#and the house right in front with the chimney is The Trinket | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

helliontherapscallion · 4 years ago

Text

Who? (Forlorn Tale of Dionysus Part 2)

Part 1

Warnings: Swearing

Word count: 2,843

(A/N): I’m not exactly sure if this will continue any further, this was just a fun little thing I had in my drafts for a while after some interesting convos in my discord server (which you totally should join, it’s a vibe). This is lowkey word vomit, but eh. This is all strictly platonic btw

“Michael, are you sure you saw a house out here? I really don’t think-” You were interrupted by your much shorter friend yanking on your sleeve to get your attention. You looked down at him in question and watched as he raised his hands.

‘I am sure I saw that house, (y/n)! It is here somewhere.’

You fiddled with the sleeves of your thick coat with unease, “alright, but if we don’t find it soon I wanna head back. Uncle Boo and Uncle Tubbo are probably going to start to worry.”

Michael huffed at the mention of his parents. You knew how overbearing they were, causing your friend to crave new experiences and adventures. You’d known him for a couple of years now and he was rebelling more with each passing day. You could relate slightly, Philza and Technoblade had hardly let you out of the house without another person to accompany you. You never really understood why, you were almost thirteen now so you should be able to explore what you want.

An excited squeal left your friend’s mouth before he started to pull you towards something in the distance, startling you out of your trance. You matched his pace with ease and felt nervous excitement tingle in your chest.

As you got closer, you could make out small details of the cabin. It was a simple small cabin built out of spruce planks with glass windows and a brick chimney, but you liked it. It strangely felt homey.

You pulled Michael into a nearby shrub underneath a window and peered in. The interior was also as simplistic as the outside was, looking untouched and tidy as if nobody was living there. You could see that the ceilings were taller than average, perhaps a hybrid of some sort lived here?

Michael tapped your shoulder, ‘it doesn’t look like anybody’s home right now. Let’s go in.’

You opened your mouth to object before the sight of his set jaw and his eyes dead set on something inside made you close it. You learned from experience that when he was this determined, there was no stopping him. You sighed, “fine, but the second we get caught, it was your idea.”

You both made your way to the front door. Without a second thought, Michael twisted the doorknob and swung the door open. A startled snort left his throat as he stumbled inside, making you put a hand over your mouth to stifle your laughter. He jabbed the side of your lower torso, ‘shut up, I thought it was going to be locked.’

He pulled you inside and you both explored the living room. Bookshelves and portraits lined the walls, a single large couch sat off to the side, and the fireplace mantle was lined with a few small golden hooks. Michael made a beeline towards it, admiring the metal. It seems that’s what he saw that made him so determined to get inside. You hoped that he wouldn’t steal them and explored the area further.

The portraits on the walls were a slight shock to you, they all included some people that you could recognize; in one you could make out a picture of younger versions of Ranboo, Philza, Technoblade, and Niki. Technoblade and Philza were sparring with shining golden swords while Ranboo and Niki sat in the grass on a hill watching with interest. Maybe this was just one of their old cabins?

You saw people that you didn’t recognize as well. Namely a cat hybrid with striking sapphire blue eyes, a man seemingly human (you say seemingly because your eyes caught sight of pointed ears) wearing a white bandana keeping his jet black hair out of his face, a tall man with green freckles and a creeper mask, an anthropomorphic diamond block with beady black eyes and a wide smile, and a man that looked strangely like Ghostbur except he was wearing a uniform of some sort. However, a demon quickly caught your eye and made your heart leap for joy. There was someone out there that was like you!

The man looked kind, always wearing a cheery smile and occasionally waving at the camera. He was tall and lanky, always towering over the others by a considerable amount. That made sense, Philza had told you that demons were naturally very tall when you asked him why you were growing faster than Michael when the zombie piglin was two years older than you were. Large wings and horns akin to yours sprouted from his back and head respectively. If he wasn’t constantly smiling, you would’ve thought that he was malevolent.

You heard the rapid footsteps of Michael’s boots behind you as you turned around. You bounced on the balls of your feet excitedly, “Michael look, another demon! Do you think he lives here?”

You watched as he shrugged and pulled you towards the kitchen. ‘I don’t know, but look! There’s another demon that looks exactly like you!’

On the kitchen table surrounded by various trinkets (bottles of wine, gold bricks, stale bread, and the decomposed remains of flower crowns and bouquets being the majority of the items) laid a framed picture of said demon lazily smiling and looking off to the side. Michael was right, they looked exactly like you except at least a decade older. Everything matched your physical features to a tee; from the red accents on their black wings to the way they smiled, it was like they were your clone. The only thing of yours that they were missing was the three circular birthmarks on your forehead. It was eerily uncanny.

Your eyes widened before you snatched the picture off from the table, studying them further. If you squinted, you could see that there was someone barely in frame. You flipped the frame around and took out the picture, unfolding it. In the picture was your adopted father and adopted uncles and aunt. What was going on? If they knew the demon, why didn’t they ever tell you about them?

‘Woah, that was smart. Do you think you might be related to them or something?’ He tilted his head before he perked up, ‘could they be one of your biological parents?’

“Maybe, but if they were, why didn’t my dad tell me about them? I… have a right to know about them, right?”

He nodded firmly, ‘you definitely do. It’s kind of fucked up they haven’t told you anything about them.’

“Yeah, it is. Do you think something bad happened to them?... Oh shit, is this a memorial?” You hurriedly refolded the picture and put it back into its frame.

Michael’s eyes widened and flickered around the table at the trinkets before he fished out two gold bars from his pocket and placed them onto the table. You crossed your arms, “what the fuck man?”

‘I thought they wouldn’t miss a few pieces of gold! You would’ve done the same thing if you were a piglin,’ he defended himself before he paused and shuddered, ‘we’re in a dead person’s house, that’s creepy… What if their ghost is right behind us?’

You spun around and put yourself slightly in front of Michael, your heart beating in your throat. Nothing was there. Michael snorted, making you slap his arm, “not cool, man.”

You were about to stomp off until a piece of paper caught your eye. It was a drawing of this person done in messy purple crayon, probably done by a very young child. It was signed by a Michael.

You turned to the wheezing zombie piglin and patiently waited for him to stop laughing. When he did, you showed him the picture, “did you draw this? Did you know them?”

He scrunched up his brow in concentration, squinting at the paper. Eventually he shook his head slowly, ‘I don’t think so. At least I don’t remember drawing it… This is getting weird.’

You nodded in agreement, putting the drawing back onto the counter. You walked towards the stairs and climbed them. They creaked under your foot loudly, a part of you was scared that you would fall through them. It was clear they haven’t been used in some time.

They led to a small loft, the ceiling coming to a point far overhead. A part of you was glad that this stranger (relative? Parent?) was a demon, it wasn’t often that you found lofts that fit all six and a half feet of you.

Like the rest of the house, it was very simplistic. A gigantic bed laid in the center of the furthest wall, made neatly with multiple fluffy blankets, part you was tempted to catapult yourself onto it. On the nightstand next to it sat a redstone lamp and a frosted glass of water, cracks spider webbing up the sides presumably from the cold.

You opened the lone drawer and discovered a book. Upon further inspection, you discovered that it was a journal with the name (y/n) written inside the cover. So this person had your name as well as your looks? This merely raised more questions than answers, so you slid the book into a pocket in your coat to read later. Under the book laid another picture of them posing with the strange group of people from the portraits downstairs. The de- (y/n) looked younger there. On the back, the word family was written and it was dated to be about twenty years old. You also pocketed the picture.

Michael walked over to the window and looked out at the vast tundra only to squeal in alarm. He ran over to you and pulled you downstairs. You looked out the window only to yelp when you saw a few crows standing on the window sill staring at you with their beady eyes.

You and Michael ran out of the house as fast as the both of you could, the snow being slightly tough to run through for the five and a half foot tall zombie piglin. You could hear the crows following you overhead. After a while of running, you both finally got back to Snowchester and raced past Ranboo and Tubbo. You hid in Michael’s room with the curtains tightly drawn.

You sat on his bed with your legs crossed and your back pressed up against the headboard. You let your head bang against the wall and you ran your hand down your face. “We’re fucked, dude. We’re literally so fucked.”

‘Uncle Phil’s still out of town so it’ll probably be a few days until they find out.’ Michael plopped next to you, panting and trying to regain his breath. “Still, we’re gonna be in so

much trouble for going that far out. I didn’t think my dad’s crows were still here.”

‘Might as well read the journal you found before we get grounded.’

You nodded and took out the journal, flipping it open to the first page. You both read the journal until it was dark outside and Michael was passed out on your shoulder. Subconsciously, you wrapped your wing around him as you read the journal.

The other (y/n) acted like you did for the most part, the only differences between you two was the lack of swearing and the fact that they felt alone even when they were surrounded by people. Your family’s names were dropped several times, especially when they were talking about ‘The Syndicate’. The code names they used were after various Greek myths, leading you to believe that Technoblade was one of the founders of the anarchist group.

You had learned that their family (potentially your family?) was strangely possessed by an egg and that they were previously possessed by said egg. They had a brother named Sapnap (your potential uncle?) that helped them escape to the tundra. It was there that they found the Syndicate, reminding you of the found family tropes you would read in books. The last journal entry detailed their last mission, how they were going to destroy the Eggpire from within and get their family back. That entry in particular gave you chills, even someone with half a brain could tell what happened to them after that.

By the time you had closed the book, it was dawn and the sun was peeking out from behind the closed curtains. You shook Michael awake and stretched out your aching body. Your neck muscles protested movement, sending a wave of pain across the area.

‘Damn, did you stay up all night reading that?’

“Of course I did, why wouldn’t I? I needed to find out about my biological parent somehow. I just- nothing makes sense, Michael.” You growled out, your voice deepening and distorting slightly as your frustration rose.

‘Chill! You’ll figure it out soon, let’s just focus on staying under the radar.’

“Too late for that.”

You both jumped and fell off the bed as you heard Philza’s voice. In the doorway, Philza stood with Ranboo, Tubbo, and Technoblade by his side, all looking equally angry and disappointed. Next to you, Michael shrunk in on himself and smiled sheepishly. He was about to raise his hands to sign, but a pointed look from Tubbo next to him told him that there was no getting out of this one.

Behind the anger, you could tell that something changed about the way the four were looking at you. You couldn’t tell what emotion they were hiding, whether it be wariness, longing, sadness, or just more unleashed anger, but you could tell that they knew something you didn’t. If the frustration that overcame you when you were reading the journal at the lack of questions answered burned inside of you, then what you felt now was a blazing inferno.

“We’re going home, grab your stuff (y/n).”

After a short staredown with the older man, you huffed in anger and gathered your things into your bag. The entire time, tense silence filled the room. Your hands were shaking with the rage you felt searing every inch of you. You could hear the sharp flicking of your pointed tail cutting through the air and occasionally hitting objects near you.

When you were done you stomped over to your adopted family and shouldered between Philza and Technoblade, speed walking down the hallway. They quickly caught up with you after saying a quick apology and a goodbye, Technoblade grabbing your arm and holding it in a vice grip.

They led you out of the mansion and into the harsh winds of the tundra. It wasn’t until Snowchester was far off in the distance that Technoblade shook your arm, “what the hell were you thinking, going into someone else’s house like that! You don’t know who lived there, you could’ve gotten yourself and Michael killed!”

“You really thought I wouldn’t find out, didn’t you?” You ripped your arm out of his hold and spoke in a low voice, struggling to contain your full rage. “I have a goddamned right to know about them.”

“...I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Philza muttered out and resumed walking back towards your house. “You’re grounded when we get back, no flying or dueling lessons for two weeks.”

“Of course you know what I’m talking about, Dad! Why are you hiding them from me? I have a right to know about my biological parent even if they’re dead!”

They both halted in their tracks and glanced at each other in slight confusion. “What-”

“You know damn well who I’m talking about. Gods, I can’t believe you thought I’d never find out,” you laughed sardonically as your hand subconsciously gripped your growing horn. “(Y/n)! You know, the demon that lived in that house? The one that looks exactly like me?! Does that ring a bell or do I have to show you this?”

You rummaged in your pocket and ripped out the picture, shoving it into Philza’s hands. Technoblade looked over his shoulder at what you gave him. You watched as their expressions turned blank when they saw the demon in the picture.

Minutes passed with them continuing to stare down at the picture and you were slowly getting impatient. “Why did you never tell me about them? Why are you keeping me from them?!”

Without looking up at you, Philza mumbled, “you weren’t supposed to find out about them. You were never supposed to find out.”

“Do you have any idea how ambiguous that is? Just tell me who they are!” You could feel your eye twitch as your frustration grew.

You could see the internal conflict on Philza’s face growing by the second before he dipped his head downwards and stalked off in the opposite direction of the house. You spread your wings to chase him in the air, but Technoblade’s hand on your upper arm stopped you from lifting off.

When you looked up at him, the look of regret and sorrow etched into his features caught you by surprise. “Let him go, he needs to do some thinking… (y/n), do you know what reincarnation is?”

General taglist (comment if you want to be added):

@crybabyjabby @izzybobizzy13 @goldenstarofthunderclan @bunnyz-pxstel @averytiredfanfictionwriter @dcml04 @sparkling-gayyyy @bbigbbrainn @thaticecreambish @kiinokochii @satansphatass @bxkubitch @bxmentchildxx @roxy3457 @montygator17 @feverish-dove @the-fictionwriters-hairdo @jichuuchaeng @404rynnotfound @luluwinchester @laura--444 @the-cult-classic-bitch @youngstarfishdinosaur @nottheotheruser @ohworm-writes @localwolfanon @realitycanbeajerk @v10dw4lk3r @esylwen @seraphsema @boiled-onionrings @smolgreenybeany @louistommosnesquickmilk @hyacinthrosearsha @ryxjxnnx @autumnpleaves @ravennightingaleandavatempus @0ton1n @self-righteous-dumbass @a-simp-for-block-people @fortunatelylazystranger @m1lkmandan @mirios-sunflower @ahmya-4 @shinipii @noyasblush @auroraskyfall @cryptocry @hee-hee-haw @blackstar-gazer

Gender neutral reader taglist (comment if you want to be added):

@totem-awooga @parkeepingparker @whatislifebutlemons

#michael_beloved x reader #technoblade x reader #philza x reader #dream smp x reader #mcyt x reader #tw: swearing

264 notes · View notes

noladyme · 4 years ago

Text

The Wife - Chapter 1

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. As rumors spread that Mr. James Delaney had returned to England – making a dramatic arrival at his father’s funeral – you might imagine mothers throughout London, rushing to present their marriable daughters to the man. They did not; and for three very good reasons. First; James Keziah Delaney was clearly damaged from his travels, and not a little dangerous. Secondly; it was the general opinion of the better society that Mr. Delaney had inherited his mother’s madness. Thirdly; Mr. Delaney was not single. In fact, he was very much married.

TW: angst, violence, blood, smut (6573 words)

First; James Keziah Delaney was clearly damaged from his travels, and not a little dangerous. Strange reports were made of late night magic rituals, and more than once the gentleman had been seen with red stained hands – though it was unclear whether the stains stemmed from blood, or the powders he would use to draw markings on his face.

Secondly; it was the general opinion of the better society that Mr. Delaney had inherited his mother’s madness; and no one wanted to risk a familiar connection with a woman who ended her days in Bethlem Royal Hospital – in common tongue, Bedlam Insane Asylum.

Thirdly; Mr. Delaney was not single. In fact, he was very much married.

---

Rosalind was seated in front of the small fireplace in her room at Mrs. Owen’s boarding house, fiddling with the garnet ring she wore on the long finger of her right hand. The fire had long since gone out, but she hadn’t the stamina or even will to get up and feed the dying embers with more wood. As it was, the cold she felt streaming through her veins went well with the chill of the room.

In her hand, she held a letter sent by Mr. Thoyt; the lawyer of her late father-in-law. She’d read it twice; and then once more, just to see if she had not been mistaken.

To; Rosalind Beauchamp c/o Mrs. Fanny Owen

Dear Madam, I sincerely hope this letter finds you well, as I received information that your absence from the funeral of your late father-in-law, was due to an ailment of some kind. Had you attended, I had a seat saved for you in the front pew, where it would have been proper for the heiress of Mr. Horace Delaney to be seated. Alas, I had to take the seat myself, as to not leave it unused; and make the fullness of the pews in the church seem uneven.

Rosalind rolled her eyes at this. There was no doubt in her mind that Thoyt would have filled the seat right next to her, if she had been there; claiming that would be proper, as he was the executor of the elder Delaney’s will.

I should like to extend the well wishes of Mr. Thorne Geary, who has asked if it would be in your wish to promenade with him one of the coming days. I counsel you to accept his visit; as you know he has only your well-being in mind, and bears warm sentiments towards you.

These sentiments Rosalind was well aware of; and was in fact doing her best to avoid the man, so she would not have to spend another drawn out visit, avoiding the topic of widows and widowers remarrying.

It is my hope that your ailment is not of the heart, for I fear I have rather disturbing news to pass on to you; and would not want to make you even more frail. I must inform you that James Keziah Delaney has returned to London. He arrived at the funeral service shortly before the minister began his sermon. These past ten years have changed him much, but it is indeed him.

James. After 3 years as a scorned wife, with a runaway husband, and then 7 more as a widow; he’d returned. A hard knot had formed in her stomach as she read on.

My dear, I urge you to avoid any contact with Mr. Delaney. He is, I reiterate, very different than the gentleman you knew; and from the looks of him, more beast than man. I will be happy to offer any legal aid you might need to separate from him, and fight for your inheritance. James Delaney was proclaimed dead 7 years ago; but as he has been gone for so long, I am sure we can find some legal way to proclaim you continued sole heiress of the Delaney fortunes – among them, the rights to the area in America known as Nootka Sound. I should like to call on you at your earliest disposal. With regards; Robert Thoyt, solicitor.

Rosalind’s hands were shaking, as she held on to the letter. She got on her feet, gazing at the intricately decorated chest in front of the bed in her small room. It had been a gift from her father-in-law; one that he had purchased on one of his many travels. It was the only gift she had ever received from the man, that hadn’t been given out of some sense of responsibility to her. She laid down the letter on the bedside table, and walked over and opened the chest. Moving around gloves, fabrics, unfinished embroidery works, and small boxes of beads and trinkets; she reached the bottom of the chest, where a for years untouched muslin gown lay, next to a veil of fragile lace. She pulled out the delicate dress, and laid it on the bed. It still had a dark stain on the front, from where the minister had spilt wine on her, as her husband and she had taken communion together after being wed. Once outside the church, James had stroked his index finger over the red stain – which was just over the left breast, and smiled. “It matches your lips, Rose”, he’d said; and her distress over having her wedding gown ruined in such a manner, left way to happiness. The way any woman should feel on her wedding day. She hadn’t realized she was crying, until another stain disgraced the muslin; one from a tear.

It was all too much to believe. This man, whom she’d cherished with a naïve and young heart, had suddenly reappeared, after being proclaimed dead. She had to see if it was true; if it was truly him.

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Owen stepped inside; her large figure filling the doorway. “Lunch is ready, miss Beauchamp”, she said. “Thank you, but I will be going out”, Rosalind said. Mrs. Owen smiled brightly. “Will you be meeting Mr. Geary, then?”, she asked. “I will not”. “Mr. Thoyt?”. Rosalind had become a master at keeping her composure in regards to her nosy landlady; but today she was a little less inclined to be polite. “It is a private matter. Please call a carriage for me”, she said shortly, and the stout woman recoiled slightly at her tone. “Right away, miss”.

After the door closed again, Rosalind stripped off her plain, cotton day dress, and put on a dark blue gown; more suited for an afternoon visit. She shrugged off her inclination to wear the red gown. That would be too much. Her dark grey jacket, a purse and a capote to match, finished her ensemble. Her boots weren’t much to speak of, but they kept her feet mostly dry; though the soles were wearing thin.

The carriage was waiting for her outside the boarding house. She asked the driver to take her back to her former home.

---

Chamber House was even more dreary than when she’d been there last. The smell from the river running behind the house struck her nose, and Rosalind felt a chill go through her body. Trying to open the metal gate, she had to lean against it; putting her whole weight on the rusty thing. It made a loud screeching sound, when it finally opened.

The garden in front of the house was unkempt, and the windows on the bottom floor had been boarded up. For a moment, she considered leaving, as the building seemed abandoned. Maybe Thoyt had been mistaken, and the man at the funeral was an imposter. Smoke from the chimney let Rosalind know that someone was inside, but she had also heard stories of mudlarks roaming empty houses for warmth and the occasional cat that could be made in to dinner. This wasn’t a place for proper ladies, as countess Musgrove would say, but the countess was hardly a proper lady herself, and Rosalind had business to attend.

She went up the few steps to the door, and took a deep breath, before knocking on the door. There was the sound of a dog barking, and then some shuffling around, followed by a voice muttering at the dog. The door opened, and a slight, tired looking man appeared in front of her. “Brace…”, Rosalind greeted him quietly. The old butler stood seemingly dumbfounded at her arrival. She looked up at the sky. “It seems about to rain. May I please come in?”. “Of course, ma’am", Brace muttered, and stepped aside.

The grand hallway was less grand than it had been, years before. The house seemed dark and cold, and Rosalind did not feel inclined to take of her hat or jacket, when Brace reached for them. “I won’t be staying long”, she said. “I just came to see… Is it true? Is he back?”. “He is…”, Brace said with a nod. “This last week". “And you didn’t feel it necessary to inform me?”. Brace looked at the floor in front of him, and fidgeted with the hem of his tattered jacket. “He is changed, Mrs. Delaney…”, Brace began. “Miss Beauchamp”, Rosalind corrected him. Brace recoiled at this, but kept his expression as indifferent as possible. “Yes, miss”.

Rosalind walked towards the sitting room with as much calm as she could muster. “Is he here?”, she asked. “No”, Brace replied. “He is… on business. I don’t know when he’ll return”. “I’ll have to wait, then”, Rosalind sighed. Brace stepped in front of her. “Ma’am… Miss”, he said. “You shouldn’t. James isn’t… He is not the young man you knew”. “And I’m not the girl he knew either”, Rosalind retorted. “In any case, I need to speak with him…”. Brace must have seen the determination on her face, because he stepped aside, and let Rosalind enter the room.

It was dark, and smelled of a mixture of spices, whiskey; and wet firewood and ashes – only slightly taking away from the smell of the river. The furniture was the same, though damaged from the moisture seeping through the walls from the Thames. A large grey dog rested by the unlit fireplace, and lifted its head slightly as she entered. Though it had made its presence known earlier, it seemed to be more bark than bite; and simply let out a huff, as she seated herself on the sofa. It raised its eyes to look at her, and she smiled slightly at it; feeling like she got a sort of smile in return. “Tea, miss?”, Brace asked. “No, thank you”, Rosalind said. “Good. We don’t have any”, the butler smiled. “And from what I remember, you prefer coffee”. His expression had warmed, since he’d apparently accepted that Rosalind had no intention of leaving. She suspected he was trying to soften the blow of whatever she was about to face. “That sounds lovely. Thank you, Brace”.

After the butler had disappeared, Rosalind took some time to get reacquainted with the room in which she’d spent many hours, years before. Seated on this same couch, she’d kept her father-in-law company, as he rambled about his business and how everyone was trying to cheat him. She’d had tea with uninteresting ladies from all over town, who all came with well wishes after the wedding, combined with insincere regrets upon the departure of her husband, so soon after. The same night, in fact. A whole year she’d managed to keep her sanity in the house, which became draftier and drearier almost by the second. When his son had up and left suddenly, the elder Delaney had gone into a strange bout of melancholy; almost seeming to feel guilty about the fact. Rosalind did her best to keep up the façade of a good wife and daughter-in-law, but found it harder and harder to keep up with Mr. Delaney’s moods, and when the letters from her husband stopped, she found no reason to stay in the house any longer. She would visit weekly, but never for long, as the old man seemed rather indifferent to whether she was there or not, and mostly stared into the fireplace, and muttered to himself.

Horace Delaney had made sure she received an allowance to keep up with expenses; but 4£ a month did not stretch far. In the end, Rosalind had taken up work as a chaperone and occasional tutor to young ladies in the south-east of England – never straying too far from London.

Two years after leaving the Chamber House, Rosalind received a letter, letting her know that her husband was suspected dead in a shipwreck. The news hit her painfully hard. Deep down, she had always hoped that James would return to her one day, even after he was thought of as dead; though rationally, she knew better. She’d dreamed of him often. He was always at a distance, always out of reach. It was agony to miss him so. Now, he had returned, and as it was, clearly not for his wife.

Soon after, her visits became rarer. The elder Delaney more or less ignored her when she came, and more than once, he’d asked Brace to tell her to leave, while she was still in the room; so he could get back to work. She’d attended Zilpha's wedding, but the two had never been close; merely friendly acquaintances, with a dead brother and husband in common. Once Zilpha had passed, after a sudden disease that made her seem old beyond her years in just weeks, Horace made it clear he had no wish to see any kind if family; so for two years, Rosalind had stayed away from Chamber House.

Until today.

Brace returned with a tray of coffee and biscuits that looked hard enough to crack a tooth on. Out of sheer politeness, Rosalind picked up one, and dipped it in her cup of coffee, to soften the treat. Brace threw a biscuit at the dog, who gulped it up without much trouble chewing it. Rosalind dropped her biscuit on the floor herself, and the dog got up, and slowly walked over to eat it. It lifted its head, and looked at her; and she timidly scratched it behind its ear.

Suddenly, it turned its head, and looked towards the hallway. The door opened, and a gust of wind blew through the house; making it sound like the building was whimpering, as it passed through the cracks in the walls. A dark figure stepped into the hallway; the sound of his boots loud as canons. A long coat covered his broad frame, and he wore a hat; pushed forward on his head, and hiding his face in shadow. “Brace! Coffee…”, he ordered; his hoarse voice leaving very little trace of the raspy, warm one Rosalind remembered. Brace hurried to greet his master, and took his hat and coat. Rosalind sat very still, with bated breath and beating heart. “In the sitting room, but… sir, you have a guest”, Brace said. “I’m not inclined to receive anyone. Tell them to go away”. “You will want to see her… Maybe”. Rosalind got on her feet, and slowly turned to face the doorway.

James Delaney had indeed changed. Gone was the young gentleman, with the boyish charm and nervous smile; and instead, there stood a bearded, brute man, who had danger and darkness written all over his expression. A scar ran from his brow, and down over his eye and cheek.

Yet, she could not find a flaw on him. He was even more striking than the day they’d met. Love and pain streamed through her body. James took one look at his wife; nodded, and let out a breathy grunt. “Rosalind…”, he said. “James…”, she breathed; trying to keep her composure. Rosalind felt as if she might faint at any moment. She regretted coming to see him, and unsure what had been her reason. But now she was here, as was he; and internally, she struggled not to throw herself into his arms, or attack him with the fire poke.

Rosalind sat back down, and James took his place in what had been his father’s chair, opposite her; looking at the dog. He took a biscuit, and threw it in the air. The dog caught it, and gobbled it down. Brace went over to the samovar, and looked at Rosalind. “More coffee, miss Beauchamp?”, he asked. James eyes flew towards Rosalind, and then down at the ring adorning her right hand; and something hard ghosted his face. She immediately regretted not having worn gloves. “Yes. More coffee for miss Beauchamp, and then maybe a cup for your master, hmm?”, James said. “Of course, sir. And I’ve prepared a cod for dinner. Atticus brought it”. James replied with a grunt, and Brace poured coffee for them. “Will you be staying, miss?”. “No, thank you Brace. My landlady is expecting me at the boarding house”, Rosalind said. Once again, James gave her an unreadable, hard look.

Brace stood uncomfortably by the fireplace, before finally pretending to remember something he had to see to, and scuttered off. James and Rosalind sat in silence for a long moment. Trying to calm herself, Rosalind took a sip of her coffee. “I was told you died”, she said quietly. “I did”, James replied, and drank the entire content of his cup in one go. “You’re a widow, miss Beauchamp”. Rosalind’s cheeks flushed red. “It was easier to use my maiden name…”. “To separate yourself from my father, or me…?”, James grunted. Rosalind looked down. “To start anew”, she whispered. “I had to start over, after you left”.

James seemingly ignored that last sentence. “You did not attend my father’s funeral”, he said, his eyes fixed on something on the far wall. You did not attend our wedding night, Rosalind wanted to reply; but thought the better of it. “I felt indisposed”, she said meekly. “Too indisposed to say a last farewell to the man who has been keeping up your expenses these last 10 years?”, James challenged. “Whom you were set to inherit this house and the rest of his fortune from?”. “I am not kept”, she retorted. James eyes flickered. “I felt indisposed to sit through a sham of a service set up by a lawyer, who had no love for the deceased; and to then have to avoid the wandering eyes of every man in the room, hoping to get his hand on said fortune. And me”.

James raised his brows at her, making the scar on his face even more prominent. “You’ve had suitors, then?”, he asked. “I’ve been a widow, not a nun”, Rosalind retorted, an angry edge to her voice. James’ lip twitched into a slight smile, which was gone as soon as it had arrived. “But never remarried…”, he said. “You know I didn’t…”. “You could have gone to France. Stayed with relatives there. They could have found a suitable match for you”. “I have no family to speak of in France. And I’ve never met any of the few I have”.

With a loud bang, James put one foot up on the ottoman in front of his chair, and pulled off his boot. “So, is that why you are here? Because you want to be married?”, he asked, and took off the other boot. “You said my husband was dead. It seems that is not an option”. Rosalind did not understand why uttering the words brought her as much pain as it did; but she felt something break inside her when she did. “Then why?”. “I need to know where I stand. Dead as you may be, here you are; and my situation is much different than I thought it to be”, she said. “It is clear that I am no longer the heiress of this… grand house, and your father’s holdings. To add to that is that, legally I am bound to you; and you to me…”. “I will keep up with your expenses”, James said, interrupting her. “How much was my father providing?”. Rosalind bit her cheek, and looked down again. “4£ a month”, she whispered.

James eyes widened. “My father only granted you 4£ a month?”, he said. “That is not much money for hats, lace gloves and whatnot”. “Don’t insult me, James”, Rosalind said. “You know full well that I couldn’t care less about hats and gloves”. “Do I? I have not seen you in ten years”, James shrugged. “And who’s fault is that?”, Rosalind hissed. “Hmm”, James muttered. “How have you been making a living? I take it you have had to take on employment? There aren’t many ways for a gentle woman to make money. I hope you have not been forced to solicit yourself”. His voice was cold, and his eyes traced her figure. “You are cruel…”, Rosalind said. “And you are not first to have uttered those words. Though; vicious and evil are more common, when I am spoken of". James took a sip of his coffee, and studied her face for a reaction. Rosalind kept her composure, surprising even herself at her ability to do so.

“You should know I have received a letter from Mr. Thoyt, your father’s lawyer", she said. James met her eyes again, narrowing his own. “He has offered me legal aid in regards to claiming your inheritance”. “Which you will accept, of course". James said. “No. I will not. It is not my inheritance. I didn’t even truly want it, when I thought you were dead". He looked down at her feet, and she instinctively pulled them backwards, and tried to cover them with her skirts. “You could have used it", James said. “I don’t want your family’s money. That was not why I married you".

James got on his feet abruptly, making it clear it was time for Rosalind to leave. She stood up, and walked towards the hallway; clutching her purse. “I will provide you with 15£ a month. I do not want you taking on employment with anyone anymore… no matter what it is”, James said. “Why do you care? Very few people know I am your wife; and I do not use your name”, Rosalind replied. “I will not be dragging it through the mud”. “Call it taking responsibility for my mistakes”, he said. “Is that what I am?”. Her voice was shaking at this point.

James met her eyes, and let out a short, audible breath. “Take yourself to a shoemaker, and have him make you some better boots”, he said. “The ones you have on, are almost worn out. Have them send the bill to me”. “No, thank you. I shall mend them”, Rosalind replied. She went to leave, but James put a hand on the doorhandle; and blocked her exit. “You will buy new boots, and I will see that your current accommodations are suitable”, he said, looking seriously at her. “You don’t know where I live”, Rosalind said. “I will find out”. There was no doubt in his voice, he was merely making a statement of fact.

James opened the door for her, but before she could exit, he stepped outside, and looked across the garden, and turned his head to gaze down the road; almost as if making sure no one was watching them. When he finally stepped aside, Rosalind walked down the steps; and turned to face him one last time. “James…”, she said. “Rose…”, he replied; making her breath hitch. His eyes warmed for a second, before he stepped back inside, and closed the door.

---

Rosalind had a strange dream that night.

She was walking along the shore of a muddied lake. A way out in the water, with his back to her, stood a broad-shouldered man with markings on his skin. He wore no clothes, save a cloth to cover his privates. A dark gravelly voice was speaking strange words she did not understand, and when she called out to the figure in the water, he turned around. He was the one speaking, but the words were sounding as if they were coming from somewhere very close; not from where he was standing.

She closed her eyes in fear, and when she opened them again, he was standing right in front of her. It was James, but he had a painted face, and his eyes were black. She closed her eyes again, and covered her face. A strong pair of hands grabbed her wrists, and pulled them down. “Look at me”, James said. “No… You’re dead”, Rosalind said. “Am I? I am here now…”. “You left me. And then you came back as someone else”.

She opened her eyes again, and saw James as she had seen him earlier that day. No paint on his face, and bright blue eyes. “I was always here”. He put his index finger on her forehead, and then just over her left breast. “And here…”. When he removed his hand, a red stain marked her nightgown. “It matches your lips, Rose”.

She woke up in a jolt, and held her hand to her chest. Looking down, she saw a red stain on her nightgown, just over her left breast.

Getting out of bed, Rosalind walked over to the washbasin, and splashed her face with the cold water. She rubbed at the stain with a moist finger, but all that did, was make it more prominent, and her nipple harden from the cold, damp fabric now covering it. She walked over to the window and looked outside. Across the street, she saw a dark figure; looking up towards her. She didn’t recognize the face, but the menacing glare she thought she could see from under the rim of the persons hat, made her instantly move backwards, and out of view of the window.

The bed felt cold and unwelcoming when she got back under the sheets.

---

As she finished her breakfast the next morning, Mrs. Owen came into the dining room, holding a medium sized parcel. “This came for you, miss. Might you have a secret admirer?”, she said. She handed Rosalind the parcel, and a letter. “And your mail”. Rosalind thanked her, and went up to her room, to examine the parcel, and read her letter in private.

Inside the parcel lay a pair of half boots, in soft, yet sturdy leather. They would keep Rosalind’s feet dry and warm, and it was clear they had not been cheap. There was no note attached to the gift; though gift might be the wrong word, as James seemed to see her more as a responsibility to take care of, rather than someone to bestow presents upon. She threw the boots in a corner, unable to define her emotions – anger or sadness, she was not sure. After a few moments of frustrated groans and a few stray tears, she walked over, and gingerly picked up the boots; dusting them off with her hand. She set them down on top of the chest.

Rosalind turned her attentions to her letter. The writing was in the blunt and crude, yet feminine hand and wording of countess Musgrove.

To; Rosalind Beauchamp c/o Fanny Owen

Dearest friend, It has come to my attention that you have recently been made aware of some rather disturbing news. An acquaintance of mine has informed me that your apparently not so late husband has returned to London. It seems to come at a terrible time, as you were so close to inheriting somewhat of a fortune; at least enough to attract a new husband. Am I mistaken in thinking Mr. Thorne Geary has taken an interest in you? In any case, please call upon me for tea this Friday afternoon, so we might play a round of cassino, and discuss your plans for your now much changed future.

Sincerely; Genevieve Musgrove, countess.

Rosalind let out a very unfeminine and impolite noise. She would rather take an ice bath of lime, than sit through another afternoon of the countess and her friends gossiping and filling their gobs with sweets. None the less, she was obliged to attend, to stay in Musgrove’s good graces; and have a chance for another employment with her. And it was not like she had a husband, who could give her a good excuse to stay away.

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Owen stepped inside. “You have a visitor, miss”, she said, a mischievous smile on her plump face. “Perhaps the green gown, for a promenade?”. “Mr. Geary, then?”, Rosalind sighed. “Indeed. And he has mentioned on many occasions, how lovely the green goes with your ten”. Rosalind cocked a brow at her landlady. “May I trouble your maid for help with preparing? I am finding myself out of sorts”. Mrs. Owen nodded, and left the room. Soon the young maid entered. “Please, will you fetch my blue gown?”.

---

Thorne Geary was waiting in the sitting room, politely smiling at Mrs. Owen; when Rosalind entered. “Miss Beauchamp! I came to enquire upon your health, after your absence from the funeral service”, he said. “Mr. Thoyt let me know you wished to call upon me; but I am quite sure I did not respond affirmatively”, Rosalind said. A dissatisfied expression ghosted Mr. Geary’s face. “Alas, I believe we have matters to discuss”, he said through an insincere smile. “Will you do me the honor of promenading with me?”.

A little while later, Mr. Geary and Rosalind were strolling along the lanes of Hyde Park. “Your gown is quite fetching, miss Beauchamp”, the gentleman proclaimed. “Almost as fetching as the green you wore when I last called upon you”. “I am unsure whether that is a compliment, or an insult”, Rosalind replied. Geary cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable about her response.

“It was quite a shock to see James Delaney at the funeral”, Geary said. He was holding his arm in such a manner, that Rosalind was invited to take it. She ignored the gesture. “I am sure it was”, she muttered; and moved her body to put a little more distance between them. Geary stepped after her, and the smell of the herring he had obviously eaten earlier hit her nose. Rosalind detested herring. “I am sure it came as an even greater shock for you, my dear Rosalind”, he said. “Please, Mr. Geary. I do not think we are quite close enough acquaintances for pet names”. “Are we not family? In-laws?”, Geary smiled. “Now, more than ever, it would seem, as you… husband has reappeared”.

He gestured for them to walk down a smaller lane, away from curious ears. “Ever since we first met, I’ve felt a close connection to you”, Geary said. “And, then when my dear Zilpha passed… well, I must admit, I hoped we might build on that bond”. Rosalind felt bile rise in her throat. “Mr. Geary…”, she began. “Thorne, please…”, Geary insisted. “Mr. Geary!”, Rosalind said firmly. “This conversation is highly improper, and I beg of you to stop”.

Geary sighed, and looked down. “You know of my sentiments towards you. Those have not changed, merely because that savage, who forced matrimony on you years ago, is back”. “You do not know him”, Rosalind said quietly. “Neither do you. From what I am told, your courtship was very brief. There were even rumors of you being in unfortunate circumstances…”. Rosalind stopped in her tracks. “Gossip mongering, Mr. Geary? So much for close connections”, she said.

Geary stepped over to a bench in an alcove, and gestured for Rosalind to sit. “Please, miss Beauchamp… for I insist on still calling you that, and not Mrs. Delaney, if you will not let me call you by your first name”, he said. They sat down together; Rosalind aiming for sitting as far from her companion as she could. “I, of course, am well aware that your chasteness can never be questioned. You are beyond doubt the kindest, most virtuous woman I have had the pleasure to meet. Even as my betrothed walked up the aisle to become my wife, I could not take my eyes off you…”. “You should stop speaking”, Rosalind said. “Please, let me get this off my chest!”, Geary said. His voice was not pleading; but hard – and Rosalind was reminded of how her sister-in-law had wilted from a lively and smiling favorite in London society, to a grey ghost of her former self, after she married. In this moment, Rosalind knew that Mr. Geary had been the one to make his wife such.

Geary took a firm hold of her hand, and when she tried to pull it away, he grabbed her wrist; and continued his speech. “Delaney is mad. I have spoken to more than one sailor, who have told me stories, I cannot repeat in present company”, Geary said. “He should have stayed dead, and let you keep the inheritance. You and I could…”. “There is no you and I, Mr. Geary”, Rosalind tried.

Geary’s hand around her wrist tightened. “I know I am not a very wealthy man, but you and I… we both married in to the Delaney family; and we saw how that mad old bastard brought shame on the name”. “Perhaps we should have helped him, instead of standing by?”, Rosalind muttered; trying to keep herself calm, as the man held on to her. He leaned in closer, and his hot breath hit her face. “No… He got everything he deserved; and sired two wretches, who continued to do the same”. “How can you speak of your wife in such a manner?”. “She was a barren fool…”.

Rosalind finally pried herself free from Geary’s grasp, and stood up; but he grabbed her by the arm, and forced her to sit again. “Let me go”, Rosalind whimpered. She was sure to have marks on her arm after his manhandling her. Geary looked at her intently. “I can do much with the money I can make from selling that plot of land in America; and with you as my wife…”. “I am already married, sir!”, Rosalind sneered. “Are you? Delaney was back for more than a week, without letting himself be known to you. It wasn’t until Thoyt wrote you, that you knew. He hasn’t taken you in; you are still living in that boarding house”. A vile grin, which Geary clearly thought came across as calming, spread across his lips. “But, never mind that. That can all be taken care of”. “What is that supposed to mean?”. A knot had begun forming in the pit of Rosalind’s stomach, and she was shaking.

“You speak ill of my dear sister, and now you have intentions on my wife”. James appeared in front of them; a dark look about him. “Let her go”. “You interrupted our conversation, Mr. Delaney”, Geary said. “Is that what you were doing? Conversing? Or plotting my demise…”, James retorted. “In any case, you have your hands and mind on what is still mine. Release the lady”.

Rosalind tore herself from Geary, and got on her feet, moving away from the bench; and towards James. He gave her a look of dissatisfied confusion, and she went to stand next to him, her eyes on the ground. “You should have stayed dead”, Geary sneered, and got on his feet. He stood taller than James, but in no way seemed as dangerous as him. “Is that what you tell my sister, when she haunts your nightmares?”, James asked. Geary recoiled at James’ words; and James half turned towards Rosalind. “I will escort you back to your lodgings”, he said, and turned his back to Geary. Rosalind followed his lead, and they walked down the path. She felt Geary’s eyes on her back as they went.

---

They walked in silence. Rosalind struggled to keep up with James’ long strides; and after a while, she stopped, and went to sit on a bench at the side of the lane. “I have things to do. If you need to catch your breath, then be quick about it”, James said. “You don’t have to escort me. Go about your business”, Rosalind retorted. “And risk the predators setting on you? Come now, we have eyes on us”. Rosalind looked around her, seeing no one but ladies, gentlemen, and the occasional governess taking a child on a stroll. “What eyes?”.

James narrowed his eyes for a moment, as if making a decision of whether to tell her more, or hold his tongue. In the end, he settled for continuing. “Your Mr. Geary made it clear”, he said. “He is not my Mr. Geary. I’d prefer to avoid the connection all together”, Rosalind retorted. “Hmm”, James grunted. “He made it clear, as I said. I am to be taken care of. There are evil men who are out to kill me”. “And my sore feet put you in danger?”. James seemed taken aback, and slightly amused at her retort. “Perhaps you should have worn your new boots”, he said, and stretched out his hand for her to stand. Rosalind was about to take it, when she saw that James had removed his glove. “Come…”, he said; and with her heart in her throat, she took his hand.

It was as warm as she remembered, and his touch sent the same shivers down her spine, as it had those many years before. As she stood in front of him, everything around Rosalind disappeared; and all she could see, was the man in front of her. She breathed him in. Musk, fresh tobacco, grass, dirt, coffee – and that undefinable thing that was merely him. “James…”, she whispered. James expression hardened, and his eyes became dark. “No… None of that. Do not make yourself a weakness”, he said. “And do not let me become one, either. You are too good for that”. “But you…”. James let go of her hand, and his face grew almost saddened. She looked down at his hand, and saw that the tip of his index finger was red. Rosalind let out a soft gasp; and when she opened her mouth to speak, he was already walking down the path again. He slowed his pace, so she could keep up; but did not speak to her for the rest of the walk.

Once back at the boarding house, Mrs. Owen met them in the door. “Going out with one gentleman, and coming back with another… Really, miss Beauchamp”, she said in a chiding voice. “Not a common occurrence, then?”, James said. Rosalind had to will herself not to slap him. Mrs. Owen raised a pair of cold eyes. “I beg your pardon… This is a proper establishment, sir!”, she exclaimed. “And who are you?”. “Her husband”.

Mrs. Owen looked stunned, and for once, she didn’t seem to know what to say. “You are… Well, that’s… You are recently wed, then?”, she asked. “No”, James said shortly. He looked at Rosalind one final time, before turning around, and walking away.

---

#james delaney #james delaney x oc #james delaney fic #james delaney angst #tom hardy

149 notes · View notes

lazarettta · 4 years ago

Text

Misthios IV

Characters (Spartan!Reader x Mother Miranda)

Rating (T)

Word Count (3.4k)

Warnings (none I don't think)

You're up roaming around the castle and run into Miranda and Alcina.

It's been an exhausting but thrilling six months since you've gained the eye of this region's reigning ruler. Their Queen was ruthless as she was beautiful and you were quickly learning that she had a particular taste for blood that you haven't seen since your days in Sparta. Creative and cunning as she was, especially when it came to acts of revenge, but she took care of her kingdom and her people so long as they were loyal to her and her alone.

It was that last rule that forced you to discover just how cruel and destructive the mountains of Norway could be because you were tasked with chasing down a group of runaway slaves—as a punishment. This was different from your 'normal' punishments.

There was nothing special about these fucking slaves, they were just stupid enough to think it wise to steal from their Queen and then dare escape. It angered you so much that she'd send you on this quest when a small squadron of low ranked knights would've done fine.

It had taken you a week and two villages to finally catch up with them into the mountains. The conditions were harsher than what you were prepared for and you had to abandon half your gear and continue on foot. The cold was too much for your horse to handle, but he was old and you were sure to put him out of his misery before continuing on your hunt.

You'd caught them asleep in a cave a few miles away from a village that was tucked away into the mountain side. You purchased food and another horse, costing you all the silver you carried but it made your hunt easier and quicker. You hadn't been looking for the cave but a small fire through the thick of the trees caught your attention. Tying your new mare a distance away, you crept towards them, sticking to the tall grass and the shadows.

They'd all been sleeping so peacefully, even their so-called 'watcher'. It was almost too easy to just go and kill them quietly one by one...but Miranda had specific instructions for you to follow if you wanted her forgiveness. She wanted to hear them scream while she slept and that was exactly what you intended to deliver. You unsheathed one of your twin blades and with practiced ease, you swung right as the watcher’s eyes snapped open.

You were startled awake by a scream that you weren't sure if it was from your dream or if it was a real one. You sat up half way in the bed of the guest room you were put up in, leaning on your elbow ready to spring from beneath the sheets but nothing ever came. After another full five minutes of sitting and waiting with no result, you let yourself fall back onto the soft pillows and threw an arm over your eyes as they began to leak tears.

Nothing of sadness or the sort, you were simply exhausted—you were still in your clothing with your parka not too far away just in case you had to use the window for a quick escape. You even kept your boots on, even though it was too warm for you but you'd deal with it as you've been through more uncomfortable situations that couldn't even compare to simply being hot. Of course if you take off a few layers you'd be fine, but paranoia hasn't exactly been very kind to you in the past years...with good reason too. You hadn't died in over ten years and you planned to keep that streak going.

But even as those thoughts comforted you a bit, sleep evaded you—no longer finding you worthy of its pleasures and you just laid there sprawled out and tangled within the soft white linen sheets that were probably now dirty thanks to you. You didn't care. They probably had more somewhere.

Resigned to the fact that you'd probably never be able to go back to sleep, at least not any time soon, so pushed aside the heavy duvet and slipped out of the bed quietly. You moved towards the window but the only thing you could see was the few trees below and a land covered in blankets of undisturbed snow. A little further beyond the tree line, you saw smoke coming from the chimneys of the factory before you turned away from the view and left your room. You looked left and right of the hallway but there wasn't a sign of life to be found, not even that little maiden Alcina practically made your shadow. It was probably later than it actually felt and she was probably asleep...everyone probably was.

Checking your watch— ah, right. Miranda even took that. She took everything you could use as a weapon and it tickled you more than it annoyed you. Unsupervised, you can now take your time to feel your way around. You didn't get a chance to get a good look at everything before but now you did, and it was an opportunity to get to know the Lady of the castle. You'd long dismissed the thought that anything in this village was normal, it had more secrets and shadows than a horror book you guessed.

Walking through the halls of the second floor felt like a trip down memory lane—no particular region as most all castles were the same. Large and filled with fancy portraits and trinkets that could house and feed five families at a time. Carpet so plush and soft that you could feel it through your boots with each step. It absorbed your weight like a welcome home hug. Clearly Lady Alcina was a woman of finer things in life and that extended far outside of her wardrobe and preferred wines.

It just unnerved you how quiet everything was, a castle thing large and prosperous had to have staff minding it twenty four seven. Nonetheless, you finally came to the door that you recognized during your brief tour as the 'wine room'. Like everything else you'd come across, the door was finely made from dark red oak with gold trimmings—just like Alcina's stagecoach.

Without a second thought about it, you opened the door—simply with the intent of getting a better look at the wine collection the maiden mentioned during your tour. But that thought was cut short because the room wasn't as empty as the silence in the hallway led you to believe as you'd walked into a full conversation by two people; one you were hoping to avoid for a few days and the other you thought was asleep...or well away from your location. You were wrong on both accounts.

“Heisenberg is a blundering fool leading a pack of fleabags, Miranda. He is going to fail again!”

“And we don't have time to stress other options, especially that one! We're out of time already and—”

“Exactly we're out of time so just ask her—” you pushed the door open a little more and it creaked quietly.

They both turned to you and you stood frozen in the doorway, unsure of what to make of the scene in front of you or what you just overheard. Miranda and Alcina were sitting at the small table, well Miranda was, Alcina was sitting in one of her custom chairs a little further away and both women had two glasses filled with dark red wine. Alcina wasn't in her white dress anymore, instead she'd changed into a pair of dark slacks and deep red turtle neck and she was barefoot. A far cry from the regal dress she wore earlier but she still carried herself in the same manner.

You did your best not to think about how good Miranda looked without that damn mask on her face...even in those robes she still wore, Miranda was beautiful. Beautiful as the day you first met. You forced yourself to keep your attention on Alcina and not Miranda, who was now staring a hole into the side of your face like she was trying to will you into looking at her.

“Oh. Shit, I didn't know this room was occupied.”

Alcina glanced at Miranda briefly from behind her wine glass, her expression unreadable when she settled her eyes on you again, “Of course not, dear. Is everything alright?”

You cleared your throat, fighting the urge to look at Miranda because you could feel her trying to will your eyes in her direction, “No, actually I—”

You were interrupted by an ear piercing scream and high pitched laughter right behind her, on the verge of being hysterical. Lady Dimitrescu sighed heavily behind you and finished her wine before setting her glass down and rising to her full height.

“Please excuse me, it seems that my daughters are teasing the poor maids again.”

You started to comment that it didn't sound like it was teasing but you kept your mouth shut, knowing better than to stick your nose in the wrong place too soon—it never really turned out very well for you the first time. It would never cease to amaze you how fast and quiet Alcina moved despite her size, but it still baffled you that she hasn't ever gotten the doors to her own castle fixed to fit for her . But those thoughts were pushed to the far corners of your mind when the door clicked shut—leaving you alone in the room with Miranda, forcing you to acknowledge her now. You shoved your hands in your pockets and sighed, you weren't expecting to see her again so soon.

You still hadn't had time to get your shit together after the last time you two spoke, or more like argued back and forth. Easily falling into a pattern as if you hadn't been centuries apart. You still weren't sure how you were supposed to feel about that.

“Take a seat, (Y/n). Would you like a glass of wine?” Miranda broke the silence but she didn't break eye contact with you once she caught you eye, holding you as if she physically had her hands on your face. “We don't have to talk if you don't want to, (Y/n).”

“Oh, so now we're suddenly interested in what I want to do?”

“Yes, of course. Wine?”

You scoffed, rolling her eyes at her typical answer and you wanted to say no, you opened your mouth to do so but instead you were getting closer to the table she was sitting at. She poured you a glass of wine, and handed it to you. You raised an eyebrow, she couldn't have set it down for you? She insisted on handing it to you and the way Miranda was holding the glass left you no choice to place your hands over hers to take it from her. Those gold claw rings were ice cold against your skin and the edge of one nicked your skin but not deep enough to draw blood.

You had no idea what you wanted to say to Miranda, you weren't ready to talk about what you two needed to talk about but you weren't sure if you could sit here and do small talk with her over wine. It was so easy for you to get up and leave, maybe go back to your guest room and lock the door. So what was stopping you? Why was it difficult?

Miranda, who had been watching you intently, interrupted your rapid thoughts, “You always were a loud thinker, (Y/n).”

“Nothing interesting, trust me.”

“Oh I beg to differ,” Miranda chuckled, shifting in her chair slightly to angle herself towards you a little more. You sort of hated yourself for thinking how well she was pulling off the priestess look, “I could always tell what you were thinking even from a mile away. You were always quite the unique distraction.”

“You never complained before.”

“No,” she agreed, her voice dropping an octave or two lower, “though I doubt I ever will.”

You looked up, she didn't look away and you didn't know what to think. And for once, even if it was just for a moment, you saw a hint of uncertainty in her eyes.

“Miranda, what do you want? Why are you keeping me here?”

“Because we need to talk, (Y/n), to...clear the air as they say, I guess.”

“Yeah, okay, I got that part earlier,” you licked your suddenly dry lips, your nerves starting to buzz a little, “But that's not a good enough reason anymore.”

Miranda scoffed, actually rolling her eyes at you, “Why not? Closure heals the past. Doesn't it?”

“But what do you expect after that?”

“What do you?” she threw the ball back in your court as she refilled her own wine glass from a different bottle than what she used for your own, the wine she was using was a little darker and thicker. It didn't surprise you that the question was thrown back at you, she always did that when she was trying to keep the upper hand or get it.

But it didn't mean that the question wasn't a good one because what did you want after this? Would it even matter after all of this time? Have you ever forgiven her, really and truly moved on? Did she even care back then, did she care for you...or what you could do for her?

Miranda was watching you the entire time become lost in your thoughts, a trait you still carried with you. She picked up her wine glass and took a sip, her clear eyes taking you in while you were distracted enough to not notice her doing it so blatantly. You still looked the same as the last time she saw you, minus the murderous rage that had twisted your beautiful features that evening.

The modern world has touched many parts of you but your eyes still hold so much more than they did centuries ago. Being a warrior was now outdated and something of an historical myth but you still carried yourself as one, and Miranda could see new scars on your brown skin on the exposed skin she saw earlier on your neck and arms.

She'd been watching you for days before finally making herself known to you after going back and forth with herself during those agonizing days. Being far more irritable than she normally was and Miranda was positive that Lords Heisenberg and Moreau were quite sore with her at the moment. Well, Karl certainly would be. Seeing you made her angry...at first. Angry for the grief you left her with, the shatters you left her to pick up on her own.

Years of pent up thoughts and plans of revenge she'd enact when she got her hands on you came down to a single moment when she finally did get her hands on you and she couldn't do it. Miranda eyed your neck, where you should've still been bruised. She had you right where she needed you with one hand wrapped around your neck because you were so unsuspecting. It would've been so easy but she couldn't...so she knocked you out and threw you in a cell where she could keep a better eye on you. And perhaps no longer be so distracted from her work.

“Look who's thinking loud now.” you mumbled around the edge of your wine glass, finally taking a sip of the damn thing. Miranda wouldn't hesitate to bet that you assumed it was somehow poisoned even though you watched her open the bottle. “Good thoughts, I hope.”

Miranda hummed softly, “Do you really wish to know?”

You chuckled, and Miranda's eyes were drawn to the way your jaw clenched and unclenched when the wine hit your taste buds again, “With the way you were staring at my neck...it's not that hard to guess, Miranda.”

“You're only half right, my dear.” At your raised eyebrows, Miranda's smirk only widened, “My hands were wrapped around that strong neck again, but breaking it is far from my mind now .”

Your snort turned into a chuckle that was clearly infectious as Miranda joined you. Nothing was remotely that funny, if it was funny at all, but you were tired and the situation brought forth too many emotions for you, either of you to really process, and all you could was just...laugh.

Miranda was the first to sober up a bit though the smile never completely left her features. “Ah, and well... you know, it wouldn't do to try and kill the only other person on this wretched rock who knows me. Will it?”

You're very well the only person in this wretched world that will ever know the real me and still love me for it. Quite a miserable thought, isn't it?

You jumped when the door opened behind you and Alcina stepped into the room—you'd almost forgot where you were for a moment. Almost. Alcina took one look at the two of you, curious to find you actually still in the room much less sitting at the table sharing a glass of wine with Miranda. Especially with what she overheard earlier and how much tension you two create together.

Alcina knew that she interrupted something, probably something she had no business to but that did not stop her from sitting back down in her chair in her goddamn castle. And whatever drama that was happening within her territory was now her drama and she was going to get a front row seat. Alcina lit up another one of her cigarillos and pulled heavy before she released it in your direction.

“Running a business is quite the headache when no one else understands your vision, I swear. Don't have kids, (Y/n). They're messy and nothing but trouble.”

“Noted.” you forced a chuckle, not taking her bait but now you were trying to finish your wine as quickly as possible without seeming like you were trying to run.

“Well, how about it then, (Y/n)? Tell us a story, you couldn't have been a mercenary your entire life. Or have you?” You glanced at Miranda and saw that she was glaring at Alcina but the taller woman wasn't paying her any mind. And really, the only reason Miranda hasn't verbally intervened is because she was interested in your answer as well. Even if Alcina was asking just to poke at the situation for her own amusement.

“I've put away my shield and sword a long time ago,” you didn't bother to mention that you did keep them both in pristine condition just in case, “I've been enjoying the little things life has to offer.” lame. And a lie.

“Oh come now,” Alcina scoffed, not accepting your answer—it wasn't a very good one anyway, “That's—”

“Actually,” When it was clear that Miranda wasn't going to save you from this woman's nosiness (why would she?) You quickly drank the rest of the wine, it was really too sour for you, and rose from the chair. “I think I'll try to get some more sleep. Thanks for the wine and...yeah.” Could you be any more awkward?

Alcina was howling by the time the door slammed shut behind you and she took another pull from her cigarette stick, still paying no heed to Miranda's heated glare. “Oh, you're going to have to tie that one down if you want her to talk to you.”

“I will have your head if you stick your nose in my business again, Dimitrescu.”

“Then don't store your business in my castle.” Alcina shot back, meeting Miranda's glare head on but immediately conceded when she felt Miranda's growling through the vibrations of her glass in her hand that was still resting on the table. “Alright, alright...but you're always welcome to use my dungeons. Use chains though those biceps of hers could probably break through the ropes.”

“Alcina, that is enough!”

The Lady of the castle just laughed lightly until it tapered off into a pleasant hum around her famous Sanguis Virginis wine while watching Miranda readjust her face mask. Her eyes brighter than they have been the last few hours., Alcina pushed for one more question—deciding to risk Miranda's wrath, “How'd you ever let such a handsome creature slip between your fingers?”

Miranda sighed heavily, no pause in her strut to the door, “Egos and misunderstandings.” she was gone before the lock clicked into place.

I'm so sorry for being hella lazy, lol, I'll add the other chapters of this story today 😭😭😭😭

#resident evil 8 #mother miranda x reader #mother miranda #resident evil #resident evil village #lady alcina x reader #lady alcina #alcina dimitrescu #dis tew much #assassin's creed odyssey #simpin for these bishes

80 notes · View notes

gryffindors-weasley · 4 years ago

Text

Lover

Ron Weasley x Reader

Summary: After a day of unpacking and delving into memories, a moment of fondness is shared with your lover.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: mentions of food, fluff fluff fluff, kissing

A/N: This is my fic for @gcdric ’s Taylor Swift writing challenge! It’s based off of the song ‘Lover’. Lyrics I’ve used will be bolded and italicized!

The day was quite perfect, you must admit; almost as if it’d been just so in correspondence with your plans. The late afternoon sunshine cast warmly across your skin, beaming bright before the clouds sweep over it fleetingly only to return just as glowing as before.

It was beautiful as you stood in front of the little cottage before you. You must have gone back to do so a thousand times by that point, but it was an act all too irresistible as you gazed at it, hand enveloped in Ron’s. It was your house.

It stood much shorter than the Burrow, most anything was now that you thought about it, but it radiated the same kind of warmth nonetheless. Wildflowers sprinkled and flourished tall and bright amongst the grass in patches of blues and yellows and reds, sprouted up from around the edges of the cracked stone slab pathway leading to a very golden yellow front door. The roof bowed inward a bit at the center, a chimney standing on the far left side of the sweet little home.

Moss and vines had mingled and curled up the side of the stone house, swirling around the door and curving around the window above it on the second floor. A small set of matching yellow benches had sat on either side of the door, its paint chipped and worn with use, telling of their exposure to the elements, but you think you like them better that way. Perhaps your favorite part was the wind chimes that still remained, singing softly each time the wind had pushed them together. It was all encompassed by a wooden sage green fenced, the numbers of your address stamped on a metal oval slab fixed to the very front. You could have asked for a better place to live with the love of your life, it was entirely more perfect than you could have imagined it to be.

Even with the beauty and dream come true standing right in front of him, Ron still couldn’t manage to hold his gaze on anything but you. With the four times you had come to the very end of the walkway to admire just what your fate had been, he found himself looking at you each and every time. He always did that when you were around, and he always would. When you’d catch him doing just that, the crimson burning in his cheeks was expected and far too worth it, for your smile melted his heart when you casted it upon him.

His hand squeezed your own as he smiled, taking a moment to admire the soft smile you held as you looked at your very first home, your forever home. And the way your gaze bounced around every little detail and every little flower. He took one last look before his smile widened at his next words.

“Love, we’ll be unpacking clear into next month if we come back out here a fifth time,” he quips, your own grin widening as you turn your head and look at him.

“Be quiet, Ronald, or there just might be a sixth,” you counter with a smile so sweet his heart nearly leaped out of his chest right then and there. But rather than gushing over you he simply scrunches his nose in response to the use of his full name, in response to your lighthearted teasing he so fully loved.

He’s got no time to gaze at you a moment longer as you squeeze his hand, tugging him along the stone path to the front door and slipping inside the house as your laughter trails behind.

Box after box littered almost every surface you could think of, the only thing of use having been the mismatched furniture dotting around the living room and kitchen, and the unmade bed upstairs. Most of the boxes had been opened simply to see what was inside before they’d been left in favor of looking in another or sharing a kiss far too distracting. Some of said boxes had been dented, their corners pushed in from when Ron and Fred had dropped them, but it’d been far too amusing to hold even a drop of anger about it. Unbeknownst to you it’d been your very lover’s fault, having been so caught up and fawning over the way you’d twirled in the living room, the breeze catching in your hair and a smile on your lips—so caught up he’d stopped abruptly and promptly got run into by his brother following just behind him.

The laughter that left your lips was much too worth it for him to care about most anything else, especially Fred’s grumbling and swat to the back of his head. Okay, maybe he’d interrupted his adoration to toss a glare in his older brother’s direction.

A gasp sounded from you and pulled his attention, and he watched as you pulled something out of a box labeled ‘Miscellaneous’. In your hand was a very crooked and poorly taped wand, a thin layer of dust coated on it. He hadn’t used it in quite a while, having gotten a new one that has yet to be broken, yet to be encountered by the Whomping Willow.

“You saved it?” He asks, laughter in his words.

“Of course I did. How else would we honor the very first time you stole your dad’s car?” You tease, tapping it against the very tip of his nose. While his heart fluttered at the thought that you’d pulled it from the trash and saved it, he snatched it from your hand with a frown soon turned to a smile.

“It doesn’t really work anymore, you know,” he says, brushing his thumb over the tape he’d put there just over a decade ago.

“Maybe it’s just the user and not the wand,” you quip, his eyes narrowing at you as you stifle a laugh.

“No way!” He raises the bent wand his eyes fixed on the lamp seated on a small table by the window. “Wingardium Leviosa.”

The spell is spoken with the utmost of concentration, the lamp in question rising very wobbly off the table before clattering unceremoniously to the floor. He flinches at the dreadful noise and you couldn’t fight your laugh any longer as you stole it back from his hand.

“Reparo!” You state, watching as each broken shard had mended with its matching piece, each fitting together so perfectly it’s like it’d never been broken at all.

Ron bites the inside of his cheek at the sight of your triumphant smile. You were right, you were always right. But, with a simple movement of his hand and a glowing orange beam of light, you found yourself pulled to him with ease, Carpe Retractum falling from his lips.

“I’m quite better at magic than you think, love,” he murmurs, smiling against your lips as you kiss him.

Your laughter puffed against his lips as you kissed him once more, spinning from his embrace much to his dismay in favor of digging through more boxes. “If you insist.”

He hadn’t missed the smile that had accompanied your teasing words, and you hadn’t missed his, and he was tempted to utter that spell once more just so he could kiss you again for far longer than just a mere moment. In fact, to do so until the end of time seemed perfectly well to him.

You pulled back a flap of another cardboard box that had yet to be labeled, smiling at the sight. You tugged the tangled clump of Christmas lights out, it’s cord thoroughly, knotted and woven with itself in what surely will be a pain come time to hang them up. In that moment, the thought hadn’t bothered you quite as much as it assuredly would in three month’s time, your smile beaming and bright.

“You kept these?” You ask, mimicking his earlier tone. He chuckles, nodding as he fumbled with the end of the cord that hadn’t been so terribly mangled.

“Christmas lights are essential to the holiday season, you know,” he defends. Regardless of your playful teasing, you knew just how much he liked them when it came time for the festive spirit. Well, they came second only to the assortment of cookies made every year without fail. “I suppose we can leave them up for as long as we want to now, can’t we?”

“This is our place, we make the rules.”

He smiled at the very thought, you both shared the same smile for that matter, and you knew for a fact that you’d been thinking of the same thing. You could make the rules. You could stay up past midnight to read without complaint of the glow of the lamps light streaming through floorboards and waking one of his siblings. He could practice quidditch with you in your very own backyard without his mother worrying over you both from the sidelines, though you’d done a well enough job worrying over him when she’s not around. Ice cream can be had for breakfast and breakfast can be had for dinner, dishes can be left in the sink and you can sleep in together till however late you wanted.

“Yeah,” he smiles, “yeah, we can.”

He takes a moment to look around the small living room, at the bookshelves encompassing nearly the entirety of the far wall. You’d filled that readily with your shared books, taking little effort to fill the old wooden shelves with stories read at least two times over. Scattered amongst them sat picture frames and trinkets, photographs of the two of you so gingerly placed behind glass frames to display a moment forever captured. Some of them were polaroids labeled haphazardly with the date they’d been taken, a brief caption scrawled at the bottom. Some of them had been family pictures taken by his mother, gifted to him for the time the day had come that you two could display them in your own home and you most certainly did.

Tiny treasures sat amongst them—bookmarks still tucked in books, little gifts from hogsmeade tucked atop shelves. Even the since emptied bottle of broom oil you’d gotten him for his birthday in fifth year. You knew he’d been eagerly excited to be a part of the quidditch team, his dreams of being a keeper rapidly becoming more than just dreams. He opened that little gift and saw that little bottle, something that might have seemed so awfully simple and practical to just anyone else. But the thought behind it was something more than just simple and more than just practical, even if your shared feelings hadn’t been known just yet. So there, in front of old books and photos, sat a little glass bottle, it’s label worn and faded as dregs of broom oil sat at the bottom.

He looked to the couch, it’s fabric frayed and worn in a few spots and edges. His cherished Chudley blanket taken from his childhood bed lay strewn across the back of the checkered material. The blanket you made after you insisted you could crochet lay splayed beside it, put together in uneven squares of colors that didn’t match as much as you’d hoped. Regardless of the outcome, Molly had been quite proud of it, and she adored the time well spent with you in the making of it.

He thought of how Harry could come and stay the night, for old times sake, Hermione too. There weren’t any guest bedrooms, so the living room would have to suffice. The couch and the loveseat hadn’t been too terribly comforting for slumber, but you suppose with a few extra pillows and blankets it’d be just fine. They never seemed to be one to complain anyway, always simply happy to spend time as a group without worry of danger or life changing events anymore. That very moment was put behind you six, nearly seven years prior.

It was fine, and everything was okay.

Your gasp had pulled him from his thoughts once more, his gaze finding you as you tugged his old quidditch sweater from a box labeled ‘Important: Do Not Lose’.

It was torn at the collar and a few strings of yarn had been pulled free from their stitching, and certainly it was washed more than a few times to rid it of its smell. You loved the tattered thing to pieces, he knew that. He knew from the very first moment you’d worn it that it’d been more than just a sweater to you. He remembers the way you smiled upon slipping it over your head, and the way you let the cuffs curl over your hands. He remembers the way you nuzzled into it that very night, the smell of cinnamon and a bit of his cologne still lingering on the fabric. He knew from that very first moment that it wouldn’t be the last time you’d stolen it from him, he knew you loved it and for that very reason he’d stopped his mother from turning it into a commemorative blanket.

You pulled it over your head, that very same smile on your face as there always was when you wore it. It hung from your shoulders in heaps of maroon and golden yellow, effectively staving off the cool September breeze. He’d had plenty more quidditch sweaters and jerseys considering his once fond hobby had turned to a career, but none of them seemed to hold as much sentiment as this.

He couldn’t help the way his heart swelled with pride when you wore it, when he thought of just how proud you’d always been. Even when he hadn’t had a successful match, even when he hadn’t been at the top of his game—you still cheered for him fiercely and boasted so highly of him that his cheeks burned at the mere thought. Whether it was just the two of you on the quidditch pitch the night before a match against Slytherin or it was from the stands at a match hours from home, you had always done it.

You looked so utterly beautiful, so completely radiant he felt his heart just might burst in his chest should you be anymore ethereal. He hadn’t known how he’d gotten quite so lucky, but he had.

You look to Ron across the unfinished living room, his smile soft and beaming and focused entirely on you.

“What is it?” You ask, laughing softly as your cheeks flush under his gaze, your hands smoothing over the yarn. The look on his face then is photo worthy, but holding it in your memory will have to suffice.

“Dance with me?”

Your smile widened, heart hammering in your chest with lovestruck excitement at the mere thought of it. Not to mention the grin tugging so cutely at the corners of his mouth that made it absolutely impossible to keep from mirroring it. It was often that Ron Weasley’s actions spoke far louder than words, that a simple look could declare a thousand ‘I love you’s’. It was then, in that very moment as he stood contently amongst a dozen boxes yet to be unpacked, that the look he so lovingly held just might’ve spoken a million.

You walk to him without a second’s hesitation and take his offered hand, squealing when he pulls you close. His own laughter soon fills the room as he twirls you once, twice, the action wonderfully dizzying as you settle into a rhythm not quite in sync with each other. His smile was beaming and bright as the sun streamed into the room, everything it landed on golden and orange.

“Ron Weasley, I thought you hated dancing?” You say, your smile just as teasing as your words.

“People change, right?” He shrugs, quick to rain a flurry of kisses across your flushed cheek as his laughter presses into your skin. That is, until he’d parted from you just enough for you to see a glimpse of realization cross his face. “Don’t tell my brothers.”

Your laughter is immediate as you kiss him, his brief moment of panic simmering into a smile that’s nearly too fond for his own good. “I can’t make any guarantees.”

He groans in protest against your very kiss, lifting you up to spin you in his arms in the sweetest of retaliations. Somehow, he believes the lifetime of teasing from his brothers would be entirely worth it if only to see you smile, if only to hear you laugh.

“I’m only kidding, my love,” you giggle, brushing the hair out of his eyes.

“Yeah yeah, sure,” he grins, kissing down your cheek.

Can I go where you go?

This very moment was one that’d stick with him for the rest of his life, happily, one that he’d get to live each and every day and the thought alone was unbelievable. It was your house, your home, a place entirely the perfect fit for the two of you to flourish and thrive and spend for seasons in. It was a culmination of the very things that made the two of you who you are.

Truthfully, he’d follow you anywhere without hesitation. He’d travel to the very ends of the earth if it meant he’d be with you, and you the same. He knew since he was sixteen that he’d wanted to be wherever you were and wherever you will be. He hadn’t thought at the time that he’d wind up in a home amongst the rolling hills, tucked away to yourselves. He hadn’t thought he’d even have the nerve to tell you he loves you. His future had been far brighter than he could have ever imagined it to be.

And you, you were right where you wanted to be, right where you needed to be. Ron Weasley was the love of your life, a dull moment never shared. You felt you could do just about anything so long as he was with you, go anywhere so long as he was there. He was loving, he was kind, he was true.

Can we always be this close?

The laughter had since dulled to breathy sighs and soft smiles, a gesture you’re very aware of when you lift your gaze to look up at him once more. A smile that’s shared most tenderly in the close proximity, noses brushing and breath sweeping warmly over lips. It was then that you lean on your toes and kiss him, his very grip on your hand tightening a fraction and your swaying becoming distracted and stilled. His smile was immediate against your lips, telling of just how profoundly giddy you’d made him, how wholeheartedly he loved you.

“Bloody hell,” he whispers, his lips brushing over yours as he kisses you once more. The softness of his laughter dances across your skin, his forehead resting on yours as he makes no effort to hide his smile. “I love you. I really, really love you.”

Your nose scrunches against his and your own smile widens and soon you find yourself kissing the very tip of his nose, his cupid’s bow, his lips. The warmth blossoming in your chest is a feeling most unbeatable to all else; it was love. It lanced through you with certainty and settled permanently within your heart, a feeling so frighteningly wonderful, and so dizzying in its wake.

The two of you began to sway softly again to music unheard, hands clasped as your other rests on his chest as the sun dips lower in the sky, the long yet happy day soon to be put behind you. One more kiss is pressed to his cheek before you dip your head to rest on his shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed with all the contentment in the world. And softly, you murmur, “I love you. I really, really love you.”

You’re my, my, my, my,

Lover.

—

Tags: @anchoeritic @vogueweasley @ch0colatefr0gs @amourtentiaa @hahee154hq @snitches-at-dawn @dracosathenaeum @harrysweasleys @awritingtree @writeroutoftime

#laniestaylorswiftwc #ron weasley #ron weasley one shot #ron weasley fanfiction #ron weasley x reader #ron weasley x you #ron weasley fluff #ron weasley fic #ron weasley headcanon #ron weasly imagine

87 notes · View notes

nikki-writes-stuff · 5 years ago

Text

A Stolen Choice (Alpha!Nomad!Steve Rogers x Omega!Reader)

Summary: When your aunt dies and leaves you everything she owns in her will, you find yourself travelling to the mountains of North Carolina to her cabin in the middle of nowhere to sort through her belongings. But you also quickly find yourself helpless against the desires of a mysterious alpha who’s decided to claim you as his...

A/N: Hello! I wrote this fic for one of my ko-fi readers! Click here if you’d be interested in donating. There’s no pressure to whatsoever, but everyone who donates will be able to request any type of fic they’re interested in. Message me if you have any questions! In the meantime, enjoy this fic! Be warned: it contains rape, dub-con, breeding kink, a/b/o dynamics, and nomad!Steve. Enjoy!

You hadn’t really even known your aunt very well; you’d met her three, maybe four times over the course of your life, and while she’d always been incredibly sweet, she’d never really stood out in your mind as one of your closest relatives. Therefore, you were surprised to say the least when you were informed, after her death, that she’d left all of her worldly possessions to you in her will.

“Wait, there… There must be some kind of mistake,” you’d told the banker, shaking your head. “I wasn’t even that close to my aunt. I don’t understand…”

“I can send you a copy of her will, if you would like to see for herself,” he’d told you in a disinterested tone. “She also had a letter she wanted you to read; perhaps that can shed some light on the matter for you.”

The letter, as it turned out, did manage to enlighten you; it arrived at your apartment about a week after you’d first learned about your inheritance, and it revealed more about your aunt in just a few sentences than you’d ever known about her over the course of your life.

To my niece:

If you’re reading this, then it means my cancer finally got the best of me. It was a long fight, but rest assured that I’m glad it’s over; I’m a tough woman, always have been, but cancer is even tougher, and I’ve been tired of my uphill battle with it for a long, long time.

I know we never got to know each other well, hon. But you always stood out to me – you’re stronger than people give you credit for. I know most of our family’s judged you for being an omega; hell, I’d even made assumptions about you before meeting you. But you managed to prove me wrong, and for that I love you.

Don’t stop being yourself, and don’t let the family get you down. The only thing you need in life is you. But I’m sure the twenty grand I’ve saved up won’t hurt, either.

Her signature was scrawled across the bottom half of the page, and you found tears in your eyes as you read the letter for a second time; no one, not even your parents, had been that accepting of you after you presented. Your entire family was made up of alphas and betas, with only one or two omegas popping up along the way. And while they’d all still loved you, their disappointment upon learning of your status as an omega had still been loud and clear.

But your aunt evidently had believed you to be strong, and you felt more determined than ever to prove her right.

And so, here you were, navigating the treacherous, narrow roads of western North Carolina, your knuckles white as they gripped your steering wheel and your nerves frayed from the lack of guard rails, fences, or really any kind of separation between the road and the twenty foot ravine sloping down along its length.

“Ok,” you breathed, focusing your eyes straight ahead. “It’s fine; everything is fine. We are not going to go over the side; we are almost there. We can do this.”

Along with the twenty thousand now resting in your savings account, your aunt had left you a cabin she and her late wife had built about ten years ago. Ever since your aunt’s wife died in a car accident, she’d lived in their home in the middle of nowhere, and no one in your family had ever been to visit. Everyone had joked about her being a hermit, and while you’d never laughed along with them, you’d had to agree that she only seemed to come to family gatherings if they coincided with a funeral or a wedding. But now, as you made your slow, steady climb up to the address of what was now your cabin, you couldn’t help but wish she’d decided to be a hermit somewhere else.

“You couldn’t have chosen a beach house,” you huffed. “Or a sensible condo in the city. You had to live up in the boonies with black bears, coyotes, and the ghosts of lost hikers.”

But finally, after a long and tumultuous journey, you were able to see the outline of a building from between the trees. A grin spread over your face and a triumphant exclamation escaped your lips, and as soon as you found yourself parked in front of your aunt’s former home, you threw yourself out of your car and threw your arms up.

“Finally!”

You languidly stretched your limbs, touching your toes and then bouncing a bit on your heels before stiffly retrieving your suitcase from your trunk; you’d been stuck behind that wheel for several hours, and if you ever drove again, it would be too soon.

You had to admit, though, that the property was lovely. Your aunt had lived in a charming little A-frame cabin with a green tin roof, and if the chimney was any indication, a cute fireplace would be waiting for you inside. It was currently right in the middle of spring, and the trees sang with the songs of birds and cicadas. Honeysuckle grew in thick bushes along the side of the driveway, and little patches of wildflowers were dotted along the plush green grass.

“No one will be able to hear me scream all the way out here,” you mused to yourself as you walked towards the front door. “But at least it’s pretty.”

You fit the key into the lock and gave it an experimental twist, and the sound of the lock clicking almost drowned out the snap of a twig from somewhere close by. Almost.

Feeling the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, you turned around, scanning the forest for the source of the sound. You suddenly felt, distinctly, as if you were being watched, and you set your suitcase down before taking a step forward.

“…Hello?”

You didn’t receive an answer, and your ears strained to pick up on any other suspicious noise. But, after waiting for several seconds, your shoulders finally slumped, and you turned back towards the door.

“Must’ve been a squirrel or something…”

After nudging the door open, you struggled to pick up your heavy suitcase, oblivious to the pair of blue eyes watching your every movement. Your admirer closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, catching a waft of your scent on the breeze as you finally managed to shove your case passed the open doorway. A quiet growl escaped his chest as he opened his eyes once more, just in time to see you turn and close the door behind you. His ears registered the sound of the lock sliding back into place, but he knew that it wouldn’t be able to keep him out.

It never had been able to before.

______

You didn’t even know where to begin. You knew that you were supposed to go through everything of your aunt’s and decide whether or not you were going to sell it, but you hadn’t expected the act to feel so…wrong. Even though she was long gone and had left everything to you, you still couldn’t shake the feeling that you were throwing away someone else’s things without their permission.

And so you put it off; instead, you spent your first day simply taking inventory, going through the house and trying to learn more about your aunt in the process. You sorted through her storage room, finding old, dusty boardgames and random little trinkets lining her bookshelves. Your favorite things were the pictures, though – she had so many hanging up on the walls of every room in the cabin, all of them containing photos of her, her wife, and their families. You were shocked to see your high school graduation photo among their ranks; you’d had no idea she’d even been sent a copy.

After your little self-guided tour, you went through her refrigerator and threw everything within it out, plugging your nose as you did; she’d been dead for only two weeks, but the food your aunt had left behind had already, for the most part, spoiled. The only things that were still in date were a half pack of bacon, six eggs, and a few frozen pizzas tucked into the freezer. From there, you went upstairs to the loft-style bedroom and washed the sheets on her bed, and then you unpacked your things until the sky started to turn the pink and orange hues of a sunset.

Luckily, your aunt had a huge supply of canned goods, and so after opening and microwaving a can of Chef Boyardee, you retreated to perhaps your favorite part of the entire cabin – the back deck.

Your aunt had built her house on a piece of land that sloped steadily downwards from the driveway, and so the deck was situated on stilts that allowed it to overlook the ravine several feet below. It gave you a panoramic view of the forest, with the sloping peaks of the Appalachian Mountains rising in the distance. Down at the bottom of the valley, a creek trickled by, and the soft sound of its babbling served as soothing background noise for your evening meal.

After you were finished with your pasta, you sat back and closed your eyes, inhaling deeply. There was something blooming nearby that smelled intoxicating – like cedar and sandalwood and musk. Your mouth watered at its sweet, masculine scent, and you found yourself wishing that you had a candle that smelled like it.

You jumped when, once again, you heard a twig snap, followed by the sound of bushes rustling from somewhere close. You sat up, peering over the deck’s fence to try and pinpoint its source.

“Hello?”

Setting your empty bowl to the side, you stood up and walked closer to the edge, peering out over the woods. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary; maybe it had been a possum. Or a skunk. Or…whatever else that lived in the mountains of North Carolina.

You were ready to turn away when you saw it – a flash of movement to your left. Frowning, you leaned over the side of the rail, and your eyes widened when you caught a glimpse of blue from between a patch of brambles.

“Hey! Hey, are you ok?”

You watched as whoever it was froze in place, and you glanced back towards the sky; you could just make out the outline of the moon, and the pinks and oranges had faded to red and violet.

“Hey, are you lost? It’s starting to get dark out; I would head back if I were you.”

Slowly, the person stood up and picked their way out of the brush, and when they turned towards you, you realized that it was a man. A very tall man. A very tall man with a beard, a gun strapped to his belt, and two very impressive biceps.

Shit.

“Uh… Hi,” you called out once again, this time sounding significantly less sure about yourself.

“Hi,” he called back, raising his hand in a wave.

“Um… Whatcha doing over there?”

“Oh, I was, uh… I was hiking,” he explained. “But I think I got lost somewhere along the way. Could I borrow your phone?”

You hesitated, watching as the man started making his way up the hill, covering a large amount of ground with each of his long, confident strides.

“Mine died a while ago,” he went on, lowering his voice as he grew closer. “I was debating whether or not to disturb you; I know meeting a strange man in the woods probably isn’t what you were hoping to do this evening.”

Finally, he was standing directly in front of you, though the ground was about six feet beneath the floor of the deck. You looked down at him and chewed your lip, debating whether or not to help him. He looked nice enough, and he sounded genuine, but you’d said it yourself earlier – no one would hear you scream this far out.

You opened your mouth to answer him, but that was when it hit you – the smell from earlier. This time, it was much stronger, and it was then that you realized why the scent had hints of musk in it.

It was the scent of an alpha – an alpha about to start a rut.

Your blood ran cold, and you backed away from the deck’s fence as if it had burned you.

“You need to go,” you told him, watching as his smile abruptly faded away. “Right now. Or I’ll call the police.”

“Look,” he sighed, holding his hands up. “I know that this looks like; but I promise I don’t wanna hurt-“

“I don’t believe you,” you interrupted, and a cold flash of annoyance crossed his handsome, somehow familiar features. “Please, just go. I don’t want any trouble. But I will call the cops.”

The alpha sighed, setting his hands on his hips, and for a long moment the two of you were silent. The sound of the crickets that pervaded the forest seemed to rise up in a crescendo as he studied your face, but his voice seemed to drown them out as he spoke next.

“I wonder how long it’d take the police to get all the way out here.”

Your eyes widened at that, and you stumbled backwards when he suddenly jumped, pulling himself up onto the deck as if it were the easiest thing in the world. You let out a squeak and turned around, dashing to the door and yanking it open. You were just barely able to get the door shut and locked behind you before the stranger was standing in front of it. Your heart sank as you stared at him through the glass, and he arched an eyebrow, tapping his fingers against it as he stared you down.

“This doesn’t have to be hard,” he called out, his voice muffled but just loud enough to make out. “I really don’t want to hurt you. Just let me in and we can talk – I promise.”

“Is it really that surprising that I don’t believe you?” you yelled back. “Please, just leave. My alpha will be here any minute!”

You knew that was a lie – you’d never even had sex before, and you definitely didn’t have an alpha in your life. But maybe this man didn’t know that; maybe he wouldn’t call your bluff.

But all hopes of that flew out the window when he let out a laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re a horrible liar,” he remarked. “You’ve never even been with an alpha before; I’d be able to smell your innocence from a mile away.”

Your cheeks burned and you turned away, reaching into your pocket for your phone.

“Last warning, shithead,” you called out. “I’m calling the cops right now.”

Finally, the smile dropped off of his face, and he let out a deep sigh. Holding his hands up in surrender, he took a step back from the door, bowing his head in mock-respect.

“Alright,” he conceded. “Alright; I guess I’ll go ride this rut out with a more receptive omega.”

His eyes flashed as he turned away, and you watched as he walked to the other side of the deck. He leaned over the rail despite the fifteen foot drop just beneath it, and you watched as he turned towards you over his shoulder.

‘See you soon,’ he mouthed, and then he threw himself off the deck.

With a surprised cry, you stared blankly at the spot he’d just been standing in, and after a pregnant pause you tentatively opened the screen door, stepping out cautiously. You had 911 pulled up on your phone with your thumb hovering over the dial as you stalked towards the fence, and after swallowing thickly, you leaned over its side, searching the forest floor for any signs of the creepy alpha.

But there was nothing – he wasn’t, as you’d suspected, laying there with two broken legs from the fall. No, in fact the only sign that he’d ever been there at all was the frantic beating of your heart and the lingering scent of his oncoming rut.

__________

You woke up three times during the night. The first time, it had been right before midnight, and it had been for no reason at all. No sound had awoken you, nor had a bad dream. After several minutes, you’d gone back to sleep, tossing and turning until waking up a second time.

It had been around 1:30 in the morning at that point, and it had taken you over an hour to sleep again. You kept thinking that you’d heard something from downstairs, but your late night paranoia told you not to go down and investigate.

The third time you woke up, it was a few minutes before 5, and you immediately knew that you weren’t alone. You felt a presence leaning over you, could hear his soft breathing. You froze, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to keep breathing at the same pace you had been while sleeping, but then you heard a soft, gravelly chuckle from close by.

“I know you’re awake, omega.”

Fuck.

You already knew that it was the alpha from before, but still you opened your eyes and sat up, clutching the covers to your chest as you looked up at him.

He was wearing the same clothes from before, except his gun holster was nowhere to be seen. Your phone, too, was gone from its usual perch on your nightstand, and your blood went cold as you breathed in his warm, overpowering scent.

“…Please,” you heard yourself whisper. “Please, don’t do this. I-“

“You shouldn’t have been so rude earlier,” he remarked, lowering himself down to sit on the side of the bed. “I would’ve rather not had to break in, but you left me no choice.”

You swallowed, tensing up even more when his eyes flashed down to your throat to track the movement. He looked so familiar now that you were so close to him; you just couldn’t put your finger on where you’d seen him before.

“Who are you?” you asked, and at first you thought that he hadn’t heard you. He made no reaction, and you opened your mouth to voice your question once more.

“I said who-“

“My name is Steve,” he interrupted you. “That’s all you need to know.”

You bit your lip and nodded, glancing over to the stairs, and then to the window. You knew, though, that you had no chance of running. He was standing between you and the staircase, and the window wasn’t even open. By the time you’d be able to pry it up, it would be too late; he’d be on you in a matter of seconds.

“Listen, Steve,” you started, forcing yourself to make and maintain eye contact with him. “I… I know this probably doesn’t mean anything to you, but… you were right earlier. I’ve never…been with anyone. And I don’t have an alpha. I’ve been waiting to find the right one for so…so long. Please, I’m begging you, don’t take that choice from me. I promise I won’t tell anyone I saw you, and I won’t make any trouble. Just…please don’t do this.”

He seemed to consider your words, and for a few moments you felt a spark of hope rise up in you. He tilted his head as he regarded you, and you silently willed him to leave you alone, to forget any of this happened.

“I didn’t think there were women like you around anymore,” he eventually murmured. “Some omegas these days don’t even settle down with an alpha, which was unheard of back in my day. And if I had a dollar for every time a cockhungry bitch in heat had thrown herself at me only to leave once she’d had her fill, well. I’d never have to work another day in my life.

“But then you show up in my life – innocent, pure, and loyal to an alpha you haven’t even met yet.”

Your eyes widened when he leaned towards you, and you squeezed the sheets as he cupped your cheek.

“I can see so much potential in you,” he breathed. “You could be such a good girl.”

He leaned toward even further, and you realized that he was going to kiss you. For a moment, all you could do was watch as his face got closer and closer, frozen by your fear and his suffocating scent, but as soon as his lips touched yours, your body leapt into action.

You threw yourself away from him as if he were on fire and scrambled to the stairs, your feet stumbling as you ran down them. Towards the last step, your ankle twisted beneath your weight, sending you crumpling to the ground. You cried out as your head hit the banister hard, but you ignored the ringing in your ears, forcing yourself to stand up again.

Movement caught your attention out of the corner of your eye, and you stopped dead in your tracks as you watched Steve calmly approach the staircase. Instead of starting to walk down, though, he hoisted himself over the rail and dropped to the first floor, landing in a crouch before standing up and sauntering over to you.

And that was when you realized why he looked so familiar. No normal person would be able to just do shit like that. And if you were to take away the beard, he would have the exact same face you’d seen in museums, textbooks, and newspapers throughout your entire life.

“…Captain America?”

Steve rolled his eyes and marched towards you, and you were so surprised that you didn’t even try to retreat.

“I used to be, doll,” he growled. “But I’m way past trying to be a hero for a world that doesn’t even want to be saved.”

You finally began to struggle when he set his hands on your hips, but he ignored your protests as he effortlessly picked you up.

“I understand,” he huffed, starting to carry you once more up the stairs. “Really, I do. You’re scared, and I’m a stranger.”

He dropped you onto the bed before shucking off his shirt, and you clambered backwards when he started to crawl over your body.

“But I’ve made my decision; you are my omega.”

The sound of fabric ripping coaxed a startle cry past your lips, and you tried to cover your chest when Steve tore your shirt away.

“Please-“

“Quit with the complaining, doll,” he huffed. “I’ll treat you right if you just let me-“

A sob escaped you when he took hold of your wrists and pinned them to either side of your head. Tears were running down your cheeks, and Steve’s knee between your thighs made it impossible to close your legs no matter how hard you tried to. For a moment, both of you simply looked at one another, one with terror in their eyes, the other with pure lust.

Steve’s nose skimmed your neck as he leaned down, inhaling your scent and nuzzling your mating gland. The sound that he made could only be described as a purr as he drank in your essence, and his hips started to lazily grind down against you.

“Fuck, you smell so sweet,” he groaned. “How haven’t you been mated yet?”

His tongue darted out, tracing the gland languidly. Shocks of pleasure coursed down from your neck to your spine, and you found yourself arching up of your own accord; you’d thought that it was a myth that more nerve endings existed in a person’s mating gland, but Steve was proving that theory wrong despite how much you didn’t want this.

“That feels good, doesn’t it?” he breathed. “Imagine how good it’ll be when I fuckin’ sink my teeth into you.”

“N-no-“

Your voice cut off into a stuttering moan when he nipped at the skin, not hard enough to pierce it but enough to make your hips buck upwards of their own accord.

“That’s my girl,” he praised. “Let yourself feel this; you deserve it. You’ve waited so long for a good, strong alpha to take care of you, haven’t you? My good little omega…”

Under any other circumstances, you would’ve preened under his praise, ever the stereotypical, eager-to-please omega, and you fought against the urge to lean into his touch. His scent had an almost dizzying effect on you, and your struggles were slowly growing weaker and weaker.

“I’ve heard that an alpha’s rut can sent their omega into an early heat,” he mused, letting one of his hands trail up to cup your breast. “I think we should test that theory.”

You whined when his thumb started circling your nipple, and an amused grin overtook his features.

“Good girl,” he praised, and you momentarily had enough clarity to glare at him from under your lashes.

“Fuck you,” you grunted, but he only chuckled.

“Well that’s the idea, sweetheart,” he remarked.

Suddenly, you felt the world spin around you, and suddenly you were on your belly.

“But if you use that language with me again,” he purred against your ear, “I’ll fuck your throat until I knot in that dirty little mouth of yours. Are we clear?”

Hurriedly, you nodded your head yes, and Steve’s hand slid down the curve of your spine.

“Good.”

You gasped when his arm snaked under your hips, pulling up on them until you were on your knees and elbows. You felt as if your cheeks were burning when he spread your ass cheeks, and you squirmed as you tried to close your legs.

“You’re already wet for me, omega,” he noted. “Your body wants this; why can’t you just give in?”

Despite his earlier threat, you were about to say something along the lines of ‘because fuck you, you star spangled asshole’, but then something cool and wet licked upwards from your clit to your entrance, and all of your thoughts faded to white noise.

Steve’s tongue slid into you slowly, stretching your hole in ways that had your eyes rolling to the back of your head, and the groan he let out at your taste was pornographic. At a slow, even pace, he started tongue fucking you, and you couldn’t control the moans that were spilling out of your lips. You reached out, gripping the nearest pillow and digging your nails into it as pleasure started flowing through you.

You whined when, all too soon, he pulled his tongue out, but when he slid it over your clit and started tracing quick, tight circles against your bud, you nearly screamed. A finger slid inside of you as your hips started rocking; it was obscene, and wrong, and humiliating, but you’d never felt anything like this before. Steve’s moans urged you on, and despite your fear, your hatred, of him, you felt yourself getting closer and closer to your climax.

“S-steve,” you squeaked, “w-wait, fuck-“

You buried your face in the pillow as, all of a sudden, your orgasm came over you, but Steve’s free hand snapped up to your head and pulled it back by a handful of your hair, making you arch your back as you screamed his name. His finger curled inside of you as your pussy clenched around it, and he was murmuring soft words of encouragement as you came down from your high.

“There you go,” he purred. “You did so good for me. See how good your alpha takes care of you?”

Your head was still spinning when Steve pulled away, but your eyes snapped open when you heard the slide of fabric against skin. You looked over your shoulder and felt your blood ran cold when you saw him toss his jeans to the side, and immediately you looked down at his cock, already fully hard and leaking a bead of precum.

"N-no," you gasped, trying to crawl away. “Steve, no, please-“

But he only gripped your hips and pulled you back to him until you felt his hardness grind against your ass.

“Calm down, baby,” he murmured. “It’ll only hurt for a second.”

Before you could beg him anymore, he started pushing into you, and nothing could have prepared you for the stretch. It burned, so bad that all you could do was bite down on your hand and trying to hold back your tears as he impaled you.

“Fu-uck,” he groaned. “Oh, my god, baby. So good, so fucking good-“

He paused only when his head pushed painfully against your cervix, and for a long moment he stayed still, allowing you the small kindness of adjusting to his thickness.

“Shh, it’s ok,” he cooed, pressing his chest flush to your back. “The worst part is over, baby. We can take our time from here.”

He nuzzled your mating gland and cupped your tits, rolling them in his palms as he pressed kisses over the curve of your shoulder.

“This is the tightest little pussy I’ve ever felt,” he whispered. “You’re making your alpha feel so good, doll.”

And as twisted as it was, as much as you hated it, his words actually helped. Slowly, you let your muscles relax, and he rewarded you with an open-mouthed kiss to that sensitive spot in your neck. One of his hands snaked its way beneath your body and began toying with your still-sensitive clit, rubbing it until your hips squirmed against him.

He took your movements as a sign to move, and a surprised moan escaped your lips when he pulled back, nearly pulling out completely before thrusting forward. Your pussy made an embarrassingly loud squelching noise, but you found yourself grateful that you were wet enough to make the stretch that much more bearable.

Steve slowly began to find an easy rhythm, and despite his rough treatment of you, he was gentle as he took you. At least, as gentle as rape could be. That’s what you had to keep telling yourself; despite every sweet word that left his lips and despite every moan he managed to pull from yours, you still didn’t want this. You didn’t want him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he breathed. “Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had…”

You whined as he kept rubbing your clit, matching the rhythm of his fingers to the rhythm of his hips. Your body betrayed you as it started aching for more, and as he started speeding up you found yourself moving your hips back to meet his thrusts. Steve’s moans grew louder, and you heard a loud crack as his palm smacked your ass.

“Good girl-“ he panted. “Taking your alpha’s cock so well…”

Suddenly, he pulled out, leaving you empty and dripping and wanting, and you felt him shift upwards onto his knees. Roughly, he shoved your knees further apart and entered you again, immediately snapping his hips at a hard, brutal pace. Every thrust drew a moan out of your parted lips, and your arm and leg muscles were starting to shake.

The bed beneath you creaked loudly as he fucked you into the mattress, and your scents had mingled into something heady and warm and intoxicating. The founds of skin slapping skin was as intimate as it was erotic, and your moans became deeper, throatier as his pace suddenly shifted, slowing down as he bucked his hips harder. Each movement drew a strangled moan from your throat, and Steve’s fingers found your clit once again.

This was somehow even worse than the erratic, frantic claiming. This had somehow become more intimate, less frenzied, but the pleasure dulling your senses remained the same.

“Knew it from the first moment I smelled you,” Steve whispered, his voice strained and husky. “I knew that you were gonna be mine. ‘ve never met anyone like you.”

Your eyebrows furrowed together and you let out a low whine as the head of his cock brushed against a sensitive, delicious spot inside of you. Without thinking, you pushed back against him, silently urging him to move faster.

“Oh? Right there?” You nodded your head, mewling as he hit your g-spot again. “Right there, little omega?”

“Y-yes,” you gasped, resting your forehead against your arms. “Please…”

“Please what, little one?” he grunted, slowing down until he was only just barely grinding his hips. “Tell me what you want.”

You whined, squeezing your eyes shut and shaking your head; you wouldn’t say it out loud – your pride wouldn’t allow you to.

“Say it,” Steve urged. “I won’t give it to you until you do.”

You bit your lip, trying to ignore the fluttering in your pussy, urging Steve’s cock in deeper, but after a few seconds you snapped. With tears in your eyes, you looked over your shoulder at him, taking in the rapid rising and falling of his hips, the way his lips were parted as he watched you.

“…Fuck me,” you finally whispered, bowing your head as your defeat washed over you. “Please, fuck me…”

Your eyes widened when he pulled out of you completely, but you understood when he flipped you over onto your back. You stared up at him as he positioned himself at your entrance once again, and your back arched up as if you’d been electrocuted when he shoved himself inside of you once more.

His pace was no longer kind nor was it unhurried as he fucked you; you were both so tantalizingly close to your release, and now it was just a matter of chasing it. His moans escaped from behind clenched teeth as he gripped your thigh in one hand, hoisting it up and bending it until your knee was almost touching your chest. But from this angle, you felt him so deep inside of you that you didn’t care; you laid back and took it, clawing at his biceps as you got closer and closer.

All too soon, your body tensed up, your pussy clenching as you came. White exploded behind your eyes as the pleasure overtook you, and not even the ringing in your ears could drown out Steve’s names as you screamed it. You glanced up through your lashes to find the alpha’s eyes already gazing into your own, until he grit his teeth and threw his head back.

Your name was a prayer on his lips as he grew closer and closer, until he lunged forward with a growl. His tongue lapped at your mating gland in ways that had your pussy fluttering even after your release, but time seemed to stand still when you felt his teeth sink into your flesh.

You were vaguely aware of the heat of Steve’s cum as it painted your walls, and even your own, second, orgasm faded into the background. Your eyes were unseeing, your body unfeeling; the only thing you could focus on was your mating gland being bitten, being claimed, by Steve Rogers. It was a permanent mark of who you belonged to; a milky white scar would forever be left behind, as would the memory of who put it there.

A broken, distressed moan escaped your lips when he pulled away, but you immediately understood what he wanted when he bared his neck to you in a rare sign of submission, especially from an alpha like himself. As his knot swelled inside you, locking you in place, you leaned forward, licking your lips.

Later, you would blame it on your hormones, on your body’s natural instinct as an omega who had just been claimed. But whatever the true reason was for your actions, you latched onto his neck and bit his mating gland in return. The piercing of teeth against skin felt amazing in an explainable, primal way, and you both moaned as you marked Steve in the same, permanent way he’d marked you.

You stayed there until you’d both caught your breaths, reveling in your ability to hurt him, to wield control over him in the way he’d forcibly done to you. When you finally tasted his blood on your tongue, you let go, licking it off of your lips and wincing at how far his knot had stretched you.

Looking up into his blue eyes, the reality of it all came crashing down onto you; you’d been raped, claimed, by a total stranger. You knew of him only from history books and news reports, and now he was inside you, the mark on your neck a permanent part of him that would follow you for the rest of your days.

A sob wracked your shoulders, and your hands flew up to cover your face. A sad, almost pitying look swept across Steve’s features, and he gathered you into his arms as he rolled you onto your sides.

“Shhh, it’s ok,” he cooed, running his fingers through your hair. “I know, I know… It’s ok, omega. I’ve got you.”

You wanted to throw your fists against his chest; you wanted to slap the pitiful look off of his face. You wanted to throw yourself off of the deck just as he’d done hours earlier.

But instead you closed your eyes and let him whisper empty words of comfort to you until sleep finally, finally, came.

_____________

If it weren’t for the soreness that had spread all over your body, you would’ve thought it had all been a dream.

You woke up with the sheets neatly tucked around you. You were still naked, but your clothes from last night had been tucked away into the laundry hamper in the corner. You heard faint noises coming from the kitchen – the occasional clang of two plates clinking together, the sizzling of something on the stove – but there was nothing out of place in the bedroom.

Wincing, you pushed the covers back and stood up swaying unsteadily on your feet. You glanced in the mirror, feeling your blood run cold at the sight that greeted you. Your reflection was covered in bruises and bitemarks; you hadn’t even been aware of Steve biting you that much during last night’s activities. Your hair was a mess, but there was no dried cum along the inside of your thighs. He must have cleaned you up after his knot allowed the two of you to separate.

Gulping, you tilted your head and leaned forward, feeling a fresh wave of tears sting your eyes when you saw the red, irritated bitemark on your mating gland. Soon enough, the puffy flesh would calm down, and the crimson would be replaced by a silvery scar that would remain there for the rest of your life. Every look in the mirror would be a fresh reminder of what Steve had done to you.

Clearing your throat, you arranged your hair until it covered over the mark, and you reached into the dresser to pull out a pair of pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt. You didn’t really think that you could escape the famous Captain America, but you still crept down the stairs, avoiding the squeaky ones you’d discovered yesterday as you made your slow descent.

Upon reaching the first floor, your eyes focused on the side table next to the front door, but your keys weren’t resting on it like you’d left them yesterday. A disappointed sigh left your lips, and you tiptoed closer to the door. Maybe you could make it on foot-

“I made breakfast,” you suddenly heard Steve call from the kitchen. “Come and get it before it gets cold.”

Your heart sank, and you immediately knew that there would be no use in trying to leave now. Squaring your shoulders, you cautiously made your way to him, your abused pussy aching with every step you took.

Steve was standing over the sink, washing a pan and wearing only a pair of sweatpants. You weren’t sure where he’d gotten them; you doubted he could have fit into any of your aunt’s clothes.

“Go ahead and have a seat,” he instructed you, not looking up from the pan. “I’ll bring over our plates. Do you like coffee?”

You bit your lip and did as he said, lowering yourself into the seat with a wince. Steve finally looked up when he heard your sharp inhalation, and guilt flashed across his face.

“I’ll get you some pain killers,” he said. “Can you take ibuprofen?”

You looked down at the table, wringing your hands in your lap.

“…I’d prefer Tylenol,” you murmured. “And yes, I like coffee.”

The alpha nodded, and you continued resolutely staring at the table, even when he set down a plate of steaming eggs and bacon, a mug of coffee, and a bottle of pain killers. You mechanically took four of the pills, washing them down with the black coffee. You jumped when Steve settled down into the chair across from yours, but you refused to look up at him as he began devouring his meal.

“…You should eat something,” he remarked, but you ignored him, only taking another sip of your coffee. With a sigh, he set down his fork, swallowing a bit of eggs before addressing you again.

“I mean it,” he insisted. “I haven’t even started my rut yet; you’ll need the strength.”

A tear slipped out of your eyes, and you looked down at your food. With shaking fingers, you picked up a slab of bacon, but when its smell hit you, you felt bile rise up in your throat. You immediately dropped it, taking another gulp of coffee to help push down your nausea.

“Hon,” Steve huffed. “C’mon. At least try.”

“I’m not hungry,” you muttered.

“Just one bite, then,” he persisted. “Please.”

You shot him a glare from beneath your lashes, but he only raised his eyebrows expectantly. You stared until you couldn’t stand the sight of him, and your resolve crumbled as you finally looked down. Picking up your fork, you shoveled a bite of scrambled egg into your mouth, not tasting it as you chewed and then swallowed.

“There,” you grumbled. “Happy?’

Steve once again sighed through his nose, but he only shook his head and went back to eating. For a long moment, the two of you were silent, until he finished his plate and slid yours over towards himself.

“So,” he started, picking up the piece of bacon you hadn’t been able to stomach. “You obviously don’t live here. Who does? A relative – sister, maybe? Is she the one in all the photos?”

You didn’t answer him, and with a frustrated grunt he reached over, grabbing your hand.

“I know that you probably hate me,” he mumbled. “And I can understand why. But we’re together now; you might as well make the most of it. Tell me about yourself.”

Your chest ached with unshed tears, and you looked down at his massive palm as it engulfed yours.

“…I always dreamed about falling in love,” you finally spoke. “I didn’t care who it was with – an alpha or a beta. I just knew that I wanted to love the person I shared my first time with. They didn’t have to be my mate, and I never expected it to be perfect. But I wanted it to mean something.”

You looked up, clenching your jaw as you pulled your hair away, showing him the bonding mark still fresh on your neck.

“You…took that from me,” you growled. “And you stole so much more than just my virginity. You took my choice; you made the years that I’d waited for someone special mean nothing. And I’ll never be able to forget it because of this fucking scar you left behind. So no, I’m not going to make the most out of a shitty situation, because no matter how nice we play, no matter how much I try, it will always and forever be a shitty thing that you did.”

Steve’s jaw clenched, and you flinched when he abruptly stood up from his chair. You pressed yourself against the back of the chair as he towered over for you, and you feared the worst when you saw his hands clench into fists at his side.

“…I’m going out,” he growled. “If you try to run, I’ll find you.”

With that, he stormed out, nearly yanking the front door off its hinges and letting it slam shut behind him. For the next several seconds, the only sounds in the room were the muffled birdsong from outside and the ticking of a clock from the hallway.

Eventually, you stood up, bringing your still-full plate into the kitchen and scraping its contents into the trash can. Your mating gland throbbed, but inside you felt nothing but numbness as you went about your cleaning.

After everything was spotless, you futilely searched for your keys, but Steve must have taken them with him. And despite your earlier desire to try and flee on foot, a gut instinct told you that he’d meant it when he said he would find you. You were miles away from a road that wasn’t made of dirt or gravel, and even the nearest highway was even more miles from any signs of civilization. You were well and truly stuck here.

Not knowing what else to do, you went outside onto the back deck, where it had all started. You sat out there until the sun was high in the sky, and it must have been hours until you heard the screen door open. You kept your eyes focused on the forest around you as Steve sat down next to you, and you remained still as a statue even as you felt his eyes baring into you.

“…I first came here two weeks ago,” he started. “No one was here, so I used it as a safehouse. I’ve been on the run since…since the Avengers split apart.”

The only response you gave him was a nod, and he took that as a sign to continue on.

“It had been a while for me. Since I’d…been with anyone. Ever since I was given the serum, my ruts have been more intense. At first, I tried to ignore them, fight ‘em off, but eventually that just stopped working.

“When I first saw you, smelled you, I knew that I wanted you,” he sighed. “Everything else kind of…faded into the background. Your scent was enough to send me spiraling towards a rut. Hell, I haven’t even started it yet, but it’s gonna be one of my most intense ones yet.

“I’m not saying that I’m sorry,” he sighed. “Because I know we’re way past that. And I’m not gonna say I’m not gonna do it again, cuz even now it’s taking all of my willpower not to bend you over the side of the balcony. But I guess I’m saying that… I get what I’ve done to you. I know it’s…heinous. And a younger me would’ve been disgusted with it. But now that we’re bonded to each other, I’m going to make this work.”

You turned to him, feeling your blood go cold at how determined he sounded.

“Make this… Steve, this can’t… There’s no future for us,” you stammered. “We don’t know each other; you, you raped me. There is no ‘making this work’.”

“Yes, there is,” he insisted. “I waited for someone special too, you know. I let the only woman I ever loved slip out of my fingers; when I woke up after the ice, I knew I wasn’t gonna just spend the rest of my life with anybody. And even if we don’t know each other, it doesn’t mean it’ll always be that way. We can learn-“

“I don’t want to learn!” you exclaimed, rushing to your feet. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with you! If you’re bound and determined to ride out the rest of your rut with me, then fine. I’ll hate it, but I’ll get it. Use me like a glorified sex doll like you did last night. But don’t turn this into something it’s not. Just leave me the fuck alone once you’ve had your fun.”

“No.”

Steve stood up, towering over you, and you stumbled backwards as he advanced towards you.

“You don’t want me to be your alpha? Well tough shit,” he spat. “You should’ve thought about that before you bit me back.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, but then your eyes fell onto the side of his neck, and your mouth snapped shut. It was a perfect mirror of your own scar, and you gulped when Steve tilted his head to the side so he could get a better view of it. Your teeth were perfectly imprinted in red right over his gland, and sick shame washed over you as you stared at it.

“I’m going to carry around a piece of you for the rest of my life,” he continued, starting to walk towards you again. “So you’d better be damned sure that I’m not going to let you go anywhere.”

A gasp escaped your parted lips when you felt your ass press against the deck’s railing, and you looked over your shoulder to see a fifteen foot drop just on its other side. Gulping, you turned back around, and once again Steve was towering over you, his scent wafting to your nostrils as he caged you in.

“I’m yours just as much as you’re mine, sugar,” he growled. “I’d get used to it if I were you.”

One of his hands tangled in your hair, and then, before you knew it, he was pressing his lips to yours, His other hand trailed up the side of your neck, tracing his bitemark with his fingertips in ways that shot tingles all the way down your spine, to your toes, and back up again. Your whole body twitched at the sensation, and a laugh that sounded more like a purr sounded from his chest.

“I’ll always love how responsive you are,” he murmured. “And eventually, one day, I’ll love the rest of you. Even that bratty little mouth of yours.”

You whimpered when his hands moved down to your hips, picking you up and setting you on the rail. You gasped and grabbed onto his shoulders, leaning towards him and away from the drop behind you.

“Steve!” you exclaimed. “Wait, I don’t-“

“I’m tired of waiting,” he interrupted. “You’ve been walking around in those tiny shorts all fucking day. I’ve held back for long enough.”

He reached down and roughly yanked your shirt up, tearing it down your arms and tossing it behind him. Your nipples pebbled as your breasts were exposed to the slight chill in the spring air, and goosebumps rose up all over your torso.

“I fucking love your tits,” he growled, dipping his head down to suck on one of your nipples. His hand roughly rolled and groped your other breast, and you fought not to arch your back, already feeling off balance as you tried to remain seated on the thin rail.

“Steve, can we please go inside-“

“No, baby,” he grunted. “I need you right here, right now.”

He did, however, pull you forward, and you let out a huff of relief when your feet met solid ground once again. Your relief was short-lived, however, as he turned you around and pushed you forward with a hand between your shoulder blades. You bent down, clutching the top of the low fence and staring at the forest floor below as he ground his erection against your ass. He was already half-hard, growing harder by the second as he rubbed himself against you.

“At least I chose the best pussy I’ve ever felt,” he mused, and you whined when two fingers suddenly plunged into you.

Your slick sounds were obscenely loud, and despite the cabin’s isolation, you felt a fleeting stab of fear that someone would hear him as he fingered you. Your knuckles turned white as you gripped the top of the rail, and you clapped a hand over your mouth to stifle your moan when Steve’s thumb found your clit.

“No, no, no,” he chided. “I want to hear you, little one. Let me hear those cute little noises you make.”

He reached down and grabbed your wrist, pulling it away as his thumb traced quick, tight circles against your bud. All the while, he was still grinding his clothed erection against the curve of your ass, and your thoughts swam as he added a third finger inside of you.

“I did make you feel good last night,” he breathed. “Didn’t I? You came…I think it was three times? Fuck, I think you were just as desperate as I was.”

He chuckled, pulling his hand away.

“But who am I kidding? I’m still desperate for you.”

Without warning, he spun you around and sat you on the rail once again, shoving his sweatpants down before lining his cock up with your entrance. It all happened so fast; you had no time to prepare yourself as he slid into you in one fluid, fast motion.

“Oh, god-“ you gasped, hands flying to his shoulders. “Steve, please, it hurts-“

“It’s gonna hurt these first couple of times, babygirl,” he sighed, as if he were an exasperated teacher trying to explain a difficult problem to you. “But if you just, fuck-“

He was cut off by his own moan as he started thrusting, not pausing to give you any time to adjust before starting to pump his hips forward.

“If you just relax,” he continued, “then it’ll feel better.”

You clung to him as he started pounding into you, letting your head fall forward to rest on his shoulder. There was nothing else you could do as he snapped his hips; you were powerless against him as he used you for his own pleasure.

Oh, and you’re not getting anything out of this? A treacherous voice whispered to you in the back of your mind, and as you started to feel the same pleasure as you had last night, it grew louder and louder. He’s right – it does feel good. Just give in; it would be so easy to just enjoy it.

You couldn’t bite back a moan as the head of his cock brushed against your g-spot, just as it had last night, and Steve rewarded you by snaking a hand between your bodies and rubbing your clit with his thumb once more. The stimulation to your bud made your thighs tremble, and you found your hips rolling forward as you felt that familiar knot start to tighten in your belly.

Your eyes opened, and you found yourself face to face with your bite mark. In your pleasure-addled mind, you couldn’t help but admire the impression that now marked his flesh; you thought back to how it had felt to bite him, to sink your teeth into him as he’d made you cum a second time with his cock buried deep inside of you.

As if reading your thoughts, Steve leaned downwards, and you cried out when he fit his teeth into your fresh scar once again. It hurt like a bitch, but it also felt perfect, as if a puzzle piece you hadn’t realized you were missing had finally found its rightful place in your body. You let your instincts guide you as you opened your mouth, first licking at Steve’s mating gland before sinking your own teeth into his bond mark.

Steve’s hips stilled, and you felt him growl as he pulled you tighter against him. He removed his teeth from you and squeezed your ass, picking you up.

“Keep biting me,” he commanded, his voice huskier than you’d ever heard it. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

You whined and nodded, biting harder as he pressed your back against the screen door. Once again, he started pounding into you, starting out at a punishing rhythm as he held you aloft. You could tell he was close, and you weren’t far behind him.

“I’m gonna fill you up again, omega,” he grunted. “Gonna make your belly round and – fuck – and swollen with my child. Gonna cum in you again and again and again, just like I know you need.”

A moan escaped your throat, and you let go of his neck to let your head fall back against the glass. Your eyes met his pleadingly, captured by those intense, terrifying blue irises as you both approached your peak.

“You gonna cum?” he murmured, and you nodded wordlessly, whimpers and groans spilling out of your open mouth as he snapped his hips harder.

He thrust one, two more times before you both snapped, and your screams of release mingled together as you came. His knot pushed past your entrance, swelling inside of you as his cum filled your pussy, and you let out a low groan at the strange sensation. Your nails were biting into his biceps, but neither of you cared as you rode out the aftershocks.

Last night, you’d been able to find respite in falling asleep, in not having to deal with the immediate consequences of what Steve had done to you and of what you’d done to him in return. But now, you were wide awake, watching in horror as the alpha, your alpha, caught his breath.

“…How long does it take for your knot to go away?” you asked in a quiet, almost timid voice.

“Um…” Steve thought about it. “Typically about twenty minutes.”

You sighed, closing your eyes.

“Fuck.”

“You know, now would be a good time for us to talk, since you refused to earlier.”

You shot Steve a withering glare, and he only chuckled and pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“You’re not like any of the other omegas I’ve met,” he murmured.

“If you’re seriously going to tell me I’m not like other girls,” you quipped, “I’m going to throw both of us off this balcony.”

Steve chuckled again, tightening his grip on you and walking you over to the outdoor couch. You were feeling a medley of confusing, conflicting emotions, and you looked away as you fought to process all of them. It was true, what they said – you did feel more vulnerable after having sex with Steve. You refused to cry, though. You’d wasted enough time and energy on tears.

“I meant what I said, you know,” the alpha suddenly said. You pulled back enough to meet his eyes, arching an eyebrow.

“What do you mean?”

“When I said I wanted to get you pregnant,” he clarified. “You would look beautiful with my child growing inside of you.”

Your eyes grew comically wide, and you had to look away.

“I… I’m not ready to have kids,” was all you said, and Steve nodded thoughtfully.

“I’m not really in a position to have them, either,” he sighed, letting his head fall back. “I’m still on the run from Tony until everything blows over. It’s not a situation to bring a child up in.

“But one day, omega,” he said, his voice dipping low in its timber as he grew more serious, “I’m going to fuck a baby into you. I don’t want to hear any lip about it, either.”

You bit your trembling lip at the thought of being pregnant with this man’s child; if that ever were to happen, you really would be well and truly stuck with him.

You couldn’t think about that, though. You wouldn’t let yourself think about it. As Steve rubbed your back, waiting until his knot released you, the only thing you could think about was getting from one moment to the next. You didn’t know how or when you would manage to do it, but one thing was for certain.

One day, you would find a way to escape Steve Rogers. After all, it was like your aunt had said in her letter – you were strong. Even stronger than Captain America. And the only thing in life you needed was you.

#Steve Rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #dark!steve rogers #dark!steve rogers x reader #alpha!steve rogers #alpha!steve #omega!reader

1K notes · View notes

the-lady-writes-what · 4 years ago

Text

22. Keigo Takami

Theme: Warlock, soulmate

Kinks: Mutual intoxication, dry humping, cowgirl

Masterlist

You clutch your spellbook tight like how mothers hold onto their babies. It’s worn and weathered, and its black leather tells more of a story than how to cure warts with a bit of bacon grease. It’s probably as old as your line, and it traveled all the way down that family tree to you, a mere leaf. The pack on your shoulders was ladened down with food stock, a knife, quill feathers, bottles of ink, charms, clothes, and an extra pair of socks. You found yourself at the center of a family dispute. Marriage had been on the table. Two men that you wouldn’t be caught dead with at the harvest festival, let alone meet him at the altar. It wasn’t that they were ugly; you weren’t that shallow. It was their personalities that made you gag. One was a raging hot-head with the ego to match his fire-powered magic. The other was just as bad except add an inferiority complex and creepy blue eyes. Naturally, picking neither displeased your family so much that they were forced to fight and debate, which would be the better match.

Your opinion was a moot point.

An idea struck you in the middle of the night. You woke from a dream where you walked through a forest, and it was raining red feathers. This was the omen you waited for. Well, any excuse would have nice, but you couldn’t imagine the serendipitous coincidence of such a dream a few days before your parents would decide your fate…for you. By dawn, you already began to set your plan in motion. At midnight the following night, you secreted some things away in a large pack, snuck out, and hurried into the woods where they didn’t dare to follow you.

Within a couple of days, you couldn’t smell the smoke of chimneys or hear the cows and goats. Instead, you smelled damp earth and ripening wild apple trees and listened to the calls of various birds. Magpies, cuckoos, sparrows, and crows, you heard them all but no red feathers. You never saw a cardinal, which you hoped to mean that you were on the right path just as you interpreted your dream. Once or twice you took shelter beneath a conifer or the ruins of an ancient building to escape the rain, which it often did. You foraged where you could and slept on a pillow of moss. You were tired, but this was the sweetest price of freedom.

The forest wasn’t particularly cursed or haunted. There weren’t any wolves, and nobody had seen a bear roam through here in decades. You knew enough about the wildlife to leave enough alone. All you had to do was march through the woods and reach the next village on the other side before winter set in. Your family was too good for trekking through the woods and far too proud to ask someone on the other side of the woods for help. Soon, you’d be out of their hair.

You were trampling through the woods one afternoon. The earth and fallen leaves were sodden with a recent shower. You barely had enough time the night before to create a shelter for you with a spell you found in your family’s tome. It was rightfully yours by birth, and your mother had no interest or skill in magic at any rate. Your grandmother certainly approved when she helped you sneak it out of the house. Wherever you went in the world, you would find work. Witches and warlocks had been in high demand for some of their conjurations, and with your skills and knowledge as a healer, you could find a job easily enough. If not in the next village, then in the next one. Or maybe you would go far into one of those cities you heard so much about from passing travelers.

Your leather shoes were soaked through having trekked through the mud and rain puddles. It dampened your socks all the way to the marrow of your bones underneath. You could feel your toes begin to tingle. You looked around, hoping to find more ruins or a cave, for a place to build a fire. You looked at the trees, and your heart sank a little. All the branches around you looked too wet to be used as firewood. There were a handful of matches left in your pack, but you needed to save those for emergencies, not just because your toes were getting cold. You had to find shelter soon. The clouds had been gray all morning, and the rain was coming again. You sighed for the umpteenth time while looking at the sky.

A laughing brook ran out ahead of you. The width was big enough for you to jump across no problem. You thought that if there was a brook, it could turn into a stream. A stream meant a waterway, and where there was a waterway, there was bound to be people. People lived in houses. You followed the brook through its natural course. Just as you thought, the brook grew bigger and bigger in size. It turned into a stream, then a creek and finally a small river. It cut through a clearing in the forest. Your eyes traveled with it to a lovely two-story cottage. Attached to that cottage was a watermill that turned the water into frothing foam. A garden grew wild though somehow not choked by weeds. You stopped in your tracks.

No. That couldn’t be. Your eyes must be deceiving you.

In the garden grew all sorts of flowers and herbs, most of which were out of season. You saw lush leaves, blooms, and green foliage even from where you stood when you knew that they should have turned brown with the season. That was the first of your many mysterious and curious sights. You drew closer to the place and discovered that the cottage was no cottage. Wood turned into cobbled stones, and the humble appearance took on a new shape. It wasn’t the size of a castle, but it imitated its shape. There was a keep, a tower, and a courtyard that grew a variety of trees. The bricks were made of stones you never laid eyes on before. They seemed to glitter despite the dull sunlight. That was one thing that this mysterious place couldn’t change the weather.

You realized that the smoke billowing out of the chimney wasn’t gray but shimmering purple. Plumes of it belched into the sky before disappearing. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. You had to skulk about the courtyard to find the main entrance. It was a heavy ebony wood door with a green-blue Green Man’s face for an ornate knocker. You clutched the ring in your hand and banged on the door twice and stood on the stoop for probably ten minutes before the door swung open.

You didn’t know what or who you were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t this. Instead of a wizened old man with a flowing white beard or a velvet-clad seductress, it was a young man, not much older than you. He had golden eyes marked at two corners with black arrows. Blonde hair was swept back from his face and yet remained uncontrolled. The man rubbed the sleep from his eyes. You felt bad for waking him up from his nap (because how could he still be asleep at noon?).

“Excuse me, sir, I was wondering if you mind terribly granting me shelter. I’ve been traveling for days, and my boots are soaked all the way through. It’s going to rain soon, and I was hoping to mind somewhere safe to rest and stay clear out of it,” you said.

The man in the doorway stared and stared and stared. After a while, he had to blink or go blind.

“What did you say your name was?” His voice made you tremble.

Not out of fear, though. There was something in his voice that sent a playful tingle down your spine. You furrowed your brows.

“I-I didn’t give you my name,” you said, curious.

“Why don’t you come on in and warm yourself by the fire? We can exchange introductions over some tea?” The man in the doorway pulled the door open wide enough for you to enter.

If you thought his house was big on the outside, it was much bigger on the inside. Or it would have been if the space wasn’t taken up by trinkets, tools, and books. Towers of books reached the vaulted ceilings. You picked up the front of your skirts to give your legs room to keep up with him. He was a little shorter than you, but he walked a lot faster. His parlor was, so far, the cleanest space in his home you’d seen. At least, by comparison, the parlor was spacious, and you could comfortably sit down in the large armchair by the fire. You set your bag down and plopped right into the chair. Your feet would be singing your praises if they had mouths and sentience. You warmed your feet by the fire while your host left to make tea.

He returned after a long while with a serving tray. Jasmine filled the parlor as he poured two cups. Taking the seat across from you, he sipped from his cup.

“I’m Keigo Takami,” he said.

Politely, you returned, “Y/N L/N.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y/N, if I have permission to call you that?”

“You do.” You grinned into your teacup.

“What brings you all the way out here in the middle of the woods? Get lost on the way to the next town?” Keigo asked.

“Not exactly.” You swallowed some tea and continued. “Escaping an unwanted arranged marriage.”

Keigo didn’t seem surprised. His golden eyes softened, and he nodded. It was as if he understood your situation.

“My old man wanted me to be a foot soldier. I told him ‘no.’ He didn’t take it too kindly. Locked me up in a tower until I ‘came to see the error in my ways.’ And look where I am now!” Keigo gestured around the room.

While cluttered beyond imagination, the parlor held expensive treasures and gadgets. Clocks, sundials, colorful glass vases, feathers…Feathers?

Your eyes snapped to a red streak dashing in front of the stained glass window in the hall. It was followed by another, third, and a fourth. A red feather floated on the air as if pulled by an invisible string into the parlor. A few more followed. The feathers went to work dusting, wiping, and putting books on the shelves. Some of them pulled off your boots, strung your socks up on the mantle to dry, and pulled on a fresh pair that were soft as sheepskin. Your eyes followed the red feathers wherever they traveled. Keigo wore a small smile while watching you marvel at the feathers. However, you were following them with your eyes for a reason different than the one he was thinking about.

“I just thought I’d tidy up a little. It’s been a while since I’ve had company. They’re a pet project of mine. It took me a while to get the enchantment just right,” said Keigo.

One of the feathers fell into your lap. You picked it up like it was a delicate spider-web.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

Keigo showed you the rest of his house: the kitchen, dining room, second parlor, library, observatory, and the guest bedrooms. You sat down to dinner with him to discuss some sort of arrangement. You felt terrible taking up his space and mucking up his lovely floors.

“What if I worked for you? That way, I can get some training, you’ll have an extra hand around, and we won’t have to be lonely come winter. I know I’m just a village girl who ran away from home, but I know things. And I’m a fast learner,” you explained over a pot of stew.

“I work with a lot of hoity-toity rich folk for commissions. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

You shook your head. “No, sir. Not at all.”

“Don’t call me ‘sir.’ Makes me feel old,” said Keigo. “It does get frustrating having nobody to talk to all the way out here. You seem real eager to learn, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t take up an apprentice.”

You clinked your glasses of wine together to solidify your spoken contract. You stared at the red feathers again as they swooped in to take care of the dinner table. Keigo caught you standing frozen as your eyes flickered this way and that to follow them.

“I apologize if this sounds rude but, did you have a lot of magic where you came from?” Asked Keigo.

“Well, yes, but—” You bit your lower lip. “You’re going to think it’s silly.”

Keigo smiled and turned his head towards the doorway. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

You tore your eyes away from the marvelous red feathers and followed him out into the hallway. Without turning back to speak to you, Keigo said, “And bring your spellbook with you.”

You ran back to the parlor and found your spellbook on an end table where you found it. Keigo came, found you, and led you to the observatory. The glass dome showed the brightest stars. The moon was in her full glory.

“I’ve noticed how you’ve been staring at my feathers. Is there any particular reason why? Trying to discover how to do it yourself?”

“No, nothing like that!” You said as you shook your head again. “Before…before I left home, I had this weird dream. You see, I remember in that dream I was walking through a forest and all of a sudden it started raining red feathers. I didn’t know what it meant, not that I do now. I think that I was led here by something.”

“Let me see your book,” said Keigo.

You were more than hesitant to hand it over. You didn’t like your family, never had, but this was still your family’s spellbook. It was an heirloom. Your hands shook a bit when you held it out for Keigo to take. Someone of his magical caliber would know the weight of a family’s spellbook and would respect its secrets, wouldn’t he? Your heart started beating louder as if Keigo was rifling through your personal belongings.

Keigo pried open the cover and pulled out a gray and brown feather, and closed the book. He set it gently on a table and kept the feather. Your brows furrowed; you never saw that before.

“You see, Y/N, I had a strange dream too. A few weeks ago, I dreamt that I was also walking through the woods. I saw a young woman in a green cloak just like yours hand me a book. Inside was a feather just like this.”

You were acutely aware that you still held onto one of Keigo’s red feathers. A shiver ran down your spine as Keigo slowly closed the gap separating you. His golden eyes looked straight into yours. An alchemical experiment was taking place in his eyes. You could see all sorts of emotions congealing and mixing in there. You were too dizzy to distinguish one from another. Keigo took your hand that held his red feather in the one where he carried the gray feather. He clasped your fingers between his. You felt his blood race in the center of his palm.

“Do you believe in soulmates, Y/N? Because I don’t know how else to explain this.”

“I…don’t know,” you answered honestly.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Y-Yeah.”

Keigo pressed his mouth against yours, hands still clasped together. His free hand found your waist, and his thumb began to draw infinite circles on top of your bodice. You kissed before (not that your parents would ever know), so this shouldn’t have been anything new. But the way Keigo moved his lips against yours and how his tongue slowly teased you, it felt like being kissed for the very first time. Your hand moved to caress the back of his neck, which brought your bodies a lot closer.

Suddenly, you were falling. You landed on a pile of pillows that weren’t there before. Keigo landed on top of you, shedding his outer coat. He went back to kissing you without missing a beat. Your fingers deftly unlaced the front of your bodice and let Keigo peel it away. You weren’t a virgin anymore, but that didn’t stop the goosebumps from arising in your skin when he touched you, kissed your skin, or teased you with his adept tongue. Calloused hands moved under your skirt to remove your bloomers and a couple layers of petticoats. Keigo nestled between your thighs, gently humping you. Your face darkened while he continued and played with your clit. Your back arched like a bow as you came for the first time that evening.

Keigo leaned above you, smiling like a triumphant demon of seduction. The illusion sold a lot better if he wasn’t panting slightly or dripping with sweat. A wooden box carried by a team of feathers wandered into the room. They set the box in Keigo’s hands. He opened the lid and turned to you.

“Want to try an experiment with me?” He asked.

“What kind of an experiment?”

You were just coming down from your high when Keigo took out the contents of the box and set it aside. In his hand, he held two large, dark orange flowers.

“This is Epifagus Aboreum. You pull the flower from the stem and suck on end. I’ve heard that it produces a very ‘relaxed’ state of being. Do you want to try it with me?”

You nodded.

You and Keigo carefully removed the flower from their stems. You watched Keigo suckle the end of the flower, which looked like a horn to blow into. You did the same. There seemed to be no effect at first. Not for long, however. In ten minutes, you and Keigo were back at peeling each other’s clothes off. Skin never felt so alive under your hands. You could feel his heart racing. Mouths pressed together again. Licking and nipping at each other while you rolled around on the pillows. Keigo’s hands palmed your breasts while you rubbed his shoulder with one hand and stroked his cock with the other. Your head felt heavy and light at the same time. The stars shining through the glass dome appeared brighter and more clear. Candles flickered with a multitude of colors, shifting, changing, morphing.

“Oh, Keigo,” you moaned as the man suckled on your neck, making sure to leave a love bite.

“Do you feel good?”

“Mhmm, yes.” You hummed.

“Wanna continue?”

“Yes!”

Keigo shifted you onto your side and lifted one leg over his shoulder. The blunt head of his cock brushed against the wet seam of your cunt. He slipped twice, unable to get it in the right way. The third time proved the charm as he slid inside your walls without much more effort. Your cunt fluttered around him. From this angle, you could see everything he did to you.

His first thrusts were sloppy as if he couldn’t figure out what angle to pound you with. Keigo quickly got the hang of it and rutted against you, fast and hard. You weren’t aware of how loud you were. His body moving on top of and inside you created new sensations you couldn’t understand while under the influence of the flower-drug. Stars burst in front of your eyes with each stroke of his cock. There was no beginning or end. It was just the two of you. You clawed at the pillows as you tried to find purchase. Your mind was going blank.

“You feel so good, baby bird. Fuck, where have you been all my life?”

“O-Over the brook and through the woods. At grandma’s house.”

This made him chuckle, though it didn’t stop his rough treatment of you. Keigo’s grip was bruising, but you don’t feel any pain. There was no cause of complaint when he was burying himself deep inside of you. You couldn’t tell if it was just him or if the flower-drug made him thicker. His veiny ridges created the right amount of friction against your inner walls.

You were both panting like dogs in heat. You moved your hips against him, and his calloused fingers tweaked your clit.

“K-Keigo…”

“Me too, baby. I’m gonna cum...so hard.”

Keigo was an honest man. After what seemed like hours of him railing you, Keigo groaned loudly. He shoved his cock all the way in until the blunt head brushed along your cervix. You didn’t have time to climax first before he was releasing all he heads straight into your womb. Warmth spread throughout your body. The drug, Keigo’s cock, and the cum painting your insides white were all enough to have your eyes roll into the back of your skull. You came shortly after.

The room was spinning so much after coming so hard that you couldn’t move a muscle. Apparently, Keigo wasn’t better. He was still inside your body when he rolled over and laid you on top of his chest. His cock remained buried deep, all the way in, when conscious hit you both.

When you awoke, you still lay on top of Keigo. You looked down to find you had been inside. Even though he was still asleep and limp within the confines of your pussy, that ddin’t stop the naughty grin across your face. You were awake and fully alert. No drugs in your system could prevent you from feeling Keigo unhindered. You moved your hips up and down, impaling yourself on his cock. You braced your hands on his hips to help steady yourself.

Keigo stirred when he felt himself grow hard and feel the moist walls of your cunt, sucking him in. He rubbed his eyes, then laid back to enjoy the view. Your breasts bounced seductively in front of him as you rode him just as hard as he rode you the night before. Keigo couldn’t resist palming each breast in his hands and play with your nipples. Your hair swayed with each of your movements like a warrior-queen riding her powerful stead.

He heard footsteps climbing up the stairs, but he was too lazy and felt too good to make you stop. Whoever it was, they were about to get an eyeful of your ass, and easily you took his cock. Keigo wore nothing but a smirk. Your eyes were heavy-lidded while you concentrated on riding him. You couldn’t hear a thing other than the wet clap of flesh against flesh.

A tall, feminine figure approached. Her white bunny ears grazed the top doorway before she stopped dead. Your back was turned to her, so you did not see her. Keigo looked past your form and gave her a curious look. You were too busy to notice him. His friend quickly disappeared rather than wait in the doorway for him to finish with you. Keigo snapped his hips upwards to meet your every downward thrust. He teased your clit to ensure a speedy climax. Keigo filled you up again and let you scream to the high heavens. You held his hands as you came around him one more time. Keigo pulled out gently and pulled a couple blankets literally out of thin air to cover you with. While he dressed, once more, you drifted to sleep. Keigo gave one last look at you from the doorway and smiled to himself. He quickly turned into the hallway to find his friend. The sooner he figured out what she wanted, the sooner Keigo could return and spend all of his time with you and learning everything there was to know about you.

#my hero academia #my hero academia fanfiction #mha smut #kinktober #kinktober week #kinktober my hero academia edition #reader fic #keigo takami #keigo #hawks #keigo x reader #hawks x reader #fantasy AU

123 notes · View notes

vancilocs · 3 years ago

Text

|ʘ‿ʘ)╯

The weather had been miserable all week, perhaps longer - felt like the days melded together when on the road, and you could barely distinguish night from day for how thick the cloud cover was and how heavily laid the foggy dew on the forest floor. He hadn’t avoided rain, either, and discomfort was now a constant rather than an unwelcome visitor, weighing him down further on top of the mournful sky and his own heavy thoughts.

He had hoped to have seen him, come across him by some accident or miracle, deliberately choosing his route to pass through his usual haunts and places he knew he’d like. To no avail. Wherever Goose had gone, Elk didn’t know, and finding him when he didn’t wish to be found seemed like an impossible task under the weary conditions. He was stubborn, Elk knew that, but how stubborn could he be? To what point? It was no time of year to live under the elements, Goose would know that, but how far would he push himself to prove a point he likely didn’t know himself? It was unusual, and it was worrying, as the man Elk had grown to know and love was nothing apart from an easygoing, loving fool - as crude as it sometimes felt to say, a fool was an apt descriptor, something Goose himself had accepted graciously many years past. Yet now it had taken on a more negative flavor.

It had begun in his typical manner, grabby hands digging through sand and cliffside nooks for interesting things, something to keep him busy and engaged while Elk was on his long assignments through the woodland and unable to keep him company. The things he found were harmless - mostly, as there had been a time Elk had returned home to a man picking sea urchin spines off his hand - and mere trinkets in nature. Seashells, dried starfish, shiny rocks that lost their luster when they dried and were demoted to decoration in the small garden he tried cultivating. No wonder a large, intricate, beautiful conch had seized his attention so. Seized all of it, to the point he had picked it over his husband.

And now he was somewhere out there, no doubt still digging through sand and every nook and cranny he could find along the coast, conch on his hip in its pouch, alone. Was he cold? He was probably hungry. Even that thought felt like a piece stuck in Elk’s throat, and he couldn’t even entertain the darker ones of a miserable fate lurking at the edge of his consciousness.

He hadn’t seen Goose in over a week.

He had no idea where he was - and even the last sighting of the man was far away, a glimpse before he had disappeared into the coastline caverns. Elk tended to the hearthfire, kept the house warm and food on the table in anticipation that he’d return before nightfall, but by the third day the anticipation had turned to bitter worry in his mouth and even with the fireplace roaring, he had felt cold. He couldn’t stay in the house, waiting for days on end, he had duties to attend to. It was with a heavy heart he had left, the house remaining still and dark, awaiting his return. Goose had a key, it was his home after all, and all Elk could hope for was that he hadn’t simply moved further and further along the coast, never to return.

But he was returning now, hours after sundown, emerging from the mist of the silent forest to the coast. The gentle lapping of the waves against the rocks felt welcoming, almost, the faint smell of salt refreshing, but into the slight sting of salt another scent scattered into, turning Elk’s attention to the small, yet cozy hut near the edge of the forest. He’d built it with his own hands years ago, made it into a home for himself and his beloved. And now, as quiet and still it sat, a thin strip of smoke rose from the chimney and drifted in the night wind.

Quietly, hopefully, he rose the short stairs to the porch, cracking open the unlocked door, pushing it open as it gave way with only a slight whinge. He was greeted with a silent warmth, only lit by the dying embers in the fireplace. It took a moment to get his eyes used to the darkness.

Crumbs on the table, empty bowl near the washbasin, water ladle left on the barrel’s crooked lid, a cabinet door left ever so slightly open and a stool pushed in front of the counter for a shorter individual to reach for the dried bread. Yet an empty bed, save for a single, worn, once hand-stitched shoulder bag tossed in the middle. Elk stared at it - and felt a cold sting of something nefarious stare back. The man who snuck in as the sun set and ate his first proper meal in over a week surrendered his own bed to a lousy, spiny, sharp seashell, its aura malignant and dominating, making the hairs at Elk’s neck stick up in offense. But the shell wasn’t his priority now.

On the bear fur laid in front of the ever-dimming fireplace was the small form of a man, loosely curled up on his side, salt-crusted and damp cloak wrapped over him, facing the warmth and sound asleep. Carefully, aware of the noise his armor could make, Elk stepped forward and knelt besides Goose. For a moment it didn’t even seem like the man was breathing, so shallow were his breaths and so little was his side rising with every intake, but there he was, alive. Elk removed one vambrace, heavy glove as well, brushing his fingers ever so gently across Goose’s cheekbone. Sharp, sharper than before, and the shadows under his eyes were never so deep even if Goose had always carried with him an aura of perpetual wear, giving him a wily, sinister look.

He reacted to the touch, drawing in a slightly deeper breath, but moved no further, even as Elk took his hand to his hair. Unwashed, unbrushed, knotted at the neck. The salt had clung to Goose deeper than just on the edges of his cloak and his boots, now the wear of the road had brought up wide swaths of silver on his temples which made him look even more worn and aged. Grey was nothing new to Elk, either - they had joked about it in the earlier years, how the constant worry had brought on the salt in his hair - but it was new on Goose, and the sheer speed at which it had gathered worried Elk even more.

He got on his feet, carefully, moving to the opposite side of the hut to remove his armor to avoid waking Goose - knowing him, a good night’s sleep had been scarce recently, and he didn’t want him to awake for no reason. With his armor removed, he slipped into clean, comfortable home clothes, placed a few more logs into the fireplace to keep it going through the night and turned to the ominous baggage on the bed.

“Listen here”, he almost hissed through clenched teeth. “I don’t like you, and you don’t like me. But you’re in my house, and will abide by my rules.”

It felt stupid to talk so to an inanimate object, but he had long known there was something more to the seashell, something alive and sinister. No more words spared, he grabbed the bag’s handle, slowly lifting the shell off the bedding and moving it across the room to the dinner table, placing it so it was deliberately as much covered as possible. The conch didn’t like him touching it, much less handling it so, but Elk wished he had avoided whatever wrath it could incur by not technically directly touching it. At least for tonight.

And then he carefully walked to the bear rug and as gently as possible slipped his hands under Goose’s sleeping self, lifting him off the hard floor and into his arms. Gods, he was light - he was too light, he had always been diminutive in stature but Elk’s guesses of him not being able to eat properly must have been right. He felt fragile in Elk’s arms, cold and weak, mumbling something in protest but not opening his eyes. It was like returning a fallen baby bird back into its nest, almost, as Elk placed Goose into their bed, carefully pulled a blanket over his body and himself laid down next to him, taking the man into an embrace as if to warm him up with his own body heat. Held tightly against him Goose felt even bonier, his elbows sticking into Elk’s ribs, his hands cold against his but still Elk felt a feel of relief wash over him - Goose was home, at least, he was home and he was warm and he was fed, and without argument or cold shoulder. All Elk could do now was hold him close for as long as he could, was allowed to.

“Hun”, he heard a quiet mumble.

“Shh”, said Elk back. “Just rest. Just rest, beloved.” Goose didn’t struggle in his hold but turned his head ever so slightly, eye open just enough for Elk to see a dim glint of gold. “Where’s the-” Goose began.

“On the table. Nevermind it. Rest.”

And he did. Not leaning into Elk’s embrace but accepting it, falling back into a restless sleep.

And as the morning rose, so did Elk, alone. The fire was fed, half a loaf of bread was missing, and the table empty. Whenever Goose had left, he had done so without a word, with his personal devil firmly by his side and no doubt guiding him to a purpose Elk couldn’t allow.

How far would this go?

#but you're NOT allowed to say mean things abt it #i just got recruited into doing yardwork. yayyyyy. there go my plans for today #(plans were: watch recent wayne stream and play sims 4)#writeroo

3 notes · View notes

green-eyed-whumpster · 4 years ago

Text

My OC Universe: Rowan 61

Chapter 61 Summary: Rowan really badly wants to stay with Cordelia now that he knew she would protect him. Except, Cordelia isn’t really made for babysitting (I know it’s a mean term but come on, it’s kind of accurate.). (Taggerines: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @much-ado-about-whumping, @abitefullofeverything, @whump-me-all-night-long, @sky-or-something-idfk and @tears-and-lilies)

Trigger Warning: Mean bitches, threats.

The gentle rocking of the horse and the warmth and comfort coming from Cordelia’s body protecting him allowed Rowan to relax, watching through hooded eyes as the manicured lawn and tessellated stone road fell away to uneven cobblestones, brick and thatch houses, and the hustle of a highly saturated society.

It had been so long since Rowan was close to the average lifestyle that it felt like a dream, seeing people walking in the street, some mobile vendors selling small trinkets or snacks, the sound of pleasantly idle chatter and shop owners promoting their business, the smell of meals being made and smoke wafting from the chimneys. Such insignificant, thoughtless actions that these people underwent every day, and Rowan admired them so for it. The parent taking their child to the market, or the group of young teenagers, taking the washing to the well. It was a blissful life, even if they didn’t realise. “How are you going?” Cordelia’s voice brought him from his trance and he looked up weakly to try and catch a glance at her face. “I’m fine. I’m actually better than fine,” He whispered, closing his eyes for a moment. “I-I’m so happy,” She smiled slightly, her hand on his back tightening comfortingly as she guided the horse through the busy streets. “That’s good,” She sighed. “I’m so glad I’ve finally gotten you out of there.” He grumbled softly in reply. “We’ll be there soon,” She said softly. “I can see the wharf,” Rowan looked up excitedly and strained his eyes to try and catch the landmark that had just disappeared from view. “Have you never been to the ocean?” She asked, watching his head crane on his thin neck to try and glimpse the sea. “I’ve only ever seen it from William’s balconies!” He answered, twisting his spine unnaturally far as he leant with the curve of the road. “You did a good job, then, I spent a week scoping out the castle for secret passages and hidden rooms and I couldn’t find a view clear enough to the sea.” She replied and Rowan hesitated, casting his eyes down slightly as he shrugged. “William had a secret room where he…he kept…he called them toys –“ “You don’t need to tell me,” Cordelia interrupted, stroking his back gently. “There was a room, that’s all I need to know.” “I would sneak up there sometimes because there was a tiny balcony jutting over the wall. It was the highest point in the castle.” He said anyway. “The doorway was behind a tapestry in his room, which is probably why you couldn’t find it.” The sound of civilisation grew louder as they reached the community of the docks.

Taverns roaring with brawlers, or singing, or sailors telling tall stories, street-side shops, selling the day’s catch, traders loading their wares onto ships for international selling or into carts for whoever would buy it in the city. The smell of salt and damp wood perforated Rowan’s nose and it wrinkled slightly at the unfamiliar and acrid scent. “What’s that sound?” He asked suddenly as his head whipped around. “It sounds like thunder!” Cordelia’s face relaxed and she smiled. “It’s the waves,” She said calmly, bringing the horse close to the edge of the dock as Rowan looked over, seeing the turquoise water lap at the platform. “Tha-that’s the ocean?” He asked and she nodded, pulling the horse to stop and looked at him carefully. “I’m going to climb off, now,” She said, soothing him as his face dropped. “I’ll hold onto the horse,” She promised, letting his hands clutch around the one she held to him. “But I’ll need to be more mobile when we reach Marie’s ship. Don’t worry, just do your best to hold still and I’ll be off before you know it.” He nodded weakly and she unhooked his legs from hers, placing one over his to rest in the stirrup, sliding over the back of the horse’s hind to land on the ground. He whimpered as the beast shifted in response and quieted as soon as he felt Cordelia’s hand on him. “Now,” She placed her hands on either end of the saddle and looked up at Rowan. “Carefully swivel around and we can keep going.” He swallowed nervously and she lifted a hand to rest on his hand. “Just take it slow,” She soothed. “I’ll catch you if you fall.” He groaned uncomfortably as he lifted his leg to shift on the unstable creature.

Cordelia waited patiently as he inched around, trying desperately to stifle his whimpers to try and save what little pride he could have when surrounded by strangers. “Your wife need any help?” A man twice Cordelia’s breadth and a head taller mocked just as Rowan settled, facing the front of the horse. “Your boyfriend like it when you talk to people that way?” She spat back without hesitation, jutting her chin to a man similar in size beside the first one. “Why you little –“ He was silenced by the needle-like tip of a blade resting between his collarbones, the dip of skin showing that she was applying just enough pressure to prove to him its danger. “Next time you wanna prove your toxic masculinity, try proving it to the mermaids.” She pressed a little harder and he stepped back. “Get lost. And hope I don’t find you when my ‘wife’ isn’t here to stop me from killing you both.” The pair disappeared into the crowd and she turned back to Rowan, sheathing the knife in its scabbard by her belt. “Are you all right?” She asked and he nodded weakly, swallowing the terror that swelled in his chest at the threat of danger. “Good,” She said softly, taking the reins for the horse. “Not too far, we can get you a bed and something to eat soon.” He nodded softly, but his attention was on the large body of water splashing over the posts slick with algae and studded with barnacles. Rowan jumped when the horse suddenly stopped and turned to look at Cordelia as she wrapped the reins around a railing. “Please…” He swallowed his whimper and wrung his hands together, purposefully avoiding Cordelia’s gaze as he realised he didn’t want to ask any more of her than he had to. “What’s wrong?” She asked anyway, reaching a hand up to gently tilt his head back in her direction. “Nothing,” He murmured and she raised an eyebrow. “Rowan, tell me what’s wrong,” She demanded gently. She wouldn’t hurt him if he didn’t, but she didn’t want to spend the next week with Rowan hiding his feelings while she’s trying to help him. “Whatever you ask, I may or may not be able to provide it, but it’s better that you try and communicate what you want purely so you relearn that it’s all right to want things.” Rowan swallowed as his instincts told him to remain quiet, but still formed his sentence as his desire to please won out. “I-I’m afraid of being left alone,” He admitted quietly and she nodded understandingly, fingers lingering on his thigh as she considered how to combat his fear. “Of course,” She muttered, eyes scanning the boat rocking in the ocean as if her solution would jump out at her. Surprisingly it did. Rowan yelped as she called out to the ship, her voice carrying over the soft breeze to catch a sailor’s attention. “I won’t leave you for long,” She promised, her voice much softer now. “Once I’ve organised my personal things then I’ll take you to an inn.” Rowan nodded softly, whining softly as the horse shifted idly. “This is Jack,” She said, drawing his attention from the beast to the man approaching them. “He’ll keep you company,” Rowan didn’t want to be left alone with a random stranger. He didn’t want to be separated from Cordelia, full stop. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” She promised. “I’ll keep him safe,” Jack assured her before she ran down the dock towards the gangplank.

“So, how did you come to be in contact with our delightful Cordelia?” Jack asked, attempting to begin a conversation with the skittish creature. “We have a friend in common,” Rowan whispered, hands clutching the saddle until his knuckles went white. “That hunter in the middle of the forest?” Jack continued, unperturbed by the boy’s discomfort. “Heard he’s quite a shot with a bow,” “I wouldn’t know.” Rowan answered softly. “Where are you going?” “To Peter’s.” “You don’t have any luggage?” “No.” The pair sat in silence for a while after that. Jack realised that Rowan wasn’t interested in conversation. And Rowan appreciated it. He tried to quiet his fear every time the horse shifted side to side or tossed its head in exasperation, but without Cordelia’s soothing, it was harder to remain calm when the horse continued to fidget. “It’s all right,” Jack said, breaking the silence for a moment. “He’s just bored,” Rowan didn’t particularly care about the motivation behind the horse’s behaviour, he just wanted it to stop. “You’re not fond of horses, are you?” Rowan felt the twitch in the corner of his eyes as the repressed urge to roll them broke through his well-trained psyche. “No,” He murmured. “Would you be interested in telling me why?” Jack asked, running his hands down the horse’s neck, soothing it slightly. “I-I just don’t trust them,” Rowan whispered. “I don’t know how to ride.” It was easier to say that than to admit the truth. “It’ll be all right,” Jack soothed gently. “It probably doesn’t help, but try not to fidget, they can sense if you’re anxious and they won’t behave themselves,” Rowan swallowed nervously and nodded, willing himself to release the saddle so the horse wouldn’t keep fidgeting. “You’ve got quite a shiner,” Jack said as Rowan finally loosened his grip on the smooth leather. “Cordelia didn’t do that, did she?” Rowan shook his head quickly and lifted a hand to cover it. “No! No, of course she didn’t!” He exclaimed and prodded it softly, instinctively. “I-I was kicked.” “Oof, the bastard got you while you were down, eh?” If only you knew who you were referring to. “H-he did,” Rowan was overjoyed to see Cordelia jogging towards them, a single satchel thrown over her shoulder. “All right,” She panted as she came alongside Rowan and looked up at him. “I’ve arranged for everything to be packed up for me so we’ll be good from tomorrow,” She explained and he nodded softly. “Uh, thanks Jack, we should be good from here,” She smiled and the man nodded. “No worries. Maybe I’ll catch you tomorrow.” He said and smiled at Rowan. “It was nice to meet you.” Rowan knew he was lying.

#whump #medieval whump #my writing #oc #Rowan #Cordelia #abandonment issues #verbal abuse

11 notes · View notes

homenum-revelio-hq · 5 years ago

Photo

Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, V!

You have been accepted for the role of LILY EVANS! We really enjoyed reading your application. We were floored by the sheer beauty at some of the imagery and truly felt something when reading about your Lily. She was unique enough to feel like yours, while also sticking to what we know from canon. We are so excited to have you as part of this roleplay!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME: V

AGE: Twenty five

TIMEZONE: GMT+11

ACTIVITY LEVEL: I work full-time but as I’m on the other side of the world this shouldn’t impact you all too much! I’ll be able to meet the activity requirements for the group.

ANYTHING ELSE: Nope!

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Lily Jane Evans

AGE: Twenty one

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: Cisgender female with she/her pronouns. In terms of sexuality, Lily tends to assume she’s straight. It’s never been something she’s really interrogated, despite how varied her friendship circle can be, although that’s not to say she’s right. Lily prides herself on having insight into every aspect of her life - why not her sexuality? She supposes it’s because since she and James got together, there’s not been much point wondering about anything else. For the most part Lily is straight, but I can see her questioning this a little as the group develops. It would, necessarily, be in counterpoint to her relationship with James, as that’s her frame of reference. But, weirdly, I could see her sharing a kiss with another woman and going, “Oh, that’s nice,” and then never really thinking about it again! So, in short, while Lily’s never actively thought about it, but she’s probably straight.

BLOOD STATUS: Muggleborn

HOUSE ALUMNI: Gryffindor

ANY CHANGES: Nope, everything looks great!

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY:

Lily is, by definition, an optimist. Naturally warm and compassionate, she is a firm believer in treating people with respect and on their own merit. She’s sensitive to the whims of others, and focuses on listening closely when they speak. If there’s anything she knows, it’s that people rarely say what they mean. Too often they hide behind flippant remarks or boisterous behaviour. Or, in the case of Severus, quicksilver smiles and double-meanings. Lily holds each word in the palm of her hand before giving it back, gently, as if it were a robin’s egg. That is not to say Lily is endlessly patient and giving, although for the most part she is. She has a streak of righteousness that is hard to tamp down. It coincides with her ego, which draws breath from the near-constant nice things people have to say about her. Lily is often reassured by the knowledge that she’s likely considered every aspect of a situation more than anyone else, so they really ought to listen to her. When she was younger, this manifested as assertiveness to the point of bossiness, though she’s calmed down a lot in recent years. Lily can still have a tight hold on the reins, but she’s far more likely to hand them over to someone else if she can see they’re capable of doing a better job than her.

Lily doesn’t often lose her temper. She went from pleading with Petunia to trading acerbic remarks with the Marauders, to merely laughing whenever someone tries to insult her. The only way to really get under her skin is to undermine who she is. Lily has a very strong sense of self. She prides herself on being independent, level-headed, and quietly confident and collected in most matters. If she’s close to the end of her tether, logic flies out the window. In lieu of her characteristic diplomacy she’ll trade on emotions, managing to spear the heart of the issue with uncanny accuracy. One harsh side to being insightful is knowing just where to press and for how long. Lily hates that part of her, and dreads confrontation as a result. She would much, much rather keep the peace than let that side see the light of day. Deep down, Lily cares about how she comes across to people and how she’s earned her reputation. To be reckless and throw it all away in the heat of the moment is unnatural to her and quite distasteful.

Lily is remarkably creative. Her mind is ordered, logical, but she has a willfully romantic streak that makes her heart beat fast. Lily cares about the gentle, beautiful things in the world. She takes comfort from small moments: a daisy in a vase, the morning sunlight on warm wood, the smell of chamomile and wool. She often takes the time to center herself and focus on the world around her to act as a reminder. This is what you’re fighting for. This is what matters. For Lily, nothing matters more than personal freedom. To be shackled in any way - emotionally or, as is the threat these days, literally - is beyond words. Lily abhors feeling trapped. That is, perhaps, why she works so hard to make people comfortable with her. She wants them to know that she’ll be there for them, that there is no judgement. She is, in this sense, a good person to come with when you have a problem, as there’s nothing she likes more than trying to fix someone up. It’s a way of giving the illusion of control, even when, sometimes, she feels like she’s in free fall.

As it happens with many people, Lily can come to resent in others what she perceives as simple measures of human decency. For example, she works hard to be understanding and helpful. When others don’t return the favor, she can be wry in return, and will remember it for the future. She holds others to relatively high standards as a result. Lily takes so much time thinking about her own thoughts, actions, and motives, that it’s endlessly frustrating to be around people - like Sirius and, sometimes, James - who just jump in without caring about what comes next. Lily can be as impulsive as anyone else, but if it has the potential to backfire or hurt someone else, she’ll draw the line. In this sense, Lily has a very strong sense of justice. She cares about the dignity of every living thing, and would defend anyone’s rights until her last breath. The only time that wouldn’t be the case is if that person has completely disregarded everyone else in their pursuit. Case in point: Lord Voldemort.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY:

Cokeworth, a city wedged in between Coventry and beneath Northampton and the poorer for it, because people zipped past on the M45-M1 for one or the other, and otherwise completely overlooked that squat, ugly, brown-bricked place that perched on the River Nene like a river rat. It was an industrial place, straight out of Dickens, with a weary, perfunctory air so practiced by housewives with soap-reddened hands and children who cycled to school and spat in the street. The Evans’ lived in a terraced house of identical terraced houses, with a box of flowers beneath the front room window, and a narrow chimney that smoked, without fail, every day of the year, even in summer. The hallway was carpeted with lurid yellow-green flowers - her mother’s concession to 70s style - and the walls hung heavy with photographs of their childhood. Lily and Petunia squinting in the sun on a Yarmouth beach, them in school uniforms, a portrait of their nan. The living room was small but neat; the kitchen, up the back, equally cramped. The door was often propped open to keep the breeze going through, and it opened onto a small paved yard which was big enough for a few flower pots, a washing line, and the outside loo. Upstairs consisted of a bathroom and two bedrooms.

Lily and Petunia had always shared a room. Even when Lily was at school she’d come home every summer and lay awake in that sweltering bedroom, with posters fading on the walls and the windows thrown open to coax any whisper of cool river air. Petunia’s side of the bedroom was immaculate: a painstaking recreation of any teenage magazine, with a dressing table, a vase of dried flowers, a small bookshelf with Enid Blyton and Paddington Bear serials. Lily’s was more chaotic: trinkets cluttering every available surface, clothes strewn on the floor or the foot of her bed, where a game of solitaire lay abandoned. But in the middle of the room, on a small table beneath the double windows, was a record player. And it was there, on the carpet before it, that she and Petunia was lay for hours, sucking sweets and knocking knees, making their sedate way through the hits recommended by Petunia’s group of school chums, all of them giggling and pink-cheeked and mean and members of various clubs or sports teams. Petunia, needless to say, was not sporty, but she was doggedly loyal, and followed those girls around with a martyred, slightly desperate air, that Lily, even at nine, found repugnant. Of course, she didn’t have much to go on. Severus was deeply unpopular, especially among the boys on their estate. Those boys wheeled around chasing dogs or trying to filch cigarettes from uncles or older brothers, and would sail past Severus as he stalked along, calling him names and jeering.

It was boredom that drew Lily to the river bank. Boredom and irritation. Her parents were well-meaning but ordinary people. Her father worked in a factory, and her mother worked in the employment office. They were frugal, clean, conventional. Lily’s father had neat fair hair and a moustache that bristled when he read the news or smoked his pipe. Their mother was a tall, well turned out woman, who cooked tea quickly and efficiently with her hair in rollers. These days, Lily can see the truth: that they had once been young people with no other option but to get married, and so they decided to make the best of it. But when she was a girl they were too nice, too oppressively stupid and boring, that it was all she could do sometimes to stop herself from screaming. Lily wasn’t necessarily a badly behaved kid. She did her homework in front of the television, laying on her stomach with her legs in the air, glancing between her arithmetic and Granada. She ate her greens and helped her mother with the washing. Early on she felt a restless stir. For a long time she was content to lose herself in books or music or television shows, but then, when she was around ten, the itch grew unbearable. She tried wandering the estate but that became impossible - mainly because of the boys, who whistled whenever she walked past - so she went to the places everyone had forgotten or grew tired about: the backs of shops with weeds springing the concrete, a scrubby park with a broken swing-set, and, eventually, the river.

When she received her Hogwarts letter things changed quite dramatically. Lily had to leave her school, which wasn’t too terrible. What was terrible was the falling out with Petunia, who wouldn’t speak to her until the following Christmas, and that was to ask her whether she’d pass the sugar, thank you. In the years that followed Lily stopped thinking of her childhood home as a trap and more of a warren, which, while feeling like a maze, at least ended somewhere, at some point, and so it was only ever a matter of time before she would have escaped. Likely that would have been through marriage, or getting a job, or attending secretarial school, like Petunia. Like all people who have grown up with little, Lily became fiercely protective over her childhood. The other muggleborns had divisions of their own - divisions based on comparatively newer, but no less insidious ideas around class and place. Lily’s Midlands accent, with the lazy vowels and clipped endings, made some of the toffs wrinkle their nose; and one boy who’d boasted about attending Harrow before “all this”, once called her a yampy (that moment was alleviated by another equally horrid boy making a snide remark about Harrow being the homestead of Eton rejects, which drew fire from Lily for at least five minutes). Strangely, it only bolstered Lily’s sense of sense. Yeah, she was poor. And yes, she was a no-hoper from nowhere. But at least she had some bloody integrity about it. Perhaps that was the most important thing her parents ever taught her: pride. Pride in work, school, family. Above all, to have pride in herself. There was nothing those toffs could say that Lily hadn’t thought about herself a hundred times before, anyway.

OCCUPATION:

Trainee, Committee on Experimental Charms, Ministry for Magic.

When Lily left school, she didn’t have a plan. For the first time it felt like she didn’t need to plan three steps ahead. The whole country was gripped with a kind of fever, a remnant of the early part of the decade, where love was free and happiness was contagious. Since then, of course, a war had broken out, Margaret Thatcher became the PM, and Lily wasn’t a girl anymore. Despite that little voice telling her to buckle down, do something useful, she couldn’t resist life in the city, where the men wore platforms and the women glittered in the night. Where music eclipsed her, and she could disappear down muggle warrens without a care in the world. Eventually, however, her parents had a word. It went along the lines of, “Lily, darling,” and, “Come now, poppet, don’t you want to do something useful? Make something of yourself?” And, naturally, Petunia had a few snide remarks to make, about magic and nonsense and the stuff of fairy tales, and, well… Lily might pride herself on standing firm, but it’s a little different when your family’s staring at you over the mashed potatoes, looking all po-faced and Concerned. So, a little under a year of her graduation, Lily applied for an training program at the Ministry. It’s quite possibly the most middle-class job she could imagine, but it’s surprisingly enjoyable. Lily’s natural gift with charms has served her well. She likes it primarily because charms make people’s lives better. A ditty to keep the tea warm? A waggle of your wand to keep the flowers alive? Lily treasures the small moments in life; from her perspective, there’s not enough beauty in the world - it’s fading fast, faster every day - and if she can do even something small to keep spirits up, she’ll do it.

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER:

Once, when she was much younger, Lily might have found the Order a terrible thing. In a voice that sounded a little like her sister’s, she reasoned that anything that disrupted society was by nature dangerous. When she was twelve years old, things changed abruptly. Her parents had never been particularly well-to-do. They were, in fact, from proud working-class stock, the sort to have fifty cups of builder’s tea a day and talk knowledgeably about roof tiles. When the labor strikes started across the country, the tone of their conversations went from cheery to strained. When her father was laid off after twenty five years at the same job, Lily was filled with indignant rage - a rage that simmered for most of the 70s. She studied other labor movements and found within her a kindred tie to all of the men and women who fought for their rights. That soon expanded into any movement for the gain of freedom: miners, women, the queer liberation movement. Lily shouldered their hopes and took it upon herself to lift alongside them.

It should come as no surprise that when Lily found out about the Order, she agreed with it immediately. That decision was made in the heat of the moment - graduation was looming, the world outside was growing darker, and seemed more and more every day that she and her friends were at the mercy of ancient forces well beyond her understanding. Now that she’s been a member for a few years, her attitude has mellowed, matured. Lily’s flash of righteousness has been tempered by cool logic. For her, it’s a melting point of conflicting interests. What about morality, ethics? If the Order act without guidance, doesn’t that make them as bad as the Death Eaters? Lily has a measured, open mind. Capable of holding many viewpoints at once, she is as considerate with these arguments as she is firmly loyal. Though some of her friends - Sirius, mainly - would consider any dissenting viewpoint to indicate disloyalty, that couldn’t be further from the truth. Lily is aware of how damaging zealotry can be; how puritanical ideologies can crush as well as triumph. She believes in discussing each decision, in weighing options and considering each seriously, on its own merit. When she decided to form the Dissendium Task Force, it was with no small amount of thought.

For her, the Task Force represents something larger. It’s a direct address to every strain of bigotry in their society. When she was a girl on the riverbank, Severus by her side, she thought the Wizarding World to be infinitely tolerant and marvelous, a peaceful and enlightened society. Now that she knows differently, Lily doesn’t necessarily think that idyll is impossible. Difficult, certainly, but not beyond the realm of possibility. With Dissendium, the Order, everything, Lily wants to strike at the heart of the problem, to shed light on the complex and overlapping issues that have led them to this moment, to pull away the curtain and speak with the voice of an outsider. Lily has been called many things. But being a muggleborn and a woman has given her insight beyond what her peers are capable of.

Unexpectedly, Dissendium has given life to a different kind of problem. Lily never intended to be the caretaker of anything, but accidentally creating what more or less could be termed a commune was not on her list of things to do. Her immediate issue revolves around Dissendium’s duty of care. How much can she, Marlene, Remus, and Emma do? How much longer can the McKinnons care for all those they’ve rescued? These issues are pressing to Lily - and she can feel the tide within her start to shift. Sometimes it’s all she thinks about. What to do with everyone, how to care for them, to ensure they stay happy enough to make their lives again once all this is over… It’s so much, even with everyone helping her, and though, logically, Lily knows she should fear what this obsession might do to her, she’s blinkered herself. Dissendium, what it represents, means so much. Can’t people see?

SURVIVAL:

Lily is fortunate to have James. She’s not going to deny it. Of course, she would survive without him. Had things been different and they had resisted that insistent tug between them, Lily would have found a way through. Living in London proper is a fool’s game, these days, what with the Death Eater elite swanning around the magical zones. She might have burrowed into a fringe muggle society in a smaller city or town, maybe even with Marlene - or Remus. Lily’s theorised what it might be like to live with Remus, to make a tidy home together, and it’s a remarkably comforting thought. Life with James is a good deal more different than the life she imagined when she graduated. Their townhouse is… big. James likes to go all modest and bluster things like, “Oh, it’s really not bigger than average, really,” and, “Have you seen Alphard’s place? Merlin knows how Sirius doesn’t get lost every bloody day,” but Lily just gives him a deadpan look and he takes the hint. Truth is, it’s a little too large for her. Lily grew up in a two bedroom terraced house in Cokeworth. The type that, until recently, had an outside loo. Living in a townhouse like James’ is, at times, strange. Lily doesn’t know what to do with all the space. The few things she’s left scattered around always seem slightly out of place: a forgotten scarf, a pile of books with the spines broken, a yellow glass cigarette dish she found at Oxfam. In the flat she lived in before - a cramped loft in Coventry, with old factory windows and worn down floorboards - these trinkets were kitsch, intriguing, unusual magpie symbols of a woman with eclectic, slightly old-fashioned tastes. But in the harsh light of James’ house, they’re ugly. Cheap. Once, in a flash of shame, Lily almost threw them all away. She resisted on the basis that though they were cheap and, yes, ugly, they were hers, her own. They had been gathered from the recesses of muggle shops and given to her by her gran, and she loved every single battered lamp, 50s crockery, and disfigured cat statue she owned. They had been warmed by her hands, carefully arranged on windowsills or bookshelves. In a way she hasn’t managed to yet articulate, her things in James’ space is symbolic. Lily feels out of place. She’s just not sure whether it’s bad enough to do anything about it.

RELATIONSHIPS:

Lily needs people. While she likes a measure of solitude to recharge, she needs to be with people, to share thoughts and dreams, to balance one another, to keep each other company. For her, relationships with other people, and especially the Order, are among her priorities. Lily works hard to keep her relationships with other people. If ever she feels something is amiss, she’ll be the first person to address it head on, arms folded, head cocked. Lily is direct. However, she’s not omnipotent. Lily does, occasionally, favor her vision of people over the reality. She’s not totally blind to people’s faults, but she will, almost unconsciously, reinvent and gently manipulate them into something more desirable. A habit of cockiness, for instance, can be turned into confidence; selfishness for independence. Lily has an unwavering ability to see the good and bright in other people, even when they don’t see it themselves. For this reason she can, sometimes, think that everything is going quite well until it really isn’t. In those moments she’s always taken aback: surprised at her own willful ignorance, her tendency to the beautiful over muddy reality. At the moment her relationships are… well, they’ve been better, but they certainly could be much worse. She’s in a happy medium with almost everyone, and it’s not reached a point of crisis enough for her to intervene.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS:

It goes without saying that I see James and Lily together! Having said that, I am more interested in developing a realistic relationship than simply getting them together for superficial purposes. In fact, I would like to explore the more mundane elements of their relationship against the backdrop of war. I have, personally, recently hit a major milestone in my real life relationship, and it prompted me to think back on what those early days were like. The splendor! The excitement! The anxiety! The hitherto hidden insecurity! While Lily knows herself, it’s something else to know yourself in relation to someone else, especially in a romantic sense. Not only that, but she and James are living together. I’d like to see them come to terms with their relationship while balancing the war and Order commitments. Do we really have to argue about the washing up before an Order meeting, etc. That sort of thing! I’ve read Karli’s application and I completely agree when she talks about the darker or more complicated parts of their relationship. I can absolutely see Lily and James clashing over ideology. And if he’s concerned she’s slipping away… I think there could be some truth to that, but it’s not necessarily because of James. If anything, I think there’s a pressure to drop everything to focus on the war effort, and what we know from canon is that James and Lily defied and rejected that on the basis of their love for each other and, eventually, Harry. In those terms I would like to see how they fare in this new world. I am definitely up for breaking them up and getting them back together, or doing basically anything!

In terms of other ships, I also have a real soft spot for Lily/Remus. I think their mutual respect, compatible personalities, and gentle warmth could blossom into something deeper. I’m not sure how it could - if at all - manifest in this group, but I’d be interested to see how Lily would handle it. I think she is intensely devoted and largely monogamous - she is, after all, a pretty traditionally-raised young woman. But I could see her having a moment of stupid desire and not letting herself overthink for just one moment. Of course, she’d overthink the hell out of later, but until then it’d be wild and exhilarating and frightening and I think she might need that, even if it’s only once.

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?

While Lily grew up working class and a woman, she was white and reasonably well-educated. I think, actually, that a defining part of her is the notion of class, especially when she went to Hogwarts. In her world, people like Sirius wouldn’t have crossed her path, except in the form of a character on the television or in a book, or maybe someone she’d pass on the high street (a dash of black silk and tailored trousers; an air of arrogance and ownership). Even, to an extent, James. Aside from their compatible personalities, that’s probably why Lily resonates so much with Remus, and I definitely think Peter, as well. She senses the underdog in people and is drawn to them because of it. Her interest in working class or other labor movements positions her strongly in the context of the Order and especially Dissendium. She is so finely attuned to bigotry, regardless of its shape and creed.

I actually see Lily, especially when she was younger, as being very sharp to people like Sirius and James. She would have clocked them immediately for who they are: rich boys with nothing to lose. I think that helps explain a lot of her early (canon) animosity towards them both; though this would be directed at James, possibly because she was attracted to him. Over time that has mellowed and she’s not at sharp-tongued as she once was, but Lily’s still sensitive to any passing comments that could construed a certain way, and she’d be the first to dryly point out someone’s privilege.

That being said, Lily’s certainly not without fault. That old sense of self-righteousness and martyrdom can creep in whenever she’s not careful, and I think it’s at those moments that she’s the most unbearable, like someone who’s willfully blind to their own issues because it suits their argument. I think just as Lily has a notion about other people that she prefers to uphold, she also views herself in a similarly flattering light, and would prefer to live in that space than be fallible and human. I think, actually, that Lily might sometimes struggle with authenticity. It is possible, after all, to be so giving and genuine that you give the impression of insincerity, and while I don’t see it happening often, I would not be surprised if another character perceived her interest to be slightly self-serving. Lily identifies strongly with her position as an underdog, and I think that comes out in strange ways.

In terms of blood status, it’s self evident that Lily is a target in this game and, of course, in canon. She would not, under any circumstances, take any shite for being muggleborn. Largely, I think she’d prefer to be direct but polite about the whole thing, or to make an off-hand joke to alleviate the situation. But she definitely would not let anyone have a go at her. That’s possibly where she clashes the most with other people. Sometimes when you’re so sensitive to something, you take any opportunity to teach someone the error of their ways. Lily would certainly see herself as an educating figure, someone who by default has the moral high ground. I can see why Sirius, potentially, might find that irritating, or would call her out on it.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO?

I was drawn to this roleplay largely because it ticked all my boxes. Emphasis on development and writing? Genuine desire to explore characters and throw them into all sorts of nonsense? A solid admin team and interesting writers? I haven’t roleplayed on for a while, so this is a little new to me. That being said, I feel excited and confident to write Lily in the context of this group, so long as you forgive any stupid mistakes I might make!

PLOT DROP IDEAS:

This application is already so long! So I’ll cut it short and say yes, I absolutely have ideas. I’d like particularly to explore Lily and Dissendium further, and I’d like to see questions of ethics arise within the Order. Lily’s at a place to really push everyone to think about their motivations for being in the Order beyond “fighting evil”, and I think that could prove valuable to several characters. Oh! And I would love to think/write more about Lily’s past and where she’s come from. I’ve done a lot of research into the Midlands and the sort of vibe she would be grown up with, and let me say, I have an absolute arsenal of period/region appropriate slang for you all.

ANYTHING ELSE?: I have thrown together some things on a mockblog for Lily, but it’s all over the place/untagged/generally a shambles. I wanted to collate images that reminded me of Lily and Cokeworth and the 70s in general. You can find it here.

#harry potter rp #harry potter roleplay #marauders era rpg #marauders rp #marauders era rp #homenumaccepted

3 notes · View notes