#gif: the rescuers

[isakrueger]

Madame Medusa 💎

The Rescuers (1977)

[adventurelandia]

The Rescuers Down Under (1990)

[magickingdom1901]

| The Rescuers (1977) Dark Era

[thorinsbeard]

A movie for every year since I was born: The Rescuers Down Under(1990)

[balu8]

The Rescuers (1977) directed by Wolfgang Reitherman; John Lounsbery and Art Stevens

Walt Disney

Favorite of mine.

[entrehormigones]

[animatedglittergraphics-n-more]

[red-smiley-face]

Thinking the one shot in the ending song of "Rescuer in Orange" might be a visual reference to a scene from the movie, "Daigo of Fire Company"? So made gifs to plead my case.

[fayes-fics]

Lessons In Roleplay

Lessons Series Masterpost

Pairings: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader (threesome)

Summary: The boys roleplay dastardly highwayman and rescuer.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, MMF threesome, d/s dynamics, roleplay, CNC play, gunplay, slightly rough vaginal sex, dirty talk, cuckolding play, mention of breeding, oral sex (f to m), blow job, spitroast, orgasms, aftercare.

Word Count: 4.8k

Authors Note: This is a request fill for the amazing @colettebronte, asking for some roleplay in the Lessons universe. How could I say no to that? She chose which role the boys would play. Beta read by the amazing @sorryallonsy. Gif by @captainbucky-yt. The image is not particularly relevant to the story, but they both look delicious. Enjoy! <3

“Do you really think a highwayman might have seen us?”  you query, your head resting on Anthony’s chest as he strokes your hair idly. “Yesterday, in the carriage,” you clarify as Benedict lifts his head from your belly and shoots you a querying eyebrow.

You are all lying together, entwined in post-coital bliss, under a large oak on their country estate on a beautiful summer day. The day after your eventful carriage ride here with them.

Anthony’s responding chuckle vibrates under you. “Tis possible, my sweet girl,” he opines lazily, using his other hand to shield his eyes from the sun cutting through the leaves above.

Your thoughtful mien has Benedict pushing up onto his hands and hovering over you, his hazy eyes observing you with a knowing quirk on his lips. 

“I think our girl likes that idea,” he intuits, always correct in his ability to read you.

“I would prefer one of you be my robber, not a stranger,” you confess, smiling when they grab one of your hands each.

“If that is what the lady wishes….perhaps such a thing can be arranged,” Benedict opines silkily,  lacing your fingers with his. “Can it not, brother?”

“What are you thinking?” Anthony hums, bringing your hand to his face.

“Perhaps the old phaeton in the stable can be put to good use?” Benedict suggests, lowering himself to kiss down your ribs. “I do not see why we could not steal away somewhere within the grounds and make our sweet girl's wish come true. One of us can play the dastardly highwayman lurking by the roadside as she rides by…” he trails off, getting distracted by the softness of your skin, dropping kisses onto your belly now.

“...And one of you could play my rescuer who draws up upon horseback?” you supply, a little breathless at the images already tumbling through your mind as their lips trace over your skin.

They both chuckle at that, Anthony dropping a kiss on your forehead and Benedict onto your hipbone.

“I am more than certain that could be arranged,” Anthony confirms, an admiring twinkle in his eye as you twist to look up at him. “This evening, in fact…”

“But which would you be, my lord?”

“What do you want of me, my girl? Do you want me to be the gallant hero?” he questions, his fingers tracing your cupid’s bow before sliding between your lips; his fingers still tart with your arousal as he presses upon your tongue. “Or the man who will hold you up? Whose demands you will need to submit to? To plead to spare your life?”

“The latter,” your reply muffled around his questing fingers, a frisson low in your belly that he may fuck you by the roadside in the dead of night.

“Then I shall ride in to rescue you,” Benedict affirms, his fingers flexing between yours as you now look down at him, his chin resting low upon your stomach.

“But not too soon…” you appeal with a wink, “and I think my rescuer should help me with my pleasure too, no?”

They both laugh knowingly at that. 

“Your wish is my command….” Benedict offers, nudging this nose into your belly, which now fizzes with excitement about the night ahead.

—

You dress in a delicate cerulean blue silk gown that clings like liquid satin to your bare skin, foregoing any underwear, as is so often your preference when playing with your boys. Your outfit is topped off with sparkling sapphires and diamonds draped around your neck and wrists, no doubt priceless heirlooms from the vault Anthony holds on the property.

The hallway clock softly chimes midnight just as you steal out of the servant's entrance, meeting Benedict in the courtyard by the stables, already standing ready with a horse and a small, buggy-type carriage.

“You look beautiful,” he remarks, flattery just falling from him as ever. “I assume you know how to steer a phaeton?” he checks as you draw up to him, the moonlight throwing his face into handsome relief.

You nod, and he moves aside to assist you in climbing into the simple open-top carriage with an exchange of smiles.

“You remember where to go, correct?” His voice is soft as he hands you the reins. 

“Down past the lake, take the left fork, follow the hedgerow until the thicket of trees,” you parrot the agreed directions from earlier. You can only assume Anthony is already lying in wait for you there.

Benedict nods, and then his demeanour changes, leaning in, a hand curling around your neck.

“Be careful out there, my sweet. Highwaymen may lurk,” he warns, slipping effortlessly into his heroic character. 

“Perhaps a kiss for good luck upon my journey…. ?” you coquette, enjoying the way his pupils dilate.

He sweeps you into an all-consuming kiss that makes your heart pound and your body tingle, his tongue warm and insistent over yours.

“Good luck, my fair lady,” he exhales as you part, taking a step back to bow with a flourish.

You giggle and shake the reins to take off, elated your evening adventure has begun.

—

It is less than five minutes later when you arrive at a copse of trees, the bright new moon illuminating the fields around you as you slip under the shadows of the mighty oaks on either side of the track. 

“STAND AND DELIVER!!” 

A loud, clear voice rings out as you slow your horse to a stop, belly aflutter with anticipation. Emerging from behind a tree is a tall figure dressed in a black shirt and trousers, and as he draws nearer, you see a familiar, handsome face disguised behind a simple black mask. 

Anthony.

You gasp as his leather-gloved hand draws a gun from his waistband and points it at you, blood running hot at his complete commitment to the roleplay.

“I have nothing to offer you, thief!” 

Your protest is exaggerated but triumphant as his gaze falls to your decolletage, swelling with each exaggerated breath, your neckline scooped intentionally low.

“Get down at once, and perhaps I will spare your life, for I know you lie,” he counters, “those jewels around your neck, I wager, are worth more than my entire house….”

In your eagerness, you stumble slightly as you climb down from the carriage, and strong hands grasp your waist and right your stance on the ground.

“Unhand me, ruffian!” 

Your theatrics are met with a flicker of tacit approval across his face.

“Not until those jewels are mine, fair lady!” highwayman Anthony contends, a predatory smile that has his teeth glowing in the low light, his firm grip upon you flexing.

“Please… I'm sure you are a reasonable man,” you change tack, still heaving breaths. “I simply cannot give you these jewels. They are too precious to me. They are a gift from my love.”

Framed by the mask, his dark eyes flash possessively, and there is a slip of softness in his expression as you say such words, knowing the truth behind them. 

But then his tongue pokes out, licking his incisor almost menacingly. One of his hands bands behind your back, yanking you flush against his firm body.

“Do you really think you are in any position to negotiate, my fair lady?” he withers.

Your heart quickens as he places the cold barrel of the gun to your temple. 

“It is not loaded,” he whispers, a warmth behind your ribs as he breaks character for a split second of reassurance before his expression is back to flinty. 

“Please….” you implore.

He ignores you, crowding you backwards into the side of the carriage, the shiny lacquered wood of the wheel spokes digging into your spine. Once trapped, the hand around your waist moves to grasp your necklace, his leather glove cold on your breastbone.

“Take this off, or I will,” he orders; it’s a resonant threat that vibrates right into your body.

“Then you shall have to, for I will not!” you spit out, struggling against him for good measure, wanting nothing more than for him to rip the jewels from your body. And then your dress.

Just as promised, he is a little rough as he manhandles you, spinning you around so your breasts are pressed into the side of the phaeton, the unmistakable heat of his arousal on your tailbone as he leans into you. 

He yanks off his gloves with his teeth and brushes your hair aside, unclasping the necklace and slowly tugging one end so it falls off behind you. A frisson runs the length of your spine as his bare fingers trail down slowly over both of your arms to your wrists and flick open the hinges on the bangles there, removing them too.

“These jewels are beautiful, my lady,” he concedes, pocketing them, “but I demand more…”

“Please, brute, you have taken all I can give you!”

“Oh, but that is not true…” he rumbles hotly into the nape of your neck. 

You gasp as a hand cups between your legs through your thin dress. 

“Your greatest treasure is the only one I cannot take with me….” 

He ruts himself into you, intent unmistakable, as his fingers curl into the fabric. The softness of the silk over your already throbbing clit has you biting your lip.

“No, please, let me go…” 

You amp up your performance, pushing back into him, looking over your shoulder with a fiery challenge that belies your words.

“I demand satisfaction!” 

With that, he kicks your feet apart, rucking up your dress until you feel the cool night air swirling around your buttocks and between your legs. Then there is a pause as his hand travels up your naked flesh, a hungry noise escaping his lips as he buries his nose into your hair, 

“Perhaps I misjudged…” he rasps, words huffing warm over your scalp. “No stockings. Nor underwear. You are far from a lady….”

“How dare you!” 

You struggle again in his grip, loving the way his hold gets more insistent, moaning loudly as his fingers curl into your folds, already leaking profusely from the moment he emerged from the trees.

“Shut up,” he gruffs, dropping the gun into the carriage in front of you. “The more you struggle, the more I will take.”

This play already has you desperate for him, blood boiling with pure want as his fingers tease your clit.

“No, you beast, I shall not give in…” 

Your objection sharpens his resolve, the wool of his trousers chafing the back of your thighs as he rapidly yanks open his britches one-handed. 

Your cry echoes around the tree canopy as his rigid cock roughly ploughs into your pussy from behind, the force rocking you up onto your tiptoes. The sheer stretching invasion has you grabbing the carriage for leverage, wanting to voice your approval but too committed to the role you inhabit to allow yourself.

“Please, mister, no!” 

You twist to meet his eye, silently begging for him to go fast and hard, take you mercilessly as you pretend this is not every wish you had for this night. Loving the feel of his fingertips curling around the crest of your hips, readying to take you hard. 

And then he does—pulling out almost entirely, then ploughing back into you harshly. Immediately setting a nearly punishing rhythm, the dirt beneath your silk shoes crunching under your foot as you rock with his motions, you calling out loudly with each jolt.

“Quiet, or I will spank you,” he warns, his face wild, even obscured behind his mask.

That’s an open invitation you are not going to refuse.

“Stop!” you yell, goadingly.

There is a stinging slap across your buttock that has you lurching, your head lolling down, a huge, unseen smile claiming your lips, little sparks of fire radiating from the point of contact, a beeline right for your clit.

“No more!” you pant, staring at the ground and rocking back into his snapped thrusts, wrenching a moan from you with every move, his cock a delicious heavy weight cleaving you open, as it always is. You could never tire of this feeling, when he takes you so hard you can only cling on for dear life.

“All I heard is more, fair lady,” he laughs darkly and spanks again, your other cheek this time, a matching handprint you feel glowing.

You pitch forward and teeth the carriage as he fucks you. His moves are harsh, grunting with each thrust. You bite down, knowing the dental imprint you leave will be a great source of pride for him, a lasting memento of just how untamed he can make you.

“Tell me you want this!” He demands, grabbing your throat and yanking you backwards, your spine flush to his front, speared deep onto his cock as he stills.

“Never!” 

His hand spanks you again so forcefully your eyes roll back. He withdraws slowly, then thrusts up so deep your toes leave the ground, him supporting all of your weight. It’s always so wonderful to feel like a rag doll in his arms when he is like this, speared open, utterly malleable to his onslaught.

Suddenly, movement catches the corner of your vision, and you look askance to see Benedict approaching, shirt billowing in the wind as he rides his galloping horse majestically across the moonlit field toward you. His horse whinnies as he dismounts in an athletic leap, bounding towards you.

“UNHAND HER AT ONCE!” 

His voice is a bellow the likes of which you have never heard from his before. It makes you clench reflexively around his brother’s cock, and you wonder how much jealousy is behind the following line that Anthony sneers.

“It appears you have a rescuer, my lady. How entertaining. Who is he?” Anthony demands, spinning you around to face Benedict while still buried inside you.

“My husband,” you improvise provocatively, pushing back into Anthony.

It’s not something you had discussed with them for the roleplay, merely that Benedict would be your rescuer. But the look of unbridled desire that engulfs his face as you bestow him as such for this scene makes your lungs catch, his whole body puffing out with pride. 

“Get. Your. Hands. Off. My. Wife.” 

Each word is its own sentence, his voice dripping with possession and intent, inhabiting outrage so perfectly.

“Too late,” Anthony snarls back. “I am already inside her, and she is thoroughly enjoying it. Her smart mouth may protest, but she is positively flooding over me.” 

That triumphant verbal swipe makes you stutter. Evidently, Anthony has been taking notes from his poetic, dirty-talking younger brother, who stands before you now, a quake in his being that could be a husband’s rage, but you know to be pent-up desire—his gaze trained on your exposed lower half.

“Wrong…” Benedict growls, taking a large step forward, pressing into your front so you are sandwiched between them. Your very favourite place to be. “She may be drenched, but you are not the cause, merely the beneficiary.” 

Benedict’s sizeable right hand curls into the hair at the nape of your neck as he stakes his claim on you with his words and deeds: drawing you into a plundering kiss, the outline of his cock growing harder, pressing hot into your belly, before he breaks away to continue speaking. 

“She is my obedient little one,” he proclaims, cupping your jaw to make you stare up at him, even as Anthony’s cock rocks deeper into your pussy, challenging his claim. “As soon as she so much as scents me in her periphery, she is dripping down to her dainty ankles. And that is why she is mine. My wife.” 

Benedict’s resonant cadence vibrates your chest and has you swaying, desperate for him as well. You feel Anthony twist a fraction to grab something from the carriage behind him, still rock hard inside you. 

“Do you forget, Sir, who has the true weapon here? Anthony challenges.

The cold barrel of the gun is pressed to your temple again. 

You mouth the words not loaded to Benedict, and he responds in kind, I know, before stepping back and holding his hands up in faux capitulation. 

“Please,” Benedict changes tack, “take our jewels, but please do not harm my wife…”

You are enthralled by this—the planning they must have done together to execute this and how effortlessly they both inhabit their characters. A collaboration that speaks to their growing acceptance of each other as equals in this dynamic. Even though you can see the lines blurring as they goad each other within the roleplay, spectres of their past power dynamic, where Anthony would taunt Benedict with you, setting rules that always gave him the upper hand.

“I have already ruined her,” Anthony smirks, thrusting once for good measure and making you moan before stilling again. “But I shall offer you a deal…”

“Anything…” Benedict pleads, utterly convincing now as the distressed, cuckolded husband.

“You may watch me fuck her, plant my seed in her, and I will be happy to leave empty-handed.” 

“Or…?” Benedict prompts, sensing an alternative.

“You may join me in taking her. I will not seed her, but I will depart with every single one of your jewels,” Anthony declares, nodding to Benedict’s ring on his little finger.

“Wife…. I shall let you choose.” Benedict's eyes scoot to you, still embodying his role, but his gaze pleading to let him in on the fun.

Silently, you hold out your hand to him, inviting him in. He takes it, bringing it to his lips and kissing your knuckles briefly in reassurance. 

“You have a deal, highwayman,” Benedict concedes to Anthony, pointedly removing his signet ring and handing it over your shoulder.

Anthony pulls out of you, making you whine at the loss, a droplet of wetness trickling down your thigh as he spins you around to face him. 

“I think your wife should be naked, would you not agree?” Anthony posits, his fingers trailing your scooped neckline to the swell of your breast as he gives an order: “Undress her for me.”

Wordlessly, you feel Benedict plucking at the buttons over your spine. As they relent, he moves to tug the slackened fabric down off your torso, and the blue silk flutters to the ground, a shiver running over your skin as a cool breeze swirls around your naked body. 

Anthony sucks in a breath, taking a half-step back, his eyes raking covetously over your naked skin. 

“You permit your wife to parade in public without any undergarments?” he chides, his tone dripping with judgment.

“Permit her?” Benedict chuckles, bemused.

You inhale sharply as he wraps an arm around you, hauling you snugly backwards into his frame, his long fingers then spidering down your lower belly, right into your damp slit. 

“I veritably insist upon it,” he gloats. “And she is more than keen…”

His teeth catch your earlobe as you whimper and writhe on his touch, little sparks of pleasure pinging around your body. 

“Always so ready for me, are you not, my darling wife?” 

You twist to meet his gaze as you nod obediently, and he rewards you with a crooked smile and a light pinch to your engorged clit that makes you cry out for him, punctuating his point. You yearn for him to take you roughly, needing this husband version he plays so well to claim you as his. 

“You are a lucky man, betrothed to such an eager little vixen,” Anthony concedes, staring you down, provocatively wiping his lip with his thumb, hunger barely contained as he watches you ride his brother's fingers. “Perhaps she can lick clean the mess she made of me while you take your pleasure?” he adds casually.

“I will do it,” you volunteer brightly, almost preemptively, and far too enthusiastically for being held ‘hostage’.

“Come now, sweet girl, at least try to act as if you are mildly perturbed by our predicament…” Benedict deadpans genially, his fingers stilling as he breaks character, and Anthony chuckles, looking equally entertained by your outburst.

“Sorry…” you whisper over a giggle, and it earns you a quick kiss on the cheek from both of them, their eyes glittering with amusement. “Please continue…” 

Benedict slides his fingers out from between your legs, you whining from the loss. But you soon quieten as you realise he is unbuttoning his trousers, knuckles brushing your bottom as he peels them open just enough to free himself, veritably pulsing for the promise of his cock too.

“Bend over and suckle him, wife,” he orders, back in his role, knowing how much you adore detailed filthy instruction from him.

“Yes, husband,” you demure, lowering yourself as requested, widening your stance as you do so—a blatant invitation for him to take you.

“What an excellent, obedient thing,” Anthony observes, his hand gliding into your hair as you peel his trousers open further, pressing your face into his crotch before sucking his tip between your lips, glazed with your arousal.

“She’s a wonder,” Benedict concurs.

Anthony’s fingers flex on your scalp, and his thumb rounds your jaw to pull down your chin, opening you wider. He thrusts into your mouth; your hands cling to his muscular thighs as his tip nudges the roof of your mouth, tongue pressed into his underside. 

He groans loudly, your tastebuds flooded with your tart juices and a bead of his salty precum. He withdraws then drives back in, nudging deeper this time, knowing it always makes you mindless, his grip solid on your head as he starts to fuck into your mouth. It has you squirming with supplicant need, begging Benedict silently for his cock, too, as he teases your slit, grinding his head over your clit.

Your call is entirely muffled around Anthony as Benedict finally takes pity on you, thrusting deep into your pussy, in one rapid, forceful move. Both ends of your body are utterly invaded, one of your favourite places to be, a carnal loop of pleasure that only they can provide. Anthony’s hands are heavy on your scalp as Benedict's grasp your hips almost punishingly tight—something so thrilling about you being bent over entirely naked between their clothed bodies. They work together to ensure maximum pleasure for you, intuiting your needs, Anthony withdrawing just as you need to draw breath but always keeping you singing with need, his cock something to muffle your noises, to suckle upon as they both drive you higher.

You sag into their hold, relying on them to keep you balanced, pliant to the push and pull of your being between these men as they use you just as you want them to. Entirely possessed by them, played expertly by both as if an instrument for all of your mutual pleasure. Always intuiting your needs, Benedict reaches down, pulling your arms backwards flush with the sides of your body, twining his fingers in yours, a possessive hold that means you have no purchase to prevent Anthony’s thrusts into your mouth. 

Benedict’s pace builds slowly, his cock grinding all those places deep inside only they can reach. His thrusts that cleave you open timed perfectly, his fingers curled over the pulse point on your wrist, syncopating his movements with each beat of your heart.

Anthony groans, causing his cock to vibrate as it passes through the tight ring of your lips. The tingle has you moaning too, a call and response that notches things higher.

“I will not last,” Anthony grits out, teeth clenched, his fingernails digging into your scalp, his thrusts into your mouth urgent now, barely allowing you any reprieve.

“Do as you will…” Benedict grunts, his noises guttural as you clench around him, a vice that has him dropping your wrists, sensing how close you are, too. One of his hands grabs your hip roughly as the other ploughs into your slit, catching your swollen, throbbing clit.

He changes angle to spear deeper, harsher, and you scream around Anthony’s cock, which fills your mouth now, breathing harshly through your nose as he uses you mercilessly.

“Look at me,” Anthony commands, grabbing your head to tilt your face upwards, his cock tip grinding the roof of your mouth, your hands again on his wool trousers for leverage as you stare wide-eyed up at his handsome face, angular and determined.

“So fucking beautiful,” he croaks, his thumb rounding to blot the tear forming in the corner of your eye from not wanting to blink. 

“Better and more priceless than any jewel,” Benedict taunts, still impressively embodying his role, each word heaved over a breath, “and all mine.”

The possession with which he growls that last word, plunging harder than he ever has, is the catalyst for all of you. The vibration of your scream around Anthony’s cock as Benedict glances at your hilt is what tips him over. A heavy pulse travels up the length of his cock, and his fingernails cirls into your scalp as he comes, a salty rope splashing into your throat that you swallow reflexively as Benedict's fingers and cock send you over the edge, your vision whiting out, as your whole body convulses, strong hands bandying around you to hold you upright as your knees almost give out, everything in your snapping taut as you come so hard you swear stars dance before your eyes. With an almost howl, Benedict roughly pulls out of your convulsing pussy, a warmth splashing over your lumbar spine as you all pant loudly.

Before you are fully cognisant, strong arms pull you into an embrace. You recover, caged by Benedict, his chest warm against your spine as he murmurs sweet words in your ear. In front of you, Anthony refastens his trousers, pulling the gems from his coat pocket, still impressively in character.

“I shall greatly enjoy the spoils of this evening,”  he taunts, holding them up so they sparkle in the moonlight. “But, if you should ever wish to share your wife again, you know where to find me…”

“How do you know I will not tell others of your location? Force you to move your despicable, criminal activities elsewhere?” Benedict counters as you drowsily enjoy their little theatrical, continuing purely for your amusement.

“Because of the way your wife is looking at me…” Anthony crows, stepping forward again to run a finger over your chin and swollen, darkened lips as he repockets the loot. “As if she wishes to ride away with me as much as she wishes to remain with you.” 

He draws you in for a fierce, possessive kiss, you gasping heavily, pliant under his invasion, still dazed from your orgasm. 

“Perhaps one day, if you are a good little thing for me, you could even earn your jewels back…” Anthony contends. “Until then, I bid you adieu…” he signs off, bowing, then turning heel and disappearing into the night.

—

A few minutes later, Anthony saunters back from bridling the additional horse onto the phaeton. Himself again, the roleplay scene over.

“Our poor girl cannot wear this; 'tis too caked in dirt and mud now,” he rues, no trace of the menacing highwayman to be found in his tone as he scoops your trampled dress up from the dirt track.

“We will just have to keep her warm for the ride back, brother,” Benedict advocates.

Anthony hums in agreement, chivalrously whipping off his shirt and helping you into it with affectionate kisses. After a quiet spell in their joint embrace - always your favourite place to recover from such vigorous adventures - they both tenderly assist you up into the carriage, arranging you snugly between them upon the simple bench seat. Both wrap their free arm around you as they grab a horse rein each. You burrow into their comforting presence as the carriage trundles away at a leisurely pace.

“Did you enjoy our roleplay, my girl?” Anthony checks, tone laden with affection, as Benedict turns to kiss your forehead tenderly.

“Yes, you were both so wonderful, exactly as I had hoped and more. Thank you,” you sigh contentedly, nuzzling into them both in turn.

“I cannot wait to hear of your other fantasies, sweet girl. I assume you have many more,” Benedict guesses, accurate as always.

“I am rather taken by the idea of adventure on the high seas with two swashbuckling buccaneers…” you confess, even as you have to stifle a yawn, the sway of the carriage and their warmth soporific.

“Well, after you have had some good rest, my darling girl, perhaps I will seek out our grandfather’s cutlass…” Anthony offers as he laughs genially.

You perk up, and your head pings between them. “Is that a promise?”

“Most definitely,” they answer in unison, two pairs of amused, sparkling eyes meeting yours as the beauty of Aubrey Hall hones into view in your periphery.

You cannot wait.

Anthony & Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @ferns-fics @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23

[feirceangel]

Imagine | Saved (Sanji)

Imagine being attacked by a bandit and begging a stranger for help.

Word Count: 1470

Warnings: hurt/comfort

(Not my gif!)

~

Another kick was aimed at your stomach, stars splattering across your vision as you wheeze with pain.

“Learned your lesson yet, bitch?!” The bandit screams as he levels another kick, this time aimed at your back. “This’ll teach ya to talk back!”

You try to fight back tears at the onslaught of kicks but the pain is unlike any you’ve felt before.

All you had done was tell the man to stop harassing some kids who were playing in the street. They weren’t hurting anyone by playing outside, but this ruffian had taken offence when their ball rolled too close to him.

Instinct had taken over before you could think rationally, and you leapt out in front of the children. Hands splayed wide, you demanded that he leave the kids alone.

He obviously didn’t care for that.

And now here you are, splayed on the dirt, crying hot tears as waves of pain wrack your body.

Some of the townsfolk are watching on the sidelines, too afraid to move.

You meet their eyes, silently begging for help. They glance away. The people you’ve known for years and years, who you’ve helped countless times, they look away from your suffering.

That is enough to break your heart as the bandit breaks your body with another swift kick.

Struggling, you slowly start to crawl away. You’re determined to at least try and escape. The odds may be against you but that doesn’t mean you can give up.

Dirt scrapes your chin as you use your sore arms to drag yourself away from your attacker. He laughs at you pathetic attempt, launching into more verbal assaults. His words fall on deaf ears, your only focus on crawling away.

Your ribs sting sharply with every breath you take, your head pounding in time with your erratic heartbeat. Your hot breath blows clouds of dust with each inch you gain, and you can feel bruises forming where he kicked you so brutally.

Before you can struggle further away, a pair of black shoes comes to rest in front of you. You follow the shoes upwards to see legs and then a blond man in a black suit.

He has a cigarette perched between his lips, his expression displaying a disturbing lack of emotion.

You reach out, taking his boot in your hands and dragging yourself closer to the stranger.

You ignore the taunts of the bandit behind you, focusing on the man before you. His deep eyes meet your gaze.

“Please.. help me,” you beg.

Unable to lift your head anymore, you place your cheek atop his boot.

You hear him inhale deeply, followed by the soft thud of a cigarette falling to the dirt, then a rustle of fabric.

He crouches down and gently lifts your head. You’re shocked when he slides his suit coat under your head as a makeshift pillow.

“Of course I’ll help you, darling,” he says, his voice filled with an intense kindness that has you tearing up again.

You watch as he turns from you, his kindness disappearing in an instant as he faces your attacker.

You shiver at the intensity of his anger as he glares at the bandit.

“How dare you hurt her,” he says stepping forwards. “Swine like you shouldn’t even gaze upon such beauty.”

Pain momentarily forgotten, you watch as he tucks his hands in his pockets before raising his right leg.

“You think I’m scared of you?! My bounty is-“

The bandit doesn’t get to finish his bragging.

The blond’s foot moves faster than you can track, hitting the man with a sickening thud that sends him flying into a nearby building.

Astonished, you watch as the bandit struggles to stand up. He’s sweating now, realizing that this stranger is much more powerful than him. He shakes his head as the blond approaches.

“You’re misunderstanding-“

Your rescuer tsks, “It’s too late to grovel.”

The bandit tries to turn and run now that the tables have turned, but the blond is too fast. He brutally kicks the man back into the rubble without hesitation.

“Please-“

Blood sprays into the sky as he directs a kick at the bandit’s jaw.

You hear a sickening crack and watch him fall lifelessly to the dirt with a thump.

Mouth dry, you watch nervously as the suited man walks back to your side. He kneels down, eyes full of concern, the anger having dissolved right after he fell the bandit.

“Mademoiselle, are you alright? Where are you hurt?”

“Thank you,” you manage to breathe out. The pain has returned full force now that the adrenaline has worn off. It makes your vision swim with tears so you close your eyes. You shouldn’t be feeling embarrassed but you can’t help the swell of emotion from rising up.

This handsome stranger just saved your life when no one else would.

“You need a doctor,” the man states, not mentioning your tears as he glances up at the crowd. “Is there a doctor here?!”

“N-no,” a voice in the crowd replies.

Frowning, he returns his focus on you, “I’ll take you to our ship doctor, he can help.”

He hesitates for a second, before taking you in his arms. He tries not to jostle your wounds, guessing that at least a few of your ribs are broken.

The agony of being moved makes you cry out, clutching the fabric of his shirt as he lifts you bridal-style.

“I’m sorry, darling, I know it hurts. You’re doing so well,” his voice is soft, soothing.

You don’t even know this man, and yet you feel so safe in his embrace. His kind words of encouragement bring another bout of tears, as he begins walking.

After what feels like an eternity being held in his warm embrace, you reopen your eyes as you are gently set down.

Your saviour moves away from you, as a reindeer-like creature starts fussing over your injuries and asking questions. You can’t focus on anything except the man lighting a cigarette. He takes a long drag and lowers a hand down to his side.

Against your better judgement, you reach out and clasp his free hand.

“Please don’t leave,” you croak out, now surrounded by more unfamiliar faces as the rest of the crew checks out the commotion you’ve caused.

He pauses and you’re certain you’ve made a mistake. But that thought is squashed as he steps closer to you, “Of course.”

~

You must’ve passed out at some point.

Opening your eyes, you already feel much better. Your chest is bandaged and your headache gone, though it still hurts to breathe too deeply.

You glance to the side and see your rescuer seated beside the bed. He appears to be sleeping.

Shuffling slightly, you turn to get a better look at him. You’ve only just realized that he has curly eyebrows and a small goatee.

His eyes open and you are quick to avert your gaze.

“Are you feeling better?” He asks immediately, sitting up straighter.

You nod, “Yes, thank you.”

“I was worried, but Chopper said you only have two broken ribs and lots of bruising. You’ll want to rest for a few weeks.”

“Broken ribs sound about right.”

He tilts his head downwards, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there in time.”

“What do you mean? You saved my life,” you try to sit up but the sharp pain reminds you that you need rest. “I’d be dead without you.”

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he raises his head again.

“Who are you? I want to know the name of my rescuer,” you ask, smiling a bit.

“Sanji,” he replies, finding himself lost in your grateful eyes.

“Sanji, my knight in shining armour,” you take his hand again. “Thank you.”

“And your name?”

You supply your name and he echoes it with a smile.

“I’m glad I could help you.“

Replaying the events in your head you suddenly realize something.

“You called me beautiful.”

His face flushes red at your sudden statement.

“No one’s ever called me that,” your eyes start to tear up again. “You’re the sweetest man I’ve ever met.”

He nearly melts at your words, face completely red now. Before he can utter a reply, the reindeer guy returns.

“Are you ok?! Don’t move, you broke some ribs so you need rest to get better!”

You smile at his fretting, “I’m alright now thanks to you.”

Sanji smiles as you reassure the doctor that you’re ok. Leaning back, he lets Chopper do his thing as he smokes.

He can’t help but wish that he made the bandit suffer a bit more when he sees you wince in pain. And he doesn’t let himself think about what would have happened had he not been walking down that particular street.

Fate was in your favour today.

[adventurelandia]

The Rescuers Down Under (1990)

[hold-on-a-little-longer-whump]

May I also contribute:

MacGyver (original 1985)

Specifically, the episode To Be a Man (s1e17)

My favorite wester trope! The Angel and the Badman - a collection

The original Angel and the Badman - 1947

The Naomi Watts Version: The Outsiders (2002)

The One With the 45yr old woman in a curly wig Angel and the Badman - (2009)

The Really religious one The Redemption of Henry Myers (2014)

Bonus: Badman adjacent ↓

Civil Love (2012) (one of my favorites)

War Flowers -(2012)

Disclaimer: I'm in no way suggesting any of these movies are good, well acted, or well produced. But ...

[babyblue711]

Loyalty

Aemond Targaryen (HOTD) x Alys Rivers - Part 2 Including the conclusion of its sister story, Little Dragonseed Summary: Aemond, in his quest for vengeance, torches the Riverlands while Alys is but an unwilling passenger with a burning secret of her own. Meanwhile, back at Harrenhal, the little maid waits for her rescuer, but war-torn Westeros may have other plans in store for her. Words: 3.6K

Chapter Warnings: NSFW, Sexual Content 18+, Canon Divergence, War things A/N: As noted, there is canon divergence in this story; there is no Sabitha Frey, and, for the purpose of this tale, the timeline may be a little wonky. Perhaps it's just me, but I broke my own heart writing this. I hope you all enjoy. Comments, reblogs, thoughts, opinions are welcome and appreciated 😘 💙 And, thank you, to my amazing beta reader and incredible gif maker, @myfandomprompts who made the Aemond banner for me.

<<< Part 1

They flew.

And the realm burned.

And on they soared upon ancient wings… 

And burned. Burned. Burned.

Any settlement in the Riverlands sworn to Queen Rhaenyra met their downfall, becoming kindling for Aemond’s wrath. Nothing could stand against Vhagar’s flames as she left ashes and despair in their wake. 

Riding on dragonback was a breathtaking experience; there was an exhilarating power in soaring through the sky, close to the heavens, far removed from the hellish war-torn realm below. But she could not enjoy it, her awe was constantly overshadowed by Aemond’s unyielding anger.

He had brought her along purposefully, but for all the notice he took of her, she might as well have been invisible and her attempts at calming his relentless rage were futile. He seemed interested in one thing and one thing only: her visions of the future and the path he should take forward. When she couldn’t summon an immediate answer, his response was simply to enact revenge on the supporters of the Black Queen. Unable to sway him, she remained silent, an unwilling passenger caught in the storm of his vengeance.

They did not return to Harrenhal and, instead, survived off the land. Luckily, she possessed a deep knowledge of edible plants and fungi and they had no trouble catching game. They bathed in a freshwater river and, in the evenings, Vhagar’s fiery breath cooked their suppers and provided warmth against the chill of the night. 

Aemond barely spoke to her, his mind consumed by grief and rage, his ego shattered by Daemon and the black faction at the insurmountable loss of King’s Landing. The once prideful, arrogant young man was becoming a shadow of the fierce prince she had known, his calculating eye now vacant and haunted as he worried obsessively about what had become of his family he left behind.

During one of their many silent nights, as they sat around the fire, the urge to speak to him gnawed at her. She knew she should tell him the truth, but the timing felt impossibly wrong. 

She needed to tell him that they had succeeded. She had suspected for a little while now, but wanted to wait to make absolutely sure. Now that time had passed, it was hard to keep this knowledge to herself.

But how could she share this revelation when his heart was still so torn? She watched him from across the fire, his face illuminated by the dancing flames, feeling the weight of her secret press down on her. 

She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the inevitable. “My prince,” she began softly, her voice almost swallowed by the crackling fire. He glanced at her, his expression unreadable. “There’s something you need to know…”

“A vision?” he asked, immediately perking up, his interest piqued. She pressed her lips together as she moved around the fire to sit on his good side; Would that be all he would ever care about? Is that all she meant to him? 

She chose not to voice these thoughts, instead gently taking his warm hand into her own. Her touch seemed to surprise him, a flicker of emotion crossing his face; they had not been intimate since they left Harrenhal. He turned to look at her fully for the first time in what felt like ages and she felt breathless under the intensity of his gaze, as if he were truly seeing her again.  

“No… not quite,” she replied, trying not to feel discouraged as she saw his face fall. She decided to get it over with quickly, the words tumbling from her mouth. “I…I am with child. Your child, my prince.” She placed her free hand over her lower belly for emphasis, giving him a small smile at this precious news, waiting with bated breath for his reaction.

Aemond's gaze hardened, his eye narrowing as he processed her words. His nostrils flared, and a tense silence hung between them, the crackling of the fire the only sound. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she waited for him to speak.

“Ar– are you not pleased? Your bloodline will endure…” she started to say, her voice faltering.

“A bastard. That is what we have made together,” he interrupted, disappointment etched into every line of his exquisite face as his frown deepened, twisting his sensuous lips into a grimace as his words cut through her like a knife.

“Aemond,” she began again, her voice more determined, “this child is part of your legacy. The blood of the dragon flows through his veins. Does that not mean something to you?”

He pulled his hand away from hers, standing up abruptly and pacing by the fire, his mind clearly torn.

“Legacy…” he mutters, almost to himself. “What legacy do I leave in this world of ashes and betrayal? My family doesn’t even know about you…what would my mother say– ?”

She rose to her feet, moving towards him, needing him to understand.

“Their opinions matter little now, what’s done is done. A child is a blessing, Aemond, no matter who its parents are,” Alys said softly but firmly, running her hand over his arm and feeling relief when he doesn’t pull away. “I implore you to listen to me. I carry the child of Aemond Targaryen, Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Dragonrider of the mighty Vhagar. If it bothers you that we are unmarried then do what’s best for the sake of your son, Aemond. Marry me,” she pleads, her eyes shining with sincerity. “I long to be your loving wife, to stand by your side. I will help you achieve greatness, and ensure our child not only endures but thrives, following in your footsteps to rule the Seven Kingdoms. Together, we can end this war.”

Aemond looked lost, his gaze still fixed on the dancing flames of the fire, the light flickering across his face, highlighting the lines of worry and doubt etched into his features.

“How do you know I will rule?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, tinged with uncertainty.

“I have seen it, my prince,” Alys replied, her tone filled with conviction. She leaned closer, her hand still resting on his arm, drawing strength from the contact.

“Daemon is your one last, true foe. You will defeat him, how could you not? He is old and well past his prime. Caraxes is no match for the might of Vhagar. I have seen your victory in the clouds when we fly high on Vhagar’s back. There will be a battle above a great lake; I have seen him fall into the water and be swallowed by their depths.” Her voice gained a fervent edge as she continued, painting a vivid picture of the future she envisioned. “You will rule and be a mighty king, my prince, and I already carry your son and heir.”

Aemond's expression remained conflicted, but there was a spark of something in his eye—hope, perhaps, or a glimmer of belief. Alys could see the battle within him, the struggle between his self-doubt and the destiny she foretold. She pressed on, her hand moving to gently cup his scarred cheek, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“You are destined for greatness, Aemond. Together, we can shape the future of the Seven Kingdoms. After Daemon is finished, we will go to King’s Landing and rescue your mother and sister within; they are still alive, I know it. Trust in me, trust in us.”

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air, the only sound the crackling of the fire. Then, slowly, Aemond lifted his hand to cover hers, a sign of his acceptance as his eye finally softened. His grip was firm as he bent to kiss her sweetly on the lips, which she immediately deepened, starving for his touch and affection. 

“Alright then…for our child,” Aemond said with conviction as he pulled away, his singular violet eye alight with fire once more, alive with passion, fueled with purpose.  

With only Vhagar as their witness, they stood beneath the open sky and recited the ancient marriage ritual of House Targaryen, their voices steady and resolute, echoing the vows of his ancestors. 

For a moment, war and destruction, heartache and pain seemed to fall away as they found solace in each other’s arms. Aemond's touch was gentle, his fingers trailing softly over her skin as if memorizing every inch of her. He made love to her with reverence, with such a tenderness it was as if she was suddenly made of glass. The world outside ceased to exist as they lost themselves in each other, their bodies entwined in a rhythm of love and passion.

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, Aemond allowed himself a moment of happiness. His usual mask of sternness and determination melted away, replaced by a genuine smile as he thought of his son. He looked at Alys with true affection, his hand moving to rest on her still flat belly. She could see the wonder in his eye, the silent imagining of her swollen with his child, a symbol of their union and the future they hoped to build together.

Basking in his tender affection, her heart swelled with love and gratitude. She returned his caresses, her hands moving over his strong back, tracing the contours of his muscles. As Aemond placed a gentle kiss on her abdomen, she sighed with deep contentment, enjoying his bare skin on hers, the feeling of his seed leaking from between her thighs, the burning of the fire in her lower belly as the blood of the dragon nestled within. It is the most loved and cherished she had ever felt in her entire life.

Back at Harrenhal, the little maid waited anxiously. A few days before, the Prince Regent and the witch had fled together after news of King’s Landing's fall reached them. Ser Criston Cole had taken the green army south to join the Hightowers, leaving Harrenhal unguarded and eerily quiet. Now was the most opportune time for Daemon to rescue her, but she had no way to send word to him; she wasn’t even sure of his whereabouts.

So she waited and prayed fervently that her father would come for her. But her prayers were laced with a growing worry.

She worried because her moon's blood was late and she was never late. Despite drinking the tea the witch had given her, she had only had that one cup and now questioned its effectiveness. Was it enough? There was no one left to ask or to make more for her.

She worried because she felt cramping in her lower abdomen without any sign of bleeding. She worried because ordinary smells now made her nauseous, her breasts were constantly sore, and still, her blood did not come. 

One evening, unable to hold back her fears any longer, she broke down and confided in the matron, her surrogate mother that she loved dearly and who she had failed miserably by letting Aemond take advantage of her. The matron listened intently, a deep frown etched between her eyebrows, but she wasn’t angry or disappointed in the maid’s confession. She was only terribly upset for what her young adopted daughter had endured at the hands of the Prince Regent.

Discreetly, the matron arranged for the maester to examine her, and he confirmed her worst fears. She was indeed pregnant; the witch’s potion had failed. His confirmation did not surprise the little maid in the slightest. She had known, deep in her heart, that she was carrying the child of the One-Eyed Prince. A child conceived not out of love, but out of revenge and hatred, shattering her innocence, leaving her to pick up the pieces alone.

The realization weighed heavily on her. What would her father say if he ever found out? Daemon Targaryen was fierce and proud, he would surely be enraged, would surely put her babe to the sword as soon as he was born and the thought horrified her beyond measure. And so she vowed never to tell him the truth. If he came for her, she would have to hide her condition, pretend to have been foolish with someone else…anyone else. 

Not long after her discovery, the haunting shriek of Caraxes pierces the silent night, announcing the return of the Rogue Prince, as he had promised. She rushes to meet him, excitement bubbling in her chest, but also a twinge of fear, knowing she now has to play her part.

Daemon looks tired and worn, the toll of the war evident in every line on his face. But when he sees her, his expression brightens.

“Little one,” he greets warmly, reaching out to embrace her in a father’s hug she has never known before. She inhales the scent of dragon and smoke clinging to his clothes, feeling a fleeting sense of safety.

“Are we leaving? I can pack my things…” she begins eagerly, her voice trailing off as she notices the sadness in his eyes.

“I’m afraid, my little dragonseed, that we cannot go,” Daemon says softly, his voice filled with regret. “I must stay here and cannot be distracted…the Queen and the realm depend on it.” Tears spring to her eyes, and he gently lifts her chin, forcing her to look at him.

“Little dragon, you must get away from here. Leave Harrenhal, this place is cursed, probably from that despicable witch,” he growls as a flicker of anger crosses his face as he remembers Alys. 

“She’s gone now…with Prince Aemond,” the little maid tries to explain, her voice trembling. “Alys is not here to make you suffer as she did before.”

Daemon frowns slightly at this unusual piece of information, that Aemond would flee with the witch of all people, but quickly returns to his original point.

“No matter. Run, flee. Do not go to the Riverlands right now; it is not safe,” he says urgently, taking her face into both of his hands and bowing his forehead against hers. His desperation is palpable and she can see the pain in his eyes, the sorrow of knowing he cannot keep his promise to take her with him.

“But how will you find me again?” she whispers, her voice breaking with emotion.

“Do not worry, my child. If I survive, I will come for you,” he promises for the second time, his voice filling with determination. Yet she can’t bring herself to believe him entirely. She knows he is here to await Prince Aemond, and the prospect of either of them surviving a battle against one another seems slim. Daemon is choosing to sacrifice himself for the good of the realm and she cannot even begin to understand how incredibly brave he is.

Her tears start to flow at this realization and she hates the thought of leaving him behind to await his fate alone, but knows she has little choice. “Where should I go?” she asks, her voice small and fearful.

“Try to avoid any large settlements on your journey. They are currently being targeted by the one-eyed welp. Head south, towards Dragonstone….those loyal to Queen Rhaenyra will help you,” he instructs.

“I don’t want to leave you,” she sobs, her hands clutching at his tunic. “I’m scared.”

Daemon’s heart breaks at her words and he strokes her hair gently, trying to soothe her. “You are strong, my little dragon. You have the blood of Old Valyria in your veins. You will survive this. You must.”

The next day dawns cold and gray, a fitting backdrop for their departure. She and the matron join a gaggle of other inhabitants all intent on fleeing the cursed castle. The little maid is glad to be free of these dark and haunted halls at last.  

Before she leaves, she embraces her father one last time. His arms around her feel strong and protective, but there is a sense of finality that she cannot ignore. She clings to him as he whispers, “Be safe,” his voice rough with emotion. 

“I will,” she promises, though her heart aches with the knowledge that this is a promise she may not be able to keep; the road is dangerous and fraught with peril. She pulls away, wiping her tears on the back of her hand, turning away from him and forcing herself not to look back.

As they leave Harrenhal behind, the group moves in silence, each lost in their own thoughts and fears. The matron walks beside her and the little maid finds herself reaching for her hand, needing reassurance just as if she was a child again. 

She wonders about their journey ahead, hoping they will settle someplace safe; she has already decided that she and the matron will raise her son together. They will find a quiet place, far from the war and destruction, and he will grow up being loved, fiercely and unconditionally. Her son will know the stories of his heritage, even if he never knows his family, and she will be certain to tell him about his brave grandfather and the legacy that flows through his royal veins. 

Alys managed to convince Aemond to delay for a day, to celebrate their union before his incessant need to return to burn the Riverlands once more. They settled in a faraway meadow, a place untouched by the war, where the air was fresh and the sounds of conflict were but a distant memory. It was a brief respite from the carnage, a stolen moment of peace. 

She devoted herself to Aemond, worshiping him with her mouth, savoring, sucking, treating him as a king should be treated. They made love countless times in the soft grass and, as before, Aemond was exceedingly gentle, his touch soft and caring as he suckled her engorged breasts. He didn’t rut into her viciously as he had been known to do in the past, instead pleasuring her with long, slow strokes, bringing her to peak with his tongue.

In those moments, he was without his eyepatch, bare and vulnerable, and she saw the man he might have been had violence not scarred his soul. If the war had never started, she thought, this was who Aemond would be. She wished with all her heart that she could bring peace to the prince’s troubled spirit. 

As they journeyed back to the Riverlands, she estimated they had been gone from Harrenhal for nearly a fortnight. Reality hit her hard as she gazed upon the war-torn realm once more and for the first time in a long while, she was hit by a multitude of visions, many which did not make any sense. She could feel the Rogue Prince’s presence, hear the shriek of his dragon in her dreams. She confessed to Aemond that they must return to Harrenhal, that they were being sought by Daemon.

While they flew, her thoughts drifted to the little maid they had left behind. She fervently hoped the potion she had given the girl had worked; the maid did not need to suffer any more than she already had. Alys could not bear the thought of another child contending for Aemond’s heart….or his legacy. She resolved to check on the girl as soon as they returned to the castle.

As they neared Harrenhal, she felt the unmistakable energy of Caraxes well before she even saw the castle, confirming her fears and driving away any other thought. She knew that this encounter was fated, that the impending clash between Aemond and Daemon was inevitable.

She kissed Aemond for good luck, her prince, her king, the father of her child. His singular eye looked at her with a fleeting softness before hardening into the mask of determination she knew so well. He mounted Vhagar with practiced ease and took to the skies in pursuit of his uncle, so sure of his victory.

High above the God’s Eye she watched their fearsome battle, fear striking deep into her heart as the dragons danced.

And then he fell…she watched in horror…no, it couldn’t be… this was not as she foretold… her beloved prince and his mighty dragon… 

Irreparably broken…

And her world shattered. 

Epilogue

A few years later, along the tranquil banks of Riverrun, a young woman walked with a woven basket in hand, occasionally bending to gather an assortment of mushrooms or plants. She hummed a light, cheerful tune, her bright blonde hair hanging loose and flowing in the warm summer breeze. Here, she no longer had to hide her true self, her bloodline, or her past.

She and the matron had made it back to Riverrun just in time for her to give birth; their journey had been long and arduous as the war raged on, but she had been relieved to finally return home. 

“Mama!” came a small voice from the riverbank. “Fish! Mama!” He pointed excitedly as she drew near and she smiled at his enthusiasm. 

“Yes, Daemon, fish,” she confirmed in a gentle, motherly voice, as she approached him and smoothed his bright blond hair.

The boy turned to her with a radiant smile, his cherubic face and round cheeks a picture of joy and health. His violet eyes always pierced her soul whenever she looked at him, the shadow of his father already prominent in his young face. He was a living, breathing reminder of Aemond, the last trace of his lineage to walk the earth. 

She watched her son affectionately as he splashed in the shallows, his laughter loud amongst the soft sounds of nature. He giggled in delight as the small fish swam around his ankles, seeming just as interested in the little boy as he was in them. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a golden glow over the river, she held his small hand as they walked back toward home, the basket filled with the day’s harvest, her heart content. 

She hoped her father would be proud of her.

[rcp-townhall]

Here we Go!

Welcome to the Town Hall!

Here you can meet and interact with all our lovely friends! Please be mindful with what you say and ask!

(Will be updated constantly with New Blogs creates. Please @ this blog if you create a new character)

Rescue Team Members!

@daily-rcp-poli - Poli Blog

@dailyrcproy - Roy Blog

@dearest-amber-daily - Amber Blog

@ya-daily-helicopter-boi - Helly Blog #1

@the-hellycopter-photographer - Helly Blog #2

@daily-jin-madebygenius - Jin Blog

@rcp-mark - Mark Blog

@desert-rescuer-sandy - Sandy Blog #1

@rescure-sandy-blog - Sandy #2

@droney-desertrescue - Droney Blog

Townsfolks/Civilians

@camplovestraveling - Camp Blog

@capthecleantaxi - Cap Blog

@cleany-cleans - Cleany Blog

@postypostman - Posty Blog

@spookymanspookytruck - Spooky Blog

@thunder-rcp - Thunder Blog

@bestpirate-rody - Rody Blog

Harbour Crew

@lekykinderthanyou - Leky Blog

@letysmarterthanyou - Lety Blog

@lefystrongerthanyou - Lefy Blog

@liftytheforklift - Lifty Blog

@marinedude - Marine Blog

Construction Crew

@tintincarrieslogs - TinTin Blog

@brunerreviews - Bruner Blog

If I forget you, please let me know! It’s most likely a mistake!

Additionally Gifs of the characters will be created! (no credit needed however do not use the gifs in a hateful way. I will block you from my blog)

Enjoy!

(Thank you @lunar-rcp for the RCP dividers and credit to @enchanthings for the star dividers)

[thegoldenavenger]

a Rescuer's Down Under edit to make the golden eagle look like Liu Qingge from @acernor's fic Flight or Fight (colors referenced from the designs in the embedded art by @sinn-bee @chezpillow and acernor)

the original gif is from this gifset as far as i can tell by @/chicka-chicka-gifs! i just drew over the bird alksjfla

[redconversesworld]

A rhyme that everyone fears

Charaters:JW x you

Warnings :Slight violence!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Shut your damn mouth!

The kidnapper was waving his knife around,spitting all sorts of threats at a bound to a chair you.

Trying his best to intimidate you while frantically looking around. Each slightest noise causing him to jump.

Your cheeks covered in bruises from harsh slaps,lip busted ,the blood from a cut above your brow has dried some time ago.

You were moving your fingers around,trying to get the blood flowing into them as tingles were spreading down your arms.

This miserable excuse of a man has tied your hands too tight.

And tho one in such situation would be in sheer panic, bagging for his or hers life all you did was smirk. Knowing fully well that your rescuer was merely a few doors away.

Hence why to antagonize the bastard that keeps you locked up in an abandoned wearhouse,you sing him something.

A truth telling tune of what awaits his ass.

At the sound of bullets being fired nearby have you laugh out loud.... then in the most menacing voice you start singing to him the same tune as moments ago.

1,2 John Wick is coming for you

3,4 you better lock your door

5,6 your neck he'll break like a stick

7,8 he will shoot you straight in the head

9,10 or if feeling frisky he might use a pen

Note : Gif is not mine! Found it online,all credits go to the original maker of it!

Feedback of any kind is always welcomed!