#girls shawls collection
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haveamagicalday · 3 months ago
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Duel of the American Girl Dolls: Josefina Edition (Final Round)
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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year ago
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Blood-Stained Wool Spun At Midnight (I)
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AU MASTERLIST || PART II
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PAIRING: Werewolf!Ghost x F!Tailor!Reader (Set in Van Helsing Era/Aesthetic)
WORDCOUNT: 7.7k
WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, angst, mutilation, violence, death, being hunted, reference to unwanted attention from a man, 1890s period standards for men/women, religious references, etc.
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
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“Miriam?” Your voice carries over the open street, one of the two small steps leading into your nonexistent front yard firm under your feet. Across the way and one house to the left, your older neighbor, Miriam, readies her horse for you—kept behind the paddock door of her attached single-stall stable. Men and women shuffle past along the cobblestone, clopping hooves and tipping soft caps. Giggles and gloved fingers. 
The city is lively today, and you’ll be glad to be out of it for the better part of the morning.
You brush down the front of your shirtwaist, patting at the pleating along the front before folding your shawl across your shoulders; hiking it farther into your high-collared garment. 
“Miriam!” You call again, shuffling down that last step and trying to shove yourself farther into the crowd. Keeping your black skirt close to you, you sigh long and pray the pouch at your side will stay away from the hands of pickpockets—a tailor gets off well enough, but every penny was worth it. One setback could ruin you.
Which was the reason you were now making your way into the country on your neighbor's horse. 
Miriam glances up from where she fiddles with the bridle strap, her head mixed in with the masses. You smile, raising a hand far above the sea as men sneer down at you, hearing the tinkling bells of her laughter. 
You make it to her and Whistlejacket the Thoroughbred as you huff, rubbing your gloved hands together before the clicking sound of your heeled shoes can catch up to your ears.
“By the Lord, it’s chilly, Love,” Miriam utters, patting the horse as you softly rub the animal's neck. Black ears twitch to you, chestnut eyes soft and pliable. You smile before replying with a chuckle. 
“And the chill won’t stop Mrs. Ida from having my hide for that wool-lined cycling jacket, unfortunately.” 
“Ah,” Miriam scoffs, “Mrs. Ida. I’d tell that one to mind her manners to the fine lady who makes her husband's waistcoats.” 
“She always asks for them a size small,” you hum, rummaging through your satchel to make sure you have the money you need for the wool that’ll go inside the order. “One with more of a brain would say she was trying to say something.” 
Your eyes glimmer as you send your neighbor a glance. Miriam slides you a cheesy look.
“‘More of a brain’, the girl says,” she mutters as you laugh brightly. “A wonder you’ve not found a husband yet.”
You ignore the comment, sliding down Whistlejacket’s side to slip your foot into the stirrup, huffing at the beast’s size before shimmying up with all the grace of a young hooligan. Panting on the saddle, both legs over one side on account of your skirt, you take a breath and happen to glance at the dark house that borders Miriams.
“Miriam?” The words escape you in a moment of curiosity. “Pray tell…is Mr. Riley back from his trip to London yet?”
Mr. Riley—Simon as you know him to be called by only a whispered passing. It was apparent with your little…interest in him. It wasn’t a carnal interest, no, God forbid, it was a hesitant need to understand him. 
You’d never sown nor mended so many clothes than to his own collection. 
Frock coats, waistcoats, shirts, ties, and trousers all—ripped to shreds before being placed on your counter like it didn’t matter a smidge. And those deep brown eyes of his…endless; seemingly incapable of human emotion above the tight layer of silk that the man wears up to his nose. There was something strange going on with Mr. Riley, and you were determined to figure it out, but he was also quite alluring to you in a simpler sense. 
You liked how he spoke to you.
“London?” Miriam asks, putting a hand to her wrinkling chin. “My, was that where he was off to—how do you hear about these things, Girl?”
You clear your throat, putting back on your smile. “Oh, never mind that. I was just curious, see.”
Whistlejacket’s feet shuffle from under you, the tall beast’s strength seen through his broad neck and well-bred attitude. Miriam’s husband had been a carriage driver, and when he died, the widow had taken Whistlejacket into her care as the only living family she had. 
You rub at his neck again, and the horse nods his head up and down, knickering. 
“You’ll take care of the old fellow, then?” The question is layered, anyone going through the forest to the farmer’s fields knows that the shadows grow long. 
Knows what can hunt you. 
You glance at the woman, nodding firmly. “And bring you back your share for taking the lovely creature out.” 
With that you’re out, taking the reins in your hands before easing Whistlejacket into a walk and entering the flow of traffic; waving a hand behind you in goodbye. Miriam calls on the smoggy wind.
“D-don’t stray from the path, Love!” 
A path wouldn’t save you from the Ghost.
It is the year 1897, and beasts live here. 
They roam in the dark corners and the forgotten alleys of every city and street—silent, unseen. Waiting to strike with white fangs or sharp claws; a snarl or a whisper. Vampires, demons, specters lost to time…Werewolves. 
Nowhere was safe, and so, the world had to adapt. 
As Whistlejacket’s hooves meet the slowly depleting cobblestone of the outer city, the clink of the metal bit dances in your ears; your face roves back and forth through the fields, those far in between houses. In your bag, you have more than just money. 
Holy water, a crucifix, and, of course, a knife made of pure silver. When in doubt, silver was always the safest bet.
But the forest…the forest was unpredictable. 
You breathe slowly as it comes into view hours later, those creaking branches and the breeze that speaks to you—in your head, you hear the plea. Or the threat. 
Turn back. 
The both of you stop only a foot from the treeline. Whistlejacket knickers, feet shuffling. Your hand finds his hide, rubbing soothing circles as your lips thin. 
“Easy,” you whisper, but nothing could be farther from easy. Your fingers brush through the horse's hair as he moves his head, hooves taking a step back. “Easy.”
The blackness of this forest is unnatural—the others in the city and town go around it; a four-day trip. You didn’t have four days. Like a moth to a dark altar flame, the oblivion takes you in and the forest expands in your view the longer you stare into it, down that path of overgrown grass and gravel. Rocks and twigs. 
With one hand you grab at your shawl and pull it closer to your neck, holding the reins lightly as your fingers twitch around them with the other. 
“Easy,” you say for a third time, quickly looking away from the path and clearing your throat. 
Clicking your tongue, your boots tap Whistlejacket’s side and after a puff from his large nostrils, the animal ambles forward, far slower than he had before but still moving nonetheless. Your hesitance bleeds into him, and you know the horse's senses are far better than your own.
But you were stubborn—you’d come too far to go back now, and if you wanted to be home by supper you had to buy the wool you needed and leave as quickly as possible. Going through this forest would take up most of that time. 
The trees enshroud you, and in their brimstone grip, they reach with gnarled fingers like a leering phantom. You lean to the side to avoid one branch, feeling it pull at your shaul slightly; trying to grab at you, it seemed. This place would devour you whole, but you were less scared of the general aura and more of the fabled monster that patrols this place. 
The Ghost.
Whistlejacket is unsure of this, despite the journeys you’d both been on. It always worried you how such a large carriage animal could still get so nervous after years of desensitization—the horse didn’t flinch at the yells from the city; or the howl of mutts at midnight. But this brimstone forest made him shiver under you like a child in the cold.
As you speak to him lowly, your hand reaches into your satchel and grasps that tiny silver blade, attaching it to your cinched belt as your skirt sways in a dead breeze. A chilled puff of air falls from your lips, though there is no coldness in these standing sentinels—it is a dead-like atmosphere. Every pound of your heart can be heard. 
“You know, old fellow,” Whistlejacket’s ear twitches back to you, but his eyes do not leave the path. You spare a tense chuckle. “I’ve half the sense to tell Mrs. Ida to shove that wool lining right up her—”
Something sharp echoes far off into the trees and you pull on the reins with a tight breath. 
Whistlejacket squeals, trying to bolt, but you keep a strong hand on him—eyes flashing from one dark void to the next in between the trees as his hooves dance. Your head bobs with every jerk of his legs, yet you barely notice it. 
A twig? You ask, heart hammering. No, no that sounded like an entire tree getting snapped in half.
Eyes glancing over your shoulder, you look back down the road and find the tiny speck of light that signifies the exit of this place, the last glimmer of home. With a heavy look around, you close your eyes and shake your head. 
Mrs. Ida was…something else…but she was one of your best clients for all her abhorrent behaviors—money was tight as of currently, and the woman’s husband was incredibly rich due to his practice as a physician. This wool was needed not only for the jacket but for your shop upkeep and the price of fabrics, needles, and threads. This wool was an investment you couldn’t miss.
“Whistlejacket,” you click your tongue but the animal snorts and shakes his head, backing up. “Whistlejacket!” Your voice carries despite not even being above a hard whisper. 
“I promise you, when we get to the farm I’ll let you eat all of the sugar cubes you want—my treat.” Your hand finds the space between his ears and below his skull, the soft black mane twisting in your fingers. “Nothing’s going to happen.”
Your eyes are half-narrowed. 
That wasn’t a twig.
Monster Hunting was a booming profession—and many took to it out of glory or need for coin. Those hunters had been in and out of this forest for short generations, trying futilely to catch what was rumored to lurk here before they got ripped to shreds like their fathers had. 
The Ghost. 
Some say he stands over nine feet tall; and has fangs that are bigger than a man’s palm—claws like butcher knives. Blackened and dead is his brain, cruel and maniacal. 
The Werewolf’s heart is chained to hell, and his soul to Satan. He is cursed ever to walk like a beast and feast on human flesh while in his wolf-skin and out of it. 
A ghost.
The Ghost.
You close your eyes tightly, trying not to imagine the stench of blood or the injuries you’d seen those hunters bore—being dragged back into the city screaming and wailing in pain. Arms and legs ripped clean off, never to be found. Most never came back at all.
“Please, Whistlejacket,” you plead, bumping your forehead into his neck. Whispering into his skin, you take a deep breath. “We need to go on. Quickly. We can’t stop here.”
Stopping was making a bigger target on your back—letting your scent linger in the stale air. 
With one last whinny, his fast flinching feet, the horse pushes forward as you click your tongue again; faster and more uneasy. But you didn’t slow him, no, if Whistlejacket was going to speed up, you were completely fine with that.
Moving again, you loose a sigh from your lips. 
There were many dark stories living here, some too heavy to tell aloud, even—one specifically was the tale that you’d overheard in your shop while helping Mr. Riley fix a large hole in his waistcoat. 
Riding along the path, you guide your steed down a small indent, blinking at the images your mind conjures up. 
Mr. Riley had been far quieter that day than in the recent past, and you thought perhaps he was beginning to warm to you after a few long months of silence and clipped business talk. That day, though, you had your doubts. 
Mr. Moore and Mr. Hill were coming in to inquire about the state of their overalls, working-class both and eager to have their second pair of articles fixed. Mr. Riley had been there first, and thus, you’d been talking to him for the better part of ten minutes.
“Mr. Riley,” you’d explained, holding his black silk waistcoat in your hands while opening and closing your lips. “I…I really must begin by asking how exactly you manage to do this to your clothes. In good faith, I half-believe you have a habit of getting into bar fights with a knife-wielding fiend in your free time.”
Brown eyes had stared at you above that cloth of his, soft cap on his head protecting blond tendrils of hair. Scars peel at his skin, old and pale. 
You’d never been afraid of him, despite his large frame and his intimidating muscle—the gruff aggressiveness of his tone. It was strange, but you had a feeling he would never do anything nefarious…perhaps his morals shone through far better than his conversational abilities.
“Can you fix it or not?” He grunts in question, hands in his pockets. Eyelids blink at you slowly, long lashes caressing flesh. 
You roll your eyes. “What kind of question is that? Of course, I can.”
In that intermission of silence, you’d heard the words from the men behind Mr. Riley—missing the spark of amusement that had coated those brown orbs as they watched you. 
“Did you ‘ere, then, Mr. Hill?” A sharp, hurried whisper. Your eyes blink at the two as the man ahead of you slightly shifts his shoulders, tilting his head to the side to stare behind him. “There’s been killin' in the East district—they’re callin’ the ‘unters in, see.”
“Hunters?” Mr. Moore huffs. “They’ll not make a smidge of a difference now. I’ve heard about it—they say the Ghost slunk in from the Forest and ripped the man to pieces.”
“Aye! They found pieces of flesh hangin’ off the shop signs. Like he’d been put through a machine, I hear. Half a jaw was left in the street, an eye leading into the trees, and…and…”
“Gentleman,” you call, oblivious to how Mr. Riley is as tense as a rope, eyes small and tight on the two men. He barely breathes. 
The two look to you as if being caught by their mothers. You frown. “Time and place.”
“Sorry, Ma’am.”
“M’sorry, Miss, lost myself.” You smile through a sigh and turn back to Mr. Riley. 
“Well, now then, I…” He quickly walks to the door, boots heavy and knee-length frock coat swishing as he pushes open the barrier and slips through. You gape, confused for a moment. By the time you think about opening your mouth again, you can already see him entering his own house across the street and pulling the door closed firmly.
The curtains close. Black night leaking out around the illumination of the oiled street lamps. It was the news in the morning that called to the true horror that you’d overheard in your shop. 
Mr. Lambert was never your favorite patron, in fact, you’d call him a creep at best—insistent on marriage to you and a hazard, considering that your home was connected to your shop. He knew exactly where you lived and when to use your time in his less-than-pure favor. 
Mr. Riley had been a natural deterrent in recent months, but what really struck you was that the brown-eyed man had managed to show up exactly when you needed him regarding Mr. Lambert. The small silver bell above your door rang his arrival whenever the other was trying to lean over your counter, smiling sweetly at you as if you were a prize to him and his leering eyes. 
Mr. Lambert would instantly straighten, tense, and dart away with a metaphorical tail between his legs while shooting nasty glances. 
But you’d never imagined him to be dead.
You’d never imagined his body to be hung from the trees that border the forest like a trophy—the Ghost had dragged him out of his home, the door busted off its hinges, and the inside all but demolished by fighting bodies. Neighbors said they’d heard howls on the wind; yowling and wet snarls like a rabid dog. 
Mr. Lambert was mutilated. Unrecognizable mass of flesh and hair, bone seen through shredded skin and tongue lulling from a ripped-off jaw. One eye and a branch through his toro to hold him up.
Now halfway through the forest, in the densest bit of trees, you can’t help but imagine becoming just like him.
You hadn’t spoken besides to reassure Whistlejacket, yet the fact was that you couldn't even reassure yourself—like a child, you cling to the animal below you and try to ignore the murmurs. Your shawl had been pulled up and over your head, creating a sound barrier for you that truly did nothing to help. 
Looking slightly to the side at a large and moss-layered boulder beside the path, you shiver not from the cold. 
“Maybe I should have just waited the four days…” Your whisper leaked out, and it seemed a sin to break the silence that had been layered here. 
A shadow filters past the side of your eyes, a silent motion atop the boulder that you think perhaps is a crow. You pull at your shawl to show your face a bit more, turning your head upward. 
Atop the stone is not a bird—it is not an animal of natural birth or of sound mind. It is a beast of ancient rites and white-fanged dreams; left here among the living in a sick game of predator and prey. 
You don’t register that it’s really there, the Ghost, until its blackened form stands to its full height, great shaggy fur under the remains of clothes scraps, and muzzle curled to show off fangs and pink gums. There are his ears, atop that head; they point to the sky before flinching back to staple themselves to its elongated skull. Long hands that scrape the stone below it near the claws that dig into the rock until they make long scratches. 
Like a demon made flesh, this Werewolf was the epitome of nightmares. So strangely human and monster at the same time. 
Eyes like a burial mound. 
You stare in numb horror, gloved hands steadily tightening over the leather reigns until your knuckles pop. Whistlejacket does not yet know the beast is here, glaring into your soul and branding it; taking a large step closer to the edge of the boulder as the moss flakes under his egregious large paw-pads. 
A low rumble is all it takes, those pupils small and beady, from within the breast of the Ghost’s expansive chest. Whistlejacket’s nose sniffs the air, his head turning and already tense. 
The horse screams like a dying banshee, spine curling and legs kicking out. He bucks as the Werewolf snarls through a loud howl, all four limbs connected to the stone and roaring. Your back slams into the ground as you’re tossed off Whistlejacket, your mouth releasing a scream to join the rest of the noises that echo off the foliage. 
Crashing into the path, your neighbor's horse disappears with one last high-pitched squeal into the darkness as you feel your bones rattle at the connection to your spine. Tumbling down a slight hill, you quickly get your skirts in order before scrambling to your feet with pain brimming in your scraped skin. Looking back to the boulder, your pounding heart rampages. 
But the Ghost isn’t even there. 
“Oh, Lord Almighty,” you whisper, backing up multiple steps. “Oh, Lord.” 
The blade is missing from your belt—you don’t know where you’ve dropped it in the fall and that might just be the death of you. Mr. Lambert’s story infects you; the other hunters.
You frantically look at that mighty stone, up and down, while skittering backward. 
Where did it go? 
Panting, you only stop when you hit the firm frame behind you, a large tree trunk of fur, and a hard chest that you sink into. You freeze—eyes wide and unblinking. A thin squeak exits your mouth, and a reverberating call purrs over your vertebra, making you shiver with fear. 
Minutes draw before you gather the courage to delicately turn your head upward.
Those eyes meet yours again, small and coated over with rage; pale fangs so close to your forehead they’re like ivory with dripping saliva. One drop hits your flesh, but you fail to register it. 
Those eyes. 
Up close you’re completely stolen by them, sucked in and whisked away as a bride, this mixture of dark wood and earth. Brown so rich you’d never seen something like it…or…or had you?
Incredibly, in between your panic, something sparks you as being familiar in a way you can’t quite place in this state. 
The Ghost is gargantuanly large, so much so that he bends his spine to lean over your entire body and growl down at you, the sound starting in his gut and expanding up to his throat. The fur around his neck is so thick it’s like the mane of an exotic cat, ironically, as tufts of hair are on the tips of his ears. 
You stare and try to memorize the look in his eyes as clawed hands come up at your sides, horrifyingly human with long fingers; five-pointed except for the fact that the skin is blacked like hide. Sweating, you shake before your lips start talking for you, as they usually do. 
“I do hope I’m not intruding, Kind Ghost.”
The beast halts his slow entrapment, right ear twitching forward at your voice. He doesn’t blink, and his mouth does not close. 
“I…I only wished for safe passage.” Internally you wonder if you’d lost your mind—if it had broken in this moment of hysterics. Your voice is far more steady than it should be. “I must get to the other side of the forest, you see. Urgently. I have business that must be settled. Though,” you add quickly, tone cracking for a moment. “Though, I knew not how to contact you to ask.”
The Werewolf’s heart can be felt on your back, a deep thum of pulsing power and raw death. It watches, its mouth twitching a smidge more closed and lungs rising. Its feral heat leaks through your clothes into your flesh. 
A furred hand connects with your hip and you squawk as you’re shoved to the ground very suddenly, thrown to the side onto the grass with only your palms to catch you. You’re flipped over, those same claws slamming beside your head before you can push back up and try to run. But there could be no running. Like a moth to flame the Ghost would hunt you down until there was nothing left of you but bloodied carnage. 
You throw up your hands in front of your face, the great form splayed over you and a sniffing nose digging into your stomach. There is a low whine of a hungry maw as the shaggy head moves up and around. Like a human, the Werewolf’s hand grabs at your wrist, pinning it down to the ground as the other digs into the earth, dragging it up like a farmer’s plough. 
 “H-hey!” You shout, pushing with your free fingers at the muzzle—in sound mind, you’d never even think to do such a thing. “Get off of me!” 
You should have been terrified, and maybe you were, but you’d gone past the point of knowing it. This beast was leering over you like Mr. Lambert, but far more dangerous and…and…
“Are you smelling me?!” Your angry voice makes his dark eyes snap to yours, and in an instant, you’re staring up his muzzle, body splayed out below him. 
You shutter.
“Eh…Just don't…rip anything, would you?” You were talking to a Werewolf as if he was capable of higher understanding in this form—as if still human. Voice small, you thin your lips and feel sweat run your eyebrow ridge, heart pitter-pattering. 
Why were you still alive?
The snout resumes, running along your shoulder and finally stopping at your neck with a pass of the Ghost’s tongue over his lips. You close your eyes tight.
This was it, you think. Of course, you’d be the one to lose the only blade that could let you actually damage this monster, the silver glinting in your mind as you curse yourself violently. You feel the puff of his vile breath on your neck, his claws peeling at your shirt collar slowly back. 
Your breath hitches, fingers winding through the fur below your grip, but the confusion breeds with the horror. The sensation of his soft fur wasn’t unpleasant—in fact, it was perhaps the finest material you’d ever handled. While it wasn’t the time for this, your occupation was impossible to ignore…this texture was far better than any silk.
But he’s stopped moving entirely. Lids fluttering, you open your eyes slowly, afraid but addled at the inaction. 
Brown side-eyes you closely, fangs dripping next to the meat of your neck and parted to show a lulling tongue. The beast purrs as you stare, looming with enough mass to block the sun and moving that muzzle closer to your pulse. In an act of pure desperation and womanly instinct at the sight, you snap out your leg and, not hesitating a moment longer as the animal’s tongue meets your flesh, you send your shoe straight in between the monster's legs.
A sharp yowl makes your ears ring, but you slip out from under the Ghost as it banks back, snarling and yapping before it rights itself with a shake and rabid hunger. The look from before is gone—but you’re already through the trees by the time the enraged hunting cry makes your neck hairs rise. 
Guttural, savage, and devoid of humanity. 
On the path you find your blade, and you snatch it as you gather your skirt in the opposite hand and dash away. To where, you have to tell yourself, you do not know. But it’s human nature to run, to sprint until your throat tastes like blood and your stomach rolls with bile—all of that can be tolerated if for the simple promise of survival. 
So run you did. 
Faster and harder than you ever had in your life, you sprinted into the brimstone trees and the dead thorns, not looking over your shoulder at the noises of snarls and breaking tree trunks; claws through the earth, and the primal howl of a hunt. Your throat is raw and scraping, clothes thoroughly ruined as you crash through a thorn bush while cutting up your arms and legs in tiny streaks of crimson. 
Droplets make a path behind you, a path, and a scent to tell you by. But with how the Ghost had been smelling you too deeply, you doubted it would be long before he tracked you down to finish the job.
You lose a shoe in the mad dash, lungs heaving and whimpering from the sudden absence of sounds entirely—as if the beast had disappeared into thin air. Still, you don’t brave a glace behind as you take turns and bends in the earth at random, running deeper and deeper into the foliage. 
Bloodied and running out of strength as you hop a small stream, yelping when you slip and bash your wrist into the ground, you had never wished for Whistlejacket more. All you could hope was that the horse was making his way out the other side of this hellscape. 
You never should have come through here.
Tears stain your eyes, blurring the edges as you manage to run into a small clearing, head whipping back and forth from one area to another. Every turn was the same—every tree similar! 
But the house was different. 
No more than a hut, really, it was stone and had a thatched roof, nestled in a field of black flowers and wisps of dead grass. The door was opened, but the ground was torn up by claw marks—spanning up the sides and near a broken widow.
You rush to it without a blink, and just as you make it to the threshold, you grab the thick oak door with your torn gloves. Turning, you find him across the open glade. 
Air is shoved from your lungs as you wheeze, the black shadow in the tree line. Brown eyes burn past flesh and bone—beady. Twitching lips and high-pointed ankles with rising fur. It was like a statue. Not even moving; barely breathing as it…watches. 
What had happened to the snarling—the howling hunt?
Had…had he been behind you the entire time?
You whip the door closed and frantically slam the bolt in place, the blade brought to your side and shaking in your tight hold as you back up quickly. 
“Oh, Miriam, damn you, you’re always right.” You gasp, back hitting the edge of a table. “Curse me for never listening.” 
Your neighbor had expressed worries the day before your departure, but you’d been stubborn as always—wool, you said you needed. Just enough for a coat. It was nothing; nothing that should have led to this. 
You feel like passing out, bile rising into your throat before you swallow it back down and breathe in quick heaves. 
But the door didn’t cave in, and no great monster barreled through to eat you up and pin you into a tree branch. The house settled, the minutes dragged on…
…and nothing happened. 
Your heart slowly goes back to a hesitant normal, like a mouse after being chased by a hawk; a lamb by a wolf. Standing up straighter with blood saturating your clothes, the uneven strides of your shoe-less foot mean little to you as your form slinks to the broken window. You don’t feel the pain in your cuts—the sweat or dirt—before you bend down and hiss at the stretching flesh.
Knees knocking on the floor, you peek above the sill slowly, eyes wide open and tiny pupils quivering. 
“Why didn’t it come into the glade?” You ask yourself, seeing the large shadow in the far-off coverage of the dropping leaves. A steadily dying sun. You weren’t making it back home tonight. “Why is it staying away—it knows I’m in here.”
Surely it wouldn’t let you live? 
Your brows tighten, swearing there are eyes looking back at you through the kaleidoscope reflections of the glass. You duck down, vibrating as your vision runs across the strange hut.
One room, it only held a table, a tiny desk, a trunk, and a bed. A fireplace with no logs. Dust lived in the corners, and candles that were unlit were melted in plates and cups all around your view—score of them as if the dark was something the owner feared vehemently. 
This would be your sanctuary for the night. 
“Do Werewolves not come upon hallow ground?” Your voice bounces off the stone. “Was this a priest's hut?”
If there was a church nearby in this damned place, that would truly be the best scenario. Churches held hunters more often than not. 
Standing, you walk the space, feet aching as the adrenaline wears off and it all sets in. You place your blade into your belt, but your fingers never leave the pommel. First, you go to the desk, picking through letters and thin papers. 
Blinking, you pass them over in favor of the journal, the one next to the hastily thrown down quill—the spilled ink. 
Your hand touches the leather and flips it open, ears peeled for any noise from outside. The drawings come into focus quite quickly. 
Diagrams and intense study fill your brain, images of the Ghost sketched so lifelike that you flinch back and physically recoil until you gather your bearings. 
“I don’t suppose this would be of any help,” you utter with a frown. “Will it tell me how to make silver bullets? Give me a revolver?” 
Shaking your head, you close the journal before the faded name on the cover register—you walk away slowly before you halt. 
"Simon Riley."
Your heart tightens and those brown orbs come back to you. It’s like your mind expands in a millisecond.
Simon Riley and his frequent trips out of the city. Simon Riley and his shredded clothes exactly like the ones that the beast wears. Simon Riley and his silent, black, soul. His secrets.
“No,” you try to convince yourself, chuckling as your panic spikes. Every interaction whizzes past with surety. “No, that’s not possible. I couldn't have been that inept when he was right in front of me.” 
Anger pierces you, and all sense leaves. You know it to be true, know it to be the reality even if you'd just put the pieces together yourself. This was too perfect that God himself must have come down and laid it out for you to find.
In a moment of raw rage, you stomp to the door—hand snapping to the bolt and reaming it back. The outside chill makes you growl, but you exit the hut nonetheless. It was like a spit in your face.
“Simon Riley!” You scream into the air, hand in fists. “Get your arse out here and explain to me why I’ve been fixing your fucking clothes while you’ve been galivanting around the bloody forest!” 
Call you insane, but seeing your work constantly ruined made you more mad than being chased like an animal, especially if this animal had no intention of killing you. He'd had the option, but he hadn't.
That only serves to make you even more angry.
Your finger points into the tree line. “I spend my God-given time to make them perfect for you, and this is how you repay me?” A rustling from the bush to your left. You snarl and turn to find the upright form as it blinks at you, muzzle closed and ears forward. It steps out into the grass with one paw before you brandish your blade at it.
The Werewolf freezes, a low warning growl rumbling in his chest.
“I’m going to rip that damn fur from your body and teach you what it’s like to have your practice insulted, you twat.” Those eyes don’t stray, just like they never had in your shop. 
Yet there was a more primal tint to them—more wild, unrestrained. Aggressive. 
The monster stalks forward with slow and heavy steps, walking up to you until it can once more stare you down. You take down a shaky breath and press your knife into his abdomen as fur encompasses your field of view. 
Your confidence wavers.
“D-don’t you know it’s rude to chase down a lady in her travel shoes?” 
A snarl grinds itself out in cut intervals as if he were trying to speak to you, snapping fangs and tilting head. You have somewhat of an idea of what it means.
“I’m not apologizing for kicking you in the balls, Mr. Riley. You deserved it.” You lower the knife from his abdomen. 
A nose pushes itself into your neck again before you shove him off with a curse. He doesn’t even flinch before he tries once more.
“Would you quit it?!” You yell, scoffing. “What in the devil is wrong with you?” 
It was like he was trying to rub his head all over you—as if nothing but a dog scenting a bone.
Isn’t he? Your lips thinned. It wasn’t foreign to think he wasn’t in the right state like this. Of course, he wasn’t. Mr. Riley would never act like this, even with how often you saw each other.
Lord, you didn’t even know if he liked you that much, but judging by whatever this is, it happened to be quite a bit. You huff and push him back with a scene of finality, slithering backwards into the hut before slamming the door. 
There’s a low grumble from outside, the barrier shaking as a large paw presses on it with immense force. 
“No!” You order, pulse running. “No—you figure yourself out first! I’m not letting you in like that.” 
The sudden enraged roar is so loud the broken window shakes. It makes your veins quiver under your skin. But there's a heavy slam of leaving feet moments later, the sound of screeching trees as branches are bent back. 
You pause and stand straighter after a long minute. Your lungs inhale.
“It listens better than the man,” you breathe, feeling weak. Bravery was tiring. 
Yet, there was still the problem of the dead.
Simon Riley was the Ghost—a Werewolf. He’d killed people, many, many people in these trees. 
You grab at your neck softly, the scent of earth and blood stuck under your fingertips, infecting your very soul. 
“...So why didn’t he kill me?”
You helped yourself to the clothes in Mr. Riley’s trunk, taking what you could find and slipping into it for bed. It was nothing more than a large undershirt and pants, but you wouldn’t be the one complaining. Luck was back on your side, as you also found a small package of bandages and matches. 
Lighting the candles one by one, afterward, you did what you could for your wounds. You weren’t keen on traveling to find water to clean them out, so, for now, a wrapping would have to do. 
The beast patrolled the glade. 
You’d hear him occasionally bend by the door, shadowing along the crack before there was a tapping of claws on stone and a huff of hot breath. He’d always leave you unaccosted, a smacking of gums and licking of chops heard through the cracked window before the dog darts away. 
Where fear had been previously, curiosity starkly remained at the forefront. 
“Simon Riley,” you mutter, sitting on the edge of his bed after that same event that had happened not an hour earlier. And the same an hour before that. Clockwork. 
A wolf stalking his hunting grounds, making sure all is where it’s supposed to be.
He smells you in here. 
“It’s too damn late for this,” you huff, rubbing at your face. Ideally, you’d like a bath and a hot meal, but there was no supper here. No food at all, really. 
You plop down into the feather pillow, face nuzzling into the deep scent that you remember smelling from Mr. Riley as he came into your tailor’s shop. This was demented—unholy action. 
If this were a different woman in this bed, she might be praying to her God for some salvation, an angel to come down and whisk her away. But the thought is like a stake in your heart. 
If there were a different woman in this bed…would she even be breathing as you were?
You shiver and burrow deeper into the covers, pulling them up to your chin. For whatever reason, Simon Riley, the Ghost, had stayed his fangs from your supple flesh; now you weren’t even sure that when he was leaning over you he had any intention to hurt you at all. He had seemed like he was…waiting for something.
Simon Riley, your neighbor. 
Your neighbor the Werewolf. 
You groan and hold yourself in the candle-light, unsure. You’d heard the tales—the murders. Mr. Lambert. Those countless hunters mutilated. Like a child, you pull sparse memories that bring it all to light.
Mr. Riley was quite the gentleman when you happened to catch him. 
There was never a time when you had to carry in your own fabric shipments—he was always outside to grab them before you could get one hand on the carriage compartment; it all seemed like lifting a feather. You’d speak to him about his day and his trips to the bigger cities that he always frequented. 
He’d told you it was because of his business, and you’d refrained from asking what exactly it was that allowed him to purchase such exquisite clothes—or even how they always ended up ruined. 
As your eyes flutter in this bed full of long black hair, you sigh and listen to the howls from far off in the distance; shivering.
“Where do you need ‘em, then?” The accent was aggressive, yes, but the tone was casual. You smile over at Mr. Riley and see the large trunk in his hands as the carriage leaves outside. 
“I don’t know,” you tease, “But I think you look quite dashing being such a ready and willing neighbor, Sir.” 
“That it?” He raises an eyebrow, but no expression slashes his visible face. To even get that was something to celebrate. 
You raise a hand and wave him behind your counter, chuckling. 
“I jest, Mr. Riley. Right back here the same as always.” He wordlessly ambles forward, feet heavy upon your wooden floors. 
You smell the scent of fresh earth as he passes, and your fingers twitch at your sides. Clearing your throat, you ask easily as the man strangely flinches as he brushes your arm, eyes flicking just a smidge wider. 
“Any more travels this month, then? I am a bit curious to hear about where you’ll be off to this time.” 
“London,” is a swift answer. Brown eyes glance at you as the trunk is set down with a puff of breath in the space below the shelves. “Ever been?”
You shrug. 
“No, unfortunately.” Simon stands to his full height, hands finding the insides of his pockets. You should be hesitant of his stature—his great shoulders—but you find it suits him. He tilts his head at you, his cap off today to let his wisps of hair collect at his temple. “You?”
Mr. Riley grunts, feet shifting. 
“Quite a few.” He blinks slowly. “Not missin’ much. Bloody filthy.” 
You laugh and tilt your head down, staring at the floor for a moment as your cheeks heat up. “I’ll have to take your word for it.” 
Simon puffs a sound of amusement, looking you up and down. He stares at your waist before he hums. 
“That a new one?” You look down at your corset above your blouse, putting a hand above the embroidery and nodding earnestly, touched that he’d seen it. Mr. Riley was far more in tune with his surroundings than others. 
“Yes, had a horrible time with the designs—I’m not quite sure I like it yet.” 
“It’s nice.” The man seems just as surprised about his quick outburst as you do, wide eyes meeting each other to connect with bare emotion. 
It’s a long pause that leaves you stuttering, your heart skipping a beat as your flesh burns with brimming affection. Simon grunts tensely and darts his eyes away to stare hard at the counter behind you.
“Well, I…” you tilt your head, beaming through a soft chuckle. “Thank you, Mr. Riley. That’s high praise coming from you.” 
“It’s nothing.” He takes his leave, firmly moving past you and shifting his body to make sure he doesn’t accidentally run into you. “Wear whatever you want, won’t make a difference… You’ll still be lovely.” 
Before you can gape into the expanse of his back at the blunt compliment, he’s already out of the door with a whisper. You watch him cross the street from the window and see him climb his steps, sucking down a shaky breath. 
An embarrassing giggle meets air. 
The man far across the street pauses in front of his door, gloved hand outstretched. He stays there for a hint of a moment, and you swear he turns his head to space you a tiny glance over his shoulder. 
Suddenly feeling as if you’d gotten caught, though you don’t know why, you squeak and hurry away into the back room. 
You wake up to the sound of the door opening. 
Drowsy and fatigued, your ears twitch to the sound of low groans and clipped growls—thick curses that would make any mother go shy that slip in and out of your reality. 
You should be afraid.
Footsteps stumble in, the thick closing and bolting of the door eching. Candles flicker through your eyelids, and you make a low noise in your throat as your face scrunches. 
All sound ceases. 
So quiet that death himself would vacate the area, your brain catches the end of a set of surprised footsteps coming to the bed and a sudden low exclamation of, “Bloody fucking hell.”
It all fades in and out, glimmering and glinting. 
A swift cleaning of the objects in his possession, organization, and fixing—moving papers. Feet stop at every other minute, and eyes burn into your face from above the covers. 
His fingers pull back at fabric, seeing the clothes you wear, the ones that he needs as of currently. 
A deep chuckle encircles you; your sleep deepens. Those same fingers, like a plague of slumber, travel up your bandaged arms and twitch along your shoulder—moving up until they come to the pulse at your neck. They add pressure and a breathless grunt is expelled as you tilt your head farther up. 
That touch is moved to your chin, moving it back down to hide your flesh from that brown gaze before a heavy sigh brushes over you. The covers are all at once pulled farther up along your form. 
The shadow disappears, and with it, it takes the extra blanket from the end of the bed, harshly grunting as the fabric is shuffled around and wrapped. A tiny mutter.
“You have a fuckin’ horrible habit of complicating things.” 
You sleep on, and, if you were conscious enough to realize it, you would have felt the gaze on you for the remainder of the night from the table—watching, barely blinking above the heavy press of eyes. 
Silent, if only for the soft breaths taken and no sooner exhaled on long, even, airways. 
As if not but a dog that watches the moon under starlight; the gentle sight of snow falling outside of the den. 
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twola · 1 month ago
Text
Defying Conventions II
Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI, A/B/O
➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link ➵ Previous Please be warned -cw: omegaverse, breeding kink, impregnation, pregnant sex, graphic birth. If those things bother you, then this is not the fic for you.
I feel like I am taking a big risk with this one. As someone who has recently gone through childbirth, it is definitely a traumatic thing, even when things go well. I write as a coping mechanism for trauma - so here it is.
It’s all going to shit.
Hosea. Lenny. Dead. John just busted out of Sisika. The bank robbery in Lemoyne gone completely south - and being marooned on that godforsaken island.
Not to mention Dutch and his behavior. Seems like Micah is in the man’s ear more than anyone else nowadays.
Beaver Hollow is miserable - damp, in these dark, dusty hills of Roanoke. It's stifling, the misery this place exudes.
“Arthur-” 
Arthur whips around, ready to snap at yet another person asking him to do something-
It’s you. Your cheeks are the slightest bit flushed. His hackles settle, temper calmed by the nearness of his other half.
“What d’ya need, darlin’?” He smiles as he raises his hand to welcome you into an embrace.
You don’t move, causing him to frown.
“I… uhm, I-” You stumble slightly, your hand unconsciously moving to your neck, where you have pinned a shawl to cover your skin.
Realization dawns on him, and a low, dull ache begins to burn in his gut.
“Y’ sayin’ we need to get away for a few days?”
You sheepishly shake your head, cheeks flushed. His smile returns and he takes the step to move closer. He wraps his arms around you, clutching you to him. You sigh and melt into his strong embrace.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble into his chest, shuddering slightly as you can feel your heat closing in on you. Tomorrow you’d be a blithering mess.
Arthur presses his lips to your forehead.
“Reckon that’s the best thing anyone’s asked me to do in a while.”
“You ain’t mad?” You look up at him, incredulous.
“Am I mad about my mate askin’ me to get away from this shithole for a few days and spend the hours ruttin’ away?” 
“I just hate being so… needy. Dumb omega shit.” You sigh, burying your head in his chest again. 
Arthur sighs knowingly, then grins as he pulls the shawl down to expose your neck and immediately buries his head against your clammy skin.
You yelp in surprise and arousal as you feel his tongue press against your mating gland - it’s a good thing that he has one arm strong around your waist, or else you would be stumbling to the ground.
Arthur groans quietly, squeezing you gently. “I’m yer alpha. Y’know what I need? I need to satisfy you.”
You try to push him back, afraid that you’re going to go into heat standing here in the middle of camp as he nuzzles at your neck. Alas, your lover is built like a brick wall, and it is only after quite a bit of fidgeting and you trying to yank your shawl back up that he takes the hint.
“Annesburg? Or d’ya want to go further?” He drawls as you try to collect yourself. 
You scowl up at him, “After that, we’ll need to go to Annesburg. Now.”
Arthur smirks, his eyes hidden under the rim of that old gambler’s hat. “Say less, darlin’ girl. Say less.” 
-
It’s a miracle that you can stand upright, there in the gunsmith’s shop as Arthur leans on the counter. While he had been in the foulest of moods earlier in the day, he’d found a second wind the moment you told him you needed him - suddenly acting full alpha - cocky and possessive and hell-bent on getting you desperate for him.
Christ, the whole ride down from Beaver Hollow was near excruciating - Arthur having dragged you onto the saddle in front of him, pressed against him completely, instead of pulling you up on his horse’s rump. Leaning over every so often and nipping at your neck. Groping your breast after passing another rider on the road. By the time the two of you had ridden into the dusty mine town, the flush that had dusted your cheeks before extended down your neck and chest.
“One room. ‘nd here’s extra to not bother us for a few days.”
The poor gunsmith blanches, completely understanding the threatening tone in Arthur’s voice. He nods, handing the alpha a key, muttering directions to the room, in the building next to the shop.
Arthur smirks, turning around and grabbing your arm, guiding you quickly to the room. Punching the key into the lock, he opens the door and watches as you stumble inside. A rumble, all alpha, punches out of his chest as you wipe at your brow, leaning against the wardrobe in the room.
“I’m just gonna get the horse straight. Be back in a minute.” Arthur calls back as he steps out of the room, leaving you to pant wearily as you survey the room that you’re going to lock the two of you in for the next couple of days.
You whine as you paw at the shawl hiding your neck, finally unlatching it and throwing it unceremoniously to the floor. Feverishly unbuttoning your blouse, you pull your arms out of it and toss it aside as well. You’re yanking the straps of your chemise down your arms and baring your breasts as Arthur re-enters the room. Your chemise hangs around your waist as your hands cup your breasts, your breath coming in short, fast pants.
“Need it that bad, omega?” Arthur purrs, pushing your hands away from your chest and placing his own atop your breasts, squeezing gently as you moan.
“Don’t - don’t be cruel- I’m…shit, I’m in heat.” You gasp out as his thumb traces over your nipple. Your knees shake as your hands grasp at him, and you feel your bloomers dampen as your slick begins to come.
One of Arthur’s hands moves from your breast to your waist and immediately starts yanking at your skirts, loosening the waist and pushing them down, along with your bloomers, to pool on the floor at your ankles, leaving you completely bare.
“I’ve got you, darlin’ girl,” Arthur grasps one of your hands and presses it against his massive erection in his pants, and you mewl desperately, craving the way he fills you.
“Go on, get on the bed.” He nods to you and you shakily follow his order, laying down on the bed and opening your legs, rubbing at your throbbing core, watching as your alpha undresses himself. Jacket and work shirt, denim and union suit, they are all shed as you watch, touching yourself all the while.
He goes to climb into the bed with you as you catch a glimpse of his eyes - the faintest red rim around those blue pools.
You groan, a pained cry from your chest, and he stops immediately. Your heat has fully set in, and your body jolts in furious need. You sit up rapidly, trying to gain some semblance of control over yourself.
“I.. you… you begin to rut, there’s a chance-” you suck in a breath against the cramping pain, “I’ll take.”
Arthur hovers over you. “Is that what you want?”
A pained gasp is all you can reply.
“It hurts-” you moan, crumbling forward in the bed, clutching at your lower abdomen. Arthur’s large, warm hands find your sides immediately and gently push you to lay fully on your stomach.
“Hands and knees, let me take care of you.”
You breathe heavily, labored, through your mouth, your fever making you weak. You let him maneuver you however he wants, having lost the strength to do anything else. Your limbs are drawn under you, and your head presses heavily into the old pillow. He positions himself behind you, grabbing your hips and hoisting them up. You moan throatily into that pillow as he takes one hand to stroke his cock into full rigidity.
Before he presses inside, it hits you. You push up on your elbows and he stops, rubbing your lower back. You breathe out against another cramp that shudders through your body. “You… you’re gonna…”
All of the hotheadedness of being an alpha vanishes.
“Honey we don’t have to - it’s what you want.”
You swallow. He’s in position to mount you, the most base and primal of ways to slake this biological need. The complete and utter submission of an omega to their alpha.  Some say it’s an old wives tale, but omegas know - they are taught very early on, that being mounted was supposedly the best way to breed - the surest way to conceive a child. That if they were caught out in the world by an alpha, to fight like hell to not be mounted.
“What do you want, Arthur?”
He leans over you and you feel his lips on your shoulder as one of his hands gently grasps the crest of your hip.
“I wanna spend my days wit’ you.”
“That don’t answer the question.” You suck in another breath against the pain.
He pets your cunt gently, making you shiver as his knuckle parts your folds. “I’ll be happy either way. If you wanna spend our days ridin’ as partners or raisin’ children - I’ll be there as your mate.”
“And… and if I want…?” You gasp out against the pain, your slick starting to run down his knuckle all the way to his wrist, “If I want to have your child?”
He groans loudly and removes his hand from your cunt, immediately smearing your slick all over his cock and he pumps it vigorously. His opposite hand clamps hard on your hip, yanking you up to align with his swaying pelvis.
“Omega-” he growls, all predator, with the blunt head of his cock pressed against the seam of you, probing against the rim of your cunt, raring to plunge into your body, “I’ll breed you right, girl.”
His voice is rough, his tone warning. Another sway of his hips and his cockhead slips in, you do your part and press your hips back to take him, to urge him forward. You moan throatily into the pillow as he presses inside - somehow his cock feels bigger, thicker in this position than at any other time. 
“Fuck, darlin’.” Arthur curses when he’s fully sheathed inside you, hands strong on your hips. On his knees behind you, he guides you on and off of his cock as he thrusts his hips in tandem. The bed squeaks with the movement of your bodies. You clench the pillow hard as your lover picks up the pace, fucking into you frantically.
With each powerful thrust of him into you, you feel his knot start to grow, stretching you with a pain that you crave. If you were able to turn around and look up at him, you’d see his eyes rimmed in red. But you could tell, with the way his hands clamp on your hips, the hardness of his cock - you know he’s gone into rut.
He slows, breathing heavily through his nose, reminiscent of a beast of burden.
“Darlin’-” his voice is rough and thick with arousal, “Last chance, omega. D’ya want me to put a baby in you?”
You shudder, hissing at the finality of his implication as you feel the trickle down your neck from your mating gland of that sweet, pheromone-filled oil. 
“Yes.” You whine, “Yes, Arthur, let me - give me, ngh-” you throw your hips backward to spear yourself on his hard cock, “Breed me.”
“Fuck-” Arthur groans, and almost immediately, his knot swells, stretching the rim of your cunt as he locks himself into you. You whine against the pain-pleasure of it all.
Here you are, on your hands and knees, alpha mounting you, waiting for him to breed you - oh, what a place to be in - what a situation you thought you would never be in. Arthur quickly leans over you, plastering his chest over your back, his strong arms caging you in on either side of your own. It’s terrifyingly intimate as he breathes loudly through his nose, nipping at the gland on your neck.
The world slows. 
“I love you,” he rumbles into your ear, and gives one more thrust into you, knot keeping him snugly in your cunt, “I love you - I love you -” He babbles before sucking one final breath in.
Every nerve of yours is alight. You’ve never felt so in tune with your body. For one final instant, you shiver, your womb ready to accept. One final cramp of need, lower than ever, and you know it is the way your body sings for your mate. Your heart stops. Your cunt clenches at Arthur’s cock, as if it were begging for him the same way you shamelessly are.
Splayed over you, his lips quickly find your gland and he sucks, you gasp, and then you can feel it - deep in your body, you feel the warmth of his seed, his cock pulsing in your cunt as he fills you. 
The sound he makes is beautiful, a moan that transcends physical need. No, this was more. This was your mate, this was breeding, this was the pinnacle of what you were born for. This was creation. The swell of emotion overflows as tears burst from your eyes. You let out a crooning moan of your own as you take him, you take all of him, every pulse of him into your womb. 
The moment seems to last forever. Heaving, panting, groaning, Arthur empties himself into you, locked at the hilt, your body shaking at the sheer implication of it all. For once in your life, your omegahood was not a curse. Your alpha, bent over you, mounted and pumping his hot spend into you.
Arthur gasps like a fish out of water once he’s done. The roaring of your heart in your chest seems to overpower everything. You sob loudly and he immediately sobers and moves the two of you to lay on your sides on the bed, still locked at the hips. He brushes back a lock of your hair, “Honey, are you alri-?”
“I love you,” you cry out, taking his hand and pulling it to your breast, over your heart. “Arthur I love you, I need you - you’re everything-”
He settles in behind you, his knot still locked strong within your body.
“Honey darlin’ girl…” You can feel him smile into your hair, “Mate.”
All of the fierceness, the rough possession, it all has faded as Arthur gently nuzzles the back of your head.  You pull his hand down to your belly, right to the cradle of your hips, to splay out over your womb. “Our child - Arthur.”
He presses against your hot skin, arms wrapped tightly around you, and the next thing you know, that overwhelming warmth shoots through your cunt again as he breathes out heavily.
“Gonna make sure I give you one.” He groans, voice rough as he shallowly pumps his hips against your rear, another round of spend coating your insides.
You mewl, accepting him, rolling your hips as you make another noise of desperation.
“Y‘okay?” He asks, his arm tightening around you.
You whine, wiggling your hips, testing the strength of his knot. He growls in your ear, one of his hands shooting down to your cunt and forcing your legs apart and the other wound under your ribcage, engulfing and squeezing one of your breasts.
Arthur sucks in a breath and nuzzles the back of your neck. His hips jut forward once again, and his cock swells within you.
“Got one last one in me - gonna, gonna g-give you-“
Your entire body quivers in anticipation, and you grab Arthur’s hand from your breast and spread it over your lower belly, holding your hand over his. Over where you will grow and create and swell with child, his child.
“Give me a baby, Arthur-”
Arthur grunts, cock pulsing, and you mewl as you feel the bleeding warmness of him exit his body and enter yours. Gentle waves of him, dripping down and over his knot, smearing across both his and your thighs. A physical sign that he’s filled your cunt to the brim with his seed.
Finally, as the two of you breathe heavily from near-exhaustion, Arthur’s knot recedes enough that he is able to pull himself from you. Arthur slides himself from your body gently, and you whine as his inches leave you. He leans over you and kisses your temple. “I’ll get us some food. Get some rest.”
You turn over in the bed to face him, rubbing gently at your belly. You smile, mischievously.
“I like you mountin’ me.”
Arthur scowls at you, “Jesus Christ, you can’t just say that. We’ll never leave this bed if you keep acting like that.”
You simply smile, leaning in and taking his lips with yours, throwing your leg over his hip, preventing him from leaving the sanctity of the bed. One of his hands rounds your hip to cup your ass.
Shivering slightly, you involuntarily clench as you feel another trickle of his essence leak from your cunt. You look down between you, Arthur’s eyes following yours. You unwind your leg from his hip and turn to lie on your back. 
Your dark hair has lovely drips of white coursing through it, and Arthur groans quietly when he sees it. He reaches, collecting that viscous rivulet on his finger, and you watch intently as he looks back at you, raising his brow as he trails his finger through your thatch of hair.
He lovingly, gently presses it back in, and you whine with oversensitivity at the feeling of his thick trigger finger slipping through the sore rim of your cunt. Arthur takes your lips with his, smothering your complaint.
After several moments, he extracts his hand, leaning back on his elbow. He nuzzles against your neck, the now-faded ring left by his teeth those weeks ago.  “When will you know if you took?”
You shrug, “I guess when my heat ends. Never really paid attention much to them omega lessons…What happens now?”
Arthur rolls onto his back, stretching himself out in the bed, looking up at the moisture-stained ceiling of the rented room. “Things are endin’ with the gang. As much as it kills me to say it…”
You move closer to him, laying your head upon his chest. “And us…?”
“You’re my mate. You’re hopefully carrying my child. Ain't gonna make the mistakes I’ve made in the past.”
You fiddle with a strand of your long, messy hair. “I know we’re mates and all but…” you trail off, eyes trained on the strand of hair instead of him.
“Let’s get Swanson to marry us,” Arthur says, winding his arm around you again.
A smile blooms across your face and you immediately sit up and kiss him, hard, dragging him back down to the bed.
You awaken the next day in the mid-morning, when the sun is already high in the sky.  Arthur’s already up, sitting on the side of the bed, half-dressed. He looks back at you as you stretch your arms overhead. Yawning, you run your hands down your body to rest at the cradle of your hips.
A warmth blooms under your hand. You don’t know how to explain it, but you’re sure you took.
His large hand covers yours.
“Thinkin’ so?”
You nod, looking back at him, unable to stop yourself from smiling. You push yourself up and crash into his embrace.
“But you know, can never be too sure.” You giggle.
A spark of amusement shoots through those river-blue eyes of his.
“Get on your knees, omega. Let’s make sure.”
-
Months Later…
“Absolutely not.”
You frown, pouting reminiscent of a petulant child. You have to stop yourself from stomping your foot on the old wooden floor.
“Ain’t no way in hell am I mountin’ you when you're this close to giving birth.” Arthur scowls at you, looking you up and down with a set jaw and exasperated tone.
“C’monnn…” You tease, taking your hands and running them down your ribcage to highlight your quite large belly under the fabric of your dress.
“No. Christ, it’s hard enough not to go into rut when you’re just sleeping next to me.” Arthur shakes his head, turning away from you, trying to distract himself.
“Gentle?” You wind your way around him, your hand tracing up his back.
“Woman….” He gives a warning tone, but you can tell that you are wearing him down.
“Please, alpha.” You press yourself against him suggestively, taking one of his hands and placing it over the swell of your belly, “You need to take care of your omega.”
His fingers pulse over your skin, and with a sigh, he gives in, “I ain’t knotting you, no matter how much you beg. Christ, I shouldn’t even be entertainin’ this.”
With a giggle, your fingers fly to where his suspenders are fastened to his black work pants, and before he can even react, you have one unclipped. He snatches your hands away from his waist and holds them up above your head.
“You are the most troublesome-”
You lean up on your and kiss him, effectively silencing his retort. When you pull away, you smile up at him, and he cannot help but give the smallest smile back.
“Like I was sayin’, troublesome. C’mon now, get in bed.” Arthur playfully swats at your hip as you grab his hand, pulling him toward the bedroom.
The small cabin could use some updating - but for the soon-to-be three of you, the small homestead tucked away in the hills of Ambarino is exactly what you never knew you needed. A small bedroom, a bed tucked over in the corner, a fireplace, and an old, beaten-up dresser - for all the time you’d spent running, sleeping in tents and on bedrolls - having a home with your husband was something you’d never think you’d have.
As you reach the bed, he stops you and spins you around, holding you upright all the while. Arthur leans down and presses his lips against yours, one hand pulling at your dress, gathering up the skirts, bunching them up, raising them up, up to your hips. With an awkward shimmy with your belly hanging low, your bloomers pool to the floor with a quick tug from Arthur’s fingers.
“C’mon - lay down,” Arthur taps your hip and motions to the bed.
You raise your eyebrows as he undoes his other suspender, about to comment on how dressed the two of you still are.
“No-” he warns, “You take everythin’ off and I’m definitely knotting you. And we aren’t doin’ that.”
You’re about to complain again but are cut off as he pushes you, gently, down onto the bed before shoving his pants and short drawers down his saddle-hewn thighs.
At that sight, you quickly lay down, rolling onto your side as you hike your skirts up to bare your cunt.
“Thought so, troublesome.” Arthur jokes as he slides himself into bed behind you, the skin of his pelvis and cock warm against your rear. 
It takes some awkward maneuvering - everything is awkward when you are this far gone, but finally, he slowly presses himself into you, and you sigh in contentment.
It’s everything he is not to slam his hips into you, to knot you, to claim claim claim. But he needs to be soft, to be gentle, to be careful. 
You moan appreciatively when he gives a shallow pulse of his hips. The sheath of your body feels like a live wire - primed and ready to snap at any time. The pace he finds is slow, but full and heady. You mewl, your body shuddering as you come, and Arthur is forced to pull himself from you and wrap his hand around his cock, hissing as he feels his knot expand around nothing.
You struggle to turn yourself over, but finally do so and wrap your hand around his knot, joining his hand around that swollen base of him. He unclenches his jaw and looks down at you as you squeeze at him, moving your fingers from his hard knot up his shaft, and downward again.
“Sweetheart you don’t-” he grits out as you begin to pump him.
“Hush-” you interrupt as you lay your head upon his chest, twisting your hand around him as you stroke up and down. It doesn’t take long for him to find his own end. Arthur growls, thrusting his hips upward as he comes, spurting white out of the head of his cock over both of your hands.
After catching his breath, he kisses the crown of your head, “You okay?”
You look up and smile at him, satiated.
-
Arthur tosses the last of the firewood he’d been chopping all afternoon in the pile under the overhang, wiping the sweat from his brow as he lays the ax against the outside of the cabin. Grabbing the carbine that he had been cleaning earlier, he shoulders it as he pushes through the front door.
“Darl-”
The bedroom door is closed. Warily, he grabs the door handle and slowly opens it. Arthur stops completely, eyes widening as he scans the room. The whole atmosphere has changed from even this morning, and he slides the carbine from his shoulder and props it against the wall. 
It’s dark, the curtains drawn against the midafternoon sun. Before his eyes adjust to the darkness, he can just barely make out your form, leaning against the mantle, your head on your forearms.
He closes the door again, recreating the safety of the nest. He realizes that’s what it is only after shutting the door. A nest. 
“Is it-?”
You nod as pain rips through you and you groan, clutching your belly. Arthur is on you in an instant, holding you upright. 
Immediately, a fierce agitation in his blood sings. Protect, protect, protect.
You breathe out heavily through your nose as you stand up to full height again. “C’n you make a fire? I need… I need-”
“Anythin’, darlin’. Here, how about you sit down-”
“No, no I need to walk.”
For the next hours, you pace back and forth in the room, wincing every so often, one hand supporting your belly. You’ve kicked your shoes off, and Arthur has as well, sitting in a chair next to the fire, knee bouncing as he watches you intently. The warmth of the room is nearly suffocating to him, but he would never dream of asking to open the window or put out the fire. He simply rolls up the sleeves of his faded blue work shirt.
You suck in a pained breath and a groan echoes through the room as you double over, trying to assuage the overwhelming feeling in your hips.
“I- I think it’s time… h-help me get undressed and onto the bed.”
Arthur nods, stepping closer to you and reaching for the laces of your dress, pulling them apart and helping you step out of the fabric. He continues, solemnly, pushing the straps of your chemise down your shoulders. Gently, your chemise falls away, your bloomers puddle at your feet. Arthur’s blood is on fire as he can see the rivulet of liquid trail down your legs. Your breasts heavy and full, nipples darkened, your belly low. Your body heaving.
He is in awe. Not carnally - though he always wants you - he is in awe of you gritting your teeth against a wave of pain. He is in awe at the movement he sees in your belly. He is in awe of what is about to come, what you are about to do. You groan and reach for him. He immediately places his hands around your waist to steady you. You murmur softly as you lean into his embrace.
“Let’s get you to bed, darlin’ girl.” Arthur gently leads you to the bed and helps you lie down in it. You groan, trying to get comfortable, but it is a lost cause.
The hours continue to roll by, punctuated by your body seizing in agonizing pain every few minutes. You whimper to the ceiling, jumbled syllables of prayers, of curses, of his name.
He wants to growl, he wants to go outside and tear something to pieces. There is an overwhelming need to destroy as he watches you writhe in pain trying to bring his child into the world. He wants to fight another alpha - to dominate - to provide some kind of placation to the inferno in his chest.
Another pained, agonized whimper from you brings him back to reality.
“Si-sit me up,” You grit your teeth as Arthur helps you up, he sits at the head of the bed behind you and you lean back on him for strength. He will give you it all, he would give you anything to take this pain away, if only he could shoulder this task for you. You spread your legs a little further as your head falls back upon his shoulder, a wail crawling out of your throat. Slick trails down your neck from your mating gland as Arthur helps to hold you in a reclined position.
Spiced, warm, rich- with just a hint of the sweetness you usually smell like. It’s different, and instead of driving him wild with the need to rut, it’s making his heart pound with anxiousness and protectiveness. He’s sure if someone were to encroach on the area he would tear them to shreds with his bare hands right now.
“Doin’ so good.” He murmurs against your temple and you moan again in response, your head lolling forward as you hoarsely cry out.
“A-Arthur, its- it’s comin’, the baby-” You pant, and your hands move from clutching the bed sheets hanging between your legs.
“I’m here, I’m here.” Assurance is all he can do at the moment.  Blood begins to stain the sheet underneath you as you breathe heavily out your nose. Red smears your thighs as the end draws near. Your back tenses and your fingers clutch at his. Your nails dig into the back of his hand, but his pain be damned. Your head turns into his chest, squeezing your eyes shut, searching for some sort of comfort.
A rumble, deep and strong, claws up from his chest. His free hand spreads out over your belly, pulsing, cramping, hard - he can feel the ordeal your body is going through beneath his fingertips. Moments drag on as you breathe heavily through your nose.
With a gasp, you grab his hand from your belly and draw it down between your legs, against your cunt. Tears stream from your eyes as you wail loudly, the final moments having arrived. 
“Y’can do this, sweetheart, you’re doin’ so good-” He murmurs into your temple as you pant, another cry clawing up from your throat.
“Arthur-!”
Taking in a measured breath, you shudder in against him, a hoarse shout filling the room as you deliver the child. In a rush of blood and fluid, Arthur finds himself cupping the baby’s head as it slides into the world. A final scream pierces the room as you push again, the child’s shoulders and the rest of its body leaving you and into the waiting hands of its parents.
You immediately are lucid, and bring the child up to your chest, and the newborn’s piercing cry fills the room. The white-blue cord from the child’s belly pulses against your own, the blood connection between the two of you still strong. 
Arthur is struck dumb. He can barely comprehend what has just happened as you coo gently at the wailing babe, sticky and bloody. 
“L-lie us down, and get that linen blanket o’er there.” You whisper as you rub the child’s back, and its cries slowly quiet. He is jolted back to reality, and slowly, gently lies you down in the bed, standing up and grabbing the aforementioned blanket and bringing it back to you.
You’re able to wrap the babe loosely upon your chest and belly. You look up at Arthur, but his gaze is trained on the rough swaddled babe. The tufts of dark honeyed hair peaking out from the linen. Those blotchy red cheeks.
“Your son, my alpha.” You whisper.
Arthur gapes up at you, seemingly unable to comprehend your words, until something clicks and he immediately leans over and places his lips upon yours in a desperate, emotional kiss.
“Oh, sweetheart - you - you-”
You chuckle softly.
“You’re perfect, he’s perfect - my darlin’ omega girl.”
The child latches to your breast and begins to slowly suckle. The warm spice of your scent from giving birth recedes, and a sweetness replaces it. It’s new, this scent, the tang of milk and notes of comforting vanilla. Arthur breathes in deeply, resonating deep in his bones that you are no longer just his mate; you are mother to his child.
The boy’s scent - a combination of yours and his, invades his nostrils. Of sweet vanilla and leather. Of that tang of milk. He wants to nuzzle against the child and breathe in deep. The only scent he wants to be bathed in forevermore.
In those quiet moments after the ordeal of birth, you open the swaddled linen to give him access to cut the cord between you and the child, a quick flick of his hunting knife above the child’s abdomen. He holds you, kissing your temple and murmuring sweet nothings as you clutch at the child, delivering the afterbirth with a soft, stifled whine of pain.
Things start to slow. He’s got a new purpose now. As you drift to sleep, cleaned and in a new chemise, upon fresh sheets, his gaze moves to the basket next to the bed, where in a fresh swaddle of linen, his son also sleeps.
It's murderous, the things he would do to protect the two of you. This nest, the newborn child, and you recovering from birth. His blood sings- not in the need to fuck, but in the solemn duty he now has - as alpha, as husband, as father. It's fierce, the protectiveness he now feels. Like a snarling wolf defending territory. Alpha, protector. Head of the family.
He sits down in the chair opposite the bed, carbine in reach, beginning his watch.  The watch that would consume him for the rest of his life. 
But he’s content with this new calling. 
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dreamgrlarchive · 1 year ago
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My Collection of Beauty Standard Inspo 💗
#PrettyHeiressDiaries
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video vixens ❤︎︎
video vixens are the quintessential sexy girl that you either wanted to be or wanted to get. they’re almost always hyper girly and there’s a natural beauty to them that’s less prominent as of late. they ooze effortless sex appeal. not to mention the mystery they held. i mean they literally were just there to look good, be pursued, and look good some more. they weren’t talking, let alone telling their business.
thin brows
frosty lip gloss
jet black or honey blonde long hair
millennium/logomania designer pieces
very blingy detailz
revealing cuts + sexy silhouettes
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vintage glam black women ❤︎︎
appearing effortlessly beautiful while giving high maintenance class. these women are EXPEN$IVE! striking personalities and body language that commanded respect and attracted the best treatments only. a very overt glamorous brand of femininity.
voluminous hair and curls
opulent accessories
fur coats + shawls
metallic, shimmery eyes
pendant jewelry
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ultrafeminine bougie women ❤︎︎
women like kimora lee simmons, mariah carey, and nicki minaj (and fictional characters like hilary banks, dionne davenport and toni childs) all carry themselves with a super girly aura. they don’t mind the “diva” or “gold digger” label; embrace it even. they love pink and being the most sparkly in the room and are often very successful and headstrong!
pink, pink, pink
tweed, tartan, + plaid
natural glam makeup
silk presses and sew ins
blouses + skirts
crop tops, tube tops, + turtlenecks
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iconic early 90s supermodels ❤︎︎
the golden age of fashion. these women walked in the most influential fashion shows for me; chanel ss95, chanel fw92, azzedine alaia fw91, versace 92, lanvin a/w 91. the epitome of untouchable glamour. the circle of the most beautiful, most hardworking women ever.
silk, tulle, chiffon
statement pieces
designer purses
houndstooth and cheetah prints
form-fitting silhouettes
an amazing strut
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not-your-asian-fantasy · 2 months ago
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The Juggernaut
Barbie’s new Diwali doll has sold out in less than four days.
The $40 doll by Indian fashion designer Anita Dongre came out October 4. Though Barbie has released “Indian” dolls before, this is its first Diwali Barbie.
“In a continued commitment to promoting celebrations of heritage, Barbie is unveiling its first Barbie Diwali doll,” Mattel wrote in a news release. “The Barbie Diwali doll celebrates India’s cultural richness with a worldwide audience.”
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Diwali Barbie sports a dark blue Anita Dongre lehenga, golden bangles and jhumka, high heels, and a ponytail. She has no backstory.
Dongre told USA Today that designing the look took over a year. She first envisioned the doll having several outfits. “I wanted to have an entire collection,” she told USA Today. “Should it be a lehenga? Should it be a sari? Should it be a sharara? There’s so much one can do. Indian fashion is just so versatile.”
“This Moonlight Bloom look features a choli top, floral koti vest, and lehenga skirt lush with dahlias, jasmine, and Indian lotus, representing strength and beauty,” Mattel’s site reads. Though note: “The doll comes with a stand…Doll cannot stand alone.”
Last year, American Girl also got in on the Indian American market, America’s fastest-growing and richest demographic. It launched Kavi, a doll who loves Broadway, has a Western and Indian wardrobe, and celebrates Diwali and Holi.
Despite its 2023 blockbuster movie, #Barbie has long faced flak for shaping perceptions of what women should look like.
In 1996, Mattel created its first melanated doll for Indians. She had the same physique as white Barbie and wore a bindi. Yet, the box labeled her pink sari as a two-piece outfit with an optional shawl and noted that Indians don’t use utensils to eat. As Sadaf Ahsan wrote for The Juggernaut: “If you aren’t blonde and blue-eyed, life in plastic isn’t fantastic.”
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arcielee · 4 months ago
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the sword & the salver
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paring: Suguru Geto x reader summary: Prince Satoru Gojo sends his trusted general, and friend, across the kingdom to retrieve the girl who saved him when he was a boy. You loathe the idea of having your life uprooted on the whim of some faraway prince, and General Suguru Geto is determined to see through his prince's command, by whatever means. word count: 3.4k+ warnings: AFAB reader, Gojo being Gojo, some miscommunication and missed moments, and more pining for funsies! author's note: Thank you for all the comments and reblogs! They give me life. 🥰 Also, I forgot to mention that Atsumeru means to collect or gather. Enjoy! [Snippet below source.]
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Chapter III ~ More Than Words
almost eighteen years ago
The cry for help was wet and shrilled, a kind of panic that rippled through you, echoing from the river that curved through Hoshi. 
It was your first moment away from the fretful eye of your father, a blessed reprieve under the trees as you poured over the book he had gifted. Its pages detailed the history of herbs and its healing properties, your newfound passion. You looked up from it, eyes squinting unsure of the noise you heard until you spotted the frantic flail of arms. 
A boy struggling to stay afloat, being pulled by the swollen river.
Your brow furrowed. No one would dare cross the river, especially after the heavy rains that washed away the recent bloodshed–though the iron smell remained, heavy and haunting. 
He will surely drown, you realized. There was a large tree that had fallen across, and you knew it was your only hope to try and save him. You closed your book, bounding to your feet, divots carving into the still-damp earth as you ran the dirt path alongside. Your mother’s shawl streamed behind you, catching around, but it did not falter your steps. 
“Help me!” You heard him scream, choking on another mouthful of water.
Ahead, you saw the tree was wedged by the rocks that lined both sides of the river; though the branches had grown brittle, you hoped the trunk remained steady. “I am trying!” You kicked off your shoes, quick but careful as you moved towards the center. You peeled the shawl from your shoulders and wrapped it around a thicker branch jutting upwards, a sharp tug to secure before you knotted the end.  
“Grab this!” You yelled as his head bobbed above, hoping he could hear you over the rushing white crash of the current that was pulling him.
Your silent prayer was answered as it left your hands, guided by the gods themselves. The fabric went taut and you braced yourself, pulling hand-over-hand as he held onto the other end for his life. 
When he hit the trunk, he clawed for hold, a fistful of your skirt that nearly dragged you in. “Stop!” You shrieked, losing your balance and falling to your knees, burning against the bark. “I am trying to help you!” You reached to grab his shirt and he used the momentum to himself up, draping over the tree. 
You felt exhausted. Your legs ached, dangling lifeless off the sides, bruised and bloody knees soothed by the water lapping up and soaking your torn skirt. The boy was shaking with deep, shuddering breaths that wracked his slender frame. 
“Thank you,” he rasped after the last of the river expelled from his lungs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you for saving me, but–please, don’t tell my mother.” 
At first you thought him mad, as you could not understand what he meant–how could you even know who she was–until you truly looked at him, seeing the bluest eyes with a piercing desperacy, wide and pleading. 
Prince Satoru Gojo. 
You were awestruck. “The prince cannot swim?”
He scowled, and you ignored it. You pulled him to his feet, unsteady but demanding, moving back to the river bank. He was compliant, his fight swept away in the currents, following you to first retrieve your book before you marched him back to your home.
Evening was pulling over and you saw your father was waiting for you outside, tall and lean, the severity of his face twisting with his worry. Your stomach dropped, but he soon recognized the azure infinity of the prince’s eyes–a well-known royal trait–and ushered you both inside. 
It was only after he cleaned up that the prince seemed to possess a regal air about him, despite how the clothes borrowed hung on his lithe frame. He was a few years older, very lean and with a boyish charm that now replaced his panic from earlier. He was gracious to your father and very well-spoken, just as you would expect royalty to behave. 
You watched him, your curiosity knitted between your brows. You had asked your father why he, the future heir to the Tengen Kingdom, would even require anything from your humble home. 
Your father had shushed you. “We will always help anyone in need,” he reminded you, “no matter their station in life.” 
When supper was served, a broth to warm the bones, the prince ate as if he was starved. A silence settled over the table, punctuated by the cutlery. Your skepticism could not be masked and your eyes narrowed onto him, brimming with questions you could not keep to your chest. 
“How did you fall into the river?”
The warning look from your father was set aside; your attention was solely on the prince. Prince Gojo returned your gaze with a smirk curling on his lips, welcoming the challenge, and you wondered how often he was ever told that he could not do something in his privileged life. 
“I was trying to get away,” he offered, another spoonful to fill his mouth. 
You would not be deterred. “Get away from what?”
“From things you could not understand.” 
You scoffed. “Swimming lessons, my prince?” 
Your name came out as a warning, low and lethal, and your father’s sharp eyes bored through you, silencing you. Your jaw ticked, your lips pursing as you looked back at the prince and the celestial blue of his eyes dancing, daring you. 
His tone was even. “There are obligations that are expected of me and I no longer wish to fulfill them.”
“I suppose this is for the best then, for you to wash away.” You could not stop yourself. “A cowardly prince would make for a cowardly king.”
He was red. “You dare call me a coward–” 
“Enough.”
Your father had no need to raise his voice, his gravelly tone was commanding in itself. Your eyes fell in front of you and your cheeks were warm with his chastising tone. 
The silence returned, thicker, denser than before, rolling over to ensnare the attention at everyone sitting at the table before your father spoke again. “Cowardice is only the result of seeing what is right and choosing to do nothing,” he reminded you.
The prince looked at him, the endless ocean of his eyes shining bright. Your father then continued, “I believe the gods often give us what we need and never what it is that we want. And a great king is determined by the resilience he wields with every daunting task that he will face.” 
You looked to the prince and saw a pensive change, a consideration in the cerulean cosmos of his gaze that was observing your father. It shifted his posture, his shoulders lifting with a new acceptance that steeled his jaw with a determination unearthed. 
The prince did not look at you, nor would he speak to you again that night. The next morning, he was gone, his mother arriving with the cavalry to bring him home. 
And Prince Gojo went without complaint. 
+ + + +
present day
The thought dawned on you along with the rising sun, the same as it had been the day before with its unyielding gold pouring over. Your body was sore, tear-wearied and bundled in the furs and the blanket that still held onto Suguru’s scent. You blinked, watching the smoke curl up from the fire pit and looking over to see Mimiko grazing at her leisure by the river’s edge, her ears flickering on alert. 
I have to see it for myself, you decided. It was the only way to accept what happened, to help the raw ache that still rattled inside your chest. 
The air was crisp against your face as you walked back up the knoll to see the damage that was done by the fire. Below was Suguru, kneeling at the blackened border of what had been your home. Embers were still glowing towards the center, smoke rolling over in intermittent waves above the ash and whisking away with the autumn breeze. You could see the tension lining his shoulders as he stretched to sink two fingers in the ashen edge. 
You stayed quiet, moving closer, ignoring the pulse of dull pain at the sight. Suguru looked up at you with the same careful consideration shining in his eyes, following your steps as you moved towards what was left of the fireplace, stones still stacked and most of them cracked. 
Start anew. Your eyes washed over before you pulled out a felt pouch and kneeled to collect some of the black charcoal. “A healer has her reasons,” you called over your shoulder; you could still feel his eyes, but you could not bring yourself to look at him yet. 
Suguru said nothing, only a hum, and your eyes moved onto something protruding from the soot. Your steps were mindful, the earth still warm beneath the soles of your boots, and you tentatively touched it with your toe. It cracked in half and you saw the familiar gleam of agate from the mortar your father gifted you. 
A soft, surprised sound spilled from your lips and you kneeled again, your fingers unburying and flitting to find the pestle unbroken. You moved towards the river with the pieces in your hands. 
He shadowed after your steps, keeping a respectful distance, his curious gaze watching as you removed your boots and knotted your skirt around your knees. The water nipped to the bone as you waded to your ankles, squatting to wash away the ash that covered your hands, cleaning the stone until its dull gray shine showed again; you pressed the two halve together, a perfect fit. 
It made you smile. “I think I will see about getting them gilded together whenever we arrive at Hoshi,” you said, turning to show Suguru.
He shifted with a fleeting relief that you were finally looking at him, but his expression turned pained, almost dumbfounded with what you said. “You still wish to go?” 
You could have laughed. “What other choice is there? If anything… well, first we must go so you can be relieved of this errand the prince sent you on.” The words needled through your throat and you quickly swallowed it. “I will decline the prince’s proposal and then I will request an audience with the queen to see about a possible restitution.” 
Suguru raised his eyebrows. “You say this as though you expect that she would give you such a sum.” 
“Perhaps she will pity me.” You shrugged. “But the queen has helped in the north before with every time the men from Ryomen cross over.”
It was not what he was expecting you to say. His jaw steeled, alarm flashing across his face, but his tone remained controlled. “How often does that happen now?” 
As long as you could remember.
The violent shift from the bordering kingdom in the north only began once Sukuna claimed the crown. His first act as king was to disregard the border policies that had been respected for the last century. He swore they were made as a blatant prejudice against his people, and rallied against the Tengen Kingdom, stating they were selfish with how they hoarded. 
The queen responded with an envoy, an invitation to expand her charter market. He returned only their heads, a trademarked expression, his sense of entitlement beginning its ugly and violent reign. 
Skirmishes began flaring, slowly pressing inwards until the battle of Hoshi was fought some years later. It was bloodied, brazen, but won at a cost that carved out your heart with the death of your mother, amongst many others.
In fact, both kingdoms were nearly crippled from the casualties. 
Sukuna and his men were beaten back to the borders, and he would not attempt another full blown assault for almost a decade–a war fought and lost on Tengen land, beaten by a young man with an enchanted sword that swayed the favor. 
“My father lost his life on that day.” Suguru did not lament with his words, just a fact stated as he offered you his hand. You could feel the callouses from his sword, and his warmth pulled you back onto the river bank. You did not want to let go, but he did, taking the pieces you had washed to carry them for you. “My father had served the queen faithfully and helped win that battle, but his injuries were too severe.”
Your empty hands unknotted your skirts, grabbing your boots and following after as he continued. “The queen took me in with the hopes that I would be a good influence on Satoru. But as you know, he ran away later that week.”
“I am glad he went back.”
A smile shadowed on his face before he asked. “How did your father die?”
With the gold given by the queen, your father decided to return to the north and set up his practice. Meanwhile, Sukuna grew restless before his cruel cycle repeated as before: pillaging and raiding, crippling the Tengen kingdom village by village. While most fled, your father remained to offer aid to anyone who needed it, but when his healing prowess was learned of, it was not long after that your village was attacked. 
Your father had been captured and then killed. Sukuna had his head sent back as an ill omen, but his body remained on display, placed on spikes for the birds to peck at. You had buried what you had of him by the river, shaded under the banyan trees. 
Suguru paled, his voice soft, “I am so sorry.” 
“I am too.” You felt the urge to reach for him, to feel the warmth of his hands again. “I am sorry for what you lost as well.” 
He shifted his stance, uncertainty flittering, still cradling the pieces to his chest. “But with the fire–” 
You stopped him. “We are not having a battle of plight, Suguru.” War had broken you both, you wanted to say, and that just as he found that sword to carve his own legacy, you were determined to rebuild again. 
But instead, you said, “I actually wanted to thank you.” Your boldness burned your face, something that recurred under his steady gaze. 
He stopped and turned to look at you; you sighed to soothe your nerves. “I was… rash last night. I was not thinking clearly. It just felt as if I had lost my father all over again. Seeing all of this,” –you gestured around, eyes flitting back over the soot and ash– “I realized that he remains with me through my actions, that he lives within the pages of the book… the one that I showed you.” 
Your words were spilling, almost rambling, but this time it served as a sense of comfort for you, of reassurance spoken out loud. Suguru stayed quiet, allowing you to gather your thoughts, and you felt a shiver up your spine from the ardent amethyst of his eyes. 
“So, thank you, Suguru,” and you finally looked up at him from beneath your eyelashes, “for everything, for what you did for me last night.” 
Your composure was forced as the blood roared in your head from how your heart was beating in your chest. You studied him, deciphering every shift in his features: his look of surprise, at first, but it came and went with your heart beat. His jaw tightened, a rose dusting to his cheeks and his brow furrowing above the swirling cogitation of his purple gaze. 
He said nothing, but began to walk again. You watched him for a moment before following after. 
Back at the camp, Mimiko looked up with a whinny greeting. Suguru moved to pack while you cleaned yourself and laced up your boots. It was decided the buggy would remain behind, and you climbed in the back to pull down the herbs–turmeric and echinacea and lavender–pressing them between the pages of Atsumeru before tucking it back into your satchel.
“Hoshi is about eight days away on foot.” You were startled to hear his voice after the long beat of silence that settled between. Suguru moved to take your bag and secure it to Mimiko’s backside. “And she won’t be able to carry us for long distances.” 
You moved closer to her, your palm flat as offering for her to smell. Mimiko lowered her head for you and you followed along her jaw, reaching to scratch behind her ear. “I do not mind walking.” 
“Have you ridden a horse before?”
“Not since I was a girl.” 
Suguru patted Mimiko and she preened under his attention, turning her head away from you. “We will take it slow with her, but today we should ride. I think we could use the break.”
This was true. You could feel how your body was pulling away, still able to complete the motions but your mind was fogging with a creeping exhaustion, the emotional drain of last night and this morning now weighing heavily on you. 
You were also grateful that Suguru seemed aware of this without you having to say it out loud. 
He stepped towards you and your blood began to warm again. “May I?” he asked you, and it spread through your chest. You were too dazed to understand what you were agreeing to, but he was careful to take your hand and place it on the saddle.
“I need you to hold this tight.” His low murmur guided you as he moved your other hand towards the cantle. He then kneeled in front of you, his hands knitting together to cup your foot and help you aback Mimiko, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. 
“How do you feel?” he asked once you were seated. 
You were still burning from where he had touched you, and it was prickling over your skin. “Tall,” you decided to say and Suguru grinned, moving to pull himself up and settle behind you. 
It pulled the air from your lungs–his chest solid against your backside and his warmth grounding you. He wrapped an arm around your waist to hold you, the other reached for the reins. “You all right?” His voice tickled your ear and you tried not to squirm, but just focused on breathing again.
You gave a quick nod. “Yes,” your voice was tight. 
As Mimiko trodden along, you felt a serenity with how the rest of the day peeled away. The ease of conversation you had shared with the general in the prior days was exchanged for a comfortable silence, but you did not mind this. As night fell over, earlier with the season change, you relaxed against him, growing heavy. Suguru tightened his hold on you in response. 
“We should probably stop for camp.” 
You blinked slowly as he stopped Mimiko. He climbed down first and reached to help you down. “You may be sore,” he warned. 
It was a new ache that shifted into your bones, a painsome stretch as you stumbled down, your fingers grasping onto him. His hands never left you, his palms gripping into the small of your waist to keep you upright, and his touch lingered long after your feet were steady on the ground. 
You looked up at him and Suguru let go at once. “I am sore,” you admitted with a nervous laugh, your blood burning again. 
He moved away from you, from the main road to find a clearing. As you gathered branches, Suguru dug a pit for a low fire to allow some warmth. He hesitated with the bedding before he set aside the furs for you and took the blanket for himself. 
As you watched him, you felt the bubble of words spilling before you could stop them. “Perhaps it would be better if we slept side-by-side again…” you faltered, silencing as he looked at you. 
His eyes were as dark as the night that swelled around the fire. The amber glow showed his tongue pressing to his lips, a tension returning as he considered what you said. “We would stay warmer, closer together,” his voice was low, unsure with how you would respond. 
Heat licked up your spine, though you begged to sound nonchalant with your reply. “It makes sense,” you paused, smothering the eagerness curling in your stomach. “Winter is coming and the nights will only get colder. It also might be some time before we even come across a proper place to stay the night.” 
His face relaxed and he piled the layers before getting underneath. He lifted them enough to invite you and you crawled under. Suguru pulled you back into his chest, covering you both with the furs. 
A smile touched your lips, a soft sigh as you fitted against him, as though you belonged. 
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taglist: @sugurubabe @alwaysfreakingout @paprikaquinn @yeehawbrothers @witchbybirth
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arcie's navi | jjk masterlist the salver & the sword masterlist
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specialagentartemis · 2 years ago
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Black Women writing SFF
The post about Octavia Butler also made me think about the injustice we do both Butler, SFF readers, and Black women SFF writers by holding her up as the one Black Woman Writing Sci-Fi. She occupies an important place in the genre, for her creativity, the beauty and impact of her writing, and her prolific work... but she's still just one writer, and no one writer works for everybody.
So whether you liked Octavia Butler's books or didn't, here are some of the (many!!! this list is just the authors I've read and liked, or been recommended and been wanting to read) other Black women writing speculative fiction aimed at adults, who might be writing something within your interest:
N. K. Jemisin - a prolific powerhouse of modern sff. Will probably have something you'll like. Won three Hugo awards in a row for her Broken Earth trilogy. I’ve only read her book of short stories, How Long ‘Til Black Future Month? and it is absolutely story after story of bangers. Creative, chilling, beautifully written, make you think. They’re so good and I highly recommend the collection. Several of her novels have spun out of premises she first explored through these short stories, most recently “The City Born Great” giving rise to her novel The City We Became. Leans more fantasy than sci-fi, but has a lot of both, in various permutations. 
Nisi Shawl - EDIT: I have been informed that Nisi Shawl identifies as genderfluid, not as a woman. They primarily write short stories that lean literary. Their one novel that I’ve read, Everfair, is an alternate-history 19th century that asks, what if the Congo had fought off European colonization and became a free and independent African state? Told in vignettes spanning decades of political organization, political movements, war tactics, and social development, among an ensemble of local African people, Black Americans coming to the new country, white and mixed-race Brits, and Chinese immigrants who came as British laborers.
Nnedi Okorafor - American-Nigerian writer of Africanfuturism, sci-fi stories emphasizing life in present, future, and alternate-magical Africa. She has range! From Binti, a trilogy of novellas about a teenage girl in Namibia encountering aliens and balancing her newfound connection to space with expectations of her family; to Akata Witch, a middle-grade series about a Nigerian-American girl moving to Nigeria and learning to use magic powers she didn’t know she had; to Who Fears Death, a brutal depiction of magical-realism in a futuristic, post-war Sudan; to short stories like "Africanfuturism 419", about that poor Nigerian prince who’s desperately sending out those emails looking for help (but with a sci-fi twist), and "Mother of Invention" about a smart house taking care of its human and her baby… she’s done a little bit of everything, but always emphasizes the future, the science, and the magic of (usually western) Africa.
Karen Lord - an Afro-Caribbean author.  I actually didn’t particularly like the one novel by her I’ve read, The Best of All Possible Worlds, but Martha Wells did, so. Lord has more novels set in this world—a Star Trek-esque multicultural, multispecies spacefuture set on a planet that has welcomed immigrants and refugees for a long time, and become a vibrant multicultural planet. I find her stories rooted in near-future Caribbean socio-climatic concerns like "Haven" and "Cities of the Sun" and her folktale-fantasy style Redemption in Indigo more compelling.  And more short stories here.
Bethany C. Morrow - only has one novella (short novel?) for adults, Mem, but it was creative and fascinating and good and I’d be remiss not to shout it out. In an alternate-history 1920s Toronto, scientists have discovered how to extract specific memories from a person—but then those memories are embodied as physical, cloned manifestations of the person at the moment the memory was made. The main character is one such “Mem,” struggling to determine who she is if she was created from and defined by one single traumatic memory that her original-self wanted to remove. It’s mostly quiet, contemplative, and very interesting.  (Morrow has some YA novels too. I read one of them and thought it was okay.)
Rebecca Roanhorse - Afro-Indigenous, Black and "Spanish Indian" and married into Diné (Navajo). I’ve read her ongoing post-apocalyptic fantasy series starting with Trail of Lightning, and am liking it a lot; after a climate catastrophe, the spirits and magic of the Diné awakened to protect Dinetah (the Navajo Nation) from the onslaught; and now magic and monsters are part of life in this fundamentally changed world. Coyote is there and he is only sometimes helpful. She also has a more traditional second-world epic high fantasy, Black Sun, an elaborate fantasy world with quests and prophecies and seafaring adventure that draws inspiration from Indigenous cultures of the US and Mexico rather than Europe. She also has bitingly satirical and very incisive short stories like “Welcome to Your Authentic Indian Experience” about virtual reality and cultural tourism, and the fantasy-horror "Harvest."
Micaiah Johnson - her multiverse-hopping novel The Space Between Worlds plays with alternate universes and alternate selves in a continuously creative and interesting way! The setup doesn’t take the easy premise that one universe is our own recognizable one that opens up onto strange alternate universes—even the main character’s home universe is wildly different in speculative ways, with the MC coming from a Mad Max-esque desert community abandoned to the elements, while working for the universe-travel company within the climate-controlled walled city where the rich and well-connected live and work. Also, it’s unabashedly gay. 
And if you like audiobooks and audio fiction (I listened to The Space Between Worlds as an audiobook, it’s good), then Jordan Cobb is someone you should check out. She does sci-fi/horror/thriller audio drama. Her works include Janus Descending, a lyrical and eerie sci-fi horror about a small research expedition to a distant planet and how it went so, so wrong; and Descendants, the sequel about its aftermath. She also has Primordial Deep, about a research expedition to the deep undersea, to investigate the apparent re-emergence of a lot of extinct prehistoric sea creatures. She’s a writer/producer I like, and always follow her new releases. Her detailed prose, minimal casts  (especially in Janus Descending), good audio quality, and full-series supercuts make these welcoming to audiobook fans. 
-
Nalo Hopkinson - a writer who should be considered nearly as foundational as Octavia Butler, honestly. A novelist and short story writer with a wide variety of sci-fi, dystopian futures, fairy-tale horror, gods and epics, and space Carnival, drawing heavily from her Caribbean experiences and aesthetics.
Tananarive Due - fantastical/horror. Immortals, vampires, curses, altered reality, unnerving mystery. Also has written a lot of books.
Andrea Hairston - creative and otherworldly, weird and bisexual, with mindscapes and magic and aliens. 
Helen Oyeyemi - I haven’t read her work but she comes highly recommended by a friend. A novelist and short story writer, most of her work leans fairytale fantastical-horror. What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours is a collection of short fiction and recc’ed to me as her best work. White is for Witching is a well-regarded haunted house novel. 
Ashia Monet - indie author, writer of The Black Veins, pitched as “the no-love-interest, found family adventure you’ve been searching for.” Magic road trip! Possibly YA? I’m not positive. 
-
This also doesn’t include Black non-binary sff authors I’ve read and liked like An Owomoyela, C. L. Polk, and Rivers Solomon. And this is specifically about adult sff books, so I didn’t include Black women YA sff authors like Kalynn Bayron, Tomi Adeyemi, Tracy Deonn, Justina Ireland, or Alechia Dow, though they’re writing fantasy and sci-fi in the YA world too.
And a lot of short stories are out there in the online magazine world, where so many up and coming authors get their start, and established ones explore offbeat and new ideas.  Pick up an issue (or a subscription!) of FIYAH magazine for the most current Black speculative writing.
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literatooru · 2 months ago
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pairing: gn!reader x miya osamu
flufftober 2024!
Divination has never been Osamu’s favorite class. He always finds himself feeling drowsy; and whether it's because of how it seems to make the hours dreadfully drag on and on, or because of how the professor’s voice mixed with the heavily perfumed smoke that wafts all around the slightly claustrophobic room, he’s not sure.
He had only chosen it because it was easy to fool the professor by making up “predictions” of the future, as long as a tragedy or two (or five) were added. But by Merlin, sometimes he wonders if he should have picked Arithmancy or Study of Ancient runes to at least keep his brain a little more active. He’s also unsure as to why it’s even taught at all, considered that, at best, it’s viewed as a flawed and feeble “art” by most. He thinks it’s more of a fraud.
The only perk he could think of was that at least he got to spend an hour (or two, if he was lucky and had double period) with you.
Osamu heaves a sigh as he climbs the silvery ladder and looks around the crammed classroom. He blinks a couple times to adjust his eyesight to the new, crimson lighting, the corners of his lips automatically quirking up when his eyes finally land on you.
He makes his way to you, evading the dozens of small, circular tables filling the classroom. Once he reaches you, he lets the strap of his bag slide down his arm and it lands on the rug with a muted thud, then sinks onto the little round ottoman right across from yours.
“D’ya think she’s gonna make us continue the dream diary?” he says as a greeting.
You rest your chin on the palm of your hand as you let out a groan. The classroom slowly starts filling up with students, all of them disrupting the silence with animated chatter.
“I hope not. I barely managed to make up enough of them last year,” you mumble, blinking slowly as drowsiness immediately starts taking over you. “I wish we could open a window. It’s so stuffy in here.”
“Psh, ya really wanna disrupt yer Sight like that?” he says with humor.
Osamu busies himself pulling out his textbooks, dropping the heavy tomes on the table with a small huff and rolling his shoulder where his bag had been slung over.
“Ah! My darlings! I could sense you had all finally arrived,” Professor Trelawney speaks in that typical misty tone of hers, rearranging her shawl delicately. “Welcome, welcome. Oh, no need for those today, my dear,” she says, gesturing at a student that had just pulled out one of his textbooks. Osamu purses his lips and carelessly drops his own books into his bag. “I am aware that everyone’s minds seem to get rather foggy after a prolonged break."
“All the incense does a rather fine job as well,” your friend mutters under his breath, and his smile grows when you stifle a chuckle behind your hand.
"I myself make sure to exercise my Inner Eye as often as I can,” the Professor continues. She pushes her large glasses further up the bridge of her nose, sniffing softly as she walks among the tables.
“We shall make a revision of the subjects we’ve previously touched, starting with the basics, just as a refresher. Pass me the large silver teapot, dearie."
A girl stands up from her seat to do as told as Professor Trelawney runs her eyes across the various shelves, grabbing a couple different things off them. “Now, everyone please collect a teacup from the shelf. I will fill it for you.”
Osamu and you stand up from your seats and walk towards the shelves, waiting in line to grab a cup.
“Hold on, I got it,” he tells you. He walks through the crowd, mumbling apologies as he gently nudges people aside, and he takes advantage of his height by reaching out to take two of the teacups and saucers from the top shelf. After that, he makes his way back to you and offers you the delicate china with a warm smile.
“Thank you, giraffe,” you say with a smile of your own.
“I presume you all remember how this goes. Really, the process is fairly simple,” the Professor says. She pours tea into the teacups that are extended to her. “Of course, reading the leaves is the complicated part. Only those that possess the Sight, such as myself—”
Her voice is drowned under the chatter as you and Osamu go back to your table and take a seat. You blow lightly on the scalding liquid, dark ripples disturbing the surface.
Osamu moves the teacup to his lips, gently places the rim against them, takes a small sip and immediately frowns.
“Oof!” he exclaims. His whole face soon scrunches up into a grimace as he takes a second sip without even waiting for it to cool down. “It could do with a little sugar.” 
“More than a little.” You nod, coughing a little after taking the first sip. “I wish we could do this with butterbeer instead.”
“Man, what I wouldn’t do for one right now. It’s getting chilly.”
Once you both finally manage to down the bitter beverage, you each swill the remaining dregs around the cups three times with your left hand, then turn them upside down on the saucers and wait for the last of the tea to drain away before exchanging cups.
You reach into your bag to pull out your old copy of Unfogging the Future (which you had casted Reducio on to decrease its size until it matched that of a small dictionary’s) and place it on the table, flicking through the pages as you examine Osamu’s teacup.
“All right, hit me, partner. Exactly how many tragedies are in store for me?”
You roll your eyes with humor, shaking your head softly as you peer into his teacup. 
“I see… a…” You squint your eyes and frown as you try to make out exactly what the shapes are supposed to depict. “An umbrella. According to what the book says it means ‘difficulties’. And I think that’s— an apple? No, wait, it looks more like a butterfly,” you mumble, rotating the cup and craning your neck with your lips pursed. Osamu snorts, earning a glare from you before you shift your gaze to consult your book. “Which means… success. And that over there could be a crescent moon, which means… prosperity. So I guess you’re going to struggle with something you’re working on but end up successful, and that’s going to bring you good things."
“I don’t think you’ve exercised yer Inner Eye much, have ya?” Osamu says with an arched eyebrow, and his index finger pressed against his lips to suppress a smile.
You scoff. Your eyes remain on him as you set the teacup down, then mimic his cocked brow and lean forward, closer to him. 
“So you’re an expert now?” you ask.
You drum your fingers on the surface of the table as you watch his smile grow, and it’s almost infuriating how pretty he looks. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and his entire face seems to light up, his eyes glued on you as he gives a sharp nod. Is it just you feeling a little lighter? Perhaps all the smoke and incense have finally gotten to you.
“‘Course. I have an innate ability for divination. M'great, great, great, great aunt was a renowned Seer. She used to read Tarot Cards for the Queen herself.”
You throw your head back with laughter, the sound filling Osamu’s ears and making him feel warm and fuzzy inside. He knows it’s not the environment he’s in—it’s because of you.
“Right, sure. Go on then.” You grab your teacup from the saucer and offer it to him, a look full of expectation on your face. “Tell me what the future holds for me, O' great Seer.”
Osamu huffs out a chuckle. When he reaches out to grab the teacup, his fingers accidentally brush yours. You jerk your hand back and he clears his throat. He stands up from his ottoman and walks over to you, halting once he’s right by your side. Osamu leans down, rests his elbows on the table and gets closer to make sure you can see the inside of the cup as well.
His arm brushes yours every time he moves it, and you you can’t help glancing at him every now and then. How have you never noticed he has such a pretty profile? Well, to be completely honest, his entire face is pretty. It’s just that you’ve somehow only just paid close attention to it. He takes a quick peek at you and smiles when he catches your eyes on him, making you immediately avert your gaze and lean forward so much that your nose is almost touching the teacup.
Osamu chews on the inside of his cheek. You’re so… adorable.
“See that, right there?” he asks quietly, index finger stretched out to point at what looks like… a dark blob. You shoot him a concerned, sideways glance, absolutely confused as to what he’s seeing. “That’s a hat. Means Improvement, if I recall correctly. And a sun and horseshoe right text to it! That means such improvement will also bring you great fortune and happiness.” He cocks his head to the side, his breath mingling with yours due to the closeness. His voice drops in volume, almost forcing you to get even closer to him—close enough that he can smell your perfume over the smokiness of the room. And it just smells so good that he has to stop himself from taking a very obvious deep breath. “A pumpkin…” he carries on, forcing himself to focus on the dregs rather than you. “A circle… huh.”
“What?” you murmur. 
You had actually been so focused on his words that when you turn your face to look at him, you start when you find him so close to you. You feel warmth creep up your neck, and—yep, it’s definitely not due to the ambiance of the Divination classroom.
“It’s a good cup,” Osamu declares, tapping the rim with his index finger. He sets it back down on the saucer and places his left hand on the table, his right one moving to rest on his hip as he looks down at you, lips pursed as he seems to mull something over. “Maybe I should just pop the question then.”
“What are you talking ab—”
“Go out with me,” Osamu interrupts you.
You blink up at him once, twice; suddenly feeling so very grateful that you’re sitting down. You mouth wordlessly at Osamu, then blink once more.
“That’s not a question,” you manage blurt out when you finally find your voice. You’re not sure whether you should slap yourself or punch yourself in the face. Both options sound appropriate for the situation. Osamu Miya has just asked you out on a date and there you are, making a fool of yourself.
To your surprise (and relief), Samu smiles.
“Will you go out with me?”
You dig your teeth into your bottom lip, reaching for your discarded teacup and fiddling with it for a second just to keep your hands busy.
“I don’t know. What are you thinking?”
“That you will if you say yeah.” He adds a cheeky smile to his retort, earning a snort from you.
Smartass.
“And what if I say no?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.
“Well, you can’t say no.”
“Why not?” You force a frown onto your face, if anything to conceal the nervousness threatening to take over you.
“Because, my dearie,” he begins, mimicking Professor Trelawney’s misty voice as he yanks the teacup from your hands and waves it in front of your face, “it’s written in the tea leaves.”
This time, the laugh that bubbles out of you is so genuinely filled with good humor that Osamu can’t help the smile that almost splits his face in two. Merlin’s Beard, he loves that sound. He’s willing to make himself look like an absolute idiot if it means getting to hear it again and being the reason for it.
“is it, now?” you say through your chuckling. “I didn’t see anything like that in my cup.”
“Because you don’t possess the Sight, unlike me,” Osamu retorts, tapping his index finger right between your eyebrows gently. “If you had broadened yer mind and casted yerself into the future, you’d know it. I saw it with my own two eyes— er… three?”
“You’re such an idiot, you know that, Samu?”
“A lucky idiot, I hope?” he says leaning forward a bit. “The Three Broomsticks, Friday night. You, me, and a couple of Butterbeers. I’ll wait for you outside your Common Room.”
And there it is, the smile he’s found himself longing for more times than he can count and that you’re convinces makes you like like an absolute idiot.
“It’s a date.”
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sweetbuckybarnes · 5 months ago
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Are You so Desperate to Get Away From Me?
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Pairings: Colin + Penelope Bridgerton
Summary: After Penelope tells Colin and Eloise about Cressida blackmailing her, instead of Colin speaking to Cressida - Penelope decides to take the situation back into her own hands.
Main Masterlist | Polin Masterlist
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"You have made that high a sum?" Eloise asks.
"Slightly more, if we are being honest..." Penelope trails off.
Eloise and Colin looked at their best friend/wife in surprise. "All this time?" Portia asks.
Penelope looks down at the tip of her shoes which just about poked out beneath her dress.
"You are not paying her," Colin tells her, walking away, determined to come up with a plan.
Penelope looked from Colin to her mother, who was encouraging this behaviour, then over at Eloise who simply nodded.
Penelope had always been a daddy's girl, it broke her heart when he died, and the reason why nearly broke her completely. But in the same aspect, she was also her father's daughter. She nodded back, turned on her heel and headed out of Bridgerton House to the house she shares with Colin.
If anyone was going to quieten Cressida, it was going to be her.
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After retrieving the sum for the floorboards, she made her way by carriage to the Cowper House.
"A visitor for you, Miss. Cowper," her lady's maid told her. "One Mrs. Penelope Bridgerton," she moved out of the way, so the short redhead could walk in. This was the first time she had even been called 'Mrs. Bridgerton' but it wasn't by her husband.
Cressida and her mother stood up, welcoming the newly married woman. "May Mrs. Bridgerton and I have a moment alone, mama?"
Her mother's eyes bounced back and forth between Cressida and Penelope, before relenting and retreating.
"I see you have come to your senses?" Cressida asked.
"Is this truly how you want to be banished from society?"
"Because of you!"
Penelope shook her head. "No, Cressida. You did it to yourself. When I wrote as Whistledown, I was never, never harsh or insulting. You tore every family to shreds, just because their daughter was not your friend or their son rejected you."
Cressida bristled at her words. Penelope lifted her shawl and collected the packet she had brought. After the redhead had passed over the packet to the blonde, she looked at the pound notes. "This is not ten thousand."
Penelope shook her head. "No. It is twelve, and if you spend it right, it should get you to wherever you wish to go and live the rest of your life in luxury."
Cressida looked between the money and the famed Lady Whistledown. "I did not think you would pay me, even such a large sum."
Penelope shrugs her shoulders. "I know we have never gotten along, we are more like chalk and cheese than anything else. But I do hope you find what you are looking for."
Just as Penelope was going to leave, Cressida called. "Are you going to write more Whistledown columns?"
Penelope makes a little noise from her nose. "Whistledown has caused too much pain, I think it is time to let her go. And maybe I could turn to novels for my nephew and niece," her sister-in-law Daphne's two young children Augie and Belinda.
Cressida nodded, watching as the redhead left. She looked at the packet and where Penelope had just left.
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Penelope returned to Bridgerton House, after her conversation with Cressida, seeing her mother and Colin still discussing a way to deal with her.
Penelope picked up a sandwich from a plate, walked past the pair and went to take a seat beside Eloise.
"I will just have to go speak to Cressida and beg for her mercy," Colin sighs, leaning back into the chair he had claimed and running a hand along his face.
"Do you really believe Cressida believes in mercy?" Penelope asks, sitting down beside Eloise. "Besides, I have dealt with the situation."
"You paid her?"
"Where do you think I have been for the past two hours?" Penelope says, taking a bite of her sandwich, only glancing at her husband's face for a moment - seeing the guilt flood it. He hadn't noticed she had left.
She let out a sigh and stuffed the remaining of her sandwich in her mouth. "Oh, Penelope," her mother sighed, catching the unladylike movement.
She got up from where she was sitting and was just about to leave the drawing room. "Where are you going?" Colin asks.
"I was going to spend some time with Gregory and Hyacinth and then I am going to visit my new sister," as she walked away, she stopped on the edge of the drawing room doorway. "It might be nice to bond with Augie and Belinda, especially after Daphne's open invitation after the engagement was announced.
Not our engagement, the engagement.
Colin got up from his seat. "Hastings is a day's ride away, Pen. Are you so desperate to get away from me?"
Penelope looks at him. "I believe it is you, who has been keeping your distance, Mr. Bridgerton. I shall leave you to decide how you want our marriage to continue."
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Penelope sat in the drawing room of Hastings House, waiting for her new sister. She admired the wall fixings and the paintings.
"Penelope? What are you doing here, where is Colin?" Daphne asked as she walked into the drawing room, carrying Belinda.
Penelope sighed gently, looking down at the end of her dress. "Colin and I are currently not on the best terms... I thought I should leave the house to him, and if it is possible, I could stay here until he knows where he wants our marriage to go."
"Oh, Penelope," Daphne took a seat next to her new sister, making sure Belinda was safely cradled in her lap. "Why have you fallen out?"
Penelope looks over at Daphne. "I am Whistledown..."
Daphne's eyes widened, and looked at the tiny redhead, who is also the notorious gossip writer. Who saved her from a disastrous marriage to Lord Berbrooke. The duchess nodded her head. "Do not worry, Penelope. You can stay here as long as you need."
"Thank you, Daphne. Are you sure you want Lady Whistledown staying in your home?"
Daphne took Penelope chin between her fingers. "You saved me from a horrible marriage to Lord Berbrooke, and you supported my marriage to Simon, as well as Anthony's marriage to Kate. Even with all the somewhat harsh things you have written, you have always tried to put your best foot forward."
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The following day, Penelope was spending time with Augie in the nursery. She had a large smile on her face and laughed happily when the door opened and Daphne revealed herself.
"Penelope? There is someone here to see you," the duchess tells her new sister-in-law.
Penelope looked away from her nephew to Daphne. There was only one person who could be asking for her, and it wasn't her mother or Eloise. She let out a sigh, she had to speak to her husband - no matter what the outcome might be.
"Are you ready?" Daphne asks.
Penelope shrugs her shoulders. "Not particularly, but I do not have a choice."
Augie's governess came back into the nursery and took over from where Penelope finished.
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Sat there, sitting on one of the settees was Colin, tapping his fingers on the armrest. "Pen!" He quickly got up from the settee and waited for Penelope to join him - but she stayed about a foot away.
"Good morning, Mr. Bridgerton."
Colin's nose twitched. He hated it when she called him Mr. Bridgerton. "I had tried to separate you from Lady Whistledown, because I could not comprehend how my best friend could be the most notorious gossip writer in London. But, when I was reading the letters you had sent me, I realised. You have always had one voice. The sweet, caring, quick witted best friend who have been so lucky enough to fall in love with."
Penelope took a few steps forward so she was within arms reach of Colin.
"I think, in truth, I... I have been envious of you, of your success, of your bravery. And now, I simply cannot believe that a woman with such bravery, loves me. How lucky I am, to stand by your side, and soak up even a little but of your light. If my only purpose in life is to love a woman as great as you, then I will be a very fulfilled man indeed."
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haveamagicalday · 3 months ago
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Duel of the American Girl Dolls: Winners!
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Elizabeth Cole's best outfit is : Riding Outfit
Cecile Ray's best outfit is: Meeting Outfit
Marie-Grace Gardner's best outfit is: Summer Dress
Caroline Abbott's best outfit is: Winter Coat
Nicki Hoffman's best outfit is: Red Vinyl Jumper
Isabel Hoffman's best outfit is: Year 2000 Outfit
Ruthie Smithens best outfit is: Play Outfit
Nellie O'Malley's best outfit is: Spring Party Dress
Claudie Wells best outfit is: Meeting Outfit
Courtney Moore’s best outfit is: Meeting Outfit
Emily Bennet's best outfit is: Meeting Outfit
Felicity Merriman's best outfit is: Riding Hat and Habit
Kaya's best outfit is: Pow Wow Dress
Josefina Montoya's best outfit is: Weaving Outfit
Kirsten Larson's best outfit is: Checked Dress and Shawl
Nanea Mitchell's best outfit is: Holoku Outfit
Maryellen Larkin's best outfit is: Poodle Skirt
Melody Ellison's best outfit is: Birthday Outfit
Rebecca Rubin's best outfit is: Meeting Outfit
Samantha Parkington's best oufit is: Plaid Cape and Gaiters
Molly McIntire's best outfit is: After School Party
Addy Walker's best outfit is: Tartan Plaid Dress
Kit Kittredge's best outfit is: Overalls
Julie Albright's best outfit is: Calico Dress
Ivy Ling's best outfit is: Chinese New Year Outfit
The best Truly Me Cute Dress is: Red Jumper
The best Truly Me Exploration outfit is: World Traveler in Ireland
The best collector doll is: Shimmering Silver
The best American Boy doll outfit is: Tartan Plaid Outfit
The best World by Us/Mordern Girl outfit is: Evette's Meeting Outfit
The best Truly Me Fun and Hobbies outfit is: Christmas Recital
The best Truly Me Beach Wear outfit is: Beach Outfit
The best Birthstone Collection outfit is: September Sparkling Sapphire
The best Truly Me costume is: Medival Princess
The best Girl of the Year outfit is: Kavi's Bollywood Outfit
The best Truly Me dance outfit is: Ruby Ballet
The best Truly Me winter wear is: Sugar Plum Coat
The best Truly Me casual outfit is: Plaid Skirt and Sweater
The best Truly Me bed time outfit is: Penguin and Robe
The best Truly Me sports outfit is: Ice Dancer Outfit
The best Truly Me holiday outfit is: Diwali Celebration Outfit
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disappointed-time-traveller · 3 months ago
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Extremely similar fashion plates from 1861 and 1862
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I just wanted to share easily the coolest two fashion plates in my collection. They’re both part of the small collection that I inherited from my grandmother and I have no idea where they came from, other than that like most of the fashion history recourses I got from her they’re probably from when she studied sewing in the 1960s.
They’re two fashion plates with descriptions from one November 1861 and the other from April 1862, from the Englishwoman’s domestic magazine.
The first thing about them is that they are incredibly similar looking, similar clothing, similar colours, the same amount of figures including a child. It was probably a deliberate choice to have two very similar plates to better showcase the similarities and differences between the two years and spring and autumn fashion.
The other cool thing is that they are both mounted on paperboard and have descriptions of each one mounted on the back seemingly clipped from the original magazines (though the could be the place my grandmother got it from). I’ve transcribed the descriptions under the cut.
November 1861
DESCRIPTION OF THE COLOURED PLATE.
1st figure on the left side: The bonnet is composed of white satin, trimmed with black velvet and black and white blonde, and a bunch of flowers on each side. The mantle, which is made in a shawl shape, is composed of velvet, and trimmed with black guipure. The top of the mantle is finished off by a guipure pelerine, which is fastened behind and on the shoulders on by a handsome gimp rosettes with tassels. The large sleeve which comes to a point at the bottom, is pleated at the top of the arm under the gimp rosette and tassel. The dress consists of one of the fashionable broché silks.
2nd figure: The turned up hat is ornamented with a kind of fur trimming and long drooping feather. The paletôt fits tightly to the figure, and may be made of velvet or a thick cloth. It is trimmed with fur, and is made open in the front with revers, the sleeves being large and also trimmed with fur. Two little pockets ornament the front of the paletôt, which are also finished off by a band of fur. There are three fancy gimp buttons on each side of the body, and the waist behind is also ornamented in the same manner with two gimp buttons. The dress may be made in silk or poplin. Little girls dress: The little Tudor hat is trimmed with blue velvet and a blue feather tipped with white. The pardessus is made to fit the figure; it is trimmed with fur, and is made with a fur pelerine or cape. The dress, which is striped, is bound at the bottom with a piece of black velvet.
3rd figure: The bonnet is composed of velvet, and ornamented with a bunch of flowers on the top, feathers on either side. The cloak is made of a shoulder piece, into which the fullness is pleated; the sleeves are large, and the garment is trimmed with fur, whilst the pelerine is composed of this material. This cloak may also be made in velvet, and trimmed with chinchilla, or corded silk, trimmed with velvet, and with velvet pelerine. These cloaks are usually made so that they may be worn with or without the fur cape, according to the weather; and in this style are excessively convenient for the changeable English climate.
4th figure: The velvet bonnet is ornamented with bands of satin cut on the cross-way, and roses and lace. The long jacket is made tightly fitting to the figure, in thick corded silk and is trimmed with gimp. The back of the skirt is cut to form three large pleats behind, each of which is ornamented with handsome gimp rosette and tassels. Bright blue poplin dress, made with quite a plain skirt.
April 1862
DESCRIPTION OF THE COLOURED PLATE
1st figure on the left: The bonnet is made with drawn front violet silk, and the soft crown of embroidered white tulle. The curtain is of violet sills, edged with a puffing of tulle; the strings are of broad white ribbon, and the bandeau consists of one large rose, ornamented on each side with bunches of wheatears. The pardessus is made of unlined corded silk, with a deep cape , and is trimmed with narrow Maltese lace and two two rows of narrow black velvet. The garment is cut in slightly to the figure behind, but is straight in front. The sleeves are of deep bell shape, trimmed round the bottom with a pleating of silk. The dress is violet silk, brocaded with black, the colour of the dress exactly matching that of the bonnet.
2nd figure:
The bonnet is of white crêpe, ornamented quite at the top with a large bunch of white ostrich feathers, and the Bandeau Impératrice is composed of one rose with leaves on each side. This mantle, which is quite circular, is made of plain glacé silk, trimmed with a broad gimp, whilst the neck is ornamented with a row of gimp, finished off with a tassel fringe. The dress is of drab silk, made with one flounce at the bottom, headed by two bands of silk of the same colour.
3rd figure: -Summer Costume.- This elegant costume, which is a charming toilet for a picnic, is composed of white muslin. The dress is made with a series of narrow flounces, all edged with narrow green ribbon. The burnous, also of white muslin, is trimmed with green silk ruching, and three handsome green tassels. The hat is composed of green silk, trimmed with a full plume of white feathers. This costume may be made more useful and durable by substituting white barège for the muslin, but in all cases (to look nicely) the cloak should be composed of the same material as the dress. White grenadine or lama might be used with advantage in this toilet, and the colour of the trimmings and hat might be altered to pink or light blue, suiting the colour to the complexion of the wearer.
4th figure: -seaside costume- The Leghorn hat is bound on the upper part of the brim with black velvet, and is trimmed with a white ostrich feather. The dress and jacket illustrated in this figure are both made of the same material, either nankeen, buff piqué, or Victoria cord, the latter material being rather thinner than pique. The coat is ornamented with a braiding design in black, the pocket, revers, and cuffs being trimmed to correspond. A costume of white piqué, braided in balance, would be equally stylish.
5th figure: -little girls costume- The straw hat is bound with violet velvet, and is trimmed with two white feathers, one lying on each side of the hat. The cloak is composed of silk, and is made with three single pleats behind, attached to a neck-piece, the front being perfectly plain. No trimming whatever is required for this stylish little garment with the exception of two rows of piping round the neck-piece. Black silk is, of course, the most appropriate material for a child's mantle; our illustration is coloured violet, to add to the effect of the picture, which would have been somewhat sombre were all the figures shown with black mantles.
Full-sized paper patterns, cut out in tissue paper, tacked together and trimmed, of all the mantles illustrated in this plate, may be had of Madame Adolphe Goubaud, 248, Strand, London, W.C., at the following prices:.
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mythosidhesdollhouse · 5 months ago
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Ok friends, at long last I'm finally--finally--getting this post together. Apologies in advance for this one being a bit of a ramble, this poor doll has a lot of backstory, and I'm going to try to keep this as brief as possible but you know how it is when ADHD brain tries to relay a linear narrative XD And when you add brain fog to that...it's a bit of a mess. Anyway. I'm trying. Feel free to skip the text and just look at my crochet pix ;p
(Overly detailed explanation of why I made things plus lots of photos)
So. Over the past several weeks I've done a LOT of work to get my girl Iona (Pullip Nomado) back to a semblance of her former glory. Io is pretty well established as my favorite doll. She was my very first Pullip--I've had her over twenty years now--and for a long time she was basically my mascot in the doll community. People used to send me gifts specifically for her (including but not limited to the necklace she's wearing and the hair currently on her head). But the years have not been especially kind to either of us, and when I brought her out of storage it was clear she's beginning to feel her age. I was dismayed to find her suffering from an advanced case of the neck melt that plagues type 2 Pullips, which required a good bit of repair and modification to ensure she got to keep her original body (for a minute there it looked like she might have to become a Rainbow High hybrid).
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Once I managed to salvage that situation, I decided Io was long overdue for a full refresh to return her to a semblance of her former glory. I gave her a brand new scalp plate with her signature hair twists still intact (thanks to a generous friend who sent me extras several years ago); replaced the hooks on her earings with new wires that put less stress on her piercings; dug her original boots out of storage; and most importantly (THE ACTUAL POINT OF THIS POST) I set to work crocheting several new pieces for her wardrobe! So far this includes a maxi skirt, hair scarf, and shawl. These are all garments I wear in my day-to-day life, so if you notice them recurring in my handmade doll clothing, that's why ;p As I get older I find myself more inclined to dress my dolls in pieces more in line with my own personal aesthetic, rather than aspirational styles that I admire, but would never wear.
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I am so happy with how these have turned out, the skirt especially. I made it using KnitPicks Curio #10 crochet thread in Comfrey, a shade which beautifully compliments several of the blouses I've collected for Io over the years. The shawl was made with Lion Brand BonBons yarn, and the hair scarf is Lizbeth #10 crochet cotton from Handy Hands (I don't remember which colorway at the moment).
The patterns for the skirt and shawl were adapted from ones for full size garments I've made for myself in the past; I can talk more about the specifics of that and what modifications I made in another post if anyone is interested. The hair scarf is just a granny stitch triangle with a very lazy border and some ties added.
(**Sigh** pining for the days when Mattel still had quality standards...)
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And at long last we've reached the end! Apologies again for the length of this one, if you can believe it I *did* edit out a significant amount, but it still ended up novella-length XD I hope you enjoy Io's new looks, as I've had a great deal of fun working on these pieces, and plan to continue making more for her and other dolls in the near future. I also have several Rainbow High dolls with complete or near-complete crochet outfits I want to share, so be on the lookout for that post sometime soon as well.
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eywaseclipse · 10 months ago
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Alright Ronal and her outfit profile:
I find that she’s incredibly sophisticated and intelligent and her garments show that. The details of her pieces are both connected to her Ocean biome the status of being Tsahìk. Her tattoos symbolize status and family rank and the devotion she has to her people. I love that her designs are a little bit more intricate and detailed.
Here’s a head canon I have about her outfit choices:
Her leather dorado headpiece was handed down from the Tsahìk before her. It’s a symbol of great status and spirituality she wears with pride
The shells on her loincloth are collected from Tonowari as a token of his love for her
She specifically crafts an outfit for each Tulkun migration because of how deeply important it is for her and her spirit sister
Her and Tonowari have matching outfits but hers; loincloth and his a shawl. The feathers and colors symbolize Tsahìk and Olo’eyktan status
Many years before Tsireya was even born she hand crafted matching outfits with the intention that she’d be eventually be a girl mom
Her least favorite garment is for the funeral rites she performs; although she has a stoic demeanor she cares deeply for her people and others and absolutely dreads the funeral aspect of being Tsahìk
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m-jelly · 5 months ago
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Mask of the heart - The end
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Levi x fem!readerRoyalty, Demon Levi Ackerman, Protective Levi Ackerman, Possessive Levi Ackerman, Cuddly Levi Ackerman, Masks, Curvy Reader,
In this chapter: Levi spends a day with his daughter and the two bond. Alora welcomes you to her country and announces two wonderful things.
Ao3
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Daisy trotted along through the grand front garden of her home in her flowing dress with flowers on. Following closely behind her was her big strong daddy. She’d bend now and then to pluck a wildflower to add to her little collection. She stood up and huffed as some of her black hair got in her face. She smiled as some bunnies got closer to her, they always seemed to surround her and her father. At first, it was suspected the wolves were drawn to her, but it was all you and because Daisy was yours they protected her as an extension of you.
Levi smiled as he watched his daughter walk around in the summer sun picking flowers. It was early summer, so it was the kind of heat where you’d need a shawl or a cape. Levi loved this kind of weather because of how you would dress. You’d wear a flowing dress with a cute light robe, it just looked so good on your curvy frame. Most nights the two of you would cuddle on the balcony and share a few longing kisses.
“Daddy?”
Levi looked down at his precious little girl. “Yes, my little flower?”
She waved to him. “Come closer.”
He crouched down in front of his six-year-old. “I’m right here.”
She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I love you, daddy.”
His eyes widened for a moment. Kisses were an everyday thing from his daughter, along with words of love, but Levi always felt so moved every time he heard it. He wrapped his arms around his little girl and hugged her. “I love you too.”
She held the flowers out to him. “Here.”
He looked down at the flowers. “For me?”
She nodded. “Yes, all for you.”
He admired the flowers. “Thank you so much, they’re perfect.”
She hugged Levi tightly. “Mm. Daddy, you’re so big.”
Levi chuckled. “I am? I think your uncle Erwin is bigger than me though.”
She shook her head. “Daddy is big. You’re the perfect size.”
He squeezed her. “Why, thank you.”
She sat on the floor and sighed. “Mummy is wonderful.”
“She is, isn’t she?”
Daisy squished her puffy cheeks. “She’s so pretty!”
Levi laughed. “She is. She’s very pretty.”
She hummed and wiggled her little feet in her shoes. “I don’t want them on.”
Levi watched his daughter take her shoes off. “Are your feet hot?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“What’s wrong then?”
“Don’t want them.”
He hummed a laugh and took her shoes from her, they were such cute sandals. “Well, I’ll look after them for you.”
“Thank you.” She stared at her feet and wiggled her toes. “Daddy?”
“Yes?”
She patted his foot. “Show me your foot.”
He sat down and pulled his boots off, then his socks. “There.”
She stared at his feet and then hers. “Huh.”
He smiled. “You comparing feet?”
She nodded. “You have big feet.”
“Well, that’s because I’m an adult and you’re still growing.”
She looked at her hands next. “Your hands are big too.”
Levi offered his hand to Daisy and smiled when she placed her hand in his. “Your hands will get bigger, but not as big as mine.”
She slapped her hand against Levi’s a few times. “I like cake.”
Levi adored how his daughter’s mind worked because it reminded him a lot of you. “I like it too. You like strawberry the most, right?”
She nodded. “It’s yummy. Daddy likes lemon cake, right?”
He held her hand. “That’s right. I love the lemon cake your mummy makes.”
“I love mummy’s food.” She let out a long sigh. “Where’s mummy?”
Levi kissed the top of Daisy’s head. “Mummy is spending time with her friends. She’ll be home soon.”
Daisy smiled at Levi. “I miss mummy, but daddy is lots of fun.”
Levi ruffled her soft hair. “Thank you. I’ve had a lot of fun with you too.”
She hummed and was happy her dad knew that she adored time with him. She really didn’t want him to think she didn’t like spending time with him because she did, she loved her dad to pieces, but she missed her you terribly because she learned that from her father. She saw Levi always looking sad when you weren’t around and missing you terribly, so she picked up on it.
“Daddy?” She smiled at him. “Can we make something for mummy?”
“Of course. What do you want to make her?”
She hummed in thought. “A card!”
He kissed the top of her head. “Sure. Let’s head inside and we’ll start.” He scooped her up into his arms and carried her inside. “Is there something specific you want?”
“The pink paper!”
“The one that smells nice?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
He took her to his office and sat her on his lap. “I have everything you need here.” He opened the drawer and got out the papers, pencils and other things she used at his desk. “This everything you need?”
She squeaked in delight and began drawing. “Thank you, Daddy!” She gave him a pencil. “Draw with me.”
“Sorry, I’ll help out.”
Francis entered the room and bowed. “Your Lordship, do you and the young lady require anything?”
Levi smiled. “Could we have some drinks and snacks?”
“I will bring them right away.”
“Thank you.”
Daisy looked up and grinned. “Thank you!”
The two of them worked together to make you a card while they enjoyed some snacks and drinks. It was nice having a sweet moment together as a family, but the two of them missed you a lot and couldn’t wait for you to get home. As the day went on, Daisy became tired and needed a nap, but she refused to sleep because she wanted to see her mummy. Levi knew he needed to encourage her to go to sleep or she’d be very upset and grumpy later.
Daisy whined. “No naps.”
Levi cuddled Daisy. “But you’re tired, right?”
She nodded as she wiped her tears. “Yes, but I want mummy.”
Levi kissed the top of her head. “I know, I want her too, but think of it this way. You’ll go to sleep without her, but when you wake up she’ll be here. Sleep will be magical! It’ll let you wake up to a very pretty mummy. Plus, in your dreams, you can meet mummy too.”
Daisy gasped. “Yes. I sleep and it makes mummy appear!”
Levi chuckled. “That’s right.”
“Stay with daddy.”
He lifted her and carried her over to the sofa in his office. “I’ll be right here.” He lay her down and put a blanket over her. “Do you want your bunny?”
She nodded. “Please.”
He clicked his fingers and summoned her cuddly bunny. “Here you go.”
She hugged it tightly. “Kisses.”
Levi leaned down and let his daughter kiss his cheek. He smiled and then kissed her puffy cheek. “I love you.”
“Love you too, Daddy.”
He sat with his daughter and held her hand as she fell asleep slowly. He didn’t leave her side when she was fast asleep, he just remained. After a bit of time, he heard paws getting closer mixed with footsteps. He smiled when the door opened to reveal you and the five wolves. “Hey, bunny.”
You waved to him. “Afternoon.”
“How was your day?”
You walked over to him. “Wonderful. It was fun spending the day with Anne, Hange, Alora and Ruby. I’ve never had a girl’s day before.” You sat on Levi’s lap. “I missed you both though.”
Levi wrapped one arm around you and squeezed. “We both missed you. Daisy made you something, but we’ll wait until she wakes up.” He kissed you. “I’m glad you had fun though. For a long time, you were very alone, so I’m happy you’re not anymore.”
You caressed his cheek. “I was never lonely. I had you and then I had Daisy. All I need is you two.”
Levi’s eyes widened before his cheeks started to burn. “Mm, that makes me happy. Oh, but you still need friends.”
You hugged Levi tightly. “You’re cute.”
“Mm, mummy?” Daisy rubbed her eyes and smiled sleepily at you. “Hi, mummy.”
You leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Hi, sweetie. Did you have a good day with Daddy?”
She nodded. “It was the best!” She sat up and yawned. “Cuddles mummy.”
You picked her up off the sofa and held her against you. “You get all the cuddles.”
She gasped. “Mummy! I have a present!” She climbed off your lap and ran to Levi’s desk. “I’ll get it!” She leaned up on her tiptoes and grabbed her card before running back to you. “Here, mummy.”
You took the card and smiled right away at the adorable drawings. “I love it, thank you.”
She pointed to a bit. “Daddy drew these.”
You hummed a laugh at the cute little rabbits, it was a bit wobbly but cute. “I love it.”
Levi hugged you and hid his face against the crook of your neck. “Mine look bad.”
“I adore them, Levi. Thank you, both of you.”
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The carriage rocked slightly as it moved towards the Sigel palace. A knot formed in your stomach as you got closer. You were nervous about the event Queen Alora had invited you to, but you were also nervous to return to the palace where you had so many horrible memories. The last time you were here you had been emotionally and mentally tortured by the now dead tyrant prince.
“Mummy?”
You snapped back to reality to see Daisy standing in front of you looking concerned. “Yes?”
She whined a bit. “Don’t cry.”
Levi shuffled next to you on the seat and used a hankie to dab your tears away. “Mummy is just a bit scared to go to the palace. She has a lot of bad memories there.”
“What happened?”
Levi hugged you close to him as you shook a little. “There was a Prince there who wanted mummy to marry him, but she didn’t want to. He was very mean to her and others. He was a nasty man. He’s gone now, but your mummy still has bad memories there.”
Daisy nodded. “I understand.” She climbed up and kissed your head. “Get better soon, mummy. I’ll fight away the bad thoughts.”
You sniffed a little. “Thank you. Can I get a hug?”
Her little eyes sparkled in delight. “YES!”
You laughed as you picked her up. You hugged her tightly and Levi hugged you. “I feel so brave and strong with you two here with me.”
Levi kissed your temple. “This is the last time we’ll come here, I swear.”
You gazed at Levi with your adorable doe eyes he loved. “Thank you.”
He nuzzled his face against yours. “Come on. We’re here.”
You let Levi and Daisy go first, you could hear Daisy excitedly say hi to Erwin, Kate and their daughter Lilly. You glanced out to see the palace and felt a sickness rise in your throat. You covered your mouth and whined a bit. You didn’t want to be sick or scared because of Daisy, but it was hard to put on a brave face.
“Bunny?”
You looked over at Levi in the doorway. “H-Hi.”
He smiled softly. “I have an idea.” He closed the door to the carriage and walked around to the other side. He threw the door open and smiled at you. “How about this side?”
You peeked out to see it was just the grand road, along with a water feature. “Mm.”
He wrapped his arms around you before pulling you out of the carriage. “This okay?”
“Yes.” You cuddled Levi and looked around. “This is nice.”
He placed you on your feet. “Take your time.”
“Thank you.”
He kissed you and smiled. “Did you feel sick?”
“I did.” You saw the sparkle in his eyes. “I don’t think I’m pregnant, my love.” You gulped hard. “It’s just this worry. I’m trying to be strong for Daisy.”
Levi tapped his forehead against yours. “It’s okay to be emotional. Show how you feel to Daisy, okay? We need her to know that it’s okay to feel.”
“You’re right.”
“Mummy!” Daisy ran around the carriage to you. “Mummy!” She grinned and held up a flower to you. “I got this for you.”
Levi picked up Daisy. “It’ll look perfect in her hair.”
You leaned closer. “Thank you, Daisy.”
Daisy put the flower in your hair. “Pretty mummy.”
You kissed her cheek. “I feel much better thanks to you both.” You took in a deep breath. “Okay, let’s go.”
Levi rubbed your back. “Baby Lilly is beautiful and she would love to be held by her auntie.”
You squeaked in delight and hurried around to see Kate holding her baby. “Lilly!”
Kate grinned. “She’s here for you. You can hold her.”
You carefully took Lilly and admired her, she had Erwin’s bright blue eyes and golden hair. “She’s such a pretty little thing.”
“It makes me happy she has his eyes and hair.” She tickled her cheek. “You and Levi make adorable kids.”
You narrowed your eyes at her. “Did Levi set you up to this?”
She glanced behind you and back. “Ah…no?”
You looked behind you to see Levi blush. “Levi.”
He whined. “I just love babies and having kids and a family.” He picked up and hugged Daisy making her giggle. “They’re the best.”
“We have eternity together.”
He pouted. “I know, but…”
Daisy grinned. “I want a baby brother or sister!”
You released a long sigh before looking down at Lilly as she giggled and babbled at you. “Oh…so cute…”
Erwin strolled over and chuckled. “Levi tell you he wants another baby? He talks about it a lot.” He saw Levi was avoiding your stare. “I shouldn’t have said that, should I?” He carefully took Lilly. “I’ll take my leave.”
Levi put Daisy on her feet. “Go with Uncle Erwin and Auntie Kate.”
Daisy grinned. “Okay!”
Levi cleared his throat. “So…”
You folded your arms. “You talked to them about wanting a baby before me?”
“Well…” He fiddled with his hands. “I’m sorry. It’s just, that I know how much having a baby takes it out of a woman. It’s so demanding and I didn’t want you to see me as selfish for asking for another.” He pouted. “I love you so much. I adore you and I was just getting out my needs and love for kids with my friends.”
You cupped his face and kissed him. “I understand. Thank you for worrying about me. I love you deeply. You’re wonderful in every way and I’m not mad at you. You can talk to me about anything anytime.” You kissed him again. “I would love another baby.”
His eyes lit up. “Really!?”
You nodded. “Yes.”  
He picked you up and spun around with you. “This is perfect news!” He kissed your face loads. “I love you so much.”
You giggled at how sweet he was. “We have eternity together, but having two kids at a time is nice.”
He nodded. “Only two and then we’ll watch them grow into perfect adults.”
You hummed a laugh. “Then we can have two more.”
“This is the best!”
“I’m glad you’re happy.”
He put you on your feet. “Are you happy?”
You nodded. “Of course. I’m excited. I love being a mother.” Your cheeks heated up. “I love making babies with you.”
Levi growled. “We get to make them instead of being a happy surprise.”
You giggled. “You’re right.”
“I will work very hard.”
You squealed in delight as he bit your neck. “Tone it down, Mr. Anyway, don’t forget your duties as a Count.”
He huffed a bit. “Mean.”
You held his hand and pulled him along. “I’m very mean. Now, come on. The sooner we get this meeting done with the sooner we can go home and make a baby.”
Levi scooped you up and ran with you making you laugh. “Let’s go!”
Erwin frowned as Levi sprinted over. “What in the world are you doing?”
Levi came to a stop and Daisy laughed. “This meeting needs to go fast!”
You gulped as you felt flustered. “Ignore him, he’s in a silly mood.”
Erwin shook his head as he chuckled. “I think he got good news.” He held his head high as the double doors opened. “Huh, big event. She didn’t say anything about this.”
Levi put you on your feet. “Odd…”
Daisy walked up to you. “Mummy, can we hold hands?”
You took her hand in yours. “Of course.”
As a family, you walked together through a large crowd gathered. What surprised you all was official representatives and politicians were near the front of those gathered. As you made it to the front you could see Alora was there in all her Queen attire. It seemed like this gathering was more than just a meet-up, she had something planned and it was something serious.
Alora smiled. “Welcome, Count and Countess Ackerman. King and Queen Smith. I am honoured to have you here today. I have a few announcements that I wish to say on behalf of this country, my people and bring a close to the past.”
Erwin hummed. “Thank you for having us. We are honoured.”
Levi bowed. “Deeply honoured.”
Alora bowed her head back. “As am I.” She cleared her throat. “First, I am proud to announce a partnership and union between my country and King Erwin’s. My land for too long treated anyone who wasn’t human or rich like dirt. King Erwin set a wonderful example by welcoming anyone and everyone with fair treatment. A partnership between our countries will start today. We will work together to make this island a better place to live.” She offered her hand. “What do you say, King Erwin?”
Erwin offered his hand and shook Alora’s. “I accept. Our countries will work together and be united for our people.”
Alora let out a long relieved sigh. “Oh, thank goodness. This makes me happy.” She cleared her throat. “On to the next announcement once papers are signed.”
A few people gathered to discuss the papers for working together. The countries were always going to be separate, but they were going to work together a lot. It was nice to see a sweet buzz in the air. Everyone seemed much happier and the prospect of working together meant that the pain of being ripped apart as countries was over. Those who had escaped in fear could now be whole again.
Alora sighed. “Now for the last announcement.” She gulped hard and waved over her advisor who had papers. “Years ago two people travelled on the now fixed road between our countries, during that journey something horrific and devastating happened. It was reported as an accident that took the lives of two incredible people, but after a lot of research I have discovered that this couple were murdered by the late King Lovell.” She looked over at you and said your full name. “I am deeply sorry for what my father did to your parents.” She bowed deeply. “On behalf of my family and my people, I am deeply sorry. I will make sure everyone knows that it was no accident. They deserved better. Forgive my country.”
Tears filled your eyes at finally having someone acknowledge that your parents were murdered by the dead King. You flinched when Levi tapped your shoulder causing you to turn and see the whole room was bowing, it seemed those who represented the country were also asking you for forgiveness. Tears flooded down your cheeks as you felt a weight you never knew you had just lifted from your body.
Levi held you close as you sobbed. “Bunny?”
You nodded. “Th-thank you, Alora. I accept.”
Alora stood up and grinned as she softly cried. “I’m honoured. I have also set up a memorial statue and stone on the road so people can pay their respects.”
“Thank you.”
Levi hugged you tightly. “We can visit them.”
You sniffed. “I would love that.”
Levi kissed your forehead. “Perfect.”
After some light celebrations you, Levi and Daisy parted with everyone else. It was time to be a family. The three of you climbed into the carriage and made your way to the road that linked the two countries. As the carriage rocked there was a calming sensation that washed over you.
“Bunny? We’re here.” He climbed out of the carriage and helped you out. “Go to them. I’ll look after Daisy.”
“Thank you.” You walked past him and saw the statue of your mother and father smiling so beautifully. “Mum...Dad…” You wrapped your arms around them. “I hope I made you proud.”
Levi walked over to you with Daisy. “I know it in my heart they are.”
You grinned at Levi. “Thank you.”
Daisy frowned. “Why are you hugging them?”
Levi lifted Daisy. “These are statues of your grandma and grandpa. They were your mummy’s parents.”
Daisy gazed at them. “They look pretty. Where are they?”
“They died. The bad King who used to be here killed them.”
Daisy whined. “Poor mummy has no mummy and daddy.”
You took Daisy from Levi as she cried a little. “Aww, Daisy. Thank you for crying for me. It’s okay. I had them for a lot of years. So, I wasn’t alone for a long time.” You stared at the statues. “I miss them, but I have the best family ever now.” You nuzzled your nose against hers making her giggle. “I have you and daddy and soon we’ll add another. You’ll be a big sister.”
She gasped in delight. “YAY!”
Levi wrapped his arms around you. “We’ll always be a happy family filled with love for eternity.”
You kissed Levi. “Eternity.”
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cuckoo-on-a-string · 1 year ago
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Promises Three: Subtle Dreaming
Dark!Morpheus x (female)reader, fantasy/medieval AU, 18+
Master List
Dream of the Endless had been promised a bride.
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Chapter track: Rainbow - The Temple of the King - Algal the Bard
It has been... a rough couple weeks. But I'm back! Hope you enjoy! Your comments and questions mean the world! Special thanks to all you lovely rebloggers! I'm still trying to figure out how to respond without essentially reposting half a dozen times, but I see you, you make my week!
Subtle Dreaming
A knock on the door disturbed her work. It was an hour past midnight, when all but the youngest servants and ardent lovers had retired to their beds with heads full of dreams, a time a wandering mice and cat’s work.
But she wasn’t surprised, even less when she opened the door of her windowless chamber to find a young lady in her nightdress, wrapped in a shawl with wary hope in her eyes and a candle in her hand. Alis Everard. The youngest of a large family, and the only child still unmarried – and a child she was, barely thirteen, and of all the reasons the bard hated the king of Meiren, summoning such young suitors for his Endless guest might be the greatest. Her face hadn’t quite lost childhood’s rounded cheeks, and the seams on her nightgown had recently been let out after a growth spurt.
“I see your father is impatient,” the bard said. Wrapped in her own shawl over her own nightgown, she felt more than ever the noble’s equal. After such a long life, she understood better than most how little rank protected one from life and how much a peasant’s child was like a queen’s. She was the girl’s elder by far, but she’d been young once, and what youth didn’t go sneaking down corridors in the dark during their first trip to court?
“He bid me seek your counsel. May I come in?”
Stepping back, she ushered the girl into her sparse little room. “Of course.”
Once the girl was through, she moved to close the door, but a slippered foot darted through the gap to block it. “Not so quicky!”
The foot neatly kicked the door back open as the bard released it, and a young woman – who was, at least, properly a woman – swept by in a dressing gown of satin and a riot of chestnut curls. “I enjoy midnight jaunts, but not being spied on one.”
The bard did her very best not to smile, but failed entirely. She knew this late guest as well. Eilwyn Alder. The third generation in her family the bard had befriended, and she sat next to little Alis on the bed with the casual grace of someone entitled to it.
“My grandmother sent me for your thoughts, though I’m sure she’ll collect them for herself tomorrow. But I am a dutiful granddaughter, so here I am.” She blinked doe eyes as the door finally fell shut, poised and perfect coquettish grace. “So, what news? Or will I lose my beauty sleep for nothing?”
Pulling out a stool from beneath her tiny desk, the bard said, “I haven’t spent an hour in his presence, and I’ve had a long ride, so forgive me if I haven’t yet taken the full measure of the king’s guest and his schemes.”
Alis wriggled on the bed, twisting her hands up in her shawl. Her eyes bounced between shadows, looking for threats like the Dream Lord’s nightmares might crawl out of the walls to exact vengeance for some imagined slight. Not that they couldn’t, but the bard assumed Lord Morpheus had better things to do with his time than torment one overwrought teenager who didn’t want to marry him.
“What if he eats his bride on the wedding night? Like the Lindworm?”
Eilwyn scoffed, and the bard donned a gentle smile, even if she couldn’t keep the laugher from her voice.
“He’s Endless, not a dragon.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means you’d be better off with a dragon.”
The child curled into the corner of the bed, sinking into the blankets with her shawl swallowing the lower half of her face. Looking for comfort where her companions’ mirth had failed. The bard reached over to pat her knee, taking the opportunity to change the subject. “Honestly dragons aren’t so bad. One of my patrons is a dragon, you know. I was attending my yearly visit to his lair when your great, worried, noble parents called for me.”
A whisper of a promised story lured Alis’s eyes away from visions of doom. She glanced at Eilwyn, like she’d confirm the tale. The older girl gladly took up the role of expert.
“Everyone knows that,” she sniffed.
“Is it…” Alis mulled over the idea, confusing herself with her own bevy of questions. “Is it a… nice dragon?”
“These days he is. But he wasn’t always.”
The hook snared Alis’s attention, and her posture softened, though she didn’t leave the corner of the little bed. In fact, she made herself more comfortable, settling like a kitten, and a stab of rage that anyone thought this little girl ought to be considered as a wife seared through the gathering strands of the bard’s story.
She took a blanket and settled it over the child as she began to speak, shielding her from a king’s machinations, a world too big for little hands, and prying eyes.
.O.O.O.
Dream of the Endless retired to the chambers the King set aside for his use, though he had little use for them at all. He would not sleep. He had no intention of entertaining in the parlor, or writing missives at the richly appointed desk. There was no book on the shelves he did not already possess, and he left the food prepared for him to grow cold and stale on the table.
He did sip the wine, and in the darkest hours he found his amusement in wandered the sleeping minds of the castle. Boredom drove him. Cruelty, even. Vengeance called for the king to atone for his wounded pride, and the decade since the human’s error only gave Dream time to image new and wondrous torments. He wanted to watch the king’s schemes crumble in the dread nightmares prowling the would-be suitors’ dreams. He enjoyed the seeds of hate planted in parents’ hearts, the doubt in subjects who’d been nothing but loyal until this gathering.
The king’s story would be a horror, a kind of tragedy that left wounds in his lands and subjects the turn of generations would not heal. These seven days would be the fuse, a prologue to terror and loss. A lesson none would soon forget, lest they bring such punishment on their own loves.
He drifted, savoring the fears he would shape to his own ends. Until words snared his attention. A half-heard tale of a dragon spinning through recent memories of a soft touch and a smile in the face of inescapable dread.
He found a young mind loosely tethered to the Dreaming, caught in the tides running between the conscious and subconscious, where words and images of the Waking cast strange reflections in the fading thoughts before sleep. She led him to a plain, simple room deep in the castle. A place for high-ranking members of staff, perhaps. Utilitarian and uninspiring. Not a place this noble child belonged. But she was not alone, and as she dozed, Dream borrowed her senses.
Voices. One he recognized. The bard the king so detested. He knew her as he knew all dreamers, and he sensed his sister’s touch upon her.
She spoke of him.
“He’s the Prince of Stories. A bride market is beneath him. This is how political unions for picky lords looking for pretty faces are arranged, not how one of the most powerful creatures to ever live seeks a partner,” the bard said.
She was not wrong, of course. The story weaver spied the loose strings in the tale, the ragged ends that did not match, though she had yet to understand the pattern he wove.
“Whatever he wants, it isn’t love or a warm body in his bed. There’s something else. I just have to figure out if that something is a danger to any of you.”
So, loyalty did grow in the king’s court. Just not to the monarch. Dream felt the peace the bard’s presence brought the dreamer half-snared in her sleep. A quiet, sure thing. The confidence children had in oak trees their parents and grandparents climbed when they were young.
The other voice in the room did not speak as a child. This one was old enough for caution, and it worried for the old oak as well as those who sheltered beneath.
“To us, I should think.”
Did the bard not fear him? Had she stood outside as the storyteller for so long she’d forgotten she could be part of them as well?
“Whatever happens, dear, I’ll survive it.” Her only worry was for those she perceived as in her care. The children of children she’d watched grow. A touch carried through the dreamer’s skin and into their subconscious, a kind voice leading her back to the Waking. “It isn’t time to sleep yet. You must return to your room…”
The fragile link collapsed, and the bridge between the servants’ quarters and the noble guest room dissolved.
Lord Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, sat in his darkened chambers in the court of a damned king, and thought as he sipped from his wine that he would enjoy seeing the bard at work. He must amuse himself for seven days, after all, until the time of the agreement ran out, and she was a surprising creature.
The most surprising he’d seen in some time.
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in-a-mountain-pool · 1 year ago
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The Dragon Boy - Chapter One
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Aemond x Fem!Dragonseed OC Kaelys Waters
pronouns: She/her (afab)
rating: Teen and Up Audiences
warnings: Angst, Romance, Major Character Death
word count: ~3600+
summary: Chaos unfolds after the battle at the Gods Eye. After his defeat, Prince Aemond Targaryen is declared dead, laying at the bottom of the great lake. Upon hearing the news, Kaelys Waters, a Dragonseed from Aemond’s past defects from the Blacks, and stumbles upon a mysterious enigmatic dragon with a broken wing. Tending to its wounds and reminiscing of her childhood infatuation, she mourns the passing of the Prince Regent. Love deepens amid a whirlwind of emotions, culminating in a heart-warming tale of love transcending magic and curses, uniting two souls against all odds.
Originally posted on AO3
A/N: Hi everyone! Here it is, this is my submission for @hotd-bigbang! I'd like to give a huge thank you to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for putting together this wonderful event, and for being so understanding of my chaotic writing process! It was an absolute pleasure getting to work with @cyeco13 , who has produced some of the most gorgeous artwork for this story (I literally teared up opening her messages!), thank you so much for capturing Aemond and Kaelys so perfectly.
Thanks for reading! To begin with, this was intended to be a one-shot but due to some circumstances beyond my control, I have decided to break it up into two chapters. Chapter two will be posted this time next week!
As always likes, reblogs and comments are not a requirement, but lovely to come online to.
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The nights were cold in the Dragonpit, without the loving embrace of a mother or a father to shield you from the harsh land of Westeros, where frigid winds would pierce through like icy daggers. You had been there as long as you could remember, your earliest memories buried under years of neglect, left outside the pit in nothing but a tattered moth-eaten shawl. In a twist of fate, the Dragonkeepers had taken you under their wing, the first girl in history to be welcomed into the ancient order of guards. 
You, a nameless orphan, were christened Kaelys, and raised as their own. But life had been hard and food scarce. Amidst crumbling stones of the pit, life was a relentless test of your mettle, a crucible of endurance. As the only girl, the other boys of the order would revel in their power and torment you relentlessly. They were the bane of your life, their taunts and physical assaults a painful reminder of the harsh realities that defined your existence.
In the dead of night, when the hunger had finally become unbearable, on stumbling feet you’d crept into the Red Keep, hugging the stone walls, searching for a scrap of whatever you could find. Within the fortress, an eerie stillness reigned supreme, a collective hush falling over the walls as if a great secret dwelled inside. Company was sparse this late at night, save for the sporadic appearance of a Goldcloak on patrol. During your tutelage you had mastered the art of silence, moving with a grace so profound that even the most vigilant of men might mistake you for a shadow in the night. You’d had to, growing up around the majestic and terrible beasts of the House Targaryen.
The only light you had seen in the imposing halls had been a small crack under a great set of wooden doors and the smell of old parchment. Curiosity got the better of you, and you gently pushed forward to take a peek…
Inside was a small boy with silver hair, a boy you recognised… 
It was him.
The boy without a dragon. 
Prince Aemond Targaryen. 
When the door creaked your heart froze as the child whipped his head around with an almost otherworldly reflex. 
Aemond stared at you for a moment, his head tilted over slightly to the side. The boy's violet eyes held a quiet curiosity, gazing at you in the same manner you’d seen him study the dragons inside the pit. 
In a small yet commanding voice, he called out to you, standing up slowly from his solar. 
“... Who goes there…? What might your name be, girl?”
Not a word left your lips, your face panic-stricken and pale as the moonlight creeping through the bay windows of the library. 
A quiet but exasperated huff left his cat-like mouth, and a look of dissatisfaction decorated his delicate features. 
“That’s not very polite, is it? You should at least tell me your name. I promise, I won’t tell on you.”
Aemond attempted to make eye contact with you to no avail, met with a wall of silence. A soft scowl fell over his face, like he’d perhaps thought something might be wrong with you. Or like you were a puzzle that he wished to solve. 
Finding your courage you shifted out of the shadows, eyes searching the halls around you for the slightest movement in the dark. 
“... Kaelys, My Prince. ‘My name is Kaelys.” You croak out in a pathetic tone, giving a rather poor curtsey, copying the movements you’d seen his sister, the Princess Helaena practice to the knights at the tourney months earlier. 
You wobble slightly as you ascend from the floor, the scrap of your dress hem catching under your sandaled foot. 
The boy smiled and chuckled before you, nodding with a little grin like he’d finally made some progress. His curiosities were still present as he beckoned you into the warm library and eagerly offered you a seat beside him. 
“Well, good evening, Kaelys. … Why, if I might ask, are you here in the Keep, all alone?” Aemond whispered, leaning forward to inspect you.
“... ‘was hungry, my Prince. P-please, don’t call the guards. I’ll leave quietly. Quiet as a mouse! ‘Won’t even know I was ‘ere!” You uttered fearfully, your hazel eyes locked to his, begging him silently.
Lilac eyes widened and peered into yours once more. 
“Hungry…?” Aemond asked, like such a thing was unthinkable to him, brought up amongst such riches. After a moment, his eyes fluttered and his bottom lip trembled.
“I won’t call anyone. No Guards. C-Come with me.” Aemond extended a pale shaking hand to you, waiting for you to take it. 
“T-The kitchens should have some supper for you. I’d certainly be more comfortable with you not being out here… all alone in these halls.” 
“Kitchens?! I- can’t! If I’m seen there I’ll get the lashing of a lifetime!” You whispered frantically, staring down at the boy’s hand, elegant fingers reaching out to you. 
How could you touch him? It felt wrong when you were so grubby and dirty, to mar something so fair and beautiful as him, like you might leave an immovable stain on his perfect skin.
The words tumbled out in a way most unnatural to you. What was it about this boy, a Prince no less, that made you feel you could trust him? You seldom ever spoke, not even to your mentors. You had only ever felt safe with your dragons. 
“T'aint proper. The Dragonkeepers stay in the pit. We eat in the pit. Sleep in the pit. I’m… not a Lady. Not Royalty.” You mumble, gesturing to him and looking down at his velvet boots next to your dirty feet, remembering your place. 
Not once did he ever lower his hand, almost as if he was trying to tame you like a wild animal, like one of his family’s dragons in the pit. He approached you with caution, but with an unmistakable respect and patience that made your heart anxious. 
“Kaelys…? Do you have any place to rest your head at night?” Aemond questioned you in a gentle tone, peering into your tired eyes. “Does someone look after you?” 
“Mother and Father are dead. Left me outside the Keep. Dragonkeepers feed me, but… we’re often hungry.” 
Aemond seemed stunned into silence. The realisation that the tiny girl in front of him, of no more than 12 years, was alone. Truly alone. The longer he was silent, the more uncomfortable he became. The thought that a girl, so young and vulnerable, had already lost everything she’d ever had or could ever hope to own. She’d never really had a chance, and it just wasn't right.
The boy straightened up and stood taller, a determined resolute look in his pointed features. 
“You’re coming with me. And before you say another word, I’m not going to tell on you. In fact, I won’t tell anyone. Not a soul.” His tone had changed, much softer and caring than it had been moments before.
You had heard stories about the young prince. He was lonely, and studious, the polar opposite of his raucous brother, Aegon. Perhaps he had just wanted a friend? Underneath the silver hair and the riches of his house, he was a lanky sort of boy, on the cusp of something greater than himself. So unsure, and so desperate to connect. 
Ever so cautiously, you reached out to take his hand in yours. Next to him, your hand looked so careworn and grubby, unworthy. He saw the dirt under your fingernails, and the weeks of grime on your dress, yet he never faltered in his grip as he discreetly led you deeper into the Keep along lonely corridors to his chambers. 
Once inside you couldn’t believe your eyes. You’d never seen such grandeur, the table filled with foods from all over Westeros, and all for the supper of one boy. There were meats piled high, roasted beef and potatoes, boiled vegetables and breads. Decadent sweets glistened in the candlelight, with mounds of delicate lemoncakes, sugared biscuits and candied fruits.
His room was filled with treasures and trinkets from all over Westeros and Essos. A dothraki sword adorned the wall above his bed, and a coin collection was scattered across his bed, with gold, silver and coppers of all shapes and sizes dotted about like stars upon his midnight blue blankets. Large shells almost as big as your head decorated a large desk near the balcony desk. You’d later discover they had been taken from a bay in Volantis by his Father, and he’d been drawing them in a notepad. Marble carved dragons were placed in order of size along his mantle, with random shards of dragon glass decorating his chaotic but organised desk. But best of all was a worn plush of Balerion the Black Dread, shoved underneath his pillow, sewn by his wet nurse when he was a child.
As Aemond stepped inside, he reluctantly set down your hand, keeping a gentle eye on your expression. Your eyes were wide with wonder taking in the lavish food he readily offered you like it was nothing.
“... D-Don’t worry, Kaelys. That food is mine, mine to give you. Made by the finest cooks in the Keep.” Stumbling a little, he stepped behind you, and it took you a moment to realise that he intended to pull a chair for you to sit on. 
Almost like he would a real Lady. 
“Here. We- we can eat together, if you like? Like friends do.” 
Slowly he started to make up a generous plate for you, with a selection of meats and vegetables to give you back your strength. With a shaking hand, he placed it in front of you, nodding and digging into his own.
Through a mouthful of food you finally start to speak once more, stealing timid glances at the young Prince.. 
“... Friends? D- Do you have many friends… that you play with?”
A heavy silence fell upon the room as the boy drew into himself for a long while, the only noises the clatter of silverware and the late drafts of the night. Aemond spoke in a careful manner as to try to not let his feelings betray him. His voice began to break and the awkwardness began to seep out of him, reminding you he was just an adolescent boy, with the weight of a dynasty upon his shoulders.
“No… I rather suppose I don’t. In truth, It is… hard for me to make them.”
You felt a deep need to reach out and support him, or to at least make him feel less alone, the boy who’d let you into his world. 
“Me too. I don't have any friends neither.” You whisper, brushing the pad of your index finger against the back of his hand… And then rather unexpectedly, Aemond laughed, making you retreat once more.
“Either… You don't have any friends, either.” He chuckled again, covering his cat-like smirk with his fingers. 
Sensing your displeasure and discomfort he gave you a soft look and pushed a lemon cake towards your plate, resting his chin on his hand as he studied you. He watched you for a while, as you picked at the crystallised peel in awe, giggling when your face puckered at the foreign sour sensation of the citrus in your cheeks. 
Your eyes danced around the room as you ate, falling upon the small collection of little wooden knights left haphazardly before the roaring fire. You didn’t have any toys. You hadn’t ever been allowed to be a child.
“Would you- would you like to play with them? I can teach you all about my knights!”
Aemond's face lit up with unabashed excitement, youthful enthusiasm radiating from his every pore as he eagerly settled onto the floor beside the knights. In that moment, his age became evident in the meticulous grace with which he handled the toys, delicately extending them towards her, all the while tenderly bestowing each with a name. The boy spoke passionately, more animatedly than she had ever seen him in the dragon pit. 
“This here is Aegon the Conqueror. Do you see? Each knight has their own dragon, and they ride together into war.” 
As Aemond rambled on passionately , you couldn't help but find yourself joining him there in the warmth of the fire, legs crossed and shyly tracing the beautiful handmade figurines like they were made of glass. 
“... She is beautiful. The big one.” You gesture bashfully, a rare smile gracing your face as he offers you the wooden toy. “... Vhagar.”
Aemond’s eyes widened, aglow with an innocence and wonder only a child’s eyes could muster.
“Yes! You know of Vhagar? And do you know why she is so special? 
“She’s the oldest dragon in the whole world.” You say almost instantly, staring at the wooden dragon in admiration. “She was Queen Visenya’s dragon.”
Aemond’s eyes flickered with a glimmer of surprise, as if your knowledge of Vhagar had caught him off-guard. 
“Yes, she was!” He admitted, his words imbued with a quiet reverence. “She still soars above our world to this day, a testament to her indomitable spirit. And, you know, one day, I’m going to be the one to mount her and take to the skies.”
Aemond'sAemonds gaze fixed on you, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, as if he had entrusted you with a treasure trove of secrets known only to a select few. 
“... Do you want to know another secret?” The boy asked with a small grin on his face, handing you yet another dragon.
Aemond drew in a deep breath, and his face lit up with a soft blush as he spoke the next words.
"I have a special wish, you know," he confided, his eyes locked onto Kaelys, eager to gauge her response. A hint of uncertainty lingered in his gaze, but his sincerity shone through. 
"I want more than just a dragon, Kaelys. I want you to be my best friend."
And with that declaration, a unique bond was sealed. From that day forward, together you had embarked on clandestine adventures within the labyrinthine walls of the Red Keep, where you uncovered hidden nooks to play and whisper secrets to one another. Conversations had spanned countless hours, a symphony of dragon tales, and epic tales of knights and princesses that seemed to breathe life into the ancient stones of the castle and the dragon pit.
In each other, you had found your first and only true friends, kindred spirits divided by society. And when he’d finally claimed Vhagar, she had become your whole life, bringing you both even closer together. 
He’d shown you what it meant to have a family.
… But if only you had known then, the horrors that would soon come to pass, dressed in colours of green, gold and black.
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War had come to Westeros.
It had felt like the end of days, a tragedy painted with vicious strokes of fire and blood. The very ground beneath your feet had shaken, the winds had howled as dragons danced above the skies of the Riverlands in violent flashes of greens and reds, and clashes of razor sharp teeth. Brothers and sisters rode into war for a cause that no longer made sense, as kin marched upon kin, and dragons raged against dragons. History was dying, old magic was fading, all because one man, one King, had made a choice born from love. 
But how could love ever endure in a world such as this? How could you fight for a Queen who ordered the death of an innocent child? Or a King that paraded the head of such a gracious beast as Meleys through the streets of Flea Bottom? How could hope live on here at the end of all things, where flames paint the skies, and babes were torn from their mother's arms? 
… Helaena’s arms. 
Since you’d heard the news from the other Dragonseeds’ on the battlefield you wouldn’t dare speak his name out loud. Bile would rise in your throat at the mere mention of him, the One-Eyed Prince, the Kinslayer, all of these names they’d given him, to the boy with violet eyes who’d captured your heart all those years ago.
He had met with his Uncle, your Mentor, above the God’s Eye only a week before. The village folk spoke of a fierce battle, with dragonfire so hot and so ferocious it was like the sky itself had been set aflame, and the Doom of Valyria had raged once more. The two beautiful beasts were said to have torn each other apart, Caraxes the Blood Wyrm sinking her teeth into Vhagar’s neck, before being disembowelled and crashing into the great lake below.
He, had always been so careful, even as a child, it was no wonder he’d chained himself so securely to the saddle. Daemon had known this and used it to his advantage. It had been you who had told Daemon so, you who had taught him how to tie the chains to keep him safe. Neither man nor dragon could have survived such a fall. Even a Targaryen Prince.
And now he was gone, it had felt like you might as well have drowned with him there in the God’s Eye. When your tears had fallen, you had insisted you had cried for Daemon, though the others who truly knew you had known better. 
The smell of the summer flowers in the Godswood had filled your dreams, the sounds of children’s laughter, the warmth of his hand in yours. Braiding hair as white as snow, the flash of lilac in the candlelight of the Red Keep at night. Since you’d departed for Harenhal as a Dragonseed of the Black’s, you’d carried a piece of him in the pocket of your riding jacket, a small wooden carving of Vhagar he’d had made just for you. Every night you’d gripped it tight and wept for the loss of her… and her rider. 
For you, the war was over. There was nothing left to fight for. 
No one left to protect.
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Under the moonlit sky, you rode through the darkness, leaving behind the tumultuous Black's encampment. The biting cold couldn't compare to the numbness that gripped your heart. The horse beneath you felt unfamiliar, its warmth offering no solace compared to the fiery passion and adventure that once accompanied your dragon, Bhaesys.
The battlefield had claimed her, just as it had claimed Vhagar and him. 
Daemon, the architect of destruction, had torn apart not only your dragon but also your life, leaving the House of the Dragon in ruins and the land scarred with suffering.
With no clear destination in mind, you rode relentlessly for nearly a month, only to find yourself at the God's Eye. The vast expanse of tranquil waters reflected the sun's rays, masking the grim reality that all was not well in the world. Despite its majestic appearance, the God's Eye was a tomb, a silent witness to the ravages of war.
It became evident that you couldn't bear the weight any longer—the months of conflict, the years of hardship and camaraderie. Your love for him hit you with an intensity that felt like a physical blow to the gut. 
He was gone, forever. 
The memories flooded your mind—the sound of his voice, the echoes of laughter in the Red Keep's libraries, the sparkle in his violet eyes as you soared through the skies together.
Violent screams, unrecognisable even to yourself, reverberated across the still lake. Tears streamed down your face as you collapsed to your knees at the water's edge. Nettle's words echoed like a death knell, the cruel truth seeping into your soul: 
"They couldn't retrieve a body." 
He would never receive the burial befitting his noble lineage, never rest in the Great Sept with his ancestors.
Clutching the small wooden carving of Vhagar, you gripped it so tightly that it pierced your skin. Anything to distract from the sharp, agonising emptiness in your chest. The God's Eye, once a place of beauty, now mirrored the desolation within you—a stark reminder of the irreparable loss that had befallen your world.
It was night before you could wretch yourself away from the water’s edge, taking refuge in a large cave in the woods nearby, overlooking the Isle of Faces. Stepping into its deep interior, you were met with a pervasive dampness and bitter cold that clung to the air, accompanied by a low, wispy draft that whispered tales of undiscovered mysteries, cautioning against the disturbance of ancient stones better left untouched.
Guided by an inexplicable force that seemed to emanate from the recesses of your very heart, your feet carried you further into the cavern's depths. The very essence of the cave resonated with age and magic, invoking echoes of legends that spoke of the Children of the Forest and ancient tales of the First Men that had woven themselves into the fabric of these lands.
As you delved deeper, the surroundings cloaked you in an intensifying darkness, each step marked by the crumbling of wet gravel beneath your feet. Until suddenly, a strange warmth in the air began to prickle at your skin, humid and dank in a way that clung to you. 
This was no ordinary hollow. 
The pervading silence, almost otherworldly in its nature, gave way to an unsettling deep rumbling that resonated through the core of the earth beneath your feet. Turning a corner, the growling intensified, growing deeper and louder until a sudden realisation dawned upon you - a recognition etched in the core of your being.
The feeling was unmistakable, a sensation so familiar to you from a lifetime spent in the depths of the Dragon Pit.
Awe and trepidation mingled as the truth unfolded…
You stood in the majestic presence of a dragon. 
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