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the-californicationist · 1 month ago

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Through a Glass, Darkly

A new priest is assigned to your remote abbey, but when you go to him for confession, you realize you are kneeling before the Devil himself.

Anonymous asked: Hiya Cali, crazy thought but happy october 🎃 brain worm, think about mirror sex with vampire!Price / 141 and the absolute flith that would pour from his mouth as he watches you stretch around seemingly nothing…

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TW: vampirism, blood play, priest abuse of power, heavy religious imagery, fem!reader, rape/noncon, virginity loss, corruption, mind breaking, historical fantasy au, father/my child/sister religious titles, fully adult characters

You’ve been warned, and I don’t wanna hear it. Your click, your fault.

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. — 1 Corinthians 13:12

—x—x—x—

When Mr. Hawthorne arrived that morning with fresh milk, eggs, and a cart full of potatoes and turnips, you thought you would forget yourself and fling your hands around his fat neck. It had been weeks since supplies had been delivered, and although you lived in what was probably the smallest abbey in the world, you were just thankful that you had not been completely forgotten.

“Oh, thank you, Mister Hawthorne! We are so grateful for your service. The Lord rewards the generous,” you praised him.

The plump man’s face flushed red and he took off his sweaty cap, holding it limply in his hands,

“Tha’s alright, Sister. I had a good yield this season. You send a letter over to us if you need anything more. Hopefully that new priest will be arriving soon. Margie said she spotted him at the inn yesterday afternoon.”

“New priest?” You asked, wholly unaware of your abbey receiving an actual man of the cloth.

“Yes, Sister. He looks a little rugged for a holy man, but she said he was wearin’ the collar, clear as day.”

“Oh,” you mused, unsure of what to say.

“I’ll take my leave of you, Sister. Hope he’s a good one. It’ll be nice to have services back in the old church.”

“Yes, it will. Take care, and safe travels, sir. May God bless your next harvest.”

You watched as his rickety cart, pulled by an equally rotund mule, delivered the farmer away from you and your tiny sanctuary. As soon as he was out of sight, you rushed back through the wooden doors of the abbey to find Sister Ruth and Sister Sarah to tell them of the news.

They were both as shocked as you were. You had all three been convinced that the good Pope had completely forgotten about your little sect, and no letters had come for months. But, a new priest in this parish would bring much needed governance to the provincial people of your small village, and you needed to prepare.

You and your fellow nuns cleaned, cleaned, and cleaned some more. By nightfall, the abbey gleamed anew.

As you were preparing for bed, you heard the whinny of a horse outside of the abbey doors. You looked out into the corridor, and Sister Ruth was peeking out as well. Arming yourselves with long, steel fire pokers, you made your way to the entrance. Ruth nudged you with her elbow, encouraging you to call out. So, you said,

“It is past hours. Please come back tomorrow!”

“I’m Father John Price, and unless I’m mistaken, this is my abbey,” a deep, gravelly voice called out to you, seeming to flow and roll through the door with a convincing ease.

You cracked the wooden portal and looked out.

There, holding onto a frothy, exhausted steed was the most handsome man you’d ever seen. He wore an all-black capello romano on his head, towering above you by at least a full cubit. His face was pale, protected from labors under the sun, but his hands looked like they had certainly known the true meaning of work. His body was well-muscled and immense. Even in the midst of his flowing black robes, you could see the bulging form of his shoulders stretching the fine fabric. Around his thick neck, his white clergy collar sat dutifully under a jutting Adam’s apple and a proud chin, shaven although the rest of his beard was trimmed to full length.

But it was his eyes that unnerved you. For all of his brutish form, the look in his gaze made your blood run cold. There was something hypnotizing about the pale blue irises. It made him seem almost inhuman.

That deep, purring voice returned, and he stepped closer to you, threatening your threshold with white, sharp teeth pulled in a tight smile,

“Aren’t you going to invite me inside?”

“Forgive me, Father. Please, come in. Sister Ruth will take your horse to the stables. Allow me to take your bags and show you to your chamber.”

He followed behind you at a close distance, studying the abbey’s courtyard and walls, judging its worthiness. You were proud of the work you had done to keep it in good working order, but you knew it was in desperate need of repairs.

As you walked, you tried to make small talk to ease the tension,

“I have been in prayer thanking God for your arrival, Father. It has been many years since we have been blessed to house a priest within our abbey walls. Our parishioners will be filled with joy to return to their pews.”

“Mm.” His hum was polite but noncommittal, so you gave up on the niceties.

Finally, you reached his cell, you pried open the door and allowed him to enter before you. He studied the spartan room with the expected amount of enthusiasm, and watched you lay his bag down on the small chair at his desk. You straightened out the Bible that lay on the table, making sure the corner matched up with the edge of the table, placing it just so.

“Will you take supper, Father Price?”

“No, I am not hungry. You will find that I eat very little, in fact,” he said, taking off his cloak and laying it on the freshly-made bed. He hung his hat on its hook and tried to straighten his hair.

“Should I have a mirror brought in for your cell?” You asked, thinking that he may need to look presentable. As a nun, you never used a mirror as a rule, but you were willing to accommodate your new steward as best you could.

“Do you use a mirror, my child?” Price’s voice deepened and smoldered like a bundle of kindling, threatening to burn. He stepped toward you, using his size to impose himself upon you in the small space.

“N-n-no,” you stammered, “Of course not, Father. But I am not in a position to be perceived such as yourself.”

“Recite Proverbs 31:30, my child,” he commanded, stepping closer to you, slowly creeping into your personal space, close enough that you could smell the scent of the sun and the grass on his robes, mixing with the sweat of his skin.

You swallowed, clearing your throat, and obeyed,

“Yes, Father. Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.”

“Good,” Price smiled, using his finger to lift your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, “We must not succumb to vanity, my child. A dutiful disciple is one who serves others, yes?”

“Yes, Father,” you said, stepping backwards, away from his touch, hanging your head in reverence.

“In fact,” he purred, “It is James 1:23 which reminds us that those who look into the glass will be blinded by their own desires, only seeing themselves, incapable of suffering God’s divinity. It is the good works done that are worthy of praise, my child, although…”

He stepped forward again, grabbing your chin in his huge hand roughly, clutching the very bone of your jaw, making you gasp,

“Our Lord has taken special care to display his almighty talent in your face, has he not? Such delicate features. Like an angel.”

His mouth was so close to yours that you could smell the heady scent of iron and musk on his breath. His piercing eyes never left yours, pinning you in place.

Then, he released you, and you left the room without being dismissed, closing the cell door behind you and rushing back to your own cloister. You rushed into your room, locking the door fast, and knelt at your altar to pray for forgiveness.

Except… you were not asking to be forgiven for suggesting vanity to your new priest. No. You were asking to be forgiven for the warm, wet lust that was smearing across the crease of your thighs. Father Price had awakened strong feelings in you not of enlightenment, but of lurid desire, and you begged to be cleansed.

The next morning, Father Price called the abbey together. Yourself, Sister Ruth, and Sister Sarah reported to the small courtyard, along with two young pilgrims who had lived there since the past summer, Timothy and David. You and the nuns had suspected them as runaways, but they pledged themselves to the cloth and took care of the manual labor around the premises since you lacked any monks to speak of. They were well into their young adulthood now, and they would become apprentices to Father Price, if he saw fit.

You tried to put what had transpired between you and the good Father out of your mind, but seeing him in the cold light of day did nothing to quell the sinful desire you felt towards him. The way he had grabbed you…

“Good morrow, everyone. I ask that you will join me in our Biblical studies every morning. I find that the word of God helps me put the rest of my day right. I want to begin at the beginning, yes?”

He looked around at all of your faces, as if anyone would protest against his power, and then he continued,

“What does Genesis 4:7 tell us, Sister Ruth?”

“Speaking to Cain, the Lord said: If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? and if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door. And unto thee shall be his desire, and thou shalt rule over him.”

“Sin lieth at the door,” Father Price mused, then, as if shaking himself from his thought, he said, “Please continue, Sister.”

“And Cain talked with Abel, his brother: and it came to pass, when they were in the field, that Cain rose up against Abel, his brother, and slew him. And the Lord said unto Cain, Where is Abel thy brother? And he said, I know not: Am I my brother's keeper?”

“You are,” the priest’s voice rose in his chest, startling Sister Ruth and silencing her words. He began to pace back and forth, slowly stalking through your small ranks, “You are your brother’s keeper. You are more than that. You are keepers of this entire parish, are you not?”

“Yes, Father,” you all said in unison.

“There will be a reckoning in this parish,” Price snarled, “I will not lead a flock of demons disguised as sheep. If any of you hear witness or see evidence of sin, deliver it to me at once. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Father,” you repeated.

“I will now take your confessions. I understand that it has been a number of years since you were cleansed, so be prepared to repent lest you allow the Devil into your soul.”

“Yes, Father.”

The day dragged on through the gray clouds, and Father Price had taken his time with the confessions of the members of your abbey. Sister Sarah had gone into his cell after the boys, and she had emerged with red eyes full of tears. You had comforted her in hushed whispers in the corner of her cloister, asking her what he had done, thinking it was something even more awful that how he had accosted you last night.

“He…” Sarah sobbed, “He made me kneel on sharp stones while I recited my prayers. It hurts so much, Sister.”

You breathed a sigh of relief. Although sharp stones were not a gentle punishment, they were at least devoid of physical contact. He had not taken a hand to her. But, Sister Sarah was young. She had avoided some of the harsher training practices of the more traditional members of the church. You knew that there were a bevvy of punishments that would make kneeling in discomfort feel like a blessing.

Sister Ruth also came out sniffling, reporting that she had fifty lashes across her palms for the sin of plucking figs off of a nearby tree owned by the neighboring farm.

Again, you sighed and thanked God that he had a little mercy within him.

His cell door opened, and Father Price locked eyes with you and demanded,

“Come, my child. It is time for your confession.”

“Yes, Father Price,” you complied, taking your leave of the other nuns and following him into his cell.

Inside of his room, a shaft of sunlight cut across his face, illuminating his eyes and stunning you, keeping you from moving forward.

“Shut the door, my child,” his timbre was ominous, and you tried to hold yourself together.

“So far,” he rose from his seat and walked over to you, “I have cleansed the souls of a nun who is a thief, another who is a sloth, a young man who is a liar, and another who is filled with pride. It seems, Sister, that you have allowed the Devil through the door, indeed.”

“Forgive me, Father. I knew not of their wicked ways, nor have I your wisdom to correct them.” You stared at the stone floor. It was easier than looking at him.

“I do not believe that the wickedness was borne within them,” Father Price mused, tapping his finger on his lips as if deep in thought, “Because I discovered this beneath your mattress, and so I know the evil is inside of you.”

In his hands, Father Price held up a square, familiar, looking glass. You trembled, watching as your own reflection met you back. You could see the fear spread across your face, and you were disgusted by it.

“Tell me, my child. How did you use this mirror?” He asked sweetly, but as he watched you think about how best to answer the question, his voice became hot with fury and he snarled into your ear, “And don’t you dare lie to me. I will know your deceit.”

Your heart was banging in your chest, and so, beyond your better judgment, you told him the truth.

“I used it to… examine myself, Father.”

“Show me,” he commanded.

It was as if his whole cell bent and bowed under the weight of his authority. Your body began to move against your own will, relenting to his instead. Without thinking, you pulled back your habit and let your hair fall down your back. Then, you began to peel away your robes. Underneath, you untied your shift, and you allowed the fabric to pool on the floor at your feet, staring at yourself naked in the glass.

He watched you in silent awe, his pupils darkening, his mouth parted at his full lips, his chest heaving as he watched you make yourself bare before him.

“Go on,” he said, knowing that you were not finished with your demonstration.

You felt yourself obeying him helplessly, and you performed the same inspection that you did in private in front of him.

“I wanted to see how God hath made me, Father. So, I looked.”

“Where did you look, my child?”

“Here,” you raised your hands to squeeze the supple flesh of your breasts, showing him how your nipples were bouncy and puffy until they turned stiff and tight.

“And here,” you allowed your hand to fit itself between your thighs, spreading your labia, covered in dense hair, until your pliant lips revealed a shining, smooth center, wet and ready for pleasure.

“Now that you have examined the Lord’s fine works, what did you do with this knowledge?” Price asked.

“I would touch this part of me, Father, and I would let it bring me to Heaven.”

“I would like to know Heaven, my child. Turn around.”

You tried to stop yourself, but he was using his power to bind you. You were nothing more than a toy, helpless to his every whim. You turned, your back facing him, and he set the mirror on his desk so that you could see yourself within it. Then, he moved in front of you and his body blocked your view, reaching down to grab your chin like he had the first night he arrived, raising your mouth up to his.

You thought he would kiss you. His lips were just within reach, but he commanded you darkly,

“Confess.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” you recited dumbly, “It has been three years since my last confession. In that time, I have…”

His mouth covered yours, kissing you deeply, feeding you his long tongue and eating up your words before you could say them. Then, you felt his hands on your breasts, squeezing them cruelly, pinching your nipples to make them ache and sting. You couldn’t help the lewd sounds that escaped your throat, but he didn’t seem to care to stop you. Finally, he pulled away, and when you looked into his eyes again, the bright blue had been replaced with a Hellish red.

You gasped, and he grabbed you tighter, pulling you towards him by the soft meat of your breasts, making you cry out in agony. That noise seemed to please him because he smiled down at you, and you could see that his teeth had grown into long, wolf-like fangs. He chuckled,

“My pretty little sinner.”

“D-d-demon!” You cried breathlessly, shaking from fear as he held you to his body.

Price bared his fangs at your assessment, hissing from the title,

“Yes, and you have invited me in, so eager to be corrupted.”

Releasing you from his grip, he held you around your waist with one arm, and he used his free hand to dip between your legs, discovering your wetness there and sighing from it.

“Mmm… Let me taste your sweet, little Heaven, Sister.”

He knelt on the floor in front of you and held onto your wide ass cheeks in each hand, forcing your hips to tilt toward his face. You looked down and watched as his impossibly long tongue flicked against your swollen bud. His wide tongue parted your lips to drag wetly between them. You tried to hold back your cries, but you’d never known such pleasure, so you could barely keep it in. You prayed for forgiveness as you came apart against this demon’s mouth, succumbing to his vileness.

Then, you glanced into the mirror, and you noticed that you couldn’t see his head. Only the collar and robes were visible in the glass. All you could see is how your lips were being spread apart, seemingly on their own.

He had no reflection.

“You… you’re…” You couldn’t say the words, but Price knew what you meant to call him.

He looked over his shoulder, using his thumbs to spread your lips wide apart, gazing at them in the glass and smiling even though he didn’t have a reflection to smile at. Then, he looked back up at you, a sick grin spread across his lips,

“Cain, yes. The immortal wanderer, cursed from the earth which hath opened her mouth to receive my brother’s blood. And I have not tasted food, for it becomes ash in my mouth, just like He promised. But, blood… I can taste blood just fine.”

He planted the softest kisses between your shivering thighs, sucking on the thin skin, and then, after slaking his thirst with your sticky center once more, he sank his fangs right in the inside of your thigh, making you howl with pain.

His eyes were locked on yours, watching you writhe in agony, your nerves sensing his venom coursing through you as he sucked the life from your veins. You watched yourself in the mirror, seeing the puncture wounds, watching as blood spilled out across your skin, smearing and being licked away by his greedy tongue. Finally, he released you, and the poison of his mouth took effect. You became deeply fatigued, and you could barely stand on your own. He had to hold you in his arms to keep you in position.

He stood, smiling down at you, his mouth caked with your dark blood, his teeth stained red,

“What a blessing you are, my child. Such perfect innocence tastes so fine, so… pure. I almost hate to sour your ripe little fruit, but that will be sweet in its own way, yes?”

You watched as your demonic priest yanked at his collar, popping it from his neck. Then, he pulled off his robes, tearing away at his layers until he was as bare as you, both of you fully naked and pressed together, joined in a crash of skin and heat, his mouth painting your body with your own blood as he kissed and licked your breasts and belly, teasing you with his tongue as he explored you.

Then, he stepped around to your back, and you caught sight of his heavy cock as it swung between his legs like that of a rutting beast. You tried to fight the black spell you were under, but it was no use. You were trapped in his thrall.

“Watch yourself in the mirror, my child,” Father Price commanded you, grinning as you immediately obeyed, “Come and behold the marvelous works of God.”

You couldn’t turn your eyes away. You were alone in the mirror, and yet, your breasts were being crushed by invisible fists, your nipples tormented between unseen fingers. Then, you felt Price fit his phallus against the entrance of your sex and press it into you, stretching you wide across his prodding cockhead. You saw how your body was being invaded by him, pulling itself apart to allow him inside. The dark hole of your quim opened like a toothless maw, drooling and starving, hungry to take him deep within you, welcoming him up to your womb.

You sobbed at the strain, and then you felt something give way sharply inside you, and he had a much easier time of filling you with his engorged length. As he fucked himself up into you, he was grunting like an animal, praising you in your ear, telling you his own confession,

“Forgive me, my child, for I am sinning. Right now… I am sinning with you, and it is so sweet. God has made you for me. What a gift you are. See?”

He used his hand to swipe at your gaping hole, bringing his hand in front of your face so you could see the bright blood that coated his fingertips,

“You have broken so easily for me. The Lord knew you needed me to come and serve you. He brought me to you, my child. You welcomed me inside, didn’t you? Spread these lips for me, invited me in… Didn’t you? Say it.”

“Y-y-yes, F-father…” You whimpered, tears dripping down your chin and onto your bare chest.

The loud slapping of skin against skin filled the cell, and you watched as your hole spread wider and wider, taking more of him with each punishing thrust.

“Louder, my child,” he hissed in your ear.

“Yes, Father!”

His hand was playing in your slippery folds, massaging your hidden bud and forcing you to clench hard around him from the pleasure. In the glass, you could see your hole trying in vain to twist itself shut, pumping him in a steady beat.

“Didn’t you pray to God for a prick like mine when you touched your filthy quim in your mirror?”

“Yes, Father!”

It was true. You had touched yourself, hoping that you might one day know the pleasure of being taken by a man. You had watched the mating of cattle in the field next to the abbey many a summer past, hanging clothes and sheets on the line, and yet all the while looking into the grassy glade, staring at the bull who would mount his cow and thrust his turgid rod into her to breed her deeply. And she would croon for him, and when he left her, the spent seed would hang in long, thick strings from the head of his phallus, making him wet and ready to sink his sword through its next sheath.

“And the Lord answered your prayers, did he not? Begging him for someone to breed you like this, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, Father!”

Price was the bull, and you would be bred by him, and you would be cast out of God’s mercy forever. Ruined. Steeped in sin and tainted by lust.

“You smell like a ripe plum, my sweet child, and you’re just as soft in my mouth,” Price began to lick your neck from your sloping shoulder all the way to your earlobe, over and over, letting his spit cover your flesh. Then, he sank his fangs into your vein and began to drink from you in long, slurping sucks, swallowing your blood into his throat in audible gulps, moaning with each mouthful of your essence.

The venom of his demonic bite made your head cloudy and your will compliant.

“Touch yourself, my child,” he mumbled, quickly returning to his feast on your flesh.

You had no choice but to obey. You felt him increase his pace, his long cock bottoming out inside of you with each thrust, flinging his weight into you like a hammer. You began touching your breasts, pinching yourself gently as you watched your ruination unfold in the looking glass, helpless to stop it.

Then, you began to touch your rigid nub, taking over for him as he continued to drink from you. You made achingly slow circles around your most sensitive spot, and because you were so wet, you were able to go faster without any discomfort. You made yourself come quickly, jerking your hips against him as he fucked you, listening to him groan from the feeling of your tight hole trying to squeeze the come out of his body.

“Beg me for my seed, Sister. Beg me to spill it in you,” Price murmured, licking your neck in the spot where he had bitten to rub the taste of your blood across his tongue.

“Father, please… Please come in me. Spill in me… oh!”

You felt him jerk inside of you, and then you heard his growling orgasm rip through his body, his cock pulsing wildly, shooting ropes of creamy seed all over your walls, bursting through your tight, virginal core.

“So perfect for me, so perfect…”

Price caught his breath while he was still inside of you, panting and smiling against your neck before he pulled out of you, watching his invisible shaft slip through your cunt in the mirror, the gaping hole slowly shrinking before your eyes. As he retreated, you saw large strings of come drip out of you, white and endless, flowing out of you and onto the floor of the cell.

Father Price dressed himself in front of you, leaving you standing where he had last commanded you to be, admiring your ruined body. Once he clipped his collar back under his shirt and cloak, he stepped in front of you to pinch lightly at the tips of your nipples again, making you whimper like a hungry mutt.

“For all your virtues, Sister, you are prone to sin. An innocent such as yourself must be trained to resist the Devil. Come to my cell for confession every morning and every night. I promise,” he stroked your cheek and then your neck, right where he’d bitten you, “I will put my goodness deep inside of you, my child. Right here.”

His other hand came to touch your bare belly, gently caressing the skin and flesh that protected your womb.

“Yes, Father,” you said, trying to avoid his furious gaze, shaking with pure, gut-wrenching terror, understanding that for you, there was no escape. You were under his vampiric command, and if he wanted you, your body was going to obey. You’d taken the Mark of Cain on your neck, and the only hope for you now was to beg for his mercy.

“Take this mirror with you, my child. I want you to kneel in prayer over it, spread those plump legs wide, and I want you to watch my seed drip out of you. With every drop, you will thank God for me and my prick. When the Lord answers our prayers, it is our duty to be grateful.”

“Yes, Father,” you said, pulling your robes back on and adjusting your habit.

He handed you the mirror, and you took it with a crushing amount of shame, feeling his come still seeping in a steady stream out of your well-used hole.

As you left his cell, he smiled down at you, carefully petting your cheek,

“Don’t worry, my child. Your next confession is in only a few hours. You will feel the warmth of the Lord’s forgiveness again very soon.”

—x—x—x—

Reblogs and comments deeply appreciated!

AO3 Link

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starlessea2 · 5 months ago

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That It Is (Astarion)

Pairing: Astarion x Reader [Baldur's Gate 3]

Summary: After a long day trudging through the sunlit wetlands, you discover your bedroll is waterlogged, and that Astarion has lost his in the swamp... AKA, the classic: ‘oh no, there’s one bed, whatever shall we do, darling?’ (Act 1 spoilers).

A/N This one has a tad more enemies-to-lovers vibe to it, but sweetness nonetheless.

Masterlist

Night was creeping over Faerûn.

After a day of toiling through the deep murk of the sunlit wetlands, your party had found refuge: an abandoned shack a little ways inland from the swamp. It was unassuming enough through the fog that Gale had tripped over its porch, and even Astarion’s darkvision had missed the contours of the old building tucked away.

But once scoped, you found that the place was empty. Shadowheart deemed it safe enough for you to unpack your bedrolls and dry your waterlogged boots. So you did just that—even managing to rouse a fire with an ignis and a few pieces of damp wood.

The flames took a few moments to blaze to life, but once they did, the warmth was heavenly on your skin. One by one, you started to shed your wet outer garments, laying them out by the fire.

“Oh, bloody hells!”

A voice rang out over the crackling hearth. You turned to find Astarion on his knees, rummaging through his supply pack half-deranged.

He flung the contents out onto the floor: some soggy books, a cask of water, pristinely-folded clothes. Then he promptly turned the pack upside down, seemingly devestated to find nothing else inside.

The rogue threw his hands up. “Gone,” he declared, with a dejected sort of laugh. “Be it just my luck after trudging through this gods forsaken waste—”

From the corner of the room, Shadowheart stopped wringing out her gloves. She gave you a look. Deal with him, she said through the shared connection.

With a sigh, you conceded. “What’s wrong, Astarion?” You stood over the pale elf, hand on hip, “Broken a nail?”

Irritation painted his face, but his demeanour remained playful.“Ha! Hilarious as always, my dear,” he replied, without sparing you so much as a glance. “Alas, I’m afraid my situation is a tad more dire.”

You clicked your tongue. “Go on.”

Astarion stood up, taking a moment to dust himself off. “It seems I’ve lost my bedroll somewhere in that bloody marsh,” he finally admitted.

Somewhere across the room, Shadowheart’s snort was quickly covered up by a faux cough from Gale. “Oh?” you said, “I thought elves didn’t need to sleep.”

Astarion shot you a glare. “And do you need to dry your clothes by the fire? Need to eat tonight or, gods forbid, drive us half mad with your infernal singing sometime tomorrow?”

He stalked the cabin, pointing vivaciously at your drying garments, and menial rations you’d hoped wouldn’t spoil.

You felt your brow furrow at his display. “No need to be rude,” you said shortly. “Today’s been hard on all of us.” Pushing past him, you quickly retrieved your own pack from its place near the door. “Here—just take mine.”

Fishing around the bag, you searched for your own bedroll before producing it for him. Astarion let out a sound of disgust.

“You could at least try to be grateful, Astarion,” you started. Then you felt it; your trusted bedroll squelched in your hand. It was pasted with a layer of thick algae, and some other mysteries you couldn’t discern. “Son of a—” you cursed. How had you forgotten when it rolled into the marsh earlier in the day?

A hand found your shoulder. “Thanks for the generous offer, my dear, but I think I’ll pass,” Astarion said, proudly. He then flicked a rather large leech off your bedroll, causing Gale to shriek when it landed at his feet. “I’d like to remain the only bloodsucker around here.”

You were about to quip back, when Astarion stepped closer—enough so that his breath dusted your cheek when he spoke. “And I think I spy a bed in the other room. That should do me just fine.”

It took you a moment to unravel his words. By the time you did, he’d already traipsed halfway across the cabin. “Hang on a moment,” you called after him,“I already staked my claim on that earlier!”

“Hmm?” the elf hummed, feigning ignorance.

The audacity. You shot a glance back at the wizard, who immediately threw his hands up in surrender. “Oh no, you don’t,” warned Gale, “I’m staying out of this one.”

To his left, Shadowheart looked equally unbothered by your plight. You scowled at them both.

It was going to be a long night.

—

The cabin was quiet. It had been some time since you had rested in a place with a roof and four walls. There were no beasties lurking near your camp, or dangers beyond the trees. The only threat to your person was Gale’s snores coming from the main living space. He’d taken refuge on the floor, whilst Shadowheart seized the chaise lounge.

It was a comfortable night. So in principle, you should have had no problem falling into a dreamless sleep. Especially given the feather bed at your back.

“You know, my dear,” Astarion whispered, “I might have agreed to this arrangement, but that was under the condition that you get some sleep.”

You tried not to startle, but his words sounded so close to your ear. It made your skin prickle with anticipation—despite doing your utmost not to show it.

“I think you’ll find I was the one who was forced to agree,” you countered, “and I’m trying. You just—”

Shifting in the bed, you turned around to face the elf beside you. He was leaning on one arm, gazing up at the wooden ceiling as though he were watching the stars. His eyes found yours. “I what?” he asked.

You could hear his grin; he was teasing you. But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of backing down now. “You make me nervous,” you answered bluntly.

He did not reply. Each second of silence that passed made you more and more uneasy. You couldn’t see him well in the dark. And as much as you tried to make out the contours of his face, you knew for sure discern every line on yours—every expression you hoped to conceal. “And why’s that?” he finally asked.

You let out a huff before falling onto your back. “You know why. Stop acting so smug—It doesn’t suit you."

Astarion’s laugh made its way to you. “Everything suits me, darling.”

A witty remark alluded you, so you opted to stay quiet. Sleep was what you needed right now. The gods only know how deprived you were of it.

So you plumped your pillow and made yourself comfortable. Then you gathered some blankets to yourself. A yawn left you, but your mind felt anything but relaxed. You readjusted again, this time your body pressing into Astarion's. He moved to accomodate you; you stiffened in response.

“Will you stop wriggling around? I can’t so much as move without you flinching."

At his words, your breath hitched. You were midway through an apology before he interrupted.

“Look at me,” he said.

Despite the darkness, his thumb perfectly traced your jaw until it found the space just under your chin. Gently, he coaxed your head up.

“You know I’ve drank from you, right?” You gasped at his candidness. “I've felt your pulse on my tongue and your blood coat my teeth,” he went on. “Hells, I have your thoughts swimming in my head far more often than you probably realise.”

He paused for a moment, and in that time you breathed twice as fast as you ought to.

“You’ve allowed me that much, so sleeping beside me like this?” he said, with a lightness to his voice, “that shouldn’t matter, now should it.”

You couldn't reply. His words were likely meant to comfort, but they had only the opposite effect. As his fingers brushed your cheek, you immediately pulled back—hoping he did not feel the way you burned for him.

“No. I guess not?” you stuttered.

“Good,” came his reply. “Now sleep. I promise I won’t bite”

He returned to his side of the bed, not overstepping the invisible boundary you'd drawn earlier that evening.

And on your side, you were left to press down whatever feelings threatened to bubble to the surface. You weren’t quite ready to let them out yet—not when you couldn’t see clearly the face he would make in response.

Right now, you just needed to sleep.

So you focused on the snores echoing from the other room, the rain pattering the windows, Astarion's breaths and your heart—which, without realising, had recently started to beat for him.

“Goodnight, Astarion,” you whispered into the dark.

“Yes, my dear," he said softly. "That it is."

#astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x mc #bg3 #astarion x oc #astarion x tav #astarion x y/n #astarion x you #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfic #astarion fanfic #astarion acunin #astarion fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 oneshot #bg3 x reader

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fairytaleendingss · 7 days ago

Text

Room for One More?

Chapter 5

Summary: You and they boys decorate the Christmas Tree together.

CW: Vague mention of chronic illness.

Pairing: Poly!Marauders x fem!reader

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4

It was early evening and the city lights were twinkling outside the window of your apartment. You were standing in the living room in cozy Christmas pajamas while carols emanated from the speaker on the TV stand.

"Got it!" James grumbled as he ventured into the room holding the box that contained the Christmas Tree. It had been buried somewhere in the top of the linen cupboard.

He sat it down on the floor, his gaze drifting between you and Sirius. "Where do you reckon we should set it up?"

"What about near the window?" you suggested. "That way, when people look up from the street, they'll be able to see it."

"Good idea, doll," Sirius replied as he ripped open the cardboard and started pulling out the branches. You were surprised to see Sirius getting so into a Christmas tradition. In the time that you'd lived with the boys, you'd realised that while James absolutely adored Christmas, Sirius only tolerated it for the sake of his friend. You figured it had something to do with his upbringing. James had mentioned in passing, without going into too much detail, that it hadn't been very good. The thought made your heart clench but you'd chosen not to get into it with him in case talking about it made him uncomfortable.

You could see now, however, that despite his lack of festive spirit, Sirius would go to great lengths to make his best friend happy. He was nothing if not loyal.

As a team you managed to put the tree together. You weren't used to having a fake tree but you supposed that it made sense for where you lived. You cringed at the thought of attempting to carry a real tree up all those god forsaken stairs.

"So how are we for decorations?" James asked, looking between the two of you.

"There should be some in the cupboard," Sirius stated.

You smiled sheepishly. "I also have some if you don't mind me adding those."

"Of course not, love," Sirius winked at you.

You all hurried off to grab your supplies. You unpacked the box in your wardrobe labelled "Christmas".

As you walked back into the living room, James placed a large cardboard box, overflowing with a mess of tinsel and ornaments. He looked up at you like a playful puppy.

"What should we do first?" he queried.

"Hold on, shouldn't we get Remus to help with this bit?"

You looked over at Sirius and felt your shoulders droop ever so slightly. It made sense that his friends would want Remus to partake, however, you had kind of been hoping to enjoy the event with just Sirius and James. Nevertheless you nodded, putting your discomfort aside.

"Okay, I'll go and get him!" James decided, bouncing over towards Remus' closed door.

"Oi, Rem!" he called, knocking unnecessarily loudly on the wood.

The door swung open to reveal a playfully disgruntled Remus. "Do you need something?"

James smirked. "Yeah, you. We need your help decorating the Christmas tree!"

He glanced out in the direction of the living room and noticed you and Sirius standing there in anticipation.

"Oh.. I don't know-"

You frowned.

"Come on Rem, don't be a party pooper! Come and help us!" Sirius teased.

"Alright," the boy sighed. He was rarely able to say no to Sirius, you were learning.

He walked out into the living area and you noticed a slight limp in his gait. You wondered if his knee was bothering him again.

He paused upon reaching the group of you, raising a brow as he assessed the tree.

"We decided to put it here this year?"

"Yeah, I thought it should be in front of the window," you murmured defensively. "What's wrong with that?"

"Oh, nothing," he corrected but his tone left you unconvinced.

You decided to ignore him, instead turning back to the box of decorations.

"Lets get started shall we? What do you think? Tinsel first?"

"Actually, we usually start with lights," Remus cut in.

You quirked your brow. "But that makes no sense. Won't the tinsel cover up the lights when we put it on afterwards?"

He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. "Sorry, but that's just how we've always done it."

You rolled your eyes but relented. "Fine, whatever."

It was tense between the two of you at first. Remus was a perfectionist, that much was clear, and it was obvious that he had a way he was used to doing things, even with something as trivial as the Christmas tree.

You swallowed it down like you always did. It was Christmas afterall. You weren't going to let him ruin this for you.

However, the more you worked together, the more you managed to find a rhythm. The styling of the tree began to come naturally to the two of you. You both had Christmas traditions embedded in you from childhood. Ones that you were determined to do justice.

"Guys, where should this go?" James called at one point, while you were hanging another bauble onto the tree.

You turned around and almost screamed. In his hand was the ugliest Christmas decoration you'd ever seen. It looked like a disfigured version of Santa with red eyes and horns sticking out of it's head.

James smirked at you devilishly.

"What on earth is that supposed to be?"

"It's Krampus," James told you innocently. "I was thinking we could hang it by the front door!"

"No, absolutely not. Whatever he is, is going back in the box!"

"Come on, y/n! He's cute. We hang him every year!" Sirius teased, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Cute?? He's ghastly. I feel like he's going to put a curse on us or something!"

You looked between them, but they weren't budging. The evil Santa stared further into your soul.

Then you eyes drifted over to Remus who had been decidedly quiet during the discussion. You sent him a pleading look. Despite not being your biggest fan, Remus wanted the place to look nice, and you were sure that this demon creature didn't fit in with his theme.

He looked at you for a moment and then sighed.

"I agree with y/n." You smiled smuggly towards the other two boys. "I've always secretly hated that thing."

"Ugh, you guys are no fun!" James complained.

Sirius shrugged. "Sorry bud, it's three against one."

James raised a brow. "Hold on, weren't you just on my side with this?"

"I was but you know I have to side with Rem. He'll stop driving me to work if I don't."

James rolled his eyes dramatically as he turned to look at the Krampus statue. "I'm sorry my friend. Looks like you're going back in the box for now."

"I vote we burn it," you teased and James turned to you in mock offense.

"How dare you!"

You couldn't help but chuckle at the display and soon enough the boy's attention was back on the tree, Krampus hidden safely away in a cardboard box, where no one had to look at it.

As you went back to the tree, you found yourself next to Remus. A small smile graced your lips and you leaned towards him.

"Thanks for siding with me back there."

He shrugged.

"It wasn't a hard decision. That thing is horrible. I've wanted to be rid of it for years."

You chuckled. "Well, either way, thanks."

"Don't mention it," he gave you a small smile and you couldn't help the butterflies that burst inside your stomach. He had a very pretty smile, you noticed.

The next few hours consisted of lighthearted bickering and playful teasing as you threw together, what ended between the four of you, being a very chaotic, mismatched tree. James was a bit of a maniac when it came to tinsel and Sirius kept trying to hang mistletoe from the ceiling fan when you and Remus weren't looking.

Eventually you stepped back to take a look at your masterpiece. It was a mess of silver and red tinsel, with baubles and ornaments of all colours filling up almost every available branch.

It was wonderful.

"Now all that's left is the star," James stated, clearly very proud of the work you'd done.

"Would you like to do the honors, doll?" Sirius prompted, holding the gold object out towards you.

You took it from his hand gently, feeling a little flattered by the gesture.

"Um, I'd love to," you observed. "But I don't know that I can reach."

"Oh, no problem!" James exclaimed.

Before you realized what was happening, James had you by the waist. You squealed in surprise as he lifted you like it was nothing, and sat you on his broad shoulder.

You felt your cheeks flush at the smoothness of the action. You were not expecting that at all.

Quickly you leaned over, placing the star on top of the tree, slightly worried that James would start to find you heavy. However, he didn't even so much as grunt as he gently dropped you back onto the floor.

"My god, you're strong!" you blurted out when your feet were planted safely back on solid ground.

He barked out a laugh and adjusted his glasses. "Yeah, well being an athlete will do that."

You groaned placed your head in your hands, embarrassed beneath the James' playful gaze.

"Come on, love. You look like you could use an eggnog after all that," Sirius teased, placing a hand on your back and guiding you towards the kitchen. His touch only made your face grow hotter.

A little while later you found yourselves sprawled around the living room, a spiked eggnog in hand as the boys shared some embarrassing high-school stories (mostly involving Peter).

Remus had even chosen to stay and hang out, an unusual decision for the man who usually really valued his time alone. For a moment, you felt completely at piece with the boys around you. For the first time, you really felt at home.

"I'm going to grab us another drink!" Sirius announced, jumping up from his place on the couch and heading towards the kitchen.

Has he walked back, he wandered past the tree, admiring it once more as the glow from the twinkling Christmas lights emanated around the room.

"Hey guys? What's this ornament? I don't think I've seen it before."

He was gesturing to a crystal dragonfly that hung near the top of the tree.

"Oh, that's one of mine," you explained. "My Mum gave it to me before I left for university. Dragonflies symbolize luck and new beginnings. She wanted it to represent the start of a new chapter in my life."

"That's beautiful, y/n," James smiled, pulling you affectionately into his side.

"Well then," Sirius announced, sitting back down in his place and handing everyone their drinks. "I propose a toast."

He lifted his glass. "To new beginnings."

"To new beginnings!" James echoed, clinking his glass against Sirius'.

"To new beginnings," you repeated and as the boys all cheersed, your eyes drifted across the room to Remus, who sat in the loveseat.

Even though things still weren't perfect, you hoped that maybe there was a chance one day, of a new beginning for the two of you.

Taglist:

@hisparentsgallerryy @navs-bhat @shushbruv @magicwithaknife

@eeviee4 @notapoetjustscar @gugggu6gvai @robertsmithclone

@ilovesugurugeto69 @taytayy178 @its-notkiee @bugworldsworld

@switchingfandomslikecrazy @evangelquill

#marauders #james potter #james potter x reader #remus lupin x reader #sirius black x reader #remus lupin #sirius black #poly!marauders x reader #marauders au

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risuola · 1 year ago

Text

YOU CRYIN'? pt. 2 — F. READER x GOJO SATORU

So... it happened, you and your frenemy of ten years fucked and now, you have to deal with his shenanigans, idiotic pet-names and so. much. touching. The man took teasing you straight to his heart.

cw: smut, little to no plot, unprotected sex, Satoru being his usual teasing self, reader discretion is advised — 1,6k words

» PART ONE

"Fuck you, Gojo."

"Oh my, your mouth is so filthy," the man laughed quietly, squeezing your hip and pressing his hard, muscular body against your back under the guise of reaching for a can of soda that he could have easily grabbed without gluing his dick to your ass. His lips brushed against your ear as he added, "should I punish you for that?"

" Get lost," you snapped, pushing him away with your hips and he chuckled.

"I think I should," his grin widened. "You've been acting like such a brat lately. I wonder why would that be?"

God, how you hated him and his stupid smile. Ten years of knowing each other and still all you could think of when he opened his mouth was to break his damn nose. You thought he couldn't possibly get any more annoying than he already was, but he proved you wrong every time. It's been four months since the two of you had sex for the first time, and somehow that triggered another level of madness that you had to deal with while working with him. Endless supply of idiotic pet names, never-ending sexual innuendos, and so much touching now created the new veil around the usual bickering that has been going on for a decade.

"It's not me acting like a brat. It's you straight-up being an idiot," you scoffed, glancing around the crowded gymnasium at Jujutsu school. It was a special night; students and some teachers from Kyoto were visiting Tokyo, and the only reasonable thing to do was to throw a party to create bonds between the youths and just relax a little without the need for training and fighting. There was a little bit of that, as some of the students just communicate through their fists, but other than that it was almost an ordinary high school party, with dozens of ordered pizzas and fried chicken, snacks and sweets, plastic cups filled with various non-alcoholic drinks, and music blaring through the speakers. There was also a corner where teachers could sit and enjoy some chitchat, but most of the adults were responsible for keeping an eye on things. You were one of those supervisors, and so was Gojo, but of course, the idiot takes everything so lightly.

"So mean," Satoru chuckled again and took a sip of the melon soda straight from the can. "You know, there are other ways to get into my pants than acting up. You could just ask."

There he goes.

"Not everything is about you and your dick," you were that close to growling at him, but forced your composure back in line and your voice down. You wouldn’t want anyone to know about your little affair with him, or whatever the fuck that was. Yea, you fucked him... few times after the first one on his desk, but in your book few quickies wasn't enough to call it a romance. If anything, you felt like you were the teenager in this school, hiding in the various corners only to have some tension off, but damn, Satoru was good at releasing it. There was this thing where he bragged he was good at everything he did and you figured that sex was clearly one of those things.

"No, but since that thought is already in that pretty head of yours, shall we sneak out of here?" he purred, way too close to your ear and his large hand smoothed over the curve of your hip. You took a grip of his wrist, squeezing it with enough force to make him hum with a slight surprise that quickly switched back to his signature grin once you pulled him out of the hall and into the teacher's dormitory. Your door was first, and you unlocked it swiftly with a key, pulling him inside.

"Oh, so we're meeting at your place now?" he teased, but you shoved him against the nearest wall with no delicacy whatsoever.

"Shut up," you muttered, already working on the buttons of his light blue shirt.

"Eager, aren't we?" a chuckle rumbled inside his chest, but his hand betrayed that he wasn't so chill either, with how quickly he began to undress you.

And then, there you were again. Underneath him, in your own bed, leaving scratch marks across his back and shoulders as he's slammed his hips into yours, kissing every sweet and sensitive spot inside of you, burying his cock deep into the velvety heaven time after time. His mouth never parted from your skin, smearing hungry, wet kisses all over it, and you let your hand tangle in his hair as he sucked a spot onto your neck. A low, breathy moan escaped your throat as his movements became sharper, harder, driving you absolutely crazy with every push and pull of his hips.

"You're not gonna cry this time, are you?" he teased; his teeth nipping at the shell of your ear, but you couldn't care less about his taunting when he rolled his hips with such delicious finesse, reaching so deep inside you that your vision was filled with stars.

“Oh, shut up, Gojo,” you mumbled. Heat filled your entire system, every touch of his hands stinging with pleasure and lust, and the temperature rose rapidly as Satoru shattered his own composure.

The intimacy of your apartment unleashed even more wildness in him, he was less cautious about the surroundings, much more playful. All his attention was buried in you, he was vocal, moaning low and purring against your skin and lips. He gave into the surge of ecstasy that pulsed through his veins and the rhythm he set made him lose his mind as your pussy swallowed him whole. So lost in bliss, he didn't care about the bruises his grip on your hip will leave and the marks he sucked into your flesh. The subtle pain it caused only made your head reeling even more into the heated state of euphoria.

Satoru's hand fell between your bodies, quickly finding your clit and massaging circles into it, forcing a moan of his name from your throat. The sound was music to his ears, he wanted it on repeat. Your whole body tensed, pleasure began overtaking you and your orgasm was threatening to explode. You squeezed his bicep, clawing at the hard muscle and your breath stuttered. Gojo knew you were close, with the way your pussy throbbed around him, it was a clear cue and he picked up the pace, determined to bring you over the edge. Your trembling thighs and the desperate hold you had on his shoulders only added fuel to his fire and when your warmth exploded on his cock, leaving creamy white around the base as he pumped you through your orgasm, he felt himself close as well. His name slipped off your tongue like a prayer, whispered so beautifully.

"Look at you, such a good girl," he praised, licking your throat and chasing his own release with ferocity. The searing kisses he planted all over your chest and neck became sloppy and wet, and you felt the curve of his dick hitting your sensitive spots all over again as his thrusts became hurried, rough, and frantic. He collapsed onto his forearm, your plush walls squeezing him hard, and he moaned your name as the final string snapped, releasing the warmth of his load that slicked your insides, filling you so completely to the brim, and the sensation only untangled another knot of ecstasy in your stomach. Second orgasm washed over you, although weaker than the first one, but still overtaking your entire, hypersensitive mind and soul. It was too much, he was too much, too intense, overwhelming.

A satisfied smile stretched his lips, a light laugh escaped them as he rode the high out with slow and languid rolls of his hips. Satoru pulled away and then dropped onto the bed, barely making it to the spot next to you. He found himself lost in a haze of afterglow, but the excitement still surged through his veins. He was still hungry, unsatiated. All of this felt so good, it was almost frightening. And then you went again. And again, giving into the primal impulses and the intoxicating haze of desire and lust. The world outside your room faded into nothingness and only you two mattered. Nothing more than two bodies colliding, breaths intertwining and lips crashing onto one another.

As you lay down, facing each other, both sticky and messy in the aftermath of your adventure, you could feel the adrenaline wearing off, leaving your body sore and exhausted. His grasp remained at your waist, keeping you close to him. It was odd, it felt foreign and wrong to stay in the tender embrace of his arms, to share kisses so soft and intimate, and yet it felt right to be there with him. You let your fingers brush his cheek. Gojo in a state of post-bliss was a blessing to witness. His eyes heavy and hooded but still so blue and beautiful; his hair disheveled with some strands stuck to his forehead and his lips swollen and parted as he breathed slowly through them. His pale complexion still bearing the marks of flush, and there was none of his usual arrogant facade. Gorgeous.

"We're gonna get in so much trouble for leaving the party," you whispered against his lips, and he chuckled lightly. "That old Kyoto prick is gonna get pissed."

"He has no power over me," Satoru responded, stealing another kiss. All his focus was directed on your lips, you were the only thing on his mind right now.

"No one has power over you, Satoru," you smiled, biting his lower lip gently, and he could swear that his nervous system twitched in excitement at the way you spoke his name.

"You seem to have some," he admitted, giving you another peck and with a firm grip, he rose from the mattress with you in his grasp. "Shower. We're disgusting," he joked and you laughed, holding on tight as he made his way to your bathroom.

"Oh yeah, we are."

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mediumgayitalian · 9 months ago

Text

Will knows who it is at the first light brush on his shoulders.

He tips his head back back, bumping his boyfriend’s hip, leaning into the hand on his trapezius, his scapula, the base of his neck.

“Hi,” he says, grinning.

“Hi,” Nico says, leaning down to press his smile onto Will’s forehead. His hair tickles his cheeks, and he smells like woodsmoke and citrus, and Will slides his hand across his jaw and tugs him closer.

“Errand done?”

“Yep.”

“Lord Hades pleased?”

“As much as he ever is.” Nico shifts, kissing the corner of his mouth, the curve of his chin, the shape of his jaw. “My ears are ringing from five days of quiet. Even the echoing sound of lost souls cannot compete with your constant blabbing; I hardly knew what to do with myself.”

“Oh, shut up. You love my chatterin’.” He smacks the side of Nico’s head, but it’s hard to play mad when he’s smiling, shameless, wide enough that his teeth nick Will’s cheekbones, that his snickers are muffled into his skin.

“If I wanted to be stuck with someone who yaps nonstop I would’ve stayed down with Cerebus. In fact he might shed less, and he doesn’t drool when he sleeps.”

“…I do not shed.”

Nico plants both hands next to Will’s head, heaving himself up, and scans his camp shirt. Within three seconds, he locates a strand of hair, pinches it off, and flicks it at Will’s face.

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh, for the love of — get over here,” Will demands. Laughing, Nico goes where Will tugs him, curling up next to him on the bench. “You’re such a shit. Normal people are much kinder to the significant annoyances they leave behind for five days, you know.”

“Are they.”

Nico lifts his arm in offering and Will accepts with relish, tucking himself under it and making certain to drag his curls down Nico’s face in the process.

“Yep. In fact I was expecting hand-written letters by day two, honestly, telling me how much you missed me and how the distance was physically painful, et cetera, et cetera. Maybe a sonnet or two. Italian, preferably, Elizabethan are not my favourite.”

“You’re very picky.”

Will sniffs haughtily. “Well, I’m a catch. You have lots of competition, you know. I was fighting them off while you were away but now that you come back and insult me upon reunion, I shall reevaluate my options.”

He feels more than hears the quiet laughter Nico presses in his hair, thumb brushing his collar, dipping onto bare skin.

“Is that so.”

“Indeed. My suitors have even offered a dowry quite handsome. I’m worth twenty-seven goats, didn’t you know.”

“Oh, well then. I might as well return what I brought for you, since I’m not sure I can outshine two dozen goats.”

The cool thing about being a son of Apollo is that Will has range. His dad is the god of arts, generally, up to and especially the dramatic ones. Will knows how to school his face into the perfect mask, how to smile on command and cry as desired, how to deliver a line and bow with a flourish. Playing a part comes as naturally as breathing, as naturally as healing.

“A present?” he asks, checking his nails as if the mere thought bores him. “That’s interesting, I guess.”

Nico doesn’t even bother to indulge him.

“Here, you massive dweeb,” he snorts. He hands over a small paper box, hand-folded and thin. “I can practically feel you vibrating.”

There is only one thing in this world, quite possibly, that Will likes more than proving Nico wrong, and that is letting his boyfriend spoil him. In all honesty it’s a real challenge sometimes, because Nico is really very good at being everything Will has ever wanted even if he has wrong opinions on most movies. Truly Will’s life is a joke at which the gods must howl with laughter.

Eagerly taking the box, he holds it up to his face, carefully inspecting every corner. The paper is regular printer paper, slightly waterlogged (from the Big House printer, then, ‘cause Will was carrying a giant bag of saline in from storage when he was eleven years old and tripped on the shipment of office supplies that someone had left, for some reason, in the middle of the fucking hallway, and the bag had exploded on impact all over four boxes of printer paper holding one thousand pages each) and carefully bent into shape. He recognises Nico’s handiwork from the dozens of origami paper sculptures he’s been gifted over the past few months.

“Open it.”

“What is it?”

Nico rolls his eyes. “What did I just say.”

“No, I mean — it’s not my birthday or anything.”

“So?”

“So you’ve wrapped me up a present! I want to know why before I open it.”

“Just because,” Nico mumbles, pressing a kiss to his temples. “Not everything needs a reason, nosey.”

“If nothing had reason then we would still be premordial soup,” Will mutters, but pops open the lid anyway.

He gasps.

“Oh my gods, Nico, you —”

Nico’s smiling smugly, but Will barely notices. Inside the box is a black chain darker than shadow, so dark it doesn’t even glint in the heavy sun, and dozens of little charms, from polished obsidian to a ball of slowly flickering flame.

“You like?”

“It’s gorgeous!”

He makes a triumphant nose, pumping his fist, and says, “Fuck those suitors, I fucking win,” and the funniest part is that he’s damn serious. There’s a glint in his eye identical to when he wins a sword fight, to when Connor loses a bet to him, to when twenty-odd bets are stacked against him and he’s got a full house. Something dangerous and wild and superior and Will is not an enabler, okay, he is not, but he is only so strong and there is only so much he can do when pretty boys wrap their arms around him and smirk at him and bring him bracelets they made in the Underworld. He’d like to meet someone who wouldn’t fold, actually.

“There were no suitors, you loser,” he says, but he’s flushed, pleased smile stretched wide across his face, and Nico’s grinning that too-wide grin and tilting Will’s face closer with the edge of his thumb, like he barely had to try. And there’s always a little bit of shadow leeching off him when he comes back from a quest, an aura surrounding him like he’s squaring off to the sun, and of course the wild churning in Will’s stomach has nothing to do with that but what’s he to do, really? What is a warm-blooded person with eyes that can see to do when faced with such a look?

“Of course there aren’t. They know I would reap their actual souls.”

“Possessive, much.”

“You’re literally going red.”

“Shut up.”

And he does, but only because Will makes him.

Although judging by the hand he shoves in his hair, he doesn’t seem to mind.

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arc-misadventures · 4 months ago

Note

MFK Goodwitch: Qrow, Tai, And Rusted Knight Jaune.

Glynda: MFK II

Glynda: Miss Valkyrie... Why are you making me do this?

Nora: Because I can!

Glynda: Haaa... Must I?

Nora: Yes.

Glynda: Even if I let cut your three week detention for destroying the kitchen down to three days?

Nora: No.

Glynda: Haaa... Very well. Tell me who the poor fools of this game of MFK are...

Nora: Our contestants today are!

Nora: Qrow Branwen!

Qrow: Hey~!

Glynda: Oh gods...

Nora: Tai Yang Xiao Long!

Tai: Hi~!

Glynda: Mr. Xiao Long.

Nora: And, last but not least: The Rusted Knight, Jaune Arc!

Jaune: Hello, Ms. Goodwitch. It is nice to see you again.

Glynda: Oh~?

Nora: So, Ms. Goodwitch! Who will you marry, fuck, and kill~?

Glynda: ...

Glynda: First off; I'd kill, Qrow.

Qrow: What?!

Tai: Smart choice.

Qrow: What the hell man?!

Glynda: I'd say I would... sleep with, Tai... But...

Nora: But?

Tai: We were stuck in a game of spin the bottle when we were students at, Beacon. And, I spun the bottle on, Glynda, and kissed her!

Glynda: To which I promptly threw up after he did so.

Nora: What?!

Qrow: AH-hahahaha! I remember that! The second he pecked her lips, she threw up all over him! It was glorious!

Nora: Why did you do that?

Glynda: I never found, Tai to be sexually attractive like many of my fellow female students did. I did find him to be attractive, but I had not sexual interest in him at all. After we kissed though, I found him to be quite repulsive.

Nora: Why did that happen?

Glynda: I hold no grudge towards, Tai. I find him to be quite the charming individual to interact with. But, when it comes to sexual attraction, I find the man absolutely repulsive.

Tai: I understand what you mean, but still: Rude.

Nora: Why didn't you kill, Tai, instead of Qrow then?

Glynda: You have to sleep with, Cardin Winchester, but you get unlimited supply of pancakes, and syrup, would you do it?

Nora: No. Absolutely not. No way in fucking hell! I would rather die then so much as let that thing touch me!

Glynda: Now you understand.

Qrow: ...

Tai: Sorry man.

Qrow: I'm not sure it's me, or my semblance?

Glynda: Yes.

Qrow: Oh...

Tai: Ouch!

Glynda: Now, then... Hello, Daddy~!

Jaune: A-Are you talk to me...?

Glynda: Yes, you~!

Jaune: D-Does that mean you want to marry me...?

Glynda: Yes~!

Jaune: Oh... A.. Ahem... Okay then... Shall we... Shall we go then, My Lady~?

Glynda: My pleasure~!

Tai: ...

Qrow: ...

Nora: Now there goes a real man.

Qrow: What?! He literally did nothing?! He just stood there!

Nora: A real man.

Qrow: Oh come on!

#rwby #jaune arc #nora valkyrie #qrow branwen #tai yang xiao long #glynda goodwitch #jaune x glynda #glynda x jaune #rwby arcwitch

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whatsk-poppinhomies · 11 months ago

Text

Pairing : Dad!Han Jisung x F!Reader TW : reader is pregnant ; reader and soobin panic ; Jisung is pretty pissed off ; arguing ; Jisung groveling ; mentions of previous cheating ; manipulation ; it's still angst! Word Count : 2.5k Request : It was definitely asked for and you all shall receive even more angst!! A/N : I hope you all are enjoying these! Only 2 more angsty dads to go!!

There was no time to prepare, although you weren’t sure how you were supposed to prepare for something like this when you weren’t planning on it happening at all, or at least not in the near future. This surely wasn’t how you planned on Jisung finding out that you were pregnant though, You didn’t even plan on him finding out you were pregnant, you were going to tell him after you already had the kid and settled into parenthood yourself.

To say less, you were absolutely freaking out, and so was Soobin. “What are we supposed to do?” He asked, his eyes wide as he looked around at all of the baby necessities that filled the small dorm. “There’s nowhere to put all this stuff! Oh my god!” If you were in the right headspace, you’d be able to tell him to calm down. Sadly, you weren’t, and you were unable to calm yourself down.

You didn’t know how long it would take for Jisung to come over. You weren’t sure if he knew where their dorms were, but you were sure it would be easy for him to find out considering he was famous as well and he could say literally anything as a reason and people would be none the wiser as to what he was really up to. “Fuck, I don’t know Soobin! Maybe… Maybe I can keep him out in the hallway or something. It’s not like he has to come in… Right?” You were nodding along with your own words, hoping that Soobin would follow suit and nod along with you.

But, Jisung is quite unpredictable, and even if you wanted to stay out in the hallway the entire time, he’d find some reason to make his way into the dorm, and upon second thought, maybe it would just be easier to get the blowup over with first and hope that it dies out quickly.

///

A loud rap at the door had you and Soobin looking up, but neither of you moved from where you were sitting, contemplating whether the person at the door was Jisung at all or just some random delivery driver leaving another package of baby supplies. “I know you’re in there! Answer the door!” Jisungs voice made its way clearly through the wood of the door and gave you the answer to the question you had been asking yourself, although it wasn’t the answer you were hoping for.

It’s not like he would do anything, he’d most likely just cry while talking to you even after seeing everything, but for some reason both you and Soobin were hesitant to let him in. “Y-You open the door…” You whispered to Soobin, nudging him lightly off the couch as you curled up into yourself. It’s not that you were showing, not a lot really, but now with the eyes that you knew would soon be on you, you felt like you looked a whole lot more pregnant than you did a week ago.

There was no way to prepare yourself for the way that Jisung would be, mainly because you weren’t sure how he would be. Would he be sad or angry? Would he even notice all the items in the dorms or would he just run over to you and try to beg you to come back? Would he notice something different about you, something that not even you or Soobin or the rest of the guys could pick up on since they were always around you? These questions kept running and running through your mind until you heard the click of the lock and Jisung came running in.

“Y/N!” His voice came shrill and loud through the front hall, and in a blink he was standing right above you, looking down at you, but you kept your head lowered and your shirt pulled over your knees to try to make a tent over your stomach. “Look, I know that right now is… weird, it’s a weird time, and I know that what I did… I still regret it… I feel awful and…” He took a deep breath, and then there was silence. You didn’t want to look up, you didn’t want to meet his eyes, but a quick glance had you finally understanding the silence as you watched him look around the room. “What… What’s all that… What’s all this stuff for?”

“I don’t think that right now is a good time…” Soobin murmured, walking over to the couch and trying to put some space between you and Jisung. “She’s kind of tired and stress isn’t really good for her right now. She’s been dealing with a lot lately and… It’s kind of just… Like a respect thing. If you could just respect that… You know?” Soobin stammered, rambling on and on, trying his best to keep things calm, but you could tell that Jisung was getting agitated. The way his breaths picked up in pace, the way he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and almost aggressively shoved his twitching hands into his pockets, as if he was trying to keep himself from doing something that he would regret.

“This is stuff… Stuff for a baby… For a literal baby. That’s a whole fucking crib box right there!” He pointed to the discarded box in the corner of the room. “And there’s… There’s diapers and… Who’s kid is it?” He asked, quite sternly now as he pointed his focus back at you, but you didn’t answer. You were silent, much like you should have been when Jisung had called Soobin earlier. “Who’s kid is it? Did you even have it yet?” He continued questioning, and you could tell that Soobin was getting antsy, rocking back and forth, from one foot to the other as the tension only grew.

“I didn’t want to tell you…” You mumbled, wrapping your arms tighter around your legs to pull them closer to you. “It doesn’t even make a difference… You still fucked up, and it’s not like I’d ever take you back.” And for the first time since he’s been there, you looked up at him. His mouth was slightly agape as his eyes blinked rapidly, as if trying to process and understand what you meant. “It’s yours… But that doesn’t mean that I’m getting back with you… I’ll-”

“Mine?” He asked, as if looking for reassurance that what he had heard had been correct, and you nodded your head to affirm it. “So you’re telling me that… You’re pregnant… You must be really pregnant if you’re already buying stuff… And you didn’t even tell me!? What kind of shit is that?! I might have fucked up and cheated on you, but what you’re doing… That’s majorly fucked up! You’re trying to hide my kid from me?!”

“Hey!” Soobin shouted, finally stepping in once Jisungs voice had risen to a volume that was unacceptable to both him and you. “She didn’t even know until a week ago! Don’t come into my house yelling at her about it! I’ll kick you out! I’ll have you escorted out!” Soobin threatened, and it was strange to see him like that, he was usually so quiet, especially in comparison to the other guys in the dorm. He was quite protective over you, like a brother would be with their sister. He wasn’t going to just let Jisung yell at you without doing something about it.

“So you found out a week ago and what? You were just going to hide it from me? You could have told me when you found out but you didn’t. How far along are you, huh?! When were you planning on telling me?! That’s my kid! Fuck!” Jisung ran his hands through his hair, turning around to pace back and forth between the front door and the couch you were still sitting on, clearly pissed off and shocked from the sudden news.

“Telling you would have been the easiest fucking thing for me to do, Jisung!” You shouted back, on the verge of tears now. As if you weren’t going through enough, he just had to come here and make it worse. “I just found out that I’m 5 months pregnant, I have to figure out what the hell I’m going to do and where I’m going to stay and how I’m going to take care of the baby! The last thing I thought of was calling you and delivering the news because I still had to fucking come to terms with it!” You were breathless, your words, although meant to be shouted, sounded more like choked off sobs, and by the time you were done the attempt at yelling you were full on crying.

Jisung paused, and now both you and Soobin were glaring at him, although Soobins look was far angrier, while yours most likely looked a bit pathetic as the tears streamed down your face. “5?” Jisung whispered, clearly trying to do the calculations in his head. “How did you… How do you not know that you’re pregnant for 5 months?” His voice was so quiet, you weren’t sure whether he was asking himself the question or if it was meant for you. “Do you know what it is?” He finally spoke up, looking directly at you, although it was Soobin who answered.

“It’s a boy. She’s having a boy, and while what she said might worry you, her and the baby will be fine. They’ll be able to stay here until she gets back on her feet. Myself and the guys will help her in any way that we can, and she knows that.” Soobin finally dropped down on the couch, placing a hand over yours in an act of both comfort and support, but the gesture was looked at in a completely different way by Jisung.

“Oh?! So you’re just gonna let her stay here? That’s what you want me to believe?!” He was once again shouting, but there were obvious tears forming on his lashes as he stared between you and Soobin. “Like you haven’t taken enough from me?! You’ve taken my fiancee! I know that I messed up there, I know that I made the biggest mistake and I regret that, I’ll regret it until the day I die… But I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you take my son away from me too!”

Soobin looked completely shocked and you were absolutely mortified by the assumption that Jisung was making, and although he hadn’t verbally said it, you knew just what he was thinking. “Nobody is taking anything away from you, Jisung.” You said flatly, pulling your hand away from Soobins only to cross your arms over your chest. “I never said that I’d keep him from you. But you’re not going to go around making accusations that I’m with him-” You motioned to Soobin before continuing. “Just because you can’t have me back, and that’s one thing I’m dead set on. I will never go back with you.”

Jisung nodded his head slowly, as if trying to process what you had just told him, but you could see him struggling to fully grasp it. “So… our son has to grow up with separated parents? He has to spend his life wondering why his mother and his father aren’t together…? You really want him to question that? That’s not fair to him…”

If you were foolish, his words would have had you thinking, maybe even second guessing staying apart from him… But you knew better. You weren’t going to let him use your son to guilt trip you into taking him back. “No… It’s not fair to him… It’s not fair to either of us that you think that you get to go out and cheat and have all the fun you want and still come home to a perfect little life. So yes, he has to grow up with separated parents, and he has to grow up wondering why we’re not together… And you are to blame for that, and you can deal with the guilt and the burden of his questions when he’s old enough to ask them. It’s your fault, and you will deal with the consequences of it.” You finally got up off the couch, the loose shirt you were wearing slightly flared around your stomach that had become just big enough for Jisung to notice the change. “Now, I will do what I feel is the right thing to do, and I will notify you of doctors appointments, I will update you on how the baby is doing, and I will call you when I finally go into labor. After that, I will contact you only in regards to the baby and how he is and when you can see him. Other than that, I do not want to talk to you, I do not want to see you, I don’t want anything to do with you unless it’s regarding our son.”

“So that’s really how it’s going to be? You don’t even want to try? Not even for him?” Jisung took a step closer to you, his eyes practically glued to your stomach. “I haven’t even… I haven’t been with anyone. I’ve just been thinking about you… About us… And now with a baby on the way, we could have a family… We could be perfect. Just a chance, a second chance, that’s all I’m asking for… I won’t mess it up this time, I swear. I only want you… You’re all I’ve ever wanted, baby… You know that. I made a mistake and-”

“And I really think it’s time for you to leave.” Soobin jumped in, noticing the way your body was tense and your breaths had become more rapid, although he wasn’t sure if it was because you were upset or if you were just becoming more and more pissed with every word that Jisung was saying. “Thank you so much for the unannounced visit and the unnecessary added stress. It’s been nice seeing you and I’m sure it won’t be the last time, but Y/N needs some rest now.” Soobin ushered Jisung to the door, his hand pressed against his back to try to push him out.

“Just think about it!” Jisung shouted as he was led out into the hall. “I don’t want you to do this by yourself! He should have his real father around! Think about what I said, baby! I love you! I love you so fucking much!” He was still shouting to you as the door was shut in his face and quickly locked. It was only when things had finally grown silent that Soobin walked over to you, his arm wrapped around your shoulder to try to comfort you, and you quickly melted into his warmth, crying silently against his chest.

“What did I do? I didn’t want this… I just… I had to tell him… right? It was the right thing to do… Wasn’t it?” You whimpered, looking up at Soobin with tear filled eyes, and he quickly wiped away the stray tears that fell down your cheeks.

“You did the right thing… It was… But you won’t have to deal with him by yourself. You know that myself and the guys would never make you do that. We’re here for you… Always…” Soobin murmured, gently pulling you against his chest once more, his chin resting atop your head. “Things are going to be fine… I promise.”

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thaleleah · 5 months ago

Text

𝓖𝓸𝓭𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓼 (𝓟𝓪𝓻𝓽 𝓣𝔀𝓸)

Pairing: Billy The Kid x Fem!Nun!Reader

Warnings: ***NON-CON***, Dub-Con, Dark!Billy, Virgin!Reader, Oral (female receiving), Fingering, P in V, Corruption Kink, Creampie, Possessive Behavior, Masturbation, Wet Dreams/Sex Dreams, Seduction, Emotional Manipulation, Religion and Religious Beliefs, Explicit talk of gunshot wounds, blood, and the bullet's removal, Mention of physical abuse/child abuse (not from Billy), Childhood Trauma, Mention of alcoholism, Moral/Religious conflict within one's self, My bad Spanish, Nun breaking her vows, Probably too quick of a healing process to be fucking someone but I'm not a doctor so 🤷🏻‍♀️, Using the word "drawers" instead of "panties" which is kinda cringe to me but I wanted to be somewhat accurate

Word Count: 9.5K

A/N: So sorry this took so long! 🥺 But I hope you guys like it and I'm hopeful that the next part won't take nearly as long to get out.

Summary: When Billy stumbles into your clinic, hurt and in desperate need of care and refuge, you don't hesitate to help him. Perhaps this is God's will. Perhaps He has brought him into your life to help heal the parts of him that the cruelness of the world has soiled and broken. You are a healer by trade, both of the physical body and of faith. If this is to be God's mission for you, then it shall be done. How could you have possibly known that the young man who begged for help that fateful night would turn out to be the devil himself?

<<< Previous | Next >>>

The ride to Joe’s cabin only takes a few hours, and the sun is high in the sky by the time Sam helps you down from your seat. You hastily make your way to the front door, opening the latch and pushing it open, keeping it propped with a heavy rock laid by the door while Sam opens the back of the wagon. The journey inside is a bit more difficult this time. Billy gasps in pain when you stumble on the front stairs, tripping over your tunic and jerking his body down accidentally as a result. He’s breathing harshly when you and Sam are able to lay him down on your brother’s bed and you once again find yourself whispering apology after apology as you lift his shirt and the bandage to check on his wound.

Thankfully, there’s no tears or rips. You were only able to bring a little bit of the suture material and enough extra bandages in your bag to get you by. The clinic has limited materials as it is, so you only packed what you thought the clinic could spare. It’s enough to completely redo his stitches if necessary, but you’re hoping it won’t ever come to that.

Billy’s safe here now, he will not be leaving the bed until he’s well enough to start moving around on his own.

His hand comes down to rest on top of your own, pushing your hand down and forcing you to recover the stitches with the bandage as his fingers curl around your palm.

“Hey,” He says softly, calling your eyes to his tired ones. “I'm okay.”

His hand is gentle on yours, thumb lazily sweeping back and forth across the back of it. You pull it away, smoothing your tunic down again just for something else to do with your hands.

You didn’t even notice when Sam left the room, too preoccupied with checking on Billy’s wound, but your head turns at the sound of his boots on the steps of the porch. He steps back into the cabin, a crate held in his hands filled with food and other supplies and you let out a grateful sigh at the sight of it.

“Thank you, Sam,” You say, watching as he deposits the crate just on the side of the doorway. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you helping us. You’re a good man,”

Sam smiles shyly at your words of praise, and out of the corner of your eye you notice how Billy’s head snaps towards him.

“Of course, Sister y/n. Anything for you and the other Sisters,”

“Are you sure this is alright? You don’t need it for your delivery?”

“No,” He says with a shake of his head. “I packed it for you to have,”

You cup Sam’s cheek in thanks and shoot another glance towards Billy just to make sure he’s okay. His face is turned to the side again, pressing against the pillow for comfort, but you can see how his eyes are still on you, following your every move as you follow Sam out of the cabin.

Poor Billy, he must still be so nervous. So on edge about being hunted like he's nothing more than a rabid animal needing to be put down. Hopefully now that he's safe and out of harm's way, he can find some peace.

You walk Sam out, watching as he checks the horses and settles himself on the seat.

“I’ll come back in two weeks,” He promises. “That should be enough time for the search for him to wind down. Can't let people get suspicious. I have another delivery to do 'round then. I'll bring you some extra food and supplies.”

You wave as he nudges the wagon into motion and wait until he’s completely out of view over the hill before heading back inside and closing the door behind you.

Billy’s still watching you as you move about the main living area. Your brother’s bed has a direct line of eyesight into the front area, so Billy doesn’t even have to move to be able to watch you as you settle your bag and extra blankets onto the floor. You’ve told Joe before about how dangerous you think it is to have his bed in clear sight of the entrance, but he’s told you many times that he doesn’t like being told what to do.

“Besides, you know what it was like,” You remember him telling you. “Sleeping soundly in that house was never an option. And that feeling never goes away. If someone ever tries to break in here and attack me, I’ll already be awake and ready with my gun pointed at them before they even make it through the front door.”

As much as it pained you to hear, you know the truth of it. You’ve gotten better, you think. Whereas when you were younger, you would wake from the slightest noise, terrified of what might come after it. But now you find you can sleep through the night with very little problems. It’s not perfect - some nights are harder than others, but you credit God and the wonderful family you’ve found at the convent. They gave you rest, taught you to give your fears to the Lord so that he may take the burden they bear from you. They gave you peace in the world when you had none, and for that you will be eternally grateful.

Joe has not been so lucky, choosing instead to lock himself away in solitude rather than give his grievances up for absolvement. You pray for him every day despite his reluctance, asking God for guidance on his behalf.

The entire cabin is almost bare, sparse furniture just enough to be convenient. Despite your prayers, you know the ghost of the past still hovers over your brother's shoulder and even still, you wonder how he can stand to call this place a home with how unloved it feels.

“How do you know Sam?” Billy asks, and the cabin is small enough that his voice carries from room to room.

“He and his father run one of the markets in town,” You reply. You make your way into the bedroom, pulling the now rumpled blankets from under Billy's body and adjusting them so they lay over him neatly. “They’re our suppliers.”

“You seem very close,” Billy says, absently running his fingers over the edge of the blanket.

“Oh, well, he’s a dear friend,”

“You sure you can trust him?”

You nod, a small twinge offended at the implication of Sam being untrustworthy. After what he just risked to get you both here and Billy still doubts him? You stomp the feeling down just as quick as it flares. “Sam is incredibly loyal. He would never betray us,”

Billy’s mouth turns up in an unpleasant curl. “I think he likes you,”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “I should hope so. Otherwise, he is a very good actor,”

He huffs a small laugh at your attempt at a joke, but it doesn’t really sound joyful. “Not like that,”

It takes a second for your brain to register his vague words, but when they do your mouth falls open in shock at the bold statement. “No. No, no. Certainly not. Not me anyway,”

Oops. Perhaps you’ve said too much.

Now it’s Billy’s brows that furrow and he stares at you, hard, as if trying to read your mind about what you’ve meant. They shoot up as it clicks for him, a smirk pulling at his lips at the realization. “Him and one of the other nuns?”

“No!” You gasp. “Absolutely not. Sam just– bless his heart. He… has romantic feelings for one of the Sisters.”

“She doesn’t feel the same?”

Not exactly. Sam and Sister Ann have a connection that anyone with eyes can’t deny. They help complete each other and help each other grow in ways that one can only hope to experience in this life. Sister Ann has even confided in you that, while she doesn’t regret joining the church, she can’t help but think that if she had met Sam sooner then she would have said her vows to him instead of straight to God.

“It’s not that simple,” You settle with. “She’s a woman of faith and she’s spoken for by the church. They can’t be together regardless of what she may feel. Sam understands.”

Billy hums, a low and displeased sound. “Hm. Poor Sam,”

You’re not quite sure how to respond to that, so you don’t. Billy’s still frowning, so you tell him he should rest some more while you go fix up some lunch for you both. You’re happy to find that the simple stew made from some deer meat your brother had stored before his current trip is enough to cut the sudden unexpected tension and return him to good spirits.

Things are calmer now that you’ve arrived at the cabin. There’s very little risk of unwanted visitors and your brother’s last letter puts him deep in Texas and considering venturing upwards, so you're confident that he won’t be coming home anytime soon.

You’ve heard stories about Billy the Kid. Your patients like to talk, surprisingly gossipy considering most should be too sick or too involved with their pain to speak. But they push through their uncomfortableness to tell you stories of the young outlaw whose face is on the Most Wanted posters in at least three separate counties.

“He’s a ruthless killer.”

“A no-good murderer.”

“A good person who’s just had back luck.”

“A kindly fellow. He helped scare off some kids who were robbin’ me!”

And as you talk to Billy more and more, you can’t help but agree with the last two opinions. Billy is a sweetheart - respectful and kind like any man should be towards any woman despite her role in society. He listens with rapt attention as you tell him stories of your travels as you clean and re-bandage his wound. He nods when you tell him about the difference between the Utah territory and the Montana territory, and laughs when you tell him about your very memorable trip to Mexico where you climbed off the wagon and didn’t even take one step before face planting in a pile of mud. His grin is almost blinding when you tell him about the day you and your brother reunited after two years apart.

“Your brother’s name is Joe?” He asks.

“Mhm,” You confirm, leaning back into the chair you’ve placed next to the bed.

“My brother’s name was Joe, too,”

“Oh,” You smile despite the twinge in your heart. The word ‘was’ is almost devastating to hear. “It’s a good name. A strong name.”

Billy nods and his voice is barely above a whisper as he responds, “Yeah, it is,” and you think you can physically see the light die in his eyes as he thinks about it, the look of happiness he had just a second ago completely snuffed out by past memories.

You don’t want to pry, it’s not your place. But then he glances at you with those big blue eyes of his and all you see is hurt. God has put you on this Earth to be a healer, and you think that turning away now would be doing both Him and the broken man in front of you a disservice.

“Was he older or younger?” You ask, softly. “Your brother,”

“Younger,” he responds, and your heart breaks more at the rueful smile he sends you. “He died. Consumption. My mother too.”

Oh. “I’m so sorry to hear that, Billy. I can only imagine how hard that must have been,”

He doesn’t say anything. He’s not even looking at you now, just staring off into the distance as if somewhere else.

You lean forward, placing a careful hand on his arm. “Tell me about them?”

This time, the smile is real.

You learn over the next few days that Billy’s faith is in even worse shape than you feared.

For most, the presence of God is never fully gone from their hearts. Most who you’ve talked to who are rocky with their faith feel abandoned, cast aside as if The Heavenly Father were to play favorites and they’ve somehow found themselves on the losing side of the ‘sibling’ competition. Others feel betrayed by Him - those who have suffered great loss or tragedy and can’t understand how someone who’s entire being is made up in the light of faith and love can allow such heartbreak and suffering to happen to His children.

You do your best to soothe their heavy hearts. You tell them that God works in mysterious ways and that each and every person has their own trials and lessons in life that they must learn and overcome.

“Everything happens for a reason,” You say. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. But He is always by our side, speaking to us. All we have to do is listen.”

Words are not as powerful as feelings or actions, but you’re always grateful whenever your words are able to help heal any of their woes, even if just a little bit.

Billy, however… you are horrified to see that his faith is gone completely.

He talks about how he came to New Mexico and all he’s seen on the way. His start in New York City and the promise of a better life in Kansas. The lies and tragedy they were met with there. The death of his father.

“I think my Pa knew there was no one up there lookin’ out for us even back then,” Billy says, and it takes everything you have in you to stay silent at the horrific statement. “That’s why he just… gave up.”

For all that you disagree with, you can understand why Billy feels the way he does. He truly has had no one in his corner - devastating hardship after devastating hardship throughout the entirety of his life and he’s had to fight tooth and nail, carving a place out in the world for himself by force, just to get a bit of peace that should have been readily given to him.

“Tell me, Sister. When you’re by yourself in the world, young and alone and starvin’, not a penny to your name and no work for you in the entire county, what else are you supposed to do?”

The tears welling in your eyes match the ones threatening to spring from his.

“Exactly what you did,” You whisper back.

A single tear escapes one red rimmed eye, running down the curve of his cheek. “Is that what your god does? Leave children to steal or starve and then let them be arrested and made into a criminal when they choose not to just roll over and die?”

The lump in your throat refuses to go down. “We can’t know what the Lord’s plan is for us. It’s a mystery meant for us to unravel,” Your words are true, but they feel bitter on your tongue. “No matter how hard it might be.”

Billy’s eyes soften at your words, thick lashes clumping together with unshed tears, and when he speaks again, his voice is full of emotion.

“You remind me of my Ma,”

He’s told you about his Ma. A kindly, religious minded woman whose devotion to God and her ‘rotten, cheatin’, stealin’ ass husband’ was her downfall.

“‘I won’t leave him’ she said.” Billy had huffed, hands squeezing into fists as they wrapped tightly around the blanket. “‘I said my vows before God and the Catholic church’. What am I supposed to say to that?”

You can see how it eats at him - still after all these years since his mother’s passing and the guilt of not being able to save her, to protect her from anything and everything trying to harm her, it gnaws away at his heart. You think she might have been his best friend.

“Yeah, you remind me of my Ma,” He repeats, voice soft and low, and you wonder if this is the voice that he used to use when talking to her. “She was optimistic too. A dreamer, always tryin’ to see the best in people when all they do is show you their worst.”

“She sounds like a lovely lady,” You say. It’s genuine - you think it would have been an honor to meet the woman that Billy called a mother had you ever gotten the chance.

The woman who was strong for her family when it felt like the entire world was crumbling down around them. The woman who pushed for progress and courage when they uprooted their entire lives in hopes of finding something better elsewhere and held it together for the sake of her children when their father passed. The woman who sacrificed staying in an unfaithful and unhappy marriage for the sake of her kids and loyalty to God’s will.

“The vows we make are meant to be for eternity, Billy,” You had told him. “They are not to be broken easily or without consequence. If they were, there would be no point in making them and they would lose their significance.”

Your own mother knew that too. Despite how much you wanted her to leave him when you were younger - run away just you, Mama, and Joe - she never did.

“My father wasn’t a very nice man either,” You say, eventually. “Like your stepdad. He was cruel. He would hit her, and Joe…” The me remains unspoken, but understood anyway.

Billy remains silent, but his eyes are on you, listening with full attention to whatever you’re about to tell him. The idea that maybe God has sent Billy into your life to help heal some unresolved part of you, too, isn’t lost on you.

“I know that we are all God’s children,” You say. “And I know that there is good in all people. But sometimes… I think the Devil’s hold is much too strong on some. Because I can’t remember even one ounce of goodness in my father.”

“Is your mother still with him?”

“No. She’s dead.”

The days go by with an unexpected ease that you're grateful for.

You talk, and talk, and talk - and honestly, that's about as much as you can do. Your brother has nothing. No forms of entertainment and no distractions that wouldn't be considered laborious and harmful for Billy's recovery.

You like to talk though. Like to get to know people and have other's get to know you in return. Each person is unique - an extension of God and an example of His love for us personified.

It's even better when the energetic connection is instant, two souls recognizing each other and relating to each other in a way that you think all of God's children should be able to. Talking with Billy is easy, and despite the differences in religious views, you find that conversation between the both of you flows like water. And when that water sometimes finds itself hitting the shore of land, you find that Sam has come through for you once again.

Sam, bless his soul, has had the forethought to pack a chess board and a pack of playing cards in his care package, and you find that they become quite handy when the rare silence between conversations becomes too stretched.

Despite the initial stress and your reasoning for being here, it's nice.

Five days into the stay at your brother’s place finds you relieved to see that Billy’s wound is still making progress with its healing. You were a little concerned that the threat of being caught and the additional stress on the stitches from the abrupt movements of being transferred to the cabin could have brought about an infection, but the area around the injury still looks clean.

You make sure to send up a quick prayer of thanks for the Good Lord’s grace.

While Billy’s wound is healing nicely, your back, on the other hand, is in significant pain.

Joe’s place is built for one, so the single bed in the only bedroom is more than enough to house him when he’s home. For two, however - it’s a little problematic.

Billy gets the bed, that’s a given. He’s injured, and people need to be comfortable with lots of rest so that they can heal properly. You’re no stranger to uncomfortable sleeping spaces anyway. You’ve spent more than your share of nights on the floor of dusty inns during your travels and, to be completely honest, it's not like the beds at the convent were much better. It’s moments like this where it reminds you of how many things humans take for granted in their day-to-day lives. Sometimes it takes losing something for someone to appreciate it.

Despite the uncomfortableness, sleeping on the floor has never really bothered you much. It’s been a few years since you’ve had to do it though. Even on the round-the-clock shifts at the clinic there’s at least been a cot available to you, but here there’s only the hard wooden floor and the single blanket you’ve allowed yourself to claim.

And, perhaps you aren’t as young as you used to be, because the shooting pain in your back as you carefully roll to your side has you gasping.

Billy must hear the noise because you can hear the slight ruffle of bedding as he shifts, his voice calling out a concerned, “Sister, you alright?”

“Fine,” You call back through gritted teeth. Every movement feels like torture as you brace your hands on the floor to help push you up. You can do it, you tell yourself. You can do it. God willing… “Just- ah! Just trying to– get up.”

The rustling of the bedding sounds more deliberate now and you’re shouting from your place on the floor before you can think about what you’re doing. “Don’t you dare get out of that bed, William Bonney! Or so help me,”

The rustling stops, and you steel yourself to try to push up and off the floor. It feels like a miracle when you’re on your feet. Your garments are wrinkled and slightly dusted, but that’s to be expected out here. It’s the bare space on the floor that gives you pause. How are you meant to sleep on the floor again tonight with the way you feel right now? The thought seems almost unbearable. Perhaps Billy will spare one of his extra blankets - the slight extra cushion could be all you need.

At least that’s what you’re telling yourself.

A few steps takes you into the bedroom and your suspicions are confirmed when you see Billy sitting up in the bed, blankets pooling down at his waist as his arms prop himself up, his right leg is just swung over the edge of the bed at the knee in a perfect indication of his intention of getting up.

Ignoring the pain in your back, you walk forward, clicking your tongue in disapproval as you push him back down flat with a firm hand to his forehead. He goes back willingly, moving his leg back in place when you tap on his knee.

“You could have pulled your stitches trying to get up like that,” You reprimand.

“‘So help you’ what?” He responds.

“What?”

“You said ‘or so help me’. So, ‘or so help me’ what?” Billy says with a small playful smirk on his face.

“God,” You respond with a smile of your own. “So help me God. So that maybe He can send me some holy restraints to tie you to this bed to keep you from ripping your stitches and worsening your injury that I worked so hard on healing.”

Billy’s smirk widens. “Careful now, Sister. Some people like that kinda thing,”

You can feel the heat flood your face from his implication, eyes widening as your mouth parts in shock.

You don’t know how to respond - you’ve never been in this type of situation before. For men and all their faults, you’ve been lucky to find that most of them, even the criminals and frequent brothel visitors have mostly been respectful of your title. Inappropriate comments and jokes have rarely been said in your presence since becoming a nun, and on the rare occasion they have you’ve never been shocked since the offenders are always obvious the second they open their mouths.

But somehow it strikes you speechless to hear the sexual meaning coming from Billy’s lips.

“Oh, is that too much for the Angel’s ears?” He laughs. “M’sorry.”

You force a quiet laugh, working your lips into a small smile as you try to battle through the uncomfortableness. He’s just joking. He doesn’t mean anything by it. Men will be men for as sexually driven as they are, and some are just more outspoken about it than others. Billy’s been on his own since he was a young teen, running around with that band of outlaws who you’re sure are far worse than he is. You’ve had the displeasure of meeting Jesse Evans before. And you certainly weren’t shocked when the rude words fell from his mouth about how he imagined how good you would look without all that ‘modesty bullshit you have on’.

Billy isn’t Jesse though, so you just lightly smack his shoulder with the back of your hand as you let out a half teasing but mostly serious, “You watch your language around me, sir. I’m a lady,”

“Yes, ma’am,” He grins. “Yes, you are.”

You hum out a small sound of disapproval as you bend forward slightly to try and adjust the blankets that have twisted around his waist during his premature attempt to stand, but you're stopped when the sharp pain consequence of sleeping on the floor shoots up your spine. Billy starts at your loud gasp, hand darting out to grab your arm as if he could catch you if you suddenly dropped to the ground. Your hands press against your back in agony and they stay there as you slowly limp to the chair next to the bed.

Billy watches as you gingerly lower yourself into the seat. The pain doesn’t go away now that you’re sitting down, but at least you don’t have to move for a while. “What happened?”

“Sleeping on the floor hasn’t been very kind to me,” You respond through gritted teeth.

“You should sleep in the bed then,”

“No,” You say, shaking your head, appalled at the thought of kicking Billy out of the bed while he’s still healing. “You’re injured. You get the bed.”

The eyebrow raise you get in response tells you that you misunderstood his meaning. “I think we can both share the bed,”

“No,” You say, again. “No, no. It’s not proper.”

“Sister y/n–”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve dealt with harder things than just sleeping on the floor. A little back pain isn’t going to keep me down,”

Billy looks like he doesn’t believe you, but he keeps quiet on the matter anyway.

He distracts you instead by keeping you talking. He asks about why you decided to join the convent and take your vows. You tell him about your brother and how he couldn’t bear to be around your drunk of a father anymore, and how you harbored such anger at him for what felt like an eternity but was only actually a year and a half because you felt betrayed by him. Deserted and left to fend for yourself by your own brother. How you walked around your house praying to never be seen, acting like a ghost in your own home in hopes of keeping away any avoidable conflict. How your mother did her best to shelter you from it all, and you can tell by the way Billy’s brows furrow and his lips pinch together that he wants to say something harsh in response, but he stays silent. You can only imagine what he would say.

“Shelterin’ you would’ve been takin’ you far away from him, not forcin’ you to stay in a dangerous place just because she thinks it's what God wants. If that’s what God really wants, then maybe he’s the evil one, hm?”

You’re thankful he doesn’t actually say it. You’re not sure if you would have the right words to try to defend otherwise.

“Turning to God was the best thing I’ve ever done,” You say instead. “In Him I’ve found peace like I’ve never known before. I found a family and a purpose in life. That’s more than I could ever ask for.”

“That should be the bare minimum,”

Turns out it doesn’t matter what he decided to say because you don’t really have the right words to defend against that statement either.

“You deserve to have someone lookin’ out for you,” Billy says, and his stare is so earnest and intense that you can’t bare to look him in the eyes anymore.

“I’m… I’m going to go make breakfast,”

He watches you push yourself up from the chair, wincing as your back protests the movement, but doesn’t move to stop you.

You use the time you’re cooking to gather yourself. Prayers of apology fall from your lips to God as you beg for forgiveness at being caught unable to hear His wisdom during your conversation with Billy. Billy spoke his truth, no matter how wrong it was, and his words made you falter - unable to uphold Him and His grace in the face of judgment. This is your mission, your test.

And you’re failing.

Sister Catherine wouldn’t have hesitated. She would have known exactly how to respond to his disbelief. She has a level head on her shoulders, the words of God falling from her lips like water. Perhaps she would have been better suited to handle this task.

No. That’s the work of the devil - the fear and self-doubt you feel. Meant to slow you down and keep you from fulfilling your cause and spiritual duties.

Steeling yourself, you pile spoonfuls of the now thickened oatmeal into two bowls, topping them with a generous drizzle of honey before picking them up and taking a deep breath. You try your best to ignore the pain still throbbing in your back as you head back to the bedroom, pausing just outside the door and letting the heat front the bowls sink into your hands as you talk yourself up.

Have faith in His Holiness, y/n. He will guide you.

When Billy’s eyes catch on you as you walk through the doorway, his face is soft and friendly - none of the overwhelming intensity or barely contained anger that was there before.

“That smells great,” He says, taking the bowl from your outstretched hand. His bright blue eyes follow your movement as you sink slowly back into the chair next to the bed, resting your own bowl on your lap.

He smiles, clearly trying to calm your unease that you’re sure is still evident on your face and takes a large bite of oatmeal.

“Hmm,” He hums, closing his eyes briefly at the taste. “This is delicious. Best meal I’ve ever had. Cooked by an angel, I can tell.”

“Thank you,” You reply, and you can feel the involuntary pull of a smile on your lips at the praise.

He’s a good man, too. You can tell.

The floor isn’t any softer as night rolls around.

You try to sleep on your stomach, one arm propped underneath your head and the blanket balled on top of it so you have something soft to rest your cheek on. The other arm twists down at your side, a position that probably doesn’t seem very pleasant but that’s been your go-to comfort position since you were a young girl. It helps alleviate the tightness in your back for a little bit, but the ache is still there - laying in wait until you fall asleep and your body automatically rolls into the more reasonable position for floor sleeping.

You don’t sleep, or at least you don’t think you do. It doesn’t feel like you do. Your mini dozes just feel like blinks, those moments where you close your eyes, just for a second, before you’re opening them again in the next moment only to realize how much time has actually gone by. You’re not sure if it's minutes or hours, but more often than not you’re blinking only to find that you’re mid roll in adjusting positions and the pain in your back is too intense for your sleeping brain to handle. At one point, you manage to roll completely over before you wake up - the blink of closing your eyes while on your stomach, darkness encompassing the entirety of the main room, and then suddenly your eyes are opening again with the ceiling as your viewpoint, the beginnings of the sun shining in through the window, and the unbelievable agony ever present in your spine.

You’re so preoccupied with the pain that you almost don’t notice Billy standing in the doorway of the bedroom. His eyes are set on your tensed frame, dark brows furrowed in concern as he takes a cautious step towards you.

“Sister y/n,” He says, carefully.

“W-what are you doing o-out of bed?” You ask through gritted teeth. Oh gosh, this hurts so much. You feel like you can’t move, like your entire body is stiff as a board and one wrong move will snap the wood across the grain where it’s the weakest and break it in half. You can’t even bear the thought of rolling over to try to get up.

Billy ignores your question, crouching down beside you with one knee pressing into the floor for stability. His hand caresses the wound on his side, and even through your pain you don’t miss the slight wince he gives even as his eyes rake over you with worry.

“Are you okay?” He asks. The hand that was just pressed to his side comes to cup your cheek.

You’re not sure why you’re noticing how large his hand is right now in this moment as it presses against your skin, his long fingers curling to press gently into the fabric of your veil just behind your ear. You should be chastising him, scolding him for getting out of the bed and possibly injuring himself further. He winced, you saw it. He’s in pain. But all you can focus on right now is the comfort his warm hand brings with your nerves this fried and body this agonized.

“It hurts,” You whimper.

“I know, Angel. I know.” His voice is soft and soothing, the low tone caressing your eardrums.

The sight of his eyes watering cuts through the pain for a moment, and you wonder if that’s really truly what you’re seeing or if maybe it’s your own tear filled eyes playing tricks on you. Your hand reaches up, intent on caressing his own cheek and swiping your thumb under his eye to see if it's actually wet, but he catches your hand in his and brings the back of your hand to his lips.

“You’ve done so much for me already,” He murmurs, lips brushing against the back of your hand. “Let me help you now, okay?”

Billy’s arms fit themselves under your body, one arm creeping underneath your tensed back while the other loops beneath your knees. Your hand clutches desperately at his shirt, fisting the material in between your fingers, as he lifts you from the floor. Your agonized gasp mixes with his own grunt of pain as he stands up with you held securely in his arms and pressed against his chest.

“Your stitches,” You try to say, but he just shushes you.

“Shh. Don’t worry about me. M’fine,”

He carries you to the bed, carefully placing you down on the mattress. The softness of it under your back doesn’t do much to alleviate the pain, but the anxious part of you is hopeful that it will the longer you lay on it. But then Billy walks around the other side, the bed dipping down under his weight as he settles down on it, and you’re instantly filled with shame.

You shouldn’t be in bed with a man. Ever. You gave up that possibility when you took your vows, promising that it's only His spirit that would ever get to be around an area as intimate and personal as your bed.

“I can’t,” You say, trying in vain to push yourself up, but the sharp pain you receive for your efforts makes you freeze. “Ah! It’s not– not proper.”

“Y/n, please,” He says, hand coming down to press lightly on your shoulder to keep you down. “Just for today.”

You almost miss it - the absence of the title when he says your name. And that’s inappropriate too. Not only are you alone with a man, in the same bed together, but he’s dropped the earned title to show your life’s calling entirely. You want to reprimand him immediately. Jump out of the bed and wiggle your finger in his face just to make him understand how wrong this is.

But his eyes are filled with worry, silently begging you to just lay there for a while, just until you feel better and the words die in your throat.

He’s a good man. He doesn’t mean any harm by it. It was just a mistake, the title lost among the honest worry you can see reflected in his eyes.

“You can’t take care of me if you can’t even walk,”

Your eyes close, a resigned sigh escaping your lips as you reluctantly press deeper into the soft sheets. He’s right. You need to recover so you can continue to aid in his recovery. You can’t do your job if you're bedridden.

“Just for today,” You settle.

Just for today.

That was your intention anyway. Just stay in the bed, enjoying the small pleasure of the soft mattress against your back, and wait for the pain to dissipate enough for you to be able to resume your nightly rests on the floor in the main room. You didn’t even want to stay in the bed all day. It was a hopeful thought, that you would feel better in just an hour's time, maybe two or three at the most, and then you would feel better enough to be able to get up and return to your duties as normal. But you realize now that the honest hope for that was just willful ignorance on your part.

You work in a clinic and you’ve dealt with your fair share of back injury patients during your lifetime. You know it’s not something easily overcome or relieved in a matter of hours - sometimes even days or weeks.

God can perform miracles and you see the blessings He puts in your path each and every day. This, unfortunately, is not one of His miracles.

The hours blend together - one turning into two, and then two into four, until you can’t take the stillness anymore.

You force it a few times, pushing through the pain and slower than ever making it up and off the bed as you try to go about your day like normal. Being on the bed makes it so much easier to roll off than trying to push yourself up from the floor without the help of gravity. Your back protests as you roll off the edge, Billy echoing its protests with actual words instead of shocks of pain as he tries to urge you back down, but you grit your teeth and slap his hand away.

There’s a small amount of guilt creeping up from how hard you smack his hand, but it's still buried so deep under the agony and the overwhelming frustration of feeling useless that you can’t even stand to give it a second thought.

Billy watches you as you slowly make your way around the room. It’s not too bad to walk as long as you don’t bend or twist your upper body at all, but it's all becoming much too obvious now how much one takes their movements for granted until they’re face to face with their sudden inability to make even the slightest normal movement.

The empty bedpan sits on its own short stool in the corner of the room, next to the usual chamberpot. It’s been hours now since either of you have had to use them and even though you still feel fine enough to forego the chamberpot, which… thank the Lord because you’re honestly not sure how you’re meant to position yourself correctly in order to use the pot or even the outhouse for that matter in your current condition - you’re sure Billy is probably ready to use it.

“Do you need the bedpan?” You ask him, already reaching for it.

It's another moment of stupidity on your part when you go to reach for it and bend down with your back instead of using your knees. Another dagger of pain shoots up your spine and your hands fly around you to cradle the ache.

Billy shoots up as the sharp gasp leaves your lips, the bed rustling and creaking underneath him as he tries to push himself up. Your head jerks at the sounds and your shout is echoing through the small room before you can even think about it.

“Sit down!”

He freezes at your words, big blue eyes wide as he stares at you, the anger and frustration in your command no doubt audible in the way your yell scratches your own throat.

“Sorry,” You say, softly. “Billy, I’m sorry. Just…” Your eyes shift to where he’s pressing his hand against his side, directly over the wound and the guilt from earlier creeps back full force.

He’s already moved today. Already possibly hurt himself more by getting out of bed to check on you and then carrying your full weight to the bed.

You didn’t even check it afterwards.

“Just stay down,” You continue. “Don’t move.”

Reluctantly, he relaxes back on the bed, just sitting there and watching you when he should be flat down so as to not put extra strain on the wound. You want to tell him that - that he should be resting because he’s injured and injuries can’t heal if he’s just moving about however he pleases. You’ve said it before and he’s listened, but you have a feeling he wouldn’t hesitate to call out your hypocrisy this time.

“You sit down too,”

His words are soft, the timbre of his voice soothing and gentle but the words themselves are as demanding as they can be. Your eyes flick back up to his and you can see the unspoken threat in them.

If you keep pushing yourself, I will too.

“Billy, I can’t just sit around all day. I have things to do,”

“What things?”

“Things,” You press. “I have to– clean and make food. And care for you. That’s my job,”

“It’s clean, Sister,” He says, waving his arm around the mostly bare room. “There’s not much you can do. And we can wait for food, I’m not even hungry yet. What else are you tryin’ to do?”

Your eyes close and sigh, praying to God to give you patience because you know that your own stubbornness is as much a strength as it is a hindrance and you can quickly see that the same could be said for your young outlaw charge as well.

“Do you need to use the bedpan?” You repeat.

“No,” Billy says, and he sounds just as over the conversation as you feel. “M’fine.”

“Fine,”

He expects you to return to the bed, you can see in those eyes how he thinks it’s a battle he’s won. And perhaps he has, in a way. But you’re still in charge here and you’re not going to let him know that right away.

You turn on your heel, exiting the bedroom as swiftly as you can bear and Billy’s shout of protest races from the bed and follows you out in the main room.

“Sister y/n!”

“Hold your horses, Billy,” You call back, raising your hand up as if to wave him off. “I’m just grabbing something.”

Your bag is sitting next to your makeshift bed and you make sure to use your knees this time when you bend down to grab it. You can feel Billy’s gaze burning into your back as you rummage through it and even though there’s only so many supplies you were able to stuff into your bag before you left the clinic, you’re still relieved when you’re able to find what you’re looking for rather quickly.

Billy eyes the knitting needles and balls of yarn cradled in your arms as you bring them back to the bed. They follow the needles and yarn as you drop them on the mattress and then flick back up to yours, waiting for you to say something.

“Well, if I can’t be useful on my feet, I’m going to at least be productive off them,” You tell him. You raise your eyebrow, daring him to object.

He doesn’t. Instead, he brushes the supplies out of your way and motions to the newly cleared space with an open palm.

“Then I reckon you should get off those feet, Sister,” He smirks.

It feels almost like giving up as you settle back down on the bed. You know it’s not - you can only do what your body is allowing you to do. Pushing through the pain or discomfort is fine to a point, but only if there is truly a need for it and as much as you don’t want to admit it, Billy is right. There is no need for you to be up on your feet right now and continuing to give in to your stubbornness is doing more harm than good. The Lord has given your body the ability to give you physical clues as to what it needs. You thirst when you need water, hunger when you need food, and get tired when you need rest. It’s speaking to you now - telling you how the current sleeping environment you’ve put it in has not provided it with the rest and comfort it needs to recuperate from the day to day demands and now it's making you.

Your body is a temple, and you have to respect it and care for its needs.

But just sitting here still feels like failure. You’ve never been one to just sit around for so long and the past few days of doing just that has made your patience run a bit thin. You are a healer. You help people. Doing anything and everything you can for them in their moments of need and it's in those moments that you receive your strength. You didn’t expect to be running around from room to room here as often as you were while working in the clinic, but not having a choice in the matter is more difficult than you could have imagined.

The Lord has designed you to be His helper. Your life’s mission is to help people.

But now you’re finding it hard to even help yourself, and that alone feels like failure.

You close your eyes and send up a brief prayer, apologizing for your pause in the task that He’s granted you by inadvertently hurting the body He’s blessed you with and asking Him to grant you the strength and patience needed to overcome this hurdle.

When you open your eyes, Billy’s still staring at you.

“You seem like you got somethin’ weighin’ on your mind, Sister,” He says.

You shake your head, smiling kindly at him. He’s a sweet boy - kind and caring despite the fact that he’s been the victim of some of your frustration today. “Nothing you need burden yourself with, Billy,”

His eyes are earnest as he watches you, leaning in closer as he says, “Nothin’ you do could ever be a burden to me,”

“Oh, is that so?” You say, the corner of your lips tugging mischievously as you grab your knitting needles and a new ball of yarn. You grab the free end of the yarn, pulling the starting length enough to give you enough to work with before tossing the ball at Billy. His hands are quick to grab it despite being unprepared for the throw and another small smile creeps on his face as he holds the soft sphere in his hand. “Then you won’t mind holding that and making sure my yarn doesn’t knot as I work, right?”

“No, Ma’am. Not at all,”

It’s cozy, you have to admit - working in silence as you cast the yarn onto your needles. The yarn is soft as your fingers brush against the developing chunk of project, and Billy must think so too since you can see how his thumb keeps swiping across the ball kept in his hand. He’s a good helper, keeping the working end of the yarn held loosely between his pointer and middle finger, just enough to guide it and prevent any catching or knots.

You’re making a blanket for the clinic. The rushed packing job almost saw that you had no form of productive entertainment on this trip, but thankfully Sister Ann had enough wits about her to suggest taking your knitting materials. Some of the blankets in the clinic are old and worn, some even well-loved enough to have holes in them. You won’t throw them away. That’s wasteful and you’ll continue to mend them until you can’t. But the clinic can be a sad enough place already, and if you can brighten someone’s day with a blanket that’s not ripped beyond belief and put back together again by the power of God and some well placed stitches, then you’d like to make that happen for them.

Plus, winter will be coming soon. And things can get mighty cold around here.

Billy is content to just watch you, eyes fixated on the movements of your hands and the way the yarn is twisted and eased into the blanket. At one point, you ask if Billy wants to knit too. You have a spare set of knitting needles in your bag and you figure that it might be funner for him to knit too instead of just watching you twist yarn over itself for hours on end. You could teach him if his Ma never did. Knitting is a valuable life skill. The ability to create new clothes or household goods from practically nothing is priceless.

But he shakes his head with a polite ‘no, thank you”.

“Why not?” You ask. “You don’t want to learn?”

“It’s not that,” He replies, still playing with the yarn ball in his hand. “I’d just rather watch you. It’s calming.”

Calming is an interesting way to describe watching someone knit. It’s calming for you - you enjoy it and it's a nice hobby along with being a practical skill to have under your belt. But watching someone knit? You don’t think you could do that for very long without trying to grab a pair of knitting needles for yourself.

“My Ma used to knit,” He says after a while. “I used to watch her make us sweaters or scarves for the winter. I used to hold her yarn too. Just like this.” A small smile pulls at his mouth at the memory. “I would respin the yarn for her when the balls would come undone. It was calming, just sittin’ there with her, in her presence, watching her repeat the patterns over and over.”

His fingers slide across the ball a bit, feeling the texture under his fingertips before he pulls a little more yarn from the ball to give your working strand some more slack.

“This feels like that,” He continues. “Here with you right now makes me feel like I did with her. At peace.”

Your chest clenches at his words and your hand closest to him drops one of the needles before reaching up and resting it on his shoulder.

“I’m honored,” You tell him. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

His eyes flick down to where your hand is cradling his shoulder before they meet yours again, and you're shocked to see a sort of desperation in them with they lock on yours.

“I always pictured I would do it for my own wife one day,” He whispers. “Supportin’ her while she makes somethin’ beautiful for our kids to wear. Or somethin’ warm for them to snuggle up in.”

“You will,” You say. Your hand moves from his shoulder to cup his cheek before you move to grab the knitting needles again. “The Lord will bless you with someone wonderful, Billy. I know He will.”

You hear him hum next to you, but you keep your eyes forward and focused on your project. You know what that hum means.

“Don’t think I need the Lord’s help much,” He says. “I think I can manage just fine on my own.”

The blanket quickly comes to life under your fingers, skillful movements manipulating the yarn into a solid and beautifully woven product that you think will look so homely laid out on the beds of the clinic. Sometimes things can get so boring, bland colors and a too sanitary palette can make an already dreary situation all the more woeful. The pretty blue of the blanket would make a nice contrast to all the white and gray.

Billy watches as you work and keeps the yarn from getting tangled when the balls reach their end and loosen from their coiled form. You only stop a few times throughout the day - once to eat some quickly made oatmeal, once so you can check on Billy’s wound and replace the bandage, and a few times so you could relieve yourselves. By the time the yarn balls you’ve pulled from your bag have been knitted into the blanket, it’s dark out and you have only the small lamp by the bedside table to give you light.

The blanket rests in your lap, knitting needles still in your hand as you look towards the bedroom door and out to where you can see your sleeping area still set up.

“You’re sleeping on the bed,” He says, firmly, as if he can read your mind and see the thoughts you haven’t even fully formed yet.

It’s for the best. You know it’s for the best. The Lord wouldn’t strike you down for doing what you have to do to let yourself heal, even if it means sharing a bed with a man.

And still… “I shouldn’t,”

“Then I’ll sleep on the floor,”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond, already sliding a leg over the side of the bed and you’re grabbing hold of his arm before you can think about what you’re doing.

“No!” You shout, fingers digging hard into his bicep. “You’re injured! You need to stay in the bed.”

He pauses, eyes boring into yours. “You are too,”

“I know,” You say, releasing his arm. Your palm gently rubs over the area you grabbed, trying to soothe any hurt you might have caused when you grabbed him. “I know. I’ll stay.”

He relaxes at your words, lifting his leg back on the bed as he leans back against the pillow.

“I’ll be respectful,” He whispers and the blue of his eyes shines brightly even in the dim glow of the lamp. “I swear.”

You follow his lead, carefully tossing the knitted blanket on the floor and laying back slowly, being mindful of your back as you rest your head on the balled up blanket you snagged from your sleeping spot the last time you got up to make dinner.

“I know you will,”

You haven’t known him for long, but you feel like if there is any man you can trust to be respectful in a situation like this - it’s Billy.

You can see God in him, even if he can’t see Him within himself.

But it still feels weird, feels wrong - sleeping next to another man. And you turn your head to the side, away from Billy, so he doesn’t see the silent tears that flow down your cheek and into the fabric where your face presses harder against the blanket.

You pray until you fall asleep.

There’s a hand on you when you wake up in the middle of the night.

It’s still dark in the room, your groggy eyes opening to pitch black and even though you can’t see anything, you can feel that you’ve flipped over at some point during your sleep.

It gives your back some relief, being on your stomach like this. And the hand gently rubbing up and down the length of your spine helps to bring even more relief. The hand is big, taking up a wide expanse along your back and the soothing back and forth motion of it helps to keep you in the blissful fog of sleep.

You find that your back does feel a little better come the morning thanks to the Lord's healing touch.

Taglist: @queenofshinigamis

#𝑇𝑎𝑙 𝑊𝑟𝑖𝑡��𝑠 ✎#billy the kid smut #billy the kid x reader smut #billy the kid x reader #dark!billy the kid #tw: non con #tw: noncon #tw: dubcon #tw: dubious consent

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brucedinsman · 1 year ago

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Faith's Checkbook

November 15Limitless RichesMy God shall supply all your needs according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:19)Paul’s God is our God and will supply all our needs. Paul felt sure of this about thePhilippians, and we feel sure of it as to ourselves. God will do it, for it is like Him: He loves us, Hedelights to bless us, and it will glorify Him to do so. His pity, His power, His…

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#2023 #C.H.Spurgeon #Faith&039;s Checkbook #My God shall supply all my needs #Reba

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zirconika · 5 months ago

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I would love if you could write a fluffy negan x fem!reader one shot, there is genuinely not enough!!! I can’t think of any prompts tho I’m sorry 😭 but if you’re not able to write it then it’s all good🫶🏻

déjà vu

⇚ NAVIGATION || MASTERLIST

PAIRING: Negan Smith x Fem!Grimes!Reader WORDS: 3.6k SUMMARY: Being in charge of guarding Negan’s cell has given you plenty of opportunities to spend time with him against your will, but you unexpectedly end up bonding with him. Which is why nothing could have prepared you for finding out that you’ve met before and how. (Reader is Rick’s sister) WARNINGS: fluff, blood … idk what to say just read it!!! SETTING: post-negan alexandria A/N: oh my god nonnie u r absolutely correct i just checked there’s a concerning shortage in negan fluff so ask and you shall receive!!! ps im nawt sure what u had in mind so i hope this works

You hated Negan. End of story.

“Why do I have to be the one to do all this?” you’d complain to yourself every time you were handed the food you’d have to deliver to his cell. But you knew why. Your grief and your injury made you a liability than an asset out in the field, thus you found yourself assigned to something worse than desk duty—Negan duty.

The day your brother presumably died, you were so close to reaching him. Just a couple more steps ahead of you and you could have saved him…

But upon the explosion of the bridge had you skidding away, having you hit your head down on the harsh surface of the ground, blood spilling from under the back of your head as well as your broken leg… It had gotten blurry, but it happened nonetheless.

You were bedridden for a week, and you hated it—being left all alone to bear the weight of your grief. The communities were in shambles, and you couldn’t even bring yourself to lead just like your brother did.

When you got better, the ‘council’ refused to let you out, assigning you instead to managing the damned prisoner you had never once bothered to visit for any reason ever since he got locked up.

Now, there you were everyday, feeding the sick bastard canned tuna for breakfast.

“Where’s the other guy?” he had asked you on the first day you stopped by. Without a word, you gave him his plate, only to sit down across from him, your arms crossed.

“Doesn’t matter, I’m just doing my job.”

“Goddamn,” he said, that grin of his spirited as ever. Fuck this guy. You started to think of ways you could poison his meals without anyone knowing. “They gave you the fun work from home job? Not cool!”

The first time you met Negan was when he came by Alexandria. You weren’t there when the line-up happened, but it changed Rick. You’d never seen your brother so lost, disconnected from himself and everyone.

He didn’t eat the first meal you brought him, or the second, not even the third.

For a while, it was just like that—you glaring at him while he talked all about… Well, Negan talked about everything. He never seemed to shut up. At least when you were around. When you got better, you began going out again to go on supply runs and when you returned to fulfill your tasks of distributing his food, you also began to notice the change in him.

“Took you long enough,” he said. This time, he really took the time to dig in. “How was the outside? Fun?”

“It was alright,” you said. You’d been against holding a conversation with him, having carried the anger you thought your brother deserved to harness against him. But you’d been feeling so alone the entire time, you decided talking wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. “Found a box of canned goods, so that’s that. Good thing I don’t have any assholes taking half of whatever I got.”

“Ha ha,” Negan deadpanned as he continued eating. “I was worried you’d never show up. Been meaning to finally talk to someone.”

“What, you don’t blabber your ass off to any of the guys who’ve visited you?”

“Hell no,” he responded, looking at you as if what you just suggested was the worst thing in the world.

Racking your mind on why on Earth would this dipshit find you entertaining to talk to despite you not holding any form of conversation throughout your entire time together last time, you decided there was only one possible reason. “You think I’m easy to crack.”

“No, are you crazy?” He looked up at you with a grin on his face as he ate his meal from his seat. “You just seem like the listener type. A lot of you Grimes do.”

You wanted to ask what he meant by that, but you kept your mouth shut. You let him talk his ass off until he finished his food before you wordlessly took his plate.

As you were about to leave the room, he called out to you. “This gonna be a regular thing?”

“I hope not,” you said as you stepped out and closed the door behind you, with no intention of making this your daily routine.

Except it eventually did. You don’t know how it happened, but it just did, and you let it. At one point, you started bringing him the food you cooked for yourself, asking him if it was good.

“Are you kidding me?” Negan said in between chews of the spaghetti you made. “I’d go as damn far as saying you might’ve beaten me in my own game.”

“Ha ha,” you deadpanned, parallel to what he’d replied to you on the first day of your routine. “You’re just trying to get me to open your gate for you.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s the thing that just tickles ma balls.”

“Fucker,” you laughed.

You brought him all sorts of dishes you tried to cook. You would’ve asked Carol for help, but years after Rick’s death, everyone maintained a sort of distance from each other. It didn’t help that the Kingdom was hours away, and if you brought any of the food you made, it would’ve been rotten by the time you got there thanks to the heat.

It surprised you how easy it was to talk to him. Some days, you’d forget he was even a prisoner, but more of your friend. Then you’d remember everything he’s done and you’d become distant at times. Negan never commented on it, but he noticed it.

Michonne wanted to ask about why you were making food suitable for two people, but even she felt the gap between the two of you. You loved Michonne, but there was definitely a rift there somewhere.

The only time you’d hang out was when you were at the dinner table with her and the kids, and even then the two of you would only talk about whatever it was the kids wanted to talk about.

You were more close to Judith. For one, she was also fun to talk to.

You and Negan had that preference in common—talking to Judith Grimes.

It was thanks to Judith you found out about something. After reading to her in bed, you noticed she seemed to still be wide awake. “What, you’re not sleepy yet?”

“I’m not allowed to tell you,” she said, seemingly scared of something. You wondered if Negan had threatened her, that maybe his kindness towards you was in preparation for something sinister.

“Tell me what?”

Judith beckoned you to come closer. You oblige. To your surprise, your niece leaned into your ear to whisper, “Someone has a crush on you!”

You had a feeling who she was referring to. “Who?”

Judith backed away, sinking into her blanket. “I can’t say!”

“Well, what did this someone say?”

“I can’t tell you! Goodnight, Auntie!” And then Judith covered her blanket over her head, guilty about what she’d said. Could it be?

“You’re really not gonna tell me?” you teased your niece. But you knew that once Judith’s made up her mind, that was it. You watched as the blanket shifted left and right out of Judith shaking her head. “Alright, then. Good night, baby.”

Alas, you weren’t able to have your questions answered when you found out about Negan escaping.

You couldn’t find the words to describe how you were feeling, because it felt wrong to admit you even did feel anything. Maybe he was just using me so I wouldn’t notice his plans to escape… Did he always have plans to escape? Did he get out because of me?

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

When he returned, he looked forward to seeing you again. While waiting, he fidgeted with his fingers. Negan Smith was a man of boastful performances; he always knew how to exude confidence in any situation. Coming back into his cell, he was so sure he’d have a fun time slipping back to your old routine together.

His heart almost leapt out of his throat when the door opened for the second time. The first time, he thought it was you, but he just got a whole lecture about everything.

It bored him to death. He’d returned. There was nothing for him out there, and even if there was… It didn’t matter anymore.

You had to ignore the familiarity in what he called you…

“Hey, gorgeous. Missed me?” He excitedly watched as you came in, his friendly grin faltering when he realized you came in with the food he was originally given during his first few years of imprisonment.

Canned tuna.

“What, no new meal you want me to test today?” he asked, albeit nervously. To Negan’s dismay, his confidence was wavering. “Hellooo?”

Instead of sitting or standing right next to his cell, you sat at the spot you’d taken on the first day. You crossed your arms.

“Oh, you’re pissed.”

You stared at him coldly. It bothered him, really. He’d gotten so used to seeing you with a warm, friendly smile on your face. He thought he’d have the luxury of seeing it again as soon as he returned.

Instead, he was met by your cold script, “Finish your meal.”

Negan began to strategize, thinking of how he wanted his play to be. In an attempt to reclaim his confidence, he decided to play the stubborn card, saying, “Nope.”

But you weren’t in the mood to play. “Alright, then don’t eat.”

“Fine,” he challenged.

But you weren’t the kind to back down either. “Fine.”

You were curious to know the story behind that subtle flash of recognition in his face that disappeared as soon as it came. It piqued your interest, as you recall having this conversation a long time ago…

Deja vu, you thought to yourself.

To your surprise, Negan shook his head. “Jeez, just got goosebumps. Got deja vu there for a minute, it’s insane.”

Though you were intent on maintaining distance from the prisoner, you couldn’t help but ask. It surely was easy to talk to the guy, you had to give him that. “You felt that, too?”

“Felt what?”

“Deja vu,” you clarified. Negan watched as you stood up to approach his cell. “Like it happened before.”

“Is it just me, or are we literally doing some batshit telepathy right now?” Negan jokes. “Makes me think it’s a soulmate thing.”

“It’s not a soulmate thing.” You wrap your fingers around a bar of his cell, contemplating where you might have had that conversation. The first time you met Negan, you felt as if his voice was familiar.

You searched the deepest crevices of your mind, trying to recall a time in your life when you might have possibly met the prisoner. One look at him and you knew he was doing the same.

Nothing came to mind.

“Fine.”

Except for one. Holy shit. He wasn’t sure, but a part of him felt like it was yanking something out from a library in his mind.

He set it aside for now. He wanted to talk to you first, properly. “[Y/N], this is gonna be a strange request but… Could you come in?”

“What?” you ask, snapping out from your focus. “Why would I do that?”

“Just get in the damn cell.”

“How do I know you won’t trick me just so you could slip out?”

His face screwed up into a frown. “Because I’m not even gonna try. I came back; I chose to. Because of you.”

“What?” you ask again, lost more than ever. It felt wrong that you were expecting something. This was Negan.

The same Negan who…

You shook your head. And you don’t know what force of nature propelled you to be stupid, but you oblige with his request. You sat down next to him on his cot in his cell.

Your backs were to the wall. It felt comfortable somehow. You eyed the stack of books he’d sped through reading whenever he was alone.

Negan set the plate of canned tuna aside, putting his hands on his lap. “You know why I came back?”

“Because you’re an idiot?”

The prisoner laughed, and an unsaid guilt clawed at you from the back of your mind, saying whatever this was… It was wrong. But with Negan, you never felt like you were alone. Which is why it sucked when he left.

“No, stupid. Because there was nothing for me out there.”

“What makes you think there’s something for you here?”

He looked at you this time, his eyes free of the malice you were used to seeing constantly present. “You.”

You had to scoff. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” He thought back to all the times you’d sat right next to him with bars separating the two of you. How he’d never felt so welcomed except for in your presence.

How he waited for you to visit him. How he was constantly excited for the next time you’d come. How he’d get frustrated whenever it was someone else who’d open the door.

“Thought I was done for,” he confessed. “Until you came and I… I told myself I’d make amends with you out of respect for your brother and your nephew, bless their souls. Then you started visiting me by routine. I knew it was your job, but I never felt like I was behind bars whenever I was with you.”

You didn’t know what to say.

“It means I like you, if you didn’t get that.” He nudged your elbow, looking at you as if he were already expecting you to turn him down. “I just wanted to tell you so you’d understand.”

“I like you, too,” you blurted out.

This time, Negan was the one who couldn’t seem to find the right words to say, much less at least even any words at all.

“Rick dying like that… It changed me. Changed everyone, really. Nothing was ever the same and I couldn’t do anything about it. I felt alone, and I’m grateful you were there when I grieved. It just… Feels wrong to feel this way about you.”

Negan nodded. “I get it.”

You felt his hand on top of yours, rubbing it. He didn’t even realize he’d done it, but he left your hand alone when he noticed he did. You wish he didn’t.

But you had to be brave. Shamelessly, you grabbed his hand in yours, lacing your fingers with his. Negan let you. “You suck at this game, asshole.”

And the two of you froze. He knew where he knew you from, and so did you.

“Ho-ly shit,” Negan started. “Are you GorgeousArsenal777?”

It all made sense now. Holy shit, indeed. “You’re SaviorNutsack69?”

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Way before the apocalypse, Negan had made it his personal mission to destroy every single child XBOX Games. First was Gears of War.

But he decided he wanted more than just a game with a co-op campaign mode. He needed to obliterate opponents in a ranked multiplayer combat game. It wasn’t that he hated them, he just needed a win…

He found a guaranteed win when he matched with MrPuddingCyborg. It was an easy win, really. It was very clear that whoever was behind that avatar was a newbie, thus it was easy for Negan to rank up.

“Fuckin’ loser,” he said, turning on his mic. “I bet you picked that username ‘cause you thought it was cool, didn’t you! It isn’t!”

“Your technique sucks!” a little boy on the other end said, furious.

“Pants pisser,” Negan said one last time before beginning the game. “Are you shittin’ your pants now? What’re you gonna do, tell your mom?”

The growling on the other end stopped, meaning the kid turned off his mic. Negan scoffed, sensing victory from miles away. “What a fucking crybaby.”

Looking for the same benefits of winning, he requested a rematch. MrPuddingCyborg accepted. Negan leaned back, knowing it was gonna be a cake walk when—

You were killed by MrPuddingCyborg.

What?

Negan’s avatar respawned, but his tactic was used against him.

You were killed by MrPuddingCyborg.

It went on like that for a while until the two words he most dreaded to find on the screen flashed before him: GAME OVER.

Game over? No way.

Negan ended their match, frustrated to find that his failure jeopardized his progress in getting up to a higher rank.

Affected by his loss, Negan kept playing with two different players before finally getting to the third player.

Negan grinned to himself, gripping his controller with the drive to defeat everyone, but for now, GorgeousArsenal777 would be the one to get the heat.

To his delight, he got the first win. He exclaimed with a mischievous laugh. “Haha! One for Virginia!”

But that was just it.

Negan watched in horror as the player obliterated him in every round. He could already imagine his rank getting lower and lower…

He turned on his microphone. “The fuck’s that about? Are you trolling me right now?”

“Troll you for what? Coins you don’t have?,” taunted a girl on the other end as they waited for the intermission time to finish so they could leave the lobby and play another round. “Checked your account, saw you’ve been here for half a year and you’re still in a mid-tier rank. News flash, you suck at this game, asshole.”

“Game on, Gorgeous.”

“Suck my nutsack,” said the voice on the other end. Somewhere almost ten hours away south of Virginia, you clutched your nephew’s controller with a burning desire to destroy the gaming career of this fucker who pissed off your nephew.

Negan watched in poorly disguised horror as the words notified him of his losses on the screen.

You were killed by GorgeousArsenal777.

“Listen here, Gorgeous,” he started. Whatever relaxation Negan had was gone. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, concentrating more than ever. “I am gonna make you regret that you ever got a console.”

You snorted. “I’d like to see you try.”

Negan was dead serious. “Fine.”

“Fine,” you fired back. And just in time, you sent a bomb his way, killing him for another time.

You killed SaviorNutsack69.

While you waited for the next round in the lobby, you and your nephew watched as SaviorNutsack69 approached your avatar. The two of you couldn’t help but snicker as he did.

His mic turned on again. “You’re a cheat.”

You resisted calling him a virgin seeing that he came from Virginia, acknowledging the presence of your eleven year old nephew sitting right behind you with his legs crossed, giggling.

“I could’ve beaten this guy,” Carl said with a laugh.

“I know, pumpkin.” You gave the kid a warm smile before turning back to the screen, eager to destroy this man further. “But guys like SaviorNutsack69 deserve to be obliterated.”

You turned your mic back on. “Not my fault you suck. Look at your avatar, dipshit.”

You and Carl snickered on your end, giggling.

The guy on the other end laughed mirthlessly. “I do not appreciate you talking ass about my Limited Edition skin.”

“Sorry you’re not more appreciative,” you quipped, resisting the urge to laugh out loud. “And sorry you can’t rock a leather jacket like I can.”

Negan hated leather jackets, thought it was too hot. He preferred those loose zip-up hoodies. But was not gonna tell GorgeousArsenal777 on the off chance that she uses it as substance to say he just couldn’t pull it off.

“I can so rock a leather jacket, shitface.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.” And then he left the lobby before the game could start. You and your nephew burst out laughing at the thought of the dude getting a leather jacket.

He was nothing to the two of you three minutes later, because you let Carl play with his account after that. But SaviorNutsack69? He was not the type to back down from a fight even long after it had ended.

700 miles from Georgia, SaviorNutsack69 got up from his chair and drove to the mall. He ran into the edgiest store he could find with purpose and unapologetically purchased the coolest leather jacket he could find.

And the rest is history.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

The two of you sat there in silence, the thought of having met before all of this…

It was refreshing—the prospect of destiny. Or maybe it was just a coincidence. Either way, it made you an ounce closer to him.

He grinned. Negan thought back to the leather jacket he abandoned before returning. “Hey, you’re the genius behind my look.”

“Guess I am,” you mused.

Your shoulder brushed against his, and you could have sworn there was electricity there somewhere.

“Feels like a rocky start to a love story, huh?” he asked, looking at you expectantly.

“You think this is a love story?” you asked him nervously.

Negan thought about it for a second, grinning. “I don’t know, do you?”

“Well,” you started. You paused before standing up and leaving his cell. Before leaving, you looked back at him with a smile. “We’ll see.”

“See what?” Negan stood up, holding the bars of his cell only to realize that it wasn’t locked.

“If you’re as bad on garden duty as you are on Call of Duty,” you taunted him with the same spirit you had from all those years ago. “Maybe then I’ll consider if it’s a love story.”

And that was it. You liked Negan, but that was just the beginning of a whole new story. You just knew you were lucky enough to have gotten the chance to meet again.

i'm still building my blog. so for now, just send me an ask to be added to my general taglist :)

TAGLIST: @vaniniweenie @avabh12 @stinkygirl009 @whatchareadingnow @remuslittlesister @romanoffmaximoff0096

#zirconika.fic #the walking dead #negan #negan smith #the walking dead negan #negan smith x reader #negan smith fluff #negan smith x fem!reader #jeffrey dean morgan #negan fanfiction #jdmorgan #jdm fanfiction #jdm x reader #twd negan #jeffrey dean morgan x reader #negan smith headcanons #the walking dead negan smith

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batchilla · 3 months ago

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Fata Morgana Chapter one: A Favor Given.

Content warning for some … outdated views on women. Don’t worry, you can fix him.

The tournament of Fata Morgana brought with it all the excitement of a tournament, but given it fell so close to the annual Festival of Cupid, it held more still. For as well as the honour of victory, a gold purse and acclaim, the winner was given a crown of roses, to give to any maiden he saw fit to choose, and to open the Ball of Cupid by sharing a dance with said maiden. Captain Jason Todd, the knight of Arkham, had won the past three years, and each year, the same maiden had been given the crown.

You.

You, the princess, and only daughter of the king of a small yet ambitious nation. You, who while understanding that your affection for the hero of the battle of Arkham, the captain of your personal guard, could never be fully realised or acted upon. You, who had the last three years watched him compete with baited breath hoping to dance with him once more. You, who after he had first presented you the crown three years hence, had given him a favour the next two years. You, who on the eve of his fourth tournament, are sneaking down to where the competitors have pitched their tents around the competition field, to do so once more.

The air is warm, crickets and the nickering of horses punctuated by the occasional voice. They are stoic, not rowdy or drunken, that will come tomorrow when the contest is over. Tonight, the sense of anticipation and solemn preparation lingers over the field. You find his tent with relative ease, it’s blood red fabric near black in the darkness, but his steed is tied outside and pays you little mind as you hesitate outside the tent flap. There had been no hesitation when you slipped past your guards. No hesitation in deciding to come here. Still, you hesitate now, when the only thing separating you from him is canvas, struck with nerves over what exactly you would say to him.

Your stalling is ended by the tent's flap opening to reveal the Knight of Arkham standing there, staring you down looking less than impressed. Your mouth goes dry as the desert.

He stands there in loose pants, and a white shirt with the top eyelets undone to just above the lowest point of his pectoral muscles. His hair is mused and out of order. You feel your breath catch, and it is only your lifelong etiquette lessons that prevent you from doing something completely humiliating and degenerate like bite your lip. Granted you saw him nearly every day, but there was something about seeing him out of plate, seeming so much himself rather than maintaining stoic professionalism.

“Your royal highness, you ought not be here so late - and where is your guard? God preserve me…” He runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

You try not to stare at the way the action causes his arms to move and flex, or how soft his hair seems. Instead, you force yourself to look him in the eyes, and reply.

“All is well, surely. These tents are filled with knights. Men of honour. I am perfectly safe.” You speak softly, so as not to draw attention to your presence, despite what you verbally claim, you know full well that being undiscovered will better serve you.

Captain Todd-Wayne opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Sighs. You suppress an urge to smile, practically able to see his mind working on how to respond to that without offending your feminine sensibilities.

“Your Highness while your father’s knights - myself included - would of course never consider harming you, the matter persists you are without escort.”

You bat your eyes, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to you. “You are the captain of my guard, and have acted as my escort a great many times.”

His jaw clenches, and he makes no attempt to rebut the statement. “Who was meant to be guarding your door this evening?” He asks tiredly.

“Sir West.” You supply.

“Well. Rest assured that by sundown tomorrow he shall be thoroughly reprimanded for allowing this to happen.” He says, anger brewing under his carefully stoic features.

You sigh, but do not argue. You came for a reason, and you will not be distracted by his ire in your goals accomplishment.

You reach into your pocket, and produce a thick, blood red ribbon of finest velvet.

You hold it out, and he takes it, carefully not touching your hand, but where the ribbon hangs from your fingers.

“Best of luck in the morrow.” You say softly. You hope he understands what you really mean. What you cannot say.

You hope he knows you love him.

You turn back into the night before he can respond, the soft look of awe on his face, though the same each year, too great a source of pain and longing for you to take.

___________________________________________

Later that night, Jason lays on the temporary bed in his tent, staring at the ceiling as he idly runs the ribbon through each digit, feeling its weight, its softness. He slides it through his fingers, pulling it through and winding between each with his opposite hand. He closes his eyes and his breath shakes as he recalls its owner. Imagines it in her hair, tying it up, exposing her neck and …No. No. No.

He clenches his hand into a fist, his eyes snapping open. He was a knight. Her Knight, Her protector.

He would not dishonour her with his perverse thoughts.

He refused to.

She had done him a great kindness, in extending her favour. Clearly she knew of his affections, given his actions at the three Tournaments of Fata Morgana past even a woman could deduce the truth of his pathetic circumstance.

It was a great kindness indeed that she allowed him to indulge, one night a year in an unreciprocated fantasy, even feeding into it with this, the most generous of gifts.

Fata Morgana. An illusion. How terribly fitting, his lone solace, the one mercy he allowed his starved soul. To dance with her, once a year. To lay the wreath of roses in her hair, and pretend he was more. That he was worthy.

That he was not the second, adopted, common son of his father. That he hadn’t been sent off to be a squire so young that the Wayne estate no longer felt like home. That he had risen to his honoured rank of his position because he deserved it.

They’d said he was. The king had called him a hero. The people called him a legend. It would not surprise anyone if his story outlived him three generations. Jason Todd, the hero of the battle of Arkham. He had rallied his men, and turned what should have been a massacre into an unparalleled victory, but when the screams fell silent and the dust settled, he had disappeared. He had been declared dead. Turned into a martyr. A fallen hero.

Until he had been found in the woods of the Al Ghul estate, with no memory of who he was or how he came to be there, six months later.

The greatest of healers had helped his mind return - but what happened to him in the lost six months escaped him still.

His Father had asked him to recover at the Wayne estate. He had refused. He said it was duty. It was. But not to his king. It was duty to her, and to his heart. He had not spoken to his father since.

He knew she surely saw only a knight. How could she see more, given how little he was? A knight pinning after her to be sure, but not one she would seriously consider as a marriage prospect. He was not heir, afterall. He was not respected, he was a novelty. A fearsome novelty.

Sleep finds him eventually, a merciful reprieve from his spiralling consciousness. Only to take him away to the same nightmare he has had each night since his return.

That flash of sky, of rocks ascending skyward, the smell of salt and of decay. Pain. Nothing.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd #dc x reader #batchilla squeaks #red hood #red hood x reader #batchilla writes the words and then you read them. or don't.#please reblog my fics if you enjoy them #knight x princess #pinning #angst #slow burn

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the-fiction-witch · 8 months ago

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In The Eyrie

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Jacaerys Velaryon Couple - Jacaerys X Reader Reader - (Don't Meet Her Yet) Rating - Politics Word Count - 956

Jacaerys felt his heart racing the moment he left Dragonstone. He was to offer his hand to the daughter of Lady Arryn of the Vale. As per his mother's demands. He and Vermax took to the sky flying through an autumn storm to the Eyrie. He lands in the courtyard and as he gets off Vemrax's back. He sees a man with intricate blue armour with the sigil for House Arryn, he looks around expecting Lady Arryn to meet him but he only notices a woman from the balcony above.

"Prince Jacaerys Velaryon I take it?" The guard,

"Yes," Jacaerys answers,

"the lady of the Vale has been expecting you. Come." He demanded as he led Jacaerys through the castle to the grand throne room, where the stone seat sat and the moon door opened to see the harsh drop to her world below, a woman in a light blue dress with dark brown braids sat on the throne the lady Jeyne Arryn, she looked down at him expecting him to speak. He approached the throne and bowed before her.

"My lady… May I say your title has maiden of the Vale seems an earned one, you are as beautiful as tales had said.”

"You can halt your compliments, dear boy. I know why you are here. Your mother Rhaenyra offers your hand to wed my daughter. In turn our support in her war against her half brother the King Aegon Targaryen," Jeyne spoke,

Jacaerys feels his heart sink within his chest in disappointment as she mentions the war, He nods respectfully as she knows the true reason why he was sent here. "I must speak truthfully my lady, but this alliance was not my choice."

"alliances never are. If you wish to be king someday you will have to come to terms with that." She said, "What do you offer as a suitor for my daughter?"

Jace nods as he knows what he must say, though the words are like poison to him. He will do whatever it takes to ensure his mother's demands, "My mother has instructed me to offer a dowry of 500 gold dragons to be paid to House Arryn upon my wedding day. There is also an alliance offered in the form of the loyalty of House Targaryen and all her allies in the war against the usurper,”

"A generous offer, but I asked not what your mother offered. I ask what you offer, what will you supply my daughter with as her husband?"

He was taken aback for a moment by her words but dug deep to find some sweet things to say, “I will offer her a life filled with love and happiness. I will show her the beauty and the excitement of the world. I will treat her with the respect that she deserves. I will show her the joy and passion that a marriage can provide.”

"Would you swear before all in this realm to hold my daughter as your only bride? Never to take another. Never to father bastards. And to place her by your side as your queen?"

“I swear before all in this realm to hold your daughter as my only bride. I shall never take another. I shall never father bastards. I shall place her at my side as my queen. This I swear with all of my heart before the Gods.”

"Even if my daughter is not of your choosing?"

Jace knew this question was coming, it was not of his choosing but his duty to marry. He looked up to the lady Jeyne and nodded. "Yes. I would honour this arrangement even if I had the choice. My heart may not lie with her but my duty is. I promise you that no matter who my heart yearns for, my duty comes first."

"even if she may not be... To your tastes? You will do your duty to her?"

Jace's face would shift to a slight frown at her words. He had to admit, she was not what his heart yearned for. Yet what she said was true, it was his duty to obey. Not only would he make his mother happy but the Vale would stand behind Rhaenyra. He felt as though she was looking at his inside and reading his mind he felt a slight heat rise over his face for a moment as he nodded. "Yes, my lady. I will do my duty by her, and I will never dishonour her."

"Then it is agreed." She nodded "Arise. Son-in-law."

Jace nodded as he got to his feet.

“We will aid in this war to come, my only request is that no green dragons are to harm the vale or the Eyrie and we will demand a dragon here to defend us.”

“I- I am sure that can be arranged,”

“Good, you are welcome to stay Prince Jacaerys,”

"I thank you for your hospitality, my lady. How long shall I stay in the Vale?"

"you may stay as long as you wish, Your dragon to is welcome. The storm that lingers now will be a week at least I suggest you use that time to become understanding with your wife to"

Jace couldn't help the small smile that grew upon his lips as he realised he would have some time with the lady he was to marry. He couldn't help but wonder what the woman would be like that he would spend the rest of his life with. "I will be certain of that, my lady."

"Lord Skyee, take Prince Jacaerys to her chambers and allow him to meet whom he had agreed his life to," the lady told one of her men,

"Yes my lady," the guard nodded,

Jace was not given time to reply as she commanded her guard to take him to his betrothed.

Masterlist Of Jacaerys Velaryon

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feyhunter78 · 8 months ago

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Chapter Six - The tourney has finished, and Jon finds himself in your chambers. As the events of the game go on Jon must adapt to his ever-changing role.

Ch 7

He is sweaty, dirty, tired, and yet he feels more alive than he has in years, perhaps it is the remaining exhilaration of victory, or the words of King Robert that ring in his ears.

You look up at Jon, then at your aunt, then back to Jon, and there is a sinking feeling in his gut. You do not want to kiss him, not even on the cheek.

He decides to spare you the shame and embarrassment, turning to King Robert intent on gracefully declining when your lips meet his cheek. It is quick, a peck, a whisper of soft lips against his stubble covered cheek and the words die on his lips.

The crowd behind him cheers, King Robert raises his glass towards him, his eyes glazed over with drunkenness. “A fine paring they would make, if it were not for his unfortunate birth.”

Lord Stark, his father, clenches his fist, but puts on a smile, patting King Robert’s shoulder. “I think it is time we retire to your tent, my friend.”

Shame washes over Jon, and a muscle in his jaw twitches as he looks away from the makeshift throne.

“Father, I have grown tired from all this excitement, might I be allowed to retire to my chambers?” You ask, loud enough for all around to hear. You are giving him an escape.

Tyrion nods magnanimously. “Of course, my daughter, and take your champion with you, lest he be mobbed by his hard-won crowd of admirers.”

It is only now that Jon realizes the chanting that he’s been blocking out is for him. The moniker they have bestowed upon him White Wolf. A reference to Ghost he knows, but it fills him with pride, never has a crowd chanted his name, never had more than his siblings chanted his name, but now? Now he was their champion. At least until the jousting began, then a new champion would be chosen. It matters not, for in this moment Jon feels special.

In your chambers nestled within Maegor’s Holdfast, Jon sits as you tend to his wounds. They are nothing, truly, some cuts and bruises, but still, you treat each one with such care.

Ghost rests his head on his knee while you work, painting on salves and covering cuts with soft gauze.

“Look up for me?” You half ask, half order, gently cupping his chin with one hand, keeping his head still as you tend to the cut on his cheek.

He winces when the cloth you are holding meets his broken skin, and you breathe out a soft apology before gently dabbing the salve on the cut. Your fingertips are soft, your focused expression allowing him to observe you. His lovely lady, truly his, until you marry that is, but there are no signs of any marriages happening soon.

Not for the first time he allows his mind to wander, to imagine you and him together—married somewhere, maybe Casterly Rock in one of the many wings you have told him about, or a keep in the North, perhaps Moat Cailin. If he could get his father to lend him the men, the supplies, it could be restored to its former glory.

“Ser Jon?” You ask, pulling him from his daydreams.

“Apologies. My Lady, I was lost in thought.”

“I asked if you had any other injuries?” Your voice is soft, as soft as your touch, and he craves it. Desires to feel more, to hear more, for you to always look at him with such rapt devotion, with such interest in his wellbeing, with such care. Gods he had never felt so cared for in his life.

Jon bites his tongue hard. He does, earlier in his duels one of the Redwyne men had slammed his elbow into his stomach, Jon is sure there is a bruise forming. “I do, My Lady, but it is in a place that would require the removal of my tunic.”

Your eyes widen ever so slightly, and you nod stiffly. “Well, it is my duty to care for my champion, so I shall turn around, then you let me know when you have removed your tunic. We are both members of great houses, we can act with decorum.”

Jon nods and waits.

You wait as well, just staring, then seem to realize what he is waiting for with an adorable “oh, right,” and turn around.

He chuckles and sheds his tunic folding it neatly and placing it in his lap, dislodging Ghost who grumbles and goes to lay on the plush pile of pillows you had moved into your chambers especially for him. “Alright, My Lady.”

You turn back around, and for a moment Jon thinks you are having a stroke.

You blink rapidly at him, your lips parting then snapping shut. “Oh, um, yes, right, where is the injury?”

He motions to the ever-darkening bruise in the center of his abdomen.

You make a small, strangled sound, one he would not have been able to hear if not for the quiet of the room, and gently kneel, salve in hand as you scrutinize the bruise. “I cannot get a good position for my hand without digging my elbow into your leg; I need to get a little closer…”

You and Jon stare at each other, you can only get closer if you invade the space between his legs.

He coughs and spreads them, looking away as casually as possible, praying to the gods, old and new, that a certain part of his anatomy does not decide to take interest in the sight before him.

You work quickly, but diligently, using featherlight touches as you apply the salve, your other arm resting on his thigh keeping you steady. “You did very well today, I am glad to see all your training has paid off.”

Jon looks at you instinctually because you are talking, he always looks at you when you speak, it is only polite, and he immediately regrets it. You are looking up at him through your lashes, on your knees between his legs, your hand on his abdomen. It is a sight he only dares to imagine in the darkness of his own chambers, with his hand wrapped tightly around himself.

“And I must admit it brings me no small amount of pleasure that it was my sworn sword who was named champion, you should have seen Ellyn Farman’s face, she was all but green with envy.” You smile, it is a joyous, deviously delightful smile, and he feels the urge to go back to the tourney field and defeat another seven men.

“My victories are yours.” His voice pitches up at the end when you slide your hand down as you get up, your head turned towards Ghost, fully unaware as you continue talking.

“And of course your moniker, how exciting, truly Ser Jon you are making quite a name for us.” He grabs your wrist preventing it from sliding any further, and you turn back towards him with confusion in your eyes, then you glance down then rip your hand away as if he had burned you. “I am so, so, sorry, I did not mean—”

“It is alright, I know you had no intention, and neither do I.” He reassures you. He never wants you to feel unsafe with him, never wants you to doubt his loyalty is not contingent on the possibility of carnal pleasure.

You hold your hand to your chest, taking him in with those ever-inquisitive eyes. “I do understand why the other girls speak so highly of you, I always have, but I understand this reason now.”

“What reason?”

You tuck a lock of hair behind your ear and glance back at Ghost. “You are handsome, Ser Jon, surely you must know that.”

“Robb is handsome, Theon is handsome, I am—”

“Tarnishing one’s maidenhood worthy?” You supply, that teasing tone in your voice making him glad his tunic still remains over his lap.

“I would not.”

“I know, you are honorable, and I admire that, greatly.” You have dropped the teasing tone and give him a genuine smile. “Now, I suggest you redress, lest someone find us here and think you not so honorable.” You turn back around, humming a song to yourself.

Jon feels special, you make him feel special. More than the crowds, the king, and it is a feeling he sees himself becoming quite addicted to.

He no longer feels special, not as he looks on as his father kneels before Joffrey, Sansa in tears pleading for mercy. They were bastards, the three of them born of incest, had you not told him as much in his nightmares? Why had he waited, why had he not gone to his father the moment he suspected his dream were truth? Now the King was dead, and Joffrey had taken his place.

“Lord Stark, you have claimed the late king declared you as his regent and leveled great insults against my son.” Queen Cersei says, her chin held high, a cruel light in her eyes.

The steps of the Great Sept of Baelor are pristine, the domes of glass and gold looming behind them, the sun shining down through the fluffy white clouds. He stares at his father’s feet to keep the tears back, his throat tight as Sansa’s sobs tear at his heart.

You are dressed in Lannister red, the bright ruby, not your darker crimson, your gown lavish, and intricately embroidered, your hair up in a southern style, a near perfect duplicate of the Dowager Queen. Your hand has an iron grip on his wrist, fingertips outstretched to his palm, hidden behind your skirts.

“Please, I beg of you, spare my father, send him to the Night’s Watch for his crimes.” Sansa cries, clutching at the collar of her gown, tears streaming down her face. Theon stands behind her, still part of the crowd, his eyes never leaving her form, his lips etched into a deep frown.

“I am nothing if not merciful.” Joffrey says, spreading his hands wide, a smile on his face.

Jon’s stomach churns and your grip on him tightens.

“Do not act rashly.” You whisper, leaning into him ever so slightly, keeping him grounded.

Sansa sobs her gratitude, her sobs turning to screams when a kingsguard grabs her, pulling her back as Ser Ilyn Payne steps up Ice in his hands.

Jon can see Theon struggle against a few men, his curses muffled by a rag they shove in his mouth.

“Close your eyes, you should not have to see this.” You tell him. He ignores you, ripping his arm from your grip, but you move in front of him your hands on his chest, your strength is nothing compared to his, but the tears in your eyes stop him for a moment. “Please, Jon, he will kill you if you interfere.”

A whistling sound fills the air, then Lord Payne falls to the ground, an arrow sticking out his back. Another flies towards Joffrey and misses, clattering to the steps beside him. Chaos breaks out, people scream, arrows fly, the steps of the sept are tainted with blood.

His father gets to his feet, grabbing Ice, Theon rushing to him, a flash of Sansa’s red hair then Jon can no longer see them, the crowd closes in, and he hears a scream. It is you, he knows your scream, heard it time and time again in his nightmares. Jon turns on his heel, you should be right beside him, you are always right beside him, but now the space you always occupy is empty.

“Y/N!” He yells, scanning the crowd, hand on his pommel as the crowd surges against him.

“Jon!” Your voice comes from somewhere on his right, and he pushes through the crowd, catching sight of your gown. It is enough, and he presses on, a wolf stalking its prey, even as bodies crash into him, the sounds, and smells overwhelming, he follows you, elbowing and shoving others to get by, gaining ground until he is able to see you fully.

Some man has you, one he has never seen before, hooded, and cloaked, his arm around yours, a knife to your side as he drags you along.

You do not call out when you see him, smart girl, and he quickly overtakes the man, driving his sword through his back, the man freezing and sputtering, before collapsing as Jon pulls his blade out. This is the first life his blade has taken, and it is a righteous deed.

“Jon, oh gods, oh gods.” You sob, throwing your arms around his neck, your body trembling.

He wraps his arms around you, crushing you to his chest. “Seven Hells, y/n, are you hurt?”

You shake your head, jasmine perfume drowning out the scent of the city, of the crowd. “No, no, are you?”

“I am unharmed.” He assures you, releasing you only so he can pull back and examine you.

You are unharmed, roughed up, dirtied and scared, but there is no sign of injury. More screams, more people push past, and you look at him, tear rimmed eyes, large and fearful. “I want to go home.”

He is strong, stronger than Robb, than his father, and you weigh nothing compared to the barrels Lord Santagar makes him run with day after day, so he throws you over his shoulder.

You yelp at the sudden switch in gravity, clinging to him as he pushes through the crowd, his knuckles will be bruised and bloodied, but he cares not, he must get you to safety.

Jon does not put you down until you are safely inside the Red Keep, your father is there, in the throne room, as well as your grandsire, a surprise Jon is unsure whether is welcomed or not. Both men were not due to arrive from Casterly Rock for another fortnight.

“And here comes the White Wolf with my daughter slung over his shoulder like a Dothraki warlord.” Tyrion sighs.

Now on your feet but still clinging to Jon, you face your father. “He saved me, it is what he swore to do, I will not stand here and allow you to insult him.” Your words are weak, stained with tears, and you are still trembling, but they are earnest.

“Yes, yes, good job, Ser Jon.” Tyrion says, patting Jon’s hand.

“Thank you, My Lord.” He says, stunned and unsure. Where is his family, have they escaped? Been killed?

“Where is Sansa? Is she alright?” You ask, searching the room for her.

“The bitch has escaped, along with her traitor of a father, and that Greyjoy scum.” Joffrey’s voice rings out, as he sits down on the throne, the queen standing beside him, Lord Tywin going to flank her.

He is alone, alone in enemy territory, but at least his family have been able to escape. He sends a prayer to the old gods for their safety, then one for his own.

You smooth down your hair and craft your expression into one of disbelieving outrage. “My King, I am sorry. I never thought sweet Sansa would betray you.”

“She is a Stark, it is what they do, Ned Stark betrayed my father, and now his daughter betrays me.” Joffrey turns his eyes onto Jon, they are not like yours, no life lives within them, only death, sickly green and glowing with malice. “And what about your Stark, dear cousin, will he betray you?”

Jon shakes his head; he has seen you play this game with Joffrey enough times that he believes he knows what role he must play. “No, My King, I am a bastard, and sworn to Lady y/n, I hold my oath to her higher than that of my so-called blood.” It pains him to speak the words, to play this game, but he will have no chance of seeing his family, of seeing Arya, again if he’s dead.

TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz

#meg's writing #jon snow x reader #jon snow x you #jon snow imagine #lannister!reader #jon snow imagines #jon snow

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