the sight of your breasts. 

“You’re just a dumb puppy, aren’t you?” He chuckles against your throat, nipping at your skin more so than kissing it, although you relish the feel of his lips on you all the same. “A dumb, defiant little puppy,” he continues, hastily pulling at the ties of your skirts and you whimper despite yourself when they finally fall to the floor, pooling at your feet, “That’s in desperate need of more training.” 

He stops, pausing for a mere second, and pulls back just enough to look at you, no doubt gaining satisfaction from the desperation written so plainly on your face. There’s a hunger in his cold eyes – a predator silently deciding to go for the jugular, nocking an arrow on his bow. 

You whine as he properly kisses at your throat now, his hands rough against your skin as he grabs at your hips. One skims higher to cup your breast, the unexpected gentleness of his touches causes you to shiver and whine in his grasp and into his mouth as he kisses you finally, his full lips moving steadily in time with yours. 

Harsh pants leave your lips as your heart pumps madly in your chest, his touches always work you up so quickly. The thought of him still being fully clothed as he left you bare and vulnerable made you hotter still; the feel of his warm leather tunic against your exposed skin, of his bloodied hands against your supple skin, drives you mad. 

Before you have time to second guess your movements, you begin blindly pulling at the strings on his leather tunic, desperate to feel him against you. Surprisingly, he lets you tug it off of him, granting you a last meal of sorts, and you can’t help but to smile into the kiss, gasping into his mouth as he unbuttons his jacket himself before quickly tossing it aside as well. He’s panting nearly as harshly as you are as the two of you part long enough for him to pull his shirt over his head, your hands immediately go to his chest the second it joins the ever-growing pile of clothes on the floor. 

Your eyes flicker over him as the two of you pause, the knot in your belly growing tighter at the sight of his taut stomach and chest, the low, warm glow of the many candles dotted throughout your chambers accentuating each muscular dip. Your fingers shake as they trail over him and you feel a sick sense of pride twist in your stomach at the fact that, unlike so many men, his skin isn’t mottled with years of scars and bruises. No, his is flawless, a pale, unmarred, ruthless canvas – a flawless killer. 

Of course, he can’t let you have this reprieve for long. A good trainer doesn’t spoil his pet. 

A soft, broken gasp leaves you as one hand wraps around your neck again, slotting perfectly against your throat like a collar, as he walks you a few paces further into the room, closer to the small hearth by the bed. “Kneel,” his command leaves no room for anything but obedience; you swallow thickly, nervously, and do as he says, lips parting ever so slightly when your knees rest on plush bear skin instead of hard stone. 

A kindness, even now. 

Ramsay’s lips twist into a proud grin as you stare up at him, legs folded beneath you with your hands poised perfectly on your thighs, a familiar stance he’d taught you years ago. “Good girl,” he mutters, fingers threading gently through your hair as you moan softly. 

“Thank y – Ah!”

“No,” he chides harshly, tugging your head back by the roots of your hair until your neck is bared to him, your back arched, “Puppies don’t talk, dumb little thing,” he growls, shifting more closely to you in order to gain a better hold on your hair, close enough that you whimper as your front is pressed firmly against the length of his leg, the thick fabric of his trousers rough against your skin as one of his feet slots between your thighs, “A well-trained pet certainly doesn’t.” 

The knot in your belly seizes at his words, aided by the laces of his leather boots brushing oh-so gently against your center, the knotted fabric sticking against the wetness already leaking from your clenching cunt. You whine, high-pitched and frantic when he clutches your hair tighter still, his fist white knuckled against the crown of your head. 

“A well-trained little pet would always obey their master, wouldn’t they?” You can’t miss the breathiness of his voice now, his tone lower and smoother than it normally is, and the sound makes your hips hump against his boot before you can stop yourself, your nipples stiff, nearly aching, as they rub against his trousers. 

A low, rumbled laugh echoes through your chambers when your arms wrap around his leg, fingers digging desperately into the firm muscle of his thigh. “Aww,” he coos mockingly, licking his lips as he watches you, his attention making blood rush to the apples of your cheeks, “Is my pretty little puppy getting off on this? Does your cunt drip when I tell you how stupid and worthless you are?”

The sound of your blood pumping furiously through your veins thuds in your ears, Pretty, pretty pretty!

You whine as you try to eagerly nod your head, his hold on your hair preventing you from moving much, though your hips rut steadily against his boot now – pressing tightly against the worn fabric, the knots from his laces rubbing perfectly over the throbbing little pearl at your center. 

“You look like you’re having fun,” he drawls, cold eyes shining as he studies you closely, chest heaving in time with yours as his cock hardens in his pants, “Are you having fun, little one?”

Again, you try to nod, keening brokenly as your eyes stay fixed on his. You pant harshly against his leg, breath fragmented as they’re punched out of your lungs, the knot in your belly growing tighter and tighter with each pass of your slick center over the laces of his boot. 

He knows, of course. As soon as he ordered you to stay in the kitchens with Reek this morning, he knew – knew you’d follow his orders to the letter, even if they contradicted his previous ones. He knew he’d find you there, knew he’d punish you for it, knew exactly how he wanted to break you down so that it could be him who built you back up. He’s known you the longest, you’d grown up together. He knows, of course he does. He’s nothing if not a thorough hunter. 

A loud, broken whine leaves you when he flexes his foot, pressing his boot harder against you still. You’re helpless to do much else aside from stare up at him, gasping, while your hips buck against him as quickly as your sore muscles will allow, your high barreling toward you at a breakneck pace. 

All of that comes to a sudden, screeching halt though when he moves again, shifting his weight until his boot is just out of reach. The sudden lack of stimulation makes your back arch further still, your muscles taut like a drawn bow. 

“Oh, poor little puppy,” he laughs, watching gleefully as you whine loudly, the peak that had been so close fading away, leaving you aching, “If you thought it was going to be that easy, you haven’t been paying attention.” He taunts, crouching until he’s eye-level with you, smirking as his movements cause his pull on your hair to become tighter, making you wince, though his hand thankfully releases its grasp once he settles.

“Mmm,” you mewl softly as he caresses your breasts again, jumping slightly when he thumbs over your nipple before softly pinching at it, giving the other one the same treatment. Your eyes flutter shut as you arch your back further still, pressing against the palm of his hand as he kneads at your chest, eager for any stimulation you can get.

“Myranda was never like this,” he says suddenly, his voice low, steady, calculated. He smiles cruelly when your eyes snap open at the sound of her name, the back of your throat tight as tears already blur your vision – just like he wanted. “No, Myranda always behaved perfectly, she always did exactly what I said.” 

He leans forward suddenly, the side of his face pressed firmly against yours so that when he speaks, you’re sure to hear every syllable, to feel them punctuated against the skin of your neck. “She was perfect. I never had to punish her for the same thing twice, you know. Not like I do with you.” 

You shudder as his lips press against your skin again, pressing eager kisses against the wet trail of tears running down your cheek. He admires the way your shoulders shake as you sob, the way the subtle movement makes your breasts bounce, the way your cheeks flush so prettily, how your eyes always shine so brightly with fresh tears in them. 

Ramsay loves breaking you – adores the moment when his arrow is finally launched free from his bow, adores the moment he sees it pierce your little heart. He loves you, in his way. 

Not that he’d tell you that.

He lets you sob for a moment longer, all the while pressing hot kisses against your cheeks, relishing the salty taste of your tears as the little droplets of blood still caked to his skin mar your pretty face, staining it with delicate streaks of red. His cock twitches at the sight, black pupils nearly drowning out the blue of his eyes – maybe one day he’d bring you hunting, what a sight you’d be covered in the bright blood of a fresh kill. 

“Myranda never needed training, puppy, not in the way you do,” he nearly whispers, the corners of his lips twitching up into a small smile as he leans back enough to grab at your chin, tilting your face up to his, “That’s what made her so boring.”

“Huh?” You breathe, sobs stalling for a second as you process what he’d just said, your obvious surprise making him laugh lowly again. 

“What? Does that shock you? That I found her boring?” He questions, eyebrow raised, “Why would perfection be interesting?” 

Your eyes search his face as he shifts, kneeling rather than crouching. A little glimmer of pride sparks to life within you as he kisses you again, your lips moving against his frantically, mewling when he pushes his tongue into your mouth and nips at your bottom lip. 

“I never got to train her,” he breathes against your lips, grunting at the way your hands skim over his chest and stomach, grabbing at him so frantically, “I hardly got to punish her; if I gave her an order, she would follow it blindly – it made her predictable, it made her boring.”

“N-Not like me?” You whisper hopefully, meeting his gaze through half-lidded eyes as you pant, your chest pressed tightly to his. 

“No, sweet pet, not like you,” Ramsay smiles, making your heart sing as it leaps beneath your ribs, “I get to train you, don’t I? And punish you when that little puppy brain can’t follow the simplest of orders.”

You should be offended, should feel mocked and belittled, but you don’t. Instead, you nod your head eagerly, preening like a proud little bird at his praise, because that’s what is, really. Ramsay will never be one to sing your praises softly like other men, but he admires you all the same. 

Before you have time to reply, he grabs at your waist and abruptly maneuvers you, manhandling you until you’re poised on your hands and knees, cheek pressed firmly against the fur rug beneath you. 

“I get to play with you, pet,” he drawls lowly, pressing a hand into the small of your back and grunting appreciatively when you arch down like he wants, licking his lips as your cunt finally comes into view, shining already in the low candlelight. He smirks at the way you moan when he presses his hard length against you, grinding against your slit, chest heaving at how warm you are even through his trousers, “Don’t I?”

“Yes!” You nod eagerly, pressing back against him like a wanton whore, nearly dizzy with need when his fingers bump against you as he quickly undoes the laces on his pants, “Yes, yes, yes, please!”

“Ohh, so you can be good, hm?” He teases, groaning in relief when he pushes his trousers down just enough to free his cock, too impatient to remove them entirely, “Seems my training’s working nicely.”

Mindlessly, you nod, willing to agree with whatever he says so long as he gets inside you.

Mercifully, you don’t have to wait long. A loud cry fills your chambers as he presses into you, the slight sting of his thick cock stretching you open making you shiver, a familiar sensation since he was rarely ever patient enough to work you open on his fingers. 

Immediately, he sets a brutal pace, his hips pressing against yours tightly each time he pushes forward, the head of his cock nearly kissing your cervix with each harsh thrust. Your cunt clenches at him greedily and your hands scramble against the rug beneath you, fingers tangling into the furs, desperate for something to anchor yourself. 

“Fuck, tight little cunt,” Ramsay grunts harshly above you, his hands gripping meanly at your hips, hard enough to leave bruises. 

“R-Ramsay, fuck… fuck,” you whimper beneath him, your eyes squeezed shut tightly as the knot in your belly threatens to unravel, your walls pulsing rhythmically around his length each time it spears into you.

He chuckles breathlessly at your little murmurs and runs a hand up the length of your back before grabbing at the hair at the nape of your neck, relishing the little cry you give as he pulls you up until your back is pressed firmly against his chest. “Are you close already?” He mocks smugly, his fingers untangling from your hair to wrap once more around your throat as his other paws at your breasts, his fingers pinching and pulling at your nipples. 

You swallow thickly, throat bobbing under his grip, and nod your head the best you can, grabbing at his thick forearm. 

“Do you think I’m going to let you?” He teases, biting harshly at your shoulder as his hips keep up a punishing rhythm.

You nearly sob at the question, so desperate, but still you shake your head, cunt pulsing around his length. “No, n-no…” You moan mournfully, voice hoarse from his hold. 

He chuckles behind you, his chest rumbling against your back as he kisses and bites at your earlobe, your shoulder, any part of your neck not covered by his hand, each touch driving you mad. “Finally, that little brain seems to be working,” he grunts, laughing lowly as he abandons your breasts long enough to slap your cheek, blessedly soft this time, “I’m having too much fun playing with you to let you go that easily,” He drawls, chuckling once more when you whine. 

“In fact,” he continues, reaching down and rubbing his fingers roughly against your aching bud, just enough to make you cry out before he suddenly pulls away again, tugging his length from you as he lets you flop to the floor with a little grunt, “I want to see you do a trick,” he whispers, rubbing over your ass before smack it roughly, making you jump, “Roll over.”

“Wha –” You start to question, only to be cut off with a loud cry as his hand spanks you once more.

“Be a good fucking puppy and roll over.”

His order leaves no room for questioning and obediently, you listen and roll over onto your back with a little whimper. You keep your legs bent up when you settle, keeping yourself on display for him, clenching around nothing as you eye his hard cock bobbing against his stomach, the tip red and leaking. 

“Good little pet,” he praises, his words going straight to your pearl as you shudder. Hastily, he pushes your legs up further, one hand holding you open as he presses his cock back into you, savoring your loud whine, the way your eyes roll to the back of your head.

He resumes his harsh pace, slamming into you as he chases his high now, blue eyes trailing appreciatively over your trembling body, watching as your breasts bounce with each unforgiving thrust he gives. 

“Please, please, Gods, please!” You whine frantically as he presses his hips against yours, grinding into you, the thatch of hair at the base of his cock rubbing against your bud perfectly, “Ramsay, p-please! I – fuck!”

He laughs breathlessly at your cries and leans down when you arch your back toward him, mouthing savagely at your chest, teeth nipping at the fat of your breasts before he licks over your nipples. He knows each touch is only driving you closer and closer to your release, yet he still doesn’t give you permission, a part of him meanly hopes you’ll slip over anyway and give him another reason to punish you, like he actually needs a reason. 

Still, you have been good today and he does love how willing and docile you become when you peak, so malleable – entirely submissive, entirely his. 

He bites and kisses his way up along your chest and neck before licking into your mouth for a moment, eagerly swallowing each desperate little cry before grabbing at your neck once more. Greedy, he turns your head to him, needing to see that empty-headed, hazy look in your eyes when he lets you finish.

His cock jerks at the sight of you, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as you try desperately to hold off, cheeks flushed, reddened lips parted. He grunts, feeling his balls tighten, his thrusts beginning to lose their rhythm. 

“Cum, puppy,” he growls, forehead pressed against yours.

Your lips part in a silent curse as your high slams into you, each muscle in your body contracting at once. Your eyes bore into his wildly as your cunt spasms tightly around his cock, eyes rolling back as he fucks you through it.

“Fuck!” He grunts, growling lowly as his cock spasms within you, your walls all but milking his own high from him as well. His hips slam into you a few more times before he stills, gasping as he fills you with his spend. 

The two of you lay together for a moment, panting loudly against one another. Ramsay is the first to move, shushing you as he pulls his softening length from you, making you whine. 

Distantly, a part of you twists gleefully when you feel his seed drip from you, another thing he never dared do with her. 

“Here,” he says softly, offering you a hand, which you gladly take, letting him help you stand since you doubt you’d be able to on your own. Finally, you stand on your feet, albeit unsteadily, and grab onto the foot of the carved wooden bedframe to steady yourself. Strangely, he stays with you, neither of you saying anything as he holds you, blue eyes studying you as they gleam with some unknown emotion. 

After a moment, you try to pull away, meaning to leave as you always do, not one to wait around for his order anymore. 

“Stop,” he murmurs, only pulling away once you still, “Stay.” He orders, an unfamiliar softness to his voice. Your head reels, eyes staring unfocused as you try to make sense of… whatever this is, whatever his game may be now. 

He returns quickly enough, a damp cloth in his and from the small wash basin he keeps on the vanity. You reach out to grab it, to clean yourself off like you assume he wants, and yet he stops you, holding the cloth out of your grasp until you lower your hand again. 

“Obedient puppies get rewards,” he says softly, all of the harshness from before absent from his tone as he answers your silent questions. You nearly freeze when he presses one small, gentle kiss against your forehead. Finally, he makes quick work of wiping between your legs, taking care to wipe away any of his spend that leaked from you. 

“Thank you…” You nearly whisper, voice scratchy from his earlier treatment. That doesn’t feel like the right thing to say but if it isn’t, he doesn't say. 

Silently, he cups your chin, lifting it enough to give him room to check your neck, trailing his hand over it lightly until he must be satisfied that you’re okay, that he hadn’t treated you too badly. 

Kind, even still.

A few moments later, you recline in the plush bed, watching as he kicks off his boots before joining you, lying with you under the soft blankets. This part, at least, you’re used to – lying together like this but not touching, not cuddling, that’s too intimate, too close. 

He hadn’t said that, wouldn’t say that, but you knew. 

A surprised little gasp leaves you when he pulls you close, hands, clean now that he’d taken a moment to wash them, resting on you gently. One smoothes up and down your arm as he lets you lay against his chest, cheek pressed against his collarbone, his chin resting on your head; the other grabs at your thigh, pulling you to him until you’re tucked into his side, one leg propped over his hips. 

“You did well,” he says softly, chest vibrating under your cheek as he speaks, “With your training, I mean. You did well. I’m… proud of you.”

“Thank you.” 

The two of you are silent after that, neither of you knowing how to handle this new territory that you seem to be spilling into, but you don’t care, not with your heart pounding quickly in your chest. You’d think you were dying if it weren’t for the savage sense of victory threading through every inch of you. 

Proud, proud, proud! The word echoes in your head with each pump of blood through your heart. It was so small, the barest of compliments, but from Ramsay it meant the world. It was something he’d said to you, only you, never to her, not once. Never to anyone else. 

His chest rises and falls under your cheek, breath steady and even. He always falls asleep quickly, normally you do too. But not this time, not tonight, not wanting to let this moment fade just yet. 

He loves you, in his way.

tagged lovelies: @helloworldiamnotarobot @drakonflames @marysucks-blog @watercolorskyy @valeskafics @iamaegontargaryenwife0 @aemshaircare @1997babyyyy @lovellies @little-moonbeam-666 @blackswxnn @wickedfrsgrl @echos-muses @iamawhorecrux @avidreader73 @marvelescape @rae-11 @ms-morningstaarr @chaotic-fangirl-blog @grsveeth0m @twglitching @hb8301 @delulumhaggy @burntliquorlips @simp-hub-bro @badxbabyyy @venchi-cremino @targaryenbarbie @fan-goddess

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[ixtaek]

They were all incredibly kind.

Zelda watched them as they helped the former residents of Skyloft—moving supplies, crafting tools, teaching the patrols how to defend themselves from the dangers of the surface.

The Hero of Hyrule demonstrated how to tell if water was safe to drink. “You want water that’s moving, and ideally deep.” He grinned as he ladled out of a bucket. “It’s best to boil the water and let it cool. That will get rid of any toxins and germs that might be lingering in it.” He tried to take a sip but the water poured out faster than he expected, pouring down his front as Kukiel giggled at him.

A vision flashed through Zelda’s mind, overlaying the scene. The Hero of Hyrule gripping a sword, blood dripping down his tunic as he struggled away from a monster clawing for his face. The beast cackled as the Hero tried to swipe at them while his shield arm hung limp, shield dragging—

She blinked, Hyrule’s laughter as he dumped a spoonful of water on Kukiel as well breaking through the vision. The girl squealed and shook her head to send droplets flying.

The Hero of Twilight and Time lifted a log into place, letting the builders work to secure it in the new cabin wall. The two seemed to have a bet going about who could hold it up longer. Their arms both shook from the effort of—

A boy, barely reaching her knee, breathing heavily as he shoved his shield forward to block a blow by an undead monster. The boy lowered his defense to fumble for his sword. The monster took the blow without flinching, long teeth slavering as it unhinged its jaw and screamed—

The scene dissolved into a long bridge. A snarling boar pawed at the other end, tusks stained with blood. The monster astride its back howled a battle cry, a small child held aloft on its spear. The hero to her left gasped in horror, his blue eyes locked on the child. He spurred his steed forward, sweat dripping down his face as—

“I yield, I yield!” Twilight yelped. The wall was already secured as the hero fell back, giggling. The Hero of the Wild accepted his ten rupee bribe from Time before continuing his tickle assault on his mentor.

A mere boy staggering as the lasers hit him in the chest, the side of his head gushing blood, arms still trying to hold up a shield to protect—

“Zel?”

She turned, almost falling against Link’s chest. Sky’s eyes were soft as they traced over her face. “Are you… What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She tried to smile, ignoring the wetness in her eyes. “I’m fine, Link. Just a little out of sorts.”

The divine blood in her burned. Link smiled and pulled her closer, hugging gently.

Soft hands wielding a flaming sword, lighting crackling through his body. Fighting a demon that should have been slain ages ago by the gods, by— by—

“… By me…”

“What?” Link held her at arms length so he could look at her face. “Zelda, what are you talking about?”

“All of you… none of you should have had to go through what you did!” Zelda could feel the tears on her cheeks. “Hylia shouldn’t have put you through all of that. She—I—used all of you! It’s all my fault for not defeating Demise sooner, before you ever had to step in and clean up my mess!”

She pushed away. Many people were staring now, villagers and heroes alike.

Falling from the cliffs as a giant bird became a smaller and smaller speck in the sky, the screams of his sister like—

—hounds baying in the distance, knights brandishing swords as his short legs fled—

—waves of foes overwhelming their defenses, his brothers in arms falling around him, the weapons clattering as they fell from their limp hands—

—the blade his grandfather made going flying as the blow meant for Zelda hit him head on, the wind ripping at his tunic as he heard the curse strike his friend—

She couldn’t stand it. Her feet were moving before she knew where she was going.

“Zelda! Wait!”

She kept going, the visions buffering her every which way. A mask clamping—his body fracturing—a traitor’s blade in—the island fading into—the malice clinging to his—tentacles lurching forward—his own face rendered in dark—reaching for her as a tornado sucked her away—

Zelda blinked, looking up. The impassive face of the goddess stared down, without a trace of pity. Hylia. The divine protector of her people. The holy maiden. Her.

The one who had failed, who had sent them all to—

—dark magic suffocating his split mind—sparking a flame so they wouldn’t claim his blood—the magic of the woods stripping his flesh—the dark water—the endless fighting—the intrigue—the—

“Why?!” She screamed. “Why would you do it to them? Why make them suffer?! They are just boys, and you—I—we break them down and don’t even care that we do! They must hate us for—“

“Why should we hate you?”

The voice made her wince, spinning around, covering her mouth. The heroes, all of them, stood a careful distance away, Link at the head of the group. It wasn’t him who had spoken.

The Hero of Legend ambled forward, looking up at the statue. His sharp eyes scanned the goddess, and he sighed.

“I was 11 when my uncle was killed. He held my hand as he died.” He closed his eyes, grimacing. “He wasn’t killed by Hylia, or the golden three. He was killed by a wizard called Agahnim.”

“When I was 12, my best friend got turned into stone.” Four shuffled his feet. “It wasn’t Hylia who did it. It was a sorcerer named Vaati.”

“When I was 10, I was trapped in a time loop trying to stop the apocalypse.” Time ignored the whispers by the others at this admission. “It wasn’t Hylia or the goddess of time who started that disaster. It was a demon named Majora.”

“And my sister got taken by the Helmaroc King!”

“My village children were taken by Zant.”

Legend looked at her sidelong. “And guess who was behind most of those threats?”

“Ganon.” whispered Hyrule, running a finger over his gauntlets. “It’s almost always Ganon.”

“But—“ Zelda scrubbed at her face. “But it’s my fault! Why didn’t I stop Demise before he could do that to you? What sort of goddess sends children to fight her battles?”

Time snorted, moving closer to her, careful not to invade her space till she nodded weakly. “Zelda, do you think we wouldn’t have done those things?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Ya think I wouldn’t have gone after my sister? No one had to make me!” Wind grinned. “In fact, nothing would have stopped me!”

The others nodded.

“But I saw it, the terrible things you went through! Hylia watched, and you suffered!” She gestured at them all. “What you’re still suffering! This quest—“

“Sounds to me like we have a goddess literally lookin’ out for us, even now.” Twilight crossed his arms, smirking. “Probably wouldn’t have ended as good as it has without you protecting us.”

“As good as it—“

Smiling and blushing as the newly awakened princess kissed him on the cheek—gripping the rails as the new land swung into view over the horizon—watching the reflected world bloom back into life as Lorule’s Triforce was restored—hugging the children as they rode back into the village—fields of blue flowers blooming underfoot as he rode along and watched the reconstruction—the proud smile of his father as he worked with the squadron instead of going rogue—joining Zelda and Lana as they stood before the cheering troops, Hyrule free once more—Malon looking radiant as she walked down the aisle—clutching their daughter, the first Princess of the newly founded Hyrule—

Link took her hands gently. “If Hylia didn’t care, why would she—or you—have watched out for us the whole time? If you didn’t care, why would you be so upset by what we’re going through, if our own free will?” Zelda sniffled, letting him hold her. “We don’t blame you. It’s Demise’s fault, or Ganon’s. Not Hylia’s. And not yours.”

She squeezed him, looking up at the statue. Her smile was gentle, her wings spread overhead, sheltering them all. She swore she always would watch over them.

Till the very end.

[darkdemeter]

𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐍, 𝐁𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐕:

— BUCKY BARNES COLUMN

Dark Pirate! Bucky Barnes x Siren! Female Reader

—- gifs/images found on pinterest, credit to original posters -—

| A/N | DISCRETION |

Wow, I was expecting y’all to be absolutely ruthless and kill Mina to escape. But a few of you were right on it like hounds, you smart cookies, haha...

SMUT 18+ minors dni — oral receiving (male) — slight breeding kink — dubcon (imma just put this here just in case — possessive, dark bucky — dom/sub dynamic — minor profanity — secondary character death — angst — pet name usage — I think that's it? (There may be some grammar/missed editing, will come back sometime later and fix those mistakes)

| SUMMARY |

He is your captain, and he is holding you prisoner. You are his siren, and your fate is one of bound damnation.

*6.7𝐤 ────────────────┘

| M-LIST | TAGLIST:

@identity2212 @sebastianstansqueen @openup-yourmind @kandis-mom @calwitch @cjand10 @ashdoctor @missmarvelophilic @mostlymarvelgirl @daddy-bucky @thegirlwholoveslivesfanfiction @armystay89 @oscarissac2099 @boobsbeesbongos @wallacewillow0773638

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No. It’s worth weighs not in balance with the shedding of her blood, her very life, and your captain knows he has won. Head bowed low until the tresses of your hair fall about to frame your face like a shroud, hands sheltering the necklace with uncertainty, you turn your head towards your captain and Mina. Your hueful eyes, expressive in their nature of care beyond your own preservation, you would never willingly put your dear friend in the midst of harm. So, with a shake of your head at Mina’s tearful glare that spurs you to flee, you reject your chance of freedom in exchange for hers. 

  Primed still at the exposure of her throat, he guards her while you approach forward, elegantly submissive under the wake of his darkened stare, the bright tinge of blue awaits you with lust and longing. Nearing his side, the golden chain runs over your skin, a strike of pure and cold guilt pushes a burdensome weight on your heart at the passing of sorrowful voices that vanish upon his imprisoning hold.

  “Good girl,” he purrs with a flaunt of his pleased grin. Teeth that render you with possessive marks on display, taunting you with what’s to come. It is with tenderness that the softened caress of your hands meet over the tanned muscle of his hand that harbours death at his whim, eyes pleaful and coaxing with a want for an end to this needless violence; to forget its happening and be in the smothered encompassing of your beloved captain. 

  His fingers curl tighter to the hilt of his blade.   “Please…” Heaven pours the purest of waters into the goblet of a sinful man at the sound of such an angelic plea, fluttering from your parted lips his eyes cannot lessen his want for. As if entranced by the lull of your voice, he nods with a thinned smile of his plump, pink lips and withdraws the bite of metal from her throat. Mina lurches forward, stumbling with a sharp gasp, and you catch her a moment before she can find salvation in revenge. 

  “Young one,” she insists quickly as she latches hold of your wrist. Something resides in her face that pales, along the ridge of her eyes is a thickened beam of tears, but she gives you a smile. One she often adorned to banish your fears. In the etched lines of your confusion, she only smiles wider until the tears can no longer be held at bay, unleashing in finely thinned rivers. 

You mean all to me. I love you. 

  Her body succumbs and melts around you the moment you embrace her. Her arms are a haven around you, a blanket of safety you miss, a sensation you long to have. But she is sudden to pull away, holding her palm up and flat, she gestures for you to move back. 

Go. Now.

  In spite of their grievances and war over you, you see a mutual glance shared between Mina and your captain, her eyes firm in ensued silence but imploring something of him.   “Come, siren,” says Bucky, his strong hands encase you and pull you from Mina, your outstretched hands graze her own that will to entangle with yours, but falter. 

  She nods at you to go with your captain and you allow yourself to sink into the muscled crevice of his side, his hand holstering you flush to him as he guides you back towards the shore. He gives you no chance to let your course of gaze to linger back towards Mina. The low hum of his voice mumbles something to Wanda and the witch grins with an all too eager nod of her head. Now with you in his grasp, he leads you back towards the ship with those of the hunting party following behind. 

  You’re pressed on to move with haste, the salty winds sweep up the sandy embankments with a fearsome bellow that hums deeply in your rings, your robe barely clinging to cover your modesty. Only just over the beach’s mounding crest and through the howl of Nassau’s haunting wind, your body flinches inward to your captain at the echo of a scream that cracks through the swaying palms and over the bounding waves until the sound can travel no further. 

  Your feet run the wooden boards of the cabin at the behest of his forceful hand that shoves you through its threshold, the warrant of his wrath, the price you’ll pay for daring to insult him through your little deception. 

  “You test the bounds of my tolerance and kindness, siren,” he warns behind a bar of gritted teeth, he hisses without remorse for your shedded tears that follow, “You are bound to ME!”

  With fear all-consuming, you fall to your knees, hands press to the scuffed boards’ lining and your chin bows low to levels of his preference. 

  You cry out, the profuse outpour of tears that line your face does little to quell the raging tide of his anger. “I-I’m sorry!”

  “Quiet!” he barks and you reply with naught but a trembling nod. “I’ve been merciful to you. I’ve given you belonging, shelter and security, and this is how you repay all that? With this insult!”

  His height that towers over you like a commanding shadow sinks to kneel before you, the musk of his scent wafts in lingering cascades upon you, encasing you in times that once were; without this consistent turmoil of your curious nature. 

  But that’s what you were: curious. Why your captain holds guardianship over this particular necklace, its mystery undeniable to lure in your want to know, its attention and the way it glimmers and shines in the sunlight’s light. And the now fading voices. This necklace is yours, at least it was at some point in time, a piece of you that now your captain harbours as his own. Through it, somehow, it binds you to him. The key to your imprisonment… but also your freedom. 

  “You’ve to be punished now.” His words spoken levelly bring a chill to wisp down your spine and needle through your skin, sewing a patchwork of unrest into the faint glamour of your receded, softened scales, and your pupils are blown dark and wide with your evident terror. Punishment is never struck on a whim when it comes to your captain. No, punishment is served at the wrong doings, and in performing poorly to his orders, that punishment can vary. But for you, it falls under the same cloth, a figment garment that never holds to you for long. For it is stripped from you as you enact yourself in service until he sees your crimes duly paid in full.   And usually, it is after he has pumped you full, until your cunt is sorely abused and leaking with his seed. 

  Cool metal dances under your chin and before you can find a surmisable amount of courage to fight, he sharply upturns the tilted axis of your eyes to meet his. Ferocious as the battles he orchestrates at sea, and piercingly cold as the wintry peninsula of the arctic that your skin and muscle is butchered until your bones ache. Yet in the delicately lightened pools of his oceanic eyes, lies a strange tenderness. But it is one that never smiles. Never softens. Not in the way Mina implied. For your captain’s heart is a black one, guarded in the fortress of his cruelty. That which he holds you to the level of his eye is not a testament of love. 

  Captain James Barnes, the White Wolf, cannot love. Much to the naivety of your own heart, that soon after broke at this revelation of truth some time ago, you came to accept that in his darkened heart, yearns the ever hungry curse of lust. A hunger you must now feed or forever be enslaved, and mind erased at the coming of his witch’s scarlet magic. 

   “Yes… I do…”

  Your answer is met with a hum of approval, deep and throaty. Over the canvas of his features, there’s a smirk woven into his lips, sly and beautifully sinister in his internal fantasies he makes real upon the unity of your intimacy. You cannot help the blossom of need in your core upon meeting the darkened hue of his eyes that proclaim loudly through the veil of desires unspoken. 

  “Correct answer,” he applauds with another purr accentuating his deep voice, the flutter of your lashes a visible effect of his spell over you. But beneath his praise and all good words that come forth from his lips, you know what answer he seeks newly and intensely. At its mere thought, a power surges through you, a sensation that circuits through the tips of your fingers and down between your legs, gathering a layer of slickness that settles over the wooden floor. 

  “Your child,” you say, lips but a ghost’s touch apart, “your bastard…”

  “There’s a good lass,” he chuckles with a devilish grin and pushes forward, lips smashing onto yours with unparalleled force that drives your spine to curl back, at your hips he pulls you to him. His teeth gnaw and stab, his tongue roughly seeks out the delicate line of your mouth, priming it before his invasion that draws a string of quietened moans from the chasm beneath your breasts. Between them and the hardened peaks at their centres, the idle brush of silver reminds you of his name. Reminds you of whom you are bound to. 

  You whimper at the first lashing of his tongue that threatens yours in intimate combat, and with little will to fight and claim dominance, you allow him to defeat you. He is brutal in the carnage his wet muscle unleashes. Hungrier and hungrier. Closer, you pull yourself to the realm of his lap, crawling in the vice of his passionate indulgence. 

  He all but wraps you in the embrace of his arms and sweeps you up from the floor, pinning you to his hardened, muscular front with a long groan, the taste of your tongue coiling around his enough to make him delirious. Your robe falls from your shoulders and rests in the crook of your elbows, allowing your captain to ravish the nakedness of your shoulders and chest, marking your skin. He suckles, drawing dark pigments to form as a reminder of who it was that could only have you like this. 

Bucky’s quick to thrust you down on the bed. Forced at his will, you’re splayed upon your stomach and he forces your hips to arch up until the curve of your spine is perfectly at level to his liking. 

  “Are you goin’ to be a good girl for me, siren?” The question comes as a dark wave. The scent of his breath washes over you, you can smell the intoxicating flavour of lust. “Are you going to let your womb become swollen?”

  His metal hand comes to lift beneath the flesh of your smooth stomach, resting there. Ever gentle to tease, his fingers dance their way down lower, not quite gracing the needy pulse between your thighs, his cock hard and stiff against the apex of your arse, slowly he grinds up and down. 

  You give an obedient nod and a breathless sigh, “Yes, Captain…”

  He grinds further down against you, having all but ripped the robe from your body, the only barrier between your bodies is the tight confines of his dark trousers that do little to hide the body of his erected length. You shudder beneath the behemoth of his form, his heat poisonously soothing to the cooler temperature of your own. 

  His lips find the delicate, curved shell of your ear as he breezes with a husky hum, “There’s a good little siren.”

  His metal fingers prod at the sensitive mound of your aroused bud, pulling a string of pleasured hisses and whines like a musician plucking the noted hymn of his trusty instrument. His thumb rolls slowly to the rock of the ship as his other fingers toy with the moistened slit of your pussy that craves to have anything he’ll give. 

  You pant heavily, hair mused to falter in unkempt wisps that fall over your eyes. He whispers against the finery of your flesh, praising it over every inch exposed to him. His thumb now rolls harder and his metal digits push between your folds, ignoring the low whine and startled quiver of your thighs that bounce in their shaken balance, teetering over the bed’s edge only to be supported by the pillar of his waist that pummels into you roughly. 

Your eyes flutter to a close, engrossed in the motion of his fingers, the chilling kiss that smoulders the writhing waves of heat of your walls, your core now a blazing furnace that pleads for more. A filthy moan escapes you at the tugging of his expert technique, leaving him to chuckle darkly from behind. 

  “Dirty little whore, aren’t ya?” All you can do is nod in reply, wriggling in his grasp, your hips thrust down on his hand with feverish need. 

  His flesh hand punishes you with a slap, the echoing sound causes you to shriek. Frozen, he then stabilises you with his other hand that bites into the shape of your hip until he’s capable of leaving defined bruising. “You’re at my whim, Siren,” he growls hoarsely, “and you’re still serving your punishment.”

  He knows you near your orgasm. Your impatience to reach it noticeable and just when at the ridge of your climatic bliss, he withdraws his fingers from your cunt. It takes everything you have to not mewl and cry in protest. He turns you to lay on the flat of your spine, up into the glower of his piercing stare, and without so much as blinking, his flesh hand weaves to unfasten the buckle of his belt and tosses the leather strap to the floor with a metallic thunk. With a heavy knee that tips the scales, it pushes down on the mattress along your side with a muffled groan, his body hovers over you. Meanwhile, he invades your mouth with the numerous digits coated in your juices. You moan lowly at the taste that sizzles on your tongue, washing your buds with your sweet nectar. 

  With a simple rustle and tug, his pants fall loosely to gather below his strongly built waist, fabric bunching together to hold fast from falling to the floor too quickly. Free from the tight constraints now, his cock brushes over the navel of his abdomen, the long under-vein pulsing with heated pools of blood and his thick, pink tip oozing with need in the form of pebbling drops of pre-cum. Pushing his hips forward and tearing his metal fingers from your mouth, ignoring the connecting thread of saliva, he pulls your head until your lips bump plushly to his weeping head. His flesh hand traces the contour of your jawline with ghosting touch, your hair becomes ravelled tightly in the locked grip of his other.

  “Let’s see how well you sing when my cock is fucking your throat,” he says beneath a wheezing chuckle. He growls then, still humoured by his remark, “Open.”

  Your defiance to obey his command is futile. Somehow, you know this, though you believe you’ve never tried. Contact locked between your eyes, your pliant lips part and sink around his enormous girth, barely able to tolerate far before you’re already caught gagging. He laughs at your attempt to take him whole, always amused at the sighted struggle written into every inch and crevice of your face. Now that he thinks about it, it has been some time since he’s taken you down the throat, his flesh hand rolls from your jaw and down the side columns of your neck with the continuation to submerge his cock further in. Beneath his calloused fingers, your neck swells and the skin protrudes as his cock intrudes until finally, your nose brushes the dark curls of his base. 

  Your lashes are darkened and wet by the stream of tears lining the brim of your eyes, nose flaring aggressively for even a morsel of air. 

With a tilt of his chin he indicates for you to begin, his eyes warning of greater punishment if you decide otherwise. You slowly pull your head back, the stiffness of his hardened length running against the walls of your throat and mouth, covering every inch possible. As much as you can, you barely allow your teeth to tease him, fearful of what he’d do if you got any ideas with your sharp incisors. Rumbling with a pleasured groan, your captain snaps his hips sharply to sheathe himself again, much to a shattered, muffled whine coming from you. Your pace is too slow. And so, with a twist of your locks, he rolls his hips back and forth in a pace set to his liking, adoring the flow of tears streaming down your face. You continue to cough and gag, throat tightening in pulsing waves that quicken yet fade the longer you go without sufficient air. 

  “F-fuck, siren,” he groans as his head dips back, hair licking down the nape of his neck in long, dark tresses. His hips roll faster and his fingers hold tight to feel the quickened strike of his cock that surges back and forth inside you, your moans growing louder and lost in a whirlwind and blissful agony. 

  “Every drop, little Siren— sh-shit!” he thrusts harder at the filthy image of his spent spilling from the enclosure of your jaw and trickling down your neck in artistic rivers. The frantic course of his thrusts causes an obscene amount of sound to echo through the room, the slickened gargle of your hot, tiny mouth trying to accommodate his size through what little intake of air you can harvest, your cheeks flushed a bright hue of red that rivals that of the blood of his enemies. His lips part with a series of gasps and deep moans pumped from his chest, his release soon upon him. 

  “Drink— it all up– love,” he utters with a string of curses soon following his order. His grip seizes hold to the roots and your scalp burns, your discomforted whine drowned out by the flood of his seed that shoots past your tongue and straight into the bowel of your belly without restraint. His spent comes in tidal waves of hotness, unable to register his taste entirely, thick ropes of his cum paint and coat the walls of your mouth, leaving naught but a messy web of his release to coagulate once he withdraws. 

  In sight of you with your mouth full of him, he smirks, a dark and wicked thing to behold to and beneath the smouldering, glassy gaze that’s coal-like; fearsomely burning in his reverie of desire. He sighs a sound so deep it rumbles off his tongue like the fine course of a flowing river. 

  “How beautiful you are… on your knees and full of my love.”

  Love? 

  Is that what his seed is a representation of? You blink, wet and dark lashes beating damp markings against the undercurve of your eyes, he sees the surprise in your enlarged pupils.

  He cannot mean ‘love’. He is not capable of it…

  But how you wish he was. Oh, what you would give for this man to be able to love. To actually know the fine line between material treasures and true, unbridled and passionate love. Funny, how a siren wishes internally for the concept of love and to be loved, the very essence of that emotion only comes to that of the affectionate sisterhood of other sirens. A bond that envelops through both scales and soul. 

  A bond that, if severed, can have lasting impacts on the heart and mind. So much so, that a siren’s song can turn into one of longing sorrow and despair, and when that essence of love and lust is gone, there is no longer a song.

  Only the sounds of cries and shrill screams that echo in the mists, void of any emotion other than vengeance and rage. 

  He summons your attention with a sharp whistle that pierces the veil of your thoughts, ringing loud and clear in your ears. 

  “Eyes up, siren. I wanna see those eyes on me when I fuck you.” 

  Upon capturing the colour of your eyes, the casted amber glow from the candles reflecting in glittering highlights, his smirk only grows into a toothy grin that pulls the seams around his eyes to crinkle slightly. He watches with keen interest as you gulp down each swallowing of his cum, until the gaping blackness of your throat is all that remains, leaving a thin coating behind. 

  “How do I taste, little siren?”

  “G-good… Captain,” you answer, voice shaken. Broken in and slightly roughened. Something that stirs his pride greatly. His lips brush the velvety texture of your moan, memorising each stroke to memory with a drunken groan. 

  Intoxicated by the venom of his attention, you’re powerless as he leans over you, knees bent into the bed on either side of you, caging you beneath him. His hands, a mix of metal and flesh - a combination of cold and warm - follow the curvature of your jaw and sweep down your neck, following the natural dips and bends of your body. Over the linen of his loosely ruffled blouse, your hands are gentle in their tug, pulling at it. 

  Amused by your antics, Bucky leans back a moment and peels the shirt over his large shoulders, your eyes drink in the scarred field of his muscular body, the dark line of hair trailing down to the base of his cock that revives and flourishes with a heated, deep pink tint. 

  In your moment of jaw-slackened admiration, Bucky’s lips delve to the crook of your neck, nose nestling in deep to inhale your alluring scent that mingles and rubs with his own, husky growls emit from some deep chamber within him in his frenzy to claim every inch of you he can. With a pivot of his hips that move forward, he excites your weeping and desperately aching core with the enthralling length of his cock, a stone striking against stone to bring a sparking ember. 

  Your nails carve red streaks over his inked skin, muscle ripples beneath the pads of your fingers and he hisses deliciously, a sound you swallow with greed. 

  “Look at you,” he mumbles against your jaw, peppering your chin and the corner of your lips with kisses. “Taking what’s yours. You’re learning to be as black hearted as I.”

  Never has he applauded you in such a way. Not once has he rewarded this behaviour with praise and amusement. It’s always him that’s been dominant, to triumph over you. But not a moment too soon can you be lost to this idea that he wanes in his power, for his teeth sink deep between your neck and shoulder, enough to draw the bitter iron taste of your blood, you wince under the heavy pressure of his mark. “But I’ll always be the one on top.”

  “Yes, Captain,” you gasp quickly to the beat of his growl. His tongue soothes his bite before he takes one of your swollen peaks between his plush lips, tongue darting over it. Your moans are music to his ears. Granting the same treatment to the other before he turns you over, his actions rough with a grunt, he stares a moment upon the bareness of your spine, the ever-faint shimmer of softened scales reflect differing hues of greens, blues and pinks against the colour of your skin. 

  Your face brushes firmly over the furs and silks to peer past and over your shoulder, up at the darkened frame of your captain, eyes darkened and lost to the storm of his lust. 

  His large head spears teasingly at your entrance, lips quivering in anticipation and attempting to latch hold, to knock his tip within grasp. He scoffs at the pitiful display below him, your whines and broken mewls a song of your dependence on him. You’d never survive without him, he grins darkly at the thought. You rely too much on him now, stripped of everything you knew before, he holds you in the palm of his hand and at his tether. An obedient plaything.

  At the swift motion of your hips, Bucky dips back, your attempt failing miserably with an exasperated sigh. “Now, siren,” he coos, cocking a brow you barely see, you hear the infatuation that laces his tone. “I want you to beg for it. You sound so beautiful when you do.” 

  “Please,” you whimper that stifles at the reward of his tip brushing your aroused lips. You whine again, louder, “Please!” 

  The snap of his hips is quick and he thrusts hard, pushing the breath from your lungs in the form of  a breathless scream that winds you. Buried almost to his haired base within one go, he pushes what remains until his cock nestles snugly in your pulsing walls that constrict around his girth; choking in with dire need. 

  “Fuckin— hell–” he bites down into his lip with a deep hiss as he draws his hips back, only to then repeat the first slaughtering wave that penetrated you, another gust of breath pushed from your lungs. You cough, spluttering and moaning in muffled choruses when he picks up the pace, driving his cock in and out, the sound drowning your eardrums with only the backdrop of his voice threads through, you’re practically deaf to your own noises. 

  “So t-tight–” he chokes out, the impact of his thrusts increases until your body shuffles back and forth, his hands squeeze to your hips to keep you from moving across the bed from his ruthless pace. Arching himself that bit higher and angling you with him, your ears pop and ring with a scream that tears through your vocal cords, loud enough to be heard from outside the cabin, no doubt. 

  “Like that, siren? Right there, is that where— shit, where you— need me?” 

  You cry out in reply, voice barely able to form the words,   “U-uh– yes!”

  The tightness that ripples through your body and heats your skin begins to form, the weaving of your orgasm soon nearing, your only hope that he grants you it this time, you continue to appeal to him, begging him for more and more until your cunt aches from the constant pummeling of his drive. Each time your walls squeeze around him, it’s tighter than the last, a telltale that your body is ready to let go. 

  “Cap–Captain!” you gasp into the sheets with a deep, longing moan. “Please… oh, please…”

  His lips tug at the corners into a devilish grin, fingers embedding themselves to bruise your hips. “You want to cum?”

  You cannot bring yourself to answer lest you scream again and break your voice for good, he sees the intense bop of your head. 

  “Cum for me, little siren, cum on my cock,” he barks and you follow his command. Like the pulling current of the forbidden and dark maelstrom, you release yourself with a heavy and breathless moan as you cum. His own pouring of his seed follows within seconds of your own, your walls drinking every drop of him until he’s all but spent inside you. He grunts from behind, a series of laborious noises, he begins to slow his hips but doesn’t cease to a complete stop. 

  His hips roll slowly until he grinds circles, his cock still embedded deeply into your abused pussy that’s stuffed full of him and his cum, all but weeping around him in hopes of leaking out. Your skin is duly from the thin layer of sweat coating you like a second skin, your chest heaves for air after having been robbed of every single breath, but the trace of his lips brings you pause.

  He’s not done with you just yet. 

  Glasses of sand pass through hours of unrelenting torture, brought out through orgasmic bliss and pleasures and pain, all until both he and you were beyond another round. Your entire body felt broken in, shaking with nerves frazzled and your muscles tense after trying to claw your way out of his grasp - for even just a moment of reprieve - but he’d dragged you back to him from your ankles and pinned you down. 

  Left in darkness, the candles having lost their will and wick to burn,  you blink through the overhanging shroud of sleep that clings to you. Your body remains to recover and you struggle to crane yourself to even rest on your elbow and peer down at your captain. Asleep on the plane of his back, his chest rises slowly with deep inhales and breezing exhales. His metal hand lazily holds against the hind of your arse, every so often giving it a firm grip. His other hand rests on the rise of his toned stomach, the gold barely noticeable in the dark, the pearl emits a dim glow. The voices, however, sing a dying symphony that are barely heard above your breath. 

  You draw closer until you half straddle over his waist, your fingers comb over the veins of his hand and wrist, down and over his thick, strong fingers, ringing the chain loose until the necklace is held in your palms once again. You’d done all to tire him out to near completion so that he’d not be as alert as any other time. Now all you cling onto is hope that your plan is not one of failure. 

  Your nails grow from the beds and sharpen, eyes flickering between his sleeping features and the necklace, your hand hovers above him. 

  The air is thick in your lungs, tense as you scan for a place to safely gather enough blood that he won’t notice in his sleep. Your eyes and hand move down the length of his body until they reach the apex of his lower abdomen, grazing just near the trail of dark hair, your claws slash an opening. Pouring in thin, bleeding streams, you coat the pearl quickly. The pearl glows brighter now, the taste of crimson allows the white to fight through the hue of red, adorning a pinkish colour. You move to sit, balancing half way atop your captain, you next move to your palm, your sharpened fang punctures into the tender flesh of your other palm, you swallow a pained hiss. 

  With a final glance towards your sleeping captain, you’re aware there will be no going back from this. Mina’s sacrifice will not be in vain. You lay the pearl into the thin pool of blood, the pearl beats with glowing life that compares to that of the full moon, the song returning to levels now louder, revived from their near death. 

  Through the ripples of time, a white flush blinds you with a vision.

  Brightly, the sun lays high and over the ocean that moves in ever-rolling waves, the ripples form on its surface with unrest, a vast world of different shades of blue, all a-mingling together in harmony. The ocean envelops you - welcomes you - and your tail thrashes in excited beats that leave behind a fading cloud of bubbles. 

  Around you, faces greet you with fanged smiles, wistful and playful eyes that are soft in their tender gaze that hold to you. 

  Faces you find yourself remembering now, but their names evade you. 

  Breaking the ocean’s surface, the sun drowns your vision with bleeding heat, your brows scrunch but your grin is present and full. A sense of great excitement buzzes throughout your entire body, stomach alight with wonderment, you wonder… What is this feeling about?

  Then you see her and you now know. Her stature is grand and towering, she too breaks through the barrier between worlds with a hum of contentment, her features warmed in the blazing sun’s light. Her hair falls down over her shoulders in long, cascading tendrils, braided with dazzling ornaments and a variety of shells, each one a treasured gift presented, a crown forged in mystic metal shines. 

  Her eyes are giant pools of amber, a stark contrast when she resides in her kingdom below the waters and in the abyssal midnight. Eyes that are forever watchful and guarding, ever-seeing and always brimming with unfaltering love. 

  “Children,” she sings low and slowly, a note of adoration in her voice. All those of siren-kind are known as her children, but for you, you are one whose blood is annointed. From her womb, years ago, she shed tears of happiness. A child to whom she’d come to name Y/N. Daughter, and princess, of sirens. 

  Around her waist is the cycle of sirens that envelop her, circling her in their gladness to see her emerge from the depths below, every so often does she make her way to the surface, only for special occasions. Those who do not rush to swim circles around her, they gather onto the lagoon rocks. 

  “My beloved children,” again she coos soothingly with a rolling lullaby. But her eyes are sudden to sink, her smile is then to vanish as an abrupt wave of panic consumes her. Her amber eyes turn towards the horizon behind you and her form blacks out the sun, covering you in her looming shadow. 

“Submerge—!”

Screams of a thousand voices echo into the sky and ripple through the water as spiralling currents that pierce you like blades. Her body bends forward at the bombardment of fire upon her, her neck cranes forward with a reverberating cry, her pain is felt by all.

  Yet she pleads for her children to delve below, to hide beneath the blackened blue that no humans would dare to venture lest they succumb to their demise. 

  Ships break into view, bouncing on the waves as tyrants. Breakers of peace. “Mother!” you shout, a webbed hand outstretched only to turn swiftly at the ship headed straight for you. The sight of a carven lady poised at the hull’s front, adorned in a skinned pelt of a wolf upon her head, you’d recognise it anywhere. The Avenger. The ship continues at you, leaving you no choice but to dive out of the way just before her front could bruise and slay you bluntly. 

  Your vision succumbs to a flurry of bubbles and darkness, only to re-awaken above the waves, the sky now traded for night. The moon is full, clouds unable to restrain its light for long in passing and the inky black canvas is riddled with sparkling, silver gems. 

  The Avenger’s anchor is reeled in with haste, panic ensues within the form of night and battle commences between that of your kind and the species that dwells on land, that which you prey upon: Man. 

  Those of your small clustered hunting party are hunted, spears puncture through the water until they sink into flesh or fall to the trench’s deep. You swerve, turn swiftly to be missed, but some aren’t so fortunate as you. 

  You came here to hunt and your quarry is what you’ll drag to the depths. Barreling upwards, a tunnel of water sprays about you as you launch yourself airborne, high and overarching towards the helm where you’d last seen him. 

Fangs bared into a hissing scream, slitted eyes of a predator bear into the frame of a tall man with dark, long hair and your clawed hands stretch out in your attack. A voice of one of his crew yells for his attention a moment too late. His blue eyes come to find yours just as you land atop him, pinning him to the wooden railing before pushing him overboard. You have him pinned, your grasp tight on your prey that escaped you just a few moments ago in the disturbed peace of his cabin, he struggles against you. 

  You immediately begin to burrow your claws into his shoulder to fight him, teeth gnawing on his flesh and through bone, but still he fights back with waning strength and breath, eyes a pure kind of blue that outmatch the palette around his soon-to-be grave. A whirling of crimson follows him down, his weight shifts in the balance to your favour at the loss of his arm that sinks into the depths below. 

  His lips part and pockets of air come from them in large bubbles, his lids begin to close and you grant him a sweetened smile, eyes half lidded in your victory that is sudden to end at the grasp of his hand around your throat and the cutting robe of a net that encompasses you both.

  In your battle to wriggle free, his arm wraps around you as the net is dragged upwards and towards the hull. Air from the world fills your chest and the once dark sky of a starlit night is returned to day. Around you, ships blast cannon fire and the air is polluted by smoke and the overpowering, scented winds of gunpowder. 

  Those familiar faces now are lifeless, eyes dull and lifeless and staring as blood poisons the sea around them, turning into murky clouds of crimson around you. It forces you to the surface and the moment you do, a voice shouts through the fabric of slaughter, the screams of your pod an orchestra of death and torment. 

  Your head turns to the direction of your mother, who battles the fleet of ships, a brutal display of annihilation only to then be fired upon and lurch forward, the being of her wounds worsens under the attack. Her eyes find yours amidst the chaos and you begin your way to her. 

  “You must flee!” she yells, a hand stretches out for you in warning to then shield you from a dozen harpoons with a harrowing call of whistles. Tears mist your vision before a spray of more fire separates you, driving you under the water and occasionally leaping through the air momentarily to avoid getting lost in the tainted, bloody waters. 

  You dare not look back, not as smoke rides over and veils your mother, not as her cries of battle turn further into the pain she’s subjected to nor the crashing wave of her body that falters and ripples through the ocean until it shudders the earth’s core. 

  But that same ship hunts you, the carven lady with a wolf’s pelt chases you over the unending sheets of raging waves, driving you further and further away from your family, your friends; all that you held dear. The many newborns that were attending the grand ball of daylight would never come to know their second. The choir would never sing your harmonic tunes as the sun faded over the ocean’s horizon. Never would you see your mother’s loving gaze attend you or her other precious children. 

  Never again would siren society be the same, without its queen, and without its people. Launching yourself out and into harm’s way to avoid another blooded cloud, you hear his voice shout, “Alive! I want her alive!”

  Your head turns and your eyes widen at the flash of scarlet that comes towards you, rendering you unconscious. 

  Him. It’d been him all along. Him, as he now stares at you with eyes a fearsome burn of darkened blue, awake and alert to your doings. You hardly come to realise the soaking streams of tears that run down your cheeks and drip onto his stomach, each one shed in the regaining of your memory. Remembering that which was all lost to you. Taken from you. By him.

  “Y/N, my love,” he affirms with a raise of his hands, each one cupping the wet curve of your jaw between them, the ominous and often looming storm in his eyes lays distantly. He coddles you now with his affections. “Pearl… I did it all for you. Because I love you.”

  Your head bends forth to rest in the crook of his neck, chests bare and pressed together, your breaths are shallow tremors that turn into muffled chords of weeping sorrow. Come morning, scarlet will rot your knowledge and turn you blind once again. But for now, you relish in his confession whilst you ponder: does his love justify his means?

For now, you will bide your time. Live another day… and sate your everloving vengeance.

────────────────

Well, we've reached the conclusion of our tale, readers. To think this all started with a single oneshot that was meant to just be a sole piece. But some of you wanted more and thus, this au grew a little more.

I thank you all for reading this series, I'm glad that it's provided some source of entertainment for you, it's been a pleasure. You readers have a lovely time now, remember to be nice to your fellow tumblrs and give your biggest love and support for your writers!

Captain Barnes and Pearl wish you happy reading and writing, Tumblrs 💙

[pinkykats-place]

Sandor Clegane x Reader Insert Fics

Tumblr Recommendations

Disclaimers!

Stories and Gif are NOT mine.

Some contain mature content.

Readers are mostly female.

Note: if you read and enjoy any of these stories - please like, leave a comment and/or reblog original post!

In the North

Summary: they had a relationship before they had to part ways and so they get reunited when reader is sent with Jorah by Daenarys to get a white walker, Beric and Thoros is in disbelief that Sandor can be able of loving someone

Love?

Sandor Clegane x Stark!Reader

Opposites Attract

Sandor Clegane x fem!reader

Dogs are Best

Sandor x female!Reader

The Kennel Master’s Daughter

Sandor x female!Reader

Sandor Clegane x fem!nurse!reader

Warnings: none it's fluffy

Summary: Back at the time when Joffrey was king, the king's guard got into a fight with the people of flea bottom ending up with many of them injured including Sandor Clegane himself. What will happen when out of all the nurses only Y/N is brave enough to help him?

A Hound Will Die For You But Never Lie To You 

Trigger warnings: NSFW, swearing, all the usual Game Of Thrones warnings.

Rating: M (It jumps right in there so if that’s triggering for you I’d suggest skipping it)

Summary: Imagine being the one to gentle the rage inside Sandor Clegane.

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Reader (gender neutral).

Everything

Summary: A little drabble about Sandor’s feelings for the reader.

Scarred

Summary: Request from anon: I have a request! Sandor/Reader where the reader is being really lovey with Sandor and kissing him everywhere and she kisses his scarred side and he pushes her away but eventually gives in because she’s persistent that she will kiss him there and that he doesn’t have to worry because she loves his face.

An unexpected scene

NSFW Fic

Angered Beasts

Request: Hi can I request a drabble where the reader is one of joffreys playthings, like sansa is, and she runs into the hound after a beating? Something a little fluffy, please x

Warning: Mentions of violence and slight blood, female reader

Bathing in a tub with Sandor - drabble

Last Night

Fem!Stark!Reader

Request: Are requests still open? If so, please could I request a Hound x Stark reader where they confess their feelings for each other before they fight the Night King?

Good Dog

Warnings: Spoiler!,Fluff, swearing

Summary: Reader is found in the snow 

Hounds and Gingers

Summary: a short, fluffy imagine

An Urgent Confession

(female reader)

Summary: A little story about the reader reminiscing of a moment between her and Sandor 

A Hound’s Jealousy

Just a short little jealous!Hound request

Warnings: jealous Sandor, handsy guy

A Good Punishment

Summary: a handmaid is given to the King’s dog

Another Drink

Summary: rough smut with Sandor after he’s sees you with Bronn

Meeting at Winterfell

Summary: Imagine being a Stark and meeting Sandor Clegane at Winterfell

Imagine Sandor realizing that Tormund has a crush on you

Jealous Sandor…

Sharing a Bed with the Hound

Awkward Fluff!

To Break the Spell

Summary: Beauty & the Beast au

Imagine it’s you who Sandor takes away from Kings Landing during the Battle of Blackwater Bay

Series: More Than Our Servitude

Sandor Clegane x Fem!Reader

Summary: You lived your life as one of the washerwomen of the Red Keep, only seeing the Hound in passing. Still, when the madness of the Battle of Blackwater erupted, he came for you. The Hound is weary from battle, but you try and soothe what little you can.

Our Family

Sandor x wife!Reader

Summary: Sandor enjoys spending the day with his wife and son

His Queen

Sandor x female Reader

Sandor is soft with joffery’s wife

Sandor’s Secret

Sandor x fem!Reader

Summary: Sandor has a secret hidden away from everyone.

Series: Fox and the Hound

Sandor x Reader

Summary: Joffrey wants to send a message to your family after your brother embarrasses him, so he marries you off to his most unwanted man in his court, the hound. But will this marriage truly be a statement for an eyesore, or will it grow into something more. 

Howling At The Moon!

Werewolf!Sandor Clegane x Female Reader

Summary: Sandor unexpectdly finds his mate, as expected she is human...  

Rose

Hound x Reader

Protecting You

Hound x fem!Reader

Imagine Sandor vowing to protect you after you help him with his recovery

Sandor x fem!Reader

Secret Wife (female reader)

Based on this request:  Can you do something with Sandor secretly having a wife. Maybe they met when he was serving king Robert and they met when she was hunting and eloped after a few years. She left before the battle of Blackwater because Sandor didn’t want her getting wrapped up in that so They meet again in Winterfell and no one can actually believe it.  

WITH THIS ADDED: Sandor and reader in a somewhat secret relationship. Tormund keeps hitting on reader in front of Sandor and finally his jealousy gets the better of him and he makes a loud declaration of their love. 

[bitten-fruit]

Houndtooth | Chapter 1 ⇨

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut

You're a diamond in the rough, the prized possession of your Russian oligarch husband. You cover your eyes and ears about where his money comes from, but you know it involves blood.

Until you're abducted, imprisoned, and interrogated by an assassin in a skull mask. Forced to cooperate or face the mouth of an uncaring gun - you turn to espionage under duress from SAS operatives, motivated by the faint possibility of being given the chance to finally go home.

Ghost hates you. He hates the beast you rile in him. He hates that he craves you.

18+ mdni - cw: below the cut - 2.2k words

Hello loves, a brief intermission from me (quick I promise) - I thought it would be fun to cross-post my Ao3 fic Houndtooth on tumblr. It is still in progress!

Needless to say, this fic comes with some major content warnings: implied SA (not by Ghost), drug addiction, waterboarding, and heavy physical violence.

Reader insert goes by her alias, Mia, a name she invented to protect herself in her previous profession.

𝐈. 𝐍𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐫

​If I cannot be feared, I must be loved.

There’s something special about you. 

Something sickly. 

Your body, your lips, your eyes. Bait like dripping entrails in a loose twine net; dragging bloody along the wooded, overgrown path of your life, and luring ravenous carnivores to your trail around every bend. 

It’s something you’ve grown accustomed to, expectant of – that lecherous scrutiny, from any man you have ever met, or ever might. Used to the huffing snouts that suck in the vapour of your beguiling skin, tonguing it like they might ever get to take a bite. 

Offering mouthfuls of yourself is the only way you have been able to keep them at bay. Appeasing when necessary. Rebuffing only when you can be certain that your extermination will not be the consequence. 

Sometimes they gnaw at you anyway. Sometimes their canines sink rapaciously into your soft flesh, popping through your skin like it’s the velvety hide of a peach. They drink the sweet pink syrup until you’re bled dry, careful to spit out the cyanide core once they've finished. 

Until that poisonous pit, coated in the stringy viscera that those teeth had missed, was all that was left of you. 

So, when your husband found you, dressed as the hound-bait character you played along the redlight strip, you were allured by the promise that he might plant you again. Maybe, with his exorbitant riches and clandestine occupation, he might water you and fertilise your soil, he might let your pit sprout into a sapling. Maybe, your branches might blossom again. 

When he expatriated you to Russia, his snow-blown motherland, you imagined yourself a Tsarina; jejunely clinging to his arm like you might fly away with him, carried to an undefiled paradise as though he were your archangel and you his rapture. 

That was the last time you loved him. 

One step off that jet, the first leap with your exuberant paw; there was no paradise, no utopia waiting for you. Landing hard on icy cement, your husband was quick to stifle your lament. Offered you oxycodone like pebbles of dogfood in the palm of his hand, swearing you an unending supply – his remuneration for your services, whose nature you were not yet privy to. 

But those opioids were your wage. 

They were your shackles, too. 

Even if you managed to outrun your paralysing addiction to them, it didn’t take you long to be tackled and smothered by your intemperate dependence on your husband himself. 

On his status, on his money, on his reputation. 

Without, you would have been long used and discarded, tossed hollow and floppy like freshly flayed doeskin; exsanguinated by the very men he colludes with, the very creatures that slither into your home, that sit at your table and speak puzzles in their Cyrillic tongues. 

The very beasts who your husband endeavours to entertain and indulge with your presence at his side – a glittering trophy, or a ripe fruit, juicy and plump. He holds you in greedy hands and brandishes the shine of your skin, he polishes you with a firm palm on your ass, he boasts his possession of you with a hot tongue on your cheek. 

The prize they can never win, that’s what you are. The meal they can never devour. Only his teeth have the privilege of gorging on your supple flesh. 

With your English passport long stolen from you, you are left with no option but to be grateful for that fact – that your husband does not whore you out to his compatriots, does not sell your body for some other man to graze on or to pick at, like you used to do yourself. 

That is one of the few reprieves he offers you. 

Protection. 

Maybe, if you had never met him, you would have eventually crawled out of the chasm that your previous life had sunk to. If you had never met him, you might have found a way to break free from your dependence on those poppies. If you had never met him, you might have found worth for yourself beyond the coins hungry men would offer you in exchange for a taste of you. 

But any hope you may have had in those days is a distant, futile memory. A bittersweet daydream you sometimes venture to. 

Frozen in your sordid reality, you’ve no option but to indulge him. 

To oblige him, whatever he wants from you, you play the role he carved out just for you to fill. You massage his neck after a long day. You listen to his broken English as he does his best to explain what had happened at work, in as little detail as possible, in an effort to shield you from the truth of his profession. You swallow his cock when he asks you to. You pretend to let him satiate you all the same, a professional actor you are – you sing those moans for him, when he licks you, when he fucks you, when he pledges to impregnate you. 

He doesn’t know you’ve got a copper coil in your womb. You tell him there’s something wrong with his come, he doesn’t believe you. He sends you a doctor, and with his money, you pay them to lie. 

That’s the other perquisite, one you can’t belittle. 

His money. 

His mountains, mountains, mountains of money. 

None of it tangible, no real cash, no paper stacks tucked away in places any brave burglars might be able to find it. All of it digital, little numbers, binary code hidden behind so many layers of encryption it’s a wonder it can be counted at all. 

But there’s never a need to count it. All you know is that it is unending. 

He lets you spend it how you like, and there’s no amount of expenditure that could ever put a dent in his wealth large enough for him to notice. 

Still, the prince, he imprisons you in his castle. You can throw invisible money at whatever your bored and inebriated heart might desire, any priceless art, any extortionate car, any lavish designer shoes – and it means nothing. It fills no void. There’s nobody to show it off to. 

It appeased you, at first, after your stint of homelessness, then your weeks living in a dim red brothel, until he found you. When he offered you such a nauseating amount of money as payment for your salacious dance, that you felt your knees buckle beneath you at the sight of it. When he took you shopping and bought new lingerie to decorate you with, when he carted you giddy to his private jet. 

All too good to be true. 

And it was. 

Too late now, anyway. This is the hand you’ve been dealt; you play your cards as best you can. Close to your chest. Who knows when you’ll fold. 

You lean over the marble vanity, the harsh, downward lighting of the gaudy ensuite carves out the divots and lumps of your face that are typically imperceptible. 

You used to think you were beautiful. That’s what everyone told you. 

But watching your husband’s cold semen trickle down your décolletage, saturating and staining the invaluable lace and silk chiffon of your rosy babydoll, drying flaky on your skin – you can only see lipstick on a pig. An ugly little creature, destined for the slaughter. Your belly waiting to be made into crackling, your ass into bacon. It won’t be long now. 

You sense that you are beginning to overstay your welcome. What had once been pliancy had now turned stiff and sharp. Any sweetness you once felt for the man who swept you off your feet has since coagulated into bitter milk, too lumpy to swallow, so instead, you spit. 

The contempt inside your husband has been bubbling, fermenting. You can see it, and feel it, and taste it. He made it known to you especially tonight, fucking you with the brutality of a rabid animal, clutching and clawing, tugging and throwing, biting and beating. Painting you with his come to humiliate you, to degrade you, to remind you what you are, and always will be. He got some of it in your eye. 

There’s a bruise on your collarbone. It’s not the first he’s given you. It won’t be the last. 

You wipe away the crusting fluid with an opulent towel, dampened with warm water; lush white cotton turning creamy and black as it cleans away the come and mascara. You use it to dab clean your negligee. It’s your favourite one.  

Clink.

Your ears perk. 

Clash. 

Frozen on your feet, your head darts to face the door to the ensuite - heavy and ornate, it sits ajar. Last you checked, your husband was asleep, snoring like a fucking engine. The silence that follows the peculiar noise is what unsettles you most. 

Maybe it was him reaching for the pills on his nightstand, or readjusting the eiderdown duvet he sleeps under. But you’d expect a grunt, at least, some huffs of complaint as he was forced to do something for himself for once. 

Instead, quiet. 

You know that your husband keeps guns around the estate. Both figuratively, in the forms of armed and well-paid sentries that roam the grounds and stand guard by the doors. And, literally. A pistol in the kitchen, a shotgun in his cupboard, an assault rifle under the coffee table. 

And, you remember, a Beretta under the sink. 

With quivering and cautious fingers, you reach for the brass handle of the drawer. 

“Милый?” Sweetie?

You utter it softly, hesitantly, sweetly. He once told you your accent sounds native when you pamper him with pet names. English is your first language, Russian now your second. He doesn’t know how much of it you can understand. More than he believes. 

But there is no answer from him. Not a word, nor a groan, nor a snore. 

“Все ли в порядке?” Is everything alright?

Your careful fingertips dive into the drawer, momentarily peeking down to find the black metal. A pant of relief jumps from your throat when your fingers find it, that cold handle; you take it in the palm of your hand, it moulds to your grip like it was made for you. 

He showed you once how to load it. 

You remember. 

You clutch the slide with a harsh grip, tugging it back, click-snap. 

The safety is off. You’re not that stupid. 

“Дорогой?” Sweetheart?

Calls turn to pleas. 

You know vaguely the line of work in which your husband is a kingpin. You know it most likely involves bloodshed. 

And, so, you guess it involves fucking people over. That it incites vengeance. That it creates martyrs. 

Normally, the guards help you sleep, their thudding boots and murmuring chatter keeping the retribution at bay. 

Why is it so quiet? 

Thud.

Creak.

Now you resent yourself for calling for him. You’ve made your position obvious. You’ve handed yourself on a platter. 

Perhaps you can sneak to the hallway. 

Or, perhaps you can simply check to see if it’s your husband, skulking around your bedroom and choosing to silently ignore you out of spite. 

So on your bare toes, you glide along the glossy tiled floor, pit pat, pit pat. Feline fingers clutch the edge of the door. You gently draw it open, ever so slowly, the golden hinges moaning quietly at their awakening. 

You hold your weapon by your side. You keep your finger off the trigger. God knows what you’d do if you shot your husband by accident. You might be better off just turning the gun on yourself, in that case, rather than be left to the dogs. You know what their teeth would do to you. 

The bedroom is dark. 

The silvery glow of the moon is the only source of light, bar the dim orange now emerging from the open ensuite door. Your kittenish shadow stretches out before you onto the velvety carpeted floor, your shape carved out even through the sheer fabric of your negligée. 

“Не двигайся, черт возьми.” Don’t fucking move.

Your breath lodges in your throat, wedged in your trachea like you had swallowed a jagged rock. 

Not your husband. 

No, that voice is far too deep, too grumbling, too threatening. 

So who? 

“Кто ты, черт возьми?” Who the fuck are you?

You hiss it, a growl, though only the kind a snarling little chihuahua might spit out when touched by an overbearing hand. 

Hidden from the moonlight, the figure prowls through the shadow. Towering, imperious, that silhouette renders you frigid - you swallow as much oxygen as your stiff diaphragm will allow you. Not much. 

Four red beads of light stretch in a line where his eyes should be, reminiscent of a hunting spider; high enough off the ground that it might be crawling up the walls, hanging from its silk, ready to ensnare you. No, that’s just how tall the beast is as it stalks you. 

The glint of the moon reflects off the glistening barrel of his gun. Gun feels like an understatement. It’s immense, black. Machine more fitting. Pointed at you. Coaxing. Warning. He gives it a shake. 

“Брось этот крошечный пистолет, шлюха.” Drop that little gun of yours, slut.

The more he talks, the more you doubt. His accent is weak. Not a Russian. 

“Чего ты хочешь, мудак? Деньги?” What do you want, asshole? Money?

He scoffs. Arrogant. Scornful. 

“I don’t want your fuckin’ blood money, you evil little bitch.” 

English. 

Explains the accent. 

But, you’re left with more questions. One, what the fuck? 

“Drop the gun. Or I might get your blood on that pretty dress.” 

You hesitate. He pounces. 

“Сейчас!” Now!

Next chapter ⇨

[starlightvld]

Bait & Switch, pt. 2

<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 >>

Based on "I wasn't in that tunnel."

Call of Duty, implied soapghost cw: angst, hurt no comfort (yet), MWIII spoilers

---

When Johnny died, a black hole swallowed Ghost whole, bones and blood crushed into numbness by an all-encompassing gravity. Work, duty, life went on, but even spreading Johnny's ashes in Scotland — a place they'd talked about visiting together during those rare moments when exhaustion-induced delirium held the cold voice of reason at bay — even that couldn't counter the gravity holding him suspended in a single moment, knees crashing into blood-soaked concrete and a choked voice calling out to a man who would never answer.

The longer they chase Makarov through his little puppet show, though, the more the numbness gives way to other feelings — pain, despair, rage — that grow more potent every day they fail to bring the bastard to justice.

They've searched for years, yet they're always two steps behind. 

And this bloodbath of an op is no different.

If he has to focus his rage on someone other than Makarov, though, he's glad it's Makarov's dog, dubbed Agent Zero by the task force generals, stalking his team's steps today. The demon appeared six months after their failure in the Channel Tunnel and has hounded the 141 ever since, denying them victories, decimating their support squads, and nearly killing each of the core members at least once. 

Zero seems to have it out for Ghost in particular, though. The agent has put him on medical leave more than a dozen times already, and today will be no different.

If he can escape with his life, that is.

Ghost controls his breathing and prepares for the coming fight the best he can with a bullet hole in his side. He's not bleeding out, so he'll take that as a win, even if the blood loss is making him woozy. Sunlight blazes down on him as he stands in the middle of the open area between warehouses and waits for Zero to catch up.

As if summoned, Zero stalks out from behind a building, thick body hidden behind layers of black tactical gear and a full helmet. Based on their build and the muffled growls he's heard in past confrontations, Ghost guesses Makarov's agent is a man, but the tinted glass of their helmet makes it impossible to know for sure.

It doesn't matter, though. Whoever they are, they have to die. The 141 will never catch Makarov while his dog is nipping at their heels.

The agent weaves through the detritus of dead Konni and SAS soldiers while scanning the area. Ghost has already ordered the remaining SAS support units to fall back, and all the Konni soldiers are dead, the last one lying at Ghost's feet, eyes staring unseeing at the blue sky.

It's just the two of them now.

Despite the sun's heat, a chill pebbles Ghost's skin. This will likely be the end for one of them. He hopes it's Zero, if only for his team's sake.

Ghost himself has nothing left to lose.

The pavement radiates the afternoon sunlight, the air blurred with shimmering waves. Sweat soaks into Ghost's mask and runs in rivulets down his back.

Zero's helmet turns his way.

The agent freezes for a split second... before breaking into a dead run, headed straight toward Ghost.

Feet pound on the pavement in time with Ghost's quickening heartbeat. And just like every other time they've clashed, a sinuous familiarity in the way Zero moves wraps around Ghost's senses, more an innate recognition of form than the identification of any specific action. He ponders the sensation as Zero barrels down on him, all terrifying focus and yet easy grace. If the agent weren't his sworn enemy, he thinks he could find beauty in those movements.

He waits until the last minute to dodge, using his own speed and Zero's momentum to push the agent away. Zero is expecting the move, however, and swings around to land a hard punch to Ghost's throat. Ghost twists, the blow glancing off his tac vest instead. They round on each other and dive in again. 

Attack. Deflect. Block.

So it goes for what seems like eternity, trading blows over blood-slick stones. And still, the movements haunt Ghost with that winding thread of familiarity.

A phantom ache builds in his chest, though he doesn't know why.

He dodges a fist to his injured side, and Zero pauses for a split second, helmet tipping down. Ghost uses the distraction to attempt a headlock but wheezes when an armored fist collides with his injury. In a haze of pain, Ghost grips Zero's neck harder, kicks the agent's feet out from under them, and slams them face-first into the ground. A crunching sound rings in Ghost's ears, and tempered glass fragments spill over the pavement.

The impact doesn't keep the devil down, though. Zero shoves Ghost away, using the momentum to scramble out of reach. Ghost lands on his back with a huff, the sharp pain in his side nearly blinding him.

He's getting too fucking old for this. 

Maybe tonight will prove it.

He lifts himself up on one elbow to get eyes on Zero, a little confused that he's not already fending off another attack. But... his enemy is standing stock still a few feet away.

More importantly, the broken visor leaves the helmet wide open to the sunny day, giving Ghost his first, full view of the person who's been terrorizing them for years.

A broken sound of confusion wheezes through Ghost's tight throat.

From inside the broken helmet, blue eyes flick down to meet his gaze — the exact same shade of blue that's haunted his dreams since the day he lost everything.

Or so he thought.

It can't be.

It can't.

And yet—

"Johnny?"

The name rips from his throat like a desperate prayer, mangled by panting breaths of overexertion. The man's glassy eyes go wide and... confused?

And then he drops the knife in his hand like it's burned him before falling to his knees at Ghost's side.

"Hells fuckin' bells, Lt. What happened? Are ye broken?"

Scars crisscross the man's face, puckered and vicious, but... Those eyes. That voice.

And yet—

Ghost scrambles back, his frozen body falling back on the familiarity of distrust. "Get the fuck away from me," he growls. "Dunno who you are, but... but you're not him. You can't be him."

"Lt..."

A note of sadness and desperation coats the word he's heard a thousand times from lips that look just like those. The man reaches out, but Ghost smacks his hand away.

"Don't touch me," he growls.

Because it's a trick. It has to be a trick. He's not this lucky. His life is made of tragedy, the highs only there to ensure a longer drop when everything crumbles to dust. Maybe that's what this is, then? A trick to raise him up so high that the drop finally shatters him?

Maybe he's lost his mind. Or maybe he's delirious from excessive blood loss. Regardless, he won't fall for whatever game Makarov is playing now.

He attempts to stand, but it seems his body has chosen this moment to finally betray him. He groans and presses a hand into his side. A vicious hiss leaves the man's mouth as blood seeps into Ghost's glove, turning the white paint red.

"Shite. Tha's bad. Ye need to call for med evac. Are the others here?"

"Wouldn't you like to know. Makarov got you doing his interrogatin' now?"

"What? No, I'd never—"

"Never hunt the 141 for years on end. Never fuck up our missions right and left? Never ruthlessly kill soldiers without a hint of remorse? No. My Johnny would never. You, though? You've killed half of the people lying around us. Saw you do it with my scope. Now you expect me to believe you're... you're him?" Ghost shakes his head and bites back another groan of pain. "No. Johnny is dead. You're just one of Makarov's tricks."

The man's face twists into something close to panic. "Fuck. Ghost, I swear to ye... I don't... I don't remember any of tha'. What I can tell ye is I was never in tha' tunnel. Konni bastards grabbed me in Sibera and sent the 141 back with... some kind of replacement. Makarov would come see me and talk about a serum that did too good a job making them into me. Last thing I remember, I was tied to a chair in some backwater base being shot full of..."

The man trails off as he seems to realize the implications of what he's saying. All Ghost can think, though, is that even if the man is lying, the fact that he looks and sounds like Johnny means Makarov has access to far more advanced biotech than any of them suspected. 

As if to underscore the realization, a faint hiss reaches his ears as his breathing regulates. He grabs the man's vest and pulls him closer, turning his ear toward the helmet.

The hissing gets louder.

The man seems to realize what Ghost is doing and tries to pull off the helmet, but it's locked down. Zero's movements become more violent the longer he struggles, a low growl starting up deep in his chest. Ghost leans up—

And then hisses in pain as his side reminds him why that's a bad idea. His reaction seems to distract the man, though.

"Med evac, Ghost. Call it in. Ye've got nothing to fear from me."

As much as he hates to admit it, the man is right. His team is long gone with the exfil helo, so he's going to need to call in his own evac. With a shaking hand, Ghost flips on his comms.

"Ghost to Watcher-1 actual."

"Ghost, this is Watcher-1. Send traffic."

Laswell's voice soothes the frayed edges of Ghost's rapidly declining confidence in his sanity. He takes a deep breath.

"Agent Zero was waiting for us. Need med evac immediately."

"Shit. You broken?"

"Affirmative."

"Med evac already inbound. Price's doing. Hot zone?"

"Negative. All clear."

"Mission sitrep?"

"Mission FUBAR but..."

Ghost trails off, unsure of how to explain. He glances at Jo— at the man with Johnny's face and clicks off the comms.

"If you want me to believe you're Johnny," he growls, "you'll come with me and prove it."

"'Course I will, Simon," the man says in a sad tone so like Johnny's that Ghost seizes up.

Laswell's voice breaks him out of it. "Ghost, how copy?"

He clicks back into the comms and explains to Laswell that he's bringing an asset with him, the faint sound of helo blades echoing in the distance as he signs off. He stares at the man with Johnny's face, waiting for an attack. Waiting for the agent to reveal his game.

But the attack never comes. As the helo appears on the horizon, Makarov's agent just stares into space, his expression reminiscent of someone slipping into a dissociative state.

Ghost's heart makes itself known for the first time in years. Yearning, sharp as a dagger slipped between ribs, suffuses his chest. 

A stab in the back might be worth it just to feel the familiar weight in his arms, to let himself believe for a few precious seconds that his Johnny is back.

Ghost shakes away the feeling.

He can't afford to trust. Can't afford to believe.

Not yet.

<< Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 >>

[hurricaneforcefan]

A bit about G1 Michigan. Spoilers follow.

First, to recap analysis already done for me, lets talk Michigan. He's introduced as the sort of Drill Instructor personality you expect to hate. After putting up with his banter for a single mission, even if you found it funny, you're probably going to side-eye Volta's claims of how much Michigan cares about his men. But the more you listen to him, the more he grows on you. And when you find yourselves on opposite sides, and one of the Balam grunts disrespects you, Michigan takes it upon himself to be your hype man even though he knows damn well you're there to kill his men and him. His dialogue also reveals that he knows every single one of his troops by name—not just the AC pilots, but the rank and file MTs, calling them out by name for disrespecting the Wallclimber, the Wormkiller, the only G13 to survive this long! All his insults have a point at their tip. His hype for you is a warning to his men not to underestimate you. His taunts at his own troops include a warning to be ready to eject because he knows the odds are stacked against them. The moment he gets on scene, he tells everyone who can't take the heat to fall back—and though he belittles anyone who does, the fact that he gives anyone the option at all in a corporate hellscape like Rubicon is more than most grunts could ever hope for—and if he manages to kill you, the first thing he does is call for medical care for the wounded. And he keeps up his boisterous, scenery-chewing ways to his last breath.

But I don't think he was doing all that only for his men. It certainly wasn't for 621, who people seem to assume has the emotional range of a lead pipe. No, I think he was talking, at least partially... to Walter.

There's plenty of evidence that Walter and Michigan go back a ways, maybe even grew up together. One of the text logs indicates that Walter was evacuated from Rubicon to Jupiter; Michigan was involved in some famous incident on Jupiter. The two of them banter like old friends, and Michigan agrees to babysit Walter's new hound sight unseen. Walter tells 621 not to let the Redguns teach him bad manners like he knows exactly how Michigan is going to act. And accepting the mission to kill Michigan is the only time Walter seems the slightest bit bothered by the job, the only time he can't keep up his cool, professional demeanor. "Just get it done" indeed.

So when push comes to shove and Michigan finds his old friend's hound baying for his blood, he doesn't bitch and moan the way he does when the RLF buy out 621's services at the dam on NG+. He goes whole hog on his persona, talking up G13's achievements and calling out his troops for talking shit, and he does all this while he knows 621 is listening, because he knows who's listening to 621.

Walter.

On Rubicon, war is a business. You don't often get to choose your battles. And Michigan wants Walter to hear him going out with no regrets, no recrimination, and absolutely no disrespect to the people knocking at his door. This is the life AC pilots choose, freelance or corporate, and he wouldn't have it any other way—and he wants Walter to know that. Even as his AC blows to pieces, his last words are, in his own ineffable way, a message to an old friend:

It's just business. Don't worry about it.

Corporate thug or not, Michigan went out like a champion.

[greenwitchcrafts]

April 2024 witch guide

Full moon: April 23rd

New moon: April 8th

Solar eclipse: April 8th

Sabbats: None

April Pink Moon

Known as: Breaking Ice Moon, Budding Moon of Plants & shrubs, Budding Tree Moon, Eastermonath, Frog Moon, Green Grass Moon, Growing Moon, Hare Moon, Moon of the Red Grass appearing, Moon When Geese Lay Egss, Moon When thd Ducks Come Back, Ostarmanoth, Planters Moon, Seed Moon, Sucker Moon & Wind Moon

Element: Fire

Zodiac: Aries & Taurus

Nature spirits: Plant Faeries

Deities: Anahita, Bast, Ceres, Cernunnos, Hathor, Herne, Ishtar, Kali, Tawaret & Venus

Animals: Bear & wolf

Birds:  Hawk & magpie

Trees: Bay, forsythia, hazel, lilac, pine & willow

Herbs:  Basil, chives, dandelion, dill, dogwood, dragon's blood, fennel, geranium, milkweed & thistle

Flowers: Daisy & sweetpea

Scents: Bay, bergamot, patchouli & pine

Stones: Angelite, beryl, diamond, garnet, malachite, quartz, ruby, sapphire, sard, selenite & zircon

Colors: Blue, brown, crimson, gold & green

Energy: Authority, balance, beginnings, change, fertility, growth, leadership, opportunities, overcoming obstacles, personal skill development, re-birth, self-evaluation, self-reliance, spirituality, temper control & willpower

April’s full Moon often corresponded with the early springtime blooms of a certain wildflower native to eastern North America: Phlox subulata—commonly called creeping phlox or moss phlox—which also went by the name “moss pink.” Thanks to this seasonal association, this full Moon came to be called the “Pink” Moon.

Other celebrations:

• Walpurgis Night - April 30th

Also known as: May Eve

The origins of the holiday date back to pagan celebrations of fertility rites & the coming of spring. After the Norse were Christianized, the pagan celebration became combined with the legend of St. Walburga, an English-born nun who lived at Heidenheim monastery in Germany & later became the abbess there. Saint Walpurga was hailed by the Christians of Germany for battling "pest, rabies, & whooping cough as well as against witchcraft". Christians prayed to God through the intercession of Saint Walpurga in order to protect themselves from witchcraft, as Saint Walpurga was successful in converting the local populace to Christianity. Although it is likely that the date of her canonization is purely coincidental to the date of the pagan celebrations of spring, people were able to celebrate both events under church law without fear of reprisal.

Walpurgis Night is still a traditional holiday celebrated on April 30th in northern Europe & Scandinavia. In Sweden typical holiday activities include the singing of traditional spring folk songs & the lighting of bonfires. In Germany the holiday is celebrated by dressing in costumes, playing pranks on people & creating loud noises meant to keep evil at bay. Many people also hang blessed sprigs of foliage from houses & barns to ward off evil spirits, or they leave pieces of bread spread with butter & honey, called ankenschnitt, as offerings for phantom hounds.

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

Wikipedia

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

Encyclopedia britannica

Llewellyn 2024 magical almanac Practical magic for everyday living

[stalkerofthegods]

Lady Artemis Straight to the point info 

Lady Artemis who is the light, and the arrow in the bow, and the bullet in a hunting gun, and the same string In a lyre and a bow. May we all praise the wise huntress, Who is gentle to young girls and the bringer of Swift death from her golden bow.

Herbs • Artemisia, plants that bloom under the moonlight, Cypress, Chamomile, thyme, Lavender, Mugwort (poisonous if used in large amounts and can irritate skin), Birch, Juniper (poisonous if used in large amounts and can irritate skin), Mint, Pine (poisonous if used in large amounts and can irritate skin), Sage, Thistle (poisonous if used in large amounts and can irritate skin), Yarrow (poisonous if used in large amounts and can irritate skin), Angelica (poisonous if used in large amounts and can irritate skin), Bay Laurel (poisonous if used in large amounts and can irritate skin), Coriander, Dill, amaranth, cannabis, cedar, cypress, daisy, date palm, hazel, mugwort, myrtle, ox-eye daisy, silver fir, willow, laurel trees, fir trees, Various nuts or nut trees, Asphodel, Wormwood, wild flowers, Tarragon

Animals• deer/stags, geese, wild dogs, fish, goats, bees, hounds, all animals (she is the creator of all Animals in some discriptons), Calydonian boar, partridges, guineafowls, lions or leopards, bees, bears especially, bulls 

Zodiac • Cancer, Sagittarius, and Scorpio 

Colors • Silver, green, blood red, moonlight silver, Yellow

Crystal• moonstone, Black jasper, Clear quarts, Opal, White or black pearls, Amethyst, Black tourmaline.

Symbols• quiver, hunting spears, a torch, and a lyre, deer 

Jewelry you can wear in their honor• You can veil, and wear a maternity outfit in her honor while giving birth. 

Diety of • Unmarried Girls, Girl Childhood, hunting, chastity, menstruation, fast and easy death in childbirth, nature, childbirth, wildlife, healing, sudden death, animals, lakes, springs, virginity, young women, archery, and the moon

Patron of • childbirth, and fertility (Virgin means unmarried when she got the title before the meaning of it today, she helped Apollo be born, which accords to fertility), lesbians, unmarried women, hunt, chastity, archery, and the wilds, she protects girls and women during childbirth, menstruation, the moon, Nursing infants, Maiden dances, Maiden song, nurses/doctors who help with childbirth

Offerings•  •Bows and arrows, Images of Artemis, Game meat, Amphiphontes (round cakes topped with tiny torches, These are likely a reference to the full moon. White-frosted cupcakes with white or silver candles may be a suitable substitute), Cakes, cookies, pastries shaped like animals (ex-particularly deer), Red wine, Red grape, popomegranate, cranberry juice, Honey, Luxurious clothing, Wildflowers, almonds, goats, Honey, Hunting tools, javelins, nets, traps, masks, flowers, animal bones, tusks, taxidermy, tusks, animal hides, clothing (your favorite clothing or a garment you bought specifically for her), Owl and quail feathers, your hair 

Devotional• Donate to childbirth charities, donate to young girl charities and programs,   Dancing, Herbalism, Donating woman and girl clothes, taking nature walks, enjoying nature, give her offerings at midnight, make arrows, devote your hunting (invoke her before and thank her after), have a feast of her favorite food in her honor

Ephithets & titles • ACRAEA/Akraia - given to various goddesses and gods whose temples were situated upon hills, AEGINAEA/Aiginaia - when she was worshipped at Sparta, AETO′LE/Aitôlê - when she was worshipped at Naupactus, AGORAEA/AGORAEUS/Agoraia/Agoraios - protectors of the assemblies of the people in the agora, AGRO′TERA/Agrotera - the huntress, ALPHAEA/ALPHEAEA/ALPHEIU′SA/Alphaia/Alpheaia/Alpheiousa - derived from the river god Alpheius, who loved her, AMARYNTHUS/Amarunthos - a hunter of Artemis, A′NGELOS/Angelos - when she was worshipped at Syracuse, APANCHO′MENE/Apanchomenê - the strangled goddess, ARICI′NA/Arikinê -from the town of Aricia in Latium, ARISTO/Aristô - the best, ASTRATEIA/Astrateia - she was believed to have stopped the progress of the Amazons, BRAURO′NIA/Braurônia - from the demos of Brauron in Attica, CALLISTE/Kallistê - when she was worshipped at Athens and Tegea, CARYA′TIS/Karuatis - from the town of Caryae in Laconia, CHITO′NE/Chitônê - represented as a huntress with her chiton girt up, CHRYSAOR/Chrusaôr - The god with the golden sword or arms, CNA′GIA/Knagia - derived from Cnageus, COLAENIS/Kolainis - from the Attic demos of Myrrhinus, CORDACA/Kordaka - derived from an indecent dance called kordac, performed in honour of the goddess after a victory,  CORYPHAEA/Koruphaia - the goddess who inhabits the summit of the mountain, CORYTHA′LLIA/Koruthallia - from Sparta, at whose festival of the Tithenidia, CRANAEA/Kranaia - derived from a temple on a hill near Elateia in Phocis, Kunthia and Kunthios - surnames respectively of Artemis and Apollo,  DAPHNAEA and DAPHNAEUS/Daphnaia and Daphnaios - surnames of Artemis and Apollo, DE′LIA and DE′LIUS/Dêlios and Dêlia or Dêlias - surnames of Apollo and Artemis, DELPHI′NIA/Delphinia -Artemis at Athens, DERRHIA′TIS/Derriatis -  derived from the town of Derrhion, 

EURY′NOME/Eurunomê - from Phiglea in Arcadia, GAME′LII/Gamêlioi theoi - the divinities protecting and presiding over marriage, GENETYLLIS/Genetullis - the protectress of births, HECAERGE/Hekaergê - a daughter of Boreas, who were believed to have introduced the worship of Artemis in Delos, HEGE′MONE/Hêgemonê - leader or ruler, HEMERE′SIA/Hêmerêsia - soothing goddess, HEURIPPE/Heurippa -  finder of horses, HY′MNIA/Humnia - when she was worshipped throughout Arcadia, IMBRA′IA/Imbrasia - surname of Artemi, ISSO′RIA/Issôria - derived from Mount Issorion, LA′PHRIA/Laphraia - surname of Artemis among the Calydonians, LEUCOPHRYNE/Leukophrunê - derived from the town of Leucophrys in Phrygia, LIME′NIA/LIMENI′TES/LIMENI′TIS, and LIMENO′SCOPUS/Limenia/Limenitês/Limenitis/Limenodkopos - the protector or superintendent of the harbour, LIMNAEA/LIMNE′TES/LIMNE′GENES/Limnaia/Limnêtês/Limnêgenês - inhabiting or born in a lake or marsh, LOCHEIA/Locheia - the protectress of women in childbed, LYCEIA/Lukeia - a surname of Artemis, LYCOA′TIS/Lukoatis - surname of Artemis, LYGODESMA/Lugodesma - surname of Artemis whose statue had been found by the brothers Astrabacus and Alopecus under a bush of willows, LYSIZO′NA/Lusizônê - the goddess who loosens the girdle, MELISSA/Melissa - alleviates the suffering of women in childbed, MUNY′CHIA/Mounuchia - derived from the Attic port-town of Munyhia, OENOA′TIS/Oinôatis - surname of Artemis, O′RTHIA/Orthia/Orthias/Orthôsia - regarded as the goddess of the moon, ORT′YGIA/Ortugia - derived from the island of Ortygia, PARTHE′NIA/Parthenia - the maiden, PHERAEA/Pheraia - surname of Artemis at Pherae in Thessaly, PHOEBE/Phoibê - regarded as the female Phoebus or sun, PHO′SPHORUS/Phôsphoros - occurs as a surname of several goddesses of light, PITANA′TIS/Pitanatis - derived from the little town of Pitana in Laconia, where she had a temple, SARO′NIS/Sarônis - surname of Artemis at Troezene, SARPEDO′NIA/Sarpêdonia - derived from cape Sarpedon in Cilicia, SOTEIRA/Sôteira - the saving goddess, TAU′RICA/DEA/hê Taurikê - the Taurian goddess, TAURIO′NE/TAURO/TAURO′POLOS/TAURO′POS/Tauriônê, Taurô/Tauropolo/Taurôpos - originally a designation of the Tauran goddess, 

THOANTEA - a surname of the Taurian Artemis, UPIS/Oupis - assisting women in child-birth, Αγροτερη/Agrotera - Of the Hunt, Δικτυνναια/Dictynnaea - Of the Hunting Nets, Φεραια/Pheraea - Of the Beasts, Ελαφιαια/Pheraea - Of the Deer, Δαφναιη/Daphnaiê - Of the Laurel-Tree, Κεδρεατις/Kedreatis - Of the Cedar-Tree, Καρυαι/Karyai - Of the Walnut-Tree, Καρυατις/Karyatis - Of the Walnut-Tree, Λιμναιη/Limnaiê - Of the Lake, Λιμνατις/Limnatis - Of the Lake, Ἑλεια/Hêleia - Of the Marshes, Ευρυνωμη/Eurynômê - Of Broad Pastures, Λυκειη/Lykeiê - Of the Wolves, Λευκοφρυηνη/Leukophruênê - Of the White-(Bird?), Παιδοτροφος/Paidotrophos - Nurse of Children, Φιλομειραξ/Philomeirax - Friend of Young Girls, Ορσιλοχια/Orsilokhia - Helper of Childbirth, Σελασφορος/Selasphoros - Light-Bringer, Φωσφορος/Phôsphoros - Light-Bringer, Σωτειρα/Sôteira - Saviour, Ἡμερασια/Hêmerasia - She who Soothes, Ὑμνιη/Hymniê - Of the Hymns, Ἡγεμονη/Hêgemonê - Leader (of Dance, Choir), Κορδαξ/Kordax - Of Cordax Dance, Αριστη/Aristê - Best and Excellent, Ευκλεια/Eukleia - Of Good Repute, Καλλιστη/Kallistê - Very Beautiful, Πατρωια/Patrôia - Of the Fathers or Ancestral, Βασιλεις/Basileis - Princess/Royal, Ἱερεια/Hiereia - Priestess, Πρωτοθρονιη/Prôtothroniê - Of the First Throne, Μουνυχια/Mounykhia - Of Munychia (Attica), Βραυρωνια/Braurônia - Of Brauron (Attica), Κορυφαια/Koryphaia - Of Mt Coryphus (Argos), Αιγιναιη/Aiginaiê - Of Aegina, Δερεατις/Dereatis - Of Dereum (Laconia), Αλφειαια/Alpheiaiai - Of Alpheus R. (Elis), Αλφειωσια/Alpheiôsia - Of Alpheus R. (Elis), Αλφειουση/Alpheiousê - Of Alpheus R. (Elis), Λυκοη/Lykoê - Of Lycoa (Arcadia), Σκιατις/Stymphalia - Of Scias (Arcadia), Στυμφαλια/Skiatis - Of Stymphalus (Arcadia), Κνακαλησια/Knakalêsia - Of Mt Cnacalus (Arcadia), Αιτωλη/Aitôlê - Of Aetolia, Αμαρυσιη/Amarysiê - Of Amarynthus (Euboea), Αμαρυνθια/Amarynthia - Of Amarynthus (Euboea), Φεραια/Pheraia - Of Pherae (Thessaly), Ροκκαια/Rhokkaia - Of Rhocca (Crete), Μυσια/Mysia - Of Mysia, Αστυρηνη/Astyrênê - Of Astyra (Troad), Κολοηνης/Koloênês - Of Coloe (Lydia), Εφεσια/Ephesia - Of Ephesus (Caria), Κινδυας/Kindyas - Of Cindya (Caria), Περγαια/Pergaia - Of Perge (Pamphylia), Σκυθια/Skythia - Of Scythia, Ταυρια/Tauria - Of Tauric Chersonese, Ταυροπολος/Tauropolos - Of Taurus-City (Scythia), Ιφιγενεια/Iphigeneia - Of Iphigenia (heroine), Σαρωνις/Sarônis - Of Saron (hero Argos), Κναγια/Knagia - Of Cnageus (hero Sparta), Ελαφιαια/Elaphiaia - Of Elaphius (hero Elis), Καλλιστω/Kallistô - Of Callisto (heroine Arcadia), Λαφρια/Laphria - Of Laphrus (hero Phocis), Σαρπεδωνια/Sarpedônia - Of Sarpedon (hero Lycia?), Προπυλαιη/Propylaiê - Of the Gate, Ορθια/Orthia - Of the Steep, Αγοραια/Agoraia - Of the Market-Place, Απανχομενη/Apankhomenê - Strangled Lady, Λυγοδεσμη/Lygodesmê - Willow-Bound, Αστρατεια/Astrateia - Stayed the Advance, Ἑυριππα/Heurippa - Horse-Finder, Πειθω/Peithô - Persuasive, Πυρωνια/Pyrônia - Of the Fire, Κολαινις/Kolainis - Hornless,

Docked (Animal), Κονδυλεατις/Kondyleatis - Of Knuckles? (kondylos), Λευκοφρυνη/Leukophrynê - White-Toad?, -Bird?, Κοκκωκη/Kokkôkê - Of Berry-Seed? (kokkos), Κνακεατις/Knakeatis - Of Wolves? (knêkias, knakias), Αναιιτις/Anaiitis - (Lydian Goddess?), Ισσωρια/Issôria - unkown, Νεμυδια/Nemydia - unkown, Πωτνια Θερων/Pôtnia Therôn - Queen of Beasts, Ποτνα Θεα/Potna Thea - Goddess Queen, Λητωις/Lêtôis - Daughter of Leto, Λατωια/Latôia - Daughter of Leto, Λητωιας/Lêtôias - Daughter of Leto, Ἑκατη/Hekatê - Far-Shooting, Ἑκατηβολος/Hekatêbolos - Far-Shooting,Ἑκαεργε/Hekaerge - Worker from Afar, Ιοχεαιρα/Iokheaira - Of Showering Arrows, Χρυσηλακατος/Khrysêlakatos - Of the Golden Distaff, Χρυσαλακατος/Khrysalakatos - With Shafts of Gold, Αγροτερα/Agrotera - Of the Hunt, Θηροσκοπος/Thêroskopos - Hunter of Wild Beasts, Ελαφηβολος/Elaphêbolos - Deer-Shooting, Χρυσηνιος/Khrysênios - Of the Golden Reins, Χρυσοθρονος/Khrysothronos - Of the Golden Throne, Ευστεφανος/Eustephanos - Well-Girdled/Sweet-Garlanded, Κελαδεινος/Keladeinos - Strong-Voiced, Κελαδεινη/Keladeinê - Lady of Clamours, Ἁγνη/Hagnê - Chaste/Pure, Παρθενος/Parthenos - Virgin/Maiden, Αιδοιος παρθενος/Aidoios Parthenos - Revered Virgin, Προστατηρια/Prostatêria - Standing Before/Guardian, Αρτεμισιον/Artemision - Temple of Artemis, Ταυροπολιον/Tauropolion - Temple of Taurian Artemis, Εφεσιον/Ephesion - Temple of Ephesian Artemis

Attedees• OKEANIDES Cloud-Nymphai (only 60 of the 3000), NAIADES Fresh-water Nymphai (only some), BRITOMARTIS Goddess of Nets, Apotheosed girl-companions (ex- Phylonoe, Polyboia, Iphigeneia, Oupis), Mortal hunting companions (ex- Kallisto, Hippolytos)

Equivalents (alike but not the same)• Diana (Roman), Selene (Greek), Artume (Etruscan), Flidais (Celtic), Skadi (Norse), Bendis (Thracian goddess), Bastet (Egyptian goddess), Perasia (Cappadocian goddess), Tauria (Taurian goddess)

Signs their reaching out• Sudden pull to research her, to hunt, suddenly meeting people hunting, being a girl group all of sudden, focusing on yourself and not sexuality. 

Vows/omans• being a sacred Virgin/unmarried forever 

Number• 6 

Morals• Morally dark.

Personality• Introverted and independent temperament, practical, adventurous, athletic, and prefers solitude, she loves hunting, she is focused. 

Home• Mount Olympus but does spend a lot of time in the forest. 

Mortal or immortal • Immortal

Facts• Artemis was both a hunter of wild animals and their protector, she helped Leto birth to Apollo (suggesting that she was already mentally developed in the wound.)

Curses• miscarriage, Stunted growth, Illness & disease, Sudden death, plague 

Blessings• Success in hunting, fishing, and fowling, Successful delivery, good health

Roots• She was first mentioned on 700 BC, by Hesiod, In the Theogony she was born on the island of Delos.

Parentage• Zeus and Leto 

Siblings• Apollo (twin brother and full sibling), Aeacus, Angelos, Aphrodite, Ares, Athena, Dionysus, Eileithyia, Enyo, Eris, Ersa, Hebe, Helen of Troy, Hephaestus, Heracles, Hermes, Minos, Pandia, Persephone, Perseus, Rhadamanthus, the Graces, the Horae, the Litae, the Muses and the Moirai.

Pet• Deers/Doe, they pull her chariot 

Appearance in astral or gen• usually depicted as a girl or young maiden with a hunting bow and quiver of arrows

Festivals • Mounukhia, Artemisia (6th June, Modern festival of Artemis where anything goes, celebrating freedom and modern inspiration),  Elaphebolia (6 Elaphebolion, March-April, Festival of Artemis the deer hunter), Kharisteria (6 Boedromion September-October, Festival of thanks to Artemis for Athen’s survival of the Persian assault at Marathon), Mounykhia (16 Mounykhion April-May, Festival of Artemis the light bringer), Philokhoria (Modern observance – Summer Solstice, A joint festival of Artemis and Apollo), Sixth (6th each month, Sacred to Artemis), Thargelia (6-7 Thargelion May-June, Birthday of Apollon and Artemis, first fruit offerings and purification festival)

Season • April and March

Day • Monday 

Secred places• Ephesus/Turkey, Island Delos, Aitolia in Greece, Greek Island Lykia in Anatolia

Status• Greek goddess, in the theoi.

Planet• Moon, (some also believe Venus.)

Her Tarot cards• the high priestess, the temperance card, and the page of wands

Scents/Inscene • Jasmine and lemon, mrryth, frankincense

Prayers• 

Prayer 1

Welcome beloved Artemis, our keen-eyed queen, I beg you hear me now. I pray you guide me that I might find the way. I pray you strengthen me that I might persevere along it. Make my discernment as yours that I might find worthy aims. Make my instinct as yours that I might seize worthy opportunities. Welcome sister of Apollo, golden huntress, we honor and thank you.

Prayer 2

Fleet-footed Artemis, keen-eyed daughter of Zeus and gentle Leto, sister of bright Apollo, we see your shadow in the woods, the curve of your bow, the flex of your arm, we hear the wind whisper as your arrows seek their mark–deadly your art, flawless your aim. Huntress you are, O Artemis, slayer of the stag and the boar, slayer of men and of women, death by your hand is death unforeseen. Maiden are you, goddess, and friend of maidens; ever-youthful one, your favor falls on the young, watching over young girls as they brave the world’s wonders, comforting the mother in the throes of her labor, keeping in your care the newborn babe. Artemis, shining maid of the wilderness, who takes pleasure in games, in contest and in merriment, who leads the nymphs in their carefree dance, whose clear voice we hear in the songs of young women and the hunter’s cry. Artemis, strong and tall, I praise and honor you.

3rd Prayer 

I praise bright Artemis, fair as the budding branch, fair as the spotted fawn, brave as the young bear. From crafty Hephaistos you took the artful bow, the sharp-barbed shafts; from father Zeus you claimed your calling. Far-shooting Artemis, through the thick of the darkened wood you make your way, trailing boar and hare, swiftly and silently, your aim ever flawless, ever kind.

Prayer 4

Artemis, light-bringer, mountain-dweller, graceful one who runs through thorn and thistle with never a scratch, goddess unparalleled, friend of mothers in their travels, friend of maidens, friend of the pretty nymphs, in old Arcadia you roamed the wilderness, in Tauris you took the blood of men, in Ephesus you wore the mural crown. The fire of youth is in you, goddess, the bold and valiant spirit that marks a child as yours. Free-hearted Artemis, worthy daughter of Leto, I honor you always.

5th Prayer

I praise you, Artemis, free-hearted child of Zeus and blessed Leto, courageous goddess who roams the wildwoods with silver bow at hand. Artemis of many names, Artemis of many lands, your temples stood shining and tall, in cities and in villages. In the long days of summer the maidens dance in your honor; in Brauron were the little she-bears under your care. Artemis, the mountains are yours to wander, fleet-footed and firm of step; the wilds of the world are dear to you, O guardian of wood and of beast. Goddess who takes joy in dance and song, companion of the laughing nymphs in all their play, of all young maids you are the swiftest and the strongest, the fairest and the first, in skill and grace the greatest.

Websites/sources in comments.

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Artemis who is the light, and the arrow in the bow, and the bullet in a hunting gun, and the same string In a lyre and a bow. May we all praise the wise huntress, Who is gentle to young girls and the bringer of Swift death from her golden bow.

———————-

Payment to my friend Bri https://www.tumblr.com/briislame

I use resources, I do not own the info, and most deep dives have UPG (that I use in my work.) And I only take some information from sources. I am 14, this is my hobby, I am learning but I spent many hours and days on this, and I am always open to criticism. I have been doing worship for 5 years. Please know you can use the info, I do not sue, but I will take action if this work is used without permission and not put as a resource if used in any work. without permisson and not put as a resource if used in any work, for the public.

[autumnaaltonen]

How does alucard feel and help the reader on her period ? You can choose nsfw or sfw or both

Alucard Helping His S/O on Her Period

Alucard has been undead for a really long time, and pair that together with being under the control of a young woman growing through her pubescent years, one could imagine Alucard has a good understanding of the trials and tribulations that come with owning a uterus.

So, when his relationship with you really kicks off, he’s already mentally prepared himself for when mother nature comes a ‘knocking on your door’. It starts with you being in a particularly foul mood one day, not taking his dark jokes and childish antics as humorously as you usually do.

Making his women laugh was one of the great joys in Alucard’s un-life, whether that be shit-talking the Iscariot with Sir Integra over a cup of tea, messing with rogue vampires alongside Seras, or surprising you by sneaking up behind you in the hallways and lifting you into his arms. But when he pulls his usual surprise attack of kisses and caresses on you one morning, and you respond by shoving him away? Oof, Alucard hasn’t felt pain like that for a bit.

He takes it in stride, smelling the tumultuous hormones emanating from you like a wildfire, and forgiving you for your short temper. You’re early this month, and he assumes you haven’t figured that out yet.

Alucard: “I’ve connected the dots.”

You: “You didn’t connect shit.”

Alucard: “I’ve connected them.”

He prepares for the coming war by requesting a basket of your favorite snacks from Walter, delving (without permission) into your medicine cabinet to make sure you are stocked with supplies, and communicating with Seras on any new care methods that may help you over the next week or so. The following morning, when Alucard comes to check up on you just before the sun rises, he can easily smell the blood well before he reaches your bedroom door. He materializes through the walls and into your bathroom, prepping a cool towel for your head, and a clean set of underthings for you to change into, along with your bloodbath prevention kit.

While you are a little embarrassed to have your lover wake you up while you’re in a pool of your own menstrual blood, it is not shocking that he predicted it before you did. Ever since claiming you as his own, Alucard has been on the mark for every medical need of yours that arises, like a super inappropriate blood hound that is obsessed with sniffing your panties.

Once you are cleaned up, Alucard takes the time to change the soiled sheets on your bed, before wrapping you back into his arms and laying you down on the clean linens. Your snacks are already in a neat basket on your bedside, a cold bowl of water with fresh towels and a heating pad beside it, and your laptop and phone plugged into the wall socket

Of course, Alucard is holding himself back a great deal. Hell, he struggled enough while Integra was growing up, but this is you. You, who often consent to his cravings and let him have his fill of you. You, unashamed to give yourself to a monster like him, because that’s just how much you love him. So, being here, smelling you, almost tasting you just by being in the room, is utter torture. But Alucard loves you too much to take advantage of you like that, so he kisses you on your forehead, asking you call for him whenever you need him, and then he promptly leaves you alone to stew in your pain and rage.

What a man.

**NSFW under the cut** (I’m talking nasty shit girlies, just sayin)

HOWEVER

Sure, Midol and a heating pad is all well and good to keep the cramps at bay, but we all know there is more to a period than just the pain. It’s the mess, and the hormones, and the utter “please someone just destroy this mess that I am” state of mind that blesses a woman once in a blood moon.

As Alucard gets up and walks to the door, and feels your hand shoot out from under the covers to grab the end of his coat, he knows it’s game time. So, he turns, takes your hand in his own, and cups your face with the other, you can tell he’s asking for permission. You nod your head, and look at him with those debauching eyes he loves so much, practically saying “do your worst”.

Those clean sheets are thrown away in an instant, as well as the fresh clothes he had just slipped on you, and whatever product that you were using to keep the dam from breaching, cus this vampire wants to dive right the fuck in. Alucard has feasted from you many times before, be it your neck, wrist or thighs, and it was always a delight to partake in your blood. He is also no stranger to being in between your legs, as it’s probably his favorite lounging spot aside from his coffin. But there was something about this blood in particular, the taboo and taste of it, that really got his motor running.

He raises your back so that you can lounge on a pillow against the headboard, throws your legs over his shoulders, settles on his stomach and goes straight to town. He’s slow at first, gauging your sensitivity level as it is only the first day of your cycle, but makes quick work of cleaning you up from the mess of the previous night. You have your tells, a hand clenching the sheets, your fingers carding through his black locks, or a whimper from your lips when you finally start to beg for him to hurry the fuck up.

That’s when he’s done holding back and lets his gluttony take ahold, lapping you up from bottom to top, but keeping particular focus on the source of his meal, delving in with his tongue selfishly and wrapping his arms around your waist to keep you still as you writhe on the bed, a gloved hand pressing down on your sternum at the source of your pain. From your point of view, it’s a crude and messy show, your lover's face painted wet and red with a combination of your blood and slick. But the dastardly smile on his face is a sign of nothing but euphoria. He doesn’t stop until the pleasure of his tongue inside you outweighs the pain in your body, granting you temporary bliss from yourself.

It’s going to be a long week, but while Alucard’s lost in the tase and smell of you during your most uncomfortable womanly burden, he knows it surely is his most favorite time of the month.

[sardonic-the-writer]

𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐀 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐇𝐚𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

↳ includes: scout, medic, pyro, sniper, and spy

↳ warnings: talk of pain but nothing too in detail. specific area of pain is kept ambiguous for inclusiveness

↳ song: teenage dirtbag—dsiboys

masterlist!

𝐒𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐭

• Scout is honestly just bummed you won't be playing any baseball games with him anytime soon

• He strikes me as the type of guy to not take your illness as seriously as he should, often making pokes and jabs of you just wanting to get out of stuff, until he sees one of your bad days with his own eyes

• After that, he's so ashamed of himself for how he acted. Shuffling his feet and rubbing the back of his neck anxiously; all that jazz

• Is a lot more aware of your needs now

• Still puts up a front. Refuses to be anything sort of quote unquote 'manly', so expressing that he's worried about your wellbeing is hard to do in front of the others

• Does care about you, though. He might get teased for it— resulting in the tips of his ears turning red and a bunch of angry denial —but at the end of the day he'll offer up his prized comic books for you to read as a distraction

𝐌𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜

• Medic has undoubtedly noticed your condition far before you chose to tell him. How he had figured it out so quick, you had no idea, but he probably found out the same way he knew what your blood type was. Despite never having given him a sample

• It's a bit weird at first, having someone who constantly wants to do invasive surgery on your body actually offering to ease your pain.

• It is Medic after all. A small part of you had been nervously wondering if he would get some sort of sick joy out of watching you struggled to do basic tasks

• Instead, he was giving you special visitation hours with Archemedes while he tinkered with what he dubbed 'Your Problem Area'. Whether that was your knees or back or shoulders, a file on your condition quickly opened and the quickest course of action was taken to remedy it

• Gives you little suckers at the end of your visits and a big smile for a job well done

𝐏𝐲𝐫𝐨

• You aren't sure if they understand what you're saying when you first explain it

• To be fair, you can't decipher them on a normal basis, so this was expected

• But Pyro just tilts their head before letting out what sounded like a sniffling noise and bringing you into a bone crushing hug

• You wouldn't be able to tell, but in their own special Pyro Vision, the arsonist could occasionally see a painful red surrounding you anytime you felt like this. And it pained them to know you were hurting from something other than the scheduled battles

• Colors you crude little drawings with their box of crayons Engineer bought them. It often depicts you and them riding unicorns or jumping over rainbows. Always smiling and having fun

• Takes to plastering little cartoony bandaids over your skin. They don't really solve any actual pain, but the thought is still there

• Will make little fires for you and bring you to them happily. Normally, it's followed by Heavy or Engineer rushing over to put it out before it spread

𝐒𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫

• On the off chance that he actually came out of his trailer, Sniper would be awkwardly helpful

• He most likey heard you talking to Medic or complaining to Spy about your chronic pain, and put two and two together

• Why you were shut up in your room durring mealtime somedays, constsntly seen walking in and out of the med bay, taking numerous amounts of pills in the morning, etc

• Is discreet in his care. It'll be little things, like telling Scout to 'lay off mate' if the Bostonian is hounding you about your lackluster performance that day; even if only as a joke

• If Sniper is lucky enough to bag some game on one of the ceasefire days, he'll approach your bedroom door and offer you a bit of the meat he cooked. Won't be offended if you're not up to it, just puts it in the fridge for later if you change your mind. Makes sure that the rest of the team knows it's for you, too

𝐒𝐩𝐲

• Spy is probably the most elegant of the team when acknowledging your condition

• If he's feeling nice when you approach him about it, he'll nod along to your small explanation and even indulge you if you choose to rant about it for a bit

• If he's not in a good mood, then just wait it out. It's not worth the wrath of an angry Frenchman for bothering him. Will become slightly less angered if you explain you were only there to share some vulnerability, however

• Tells you there's no shame in it. As an older man himself, he's no stranger to the pain that comes with this job

• Might allow you to crash in his smoking room a few times if your room is being overrun by the others. Spy knows that you won't pull any funny business on him, and god help anyone that tries to barge in in search of you (namely Scout)

• Content to sit in comfortable silence as you rest up and sleep away the pain. Spy might be a no-good lying back stabber, but at the end of the day, he's still a gentleman

[acourtofmenandthirst]

Show Them

Tamlin x Reader. If you don’t like it, don’t read it :) I feel like after all of the events of books 2-5, he’s learned how and why he was wrong, and he’s been kicked a lot while he was down. It’s about time for him to redeem himself and find love too ok?? So here is my rendition of the start of his redemption arc. 

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of death, trauma

Word Count: 8.7K

You huffed a sigh, wiping your hands at the hem of your thin dress, ridding yourself of the flecks of mud and dry blood. With a squint, you picked at your palm, trying to pull the thick wooden splinter from your skin. Fourth one in an hour, you rolled your eyes to yourself, glaring at the pile of wood and debris - what previously held the roof over your head. 

You eyed the deep scratches embossed in the wood, the ones that no doubt belonged to the Naga that roamed the nearby forest. They’d looted and torn your house to the ground, much like your neighbor’s home and the shops in the town. After the High Lord had disappeared years ago, the hierarchy had fallen - there were no more sentries to guard the village, to threaten the Bogge and keep the wraiths at bay. 

Not that you had many belongings, but you needed to find as much food as you could. You dug around for scraps of food, money, jewelry - anything of value that you could trade for shelter. But fuck, you came up with nothing. Your house was nothing but a pile of dust, all your belongings gone with it. And it was getting dark, the sun almost completely disappearing behind mountains in the distance. 

You’d have to beg your neighbors for sanctuary, even if just for the evening. They were no doubt already locking up their homes and arming themselves with all the blades and spears they could find. Deciding you would return in the morning to continue, you turned away from the pile of remains - only for your eye to catch on a glimmer in the woods. 

The shadows had already long fallen over the forest, the black of night seeping in from the treeline before you. You were met with a pair of eyes, glowing and bright green, the golden sunset mirrored in the glossy shine. 

Your breath hitched in your throat, your heart stilling in your veins. There were many creatures that roamed the Spring woodlands, many more creeping in on the territory now that it lacked a High Lord. The water wraiths from the Summer Court encroached in the waters; after hearing that their neighboring sisters no longer paid the Tithe, they swam over in droves. Some were shifters, moving onto the unprotected lands to mark for themselves, others were sirens, with shimmering eyes that promised the brightest future, so beautiful that they lured the young Spring males to the coast, robbing and drowning them for pleasure. 

But these eyes were different, a deep emerald, slanted inwards and narrowed - canine, feral. Studying its prey, waiting for attack. You’d heard rumors of the Autumn Court hounds, the ones Beron and his sons roamed around with. How they could track Fae down between courts, tear their throats out without even revealing themselves - some were rumored to have two heads. But you watched those shining green eyes until the beast turned away, tucking itself back between the trees and disappearing into the darkness. 

___________________________

You were back on the street at the break of dawn, graciously thanking the family that housed you for the night, offering to bring them anything valuable you could find from home’s wreckage. You kicked at the dry sticks and stones on the dirt road leading to your little plot of land, cursing at the fallen trees and dying brush. 

It seemed the Spring Court curse wouldn’t be lifted any time soon. You’d worn a godsdamned mask for years - a doe: the most innocent animal of Spring, silent and small in a court full of sly foxes and brash wolves. The supposed cursebreaker returned to your court only to tear it apart from the inside out, playing spy for the Night Court the whole time. The Autumn Court emissary had left and your High Lord had disappeared - no heir or kin left behind. He abandoned you all and took his power with him. 

Some said he left and sought refuge in the Summer Court - that only Tarquin would be kind enough - naive enough - to offer him solace. Others thought he died, that Feyre killed him and there was nobody else to take the powers of the High Lord. You weren’t sure you believed either of those rumors. Nobody was brave enough to tread to Tamlin’s manor and find out for themselves; only the Mother knew what creatures resided there, Fae or otherwise.

The pile of wood and stone remained untouched overnight, you had to drag yourself over to your old land. It wasn’t worth anything, nothing was anymore. It felt barbaric, almost: digging through the mud and destroyed earth for something to barter with. It seemed that your court had been through nothing but devastation since you’d been alive. You were only just a hundred years old when the land was cursed by Amarantha - spent years in a mask followed by a stint under the mountain. When the curse was lifted, the Spring Court lasted about as long as the celebrations. As soon as life turned back to normal - whatever that truly was - the Night Court infiltration was exposed, Pyrthian was brought to war, and your home was destroyed. 

You groaned, both of your hands wrapped around a heavy log of wood, surely it was the heaviest in the pile. You groaned, gritting your teeth as you tried (and failed) to move it. Your hands slipped, dry bark breaking off the wood beam, causing you to slip and fall backwards right on your ass. You cursed, denouncing the Mother. Perfect start to the fucking day, you’d thought. A whole day of failure awaits. 

“Do you need a hand?” 

Your head snapped up, nearly giving you whiplash as you turned to the side. You narrowed your eyes, the tall male standing just in front of where the sun was rising, shadow cast over his front. But you made out his light hair, glowing in the bright light, a halo cast around his head. His shoulders were so broad, his white shirt tight around his arms but loose around his waist, the fabric shifting as the wind blew past. He held a hand out to you, palm raised. 

Your gaze dropped to his waiting hand, which you gladly took. His skin was rough, calluses around his palms and over his fingers. He pulled you to your feet, almost too easily, and had you balancing over the pile of bricks and shingles. “Thanks,” you mumbled, releasing his hand and brushing the dirt off the bottom of your dress. No use - there were days old mud stains all over it already. 

“Is this your home?” His eyes surveyed the debris you both stood over, face still shadowed from the sun. 

You rolled your eyes. “It was,” you’d scoffed, propping your hands on your hips. The male frowned, his shoulders hunched a bit. You cocked a brow at him, at the rainy evergreen smell that cascaded off of him. His blond hair was unkempt, sun-frayed and tangled at the ends. You took a step closer, onto the large wooden beam that had just bested you. 

“Sorry,” he murmured, cheeks tinged pink, chin tilted downwards. Ashamed.

You nodded, standing taller, walking across the wood so you were positioned on the other side of him. The male turned with you, not allowing his back to face you. He mirrored you, perhaps in self defense, as you looked like you were the one scouting your prey. His features became sharper as he faced the sunrise, shadows looming over his face now washed away. 

Those emerald green eyes watched you carefully, narrowed, just like those from the forest. His sharp brows furrowed as he watched you assess him, as you put together the pieces rather quickly. 

“What would you be sorry for?” You questioned the High Lord. “Did you knock down my house?”

Tamlin didn’t respond, just stood in front of you, those light eyelashes caressing the tops of his high cheekbones as he blinked at you. His jaw clenched, tongue ran over the back of his sharp teeth as he mulled over something to say, only to come up short. 

You took his lack of response as an answer in the negative. “Then you have nothing to apologize for.” 

“I didn’t stop them,” he replied, voice hoarse. It was as though he hadn’t spoken in years, as if he’d spent far too long roaming the forest in his wolf form. His body was wracked with shame, remorse, and anguish. He didn’t feel the pain when he was outside his Fae form - he didn’t have to bear the anguish of witnessing what happened to his court while he disappeared into the brush. 

You nodded in agreement. And while you spent these past hundred years angry, just so frustrated at what had become of your life, you couldn’t find yourself to be upset with him. 

Your home had been destroyed, your family gone, everything from the life you once had stripped away entirely. But what could you do? The past had already come and gone, there was nothing you could do to change it. 

The male before you felt the opposite, though. His mind was reeling with the resurgence of the memories from the past century. The masks, his friend and former lover gone - ran away to the Night Court, to the male that had murdered his family - under the mountain, the war, the Cauldron. 

Gods, all of it was his fault.

His court was destroyed, but it wasn’t the war, it wasn’t the other High Lords infringing on his territory. No, it was all him. It was the lack of his presence in his court that destroyed it from the inside out. And looking at your face, the dirt smudged over your brow, your cheeks splotched from spending days in the sun without shelter, he’d wanted nothing more than to tuck his tail between his legs and disappear back into the woods. 

But you were too captivating, your gaze leveled him completely. You didn’t tear into him, didn’t yell at him, didn’t hit him, not the way he knew so many others wanted to. He didn’t know how to help you, how to apologize for abandoning his court. He didn’t have any money to give you, no doubt he assumed the Spring Court estate had been robbed and looted. He wasn’t sure what valuables were even left anyway, after passing on money and jewels to the Archeron family. 

“I’d like to help you…” Tamlin trailed off, the words lost. His eyes roamed over the fallen house the two of you stood on. “Rebuild.” His green eyes flitted back up to you, to the doubt and surprise laced over your features. You swallowed, shoulders shrugged in indifference. Gods, you probably hated him. Wanted nothing to do with him. “If you’ll let me.”

“I’m not sure what there is to rebuild,” you replied, kicking at some stone with your dirty boot. “I’m just looking for...” What were you looking for? “Anything.”

Tamlin nodded in understanding. He wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting to come back to, didn’t know what he would stumble upon after he’d returned to his home court. While he was no stranger to being alone, to feeling like an outcast, utterly unworthy of his position in life, he’d never been able to relate to his old friend Lucien so much. While the Vanserra had been banished from his home court, Tamlin felt like the Spring subjects would band together and exile him from his own court, too. 

But the male stood still, nothing but the wind blowing his tousled hair around his sharp jaw. He was surely waiting for you, for your permission to return to his life in Spring - a new life, perhaps: a chance to rebuild your home and his life. He needed to earn his place as the High Lord, hell - he needed to learn what it meant to be a leader, to earn the trust of the Spring citizens. 

“Well, help me move this, then,” you said simply, gesturing to the dark wood. 

You’d quickly come to realize the male just had pent up anger, stress that may have been best relieved by throwing stone and brick around. He was quiet, not speaking unless you’d ask him a question or give him direction to move some debris. Tamlin watched you carefully, just as he had the other night, eyes glossy and pointed, observing how carefully you tended to anything that may have once had value to you. But you hadn’t made much progress, finding just scraps of clothing, a broken necklace, or some rotten food. 

“I was in love once, too,” you stated out of nowhere. You kept digging through the pile of broken furniture and wood, head tilted downwards, eyes focused on the task at hand. 

Tamlin’s ears perked up and he straightened, wiping his hands on his trousers to remove some of the mud that had caked his palms. He wiped at his brow, the sweat that had built up over the past few hours. He wasn’t sure what to say, you gave him nothing to work off of, offering nothing but confusion for the poor male. 

You looked up at him only for a moment, plopping down on your ass with a sigh, resting your aching legs. “It can make you do some fucked up things.” 

He almost laughed, would have, if it didn’t burn his throat on the way up. “Even more fucked up things once you’re out of it.” 

The sound that pushed past your lips sounded like absolute heaven. It was the only salvation the male needed after years spent growling at beasts in the woods. The giggle that erupted from you - the pure surprise at the High Lord’s comment - it made his heart stop. 

But he couldn’t help the deep stabbing feeling through his gut. Guilt. He shouldn’t be enjoying the sweet sound of your laughter, the shine of the sun in your hair, your pretty smile. He shouldn’t enjoy life anymore, not after what he did to yours - to everyones. It was why he shut himself out, far in the thick Spring forest, away from all salvation, any shred of comfort he might have been able to find. After Feyre had left, after Rhysand returned to twist the knife in his once stone chest, there had been no point, no return at High Lord once everything had crumbled. 

“Well, Tamlin,” you sighed - the first time hearing his name on your lips. He quite liked the sound of it, but promised not to get used to it. “I think it’s about time we fix some of those fuck ups.”

He rolled his eyes, kicking a heavy log from the top of the pile. “And how do you suppose I do that?” 

You huffed another breathy laugh, raising your head and squinting up at him, the sun risen nearly fully in the sky. “You do nothing,” you replied simply, propping your elbows on your knees. “We are going into town.” You opened your palm, that broken gold necklace 

And Tamlin felt like folding himself in half and kneeling over that damn pile of rocks. The necklace you’d worked for hours to find ready to trade at the town center. He was absolutely sick. His mind flashed back to the days of the Tithe - how he sat atop his throne, gold jeweled crown atop his head, waiting rather impatiently for the Spring Court subjects to pay their dues. In a court where he did next to nothing to save them - after fifty years of looking for a way out of Amarantha’s plan - they still owed him. 

Tamlin had a lot of regrets. 

He didn’t know how to act, how to rule a court. Didn’t know how to save his people, how to make up for the lost years. 

There was a lot to make up for - he knew it better than anyone. 

He just didn’t know how.

You watched his mind reel, how his sharp green eyes fell to the pile of wooden scraps beneath his boots. His dark blond brows knitted together, lips pressed in a firm line, jaw clenched. His chest moved up and down with every breath he took, each one he forced in his lungs. The golden strands of his hair moved around his pointed ears, dancing over his shoulders in the wind. 

“I don’t think I can,” he replied, voice just above a whisper. 

You pushed yourself to your feet and reached out for him, for the tanned skin of his forearm. You held your fingers around his wrist, the touch shocking the male out of his daze. His breath caught, his mouth and throat suddenly ran dry. “You have to come back. You need to return to us.” 

He tried to force himself to swallow, to will his voice to work and reply. To us. He was the only one who could fix what he’d fucked up. He didn’t know exactly how, but you were right. It would start with the return of the High Lord, with the promise of forgiveness from his subjects. He’d have to beg for forgiveness, pray that they would grant him amnesty. 

He nodded though, which was all he could muster the strength for. He let you keep hold of his wrist - he didn’t even know how long it had been since another Fae had touched him - and guide him off the pile of debris, not missing how your boots skidded along the loose bricks. He reached out with his other hand to steady you, a firm hand on your hip as you stumbled to a halt, managing to remain upright. 

By the Cauldron, you felt good. Warm, delicate, you smelled like the gardens after a fresh rain. He dropped his hand just as quickly, before his mind really fell into the gutter. Perhaps the years of solitude had finally gotten to him, he thought. He had officially gone mad. So he stayed composed, letting you drop his wrist from your hand - not without a backward glance at him. 

“We’ll see what we can get,” you continued, beginning to walk towards the center of the town. You lived far enough on the outskirts that not many others passed by, none alerted to the fact their High Lord had returned. “The blacksmiths will probably be the only ones who will trade for it. Nobody really has use for gold anymore.” 

He noted the drop in your voice, the bleakness that laced your tone. Tamlin walked only a half step behind you, yet he towered over you, his chest cleared above your head, shadow fully engulfing you. “How is the food supply?”

You knew it felt foreign for him, especially to ask now after years of his disappearance into the woods. But you could tell he was trying, gathering his bearings and reassessing the court - where he needed to start first. “Not great, honestly. There are only a few who have enough weapons to hunt in the woods.” 

Tamlin knew all too well what lurked in the woods. They would be lucky if they could catch deer or rabbit, let alone an elk or mare. “I’ll see what I can manage to catch tonight,” he replied grimly, lips pressing into a frown. Under the moon was the best time to hunt, where there were surely no endangered Fae out, when the large beasts went to roam the woods, using the cover of night to avoid the hunters. The only thing that would be able to catch them lurked just behind you: a wolf. 

You eyed the clouds that began to roll in overhead, dimming the sun’s bright light. “That would help,” you replied, hoping the words of encouragement would ease his mind, but not sound too desperate that they scared the male. 

You walked the rest of the way in silence, peaceful albeit awkward. Tamlin’s fingers twitched at his sides - it was almost as though he barely remembered how to walk as a Fae male. You knew those green eyes that watched you from the forest were his. The second you saw the High Lord that morning, you realized you’d stared into his wolfish eyes - hungry and chilling, sad and remorseful. 

His gaze shifted from left to right constantly, walking through the clutter of buildings and broken wood. Half the buildings had been looted, some torn down entirely. Fae gathered around stands and what was left of the remaining shops. He felt their eyes burning into him, heard the murmuring ringing in his ears. Some were confused, others outright scared, but none approached him. 

You took Tamlin to the dim stone building, the only light pouring in from the window and cracks in the walls - no faelights or candles in sight. “He and his wife have the baked goods - there aren’t many other iron pans left in the town, he’s got the bulk of them.” Your eyes flitted around the shop, at the pile of iron ingots stacked on one of the tables. “I could never manage enough to get one, to bake my own bread over the fire.” You shot Talmin a sharp look, then eyed the shop owner across the room. “Good morning, Oleander,” you greeted the old male, hunched over a table lined with gleaming metal knives. 

The hairs on the High Lord’s neck stood, a chill running down his spine at the sight of the swords hanging on the wall, the bows and arrows piled in the corner. “(Y/N),” he replied gruffly. “What brings you in?”

You turned back to Talmin, getting eyes on the male to ensure he was still in toe. “I was wondering what you might give me for this gold.” You held the necklace out to him, the cracked pendant and broken chain gleaming in your dirty palm. 

“Ah,” he breathed, grabbing the necklace with his own filthy hand. “Given the condition, I’m afraid I can only give you…” He squinted at the old pendant, what seemed to be a depiction of the Mother with flowers braided throughout her hair. Tamlin’s mother once had a similar one. “Last week’s bread.”

“Old bread?” Tamlin couldn’t help but scoff, crossing his arms over his broad chest. 

The blacksmith’s eyes show up toward him, as if his eyes and ears deceived him. Oleander, clearly half blind, squinted at the High Lord. “Do you have an issue with my pricing?” He questioned Tamlin - who was certainly not used to the bite back from his subjects. “I think I’m being more than fair to the female.” He looked Tamlin up and down. 

“Fair?” Tamlin barked a laugh. “You own all of the weapons and food in the town and you’re telling me what’s fair?” He didn’t miss the sight of you backing up, right out of the corner of his eye. You inched towards the door, palms facing outwardly behind you, feeling as soon as your backside touched the door jam. Oleander stood, broad and burly, inching forward toward the both of you. By then, the shop had dimmed, dark clouds rolling over outside. The Fae had gathered around to watch, to see the High Lord for the first time in nearly decades. 

“Oh,” he laughed, standing, grabbing one of the polished knives. He raised his voice and stepped closer to Tamlin, cornering him out the door in the same direction you were fleeing. “The High Lord has returned to preach on decorum.” Tamlin dropped his hands to his sides, unclenched fists, not looking to start the physical fight, but prepared to defend himself. He could surely take the old male on easily, even if he had been armed with half the swords in his collection. “After years of abandonment, of leaving his people to suffer at the hands of the beasts, he’s come to exhort fairness and righteousness.” 

The Fae outside watched as you and Tamlin joined them outside the shop, many of their interests piqued at the sight of the golden haired male. 

“He’s back?”

“I thought he had died…” “He would be better off that way.”

“Never thought I’d live the day I would rather see Beron than him.”

“Shut up, he’s returned to help.” “No way - he’s just going to start the Tithe again.”

There were giggles amongst the murmuring crowd, laughing surely at the old Fae male that had the High Lord backing out of his shop. There were no words he could say to ease the crowd, to change their minds, to earn their trust. He wanted nothing more than to shift back into a wolf and hide away in the forest alone. 

“We didn’t come to make trouble, Oleander,” you spoke up calmly, empty hands raised in surrender. “He’s come to make peace.” 

He rolled his eyes, amongst another burst of whispering from the gathered crowd. “Peace,” he spat. “That’s what we all used to know before he abandoned us and left us for dead.” 

Tamlin’s jaw set, anger flashed through his eyes. There were some agreements exchanged by the other Fae. There were very few who sought to give their High Lord a second chance. 

Fuck, second or third? Or fourth chance? Tamlin couldn’t count. 

“We’re leaving, okay?” You inched closer to him, right until your shoulder pressed up against his bicep. “But please - ” you turned to face the crowd, what Tamlin could only assume were your friends, others you could consider almost family. “Please, just keep an open mind. If you’d been shunned, abandoned in the woods, you’d want us to accept you back.” There were a few nods, but many blank stares as you began walking away from the town, back towards the forest clearing. “No more hatred. We’ve had decades of spite, of shame.” Before you turned on your heel, before you grabbed Tamlin’s forearm to pull him away with you, you added: “Let us find peace again. Together: united as one court.” 

Fuck, Tamlin thought. You’d spoken all of the things he should have said. He wondered if you’d practiced that little speech, if one day you secretly hoped he’d come back so you could preach that very surmon. 

Tamlin pushed that thought far down in the depth of his mind. 

But perhaps Oleander had a point. Perhaps they would all be better off taking care of themselves without the rule of an artificial High Lord. They surely managed to come this far. It wasn’t like Tamlin would be able to protect the town himself - he’d have to rebuild armies before infrastructure, to guard the town from the forest before they could sift through the remains of the down. 

You’d dragged him along nonetheless, guiding him anywhere but the town. It was back toward your home - what remained of it, anyway. But the sky was grey by then, dark clouds shielding you both from the once bright sun. The soft crackle of thunder reverberated from the Summer Coast. “I’m - ” you cut yourself off with a sigh, dropping his arm, but continuing on your trek. “I’m not sure where we can get shelter for the evening. I don’t think anyone will let us stay for the storm.”

You were surely not on your way to make any amends, though. You just kept walking back towards your little plot of land, not that there was anywhere for you two to take cover until the rain washed away. 

Tamlin kept his eyes trained in front of him, not daring to spare a look at your shining eyes as he spoke. “Follow me.”

So you did. You almost didn’t recognize it, afterall, it had been almost a century since you’d walked that path. Nature had reclaimed most of it, the trail completely gone. Tamlin’s long legs stepped over vines and fallen logs, and he held your hand for balance as you followed in his footsteps - he’d even lifted you through particularly muddy patches, simply lifting you up and placing you down before him like you weighed nothing. 

The walk to his manor would have taken a mere half hour on horseback, perhaps just over an hour had the path remained. But it would take a few for the two of you to find your way back to the Spring Court Estate in the condition of the forest. Especially as the rain started to fall, the heavy droplets hard against your skin as they fell from the sky. 

You walked for what felt like the whole first half in silence. Nothing but the sound of Tamlin slicing thick leaves and branches, clearing what he could from the once barren path. You listened to the rain, to your own ragged breath as you struggled to keep up with the male. 

You watched his golden hair darken as it became damp with rain. His white linen shirt clung to his back and arms, you’d noted the ridges carved deep into his body as his muscles flexed, working around the forest that overtook the path. He slowed once the two of you stumbled upon a clearer area, falling into step beside you. 

You could feel the tension radiating from him, his fists were clenched at his side, the hairs on his arms stood up. He wasn’t used to wondering the woods as a Fae, hell - he hadn’t been in Fae form in years. Those woods felt all too familiar to him out of his wolf form, reminded him of all the times he’d fucked up in that very spot. He needed to distract himself, clear away the memories of his friend Lucien, his once lover, his newfound family. 

“I was in love once,” he said, voice gruff, muffled from the sound of the rain falling against the wide leaves. He repeated your sentiment from earlier - an acknowledgement of his past, perhaps even an apology. “But I’m pretty sure she was fucking my emissary.” 

You’d nearly choked. 

“That’s - uh - ” Gods, what do you say to that? 

He shrugged. “My feelings for her weren’t fake,” he continued, nonchalantly, as though he’d had nothing but time to come to terms with what had transpired. You supposed he did, though, and were sure that was the only thing on his mind. “I just didn’t know how to act.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you replied, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to keep what little body heat you had, as the cold water sent shivers down your spine. 

He shrugged. “Someone ought to hear the truth - ” Tamlin paused, only for a moment, as his green eyes narrowed in on the estate before you both. Trees covered the once stony walls, vines and thick ivy woven up all the windows and over the balconies. “You seem to be the only one who will listen.”

“I don’t not believe you, Tamlin.” You let him lead the rest of the way, pushing past the thick brush that guarded you from the estate as you neared the large castle. “Sometimes people aren’t who you think they are.”

At that, Tamlin dipped his head, turning to the side only slightly, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of your solemn expression. The rain had dripped down your face, over the curve of your nose and over your cheeks. He admired the way they clumped on your eyelashes, how you didn’t have a care in the world all covered in rain - perhaps you had more important concerns. Much too worried about where you’d sleep that night, where you next meal would come from, if you’d have shelter from the beasts, than to worry about his sob story. 

But you caught his gaze from the corner of your eye, where you’d found those bright emerald eyes washing over your form. Shadows cascaded down his straight nose, his eyelashes nearly touching his cheekbones. You’d wondered if it was the wolf in him that gave him those long eyelashes and thick hair, his sharp teeth and chiseled jaw. He carried himself like a High Lord, shoulders back and chest puffed out - perhaps the closer he got to his home, the more normal he felt. It was a routine, the same path he’d often walked with his friends: Lucien, Bron, Alis, Hart, those that worked for him yes, but also the only ones he could consider truly his family. 

Tamlin used the small knife he had to cut though the thick vines over the stairs. He’d moved each of the fallen logs, twice as heavy because they were waterlogged, and cleared the pathway to the front doors. He wanted to create a wide opening, should you decide in the middle of the night that you’d want to escape - run away from him, from the court. He didn’t want you to feel like a prisoner - he scoffed to himself, he apparently had a knack for that. 

He’d opened the door for you, watching as you gathered the hem of your soaked skirts and your muddy boots squished against the stone steps. You nodded in thanks, unable to move your eyes away from the entryway. The ceiling was fully glass, and despite the rain and clouds, cast a looming light onto the marble walls and floors. The rain echoed in the walls, the fat droplets hitting the roof hard. The heavy curtains and canvases on the walls had been ripped to shreds, rock and stone cracked and scattered along the hallways. The grand staircase was broken, missing a few steps, the railing half gone. 

You wondered what war went on here, while Tamlin tried to forget exactly that. 

He hadn’t been to his home in years. But he knew what would be left to salvage, the rooms he’d lost the energy to tear completely apart. So Tamlin followed you in, guiding you down one of the corridors. “We should be able to find some blankets and clothes this way,” he said, voice just above a whisper. It was so deep that it vibrated in your bones, sending shivers down your freezing spine. 

He’d stirred you through the wide halls, pulling you away with a firm hand on your hip when you’d tried to move toward the great dining room. His hand was hot on your waist, right at the curve of your back as he pulled you one step closer to him. “Not that way.” His eyes were fixed on the mahogany doors, hiding whatever may lie beyond. While he was almost certain he’d left you with the idea there may be Naga or wolves or some other beasts beyond those walls, he didn’t want to correct you with the truth. The gross truth that that’s where he left the elk Rhysand brought him so long ago, no doubt rotted away and disintegrated into the table - that, or it would have been swept away by some creature, perhaps for food or simply to play with its carcass. Either way, he didn’t want to find out. 

There were holes in the roof, in the floors above, that leaked through the halls. You stepped around the puddles, dodging the stream of rain that fell from the ceiling. Tamlin pushed open one of the many doors in the long hallway, a dark bedroom on the other side. “It’s not my room, don’t worry.” 

You turned up to face him. He looked weary, uneasy being back in this estate. “I wasn’t worried, Tamlin.”

He released a breath, his chest visibly falling at your words. He followed you in, closing the door to shut out the cold that the rain had brought to Spring. He’d brought you to one of the guest rooms, never had been occupied by a member of his court. It went untouched during Tamlin’s rage, there had been no evidence of life to destroy. He’d managed to rummage around and quickly find some candles, digging through drawers and closets to find a dry book of matches. 

While Tamlin lit the room, you were drawn to the soft couch in the corner, pulling every blanket and piece of cloth you could find. Gods, it had been so long since you had a good night’s rest, since you sat on a plush sofa and had the softest blankets around you. But you had to wait. Your dress was soaked, you’d been dragging water and mud behind you that whole time. “Do you have any…” you trailed off with a sigh, assuming the male didn’t have any spare dresses lying around. 

You actually would be more concerned if he did. 

“There may be something,” he replied, picking up on your predicament. He sifted through the armoire again, the flickering candles aiding his search. He’d come up with some clothes, a few linen pants and loose shirts. He held everything out to you, a pile of clean fabric. 

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d worn clean clothes. Tamlin noted how your eyes widened, like you’d hit the jackpot, like you’d never seen pajamas before - clean clothes. He cursed himself once again for cursing his people, for abandoning them and forcing them to live in destroyed homes and a looted town. 

You pulled a handful of clothes from his offering, your wet skin crying out for warmth. “There’s a bathing chamber that way.” He nodded to the door far off in the corner. “Doubt there’s any water but…” he trailed off with a shrug. 

“Thank you,” you replied, legs practically begging to take you to the bathroom and change into the pajamas. So you’d scurried away, grabbing a candle to light your way into the bath chamber. The mirror was cracked, covered in dust. But you quickly shucked off your wet dress, grabbing the shirt from the pile and wiped yourself dry, wringing out your hair in the fabric. You pulled on the next shirt, the huge cotton long-sleeve that fell halfway down your thighs. No doubt it had been designed for the High Lord, perhaps even his emissary. But you’d take what you could get, throwing on another shirt for warmth, then the linen pants. You fisted the waist, pulling one of the strings from your dress bodice to tie the pants snugly around your waist. 

Through the dirty mirror, you made out the dark circles under your eyes, your tired eyes and wild hair. You suppressed a sigh, too tired to care one bit. So you returned to the drawing room, finding the High Lord in a fresh set of clothes as well.

He was trying to busy himself, sifting through the pile of blankets you’d managed to create, even adding a few more to your pile. He didn’t want to be rude, to fall onto the soft couch or bed without first making sure you were taken care of. 

His heart stopped when he turned, seeing you swimming in the Spring Court clothing, even just those too-large pajamas. You looked so relieved, so comfortable and, honestly, ready to pass out for the evening. So he cleared his throat: “You can have the bed.” It was all he said, added a head nod towards the other end of the room, where the mattress was, nothing but some sheets atop it. “I was going to give you these.” He gestured to his pile of blankets. All the soft looking ones in one pile, the thin scratchy material separated behind him. 

“We can share the bed, no?” You made your way toward him and grabbed an armful of the blankets he’d folded. “We could both use the nice bed, I’m sure. I imagine it’s been longer for you than me.”

Tamlin cocked a brow, watched as you trudged over to the bed, dumping everything atop it. “I’ve managed just fine.” 

You glanced over your shoulder at the male. “Bring those other ones,” you called out, ignoring her words. “We’ll probably need them if this rain doesn’t let up.”

Tamlin shook his head to himself but did as told, not in the mood to argue with the female, especially not the beautiful one wearing his clothes. So he brought over the rest of the blankets, even the scratchy ones, and helped you make the bed. It was haphazard, sure, some of them not big enough to cover the whole bed, a patchwork of covers, some yours, some his, then the ones stitching you together down the middle. 

You climbed in immediately. 

The sigh you let loose from your lips almost had Tamlin on his knees before you. Your back cracked when you laid down, plush mattress cushioning your spine in a way you hadn’t felt in a long while. You slept on the hard wooden planks of your neighbor’s floor since your house had been torn down, freezing and stiff. You hadn’t remembered the last time you’d had a full nights rest. 

The same went for the male beside you. He’d been holed up in some cave on the Spring-Autumn border, where the wind whistled past and the cold seeped through the rock into his bone. His thick golden fur only did so much to protect him from the chill. He was surprised he hadn’t gotten himself killed out there, and he didn’t even want to think about everything he himself had killed in those past years. 

“What made you come back?” Your soft voice pulled him out of his thoughts, he blinked a few times before pulling the covers back and joining you on the opposite end. He was careful to leave space, to not encroach. His palms caught on the scratchy fabric of the blanket he’d laid on his half, calluses hard and broken, left from his many years of tearing apart flesh with his paws. 

“I was tired of being a coward,” he replied humbly. “I ran away from everything that happened. Pretended like it never happened and shut myself away.” He ran a hair through his half-dried hair, fingers getting tangled at the ends. 

“You were alone?” It was a cross between a question and a statement, he wasn’t sure which you were going for - probably the former. 

“I’ve been alone my whole life. Everyone I come across either leaves or tries to kill me.”

He felt you turn, shift on your side to gaze at him with what little light remained of the candle. Tamlin kept his eyes trained on the covers above him, unable to face the pity that probably laced your features. “Did they try to kill you?” Your voice shook, afraid to even ask the question, terrified of the response. 

He offered you a half shrug. “They left…willingly,” he’d added, mulling over the words in his head. “Though I suppose I not-so-willingly let them. I don’t know how to keep friends, it seems.”

“I suppose that’s better than the other option.”

Them killing him. “Better when it’s not your own family, too.” It was no secret the previous High Lord had a knack for starting wars, for sending his sons to fight his battles for him. Tamlin had a reputation far before his powers even matured - his brothers’ even more so. But what you didn’t know was that they were ready to kill him the instant he matured into a stronger male. He wasn’t glad they were dead, but he was glad he was safe - even if only for a little while. He had found few friends before the curse, a lover afterwards, even. But just like his father and brothers, he could not show love, no matter how hard he willed it, he kept fucking up. 

That’s what it felt like, at least. He supposed he was the jester of the Spring Court in the end. The friends he’d had and the lies they told him: you never made me feel like a prisoner - her voice rang in his head. Soon they were gone, twisting the opposite tale to the male that murdered his family. Nothing could be forgiven in Prythian, no reconciliation to be made between courts. There was no coping, no help from his friends, no one to confide in. So he did the only thing he knew how: shut himself out. Just like he had his former lover, keeping her safe in that very estate. 

He kept every Fae who remained in Spring safe from himself, even if that meant casting himself into the woods. 

You shifted only a bit, but close enough that you reached over and tucked your soft blanket around his shoulders, over his chest that had nearly gone cold from the rain and chill outside. You were close enough that Tamlin could pick up on your flowery scent, that he noted the small hint of honey and cherry blossom lingering along your skin. 

It had been so long since he’d touched another Fae, since he felt someone care for him. He couldn’t help it - his head fell onto your shoulder, right where the crook of your neck met your collarbone, a perfect fit for the crownless male. “And how have you fared, Tamlin? Now that you are a free male?”

Free. 

Free from what? From his duties as a High Lord, surely he’d abandoned them years ago, letting the Naga and the beasts of the Spring Court take over the sacred land. Free from Amarantha’s glamor, the shackles she’d chained him with under the mountain? Free from the binds she kept on his mind, the nightmares - memories - he relived each evening? 

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be free from it. 

He didn’t know how to cope. Not when the only people he’s ever cared about left. Not when his best friend left him when he clearly needed the most help, not when his lover left to wed his mortal enemy, then bare his child. But he apologized to her, for all the trauma he must have caused, locking her away, fearful of who else from Prythian would come to spite him by taking away the female he loved, by he saving her mate. 

He cursed himself. Surely, someone ought to have a happy ending. Might as well have been her. 

He was upset, in fact. When it all came down to it, everything was traced back to his anger. He was blind to his own emotion, it’s what caused him to act without thinking - a strategy he’d never seemed to master, not like the other High Lords. It ended up causing him his newfound family, his Court, it got the Archeron sisters caught and thrown into the Cauldron, it spurred the war. He was a failure, he’d lost the Spring Court and his pride alongside it. He’d been played like that godsdamned fiddle. 

And Tamlin let himself lie in that dark cave night after night, rotting in a lifetime of regret. 

He could only shake his head, nose rubbing against your skin that poked out from the loose collar of your  - his - shirt. “I swear I will rebuild the Court, (Y/N),” he whispered, breath warm on your skin. His lips just barely touched your skin as he spoke. “I promise it, I’ll run the beasts out and fix the mess I’ve made. Even if nobody believes me, if they’ve lost all faith in me.”

Your hand fell downwards over the blanket you’d placed over him, fell down the soft fabric over his chest. “Actions, not words.” He tilted his head up, and those deep green eyes met yours instantly. His gaze washed over your face, over the sheer determination and strength, but in utter admiration as you spoke. “Show them.”

You lifted your hand, fingers twitching in hesitancy, but your mind worked too fast. You brushed your hand over his cheekbone, over the strong jaw and tanned skin. He nearly shivered, nearly broke out in a godsdamned sob. 

Tamlin was fighting to keep his emotions intact, to stop himself from absolutely crumbling apart in the safety of your arms. He slowly shifted upright, sitting beside you, back against the headboard just as you sat. You never moved your hand, save for your thumb running over his cheek, tracing where the light stubble had grown in over his jaw and cheek. 

His own hand fell to your hip, safely above the covers. But the added weight of him caused the shift, the simple weight of his large hand on you sparked something inside of you. 

So you leaned in. 

You didn’t know what it was. If it was the fact you’d hadn’t been held in years, the fact you laid in bed together, cold from the rain and nearly out of candles. If it was the fact that he’d opened up for what probably was the first time ever, the male with the worst reputation - his ill temper, his tendency to fight, how godsdamned beastly was - laid out and vulnerable in your arms. 

Your lips met his softly, a firm enough kiss where you felt equally matched, as if he, too, was waiting for you to do it; but soft enough that he would pull back if you did, that he would restrain himself from going further, should you realize you’ve made a mistake. 

You did the opposite, though, barely breaking away for breath, parting your lips just enough to gasp for air before pushing against him once more. Your hand raked through his long hair, so Tamlin had no choice but to do the same. His fingertips wove through your own hair as his hand rose from your hip to cradle your jaw, tilting your head to the side. 

He tasted sweet, not what you were expecting from the male whose scent lingered with the sultry forest and fresh morning dew. He was gentile, too. His tongue moving only to trace your bottom lip, nothing more. Your lips moved over each other in sync, breathing in tandem and letting those soft sighs escape between the two of you.

You pulled him closer, winding your other arm around his neck as you laid back, sliding further onto the bed where he had to drop a hand beside you to hold himself up. But he kissed you anyway, like you were the last breath of life for that dying male. 

Perhaps you were giving him life, that spark he needed to reignite the male inside of him who he once was. 

Your hand trailed down his chest as he continued deepening the kiss, lips moving quickly over yours, growing hungrier, more desperate. You fisted at his loose shirt, not even bothering to untie it, just slipped your hand underneath from the bottom where it hung so loosely from his body. His abdomen shivered under your touch, your fingertips tracing the hard rigid muscle. Tamlin sighed against your mouth, trying (and failing) to suppress the groan that built up in the back of his throat. 

So he’d pulled away, the sound of your lips parting from his loud and wet, a sound he’d practically forgotten about over the past decades spent alone. His forehead dropped against yours and you felt the tickle of his hair against your cheek. “I can’t - I’ve already caused too much destruction. I’ll hurt you.”

It didn’t feel real - he had to stop himself, break free of the dream he was surely living in. Another female, not only giving him the time of day, but who cared for him without even knowing him. He huffed a loose laugh, and muttered to himself: “I’m going mad.”

His lips were still far too close to yours. They barely touched as you spoke. “Take it out on me.” You tilted your jaw up, just barely high enough to capture his lips with yours. “I can take it, Tamlin.”

He shivered, I’ve heard that before. “I don’t want you to have to.”

You peered up at him where he gazed down adoringly at you, from underneath those long light eyelashes of his. He’d bent down for one more kiss, all his passion put behind that one last time of your lips pressed together. 

He only pulled away when he ran out of air. 

He slotted down beside you, his arm curled under your shoulders, the other crossed above the blankets, the piles of soft and scratchy ones, and fell over your bodies to rest on your hip. You fell asleep with your face buried in his chest and your arm flung around him, dreaming of the promise tomorrow held. 

[blackhholes]

teen wolf meme: [6/6] creatures -> ghost riders

In storm clouds just like these, phantom hunters would appear, riding black horses with blood-red eyes, and wolves and hounds at their side, baying and snarling. What were they hunting? Souls.