#i refuse to draw Him. from the dub

[mr-president]

doodles of my fav @snapscube subspace emissary dub moments!!!

[shirefantasies]

LoTR Characters + Pregnant Reader (Wife!Reader)

Back with more parent AU because it's some of my favorite fluff! Consider this a Part 1 to an anon request that’ll be on its way hehe (also an AU where something happens with Celebrían apparently 😥)

Warnings: conception, pregnancy-related illness and symptoms mentioned, very long post lol

Aragorn

✧ Neither of you had made any concrete plans. No set in stone hour of your marriage reserved for the growth of your family or dubbed too early. Thus, you are unsure how your husband will feel about your news, the fact that you got yourself checked out the first moment of illness, mother's intuition in full service already, it would seem. You cannot keep your smile to yourself, though, as you stroll in search of Aragorn, hand hovering about your own waist as if in disbelief. He had just returned from a hunting trip when you found him, smiling shakily at his amusement when you pulled him immediately aside into the next room over. "What troubles your heart?" The man had intuition of his own, years of silent observation- there was no lying to him. "I just learned that I am with child, Aragorn," you took his hand, seeing no point in being anything but direct, "due for the birth next spring if all goes well." "With blossom comes the next blessing of my kin," your husband replied, that wise look in his blue eyes causing you to shake your head fondly, "what could be more beautiful? What a gift you have given me and how could I ever repay it?" Shaking your head once more, you simply grinned and, sighing with relief and anticipation alike, replied that being the amazing father you know him to be will be all you need. Leaning forward, Aragorn laid his head against yours, brushing your noses as he held you.

✧ Looking out upon the kingdom, the realization that is is his kingdom still sinking in, and that he has made this place a home for new life as well. That this is the very reason he fought for a safe world. It brings such a rush to his heart that he goes off in search of you at once, kissing you warmly and caressing your still-small bump.

✧ Aragorn loves doing anything he possibly can to make your days easier, treating you like the queen you quite literally are! He pampers you with treatment like massages, washing your hair for you, drawing you baths, and the like.

✧ While you no doubt have many people at your disposal, quite similarly your husband enjoys cooking for you by hand and memorizes everything that makes you sick if anything as well as the random foods your cravings make you obsessed with, trying to creatively incorporate them into everything.

✧ You knew it already, but your pregnancy brings about the reminder that this man has such a way with encouraging words, his voice the only thing that cuts through the clouds of your changing moods.

✧ Aragorn is the one who tells you not to be so hard on yourself, that you are doing an amazing thing and you are desirable as yourself, no more and no less. No need to hide yourself, no need to perform, no need to feel anything less than the beautiful soul you have always been. Remember, he tells you, he is going nowhere, and you will endure all together.

Legolas

✧ For so long had you and Legolas hoped for your little life, long enough of trial and hope that you’d all but given up until you felt a shift. Felt on the brink of illness at nearly all times, seeking healing for a mystery illness and leaving with news that had your husband holding you for minutes on end, tears sliding down his cheeks, and refusing to let go of your hand all day. Holding you like you might shatter, his other hand wrapped gently around your waist where his hand can brush the curve of your soon-to-be-growing belly. “We did it, my love. We will finally be three.”

✧ Your husband grows wistful, getting a distant look in his eyes before smiling and reminiscing on his younger days. “What demeanor shall our little one have, do you say? I would not mind having two of you,” he teases, while you say a child like him would be much easier!

✧ “Both of your little ones sound quite healthy.” “Both?” You are shocked, but Legolas’s grin never falters, nor does his surprisingly tight, hearty grip upon your shoulders. “Twins,” he keeps repeating in wonder throughout the day.

✧ You and Legolas have a bet running on the twins, if they are to be identical or not. You think they are both boys, while Legolas thinks he has a little girl waiting for him, too. “Wishful thinking,” you tease him. “Absolutely,” he agrees, smiling softly at you.

✧ As time passes, he does tease you about your waddle. “Shall I slow down a bit?” Cheeky prince, but that’s why you love him!

✧ Legolas’s eyes never fix you with anything but awe. He is simply amazed at all the wonders your body is capable of and what it endures. Even though that wonder also manifests as him almost constantly asking if you are alright, it is worth it when your husband looks at you as though captivated by a goddess.

Boromir

✧ Boromir caught you with your eyes bulging out of your head, not a single chance of delaying your discussion. Such news as you have just received can only be considered a blessing, and yet you still are shaken to the core with the spiking precursor of excitement and hope, hope that your husband would be happy. Your words burst forth the moment he took your hands, asking you whatever was wrong and nodding faster and faster with each step of your detailed medical visit. His smile grew and grew until he could hardly help himself, taking your face in his hands and pulling you into a kiss that more than assuaged your worries. “Why do you look so worried? Such a wonderful blessing was beyond anything I could imagine,” he tells you, a hand reaching to rest gently upon you.

✧ He all but tackles you to bed that night, kissing again and again your lips, your cheeks, and down finally to your belly.

✧ Boromir’s appreciation of your body never ceases your entire wait. His hands always caressing you, his words always sweet upon your ears, especially to cut through the deprecating ones your own lips utter. It baffles your husband that you cannot see how utterly glowing you are.

✧ One hundred percent though will he be teasing you about the odd cravings you get; even as he goes to fetch them he’s making faces, asking if you’re sure, joking about what strange taste the little one has.

✧ You suspect you are carrying a son while Boromir’s guess is a little girl. After you remind him that a mother knows, he rests a hand over your bump and replies with a teasing grin “Why can’t a father know as well?” “Because you do not have to carry him for the better part of a year!”

✧ One of Boromir's favorite things in this world is the sight of how his lent garments fit you tighter and tighter, bringing a twinge to both the loving and the possessive sides of his heart...and his hands to wrap around you or cup your cheeks and pull you into a kiss!

Gimli

✧ His intuition is off the proverbial charts. It is he who first makes any mention of your chances, stating you should not strain yourself in your condition. You are confused, you even protest, but in the end you have your little appointment and your husband has a smug little moment of ‘I told you so’ before the realization of just what he’d been sensing hits him, dropping his jaw and sending his arms flying about you, lifting you up into the air with a hearty laugh. “The mighty line continues! And thanks to such a beautiful lassie no less! You'll want for nothing, I promise you, and no harm'll come to either of you while I yet draw breath."

✧ Has strong opinions about how well you should be eating, so barring you being stricken with sickness Gimli will be making or otherwise providing for you the heartiest of meals, all the things he believes are necessary to raise up a strong little dwarfling. Thank the fortitude and solace of his people, but you are sick very little your entire journey with this and all other little ones you share!

✧ Given the strength of dwarven genetics, you both assume that you are expecting a boy; thus, your husband insists on crafting a tiny axe for him. “For when he’s older, of course!” Gimli assures you, waving his hands defensively.

✧ No worries about your pregnancy weight here- suffice it to say that a dwarf finds the extra pounds quite appealing and has no hesitation about showing you such!

✧ Any exhaustion you feel is the only thing that stops Gimli from taking you around to all his friends and loved ones and likely anyone else who will listen and announce that he has a child on the way!

✧ Nesting is a very strong instinct of his! Gimli builds and crafts by hand all of your baby's furniture and decor, even an adorable mobile of horses, little dwarves with pickaxes, and little effigies of your favorite animal all dangling above his crib! Leaning his head against your belly, he asks the baby "Well, what do you think? Only the finest for my little flame!"

Frodo

✧ Your husband wasn’t sure at first. Not sure if he would feel whole enough after all he endured to bring a life into this world, but you, oh, you… The one who brought life vividly rushing back to his heart, color returning to his life and comfort to his pain. One day a pang struck his heart and he realized it would mean the world if after it all he was able to create life, and more importantly to have something so amazing come of your love. Soon after you both eagerly hoped for the signs, and it took but a few months. Frodo worried you would be sick, but confirmation comes after weeks without your cycle, nothing more. For once, no pain shall come to Frodo Baggins or those he loves.

✧ Your health is his greatest concern, so much so in fact that Frodo has soon befriended practically every midwife in the Shire, melting them with his endearing eagerness to know all he can about your possible afflictions and what you need. His concerns soon gather you the proverbial village of help should you ever send Frodo off for something beyond his breadth.

✧ It breaks Frodo's heart when his nightmares or moments of panic coincide with your own fragile emotions for the first time, for he should be caring for you, not the other way around, but when you hold each other, tears soaking into the opposite shirt, he realizes that what you two have is an understanding and trust strong enough to fortify each other even in darkness.

✧ In case you were not already aware, you are so lucky in your choice of husband! Discussing names soon emerges into your conversation and it almost takes you aback how quickly agreements on a girl and boy name are reached!

✧ The one time during your entire wait for your little one that brings tears to Frodo’s eyes is the day you bring home a bolt of fabric and when he asks what it is for, you answer to make him and your new arrival matching garments.

✧ You catch him smiling widely at you, love glowing in his bright blue eyes as he watches you do even the smallest things, your little waddle or the way you practice folding diaper cloth. All you can imagine is those same eyes fixed upon a babe in his arms, shooting Frodo the same look right back.

Sam

✧ It seemed that every other conversation you shared with your beloved Samwise revolved around babies, so much so that your few still-unmarried friends had grown sick of it. Anyone with a baby in the Shire, though, knew who to look toward for care! You and Sam gushed over little clothes, little hands, went on for goodness-knows-how-long about how much you'd like a little Sam and he wants a miniature version of the loveliest girl he'd ever seen followed of course by you saying why not both? Sam loved life so much, saw beauty in growth and creation and every joy in it, so of course he wanted a big family and all his infectious sunshine on the subject just made you fall in love with him more and more. Months of trying passed, though, before you came to Sam in a daze, before you cupped his precious face in your hands and whispered to him we did it. Before he tackled you to the soft grassy ground and held you, weeping tears of joy and kissing your hands, your cheeks, finally your lips once he'd spoken how much he loved you.

✧ Takes to sleeping a bit lower, his head nuzzled against your torso. In the night you can feel his nose and lips ghosting over it and even hear little whispers when you both can't sleep, but you say nothing, letting Sam have his moments with the little one.

✧ The worry he has about everything the first time around. "Are you sure you can eat that? I don't want you to get sick." "Is that too heavy?" "Don't trouble yourself a mite when I'm right here, I'll bend over for it." "Alright, only if you're certain nothing will happen to the baby, sweetheart." As much as you want to remind him that you are still a fully functional woman, you know that Sam is an action man and this is his way of showing he cares.

✧ The meals he cooks you. You will be eating like a queen all because Sam wants to keep the baby strong, of course! As a bonus, it truly is like he knows what sets you off and avoids those things without even having to ask.

✧ “Imagine all the wee feet running through here,” Sam muses in bed one night, your head tucked in the crook of his neck. “The little hands grasping ours,” you add. “All the little ribbons we can tie in a girl’s hair.” “Taking your little boy out to the garden!” Once again, your friends act positively sick of how sweet you are, but inside anyone can see how deliriously happy you and Sam are and feel warmed by it.

✧ “When the time comes,” Sam always assures you, your hand tightly in his, “I’ll be right here. Wild horses could hardly drag your Sam away.”

Merry

✧ Your reveal is made a bit anticlimactic thanks to your husband’s teasing ways. “You’re knitting.” Glancing down at your work, you simply nod. “Yes.” “You never knit.” Merry’s eyes narrow. “Is it for somebody?” “If you must know,” you set your needles carefully in your lap and tease back, “this is for your child. Any complaints now?” “My child?” Jaw dropping, Merry looks at you like you’d just offered him the whole of Middle Earth. “That’s right,” your voice softens, even cracking a bit with emotion at the sight of his smile, “you’re going to be a father, Merry.”

✧ Merry’s adorable little habit of making you a pillow pile to lay on during your time of the month carries right through to your pregnancy. And of course it continues even when you remind him you’ll not be able to stand up from in because he will be right there to help you up!

✧ Because you've taken up knitting, Merry wheedles with all his charm and love and kisses an additional creation from you: a sweater made from the same yarn as baby's. "You are lucky to be so adorable," you tease him, looking up from your work to kiss his lovely lips. Maybe, you thought, a whole matching set for three would be in order, though…

✧ Another one who teases you, joking about how he is finally able to outrun you!

✧ The type of father to chastise the baby whenever they kick you too hard, lecturing to the front of your dress about hurting your mother and how that simply won’t do, then looking up at you with a humored smile.

✧ Compliments increase at least twofold upon your revelation, Merry never sparing the kindest words about your strength, certainly, but mostly your beauty. Never once during any pregnancy do you feel unloved, unwanted, unattractive, for even when your eyes can find no light within your reflection there your husband is practically worshipping every corner of your form.

Pippin

✧ Desire for a family was something that had drawn you two together as a couple, though you may have found yourself talking Pippin down from ten children! “Maybe start with five,” you would always tease him. So the moment your hypothesis is tested and confirmed, a grin you can’t remove spreads across your face and you run to collect everything for your surprise. Surprise is the only word you can use when Pippin opens his gift and sees the tiny knitted hat you’ve placed inside the box. “What is this for? Little small, is it not?” “If it was for us, perhaps.” It ended up taking you reaching out for his hand and resting it upon your lower belly for the massive grin to spread across his face, but once it does Pippin is laughing loudly and giddily, swinging you back and forth in ecstasy!

✧ Runs to get you whatever your need with barely an question. After all, who is he to say what it's like being with child, and if you want it, you shall have it. Hot water bottle? Certainly. A cup of tea? Of course. Three more pillows? Why, he'll strip your whole bed down. Panics a little if the request is to relieve pain, so prepare to hear a crash or the shuffle of a trip or two before you have the item in hand or on body.

✧ "What is this for?" "What are these?" Lucky you love him, your husband does have many a question of all the supplies you gather for after your new addition is welcomed. "Oh, to keep the hands safe? That makes sense." "Wait, you need to wear that... to catch the bloo- oh, my." He gulps. "I'm going out right now. I'm getting you a cake and some jewelry and some flowers and anything else you'd like."

✧ Can barely keep his hands to himself. Pippin was always the most affectionate husband you could ask for, but now? Now you two are practically a package set and nary can you travel without his arm around you, hand about your waist and gently running up and down over your little growing bump.

✧ Your baby seems to have inherited your husband’s personality, for even before the birth many signs of how active your little one is are present! Those poor ribs of yours will get kicked more than a few times with all the fluttering your little one stirs up inside of you! Pippin, of course, wants to feel it all and luckily he is never far from the scene. If he is, though, you bet he will run!

✧ Pippin is always laying with his cheek resting on your belly, talking to the baby about anything from how his day’s gone to how they have the most amazing and beautiful mother. Your heart can’t help fluttering every time.

Faramir

✧ Faramir has the most uncanny way of reading you like a book, a habit endearing as it is frustrating. Thus the moment he catches you smiling to yourself he is smiling back, approaching you with teasing question of what has you so happy. For once, though, you have the satisfaction of catching your husband off guard, resting your head against his shoulder and a hand upon his chest as you tell him you just cannot wait to see him as a father. "Someday, my love," he takes your hand and kisses it, "if I am so blessed." Giggling, you shake your head against him. "Blessed indeed! Someday shall be this fall," you answer, and peeling back from him you receive another spike of satisfaction at his wide blue eyes, the drop of his jaw and the race of his heart beneath your hand. "Are you certain?" You nod. This time, he takes both of your hands in his and with tears in his eyes thanks the heavens for you even as he shakily laughs, your bright demeanor never failing to put a smile upon his face. "Our child will be so loved." "I know."

✧ Your husband finds himself lost in reverie more and more often, drifting out of reality into some distant, but nowhere near out-of-reach, dream of your family, seeing you as a mother the most beautiful sight he can conjure.

✧ Faramir adores holding you from behind, his hands curled gently over where your bump forms and his head resting gently upon your shoulder, flowing hair tickling your cheeks and neck lightly.

✧ "One for each of us," is Faramir's joke when one of Gondor's finest medics grants you the knowledge that you are not expecting one child, but two. Your husband is there in the storms, the waves of anxiety rolling within you over being there for your twins. "You are not alone," he always reminds you, a hand joined with yours right over the twins' little hearts.

✧ If you wanted a husband who actually does his due diligence learning all he can about growing babies, birth, and postpartum care, then Faramir is another excellent choice! He’ll be spouting off facts about the whole thing ranging from what size the babies currently are to why you might have contractions after giving birth. Your mood determines whether you listen in or tell him to kindly stop.

✧ Just as with you, Faramir’s insecurities sometimes get the better of him, but they also fuel him, bringing a fire you can see to his fair eyes as he speaks with determination how he will love all his children equally.

Eomer

✧ Pride glows upon your countenance as you flit about the kitchen putting the finishing touches on the roast you'd made for dinner. A kingly feast is in order, for not only had you heard your husband performed exceptional drills this day, but you yourself are the host of something exceptional. Eomer and you have been enjoying each other's company much these days, so the news is not so much of a shock as it is a celebration, exuberance at a line enduring, two dreams fulfilled as one, especially for your husband, who speaks often of how he longs for a full, boisterous home. Six if he's lucky. Well, you can hardly wait to help him along, pulling Eomer into your arms for an enthusiastic kiss before he can even toe his boots off, and when he chuckles and asks what has taken hold of his beautiful wife you let your news fly. Shouting for joy with abandon, Eomer lifts you up into his arms bridal-style, kissing your lips again and again. Dinner is all but forgotten as he kneels before you, holding your waist and pressing kisses all over the bodice of your dress and thanking you for making his day, nay, his life, perfect.

✧ Eomer is always proud of you, but the moment he finds out you are with child that feeling swells and positively drips off of him, every outing with him suddenly seeming quite like a chance for him to show you off. An arm around you at all times, a smile of great joy and satisfaction, news shared to all who dare make conversation with you both, and even kisses in public! Eomer is simply on top of the world and not a thing will topple his spirits.

✧ As somebody who never much studied the workings of women, though, Eomer is… a bit out of his depth. You will have to teach him some things like why your emotions swing so or what to look out for to know when your water breaks. This man has been in battle, seen heads roll in the most literal sense, and yet when you describe the eventual passing of your placenta his entire face contorts in a look of horror that has you all but doubled over in laughter.

✧ “You look so beautiful with child,” Eomer purrs, “we’ll have to do this again sometime.” You smack his arm, but cannot resist giggling at the way your husband still gives you butterflies.

✧ Your new addition had not even arrived yet and Eomer is commissioning a child-sized saddle, unable to contain his excitement as he describes all their future rides to you!

✧ As you dream up names, Eomer has many suggestions from the great halls of his own people, ancestors and great warriors alike, but making considerations of your own background is equally important to him, so he is more than willing to go back and forth for the perfect solution.

Eowyn

✧ No one had thought it possible, but they should have known. Impossible was not in Eowyn’s lexicon, and that was exactly why you loved her, one part within many of why you became her wife. And now, the healer confirmed you were carrying her child. …Very well, technically her banner-bearer’s child as the two of you had been forced to get a bit creative, but to have support and help from those who had begun with such uncertainty meant the world. Even Eomer had come around, having offered similarly, but of course you had to remind him that Eowyn wanted a child of her own, not a niece or nephew! Without Guthláf’s, er, donation, you would never bear witness to the broad and beautiful smile on your wife’s face, the tears glistening in the gorgeous blue of her eyes. “A child…” “Our child,” you add, leaning forward until your foreheads touched and noses brushed, a tearful smile upon your own face as your wife gently held your waist.

✧ Having worked so many times as a nurse lends well at least to Eowyn, for she is firm and unrelenting in her urging, nay, forcing, you to rest. No ifs, ands, or buts are to be accepted from your strong-willed beauty, let her dote on you, for she does it with great pleasure. And besides, the harder you fight, the harder she'll work to keep you lain down.

✧ Understanding the pain and symptoms of your time of the month completely also translates; thus Eowyn is ready with remedies for your aches and pains, hot water and herbs awaiting you. She rarely snaps back at your moods, choosing to be silent in the worst of times because she knows. Really, she does.

✧ She cooks for you, and whether you say anything about that or not likely depends on how willing to hide your honesty behind the hormone excuse if it is not taken well.

✧ Reminds you constantly how strong you are. In your lowest of moments, the times you struggle to stand and straighten your aching spine, feeling massive and utterly useless, Eowyn is there to hold your hand and tell you that you are hosting and creating life as she so speaks. You have made the ultimate sacrifice of your body and the greatest of pain to bring just as great a blessing to yourself and your wife. Far from useless, you are divine.

✧ “What does it feel like?” Resting her head on her hand, the one that wasn’t lain against your fluttering belly, she questions you as the baby kicks. “For you?” Part of her wishes to have this experience herself someday, while another takes your descriptions with trepidation. She does not enjoy being restricted, after all.

Haldir

✧ “Lie down, please, my love.” Haldir’s concern with your sickness increased daily as did the pain of seeing you feeling so weak and ill. You tried to push through and for as much as he loved your strength, your husband was not having it this time. Pride was not worth seeing you doubled over again, whether from pain or, arguably worse, illness. You relented in the end, resting and beneath the spinning of your head at the end of the day feeling not a seed of energy to protest an inspection. Healing herbs had you perking up a bit, and perked up you needed to be when the dark-haired, round-faced healer nodded sagely and with a wide smile told you you were with child, and these early days were likely to be the worst. For the first time in days the sobs that escaped you were accompanied by a smile, your face utterly breaking as Haldir held you against his chest, weeping too and thanking you for all you would endure for this blessing.

✧ Physically carries you places as often as he can be spared to do so. Lifts you up bridal-style to move you across your home and sits you up before he feeds you. Your illness brings out a tender, caring side you have never seen in your strong, stoic husband, but it makes your heart swell that much more for him and for the life you two are to have with your child.

✧ Another symptom you experience is the aching and swelling of your feet, but Haldir sits you down facing him and makes the best work of them he can, hands gentle as always as they soothe your skin.

✧ Even in the later months as your illness abates, though, your husband remains protective as ever, standing between you and any potential harm with the fiercest look upon his face and a hand upon your middle, even if the threat is an object you’ve hurt yourself on.

✧ The way shock melts into a wide, ecstatic smile unlike your husband’s typical demeanor when the healer repeats that yes, she could definitely hear two heartbeats beside yours is worth more than any gold in the world. Haldir pulls you into his arms, chuckling deeply. You feel his head shake slightly, slowly, atop yours in wonder.

✧ When you sleep, Haldir will always be holding you close, whether it is an arm draped over your bump loosely if you’re hot or need space or else you fully tucked into your husband’s warm embrace.

Galadriel

✧ Galadriel is actually the one who assuages your worries that your dream will not come true, having full faith in you as much as the magic of this world. And she is right, of course, confidence proven in the aid you receive from a member of her guard and even the way she knows it to be true before the healer even confirms the news. As much as she jokes about seeing a glow around you, the width of her beautiful blue eyes, the shine therein, tells you that your wife is as elated to hear it beyond a shadow of a doubt as you are: you are hosting a little life for you both to nurture.

✧ You being pregnant only aids in her mysterious nature. She can be convening in a council with the wisest of minds from afar and will use you as an excuse to step away at her will. "If you will excuse me. My wife is with child." They are not even aware she is married. Some of them may not understand how it all works, but before they can ask any clarifying questions Galadriel has already slipped away to be with you.

✧ One tendency you unwittingly adopt is falling asleep in the oddest of places, your exhausted body giving out upon its own terms. Always will you wake up draped in one of your wife’s shawls or blankets, however, no matter how odd the spot.

✧ Both of you can hardly resist the allure of tiny garments, smiling every time you see them. It also rings a bell of realization within your minds as you hold a tiny gown up to your midsection. Truly as you speak, there is a tiny body within you! What magic it is to be a woman!

✧ What magic indeed, you later reflect as another pain strikes your back not long after. Hosting tiny bodies came with all the assorted blessings and curses of your kind, one not long without the other. Sighing, you make to approach the chaise across the room and soon your wife is with you, moving its drapes aside and lowering you gently to its cushions, a soothing hand tracing up and down your aching spine.

✧ "I hope she looks like you," you both turn to each other and say simultaneously, mothers' intuition firmly aligned in your hearts, from which so much love for each other pours from, Galadriel immediately drawing you closer to press her lips to the crown of your head.

Arwen

✧ Elrond had been quite hesitant about your relationship with his daughter at first- were you the best choice for her? Could someone like you keep her safe? And how, of course, would she be given the child she so desired? Questions you yourself had posed to her, but she refused to listen, telling you her mind, and heart, were sealed. Little do you know, however, that all of Rivendell would come to love you as their own, see and praise the way you cared for Arwen, and in Lindir’s case even provide the healers with a chance at you giving your wife the family you both yearned for. The moment you tell her the healers’ method worked and she is to he a mother, you both are, her features lighten, taking on the wondrous joy of youth again as she grabs your face, falling onto you with a kiss of pure love.

✧ So accusing if you've overexerted yourself, leaning in closer with a look of sometimes-teasing, sometimes-serious scrutiny. "Surely you did not carry that up the stairs all by yourself, right?"

✧ Do not even bother trying to fake feeling up to anything, whatever the task, for Arwen can see right through you and will insist you sit down, taking your hands in hers. "Rest. You have your burden- let me take the others. My heart bears no ill."

✧ Her affection gets softer, light touches to your waist and hands resting over yours. One hand upon your hip or belly and one on your shoulder as you two sway gently, foreheads pressed together.

✧ Arranging your nursery is one of Arwen's favorite pastimes: painting a gorgeous meadow mural upon the wall, stitching a soft toy to lay within the crib, asking you which fabric you prefer for blankets.

✧ Your bundle of joy can make sleep difficult, but one silver lining Arwen points out in a low whisper one morning is how many sunrises you’ve now gotten to share with each other.

Elrond

✧ Reservations about having a fourth child so long after the others disappeared every time Lord Elrond caught sight of you holding a neighbor’s child or even just showing the loving care that had him convinced he would be well even marrying a second time at all. Every smile, every sweet thing you did, all of it came back to Elrond in a rush when you told him he was to become a father again. For once he did not feel too old, too tired, nothing but the elation of his every desire unfurling to him before his very eyes from your warm embrace. To be chosen as the father to your child was the greatest honor the lord of Rivendell could imagine.

✧ Your every ailment is minimal, for Elrond knows exactly what is best for each and every one. Nausea? The perfect tea blend awaits to calm the waves you feel. Aches and cramps? Your husband is happy to give you the most heavenly massage, his hands finding every needed spot as if by magic. A swell of emotion? He does not speak unless bidden to, simply holding you through sudden waves of tears, frustration, or both until he feels your body relax against his.

✧ Being married to an elf with the gift of foresight comes with the benefit of worries soothed, but also a joke shared between you both. For many a time you teasingly chastise him not to look too far and spoil the surprise of whether you have a son or daughter on the way!

✧ Standing behind you, Elrond rests his hands around your middle and presses a kiss to your cheek. Just when you think the bliss of this moment, of having your whole little new family all together within your husband’s arms, cannot increase is when Elrond shifts his hands, taking on the great weight you carry. Peering up into his soft blue eyes, your whole body deflates in a sigh of sweet relief as he holds you.

✧ He can never truly understand your experience, but Elrond has witnessed this process. All he wishes is to tell you all your pain shall pass, even the worst memories will fade and ease, but such words will sound insensitive, so all he does is continue to hold your hand and stand proudly at your side.

✧ One thing your husband cannot resist is showering your future little one with gifts, even jewelry for when they are a bit older and the tiniest circlet to place upon the beloved head, matching Adar's perfectly.

Want to meet the little ones? Part 2 coming soon 😉

Taglist: @lokilover476 @fuckyoumakeart @kilibaggins @mossthebogwitch @ibabblealot @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin @letmelickyoureyeballs @mossyskinn @wordbunch | Message/Reply/Ask to join 🥰

[joelsprettyprincess]

Run, Rabbit, Run

Pairing: low honor!Arthur Morgan x f!virgin!reader Summary: Arthur Morgan has done countless things for you. He decides that you owe him a big, fat favor. Tags: dub-con smut (reader is coaxed into sex), age gap (early 20s/mid-thirties), slight manipulation, oral sex, unprotected piv, dirty talk, pet names, slight daddy kink, corruption kink, loss of virginity, aftercare Wordcount: 4.2k A/N: I know I'm supposed to be working on my stalker Joel fic but I just had to get this out, Arthur is such a cutie pie I couldn't resist. All constructive criticism is appreciated and once again MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! Also @thoughts-of-bear I know you wanted to be tagged so here you go 🩷

"C'mere, baby. You see it?"

Arthur beckoned you closer to him. The two of you were hunched in the grass, hunting a particularly nimble deer. 

You crawled over to his broad, muscular form. He was pointing to where the deer was loitering and looking around. 

You and Arthur had been trailing this deer for a while now; it was healthy and big, and would make good food for the gang. But every time one of you got too close, it skittered away.

Hunting this deer was important to you. Ever since the Van Der Linde gang had taken you in, 6 months ago, you were desperate to prove your worth.

Arthur Morgan had saved your life on that fateful day. A couple of crazed thieves had ambushed you and your father on the way to a town near your run-down cottage. They'd demanded all your goods and your father refused, instead drawing his gun. A shootout occurred, leading to your father being killed– struck in the chest with a bullet.

The only reason you escaped with your life was because Arthur and Micah had happened to be in the same area. Hearing your screams for help, they'd ridden down the hill and saw the thieves handling you roughly, stripping you of your belongings as your father bled out just a few feet away.

Two more shots rang out, one from each of your saviors, and the men went down quickly.

"You alright, miss?" Arthur asked, though of course at the time you didn't know his name.

"I- no, my- please," you blubbered incoherently, gesturing at your father.

They went over to him, but he was already gone. The bullet had killed him instantly.

Micah and Arthur stayed in town for several days. They helped you report his body so he could get a proper funeral and possibly justice by the law. After the service, Arthur took you back to the bare cottage you had called home since your childhood.

You stood on the porch, profusely thanking him for everything he had done. "I really can't thank you enough," you said. "If it weren't for y'all, I'd be a goner..."

"'S no trouble," Arthur assured you. He put his black hat back on his head. "Anything else you need? Food, drink?"

"No, you've done so much already," you sighed. "Thank you. I really mean it."

He nodded. "I'm glad we could help. But if you don't need anythin' else, I'll be on my way."

"Alright. Thank you, Mr. Morgan!"

You watched him walk towards his horse, then turned back to your doorstep.

You put your hand on the doorknob, and immediately jerked it away. The knob felt cold to the touch, despite it being late spring. 

You discovered that you couldn't open the door. Not that it was locked— you physically couldn't open it. Your hand wouldn't turn.

Looking back, you saw Arthur loading his horse's satchel.

A lump formed in your throat. You swallowed it away, and tried to will yourself to open the door, to no avail.

You stood there for a second, then made a split decision.

Turning around, you ran back onto the road where Arthur was just starting to leave.

"Arthur!" you called, running as fast as you could in your dress. "Mr. Morgan, wait!"

Arthur looked back and saw you clutching your skirts. He slowed his horse and turned around, trotting back.

"Need somethin'?" he asked.

You hesitated, then nodded. "I...I want to come with you."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"To your...group. I want to join...if that's okay with you?"

Arthur got a funny look on his face. "I...uh– look, darlin'," he began awkwardly. "That's not a good idea. I haven't been completely honest with you. Our group is more like a gang."

"A gang?" you asked confusedly. All he had told you was that he and Micah were part of a group that traveled all around the country.

He scratched his neck. "We do things that are...not quite legal."

What? "Wait, so you're...a criminal?"

He nodded.

You stood there, thinking. "So have you...never mind. Um...I still want to join."

This time both his brows shot up. "Really? Do you understand what you're askin', young lady?"

"Please, Mr. Morgan. I can't go back there...I can't go live in that house if my father isn't there with me. I don't have anything left 'cept my horse. Please let me come with you."

He sat on his saddle, thinking. Finally he muttered, "Fine. But it's not up to me. I'll take you up to the camp and you can ask Dutch."

You smiled and almost giggled when he said that. The prospect of experiencing a totally different life appealed to you as a way to heal from what had happened. 

Arthur sighed. "Alright. Get on your horse, darlin'."

And the rest was history. Dutch allowed you to stay, with Arthur as your unofficial guardian. 

He had to teach you almost everything. You'd worked as a bargirl since you became an adult, so the only thing you were really skilled at was putting drunkards out on their asses.

Well, that, and gardening. You loved to forage for herbs to use in recipes and medicine.

But everyone had to contribute. Arthur taught you how to shoot a gun first. You'd only ever shot your father's pistol a few times. He felt it wasn't appropriate for a lady to own a firearm, so you had never learned.

You and Arthur spent days just shooting at random things, working on your aim and grip. It had been a learning curve but eventually you mastered the basics.

He also showed you the ways of the gang. Most of the women took part in thievery and spying, not actual fighting. So you learned that, with Tilly serving as your guide.

And of course you were learning to hunt. Setting a trap was something you already knew, but it was slow and not as reliable as a proper weapon.

That was why the two of you had been trailing this particular deer for so long. You were determined to bring something to Pearson.

"We may have to try an' hit it from here," Arthur whispered. "Seems like it senses us from so far away."

You nodded and very slowly unsheathed your bow and arrow. This was your preferred weapon; it was whisper quiet and smooth.

Lining up the shot, you pointed the arrow straight at the deer's chest, breathing lightly.

"Easy," Arthur whispered. He was beside you, his breath ghosting over your ear. "Take your time."

You waited a second, then released the arrow. It sailed through the air, going straight towards the deer. It looked up at the last second, and by then it was too late. The arrow struck and the deer fell.

You gasped. "I did it! Finally!"

Both of you stood up. You skipped through the grassy turf to observe your kill, ecstatic at finally landing a clear shot.

It was a really good one. The arrow had struck almost dead center, ensuring the deer suffered for no more than a few seconds.

"You did good, sweetheart," Arthur praised you. "I'm proud."

You smiled and blushed at his approval. "Thanks," you said. "It was really you. If you hadn't taught me I would still be shit with a bow." 

He chuckled. "I'm flattered, but that was all you, baby. You've learned so much." He paused. "But you know what, I have been a big help, haven't I? You owe me a few favors, don't you?" He laughed loudly.

You laughed as well. "Probably, but I dunno how I'd pay you back. There's nothing you can't do for yourself."

He shrugged, grinning. "I can think of a couple things. I'll figure somethin' out."

You chuckled again, assuming he was joking. 

The two of you stowed the deer onto the back of Arthur's horse. 

"Listen, sweetheart," Arthur started, leaning against his horse. "It's getting a bit later in the day and the camp is quite a ride from here. Whaddya say we set up camp right here and set out in the mornin'?"

You looked up. The sun was well past its peak by now, and there were golden orange and pink hues in the horizon.

"Plus you'll get a break from all the jabberin' from everyone," he added, chuckling.

"That sounds great," you agreed. You had camped with Arthur a few times before. He was a good partner to have.

"Shit's settled then," he grunted. "Let's ride down to that creek to wash up, then we can start a fire somewhere." Arthur helped you onto your horse and patted your leg before getting on his own.

You spurred your horse, Desdemona, into action, and she set off behind Arthur's horse.

There was a deep creek (or maybe it was a shallow river?) a few minutes away, where you and Arthur scrubbed the blood and dirt off your arms while the horses drank.

You glanced at Arthur and saw that he was looking at your arms. "What?" you asked.

He shook his head. "Nothin'. Yer hands, they're just so...delicate."

You had never noticed before, but now you could see that compared to Arthur's large grizzled hands, you were really soft– not just physically but mentally.

"It's 'cause I'm useless," you joked. "Just like Pearson said."

He looked sharply. "Pearson said what?"

"Oh– nothing, just...well, it's nothing," you muttered.

"Tell me what he said," Arthur said firmly.

You hesitated, not wanting to be a snitch. "Well, he just said that I don't really contribute much...but I mean, he's right! I don't do much. That's why I wanted to hunt today."

Arthur didn't say anything for a bit, then he said in a low voice, "I'll have a talk with him."

You felt bad. "You don't have to."

He didn't answer, and instead stood up. "You ready?" 

You stood as well, finishing drying your hands on your cloth. "Yup."

Arthur got back on his horse and continued down the trail, with you following closely behind. Within a few minutes, he located a bit of flat dry land on which to set up camp.

The horses were hitched to a nearby tree and given their supper. You worked on lighting a fire while Arthur refilled your water containers.

Both of you had lunches packed, fortunately. Arthur said he wanted to leave the deer untouched until you got back to camp.

You sat on the grass and ate your sandwich. Arthur shared some of his jerky with you. He also offered you a sip of alcohol, which you accepted and almost immediately spit out.

The two of you spent some time at the fire, eating and looking at the slowly advancing sunset.

Without looking at you, Arthur took your hand in his and gently rubbed your knuckles.

You didn't think too much of it. He'd held your hand before and said it didn't mean anything, it was just a sign of your companionship.

Arthur was strange sometimes, you thought. Here he was appreciating a sunset, when just last week he'd stumbled into camp covered in blood– and only some of it was his.

You knew the reality of life in the Van Der Linde gang. The men made no attempt to hide their actions from you, least of all Arthur. In fact, you sometimes wondered if he sought out violence on purpose. The looks he gave you when came back from a long day of lawbreaking were...interesting, to say the least. Like a wolf observing a clueless rabbit.

But on the other hand, he was a man of hidden beauty. You'd found his journal soon after you arrived, and in the 10 seconds before he snatched it away, you read the words written in neat cursive and surprisingly good sketches.

He also sometimes went foraging with you, and seemed just as interested in the herbs as you were.

As for the handholding, you didn't know how to feel about it. He only did it when the others weren't around, and you knew it usually had romantic notions. But you knew it could have friendly notions as well.

Arthur Morgan was complicated, that was for sure. He made your thoughts jumble and your face heat up as you tried to piece together his psyche. He was handsome for sure, way more good-looking than anyone else in camp.

Still, though, you didn't think it was appropriate to explore those feelings. It was...weird. He was quite a bit older than you, after all, and your relationship was more of a teacher-student one.

Well, whatever your feelings were, you were certain he knew not to encourage them.

Deep down, he was a good man.

-

You had been watching the sunset for a few minutes when Arthur spoke in a low voice.

"Sweetheart, I've been thinkin'."

"Mhm?" you asked.

"About how you can repay me."

"Oh? I thought you were joking," you giggled.

He chuckled, then cleared his throat. "Well, I've done so much for you, I feel like you should do somethin' for me, yeah?"

"Yeah, I suppose so," you replied. "What do you want? Money?"

"Not quite." Arthur took your hand, still encased in his, and placed it between his thighs.

You felt something stiff but pliable pressing against your palm. "O-Oh," you said, heart pounding. 

"It's the least you could do," he said. "Are you...have you done this before?"

"...Yes," you whispered. "Twice. But...I don't..."

Arthur used his other hand to unbuckle his pants and pull them down a bit. He moved your hand to rest on his boxers.

"Arthur, I–"

"You owe me," he said. "All the times I covered your ass. Not to mention I saved your life."

Your pulse was quickening rapidly. You were getting a bit scared at his change of tone. "I don't think this is...appropriate," you spoke carefully. 

"Why not? We're both adults," he said flippantly.

"I just–"

"You can't do this one little thing for me, babydoll?" he asked. "It's not a big deal."

You stayed silent and thought about what to do. The only sound was the trees rustling.

Arthur slipped your fingers underneath his boxers. Your fingertips pressed against his groin.

You gasped and inadvertently jerked. 

Immediately, he was calming you. "Shh, s'okay, don't panic, baby. Just let it happen..."

You remained still as Arthur pulled down his boxers and let his half-hard cock spring out.

Your breath quickened. You weren't that experienced, but even you could tell he was big. It was just a bit longer than your hand length, and the girth looked almost scary.

Arthur could tell you were nervous. "Hey, it's okay, babydoll. Look at me."

You met his gaze. His normally bluish-green eyes had darkened.

"Is...is this...normal?" you asked confusedly. "I thought..." You trailed off uncertainly.

"Thought what, darlin'?" he prompted.

"I dunno. It feels weird..." You couldn't explain it.

"This is very normal, I promise you. Yer daddy tell you about what married folks do?"

"Not really," you admitted. "But I know some things. And...I did a little."

"Well then, you know how good it feels. 'S nothing to be afraid of. I'll be gentle, I promise. We don't even have to go all the way."

He placed your hand on his fat shaft and left it here. "Just use your hand, baby. Up and down."

You started off uncertain at first, giving tiny strokes, then Arthur intervened and showed you just how he liked it: a nice, fast stroke.

"Don't be shy, now," he said. 

After he removed his hand you tried to match the speed. This felt really weird. Although you did find Arthur attractive, you kind of had relegated it to a silly fantasy. A pipe dream. 

This was all just happening so fast.

He sighed and shifted closer to you, so your legs were pressed together. Then he said in a husky voice: "Put some spit on there, darlin'."

You hesitated and paused. "S..spit?"

He nodded. "Use yer mouth. You never did that before?"

"Just once... but is this okay? Will Dutch get mad?"

He laughed. "Dutch? He ain't got nothing to do with this. This is somethin' special just for the two of us. "

Arthur grasped your neck and pushed your face towards his stiff tip. When your mouth was inches away from it, he said, "Now just relax your mouth, don't use your teeth. Just use your tongue."

He pushed further until your lips were against his shaft. You parted them and allowed him to enter your mouth.

Arthur inhaled sharply and sighed. "That's right. Good girl...g'on and suck it..."

Only a few inches were in your mouth, but you already felt full. You struggled to swipe your tongue over it, and tried to suck it as best as you could. Horribly lewd noises came out of your mouth, and you were embarrassed.

Arthur roughly grasped your hair and pushed down, forcing more of his thick cock down your throat.

You made a noise and pulled away, gasping for breath. Arthur allowed you to breathe for a second before coaxing your mouth back onto his cock.

By this time it was early evening and the sun had almost completely disappeared. The first stars were appearing.

"Suck it good, just like that," Arthur moaned while you struggled to fit him in. You found it most comfortable to just suck the tip, but he clearly wanted more than that. After a minute, he was pushing your head down again.

You tried to lift your head but Arthur didn't let you. He rubbed your back. "Shh, s'okay, you're doing great," he whispered. "Just relax. Relax, babydoll."

You kept sucking and slurping with your tongue. It still felt weird, but it did feel good. Arthur smelled like the outdoors, which wasn't that bad.

"Keep using yer hand too," he reminded you.

The length that wasn't in your mouth was encased by your fingers. You moved them as much as you could.

You had this sudden need to please him. Actually, it wasn't sudden at all. You lived for Arthur's praise. Whenever he taught you something new, you tripped over your feet to prove yourself. It made your day when he said "good girl", or "I'm proud of you." 

It was the same here. Though you were still a bit apprehensive about this, your need to satisfy him overruled it. 

And he wasn't shy with the praise. Dirty words from his lips, his chest heaving in and out as you attacked his fat cock with your tongue.

Arthur started pushing and pulling your head, using you almost like an object. Your lips slid up and down his throbbing shaft and the speed of it made it difficult for you to focus on breathing.

He pushed and pushed until your mouth was almost pressed against the hair at the base. Holding it there, he muttered, "That's right. Choke on daddy's cock." 

You choked, and desperately tapped his leg and made noises before he finally let go.

You shot up off his cock, coughing and blinking. Drool ran out of your mouth.

"Ah...haah," you breathed, wiping off your lips. Did he really just call himself...?

"Good," he praised. "You're doin' so well for me, sweet girl."

Arthur stared at you, transfixed by the spit smeared around your lips and the bewildered look in your eye. 

He needed more.

Arthur gently maneuvered your body to lay on the blanket under you, then pulled up your skirts.

"Wh-what?!" you gasped. "I thought you weren't-"

He put a finger to your lips. "Shh, it's okay, baby, I promise. Just lay still."

You lay there as he pulled off your shoes and bloomers.

Arthur traced the outline of your cunt and you shuddered. 

"You ever been touched here before?" he asked.

You wordlessly shook your head.

He whistled lowly. "Good."

Arthur took his pants off completely and lay down on you– but his head was between your legs. He pulled your underwear off– the last layer. You shivered a little as the cool evening air hit your bareness. 

Using his hands, Arthur kept your legs spread and started using his tongue. You were completely shaken by the sudden pleasure blooming and cried out.

"Arthur–!" Your hands found his hair and grasped it, needing some sort of grounding.

He continued eating you out, sparing no pleasure. Your legs squeezed around him but his arms kept them spread.

You tried to moan quietly, but it felt too good. Your hips rocked against his face and grinded your cunt on his lips.

He added a finger, and it was like you'd died and ascended. You were seeing stars.

"Arthur, Arthur, please," you gasped, not even knowing what you were begging for. It was sinfully good.

"That's my good girl," he whispered, replacing his tongue with another finger. "Damn, you're a tight squeeze. Fuckin' creamin' all over daddy's fingers, ain't you?"

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you thought it was strange how he kept calling himself that, but you were too overwhelmed to care. Maybe you even kind of liked it.

"Yes...yes," you whined.

After just a couple more minutes, the pressure that had been building in your stomach was very quickly released, in the form of you reaching your peak and soaking his fingers and the blanket, crying out in ecstasy the whole time. Your own fingers shot down, encouraging your cunt to ride out the full orgasm.

After what felt like an hour, you finally opened your eyes to see Arthur smiling at you. 

"Never seen nothin' like that before, baby," he said huskily. "You sure you're a virgin?"

You giggled nervously. "I am."

"Hard time believing that," he remarked, wiping off his mouth. Then he shifted positions, so he was on his knees in front of your cunt, towering over you. His cock stood at the ready, still just as hard and leaking precum.

"You ready?" he asked.

"What- we're not done? There's more?" you gasped.

"Course there's more. I gotta get off too, don't I?" Arthur laughed. He tapped his tip against your still throbbing cunt.

You got scared again. "W-wait, Arthur, I don't think it's gonna fit- Ah!" 

Ignoring your words completely, Arthur pushed his cock into your soaked hole. You cried out at the stretch and the warmth. He was fucking big, much thicker than his fingers.

He coaxed in about half of it before pausing to breathe. Your eyes were tightly shut and you were gripping the blanket, breathing heavily. 

Arthur leaned down and gently kissed your lips.  He put his hands on your shoulders and slowly started thrusting in and out, enjoying the loud, creamy noises that were being produced.

If getting fingers was the pinnacle of pleasure, this was completely supernatural. You had no idea a person could feel like this.

It did hurt a bit, even with Arthur prepping you beforehand. He went slow enough at first, but he was impatient. Soon he was speeding up, desperate to feel every inch of your tight, warm hole.

Very quickly his cock was coated in your juices, allowing him to more easily fuck you. And this was definitely fucking, not making love. He growled lowly in your ear, nibbling on the lobe. 

The force of his thrusts made your breasts bounce up and down. One of his hands went down the front of your dress and fondled your breast.

"Good girl," he mumbled. "Good fuckin' girl. Gripping me so nice. So sweet...my special girl. Fuck...I never wanna leave this pussy. You're daddy's special cocksleeve, yeah? You want that?"

You whined desperately, arms scratching his broad back. Lucky he still had his shirt on, or he'd have scratches all over.

"Please, Arthur," you gasped, eyes rolling from pleasure. "I-I- mm–"

Another orgasm washed over you. You gripped his cock tight, milking it, barely letting him thrust in and out.

He chuckled. "Gripping me like that, you're fuckin' begging for me to fill you up. You want that, princess?" He slapped your face. "Dirty slut."

His sudden change of tone surprised you, but you couldn't say it didn't totally turn you on. But he'd reminded you of something.

Between moans you gasped, "What– about a, a baby?"

Arthur didn't answer, bent on reaching his climax.

"Arthur!" you cried, getting nervous.

"I'm close," he muttered. "Lay still, babygirl, lay still."

You were scared he was going to finish inside you. "Arthur, please! Please–"

"Fuck,"  he growled, pulling out at the last possible second. He was just barely able to scramble upwards before his cock twitched and he came, letting out thick spurts on your breasts.

Arthur grabbed your hand and you jerked him off together, both of your hands quickly stroking him. He let out a couple more thick ropes, which landed on your face.

Once he had let out the last of his cum, Arthur let your hand go and breathed heavily.

"You're so beautiful," he breathed. He grabbed a nearby cloth and used it to wipe your face off, then kissed you deeply.

You kissed him back, stroking his hair.

-

The two of you wiped down everything as best as you could, using damp cloths. 

You shared the tent that night, bodies pressed together.

"I love you," Arthur mumbled. "My special doll."

His hand found yours and squeezed it.

Your life would never be the same.

[diejager]

Kinktober day 7: Knife play + gags w/ Ghostface

Cw: DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, knife play, gag, tell me if I missed any.

-> kinktober masterlist -> navigation

Waking up tied and gagged on your bed, the last thing you’d expect was to be fucked to oblivion. Like any normal person in this situation, you panicked and assumed you’d be gutted and left to bleed out on your bed. The same way any of The Ghostface’s victims were left: a scene of struggle, dried blood, moved furniture, and a cold, dead body in the middle of it all.

You were sure you’d become his next victim after many nights of paranoia following you everywhere and feeling unsafe in your own home. Windows left open, object disappearing and little pictures and notes purposely left behind for you to find out. It was as if Ghostface was taunting you, terrorising his prey before he ate it the same way you marinated meat before cooking it.

And yet, here you are, drooling around the red, ball gag he brought with him, wrists tied behind your back in an uncomfortable position, forcing you to slump over his seated figure. Despite the cool air rushing in through the open window, your body alight, coated in a heavy sheen of sweat, and thighs burning from lifting your prone body up and down his cock.

Ghostface made you ride him, gasping and panting over him, head hanging on his spit-covered shoulder as he trailed his knife down your side. You could feel every ridge of his girth, the veins that ran up to the tip and the mushroom head of his cut head. Shame ate at you, cunt leaking down his balls, walls clenching around him and clit twitching from the cold fabric of his leather. The utter betrayal of your body for finding pleasure in this.

He didn’t even bother wearing a condom, leaving you worried, but that was the least of your issues. The biggest being the big and dangerous weapon he held to your skin, cutting a thin line of blood without hitting too deep. You were in a delicate situation, torn between having to fuck yourself on his cock and live, or refuse and die a painful death: gutted and tortured, displayed like a work of vulgar piece of art.

“C’mon doll, move those hips faster,” his seductive drawl came through the staticky voice changer, it was deep and low, seductively deceiving with every pet name he spoke, “The faster I cum, the faster we’re be done.”

You bit down a scoff between gritted teeth, only huffing and groaning when the head of his cock bulldozed its way into you, hit your cervix with a hard thrust. He was lean and veiny, and shaved neatly, but long. What he lacked in girth, he made up with the length of it. He felt too long to be normal, bullying into you with little effort despite your initial struggle, but he slid in like a hot knife to butter.

Your hips stuttered when the sharp edge of his knife dug deeper, his wrist curling and twisting to draw precise lines on your skin. Every letter made him throb, the head twitching as you hissed and sobbed, teeth sinking into your lower lip. It started with “GH“, then his hips started thrusting up at “OST”, and his hand found itself on your thigh with a painful grip at “FACE”.

You shuddered, legs growing weaker and weaker, the adrenaline that had mercifully numbed your pain was slowly coming to an end just as you felt the agonising coil of pleasure tighten. You could hear him huff and pant through the plastic mask, nearly undetectable by the mic of his voice changer.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he groaned, head thrown back, driving his hips up, “Fuck.”

He painted your walls white, the heavy feel of him inside made you nauseous, and it only worsened at the sight of his finished work —”GHOSTFACE” was cleanly written on the side of your waist, simulating a branding —the signature on a finished piece.

“I’ll see you next week, doll,” he patted your thigh, knife cutting through your binds and took the gag off before he slipped out the window.

And just before he left, he turned around and curled his fingers at you:

“Tell anyone and I’ll know. Bye bye now. ”

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Could you do Daddy kink König x fem reader pls 🙏👉👈

König w/ a Daddy Kink

Warnings: 18+, Daddy Kink, Dominant König, Breeding Kink, Forced Breeding Kink, Consensual Non-Con/Dub-Con Kink (König would never force himself on you; he loves you very much and everything you do together is explicitly consensual), Somnophilia, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Submissive Reader, Fem Reader, Spanking, Discipline, Punishment, Petnames, Pussy Slapping, Plugging, Sadism, König’s dick is H U G E, Profanity, Fluff, etc.

DADDY KONIG AAAAAAAHHHHHH

Okay, Dom König absolutely has a daddy kink.

And you realised it by accident when you screamed “Daddy!” as he made you cum.

Body riddled with the ebbing of your orgasm, heaving chest flush against König’s, you lolled against him, perfectly oblivious to what you’d unearthed in König.

“What was that, Engel?” König said, panting, twitching, head tilting as he looked down at you.

You could barely talk, nevermind move.

When you didn’t answer, still panting heavily, König took your face in his hand, gripping your jaw, making you wince.

“Don’t test my patience, Engel.” His voice was low and rasping with lust. “I’m sure you don’t want me to pound you again. Not while you’re so…” He pressed his fingers against the bruised, sensitive skin of your lips.

You yelped, back arching, pushing you further into König’s chest.

“I…I called you…” Your gaze fell from his sharp eyes, drifting off to the side, shame obscuring your confidence and rendering you incapable of facing him.

“Go on,” König encouraged. “Say it.”

“Daddy…”

König shivered, his skin breaking out into goosebumps. He sucked in a hiss between his teeth, and, slowly, ground his half-hard cock against your aching flower. You whined. König growled.

“Mmmh, Darling,” his breath shuttered, “such a good girl.”

König rubbed against your clit, making you moan - cry - against him.

“M’gonna fuck you so hard ‘til–”

He groaned, his tip catching your lips. God, so tempting - so inviting.

“‘Til you make me a daddy.”

Expect many thorough breeding sessions after this.

Literally just König filling you until you look and feel like you’re about to burst, only for him to plug you and make you keep his seed inside you.

“Pull it out and I’ll keep going until you actually pop.”

Definitely into somnophilia.

Will wake up at an odd hour of the morning with a raging hard-on and will just feed his length into your pussy, feeling you squeeze him while you sleep.

“Gonna fill you up, Baby,” he’d whisper in your ear, giving a low moan when you shift in your sleep and invite him deeper.

If you wake up during this and tell König to: “Nnng, stop - please, don’t–”

You’re just gonna make him cum harder, draw him to his end quicker.

That being said, he has a slight (massive) dub-con kink.

Also, consensual forced breeding kink.

“N-no! Please, Daddy, I don’t wanna get pregnant–”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” König hissed, his cock bulging in your stomach, his hands pinning your wrists above your head.

“I’ll breed you as much as I like; m’gonna make sure you never leave this house again–” he moaned as he felt himself succumbing to his release, his member twitching. “So beautiful – you’re gonna look so pretty, swollen with my offspring.”

Well, given you actually want to bring a child into the world, of course.

If not, you and König can simply pretend, still indulging König’s daddy kink at every given opportunity.

König refuses to let you refer to him by anything other than ‘Daddy’ when he’s in the mood - failure to do so results in some serious pussy slapping.

Doesn’t matter how sensitive you are; he’s going to make sure you remember to call him Daddy next time.

The same goes for if you start being bratty.

König’s kink is not an invitation for you to start acting fussy.

“Oh, it’s too big?” he said, his eyes wide – mirroring and mocking your expression – inching his cock inside you, stretching you over him.

You whined, scowling, eyes doe and glistening.

“Daddy, it hurts!” you squealed. “Take it out, please–”

“Shh, Princess. Don’t make me angry.” König said, his eyes darkening. “Or I’ll make it hurt more.”

Definitely into discipline and spanking.

Will sometimes do it even if you haven’t warranted it.

Slaps your backside and thighs with his belt, breath quivering when he hears the sound of leather against skin, sees the red marks across your body.

And when a wide-eyed, confused expression crosses your face, he just smiles cruelly down at you.

“Shouldn’t be walking around with that tight little ass if you didn’t want me to hit it.”

In more ways than one *wink*.

Outside of the bedroom, calling König ‘Daddy’ is a proven way to get him to do anything for you.

Just bat your eyelashes at him and say in your softest voice: “Daddyyy, the cookie jar’s too far away; will you get it for me?”

And he’s DONE.

“Of course, Princess. Anything for you.”

He’s just so whipped for you.

Looks at you like you’re the Universe and all its celestial creations.

Tends to your every need, without question or hesitation.

Literally will not rest until all your needs are met and surpassed.

Sit in his lap, PLEASE.

He’ll literally just die in his seat if you do. Regardless of how dominant König’s feeling, he’s still vulnerable to your gentle advances.

And just vulnerable to you, to be honest.

But love will do that to a person, and König, a man whose profession made him think he was forced never to feel love himself, has never wanted to protect something - or someone - more.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

[adoregojo]

∑ foolish fondness ➛ reo.m

reo was definitely, absolutely, entirely, not jealous.

not when you called this guy ‘cute' 一sure he clenched his fist into an aggressive ball shade, but nothing crazy. not when you dubbed him as you 'bodyguard’一as if reo can't secure you a whole army to watch over you like hawks 24/7. 

and definitely not when you called that ‘mister x’ handsome.

Maybe his looks were enough to kill an entire generation, but no, he wasn't jealous.

to be accurate, he was burning alive.

yet reo forced himself to smile, despite the flames eating him to bits, it was all worth it for you. swallowing the lump that was clogging his throat, trying so desperately to not let out a piercing cry when you keep up on ranting about him when he一your boyfriend, was right there!

“he seems fun to be around, I guess.” uttering ever so bitterly, the words left stains of venom on his tongue.

“very, I also feel safe anywhere near him.” you went off giggling, while reo was on the edge of letting the earth swell him down, because witnessing hell freeze over with everyone dancing flamenco would've been something he could cope with more than hearing you say that another man was making you feel safe一and no. he wasn't being dramatic, at all.

“He even scared a bunch of creeps off my back yesterday, isn't he just the best?”

that's all? well, reo could easily ban them from 12 countries. ‘mister x’ has to get his games up.

He also has a large backyard, but that's for another story.

“Sure he is. ‘mister x’ seems like the most interesting guy to ever exist.” he spat out, hands shaking deep in his pockets. At this rate, he thinks he's all ready to cease a running train with one hand. 

“just because you refuse to acknowledge his name doesn't mean you can call him ‘mister x’, it's mr fuji.” you pointed out, as if reo had offended you with his misspelling. oh now you were defending him? just marry once and for all一please don't. 

“Anyway, I gotta meet him for lunchtime. you wanna tag along?” 

to be bland, reo was infuriated. he wanted to be mad at you, but oh一how could he when you looked so happy? with the most enthusiastic smile and he swore he could define preciousness underneath it alone. Unlike him, you never liked to swim between a myriad of people, always drawing a line when it came to your own personal space. so it's safe to say that reo, aside from being your boyfriend, was the first one to be this adjacent, the one that tackled your personal space wholly. then he wouldn't have to worry about sharing you一all for him to love and cherish. 

even if it hurts seeing someone mimicking his steps to your warmth, where he wanted to be the one and only there. Even if it meant wounding himself, reo didn't have the strength to stand up against your glee for his own gluttony of your attention. 

“of course,” reo would utter undertone, concealing what he had of dreads with a tight smile.

and yet, reo can feel your glances of doubt on him. He wasn't trying hard enough to hide his grimace when the first thing you snatched was a warped up raw meat, was he taking reo’s spot of being the first one on your mind?一and seriously, raw meat? what kind of epoch did this man colonize? when cannibalism was normalized?一 Still, he acted nonchalant. including two warped up sandwiches and just paid with his lips pressed on to a thin line. 

Even when the grip on the card was unyielding to the point he might just twist it if it wasn't for your hand to pat him up on the arm一he found himself easing up. just a little. and maybe his heart skipping a beat for the shortest time possible.

halfway walking, reo had to fight the urge to turn around and take a step back. Perhaps cry himself to sleep while he's at it. although, he found it in himself to straighten up. walk by your side with a stiffened shoulders and a heavy heart.

and when you two stopped, a nearby ditch, he figured that you two were in the place一the place his greatest nemesis of all time settled in. 

unwittingly, he asks, “Can he fight?”

“what?”

“I asked, can he fight?”

you shot him a look, tilting your head to the side in confusion. “You can say his name, y’know?” 

“only if he won.” 

you had to palm your mouth, suffocating your laughter. your boyfriend narrows his eyes at you, “what? you think I'd lose?” reo ranted, now you had both hands to stifle your chortle. and he could feel neck crimson sheepishly to a shade of red, whatever it was embarrassment or pure bashfulness under the tune of your laugh.

“Since when were you after someone's blood?” you managed to let out, wiping your fake tears. leaving reo to wonder how you directed to shone like clockwork一 glistening a smile he’d go to war for一dammit, this wasn't the time to act like his usual lovelorn self. 

“I am not. but if he wanted to dig a hole for himself, I'd be the last thing he'd see.” 

and before you could make out a witty response, a low bark echoes throughout the ditch. deliberate steps of an old dog come to view一if reo may guess, it was a Newfoundland dog breed. 

he sees you leaping up to the senile dog as if he was your longtime aibou. ruffling the feather black fur, the animal leaning lazily against your affection. reo almost awed at the sight.

“reo, this is mr fuji. mr fuji, this reo. my boyfriend.”

reo blinks. 

“it's.. a dog?” he slips out, ever so hesitant.

“not just any dog, the cutest, most handsome dog in the world.” 

Suddenly, he's able to breathe again. He felt like the world's burden just lifted off his chest. He inactively watched as you unfold the raw meat and fed the aged dog. giving it a gentle pat in his head before standing back up to your boyfriend’s side. 

“So it was a dog all along.” he acknowledged once again, a relief chuckle came from him as a soothing spring’s breeze. 

by his side, you lean onto him till your arms are touching, reo could feel your warmth against him一or maybe that was just his body heating unintentionally. “Is that why you were jealous earlier?” you asked, sloping your head to the side as you observed him. his face painted in the slightest hints of red. 

“I wasn't.” he tried objecting, tipping his head to the opposite direction of you. 

“you were.”

“woof.”

“see? even mr fuji agrees.” 

you knew he was a terrible liar when he was around you, it's always his cheekbones, ears and neck betraying him to unfold the chaste truth. with you squeezing the flesh of his arm gently, eyes keening on him. you were so unfair, you can't pull the ultimatum cunning he cannot find it in his heart to turn a blind eye on.

“So what if I was? Is it bad that I ache to be the only person you could consider?” 

there it was, it was a mythical pull一with all his three spies flushing out. “you know that's almost impossible, right?” 

“ the only man then.”

“go easy.”

“fine, the only man that'll get eulogized by you.”

“only if it's mutual.”

“trust, it has been biased for a while now.”

with that, you take his hands in yours. weaving farewells to mr fuji, with reo just side-eyed him while muttering something along the lines ‘geezer’ leaving you to question if it was your own mirages playing tricks on you. dog or not, reo will still count him as his rival of all time.

yet when you tend towards him, interlocking your hands as you walk side by side. from the corner of his lilac hues, he could tone your affluent reddish skin when tucking a lost lock of your hair behind your ear. his knuckles would linger on your cheekbones to flavor the warmth till you had to force him away.

reo would observe you for a while before saying, “I won.” circulating to the world, and to himself. with the stupidest, lovesick smile glued to his lips. you ought to kick his leg slightly, while he would let out a long, fake whine. asking you to kiss it better.

and you would, despite the grimacing peers around you two. it was hard to tell the one who fell harder.

[dumbsoftheart]

threads of fate

pairing: peacekeeper!coriolanus snow x preachers daughter!reader

tags: 18+, mdni. dub-con, heavy and dark religious themes, dark themes, fingering, kissing, swearing, sliiight voyerism, corruption and innocence kink,

summary: after a chase in the woods, coriolanus becomes devoted to making you his one and only follower.

notes: i don't know what came over me.. enjoy!

word count: 7.2k

౨ׅৎ

the blood of the lamb, washed over the sins of those strayed away from god, atones those begging to be spared from destruction. the saccharine ichor was the ultimate gateway towards deliverance- and thus sought out by sinners and saints alike to be granted eternal redemption for the transgressions that permeated the sweats and tears of the individuals whose secrets would have them damned to the dreadful inferno beneath their feet. the sweet lamb; symbol of innocence and purity, and the wolf who hunted it, the face of deception and treachery, stood now in the heart of the woodlands, the sweet kill hidden shamefully in the asylum of the crowded aspen as it’s predator tauntingly whistled in pursuit of it’s coveted prize. 

tears fell in a waterfall down into the vessels of your collarbones, trailing down and staining the frail white fabric of your dress, unveiling the soft tanned skin of your chest in its wake. with one hand clasped tightly against your mouth, you tried to conceal your wails of fear and the threatening thumping of your heart so as not to draw attention to the towering figure looming dangerously close to you, chuckling lowly as he carefully made his way through the maze of trees and forestry. your other hand was clutched desperately on the golden cross that hung around your neck, thumb haphazardly caressing the delicate engravings and etchings of the cool metal. 

hail mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee. blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, jesus. holy mary, mother of god, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death.

shame washed over you as you thought of your mother and father- your dear father, and what they would make of your inevitable disappearance. you were taught the way of the lord since you emerged from your mothers womb; it followed you everywhere you went. by all means, you had lived your life for god himself. what would he think of you now? the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of god. and yet there you were, a thief, running from, no doubt, god’s punishment for your sins. 

despite your fathers widespread fame throughout the district, your family struggled to bring food and water to the table regularly. seeing the despair that clouded your mothers eyes as she failed to provide a dinner some nights for her family had driven you towards madness. you grew desperate- desperate to alleviate the stress that haunted her and satiate the hunger that settled in your stomach for the fifth day in a row. you rationalised, that with your undying devotion, god would find it in him to forgive you. with all the work your father put into his sermons and dedication to delivering god's word to the poverty stricken peoples of district 12, the divine being would be forgiving in his punishment in recognition of the loyalty you harboured. 

now, you knew you were wrong. 

you berate yourself for even entertaining the stupid idea of pilfering from the small bakery near the marketplace. in truth, it wasn’t even stealing. you had waited until dark threatened the sky, then snuck behind the establishment to snatch a few meagre, stale loaves that had been carelessly discarded in a small bin beside the refuse receptacles. combined with the butter you had been gifted earlier in the week, these provisions would barely suffice to stifle the persistent pangs in your stomach for a few days, at most. you naively assumed you were in solitude and hastily fled when you’d filled up your small leather bag with as many old rolls and loaves as possible. 

oh, how wrong could you have been? you never caught sight of the face of the man who now charged after you- only a faint glance at a familiar blue that weaved its way through the trees- but the adrenaline rushing through your veins urged you to run, and to never stop. and now, here you were, caught in the act, pathetically weeping as you waited for the repercussions of your actions to find you. 

you moved to press your back harder against the thin trunk of the tree, a twig snapping under the weight of your foot, and your eyes widened with fear as the sound reverberated against the still of the forest, the soft footsteps that trailed behind you coming to an abrupt stop. then, a voice. 

“my dear, it would make it so much easier for us if you just came out. i promise you, i don’t bite.” it purred. the way he spoke was low and unrecognisable, laced with an amusement that had you shiver with the depravity of it. your crying ceased at an attempt to remain as hidden as possible, nary a whimper escaping from behind the painful grip of your hand across your mouth. 

“i know you know what you did was wrong. i mean, stealing from a bakery? i wonder what your father would think of you now, his daughter a thief.”

you fought back tears at the mention of your father, shame once again weighing at your conscience, “come out, and i promise your punishment won't be as harsh as it should be.”

the proposition had you thinking for a bit, the truth behind the words appealing to you for a sliver of a moment. before you could consider your next step; find an out or comply to the omnipresent man’s offering, a gunshot pierces your ears, and you let out a shriek so loud you swore all of panem could hear you.

you begin to wail again then, uncontrollably, screaming and begging for respite as your body gave in under the weight of itself; your knees buckling and falling harshly against the ground. you shake with the ferocity of a small rodent before you’re pulled up by your shoulders and engulfed into a familiar, warm hug. your eyes wide with panic, you thrash your head back in forth in an attempt to find the man who was tormenting you, only to see that he was now gone, and in his place, a small search party lead by a peacekeeper cheered in glory at the sight of you. relief washed over you as you looked up to find your father, falling into the safety of his arms as he escorted you out of the forest, giving a curt thank you to the peacekeeper and another man you recognized to be one of your fathers students, before dragging you to the comfort of your home. 

౨ׅৎ

when your father found out the reason behind your being in the woods, you’d landed yourself a life of extra chores and punished to more frequent church visits until your father decided you had repent enough. your father, reassuring you of god's forgiveness as his child, warned that your actions wouldn't fade from memory. he emphasised the necessity of restoring your relationship with the lord and savior. you were under his constant watch, now. each morning, before dropping you off at school, he compelled you to pray fervently for protection over your family and yourself, urging you to plead for deliverance from the consequences of your actions.

with your increased presence in church taking up most of the time you had to yourself, you found yourself taking note of the other frequent church goers. your father, of course, and his dedicated student, were a constant in your peripheral vision. the old couple who lived only a few minutes away from you, mrs. harmon and her froofy, dirty church outfits, her boisterous children, and her grumbling husband. you noticed small things; like how the wife of the newly-wed couple in town had stopped wearing her wedding ring, and how her husband seemed to never give her a second look. how the twin boys in the grade below you suddenly surpassed you in height, and their younger sister now seemed to lack a certain innocence that was pertinent in her character before. you made a small promise to yourself to pray for her. 

there was one person, however, who you were not familiar with, yet you could feel it in the deep ends of your bones that you knew exactly who he was. he had begun to appear only once a week, his shiny buzzcut and blue peacekeeper uniform sticking out sorely from the rest of the crowd. then, twice a week- then three- and then suddenly you found you could not escape from him. everywhere you turned, he was there. when you walked home from school, you would catch him patrolling somewhere nearby, or laughing and chatting with his peacekeeper friends. when you opened the church doors for mass, he would be first to walk in, handing you a small smile before making his way to sit in the pew farthest away from you. he was there, everywhere you looked, and it unsettled you greatly. there was a lack of sincerity in his eyes when he smiled, and for a moment you thought that it had seemed like hunger, but you pushed the idea away before your brain could process it. one night, when closing the church doors and heading to your home, the small sound of rapid footsteps triggered your fight or flight response, the latter winning. when the man rested his hand on your shoulder politely, handing you a handkerchief you had dropped, you felt a strange sense of deja vu. the speed at which it sounded he had ran towards you didn’t match how he stood before you now; breathing even, chest pushed out pridefully, his dark sapphire eyes never leaving yours. but you were so sure that the man had been sprinting, just like the man who had sprinted after you a few weeks ago had. you gave him a small thank you before speed-walking your way to the front door, panting heavily as you locked it shut behind you and your hand made its way back to the pendant on your neck, grasping it so tightly it hurt, the stipe digging into the soft flesh of your palms as a way of grounding yourself back to your senses. 

that night, when you got on your knees to pray, you couldn’t shake the look on the mans face from your thoughts. his features themselves were even, lacking any sense of emotion, but his eyes troubled you the most. the way they bore into yours made you feel as if you would burst into flames right then. it made you feel as if there was something he wanted from you, but your poor innocent soul couldn’t figure out what. when you nestled yourself into your bed that same night, you vowed to stay as far away from him as possible. 

you hadn't realised how hard that would be. 

he approached you the next morning. it was saturday, and the usual gloomy weather of district 12 had been forced away and replaced with the harsh, bright sunlight. it shone spectacularly through the stained-glass windows, gracing the dark wood of each side aisle with vibrant reds and yellows and blues  and brightening the deep red carpet that lay evenly along the nave. you stood behind the pulpit, readying your fathers sermons and homilies for that week's sabbath. he had barged in unannounced, making his way towards you slowly as you pretended to ignore the tall figure making its way down the red path. 

“good morning, miss,” he spoke lowly towards you, peering upwards slightly as the pulpit was slightly taller than the rest of the church, and you pretended to read through the cards and flip through your bible as if it were you preparing to speak in a mere 15 minutes. he cleared his throat once, and you waved your hand nonchalantly towards the pews, “the preacher will be ready shortly. please, have a seat.” 

from behind your fathers flashcards, you could see a small tick of his jaw and he pressed his lips together tightly, nodding slowly before making his way to his usual seat, feigning interest in the architecture of the building. 

“its quite beautiful, no?”

you hummed. 

“i wonder how the district could afford to pay for it.”

the comment caught you off guard, causing you too look up at him with scrunched brows, your lips parted in confusion. surely, he knew the capitol had paid for it- and even then, what did it matter? a sanctuary for god deserved only the best of resources, you thought. the beauty of the church was a reflection of the beauty of your religion, the intricacies and meticulous carpentry of the building spoke to one of the three transcendentals that point to god. of course, it would be beautiful. 

before you could think of a response to the bizarre musing, your father burst in, pressing a light kiss to your cheek and thanking you kindly for preparing for him. the man stood up to make his way to greet the preacher, and you were out of sight as fast as lightning. 

that cycle continued for a while. he would sit in the pews, admiring the architecture (when really, he was admiring you), then stand to greet your father enthusiastically, frowning ever so slightly when you disappeared the moment he made any closer to your father. eventually, you had become quite good at avoiding him. you saw him less in the markets, saw less of him in church, and rarely caught sight of him anywhere else. that was, until you found him at your doorstep one hot summer day. 

you and your mother swore it was the hottest day to see district 12, and you sat on the porch in a small, lace trimmed top and cut-off jean shorts. your hair was carelessly tossed into an updo to relieve your neck of some heat, and you sat in your fathers old chair as you sipped on some juice your family had been given earlier that day. 

you weren’t expecting any visitors that day, so it was safe to say you nearly choked when the man appeared from behind the path of thrush that hid your small home from sight of the church, dressed only in the blue dress pants of his peacekeeper uniform and a thin white shirt, silver dog tag swinging like a pendulum across his chest as he made his way towards you. your father had emerged delighted, mr. snow!, he cheered, patting the man- snow, what a fitting name- on his back and urging him inside. you scrambled to the backdoor and into the kitchen where your mother rest, the door slamming behind you loudly as you entered, causing her to jump. 

“dear?”

“that man daddy’s talking to- who is he?”

she gave you a halfhearted shrug, “i wouldnt know, pumpkin, it’s probably business with your father. he goes to the church, no?” 

you nodded, pacing back and forth, ignoring the crazed look your mother threw at you as you processed the information. 

“do not lead us into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” she reminded you, and your jaw dropped at the silent accusation she threw at you. 

“absolutely not, mother!” you stormed back out the door, drowning your mother’s laughter out with frustrated mumbles of has she lost her mind? and what a woman! how she could ever think something about snow was tempting you was beyond your understanding. however, when you made it back to your chair and your watered down glass of juice, the sight of a shirtless ‘mr. snow’ and your, otherwise fully dressed, father in the garden, dripping sweat shamelessly into your mothers vegetable patch, a snap thought breached your mind that perhaps there was something tempting about the mysterious man. 

that sent you into a frenzy. your knee bounced anxiously as you silently begged god to forgive you for the thought, and that it was simply intrusive, and not reflective of the morals and high grounds you held closely to your heart. nervously, you grabbed the book you had abandoned weeks ago and shoved your nose into the pages as if to distract yourself from your own brain and its wicked ministrations.  

you weren't sure of how much time had passed, yet it felt like the man's stay was suspiciously short as he and your father made their way inside. you gave him a curt nod, and your father gave you a small lecture about manners, insisting that the two of you become accustomed to one another. and there you were, legs drawn up to your chest as if to protect yourself from the sinful looking man before you. 

“my name is coriolanus snow,” he said. coriolanus. it was unlike any name you’d heard before. you returned the gesture softly, hoping that he would disappear behind your father into the house and you could breathe again, but he stayed and stared at you with that look, “your father tells me we’re the same age. he’s a nice man.”

you bit your lip at that. the same age? there was something about coriolanus that seemed older. it also begged the question: what was someone his age doing as a peacekeeper? you opened your mouth to pry at him, but he cut you off, stepping closer. 

“tell me, dear, what sins weigh in your heart?” 

you drew yourself back further into the safety of your chair, face laced with disgust as you tried as hard as possible to distance yourself from the imposing man now caging you into your confinement. his breath was heavy on your nose, and your heart pounded harshly- from what, you weren’t sure. fear? a sense of danger? temptation? his lips were so close to yours now, you could smell the faint scent of cologne that mingled with the saltiness of his sweat, and you tried your best to keep your breathing as even as possible, feigning indifference to his proximity to you poorly. 

“i dont know what you mean, mr. snow.”

he smiled at that, laughing lowly. he didn’t expect you to know what he meant, of course, but he had an inkling that if he played his cards just right, he’d have you right where he wanted. he leaned closer now, lips dodging yours, lightly brushing your nose as his head turned to whisper in your ear. 

“do you think of me at night? our little chase?”

“wh-what?”

“you’re smart, miss. think about it.”

he disappeared into the house, bidding goodbye to your mother and father and whisking himself away. your mouth remained parted, eyes wide with confusion as you tried to process what his words could have meant. 

surely, he couldn’t mean.. 

no. absolutely not, you decided. coriolanus may have unsettled you ungreatly, but he was a peacekeeper- and your father had always told you that they served to protect you, that they would never harm you purposely. you stood shakily and made your way quietly into the old house, reeking of old wood and boiled vegetables. you sat on the couch near your brother, holding his head to your chest as you stroked his hair comfortingly, still trying to process. from the kitchen, your father called, “he’s a nice boy, no? perhaps he could be of some influence to you, sweetheart.” 

you agreed meekly, despite disagreeing with your father completely. you werent entirely sure what he saw in the man at all, yet you were adamant that he was, in fact, not a good influence, but a parasite. you wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. he made you feel unsafe- unsure of yourself, and for some reason, your faith. you decided he was no good; but yet you couldnt make any understanding of the bittersweet ache between your thighs. 

when coriolanus walked home that evening, he couldn’t fight his smile. he saw you, in all his glory, struggling pathetically under his gaze, squirming and fidgeting uncontrollably as he trapped you within the cage of his arms. 

the sacrificial lamb has been caught, he thought. 

what a stupid, stupid lamb. 

౨ׅৎ

you rushed into church near 5 am the next day, sleep deprived from the constant running of your mind and the damned words of coriolanus snow. 

“our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven,” you repeated to yourself, kneeled below the large wooden crucifixion of jesus, hands clasped tightly together, your head resting painfully against the white of your knuckles. 

what you were praying for, you didn’t know. you couldn't go to the confessional- heavens forbid, no. confessing secrets of your dreams of coriolanus’s hands, the outline of his jaw, the way he whispered his sinister words so sweetly into your ear- to your father? you would rather be hanged for the whole district to see. there was nothing sinful about your dreams, exactly, but it felt sinful, dirty, downright hellish. you thought of his lips, the soft and pink flesh of them, the stormy blue of his eyes- and, oh god, you couldn't stop replaying his words in your head. 

‘do you think of me at night?’ he had asked you so earnestly. as if he needed you to tell him yes, you did think of him, every night. it wasn't a lie, of course, only the way you had begun thinking about him had changed. but that wasn't your doing at all, was it? no, he was to blame, for speaking to you like that, for dangling his dog tag so close that it brushed your cross indecently, for showing up to your house and stripping himself half naked, sweating impurely over the soil you and your mother sowed and reaped with love, with innocence, purity. it was entirely his fault, from the way he seemed to be forcing himself into your life. the church door creaked open, and you continued to pray, “give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

your heart raced as footsteps neared closer, as if you knew exactly who they belonged to. 

“what troubles you, little lamb?” his voice took you with fear, the way it rumbled in his chest and reverberated on the walls confining the two of you, alone. you raised your head, refusing to look back at him, “i do believe that's none of your concern, mr. snow.”

you heard him chuckle lowly, repeating the words mr. snow to himself under his breath. it made you shiver, and you recited the bible verses your father drilled into your head from as young as you could remember: vindicate me, o god, and plead my cause against an ungodly nation; rescue me from deceitful and wicked men.

you could feel him now, knee pressed lightly against your back. you stood up and turned to face him, eyes wild and daring as they searched the azure maze of his own. his hand reached to stroke your hair, and you flinched. 

“why is it that you fear me so much, do you think?”

“i’m not afraid of you.”

he tsked, “‘fear’ is different than ‘being afraid’, darling. to be afraid is a fleeting moment. your brain's immediate response towards danger,” he moved to touch your hair again, now more forcefully, tucking the loose strands along your hairline behind your ear. 

keep back your servant also from willful sins.

he continued, “i asked, why do you fear me?”

you tried to search deeper into his eyes, trying to grasp any understanding at what he was trying to communicate to you. your mind ran amok, and it was no help that coriolanus's hand now snuck its way into your fingers, fidgeting with the soft digits mindlessly. 

“i don't.. i don't know-” he cut you off by stepping closer before you finished. you had wanted to tell him that you didn't know why he thought you feared him, that you didnt understand the question, and that you needed to get home soon, so to please excuse you. 

“i think you fear what i impose between you and your precious god.”

you let out an involuntary laugh, giggling childlishly at the accusation. you stopped, when his eyes darkened. 

“i’m sorry, mr. snow, but i really don’t know what you mean!” you were struggling to contain your girlish giggles. what he imposes between me and god? it was such a bizarre statement, so plainly laid out for you, that you couldn’t even comprehend it entirely. your laughing ceased, for good now, when his hand circled tightly around your wrist. 

let them not have dominion over me.

then i will be upright.

“i’m not stupid, love. i saw you, yesterday, practically drooling over me. i wonder what your father would have to say if he saw the sinful way you ogled at me,” he paused, and you swallowed painfully, “and dont tell me you’ve forgotten all about our little chase, hm? wasnt it exhilarating?” now, panic engulfed you. you tried to back away from him as the pieces etched themselves together in your brain, but his hold on your wrist was only getting tighter. 

“that was you?” your voice was impossibly small, weak from the alarm that blared in your head. your eyes darted back and forth desperately, searching for an out, hoping and praying that someone might burst in and see the scene before you, tear hades away from his persephone and save her from her impending doom. 

i will be blameless and innocent of great transgression.

he dipped his head to your neck, lips deliciously grazing over the supple skin of your collar bone, pressing kisses so light you could barely feel them as you tried to wriggle from his grasp. 

“of course it was me, darling,” the way you felt him smile against your skin was chilling, and you fought back tears as he moved impossibly closer to you, “isn’t that adrenaline rush just addicting? tell me, dove, what do you think about me when you lie in bed and replay our precious little moments together in that pretty head of yours?” 

your breathing quickened, and you winced as coriolanus gripped tighter at your wrist, his other hand painfully gripping the small of your waist, massaging the gentle muscle of it. you could feel his entire body pressed against yours, and a tear threatened to slip when you felt the hard pressing of his lower region on your stomach. you shook your head, refusing to give in to his line of questioning, but his grip on your waist tightened and you cried out in pain, “your hands!” you whined, relief slowly making its way to the sore area of your waist as he loosened his grip. he made to grasp your chin under his index, forcing you to keep eye contact with him and urged you silently to keep going. 

“your..” you let out a shaky sigh, “your h-ands, your voice, the words you speak to me. i don't understand why.” 

he cooed at you now, as if proud of you for speaking up. your eyes darted to his lips, and you saw something flash in his eyes, “anything else?”

let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight,

lord, my rock, and my redeemer. 

you tried to look down at your feet as if to run away from the question, but his hold on your chin was unrelenting. shamefully, you whispered, “your lips.” 

he let out a small ahhh, as if the admission shocked him. he knew, of course. of course he knew. you poor thing. sweet, little lamb, so innocent and pure. untouched by lust, blind to its deceptive allure. he knew from the moment he’d gone after you in those woods and failed to catch you, that he would do everything in his power to make sure you would never escape his grasp again. he knew when his frail attempts at getting closer to you failed, he had to resort to a harsher solution. he needed to infiltrate every space you breathed in, and break his was into your mind until he had you right where he needed you to be: malleable, so he could corrupt you just as easy. 

he knew your father protected you, the extent to which he went to protect you, as well. banning sex education in your school, ensuring your mind stays as pure as possible to the exploits of fickle men and their wants. you knew the basics, thanks to your mother and her worrisome self, but her teachings were meddled down into some confusing allegory that left your mind as clueless as before, so that you stayed intact, perfect and pristine in the lords eye as well as the rest of the district, in your white frilly dresses, light makeup, and perfectly crafted manners. 

he knew how easy it would be to get in your head. the human body is funny, like that, wherein it begs for things it doesn’t know of. he knew when he flexed his hands you caught sight of it, when he swallowed you intently watched the way his adams apple bobbed, he knew when he showed up to your home and stripped himself almost bare it would plague your mind with an unknowing want and desire, and soon enough, you’d have no choice but to give in to it, abandon your god and his lessons for coriolanus alone. 

he ran his tongue across his bottom lip, swiping his thumb across yours as if to mirror himself, and then ducked his head closer, “go on.”

you squeezed your eyes shut. everything felt so, so wrong, and you didn't know why, but you couldn't stop. when he continued to toy with your lip, slightly plunging the tip of his finger past them and into your mouth, you let out an involuntary, small moan, and your legs shook and quivered as the strange ache from yesterday returned. 

“wh-what?”

“kiss me.”

your eyes widened, and you shook your head. coriolanus thought it was adorable, how you struggled to piece together what was about to happen, how your brain tried desperately to fill in the blanks with information it didnt know. you heard coriolanus sigh disapprovingly at your protests and he shoved his thumb further into your mouth, causing you to choke. he removed it, then wiped the saliva that remained over your bottom lip before inserting the digit in his mouth, tasting you. 

“its okay, little one. you can kiss me. he wont mind,” you didnt realize your fingers lingered over the necklace nestled on your chest, and your gaze followed his finger as he gestured upwards. he wont mind. you racked your brain over the things coriolanus said to you from he entered the church.

“i think you fear what i impose between you and your precious god.”

now, you truly hoped someone would burst in, and you could scream and wail as you explained the horrors coriolanus was about to commit to you (even if those horrors were unclear). he was so close, and something still pressed hardly against your stomach, and suddenly you couldn't breathe, “he would mind. i promise to pray for you coriolanus, i don't know what troubles you, but the lord-” 

he cut you off by shoving his lips onto yours harshly, groaning at the contact. his hands made their way to rest on your clothed breasts, and you wriggled and struggled to try get away from him, but your efforts were fruitless. you were cornered, now. a lamb with nowhere to run or hide, forced to face its fate. he ravaged your lips, hands restless as they caressed all over your protesting body. the ache between your legs grew, and a small part of you realized that the last thing you wanted right now was for someone to walk in, and see the preacher's daughter being completely defaced by a peacekeeper. 

“your god cant give me what i need, angel. cant you see? you did this to me,” his hand grabbed yours as he pulled away to speak, trailing it down the hard muscle of his abdomen and palming the hardness that threatened to burst through the seam of his pants. your eyes were wide and doe-like, and coriolanus never needed to fuck you more. his lips met yours again, and his other hand fumbled to remove his pants, hissing when the air hit his straining cock, all while you tried your best to distance yourself from him as much as possible. your face was hot, and your hands remained in the air, unsure of where to rest them, as you slowly allowed coriolanus to slip his tongue into your mouth. 

“good girl,” he practically growled, and you let out a pathetic squeak when you felt your core tighten, pleasure washing over you at the small praise. coriolanus was turned on beyond conception, moaning disgracefully as he stroked himself through the fabric of his underwear. if you could see the spectacle the two of you were making, in the middle of church- no less, the thought alone had coriolanus close to the edge. you gasped when you saw him palm himself, and without thinking, your hand brushing his ever so slightly, lingering a second too long before his eyes snapped up at yours, pleading you to go ahead and touch him. 

when you finally pressed your hand to his clothed region, you swore the way coriolanus threw his head back with a small mewl and moan would land you an eternity in hell alone. 

“thats it, baby, jus’ like that.. keep going..” you gasped when his hand sneaked its way under your dress- your sunday best- your hand faltering a bit when his long middle finger lightly grazed your clothed cunt. the foreign feeling it elicited from you had you desperately searching coriolanus’s eyes for an answer, unable to speak as his fingers that toyed with the most intimate parts of you had you moaning softly and lowly, uncontrollably. you continued to palm him, and his hand slipped into the lacy cotton of your panties, cursing hotly under his breath when he feels you. 

“so wet for me. you dirty fucking girl, look at you: making a mess in church.” you didnt know what he meant, but shame burned through your skin. confusion grappled at you and you began to sob, not ignoring the way your tears seemed to make coriolanus throb beneath you, “please stop, coriolanus, this is immoral.”

“baby, if it feels good, then it cant be bad,” he stroked the tear stains on your cheek softly, cupping your face with false earnest as he pulled your head to lay on his chest, “does it feel good?”

coriolanus reveled in the way you looked up at him, like a devoted follower in the arms of their saviour. when you nodded slowly, he gently spun you around and shoved your face into the cool wood of the crucifixion behind you, his hand painfully pushing against your cheek enough so that you couldn't look anywhere but above you, into the sad eyes of jesus. 

your panties were ripped off with a shriek that was muffled by coriolanus’s hand around your mouth, and you sobbed as pain mixed with pleasure as he gave a few slaps to your dripping cunt, mumbling about how pretty it is. in a desperate attempt to wiggle out of your new position, you accidentally arched your back further, giving him more access. 

“let me show you how i can love you,” he whispered into your ear, before returning his fingers to the slick mess that coated your cunt, your body jolting when they occasionally brushed over your clit, the unfamiliar sensation already too overwhelming for you to handle. with a few more agonising strokes of his fingers, he prodded at your hole, teasing your entrance in a way that had your eyes roll to the back of your head. when he finally slipped them in, your hand pounded desperately against the cross you were pressed up on, pleads to stop falling pathetically into the hand of coriolanus and onto deaf ears. he was merciless with it, greedily pounding his fingers into you in a way that had your knees gravitating towards each other and animalistic grunts of pleasure vibrating through his hand. 

something in you burned, your body was pleading for more as an unfamiliar coil formed in the pit of your stomach. your hand continued to bang against the cross, tears falling as you forcibly peered into the eyes of your saviour while you got your cunt ravaged in the middle of his shrine. 

“oh god, oh god” you mumbled through his hand. you were unsure if it was shame, or the delicious way coryo pumped his fingers into you, but you grew lightheaded and dumb, eyes hazy as you grew closer to your release. 

“thats it, take it. you’re filthy, taking my fingers so well in the middle of church.” now, both hands scraped desperately against the cross, leaving marks in the wake of your fingernails digging into the hardwood. coriolanus tugged your head further up, forcing you to stare at him with tears streaming down your face and desperate pleas for him to stop going unheard. he smiled coyly when he felt your pussy clench around his fingers, and he withdrew them just before you reached your release, a loud, agonising whine of relief and desperation leaving your smushed lips. he was quick to replace his fingers with his cock, the slow intrusion of it making you let out a low, droned out groan as he stretched your virgin cunt past its limit.

he removed his hand from your mouth, and a string of prayers tumbled out of it, “o my god, i am heartily sorry for having offended thee,” and “and i detest all my sins because of thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend thee, my god, who art all good and deserving of all my love.” it earned you a slap to your ass, and you cried out loudly as coriolanus shoved your dress off of you, watching as it fell uselessly around your legs into a pool of white. he flipped you around, admiring your soft breasts and the way they spilled over in the hold of his fingers, and he traced the soft, plumpness of your belly as he chuckled lowly at your continuous prayer. with his cock still nestled into you, he leaned forward to whisper in your ear. 

“god loves you, but not as much as i do,” and then he thrust his cock into you with such force that you nearly tumbled to the floor. his hand rest on your lower back, forcing you to arch closer to him, your hips meeting his unwillingly at his fast pace. coriolanus’s cock grazed the inside of your gummy walls perfectly, and you found yourself slipping from reality as he continued to pound his dick into you, moaning when you contracted around him without rhythm, your inexperienced self almost overloaded with pleasure, unable to control your body. 

“you’re being such a good girl, taking my cock like this,” he weaved a hand through your hair, “‘n you’re gonna let me cum inside you, yeah? gonna make a woman out of you.” you couldnt focus on the words he was throwing at you, lost in pleasure as the tip of coryo’s dick hit that one spot over and over again. the way he spoke to you had you at a crossroads, and it didnt help that he was fucking you into oblivion, and now you understood what he had meant when he said he imposed between you and god, because you were becoming addicted to the push and pull of his cock inside of you. 

“thats right, take it. you look so pretty all dumb and fucked out on my cock,” you reached to grab his arm to steady yourself, your orgasm creeping in closely, “you gonna cum for me?” 

you didn't know what it meant, but you nodded anyways, completely lost in bliss, “coryo..” you moaned out, his brows raising slightly at the new nickname, a smirk settling on his face. moans and mewls lewdly left your mouth as he quickened his pace, his unused hand massaging at your tits, twisting and pinching softly at your nipples as you thrashed with pleasure under him. 

“gonna make you worship this fucking cock, baby” he was close himself now, his head falling and his voice itching up an octave, lewd moans clashing with yours as the rhythm and pace he set began to falter, and he fucked you as hard as he could as he chased your high and his own, “gonna make you devoted to me. you’re never gonna wanna be away from me again,” his face twisted with pleasure, and you circled your arms around his neck as you tried to ground yourself, the coil in your stomach slowly beginning to unravel and threatening to snap. a shadow passed, and your eyes widened with terror as you slapped coryo’s arm haphazardly, begs falling from your mouth to stop. he turned his head lazily to look at what you were whining about, but his thrusts didn't stop. 

“let them see what a dirty fucking girl you are.” 

your walls tightened and your eyes rolled so far back into your head you were scared they wouldn't come back up as your orgasm reached you. you covered your mouth, shrieking desperately as the shockwaves of pleasure rolled over you, the newfound feeling unrelenting as it took over every part of your body. coriolanus repeated words of encouragement and praise as he fucked you through your high, before bottoming out and releasing his load in you, christening your walls. you whined at the feeling, so full and drunk off of it that your concerns of the passerby faded. the both of you stood there, panting heavily, both groaning when coryo slid out of you. he slapped his tip on your puffy clit one, two, three times, before a loud knock rapped on the church door. 

you could feel coriolanus’s spill leaking out of you as you crouched on your knees, hidden, and you cried silently, the reality of what had just happened to you settling in. coriolanus snow had corrupted you, in the worst possible way, and now you could only feel yourself crave more of him. as he spoke to the intruder, egging them to run along, a thumb caressed your head gently, as if to tell you he had everything under control. the small southern drawl he’d begun to pick up was more prominent. when the intruder finally left, you were forced to your feet, and coriolanus grabbed your ruined panties, resting on his knees below you to shove them into your used cunt, before making his way back to his feet, towering over you. he spoke to you like he would if he were on duty:

“you go on home now, miss. and tell your father i say hello.” 

and you did. 

౨ׅৎ

@dumbsoftheart, 2023

[withoutyouimsaskia]

Sometimes It's Fated (Sandman Short Story Part 8)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

GIF: Originally posted by @darklinsblog

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)

Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Nightmares. Violence. Dub/non con. Kissing. Nudity. AFAB + AMAB penetrative sex. Unprotected sex. Plot related cigarette use. Language.

Word Count: 4.3k

A/N: Hello there! I wasn't intending on posting this chapter until I had the others finished but I guess Tumblr took that decision away from me and published instead of saving! Oh well, guess I'll roll with it. As always, I hope you enjoy and would be very happy to hear your thoughts. All my love, Saskia xx

Sandman Masterlist

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The combination of the darkened clouds and the even more desaturated décor is making the room despairingly claustrophobic.

Sporadic breaths rattle up and down your trachea; a remnant of the fear that had been created by the tail end of that conversation. You are struggling to make sense of the direction it had taken; the barrelling downward spiral whereby you discovered your newfound status.

No longer do you hold the lone title of soulmate. You are a captive.

At least that's what Morpheus made it sound like. The word is shudder inducing and a fresh trickle of bile spills into your mouth.

The door he left through, the one blocking your freedom, you are standing close enough to it that you can see every grain and groove of the ebony wood - and the curious absence of a handle or lock. With a flattened hand you gingerly press against the varnished surface, upping the pressure when you don't appear to have tripped any alarms. There's no movement no matter how hard you push, not that you really anticipated any. Morpheus said locked in for a reason. Regardless, you feel that you needed to try just in case he had changed his mind. Again, an eventuality that you do not expect.

You get the sense that Morpheus' grasp of stubbornness would rival that belonging to a group of at least 100,000 people; he is a ruler, and a centuries-old one at that. Accustomed to being in control, well versed in the art of exerting it.

He's chilling too. That nightmare quality really won out just now. You have seen darkness in his eyes before, (brought on by intense moments including sexual desire) and the effects he can have on the environments surrounding him, but this was a whole new breed.

The deflection. The disdain. The remorselessness. How the shadows had danced around him like crude oil twisting in water, a cloak of obscurity and energy to drive you away and leave you isolated.

And your relentlessness was the catalyst for it being unleashed. You're unsure as to why you brought up the theoretical consequences of refusing to be his soulmate. It had just slipped out. There were numerous other ways in which you could have handled the situation yet that was the conversational path you took.

You shudder again, wrapping your arms around your middle in an attempt to self-soothe. It provides a measure of relief but also draws attention to the fact that he should be doing this. Morpheus should be holding you. Talking this through with you.

Instead he left you standing on the marble floor, the intrinsically endothermic nature of the material causing iciness to seep up your legs via your bare feet.

Seeking warmth, you move back to the bed and dejectedly lie down.

The usual covered plate of food has appeared on the bedside table; your expression is so obviously rattled that you can see every detail despite the metal's distortion. You roll over, not wanting to contemplate eating for even a second.

Your entire body is tense, with epicentres in your tight chest and thought-clogged brain, the latter of which is showing signs of inducing a migraine. You breathe with steady intent, a review of the encounter relentlessly replaying.

One question keeps rising to the surface, getting louder and more insistent with each iteration:

Why was he doing this?

He had said it was to protect you. That it was dangerous outside. Was the dream world suddenly that different now that you had free will? Surely he would have led with that if it were true. Found a way to make it safe...

He's been unfalteringly devoted to you in every other way thus far. The aftercare looked to be proof enough of his character. The reassurance, and explanations during the soul-tying. Holding you. Staying beside you while you slept, even though he did not require the rest himself.

But then there is the distinct lack of sharing, both of his internal and external worlds, and of course the 'it is not your place to do so' comment.

That one really stings. You had been convinced that you were his equal. Yet the way the words fell so easily from his mouth, without hesitation nor any sign of an underpinning emotion - it sounded like a response that was not uttered in the heat of the moment.

How were you to know though?

You've not known him for that long and it's not like you can tell from the bond between you, even now after days of longing to and trying to pick up on something, anything that would inform you of his heart. The one thing you can attempt to read into is the state of the ceiling sky; you are getting a sense that it is linked directly to his moods. Its sudden deterioration the moment you had voiced your concerns couldn't have been a coincidence, could it?

The more you grapple for meaning, the harder you are finding it to reconcile the evidence before you, so conflicted on your opinion of him, of the situation. Yet no amount of speculation and reframing could take away from the few facts you have:

The Fates had told you of an unfathomably long imprisonment that Morpheus had endured and suffered in.

So why was he putting you in a parallel of that?

How can someone who is supposed to be your soulmate be so unreadable to you, and so inexplicably cruel?

You curl into a ball, groaning out loud in frustration.

You ponder if there is something defective within you, if he can see something that you are too human to perceive. Maybe you deserve this on some level because you are not quite enough for him.

"No," you say out loud, firmly casting that contemptuous thought out of your mind.

You will not go in for self-loathing or self-pity. You are strong and capable and compassionate. Morpheus is still your soulmate. You can fix this. Once he's back, you will talk about this.

The resolution seems to lessen the lingering despair enough that you unwittingly fall asleep.

-----------------------------

There's an anticipatory undercurrent to the chatter being passed back and forth across the circular tables spaced evenly across the function room.

You're sat at one such table, the hands folded in your lap occasionally brushing against the heavy dark blue velvet draped over the wood, the feel of the material's sumptuous pile triggering pleasant goosebumps.

Ice laden water jugs and bowls of savoury snacks occupy the middle of the table, and each seat is designated by a placeholder. Your name is displayed in a bold font across the folded piece of stiff card in front of you and the names of all your colleagues have been typed out on matching markers.

The lighting could be described as ambient, moody even - a strange choice for such a celebratory event. The strongest source of light is directed towards a projection screen, where the order of events are being presented.

You thumb the lock screen button on the right hand side of your phone to check the time. 20:28. The scheduled break is due to end soon. You take a sip of water from the tumbler stamped with your lipstick and wait.

The microphone on the podium clicks and crackles as it is brought back to life and all heads turn in unison towards the man standing there. A spotlight provided by the professional lighting rig suspended above is ignited, the light from it so bright that it obscures every feature on his face.

His tone is light as he reels off a few formalities, making a joke about the speed of which some individuals had headed to the bar come the start of the interval, eliciting a sequence of throaty laughs from the crowd. He then jumps back into the award giving.

"This person, I know for a fact has really been putting in the effort with developing the traits required to truly embody this accolade and everything it stands for. Taking gullible to the next level, allowing themself to be debased and shutting down all logical reasoning. A veritable inspiration of inconsequentiality; therefore, it comes as no surprise that the award for most worthless human goes to -"

He pauses for effect, and the entire room watches on with baited breath.

Condensation beads slip down the outside of the jug closest to you, mirroring a perspiration bead that has begun to slide from your nape. You look away from the stage, feeling an impending sense of doom slink into your stomach with the nausea that suddenly washes over you. Your intuition is well-founded.

The microphone wheezes as the man inhales the breath needed to deliver the announcement.

He says your name.

The applause that follows is rapturous; a chorus of hollers and whistles punctuating the clapping. It's like you're at a rock concert.

None of it aligns with the damning description of the award name. Under no circumstance do you want to go and accept it; doing so would show that you agree with the committee.

You sneak a glance over your shoulder, wincing at the harsh fluorescents spilling in from the foyer through the set of double doors - that is where you quietly need to get to.

You're pushing your chair back slowly and carefully, about to attempt this surreptitious exit when a spotlight hits you. The hand going for your bag freezes mid-reach.

It's as if a tractor beam has been activated. You cannot stop yourself from standing, cannot stop yourself from walking on the scuffed wooden floor, made that way from years of dancing.

The journey to the stage on your shaky legs is long, given your distance from it, intensified even further by the stares of your peers. You go up the steps at the side of the stage, jelly legs adding risk with the slight elevation. You grip the handrail in a white-knuckled fist.

The award waits on the podium: an oversized key on a black plinth, the golden colour of the metal glints temptingly. With your gaze turned downwards, the man shakes your hand with the pressure of a constrictor, praising you with words that you can't hear above the continued applause.

You force your mouth into a smile and ready yourself to take the award, telling yourself that being gracious is the best approach you can take.

Unfortunately, in your moment of acceptance, someone decides to take advantage.

There's a blow to the back of your knee caps.

You cry out from shock and pain; the sound doesn't last long for as soon as your knees make impact with the boards, a gag is forced into your mouth.

The situation and the gag make it hard to breathe in any way other than frantically, pulse just as agitated in your tight-feeling chest.

The crowd's clapping doesn't stop even as intricate restraints are added at your wrists, even as burning tears and sticky snot stream down your face.

The agony intensifies when you are hauled up by your hair and then herded by several pairs of hands towards the wings of the stage. Your eyes fall on the opaque box that stands just out of view of the crowd.

Its purpose is clear. It is to be your cage.

You're now screaming despite the gag, thrashing as you're dragged towards your doom. Not even allowing yourself to be a dead weight can save you; the cloying fingers are too numerous, too zealous.

The door to the cage opens and the presence of the oppressive void within ekes out towards you like a disturbing fog. Whatever is in there, you can sense it will smother you. Obliterate you slowly. And the people in this room seem to believe you are worthy of such a fate.

The hands anchored on your body begin their last pushes. You whip your head around, making a last attempt to search for an escape when you see a figure out the corner of your eye.

There's no questioning who it is; the person who has been on the periphery of so many dreams these past weeks, you would know him anywhere.

You see a glimpse of movement. Perhaps the raising of a hand. A ripple of power courses through the scene - you feel it vibrate in your chest. Everything freezes, and in that sudden silence you hear Morpheus' solemn and decisive words:

"This dream is over."

You startle, a shriek echoing about the sunless space as you are ripped from the dream. The sheets have you wrapped up like a python; you try with desperation to get free, half-convinced that those relentless hands are still trying to ferry you into that cage.

Floundering, you work and work against the fabric, crying out again when your progress is minimal.

"Soulmate."

Morpheus' deep voice sounds, speaking your name next in such an intimate and gentle way that you instantly halt in your struggle.

He is beside you.

All the attributes of concern are in his facial expression and body language, eyes glistening with an emotion you can't quite place.

"It is over now," he confirms, dissolving the sheet into nothing.

He comes closer, stroking your face with one hand, the other atop your chest with the palm centred on your soul. It's a welcome feeling, his attentions and being free from the tangle of sheets, but you are too far gone for it to stop the fear that the nightmare has set in motion.

"When you said that it was not my place to accompany you, is it because you think I'm less than you?" You ask in a cracking, pitiful voice.

Morpheus stills for a heartbeat, before bending his head to look you straight in the eyes. "No," he breathes. "My soulmate, I could never think that."

He kisses you softly.

It's not what you expected but nevertheless your hands cling to him on instinct, kissing him back and then he's suddenly straddling you. Covering your body with his own to give you a feeling of safety and it's exactly what you require.

You're on the verge of tears from it all, touching the back of his neck, gripping his shoulders to keep him close.

"Morpheus," you call.

"I am here. I am not going anywhere."

He kisses you deeper this time as if to corroborate his statement. It incrementally lessens your doubts and anxieties but there's a call for communication too.

"We need to talk about what happened," you say with quiet assertion.

For a moment, you wonder if he has even heard you for he claims your mouth again.

"I do not wish to talk," he eventually replies, immediately diving back in for yet another kiss. "I wish to take away your anguish."

"But -"

He hushes you, a soothing shut down that would be infuriating if not for the lingering unease of the nightmare clogging your emotions. "Let us forget what was said. Let us instead indulge in the pleasure of each other's bodies."

You blink, slowly processing his explicit inference, taken aback by the very obvious physical reactions they inspire. You force yourself to adopt a professional expression as your arousal begins to leak onto your gown.

"I want to talk to you."

He's smiling smugly as he tilts his head to the side. "Your emotions betray you dearest, as does your body. I know exactly what you want and it is not conversation."

Shame rises but is quickly blotted out by Morpheus' next action.

You feel bare skin against yours; he's used his power to disrobe you as well as him. A protest forms - he stifles it with his mouth. Your eyes are wide as you take it, as he shifts his weight ever so slightly to align your hips.

His own eyes stare you down after he pulls back, unblinking like an apex predator who has caught sight of its favourite prey.

Easy prey.

That's what you are.

He arranges you as such too; grasping your legs and moving your knees to your chest to bend you in half. Pinning you underneath him.

Neither of you last long with the tightness of the angle once you allow him to enter you.

To say you are dazed afterwards would be an understatement. The events of the past few hours have been persistently erratic. If Morpheus feels the same then it isn't apparent. The colour of his eyes are as clear and stable as the weather above, hand warming his favoured spot on your chest.

Your own hands wander up and down his body, running smoothly over his enticing skin.

"You have not touched your food," he comments quietly.

One of your palms moves absentmindedly to trail lazily across your abdomen. "If I'm being honest, I've been struggling to eat since I got here. For some reason I have no appetite or thirst."

"That would be a result of the immortality."

Your hands freeze up, brain doing the opposite as it spins out in a hundred directions.

"W-what did you say?" You stammer, praying you have misheard him.

"The immortality," he clarifies. "My power is within you and with it, comes certain endurances."

You sit up and put some space between you both. This was a serious matter. Despite your empty stomach you feel like you are going to vomit.

"How long have you known that?"

"It does not matter."

Red rag to a bull doesn't come close to covering what his dismissive reply makes you feel. The set of your jaw is so tight that a section on the left side begins to feather. You talk through gritted teeth, levelling a furious glare at him - making it transparent that you are not going to tolerate his evasiveness any longer:

"Tell me how long."

He makes the smart decision to pause to select his reply, though you decipher from the suddenly overcast sky that it is not going to be one that you will like.

"Since our souls joined."

Your hand flies to your chest, to your soul as tears start to brew.

"That was days ago!"

Morpheus simply looks at you.

"Did you not think that I had a right to know about something as life changing as that?"

He opens his mouth to respond but you cut him off before he can issue a syllable.

"Please can you give me some time alone?"

Morpheus' intense stare - the one that had gone from intimidating to exhilarating - has now become distressing and you need to get out from under it.

To his credit, he does what you asked and the moment the door is closed, the tears you have been holding back start to flow freely. The ceiling sky is so crowded with dark clouds that you are convinced that it's going to do the same as your eyes.

You feel like you've been tricked. You didn't ask for this, nor were you consulted.

The gilding has fully tarnished now, revealing that things were too good to be true. And had been from the very beginning. You had been swept up in the haze of sexual satisfaction, too blinded by the soul bond to see clearly. The nightmare had spelled it out flawlessly: gullible, debased and without logical reasoning.

The previous success in derailing your self-loathing falls short now. You are bolting down the path of internal admonishment.

How could you have been so naïve?

The answer is your hubris. It had felt good to be finally wanted, chosen to be a part of something bigger than yourself by making a difference to the Dreaming. Unless you had misunderstood.

No, the Fates had told you it in no uncertain terms. What they hadn't done however was provide a time frame. You had stupidly assumed it would be effective immediately. Instead you could be looking at decades, centuries even with this newfound information.

Even with the promise of eventual fulfilment, there was little chance that you would last for years in this room with your sanity intact.

You need distraction from the demoralising thought so you bluster through your bathroom routine like a whirlwind, slamming containers down where possible and huffing out exasperated sounds.

While the gown has re-materialised on the hook by the shower, you are dead set against putting it back on. You go to the bedside table and dive into the drawers to find your clothes from the night of the award ceremony, uncovering the cigarettes and lighter you forgot had been hidden there.

You don't even think before lighting one up, hoping that the nicotine will take the edge off your despair. You are quick to finish it and the clarity it brings encourages you to have a second. And then a third.

From the combination of your reclined position on the sheets and the dainty way you hold each cigarette, you can't help but feel like a 1940s starlet. It injects a bit of delirious humour, and also gumption into the mix.

"You are not at fault here," you whisper out loud. "He is the one who has an understanding of how soulmates work. He withheld that. You are allowed to be pissed off with him and you should let him see it."

-----------------------------

By the time Morpheus returns, you are in full possession of your wits and sit perched at the foot of the bed. You regard each other; he appears a touch drawn out, eyes subdued and a small line marking the space between his eyebrows.

"You have been smoking," he states flatly.

Buoyed by the confidence gifted to you by said activity, you inhale the scent of the lingering bluish fog, flashing a sardonic smile as you audibly breathe out, labouring the point with the pleasurable sigh.

"What else was I supposed to do while I waited for you to come back?" You cross your legs and smooth out a non-existent wrinkle in the bedclothes you meticulously rearranged.

The effects of your sarcasm are immediate; the air is becoming ominously dense, threatening to unleash a storm of epic proportions. Morpheus' fists clench and the pressure is dampened a fraction.

"Give them to me," he asks in a monotone.

"No."

Your connection is so devoid of dissonance at this point. Morpheus is stone carved. The kind of impenetrable that would shred and destroy finger nails; there is no point in trying to claw your way to the being beneath. The apathy sends your anger to new heights, compelling that shamefully vindictive part of you into lashing out. You want to hurt him just as he has hurt you.

"They're the only thing I have left from my real life."

A lethal quality seeps into his reply, "That life ended the moment you stepped out onto that street."

"Well then I should have run from you that night," you provoke further, tone biting as glacial ice on exposed skin.

The same shadows from before are crowding about his person, settling in his eyes - a tell that you have unleashed the nightmare form. You have to actively remind yourself to breathe at an even pace. All things you had queued up to say to him are long gone as you gaze upon his dark majesty.

"Even if you had been able to evade me, hide your physical body, I would have found you the moment you fell asleep."

The tether on his control slips as a single bolt of lightning turns the room to a white-out. The thunder never comes, instead the rumble of his voice.

"Do not think that I had not anticipated a refusal. I was more than prepared to use force to get what I wanted. What I was promised. I will not share you with anyone. You are mine. My soulmate. You -"

He stops unexpectedly and head snapping to look at the door.

You roll your eyes. "Let me guess, something requires your attention."

He takes in a deep breath. "I will return shortly."

You watch sullenly as he leaves you behind yet again, about to resume smoking when you feel an urge to re-examine the door. It is as pointless as before; no handle nor locks. Your fists hit the mahogany once, then twice before your composure fully deteriorates and you begin to hammer on it. Not because you are hoping to snag someone's awareness, for you heard it from Morpheus that no one could find this place. Sadly, you do it because you are losing hope.

Dejection momentarily quelled, you resort to staring at the door with such concentration that you fear it may trigger another headache.

"How the fuck do you work?" You ask it.

If there is no tangible way of holding it then that left the metaphysical as its locking mechanism. Metaphysical power that came from him - that now resided in you.

Maybe you could use it to break out...

You huff out a laugh at your optimism. There is no harm in trying.

Decision made, you make a quick trip to the bathroom to get the ruby ring you put by the sink. There's no chance you're escaping and leaving a beloved family heirloom behind.

You walk confidently to the door and plant yourself a forearm's length from it. The gold of the ring glimmers on your right hand as your press your palm to the glossy wood.

You do not want to be the person you were in the nightmare; forced into a box-encased void and cut off from the universe. You want to learn, to experience, to love. You want to have dreams and you're willing to make them with or without their master.

You are going to get out of here.

-----------------------------

Tag list: @herfantasyworldd @kpopgirlbtssvt @littleblackcatinwonderland @1950schick @lollipopsandlandmines

"I'm walking down the line that divides me somewhere in my mind. On the borderline of the edge, and where I walk alone."

[glassrowboat]

Princess. Boothill.

Summary: The summer is always the best time to sit back and enjoy the sounds of nature on a horse back ride, especially when it's with you by his side.

Word Count: 1,800+

The trot of horses on an old path was a welcome one as the trees covered the sky above, blocking out the beaming sun in a canopy of the most vibrant greens. Birds singing in tune with a stream nearby, one you know well from your many times running to it as the heat got the best of you just to kick at the waters for the chance of being splashed with a refreshing cool.

Fortunately enough, today wasn't unbearable. Hot, still, but that's nothing new.

“What's with ya and always takin’ it slow, princess?” A voice called out to you, trying to distract you from the task at hand. That being: getting used to riding a horse in the first place.

Your teacher for…well..the mare you were currently on top of.

“Cmon girl, I swear I taught you how to gallop by now. Less ya scared?” A snort came from him, unlike the ones the horses huff out after being ordered to go into a different direction than the one they wanted.

Stubborn creatures they were, but your teacher had assured you the one you were riding on, Crafty, was the least stubborn of the bunch. A ‘tamed lass’ or something along those lines. At least that's what he claims, but you've personally experienced being bucked off before.

It was unpleasant, to say the least. The moment you hit the rough patch of dirt, grass tickling your skin, you were unable to breathe despite your attempts to gasp for air. Quite literally knocked out of you as you choked on the spot. Your body refused to fill your lungs.

Now, you had never been much of a smoker but in that moment you would have gladly taken a puff from a spit covered end if it meant getting what you longed for.

It was only when you were breathing again that you noticed a certain someone (a complete prick) was standing above you holding Crafty's reins in hand and laughing.

“Well, it was bound to happen ‘ventually.”

Those words made you want to punch him as your teacher leaned down, hand taking your own, and helped you up.

Afterward, you immediately ran off to shower. The need for a break and a good wash far too tempting to resist after getting knocked off your ass.

Since then you had been dubbed-

“Princess?”

That.

You glanced over at him, despite knowing you should keep your eyes forward lest Crafty follows the direction you're gazing at, to catch the sight of his black and white hair thrown up in a messy ponytail. Hat, as always, perched right on top of his head.

“Everytime you call me that, I want to call you Cruella De Vil.”

Your teacher awwed at your words, cooing the harsh tone in your voice. “You wanna give me a nickname now? I didn't know we were at tha’ stage in our relationship yet.”

“We are in nothing close to a relationship.” You snapped.

“Wowy pardner, way to-” You glared at him, waiting for your teacher (Cruella) to dare and even try to finish his sentence when you both knew he was going to attempt to say something along the lines of ‘shit on my parade’- “rain on my parade.”

“Yeah, that's totally what you were going to say.”

“Obviously.” He said, drawing out they ‘ly’ the same way you would when mocking how a country singer says the word whiskey.

You found yourself going “uhuh,” nodding in agreement just to get him off your back. Shame it didn't work as well as you wanted it to as Cruella over there kept jabbering. Stuffing your ears full of words like a tamale.

“Ya know, if it gets any hotter I'm sure we could fry an egg just by puttin’ it on a rock to sizzle up real nice. Would you like that, princess, me cooking you up a meal? Maybe we can have a beer or two to top it-”

Eventually, you found your legs squeezing the horse below you, signaling her to pick up the speed. Your hips meeting the same beat hers did as she ran, just like you were taught.

it's easier that way, apparently. Puts less stress on your body.

Hoofs beating against the well-worn path, but your teacher was far more comfortable going at a faster pace, making him catch up with you easily as he whistled at the horse to slow down. Her legs were already betraying you as they moved back into a slow trot all the way to a stop. Crafty staring back at you like she was expecting you to give her a treat for the treacherous behavior.

Well, she was certainly well trained, at least. Maybe he did have a point in saying Crafty was a tamed lass.

“Tryin' to run from me now?” He asked, laughter in his voice even as your teacher clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

“You were the one complaining about us going too slow earlier.”

“Huh? Can't seem to recall that.” Reaching over, he took the reins from your hands, slipping them as easily from your gasp as any trained pickpocket might. “Mind getting off ol Crafty here so we can talk?”

“I'd rather not.”

“Course not. Real shame you're always so stubborn.” If he wasn't so close, you might have missed the part your teacher whispered about how he should have expected you to be harder to deal with than a newborn foal.

Yeah, fuck you too cowboy.

Running a hand over Crafty's neck, you couldn't help but cringe slightly at the feeling of her fur being so coarse. You'd have to remember to brush them down after cleaning out their hoofs. Something you like to do before and after every ride. After all, they deserve it for carrying you around like this.

“I don't know how you put up with Cruella over here.” You say to her. “Not when I'd never know when he's planning to turn my hide into a hat.”

Your teacher barked out a laugh as he picked his hat off his head, waving it slightly in front of your eyes so you could get a proper view of it. “It's not even made out of horse hide, ya see?”

“Yet.”

“Yet.” He repeated with a raised brow.

“Yeah, I'll give it until Crafty's leg finally gives out.”

The last thing you saw before your vision was covered was your teacher rolling his eyes right before he placed that dusty hat on your head. If you remember correctly, didn't that mean something like you were his girl or….

Ah.

Ah!

With a face as hot as the blazing sun shining down on you two, right in the midst of summer, no less, you shoved the hat back towards him. “That's sweaty and gross! I don't want it!”

Laughter caught on the wind as he took it back, holding it to his chest as your teacher pouted.

“Ya wound me. Here, a simple cowboy is offering you something to block out that blasted sun, and you don't even make use of it?”

“I can manage just fine without it.” You hissed.

“You have also been riding with narrowed eyes this entire time, princess. It kinda gives you away.”

“I said,” taking the reins from his hands you pulled them back into your grasp, careful not to accidentally kick Crafty up by startling her, “I'm fine.”

Turning around on the path you both had been riding down, you were met with the sight of the lush greenery you two had passed and two sets of horseshoe prints littering the ground.

“And I'm heading back.”

“All on your own? Didn't know you could handle that by yourself.”

“Yes, on my own, cowboy.” You said with a firm nod. “I'll fill the hay and everything so there's no need to worry about it.”

Even if it meant getting that blasted stuff in your bra. It always had a way of sneaking in there despite your best efforts and highest collar shirts.

“All covered then, eh?” He asked as Crafty nickered underneath you.

This time you didn't grace him with a response as you made your way down the path, the sound of the bird chirping and Crafty's tail trying to wack any bugs away from her your only company as your teacher watched you go.

“She's so stubborn, ain't she?” He found himself asking. Though the grin on his face was a clear indication that the thick headed nature of yours wasn't exactly minded.

“Guess I gotta try harder to build up a romantic mood to confess next time. I'll get her to listen for sure. I just need a bit of time.”

In return, your teacher was met with the huff of the horse he was sitting on as his hand moved up to block the sun in his eyes.

Back then his hand was flesh and blood.

But now?

His metal hand was blocking out the full moon, bright as it could be as he gazed up at the stars reflected on the aluminum coated surface he was still learning to get used to. The way they moved was nothing like real fingers that would hurt at the slightest papercut.

He would always stick the hurt finger in his mouth and say that would do the trick even as the little miss royal ass would insist he wash off.

Soap and water.

He needed a bath, or at least his hair needed to be washed off. The rest of him maybe needed a shining? Maybe a good wipe and oil capped off?

Boothill dropped his hand, letting it fall to his side as he looked back up at the sky.

If he closed his eyes right now, could he pretend it was sunny as can be? That the leafs above and Boothill’s hat were the only thing keeping his eyes from being blinded, that there was a stream right down the way he could hear just as clearly as the trot of two horses side by side?

Could he, just maybe, hear your voice?

Yet all he heard was his own breathing that was…altered in a way. Affected, just like the rest of him the moment he took on this hunk of a junk body.

It was agonizing to wake up from such a peaceful dream. One he wanted to go back to despite it long since having burnt to ash. Crumpled between warm fingers that had once touched your hand, now gone like the rest of him.

Grabbing his hat, Boothill got up where he was standing, trying his best to once again walk away from your memory. The same way he did as Boothill realized he had to flee that fateful day without erecting some sort of monument for everyone in their honor.

For Nick.

For Graey.

For his little girl.

For his princess.

[rinirinisbestu]

Hey hey it's me again, and I'm drawing Robbie in his outfits again!

Hmm let's quickly go through the plot!

The kids are having a dance day, and Stephanie and Pixel want to dance something together and choose the tango! But they both don't know how to dance it!!! So they ask Sportacus for help! But he has to refuse, afraid that he won't be able to teach them alone, and she, Rosita Justdance, comes on stage! Her brilliant plan is to ruin the rehearsal and put Sportacus out of action, but she gets too carried away by the dance, which is why Robbie quickly reveals himself! He is going to run away, but the kids and Sportacus ask him to stay and help learn the dance, and he reluctantly agrees.

I want to say that sometimes it seems to me that Sporty sees Robbie behind the disguise, I like it

As for the costume! It was… difficult… This dress appeared quite rarely and I could not understand what it was for. After listening to the definition he gives it in one episode, I almost exploded, I don’t know how it was in the original, but in the Russian dubbing he says that it’s “Pinkish” BRO IT’S NOT EVEN CLOSELY PINK! In any case, after a long time of fiddling, I still settled on my first option that this dress is for dances like tango! (My friend assumed that it was for flamenco, but there are usually long skirts and they are very important in the dance, so we abandoned this idea) I also didn’t really come up with an application for this scarf (?) hijab (?), so I didn’t draw it, but used a wig from what I understood to be the second version of this costume from the second season.

I really love Pixel, but drawing him is more like torture. For some reason, I’m not good at drawing him. And yes, Stephanie and Pixel are still kittens in love

Okay, I’ve talked a lot, I love you, I hope you liked it and you will have a good day

[ilovetoxicfictionalmen]

RUNAWAY FROM ME - CHAPTER 1

Pairing - Tommy Shelbly x oc

Summary - Deirdre ran from her life of misery for her own safety. However, she managed to run back into the arms of an angel she once knew, now known as The Peaky Blinder Devil. In which he has no intentions of letting her run away from him again.

Warnings - Dark content, noncon, dub con, explicit themes, lovers to enemies to lovers, slow burn kinda, Tommy needs a hug.

Word count - 5.2k+

Notes - First chapter complete woohoo. Thoughts highly appreciated. And let me know if I should make a tag list.

CHAPTER 1

Arrow House, Warwickshire - Morning, July 23rd 1924

She was in his dreams. Or as he believed to be nightmares. Teasing him of her immaculate beauty that he so desperately longed to forget. In Tommy’s visions, he was running after her, chasing her like his life depended on it. But she was running in slow motion, the way that her silk brunette hair bounced in line with her steps. But Tommy could feel his heart pound in his chest, his throat dry as he was panting after her. So desperately trying to catch up to her. Right when he’d think he’d finally catch her, the light would shine brightly and she’d disappear. 

Every morning, Tommy woke up alone. He laid there, only for a few minutes reflecting on his inner demons conjured in his sleep. Every morning, he woke to the torturous hardness in his lower region. However, he refused to touch himself, refused to pleasure himself in the memory of her. 

It all started in the hospital. Tommy thought he was dead. All because he saw her charm, the sight that he had longed for, even after all of these years. She looked like an angel, her luscious hair rested on her shoulders as her light brown eyes blinked to him. His body missed her, but his mind, oh how it still despised her. That’s how he knew he wasn’t dead. Because he didn’t feel that warmth to see her again, to think of her. 

Somehow, she pushed him through his recovery. This urge to want to heal so he could finally take the journey to find her. In his hallucinations, he was back in the tunnels, face covered in dirt and smoke as he was crawling in hopes to finally reach her. Tommy heard her call his name down the hole. As if she needed him to save her. In his sleep, he called her name over and over again. “Deirdre…” It left him a desperate man who took morphine to numb his thoughts rather than his physical trauma. 

Tommy sat on the edge of his king size bed, his fingernails ran through his scalp, brushing over his healing stitches as he mumbled to himself, shaking his head lightly. He stood up and looked out the window, across the greenery of his estate. 

His wife had been shot. She took a fucking bullet for him. Tommy was still grieving, everyone knew so but wouldn’t dare to speak a word to him. There was no one else Tommy blamed but himself, his lifestyle killed a good woman, the mother to his only child. A woman that made him feel like a better person. Somebody that made him forget of his past affection, which was a dagger dug deep into his back. 

And how was he mourning her now? By getting fucking hard by his vex. By the woman that broke him, changed him into a monster that many now fear. She destroyed his happiness, and now he wished to never feel such emotion again. The woman that was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She was the only person that Tommy showed his complete vulnerability to, he gave her all that he had, and how did she fucking repay him? Everytime he thought of her, it urged his desires to make her atone for her failures to honor him. 

Tommy changed into his suit and headed downstairs into his office as he slid his pistol into his holster. Polly was sitting by his desk, a cup of hot tea in hand as she turned her head to him. 

“Polly, what brings you here?” Tommy asked as he reached his desk for some forms in the draw. 

“Just checking up on you Tommy” she replied, a content look on her face.   

Tommy hummed with a nod as he stood behind his desk. He debated if he should tell Polly of his dreams, wondering if she’d be able to help him. But the thought of mentioning her name again, after all of these years lit the cold hearth in his body. 

Polly gave him a knowing look and Tommy couldn’t help but to mentally grin. He slid the papers inside of his pocket. 

“I’m dreaming of the past Polly” Tommy disclosed emotionlessly. 

A raise of the eyebrow. “Which past?”

His stern expression didn’t flinch at her act. “You know what I’m speaking of” Tommy responded as he lit himself a cigarette. 

“Yes, I do” Polly confessed. 

“Well?” 

“She’s always been by your side Tommy, even though you turn your head from her. Keep your ears blocked from her cries” Polly sighed, looking hopeful in his doubts. 

“Because she so ever deserves my help” Tommy empathized, shaking his head. “She distracts me. Weakens me in my most vulnerable state. Why Pol?” Tommy asked, leaning towards her, his hands on his hips. 

Why did she come back to haunt him so menacfully now? After all of this time, why did she choose to torment him when he has so much on the line? For his business, his family, his future, his son. A part of Tommy hoped that she was dead. But feared that he would never be satisfied if he couldn’t find her. 

“Perhaps she needs you” Polly suggested, a slight shrug of the shoulders. The thought of Tommy doing such an act angered him.

“Fucking-” Tommy muttered, shaking his head at the thought of her.

“Where are you going?” She inquired. 

“To London. My brothers and I feel an urge to celebrate my recovery. It is our last night of freedom before we bury ourselves into this job” Tommy explained as he walked out of the room. “And tell her to get out of my fucking head!” Tommy shouted, shaking his head at the thought of her. 

“Perhaps you’ll be able to say it to her yourself” Polly mumbled to herself, sipping on her tea as she listened to the voices in her head. 

Oh how he hated her, the woman that he loved, but never actually knew. The one that split his soul in half. 

But after this last job, the security of a new life. Tommy would finally look for her, he would get her with the catchpole no matter where she was, no matter who she was. It was time for Tommy to kill his repressions which his last ounce of humanity discouraged himself from doing. 

Kensington, London - Almost midnight, July 22rd 1924 

Unphased, that’s how Deirdre looked in the backseat of the cab even though her thoughts were screaming. Her fingers played with each other as she noticed the driver looking at her through the mirror. Almost there, just a few more minutes, a couple more streets to turn down. All of the streets were dark and empty, Deirdre’s tired eyes blinked as the car rolled up to the address. She quickly paid the fee and exited the vehicle, the street lamp lit by the familiar berkshire bricked Edwardian house. 

It was late, too late for visitors but Deirdre felt too on edge to book a room. She didn’t know where could be trusted anymore, where was safe, her face was recognised in the high ends and targeted in the low. Deirdre held onto her small luggage bag in one hand and brushed back her silky brunette hair with the other. 

Deirdre was on the run, again. She had lost track of how many times she’s done it now. But she knew that this time, there was no mercy if she was caught. There was no forgiveness if she dared to go back to beg for it. The acts she had committed would result in nothing but a brutal death. Not even her father would excuse her behavior. She needed to be free, far away from the British lands. Deirdre dreamt of the sun and warmth in California. It could be a fresh start, a new life, the welcoming of peace and freedom.  

It wasn’t a guaranteed welcome when she rang the doorbell. It had been a few years since their eventful last encounter. They could have easily relocated somewhere else. But Deirdre had no other safe haven. The front porch returned to silence as Deirdre waited patiently. She saw the hallway light bright up through bay box sash windows. 

The door creaked open, Emily’s green eyes poked through the crack of the door. Deirdre sighed out and dropped her head in relief. The door opened wide as Emily looked her up and down, dressed up in her night robe and her blonde hair tied up into a bun. It took a moment for Emily to recognise her. 

“Deirdre! Why- What?” Emily was lost for words as she pulled her inside, safe from the chilly air.

Deirdre dropped her luggage onto the ground and embraced her intensely. The first sign of care that she had gotten in the past few months. As she blinked back her tears, Deirdre shuddered against her friend. But quickly straightened her posture and plastered a mask on her face. 

“Come, come. Sit down, I will make us some tea” Emily ordered politely. 

Deirdre was led into the reception room and Emily helped her slip off her overcoat and hung it on the hook. Her eyes looked around the room, Deirdre couldn’t help but to feel slightly envious of the family portraits on the wall. However, this silence was tranquil. 

Deidre sat on the two seater couch with her legs crossed over as she anxiously patted her hair. She adjusted her cream corsetless dress and tugged down at her sleeves. Emily walked over with tea, a small hopeful smile on her lips as she poured the boiling liquid into her aynsley teacup. Deirdre looked out the window, the moonlight shone through the sheers. 

“It’s been forever” Emily acknowledged as she poured the tea into her own teacup.

“It has” Deirdre replied politely, her southern Irish accent still as strong as Emily remembered. 

They spoke quietly, Emily’s young children were asleep in the other rooms. But also because Deirdre felt on edge that there were ears in the walls. 

“A part of me never expected to see you here again” Emily hesitantly admitted, her eyebrows jumping at the memory of the last time she saw her.

“Yes, I certainly thought the same” Deirdre retorted as she sipped on her tea.

There was a silence as Emily waited for Deirdre to spill her guts. But Deirdre was holding back, because if she cracked, the great deal of her despair would crash down her masquerade.   

“I apologize for arriving so late, and without notice. Is Max home?” Deirdre raised an eyebrow. 

“Work in Germany” Emily nodded. “There is no need to apologize, I promised you a safe spot and I’m glad that you’re here” she assured gently.  “Will you be staying for long?” Emily asked.

No she will not be. Deirdre needed to be far from London as soon as she could. Her husband never knew the depths of their friendship, the arrogant bastard hardly remembered her name, but if he was to become suspicious of her whereabouts, Deirdre needed to be gone without a trace. 

“Just for the night” Deirdre promised. “I merely needed some advice” she nodded. 

“Which is?” Emily asked nervously.   

“I need to do something, in order to free myself from this life. I could only gather so much on such short notice. All I know is how to run with nothing and it’s always gotten me caught. I need to figure out a way to get ahead” Deirdre explained, the steam of the tea warmed her cold lips. 

Emily hummed and set her tea down on the table. She was an honest woman, who married an honest man and they lived an honest life. However, Emily wasn’t always honest, she was clever in her acts, a true damsel in distress when needed be. 

Deirdre sighed heavily and blinked her weary eyes. “I’m tired Emily, so, so tired. I cannot rest, I cannot live. My body can only take so much. If my life of burden is not taken by another, I fear I will do it myself” Deirdre promised, her expression dry of humor. 

“I can-”

“No” Deirdre cut her off, her hand raised in warning. 

“Max would have-”

“No” Deirdre reinforced. “Being here already makes me feel guilty and nervous enough. I need to be gone within the next day. He will be coming for me if he is already not” Deirdre elucidated, her expression stern but her eyes showed how terrified she truly was. 

Emily sighed and batted her lashes. 

“Eden Club, no Scots or Irish are ever seen there. Most are rich, harmless travelers from America” Emily recommended. “Many are easily charmed by the native beauty” she added. 

“Who owns it?” Deirdre asked cautiously. 

“Ah-” Emily wondered, her fingers tapping on her chin. “Some Italian gangster, Sabini I recall” Emily confirmed, remembering the sight of the man on her spontaneous night a few years ago. “I will be able to get you some powder in the morning” Emily said. “Just be cautious who you choose” she raised her finger to her. Deirdre hummed and finished her tea. 

Shortly after, Emily led her to the guest bedroom and bidded her goodnight. As she stripped to change into her nightwear, Deirdre stared at the large bruise across her outer right thigh through the mirror. Accompanied by the many scars and small bruises all over her small fragile body. 

She crawled into the bed, her body immediately falling asleep but her eyes stayed awake. Her ears could hear the clock’s hands tick on the wall and her heart thud in her chest. All whilst she stared at the door, awaiting for someone to open it. 

When Deirdre finally drifted off into an uneasy sleep, she saw her brute of a husband chasing after her. She was running across an open field, but he was hot on her tail. Deirdre’s heart was in her throat as she heard his brutal voice call out to her, to summon her back to him. But Deirdre wouldn’t stop, she couldn’t stop. Refused to submit to him ever again. 

As she tripped on the ground, her body was flipped over and her eyes widened at the sight of him. Where did he come from? The warmth on his cheeks still looked the same after all of this time. A lopsided smile on his lips accompanied by his crinkles around those ocean blue eyes. 

His face was angelic, but she felt his claws dig into her shoulders. She squirmed underneath him, cried out for anyone to save her, but he was dragging her down the grass which had turned into the dirt roads of Small Heath by her ankles. Her body twisted over, her hands digging into the gravel, crying for salvation, for mercy. But she knew that she had to pay for her crimes against him. 

When Deirdre woke up from her nightmare, her body shot up as she was panting for air. She had forgotten about the man that she once loved. Yes, she heard his name at times in conversation, but they lived in different worlds. She always knew she was safe from ever crossing paths with him, her family would never dare to do business with him, nor go against him. 

The last she heard was his wife taking a bullet for him, her husband laughed and asked her if she’d do the same for him. But if she had the choice, she’d be the one to fire the gun at him, her dear husband. 

But to dream of him, after all of these years. Tonight of all nights. He was a changed man, ruthless, heartless, barbaric. It made Deirdre feel sick to her stomach, she ran to the ensuite and threw up in the toilet. As she flushed the toilet and washed out her mouth in the bassinet, Deirdre plodded back to the bed and laid stiffly. 

He was planted in her thoughts now, she needed to get out of London. Fearing that another wolf had picked up her scent and was ready to catch her like she was the helpless lamb in the field.  

Soho, London - Evening, July 23rd 1924

Tommy saw her stand on the straight wide road. The beaming sun warmed his pale skin as he studied her. He walked to her slowly, her back towards him as she wore a white dress. It was quiet, he felt the wind blow gently and heard his calm breathing. 

As he stood directly behind her, his hands brushed over her shoulder, up to the back of her neck. Tommy gently pushed her soft hair to the side as he pressed his mouth to her ear. He heard her breathe out, her body relaxed back up against his as he wrapped his arms around her. 

“Tommy…” she whispered. 

Tommy woke from his light sleep when Arthur and John bursted into the hotel room, bottles of expensive champagne in their hands and foul words dripping from their lips. There was a confident smirk on his lips, he sat up on the made bed and brushed over his suit, still fully dressed. They were pulling out the champagne glasses and popping open the bottles. 

Without a word, he headed into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. Tommy stared at himself in the mirror, his blue eyes wide and jaw stern. Arthur and John could be heard clearly, drinking piss and smelling snow, ready for their big night. 

“I feel you with me” Tommy breathed out slowly, his eyes shut. “Oh, how fate wants us together again. It demands you pay for your crimes against me” He sighed softly. “And I’d be a fool if I showed you leniency” he swore. 

Arthur banged his hands on the door. With a heavy blink, Tommy opened the door and gladly accepted the glass in hand. Through one gulp, the glass was empty. The brothers cheered Tommy on and quickly refilled his glass. 

They were oblivious to the thoughts that dripped out of Tommy’s mind. No one ever really knew what he was thinking of. He was an enigma, so difficult to analyze, purely emotionlessly at many critical times. Everyone always thought that Tommy never really cared about anything anymore, since the war, except for his business. 

Arthur wrapped his slender arms around his brothers and pulled them in close. “One last night as brothers, eh John? Eh Tom?” Arthur asked, a gleeful smile on his lips. 

“Of course brother” John nodded in content. 

“I feel this night will be one to remember” Tommy acknowledged and looked to his brothers dramatically.

"What is it Tommy?" John frowned with Arthur's expression following.

Tommy breathed deeply and nodded his head. "I've been dreaming of the past, and I dreamt of a wide straight road with the woman of my past standing right in middle of it. I feel her with me, she calls my name on this night" Tommy confessed.   

Eden Club, Soho - Night, 23rd July 1924

One drink, two, three, four? Deirdre lost count on how many drinks she allowed this American lawyer to purchase her. The plan was to get him knocked out, not her. She needed to slow herself down, the eagerness to rob him blind had her high on alderline. The thrill of breaking free, running away for good was too much for her mind, emotions and body to handle. 

She had been throwing up all day. Every second she wasted brought her husband a step closer to her. The powder was hidden in her purse and Emily was correct. It wasn’t hard to seduce an American. Jack was assertive, clearly up himself. He had daddy's money to lean on anyways, he had security. She did not. 

It was hard to hear any form of conversation over the jazz music echoing around the walls. As her eyes darted around, she saw everyone was either intoxicated or high on the sweet melodies. Nobody was watching her, Emily was right, she was safe. 

Deirdre’s fingers traced around the rim of the martini glass as the melodies calmed her nerves. The conversation Jack made was muffled, Deirdre’s mind miles away from reality. His hand brushed through his blonde hair as his eyes undressed her. 

Deirdre truly was a sight for sore eyes. If she was on the streets, people would stare. That did not please her husband. The many that knew of his nature, forced themselves to look away. Hearing the many tales of what happened if he felt a slight bit of jealousy. A need to ensure ownership over her.  

The navy silk v neck dress curved her petite body perfectly. A parting gift from Emily, a token of good fortune. Only time would tell if Deirdre still had it in her. If her confidence had not been completely broken. She felt the pearl necklace, she'd sell it as soon as she was free.

Jack leant over to her, a seductive look in his dark brown eyes. She could smell the alcohol on his breath and it made her feel nauseous. “Later, I want to bring you back to my suite, and fuck you all night” he confessed, a confident smirk on his lips. 

Drunken men were always foul. Focused on the outside of a woman and did not care to know who she was. He hadn’t asked a single question about her all night. But that made it easier for her, faded her upcoming guilt.   “Jack my darling, you haven’t even asked me for a dance yet” Deirdre teased with a toothy grin.

“Oh, there will be plenty of dances, Cassidy” he promised, his arm snaking around her back. 

A simple alias just for Deirdre’s comfort. Deirdre chuckled as she watched him finish his glass, she needed him to only have a couple more. Then she’d politely accept his invitation over, suggest one finally drink and slip in the powder. It would all be over before midnight. She’d catch the overnight train to Liverpool and board the boat to America by the end of tomorrow. 

The band came to a sudden stop, the audience’s heads turned towards the three men that strode through the dining. All three of them wore peaked caps with large overcoats as they walked tall. They approached the stage and Deirdre couldn’t help but to feel her heart thud harder in her chest as this suspicious tingle crawled over her skin with her light brown eyes glued onto the men that felt too familiar. Deirdre’s heart froze when the man in front came to clear sight as he took off his cap, revealing his harsh undercut styled brunette hair.  

Thomas Shelby. 

Her face went numb when his pale hands wrapped around the microphone, ears clogged as his words fell deaf yet she remembered the sound of his deep, captivating voice perfectly. The two other men, which she quickly recognised to be his brothers, Arthur and John, stood with their chests puffed out, arms locked across shoulders and stern expressions. 

Deirdre’s heart pounded in her chest like a wild animal desperate to escape its cage. Even though her head was frozen in line to his speech, her eyes were darting around, already planning her escape. The room was full, surely his blue eyes would not be able to point her out in the depths of the occupied round tables. Let alone recognise her after all of these years. 

How could she have been so foolish? The massive city of London had never felt smaller than tonight. She had heard his name many times and every time it felt like a stab in the heart. He had made a name for himself, built an empire in that fire and brimstone city. Just like he always said he would. Her father and dear husband already hated him, gypsy bastard. Every day she prayed for their obliviousness to her heavy past with him.

It felt like her soul was pulled out of her body when his blue eyes landed on her. His mouth fell ajar open as his long lashes batted, head gently tilting to the left as he acknowledged her, remembering her thoroughly. The brothers noticed his pause and looked towards her as well, she couldn’t help but to cower slightly. The rest of the room was oblivious to the stare off between him and her. 

“And now, shall we dance?” He suggested it in a slow and challenging manner. One hand snapped to que towards the band and the other gestured towards his brothers.  

The sounds of jazz roared against the walls as everyone abruptly stood up. A deer caught in headlights, that’s how Deirdre felt at first. As she watched him walk down the stage, his eyes still on her. The brothers were already out of her sight. 

She snapped back to reality when Jack’s fingers traced over her bare shoulder. Deidre gulped hard as she quickly stood up, nervously brushing through her dark loose brunette hair. 

“Sorry, I, I suddenly don't feel too well” Deirdre admitted, which was actually a lie, but the implication went in the opposite direction. 

“Nonsense! I haven’t even gotten a single dance with you yet” Jack acclaimed with a charming smirk, his arm wrapped around her shoulder. 

Her eyes shot towards the stage, he’s gone. 

“I’m so sorry, I really must go” Deidre quickly spoke, her voice trembling as she yanked herself out of his grasp. 

She heard him rebut, however she was already heading straight towards the large doors as she zigzagged through the crowd. Unfortunately, her poorly planned escape route had quickly soiled, she spotted Arthur and John standing on opposite sides of the exit. They were always loyal pawns in his game. There was a pause in her movements as her eyes shot around, her body covered in pins and needles. 

She’d escape through the workers quarters. But as she turned in a hasty measure, her small body smacked into another. The arms that she had felt years before wrapped around her possessively as he steadied her stance. There was no doubt who it was, no hope for it to be another. 

“My dearest Deirdre, my sight has declined; however, my eyes will never fail to spot your beauty. May I have this dance?” Tommy asked with a stern expression but soft voice, head tilted down towards her as she kept her eyes on the floor. 

The coat he wore was gone, and she could easily feel his muscular frame hidden underneath the button up shirt, not to mention the pistol in his holster. His cold hand lifted her chin and their eyes locked. As she blinked slowly, her eyes glistering, she bit on her tongue. Tommy waited patiently for her next move. 

Show no fear. 

“If I knew that the Eden Club was in your possession I would have steered clear. We can pretend that you never saw me” Deidre negotiated confidently but her front failed when her body shook against his. 

Tommy laughed loudly as his arm around her waist tightened in a proprietorial manner. 

“Unfortunately we have unfinished business, you and I” Tommy replied coldly. 

“Please, surely you haven't held onto those emotions for all of these years” Deirdre chuckled presumptuously as she tried to push their bodies apart without gaining attention.   

Tommy grunted at her words and dragged her to the dance floor, his fingers dug into her upper arms. Surely he wouldn’t make a scene here. But then she’s heard many tales of him, the beast that he had become when he returned from the war.

“You’re in a considerable debt with me, my love. One that you thought would fade if you merely ran” Tommy growled. 

“I can get you your money” she winced at the sharp pain, not like it would even mean anything to him with how much his businesses bring in these days. When they passed through the crowded floor, she realized that he was leading her out of the lounge. 

“If you think your debt is based around money, are you still that naive girl from all of those years ago, eh?” Tommy smirked as he kicked open the double doors which led them into the kitchen. 

It was now or never. Deirdre shoved him away with full force and scrambled through the busy kitchen as she nearly fell over in her heels as she broke free. All eyes were on them but no one dared to move a finger in the wrong direction. As she roughly pushed past everyone, she tried to remain calm. 

Tommy grinned at the girl who loved to run. This night had taken an unexpected turn indeed for the both of them, her heart was pounding immensely as she panted in her heels. The first door she took led her to a hallway, the open exit to the streets on her right was blocked by two working men. Cigarettes in their lips as they watched her intimately, she bolted to the left. 

The next door she took, she didn’t consider analyzing, she locked herself in the small dark room which appeared to be an office. The moonlight shined through the sash window which she yanked up and looked down to the small drop, survivable but not without two broken heels. As Deidre laid her hands on the windowsill, her head snapped back as she heard the door unlock from the other side. There was no other option besides hiding. Deirdre found herself hidden underneath the wooden Lombardo desk. It was human instinct to cower, pray that she’d be able to run from her past demons.

The weighty door creaked open, and she heard his heavy footsteps on the carpet. Tommy pulled out a cigarette, the end of the stick brushed in between his lips as he lit it. “Oh Deirdre, my dearest” Tommy spoke loudly, his tone dripping of sarcasm, which made her stomach feel like a bottomless pit. He slammed the door shut behind him. “Why do you run? Why do you hide? From me of all people? You seemed to have forgotten the vows you swore your life on. The promises which are still owed to me. You ignorantly believed that fate would keep us apart? Oh but haven’t you heard the tales of the Peaky Blinder Devil?” Tommy spoke, his footsteps slowly approached her. 

The thuds in her chest were painful, her throat felt like the cold air around her was strangling her. He could hear her heavy breathing and chuckled silently. The Colt M1911 is pulled from his holster and he ensured that she heard the safety click off. 

“Once upon a time there was a boy. Who foolishly fell for a girl with a secretive past. They created a life as one. He protected her from the pure evils in this cruel world and how did she repay him? She robbed him blind. She ran from the boy that she loved and turned his soul black. She created the Devil of Birmingham. And tonight, the runaway has tripped over her bad deeds” Tommy teased as he leisurely approached her. 

With a turn of the corner of the desk, Tommy raised his pistol and pointed it at her forehead. Deirdre looked up to him with doe eyes and gulped down her nerves. “And now, you will repay your debts” Tommy ordered with a gentle nod. 

“I will do no such thing” she refused, her words sizzling in anger. 

Tommy knelt down to her level, his pistol pressed against her temple. Deirdre breathed out but didn’t fear, she’s been pushed and shoved too many times before to know when there was an actual threat on her life. 

“Yes you will. Because you’re still my property, my dear wife” Tommy smirked.

CHAPTER 2

[my-insanity-is-an-artform]

Woe, Crack Baby Shitten au be upon thee.

(@bamsara 's little doodle of Nari being dubbed Cult Babysitter and holding a little lamb irrevocably changed my brain chemistry. So of course, I'm now making it everyone else's problem with the headcanon that Narinder is good with children of all ages.)

A couple of months before Lamb gets captured, they meet another lamb or a very small flock that have to split up very quickly after meeting since there's more chance of the lamb species surviving if they aren't all together. In the meeting, Lamb agrees to try continue the lamb species and gets pregnant via *magic* or afab.

Of course, all of the lambs are captured and killed with Lamb being the last, still a few months away from giving birth.

But then they are chosen and resurrected by The One Who Waits.

Fun fact: a fetus can survive for a few minutes after the death of the carrier. (Also this is a world with magic and gods in it. Logic means nothing to me.)

Lamb starts their cult, crusades across the lands and meets all sorts of allies and enemies. All while quietly mourning their entire species and the child that never would be.

Right up until they go into labour.

The baby is lamb through and through with soft wool, wide eyes, tiny cloven hooves and floppy ears.

But the influence of the crown is blazingly obvious since the baby's wool is jet black and they have three red eyes.

I can't tell which would be funnier. Lamb giving birth in The Lonely Shack or while they are physically in The Gateway just post-beating Leshy. Like they were in active labour right throughout fighting Leshy and had no idea. Either way, it's Shocked Pikachu .jpeg all around. (My fucking KINGDOM for a doodle of this.)

Various dot point shenanigans under the cut

There are two ways to go about this. But either way, Baby is not staying in the Cult. Too dangerous, especially if word gets to the Bishops about there being another lamb. So Lamb can and will speed-run this shit. So it takes them about 4-6 years to fully defeat the Bishops.

Baby stays with Ratau:

Lamb goes and yells at TOWW. They are panicking because they have no idea how to raise a probably-half-god baby.

Narinder has no idea what happened right up until Lamb comes in screaming about him being a Baby Daddy and child support.

Ratau is Grandpa now. This is his fate. He embraces the Grandpa life.

Baby learns how to play knucklebones before they can speak.

Shrumy tries to wager with Lamb/Ratau for the whole Baby. Once and only Once.

Baby's first word is dice. Or die.

Baby worships TOWW, but they are a Baby and don't really comprehend worship so the small shrine gets a lot of flowers, neat rocks and some drawings. Narinder always gives a lot of gold for them. And No, it's not favouritism. Shut up.

Baby knows curses. This is concerning for everyone except Baby.

Baby gets a little TOWW doll. It's their favourite, it goes everywhere with them and washing it is a nightmare for everyone involved.

Baby is jokingly referred to as TOWW's most Devoted Follower because of the doll.

↑ this action will have consequences.

When Baby is not so baby, they make stuff out of their wool for TOWW and for his disciples. Or asks their parent to help them make stuff.

Cue Lamb awkwardly giving the three some very wonky scarves or hats.

Baal loves it.

Aym refuses to take his off. Ever.

Narinder is actually upset cause his doesn't fit. He's too big. He had to wear it like a little ring.

Or Baby stays/is brought to the Gateway ala Aym and Baal situation:

If Lamb gives birth in the Gateway, everyone is getting a free midwifery education and free trauma. The cats want a refund.

Ya know when a baby instinctively clasps their little hand around a finger and it's like a crime to pull away? That but with Narinder's big ass claw that Baby can only barely cling to.

Aym cries the first time he holds Baby.

Baal straight-up refuses to give Baby back for a good hour.

Lamb visits at least once a day.

Lamb also brings baby things since a baby will do what a baby will do.

Depending on how old Aym and Baal were when they were gifted, Narinder is either learning all of this for the first time or is reminded of how challenging baby care can be.

Narinder purrs = a zonked Baby.

Baby's first word is Vessel.

Baby is taught to fight. Lamb doesn't like it but accepts it.

Baby has a little lamb doll. It is only due to the fact the afterlife doesn't have dirt that they avoid the nightmare of trying to wash it.

Baby is jokingly referred to as TOWW's most Devoted Follower since they refuse to be parted with him for long.

↑ this action will have consequences.

Lamb teaches Baby about being a lamb and if Aym and Baal join in, well who are they to deny their child's only friends/guardians this?

Narinder and Lamb figure out how to get Baby to teleport to the Living World and Baby gets to visit Grandpa Ratau.

Post-game shenanigans.

Narinder: Give me back my crown. Lamb: Ok. Sure. Narinder: I will now sacrifice my most devoted follower (the Lamb) for my freedom. Lamb: *Kill Bill sirens*

Lamb somehow doesn't kill Aym and Baal and instead kidnaps them via Indoctrination Circle out of spite/ reluctance to hurt them.

Narinder feels betrayed that the Lamb would refuse like this and kidnap his acolytes. He was going to resurrect them! He can't fully commit to raising a child while being the God of Death.

Lamb feels betrayed that Narinder would want to kill their child. After all they've been through together! After the way they saw him treat Baby with such gentleness and now he wants to kill them?!

This comes out in the very final moments right before Lamb goes to give the final blow.

Narinder: You are a vengeful false idol and a traitor! Lamb: At least I'm not a monster who wanted to kill my own child! Narinder: Wait. What.

This devolves into a massive argument with divorced-couple vibes.

Narinder is insulted and a bit hurt they thought he would kill his own child.

Lamb is hurt that Narinder would just demand their sacrifice without even talking to them about the whole situation.

Either way the lesson learned is Narinder needs to be more blunt and Lamb needs to not jump to conclusions.

So they are left with a newly usurped Narinder and a newly crowned Lamb. Oops.

Baby is with Ratau when all of this is going down.

Baby is happy their family is all together properly. Baby is Not Happy about this whole cult thing demanding attention from Their Baba.

The Cult is baffled by the sight of their leader with both a baby and a Spouse? Bitterly Divorced Ex? Estranged Co-parent?! What ever it is, most of them have elected not to touch the whole situation with a 10ft barge pole.

Baby learns what the word Father is and how that word refers to Narinder.

Baby calls Narinder Father/Papa/Daddy. Instant KO.

Narinder somehow gains a small hoard of children that like to follow him. Baby Does Not Approve.

Baby also Does Not Approve of this newly formed rift between their parents.

Cue Parent Trap level of Shenanigans.

Aym and Baal are recruited.

The Hoard of Children are recruited. Baby now Slightly Approves.

Narinder and Lamb have an Actual Conversation after the 18th time they get locked in the confessional together.

This of course evolves into Narilamb.

Bishops are saved from purgatory.

Despite all attempts otherwise, Baby is introduced to them.

Shocked Pikachu .jpeg x4

Maybe after a few more years, not-so-baby Baby wants a sibling.

This got so much longer than I thought but yes. Shitten Shenanigans: Accidental Child Acquisition flavoured.

[chaotic-iguana]

how about a five where Javi rejects the reader, so the reader like gets really sad, but one day Javi hears she is going on a date (is not true, Murphy made it up) and he rushed to her apartment and confesses and reader is like ?? What are you talking about, super angsty but super fluffy? Pleaseeee

Out of time | javier peña x f! reader 

summary: javi rejects reader. repents like the idiot he is. (i love him) he is a FOOL in love. fight me. 

wordcount: 2.1k

warnings: rejection, angst and fluff, hurt and comfort basically, happy ending. 

A/N: i got you, anon. this promt is the perfect apology for the last one. repentance fr. love u ALL. let me know what you think. also nothing against “hippies” just giving murphy pov. i do however as an indian have a  bone to pick with fake white yoga gurus. it’s gotta be appropriation. 

masterlist

Javi had never been heartless before. Never been cruel before. Now, as you pointedly hunched over your desk in an effort to ignore the chortles and cheap jokes that kept sounding from the men crowded around his desk as they all stood around a nameless note someone -you- had slipped onto his desk. 

He laughed boisterously with them, before crumpling the paper in his fist and dropping it into the bin next to his chair. You refused to so much as raise your head and look his way, feeling the crushing wave of heartbreak sweeping through you. It wasn’t until you felt a tear on your cheek that you realised that you had started crying, and so you muttered an excuse about getting some coffee before rushing to the bathroom and sobbing in a closed stall. So much for Valentine’s day. 

It wasn’t until the end of the day, when you saw him walking your way in the parking lot, that you met his eyes. And you could see, with the set of his jaw; the arch of his brows, that he knew. Before you could scramble into your car, he was yelling after you. 

“Is your new hobby being extended to everyone or did I win the lucky draw? Cute note.” 

Oh, that bastard. 

You scoffed, looking him straight in the eye. “Call it a moment of weakness, Peña. Thought I felt something for you, and it was Valentine’s day. Pretty sure all I feel now is rage, you asshole.” 

A laugh from him. “Don’t be like that, hermosa. Let me know if you feel something between your legs for me, alright?”

Scowling, you turned from him and got into your car. You could have sworn he looked like a kicked puppy as you pulled out of the parking. These past few weeks, you had caught him looking at you more often. Finding excuses to touch you more often, too. A hand on your back, fingers accidentally grazing yours, his knee pressed against your thigh in Murphy’s backseat. Fucking idiot. You didn’t even know if you were madder at him or yourself. You know him. All of fucking Bogota knows him. God knows how you were foolish enough to think he felt anything except for between his legs. 

A few months go by, excruciatingly slowly. It’s as if time itself has decided to fuck with you. You miss his gaze on you, his hands, his smile, him. You’ve been avoiding him like the plague. Stopped looking at him even when he was in the same room, hardly spoke to him even if it was in the middle of a raid, declined Connie’s many many invitations to parties you knew he’d be at. It was just easier to pretend that February the 14th had been a completely normal day. You’re just tired of all of it. It would have been easier not to have said anything at all. 

What you were completely unaware of, however, was that you had a sneaky little shit for a partner. The fact that he had clocked what was going on immediately was completely unbeknownst to you. Both of you pining silently with what Steve dubbed “moony heart eyes”, the radio silence, and the fact that you had stopped talking to Connie just so you didn’t have to show up to her parties? Something had gone wrong. Initially, Steve thought that maybe Javi had made an unwanted move on you - and had damn near scuffed him to death - until he saw Javi’s eyes the next day. Haunted. It seemed that you had managed to take more out of the man than Escobar had. But you weren’t faring much better, either. Irritated and tired and grumbly all the time, refusing to so much as look in Javi’s direction. But you both were pretty much just staying out of each other’s ways, not causing any trouble, so he let it go. For now. 

But then Steve and Javi had to chase a lead down together, and Javi introduced him to an informant who - with a little imagination - looked like your spitting image. The same hair, terrifying similar voice, and a lopsided grin, just like yours. And it clicked. The day that had started it all, and the “anonymous” note Javi had gotten. The idiocy with which you both had handled the situation made him want to run unarmed into a sicario’s den, but he came up with another idea instead. 

Just before a weekend he knew on good authority that you had no plans except for lounging in bed, he started nudging and hinting to Javi the randomest shit about you. Just to reignite the interest. Almost like, you know - bait. 

“Man, her hair looks good. I wonder if she got it done?”

“Hey Peña, d’ya reckon that’s a new skirt? Connie’d kill me if I didn’t ask where from”

“Javi - look - she got her nails done. Before an op? Doesn’t that get a bit…impractical? Hey, I’m jus’ asking.” 

Each time, Steve was met with an irritated eyeroll, scoff, or just flat-out ignored. But around midnight on Friday, he ‘bust out the big guns’, so to speak, making an offhanded comment while jutting his chin out in the direction of your chair. 

“Good thing she left early. Never woulda made it to the date tomorrow mornin’ otherwise.”

Which, instead of being met with the usual options, was met with Javi’s brain almost short circuiting. The sight of his friend, gaping like a fish as his eyes practically bulged out of his head while he stammered out the easiest one-syllable word in the English language is one Steve can never forget. Or let Javi forget, either. 

“W-wha-what?”

And so, like the most devious matchmaker on the planet, Steve proceeded to make up some utter bullshit about a boy he’d supposedly seen you around with, one that had apparently asked you out tonight to meet him for ‘brunch’ tomorrow. Just to fuck with Javi, he made the guy from LA, and a tourist. And white. And the kinda hippie who did yoga and spoke about his newly-discovered chakras all the time. 

Javier could feel the blind panic clawing at his chest, his heart threatening to burst. He didn’t know exactly why, but he had hated every single second you hadn’t spoken to him. Laughed at his jokes. Flashed him your smile, even the sarcastic one. He missed your quips and the way you groaned and swore at him when he pissed you off. He’d convinced himself he could live with that. But this? A date with some idiot he knew wouldn’t treat you right? He couldn’t understand his own feelings compelling him to pack up in a frenzy, ignore Steve’s pointed laugh, scramble into his car and drive straight to your apartment. He didn’t even stop to smooth his hair back, or fix the wrinkles in his shirt from slumping in it all day. No, all that mattered to him in that moment was you. Who was he kidding? He knew exactly why he felt the way he did. He’d just been under the illusion that ignoring it would make it go away, but it hadn’t. He had to fix this now. 

Standing on your doorstep, Javi blinked for a second while marveling at how fast that drive had been - he’d barely registered doing anything since he heard the word date come out of Steve’s mouth. Hesitation clamped a hand over his mouth, his body, and he stood frozen, unsure of whether to knock or just turn around. But if not now, never, right? And who knew how long he would live? Wasn’t this a time he should be getting what he wants, spending time with the people he…loves? 

Before he could overthink himself out of doing it, Javi raised his fist and rapped it against your door, twice. And when you opened the door, rubbing your eyes and standing there in your sleep shorts and an oversized shirt, it took a second for his brain to catch up. It wasn’t until you were squinting at him, then stumbling over nothing as your eyes widened that he realised where he was. The hurt on your face in the split second before you moved to close the door had him jamming his foot in the doorframe. 

“Just hear me out, hermosa. I promise if you want me to fuck off after that, I will.” 

After waiting for you to nod and open your door wordlessly, he stalked after you, further into your apartment, stunned by how homely it was. The walls had pictures of you and other people laughing, of art and paintings and sketches that seemed to all have been done by the same person; the sofa was a rich brown leather and the fluffy throw on it just a shade lighter. Everything was carefully coordinated, in color and texture, and he couldn’t help but note the contrast. Some of his stuff was still in boxes. He’d been in Colombia for longer than you, and his stuff was still in boxes. The difference was laughable. 

But when he heard a sniffle from ahead, he found himself walking faster - practically walking into you - before he was planting his hands on your shoulders to turn you around to him, and then gripping the sides of your arms as if they were his salvation. His eyes searched yours, and the heartbreak he found as you tried to look away threatened to make his knees buckle. So he hooked an index finger under your chin to tilt your head up to him, resting his forehead against yours. Moving his thumb to smooth out the furrow in your brow, he huffed at the stubborn frown that refused to budge. 

“I am sorry. I truly am. I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know how to react. I want you, and I did then, too. But I just…didn’t think it was real. I swear I thought you were joking at first. It’s why I let the guys see. Then I saw you in the parking lot, and you were actually sad, and I just panicked. I just don’t think I was ready back then. But I swear to God, I can’t bear another six months of the cold shoulder. I love you, you know. I’ve just been too much of an idiot to realise it.” 

For a whole minute, you just stare at him unblinkingly. Then, suddenly, your face crumples, limbs slackening in his grip. He holds you through it, letting you sob into his chest as he coos reassurances and apologies to you until you pull back from his embrace to look at him questioningly once more. 

“Why now?” Your words make Javi smile, and he cocks a brow at you. 

“You really thought I’d let that idiot take you out before I told you how I feel?” 

You look even more confused now, which is confusing him in turn. 

“Wait, what idiot?” There’s no twinkle in your eye - no smirk tugging at your lips. Not a joke. 

“The one who…asked you out?” Javi cocks his head at you, watching your frown deepen. 

“Who?” The absolute befuddlement on your face is on the verge of making him snigger, and he feels his lips twitching already. 

“The-does Murphy know? That you weren’t busy tonight?” His overworked mind supplies the answer to him, and he has never more in his life wanted to punch and hug his other partner simultaneously. 

“Oh, yeah. He asked cause Connie wanted to know if she could come over? I guess she must have gotten caught- oh. Oh.” Javi gives you a moment to reach the same conclusion he did, and both of you end up bursting out in laughter at the same time. 

But Steve was the one with the biggest grin when, come Monday morning, a bottle of premium whiskey and a brand new watch sat on his desk with a little note: 

Well played, motherfucker. 

What is it they say about couples adopting each other’s habits when they get into a relationship? Javi’d picked up your so-called hobbies within a weekend. 

You ended up spending enough time with each other to pick up everything else, too. Call it cliché, but atleast you weren’t boring. Or, you know, going on dates with imaginary guys that existed only in Steve’s extremely limited imagination. Win-win. 

hello loves, as always - thank you for reading. comment your thoughts or find me on ao3. stay hydrated and have a great day! taglist: @imherefordeanandbones @theywhowriteandknowthings, @josephquinnswhore,@millerscoffee, @ nostalxgic, @sscorpiiiio, @pedrosaidsheispunk dividers by @reveriesources

[liliannadelaphinehartifelt]

Hi there,

Saw your post about Cajun/cowboy Alastor and OMG! I don’t have many ideas other then maybe he plays poker for souls or something like that and maybe a reader comes into town and is just as good at poker as he is. And he cannot seem to win, leading him to become mildly obsessed over winning their soul.

Thats all I have as I don’t know much about cajun/cowboy stuff.

I’ll let you know if I have any other ideas!

Thank you!

Alastor - [ ACE OF HEARTS ]

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A/N: Omg, I love your take on cowboy Al! It got me thinking about it for days. I have never played poker, so I had to watch multiple YouTube videos to understand the game while writing this. Hopefully, it came out accurate enough! Also, this is a very, VERY traumatic/smut-heavy fic I'm working on, so please be aware and know I don't endorse anything I write.

WARNINGS: [ NSFW ] + [ MDNI ] + [ MATURE THEMES ] + [ FEM READER ] + [ GUN PLAY… ] + [ SLIGHT DUB CON….eventually.] + [ SLIGHT/IMPLIED AGE GAP ] + [ MENTIONS OF GORE/BLOOD/CANNABILISM ] + [ KIDNAPPING…sort of?.. ] + [ PARENTAL PHYSICAL AB*SE…eventually..] + [ ANGST/TRUAMA…]

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**Cowboy Alastor** is known for his record of killing, is a skilled bounty hunter, and is far from a decently moral one. Everyone assumes his motives, guessing who his next target is and if he’ll ever feel guilt for what he does to them.

He doesn't.

What kind of demon would he be if he did…

Besides, the people he kills owe him in one way or another, all in debt to the red demon by their stupidity and lust for life, so he feels nothing for them when the time comes for the price of their deals to be paid.

Alastor arrives for them in the dead of dry nights, taking their last breath with a single bullet to the head or a clean cut across the throat. Their pleas do little to affect his decision.

“A deal is a deal…”

He reminds them that escaping a bloody end is impossible, already solidified by their selfish desires, and no amount of begging will change his mind. They curse his name, glaring at the grin on his face as he draws nearer with deathly intent in his eyes, and it only grows as he derives pleasure from their refusal to cooperate.

The riches, the riding, and the roughness he endures daily are nothing compared to the satisfaction he gets from killing. Others may deal in chasing oil, farming land, and cattle, but he stakes his fulfillment in the business of blood.

**Cowboy Alastor** dabbles in gambling when he's not off-striking deals with lowly souls or wreaking havoc on those he deems deserving.

Every city south of New Orleans with a bar or saloon welcomes his visits and not by choice.

Those who don't meet his standards or demands of hospitality drop from the face of the earth at his will, burning to a crisp full of the dead occupants who so lightly offended him, and never to be rebuilt out of fear he'd return to demolish it again.

He surely would, but no one has yet to test the theory in fear of a painful death by his hands.

Alastor leisurely travels the expanse of Louisiana's countryside, partial to riding wherever the wind blows, but he’ll always return to the rumbling city of New Orleans.

Whether for personal reasons or because his beloved mother wished to see him, it becomes second nature for the deer demon to reside there randomly. It was his hometown, after all, and he preferred the taste of whiskey from a familiar place over foreign alcohol in far-off dusty taverns he'd never visit again.

The saloon he fancies sits opposite the central townhouse, a tall building at the end of a main street that never seemed to rest.

Lafitte’s Blacksmith Bar

Summer nights brought out and drew in more people, filling the bar with patrons who knew of his deeds and those who’d only heard scarring stories about him through the ladder. The knowledge of a red reaper roaming the towns of Louisiana varied, but their fearful respect of him was abundant the moment Alastor stepped foot into the bustling bar.

He was there, in good spirits for the most part, but still an impossible threat they couldn't brush off.

**Cowboy Alastor** greets the silent patrons with a sly grin, tipping his hat to the fear-stricken owner who eyed him from behind the packed bar.

“Don't let me interrupt the fun, Cher. I'm not here to cause you trouble… that's if you're kind enough to indulge me.”Alastor chuckles, not waiting for a proper response from anyone as he stalks over to his usual spot in the smokey parlor.

A group of cattlemen stiffen in their seats as he walks by, all grabbing their drinks as swiftly as possible before leaping up from their table to avoid him, and their skittish actions cause Alastor to laugh as he settles into a particular backroom booth.

It was customary for people to keep their distance from him, some deterred by his striking appearance while others simply didn't want to risk involvement with a known killer. He saw nothing wrong with their aversion, glad that his reputation proceeded him, but there were those single few who saw him as a challenge rather than a threat.

Poor fools…

Mortal or not, he ran into them regularly, welcoming their duels like a bored child getting a new toy to destroy, and though he knew they'd fail to win against him, he'd never turn down a good game.

Ever…

**Cowboy Alastor** lets the saloon wind into chaos again, humming along to the melody of music and rowdy singing while getting comfortable in his secluded spot.

His hat rests low on his head, shielding most of his red gaze from those who look his way, only leaving the view of his Cheshire smile and effectively signaling his oddly calm demeanor. Alastor slipped his riding jacket off, tossing the tailored burgundy clothing across the back of the booth, his leather and suede black gloves following suit.

“What a day it's been…” he mumbled while flexing his long fingers, relaxing his posture while leaning back and rolling his neck until a soft ‘pop’ was heard.

Consequently, the tension tangled in his limber body from riding all day unraveled. Alastor sucked his teeth at the feeling, licking his lips as a satisfied groan left them, and just as he sat forward again, the owner hurried to his table with a bottle of alcohol and a tray of cigars.

“Your usual, Al,” he split out, setting the items in front of him with shakey hands, and Alastor clicks his tongue at the nervous tick. He'd come to this bar for years, and the old man still trembled in his boots around him. The poor fool wouldn't dare admit his fear either, rushing off as soon as he reached for the bottle, and though some might consider his retreat rude, Alastor found it amusing.

Flattering, even.

**Cowboy Alastor** drinks slowly, letting the whiskey burn his tongue and drowning the malt taste with languid drags from a cigar.

Eyes scan over him, women whisper about him lustfully under the rowdy music, and the men keep their senses about them with happy trigger fingers.

Because as they say: “Red Reaper, Red Reaper. The devil's solemn deal keeper. Beware him & the hell he seeks…”

Alastor imposes his intensity, grinning at those who stare too long, watching the women who drink him in with an equally sultry stare, and daring the men to throw a bullet his way with a knowing smirk. He invites trouble, waiting for it like a preying snake in tall, dry grass, but after some time, he assumes no one in the saloon will accept his invitation.

That is until you step in, looking lost among the worldly thrills of a bar but unafraid to venture further into it with an air of certainty surrounding you.

**Cowboy Alastor** makes no move to approach you, laid back as ever, as he observes the gentle way you speak to men who drunkenly approach you. They make offers to dance, almost crowding your more diminutive form as you trail to the bar.

“Sorry, boys, but I'm here on business, not pleasure. Now, run along..” you wave them away playfully, purposely flirtatious but avidly stern.

He expects them to continue bugging you; you're a doll, after all, prettier than most women he's seen. However, the men retreat politely, leaving you be as the owner approaches your side, and you immediately turn to hug him despite his apparent concerned expression.

Alastor observes the exchange closely, reading your lips perfectly while sipping at his drink, and it's all too easy for him to assess the situation.

The daughter of a businessman returns home after finishing school in the north, wanting to visit him at work as a pleasant surprise, but he's far from happy about a young lady like yourself being out late at night in a place like this.

You're too mannered to be seen around the patrons, it's dangerous for you to ride alone in the evening, and your father isn't pleased you intend to stay out to celebrate your school completion.

He tells you it's best to go home, that he'll come with you, but you insist on staying and remind him, “I'm not your little girl anymore, Daddy!..” The older man can't seem to rein you in, having to drop the lecture as a small brawl breaks out in the corner of the saloon, which draws his attention immediately, and this leaves you to wander the scene freely.

A perfect time for Alastor to reel you in close and personal…

**Cowboy Alastor** whistles when you walk past his area, catching your attention with a short, soulful melody, and you quickly notice him in the dim back room.

“Hi there, lil’ lady. Searchin' for somethin'?” He inquires playfully, tone bordering sensual, and his grin slipping into a closed smile as your gaze settles on him.

You’re curious, not scared of him like most are, and the moment he speaks to you, questions race through your head.

Who is he?

How have you never seen him here before?

Why, in God's name, is he sitting away from the masses?

Is he a rider, a hunter, or maybe a convict?

It was hard to tell from a distance, so without a second thought, you flashed him a gentle smile, gradually approaching where he sat, “Hello, and who might you be, sir?” You chirp a greeting, resisting the urge to bite your lip as he stares into your wandering gaze.

Alastor assumed you’d been away from the South too long to realize who he was, that your father's earlier warning didn’t sprout from overprotectiveness but rather fear of his presence.

You didn’t see him as a threat, nor a danger, but a new face in an old town.

He chuckles, putting out his cigar after taking a particularly long drag from it, blowing smoke past his lips with a coy hum. You blink as the convoluted air fans your face, unbothered by it and itching for a taste of tobacco yourself. It’d been a few years since you’d let loose, not allowed to frequent bars or act unladylike in the limelight of northern modesty.

“A loyal patron, but it’s been some time since I’ve paid this place a visit.” He answers you politely, an odd trait that most men only reserved for themselves but refreshing to experience.

“Oh, well, that’s nice to hear, but your name is what I would like to know.”

A tender smirk stretches your lips, a red hue dusting your cheeks as he tips his hate apologetically before uttering a response, “Alastor Hartifelt. A pleasure to meet you, Miss…” he pauses, quirking a brow at you expectantly, and you take a moment to analyze him further.

You've heard your father utter his name many times before your departure to the north. He'd described him brutally, having less than pleasant things to say about bounty hunters in general but especially about the man in front of you now. You'd heard people talk of his deeds, deals, and evil.

He was dubbed the ‘Red Reaper’ for a good reason, lurking around in the bitter nights and drawing blood from one poor soul or another in his travels.

Supposedly, he was a terrifying monster, but you'd always found beauty in the demented. It was one of the reasons your father had sent you away, but fortunately, the influence of the posh upper class did nothing to change your consciousness.

Besides, the rumors had failed to mention how attractive the red reaper was, let alone dashing. He seemed nice enough hadn't flashed his weapon, threatened, or catcalled you disrespectfully.

So, you found no harm in telling him your name, “Y/n L/n. It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Hartifelt.” You blink slowly, drowning in his red eyes, unconsciously swaying where you stood, back to a wall that hid your presence near him from your father's eyes and the curious stares of others.

Alastor glanced at the space beside him, silently asking that you join him, but unlike most women, he rarely took an interest in, you didn't move until he asked you outright.

“Would you care to join me for a drink, Miss L/n? I'd like to have your company for a while..”

He doesn't speak any louder than needed, using every bit of charm he has to lure you in, and you let him believe he's succeeded with a sensual laugh and purring laugh.

“Why, I thought you'd never ask..”

**Cowboy Alastor** asks a lot of questions. Subtly gathering information about you that he has no use for.

You give him answers; some are lies, others are indiscriminate truths, but you can't bring yourself to be completely honest with a stranger known for his cunning. He keeps your glass full, pacing the liquor with you, reveling in your gentle laughter after every sip, and softening faster and faster the longer you conversed.

You kept your wits about you as best as possible, inviting his fleeting touches but never going further than whispering in his ear or tapping a finger under his sharp chin when he'd stare too long.

Alastor didn't mind your soft hands on him, nor your lingering gaze and confident provocations. He absentmindedly returned the gestures just as boldly.

Your fifth glass of whiskey was running low, and without a hint of hesitation, he refilled it alongside his own. You watched as the amber liquid filled each glass, utterly relaxed as he spoke to you tenderly, “You say your father sent you far up north. May I ask why?…”

He peers at you, sliding the transparent glass into your waiting hand, and you chuckle wryly while taking a sip. “Daddy says it was for my good. You see, my mother is a stickler about manners, and I didn't have much of any growing up. Ironic, seeing as I was raised well enough.” you paused, frowning at the memory of your strict but loving mother.

She was lovely to look at and kind most of the time, but her ambitions for you outweighed her patience. Alastor noted the haunting sadness in your eyes but said nothing as you continued, looking out into the crowd of patrons fussing about as you did.

“My mother died a few years back, leaving daddy to handle me, and when he realized he couldn't manage the business and a daughter, he sent me away. Couldn't blame him either; I was getting into trouble left and right and had some bad habits on the rise, too.”

His ears perked at the words ‘bad habits’ leaving your lips, naturally drawn to knowing a mortal's darkest secrets, so he pressed for clarification.

“Bad habits, you say? I couldn't imagine a sweet thing like you havin’ such things.”

You scoffed, glad your cheeks were flushed from the alcohol buzz to mask the blush his comment invoked, “Well…I did. Still do if I'm honest.” you admit in a hushed tone, knocking back the last of your drink before glancing his way.

“It's hard to resist doing things you're good at.”

Alastor leaned back into the seat, drink in one hand, the other fixing his hat so it sat back on his head. The adjustment gave you a peek at his fluffy red hair and the distinctive blood-marked x on his forehead. You thought to ask what the mark meant but saved the question for later, as he agreed with your statement.

“Very true, ma chere. Although I'm one for killin’, your passion may not be so grizzly and easier to alleviate.”

“My father thinks gambling is just as bad as killing. It doesn't matter if he's addicted to it himself or not. If I do it…I'm the devil's daughter in his eyes..” You roll your eyes, an action that jolts a nerve Alastor hasn't felt in years and subconsciously doesn't ignore.

“Gambling? That's your unproper poison?” he narrows his gaze as you nod lazily, a few ringlets of your hair falling from its pinned-up style as you do, resting on the skin of your shoulders and neck.

Soft.

Your locks look soft and silky to the touch, tempting him to run his fingers through it, across your skin, and, god forbid, under your dress.

A heavy breath settled in his chest at the possibility, a familiar rush coursing through him as you moved your lips to speak, “Yes. I see a stack of playin’ cards, and I just can't help myself. I got rather good at playing too but when you beat everyone in town at it people start to be less kind about your reputation.”

You laugh, attempting to make a light-hearted joke but ultimately grimacing at the mention of lousy sportsmanship from others. You couldn't help winning a challenge in poker, and many saw the talent as disgraceful, which prompted I'll rumor about you.

“That's a shame, sugar. Everyone deserves a chance to play a good game of their choosing.” he feigns concern, meeting your curious eyes as you shift to face him, “Everyone except me if my father has anything to say about it. Still, I suppose it's best I let it go…” you sigh, grabbing the bottle of whiskey to pour another shot.

Suddenly, you freeze, feeling his body heat invade your space. Alastor tilts his head down close to yours, breathing in your scent discretely before pressing his lips to the lobe of your ear as he mutters into it, “Why don't you play a game with me, chere? One lil’ round for fun… right under your daddy's nose, hm?”

The burn of excitement seizes your body, a shakey breath leaving your lips as his voice settles in your mind, inviting you to indulge his offer. That same heat pooled in your core with every second he spent in your space, inhaling the scent of bourbon and sweet sugar cane grass he rode through radiating off him, words just as inviting and addictive.

For a horrifying, well-feared killer, he sure did entice a woman like any natural-born gentleman…

It was a deathly combination you knew he often used, killing or not, and though it'd be wise to avoid his idea, you didn't want to risk missing an opportunity for the thrill.

It'd been so long, too long, and what's the worst that could happen?

Losing to him?

You'd never lost to anyone before, and you were confident that fact wouldn't change -even going up against the Red Reaper himself.

**Cowboy Alastor** relishes when you utter a ‘yes’ to his offer. His grin widens menacingly for a split second as he sets his glass down next to your empty one, conjuring up a meticulously detailed deck of playing cards and placing them on the table.

“You can choose which game we play, sugar…”

Alastor shifts away from you, letting you regain your composure and watching as your delicate fingers reach for the top card of the deck.

“Poker. A favorite of mine..” You didn't think twice before answering him, admiring the red and black ace in your hand, wondering where he acquired such personalized playing cards.

“Poker it is then, chere,” he smirks wickedly, removing his hat entirely to set it on the table before gingerly plucking the card from your hold and sliding to sit opposite you while dishing out equal amounts of cards between you.

Your eyes light up under the oil lamp's golden hue, studying the flick of his hands as he worked, trying hard not to wander up to his piercing gaze. Afraid he'd immediately see your attraction to his nimble hands, well to him in general, and use it against you somehow, so your focus remains on the hand dealt and not him.

As you both plucked your respective set from the table, studying the cards intently, you asked the singular most crucial question every poker match was built on.

“What will the bets be,” Your innocent inquiry earns sultry laughter from him, filling the air, raising feverish chills on your skin as he stares at you through half-lidded eyes.

“I prefer bargains of the soul, my dear. The use and price of one's existence is always more valuable than money, don't you agree?”

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A/N: Don't be mad AT ME, GUYS, PLEASE. I HAD EXAMS LAST WEEK. I'm SORRY FOR DROPPING OFF THE FACE OF THE EARTH… sort of, but I'm back now (please do hate me :((( ). Uh, so I might merge “Down in the Dust” with this because both stories kinda originated in my brain at the same time. However, since this is a request, I wrote a two-part tangent smut as a sort of prequel to the other fic! Also, the phrase “Save a horse. Ride a cowboy” will be unironically used…I'm sorry (I'm not lol) ❤️

[ BONUS CONTENT + ] VOLUME WARNING!!! 🗣️

Fun fact: In the South, we have a rule that if you take a cowboy hat and end up wearing it, they catch you with it (preferably in the mutual interest of getting to know each other). That cowboy gets to fuck you (hopefully, but technically you're initiating a flirting game wearing their hat, lol). It's a cute concept and one any Cowboy Alastor enthusiast should think about. ❤️ credits to the creator.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Consequences | Six | End

Word Count: 4k~ | Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, dark, medieval-canon sexism, heavy dub-con/noncon, DD:DNE, mean Aemond, manipulation, abusing power, gore, blood, violence, major angst, death, Aemond being a possessive horny weirdo with a power complex, kinslayer aemond

Series Masterlist  ​

Aemond woke the next morning with a burning migraine , the epicentre of which was at his temple, where the scar throbbed the worst. The bedsheets were draped around his waist, half of which were now on the floor with his restless sleep. Everything annoyed him, the light coming in through the curtains, any sound, any mild inconvenience like not having water at his bedside.

 It was today that he’d face the repercussions of his actions. When everyone would know what he is.

 Kinslayer.

 He rubbed his temple, where his scar lay, with his palm, trying to ease the discomfort somewhat. He winced though when there was a soft knock at his chamber doors. It was different from her usual rhythm and he furrowed his eyebrows.

 “Prince Aemond” a soft voice called out behind the door. Not your grace.

 He sighed, “Enter”

 He groaned, rubbing his non-existent eye so hard he was beginning to see stars behind the other, wincing at the sound of his chamber doors closing, as soft as it was. Once he cracked his eye open and sat up, watching the little maidservant, with her braids tightly done, place his clothes for the day on the armchair. Aemond furrowed his brows, thinking that she was deliberately acting against him, in a direct refusal to obey him.

 But then she had turned her head towards him, and it was like a slap across the face.

 It was not her.

 This other maidservant curtsies and proceeded to open his curtains, tying them at the sides to keep them open, visibly shaken by being in his presence, a notion that Aemond himself hates. He was sick and tired of people bristling away from him because of his appearance. Or perhaps there was another reason for this. And he wondered if everyone knew.

 Kinslayer.

 “Who are you” he said to her,

 “Alanna, your grace” she says in return, not meeting his gaze as she continues doing her morning duties.

 His maidservant would look him in the eye. This one didn’t.

 “Where is she”

 Alanna opened her mouth to ask who, but quickly closed to it, sensing it was a silly question.

 “She is not at all well, your grace. I hope it does not inconvenience you” she says, clasping her hands together, something Aemond noticed that women do when they’re anxious.

 He bit the inside of his cheek at her answer, drawing just the slightest bit of coppery blood. Truthfully, he didn’t know how to feel at her blatant disrespect for his wishes for her to return to her duties as soon as possible. But all those feelings dissipated when Alanna spoke again.

 “Your mother wishes to break fast with you this morning” Alanna says politely, giving one shallow curtsy before exiting the room as fast as she could.

 There was no time to feel angry at his little maidservant. Today he would be reprimanded by his family, seen for what he was, and punished for what he did. He didn’t want to. And he had been turning about the possibilities in his mind since Lucerys fell from the sky.

Does he lie. Does he lie and say that he went after his young nephew with malicious intent?

 Or does he speak the truth. That he had no control over his own dragon and that Vhagar had actively sought the young Prince out herself, with Aemond begging on her back, for her to stop.

 He was supposed to be the dutiful Prince Aemond. And there was the thought in the back of his mind, that if he said he hadn’t meant to do it, would anyone actually believe that, knowing the bad blood between them.

 If he had to be the villain, then fine, he would have to act like it.

 He got dressed slowly and secured his eyepatch, venturing out into the hallways for the first time that day. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to face what his family would say, or the not-knowing of what they were all thinking.

 So as he walked through the Keep, the stagnant waft of something horrid in the aura, his mind had drifted to her. The maidservant named Alanna said she felt ill.

 She had mentioned a procedure, one which Aemond, in the heated moment when he’d seen her last, did not prod about. But he knew, he knew what it was. And there was a deep part of him that thought the action repulsive, to do such a thing to an unborn child. It was a sin, he thought at the time, perhaps the worst one. On one hand, he regretted his part in giving her the funds to do it.

 But on the other hand, it was either one corpse that way or two the other. And inside him, he was too selfish to let her go. Especially a tumultuous time such as this, where he was quite possibly at his lowest, he needed the comfort she offered, even if it was only the comfort of her flesh against his. So he brushed the thought of the procedure away, in favour of thinking that it was no worse than Moon Tea and that it was the result of sheer desperation.

 More than anything else, as he walked past the entrance to the staff quarters, he wondered. Did the procedure hurt? Was it so incredibly painful that she needed so much rest?

 Had there been blood, he wondered.

 Imagining it made something horrid curdle deep in his stomach.

 Drawing blood from her, on the night he took her maidenhead felt right. Gods, it felt so right. To smear it over her thighs, to remind her of who she belonged to. He even remembered the way it felt. The way it had sent a dark, almost electric impulse up his spine, right to his head, inflating it with a sense of power.

 But the thought of her bleeding now, as a result of whatever horrors had occurred. It was wrong. It felt wrong.

 And for a brief moment, as he stared down the hall, he considered going to her. To do what, he wasn’t sure. It wasn’t in his nature to apologise, not to be a soft, doting man to a woman. Such feelings, he felt, were below him.

 So he didn’t.

 He would face his family. Have whatever they threw at him. For better or for worse, he had a role to play, a script to read.

 Kinslayer.

Aemond knew he was going to have teeth marks on the inside of his cheek by the end of the day if he didn’t stop. His stresses were so high though, he could not find it within himself to care.

 It had gone about as well as he predicted. If not a little worse.

 Breaking fast with his family, with his brother now sat at the centre as King, was an experience he wouldn’t like to repeat. His mother barely spared a look in his direction, staring straight at her plate, hands placed either side and clenched into fists, as if resisting the urge to move them at all. Her under eyes were puffy, like she’d been awake all night.

 His grandfather, Otto had done rather the opposite, and kept his eye on him for the entire meal, as if anticipating he would act out if confronted. Aemond couldn’t fault the reasoning. If approached with the subject, he probably would have. He was at least grateful that the subject was not brought up, but was secretly apprehensive inside at what his family were thinking about him instead.

 He felt like he’d regressed somewhat. As the sun began to set, he couldn’t bear to think of returning to his chambers, and so he did what he remembered he’d used to do. Usually, he’d go to Alicent, but as she was so upset and beyond offering compassion, he’d gone to Helaena instead. Where Alicent offered comfort in her words, Helaena offered it in her companionship in relative silence.

 So he sat, a rapidly emptying goblet handing in his fingers, the other hand tapping against the armchair in Helaena’s chambers. Aegon, of course, was not present, as he rarely was alongside Helaena even in the days before his ascension to the throne. Not that Aemond would even be here in the first place if his brother was present.

 Aemond had a book open in his lap, eye straining in the low light of the room, with only several candles wafting in the cool draught on each flat surface. Helena was sitting in her armchair next to him, her right hand poised with her needle and the other holding the off-white cotton with her embroidery pulled taught in the tambour frame. Past a few hums of concentration, the odd whisper and the whip of the candle flames as they danced, it was entirely quiet.

 And though Aemond was hiding it well, his mind was busy.

 It was dark, and yet his handmaid had still not returned to her duties.

 He craved something, a closeness she could offer. And thought at first, Aemond surmised that he desired her bare flesh against his, the feeling of her heart drumming against her chest, her soft and gentle sounds, to remind him of his power and strength above her. But the more he pondered, not really reading the book in his lap and just staring blankly at the ever-entwined words, the more he realised what he really truly craved.

 He wanted to hear her voice when she spoke. Wanted to feel her eyes on him, even fully clothed. Wanted to feel her soft breath against his skin.

 He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

 It suggested something Aemond didn’t want to know the meaning behind.

 A light, cold breeze at Aemond’s feet made him shudder, and Helaena had raised her head when the candle at her side was snuffed out by the chill. She’d watched, stock still, as the blackened wick emitted the steady stream of thin smoke into the air.

 Aemond, having seen his sister raise her head, had looked over, “What is it?”

 But Helaena met his gaze and quickly turned back to her embroidery, shaking her head, as if ridding the thought from her mind altogether, whispering to herself once more.

 He tried not to be concerned by his sister’s reaction. But it was clear as day on her face that something had perturbed her.

 When it became too dark, he’d found the courage to return to her chambers. Her lack of presence there had his chest feel heavy. The bedsheets, once he’d crawled back into them, didn’t seem as soft and nowhere near as comforting. There was a chill about the room and though he could not see his own breath, he’d felt the sheer vastness of his solitude.

 Aemond wanted to see her face. Feel the warmth of her blood beneath her skin.

 Sleep took him at the thought of it.

“Your grace”

 She walked through the doors of his chambers, her hair down about her shoulders in waves, as if they had been in plaits. Aemond opened his eye, his body lethargic and heavy, from something that seemed so much more endless and deep as sleep.

 He saw the way she dreamily walked through his room in her usual uniform, her hair covering her expression. A small smirk came to his face. She was here.

 She turned to face him, her face lit only by a small flame of a candle, flickering against her features. Aemond felt his blood run cold in his skin, his heart beating furiously inside his chest.

 Blood.

 All over her apron, hands and arms. Thick and fresh.

 “It cannot be”

"Aegon!"

 Aemond was awoken early in the morning, startled from sleep by his mother's voice as her hurried steps flew past his closed doors and to Aegon's chambers.

 The speed at which Aemond had been forced from sleep to wakefulness sent his head all dizzy and his mother's voice had such an urgency about it. He was urged to his feet, pulling the closest thing around him to his body, which was his breeches and doublet, though it was left unbuckled at his chest.

 The sun was barely up and when he'd poked his head out the doors, all he saw was the dizzying blur of his mother's auburn curls and a flash of neutral fabric, which must have been her robe. What on earth was his mother doing at this time in the morning? And with Aegon no less? Who quite possibly had not been in bed long.

 Alicent threw the doors open, making for Aegon who was barely rousing from sleep with eyes cracked open thinly. Aemond knew his mother, wracked by sheer emotion, would most likely lash out at her eldest son, as she had done in the past, so he’d rushed to her side, gently pulling her arm back, keeping her from doing anything she might regret to the new King.

 At this moment, Aegon was not her King. He was her son. And she had nearly forgotten that.

 There were unshed tears in her eyes, “What is this?!” she threw the green silken purse at Aegon’s lap, making him groan in pain at the hefty throw, “Paying for some sinful, disgusting back-alley abortion? You cannot keep carrying on like this, Aegon!”

 Aegon furrowed his brows, eyeing the purse Alicent had thrown in his lap with a groggy, tired expression, “What?...”

 “Gods…Have you no shame? She had been with us barely half a year, Aegon!”

 “Who?!” Aegon barked back, annoyed, and clearly confused.

 “You know very well who! The poor girl whose silence you bought with coin!” Alicent was breathing heavily, feeling crowded and pulled her arm free of Aemond’s grasp weakly, “I thought you were past this, Aegon…”

 Aegon stood from the bed, Helaena long absent from the chambers, it was probably for the best anyway. He held the sheets over his body, eyebrows furrowed once again in confusion.

 Before Aegon could open his mouth, Hedi had appeared in the doorway, offering a curtsy with a sullen expression.

 “Your grace” she greeted with a wavering voice.

 Alicent swallowed, meeting her gaze with her watery, chocolate brown eyes, “The maester has confirmed it?...”

 Hedi was pale and when she unclasped her hands, there was a smudge of dark blood on her apron. She nodded, “Yes, your grace…”

Hedi rushed to the door, forcefully using her shoulder to break through. Alanna was backed up in a corner, wailing and crying loudly, her whole body shaking.

“Hush, child, you’ll wake the whole Keep!” Hedi whispered once knelt before her.

 Alanna choked on air, trying desperately to speak through her tears, “Sh-she…” was all she managed through quivering lips.

 Hedi righted to stand and looked upon the girl in the bed, the sheets still tucked up to her chest. Looking upon her face, her eyelashes didn’t flutter, and though it would’ve been natural at first glance to assume she was merely sleeping, Hedi could see now that her chest was unmoving.

 “Seven Hells…” Hedi whispered and when she’d touched her hand, it was cold and still.

 Hedi looked over her, furrowed in confusion without any obvious sign of injury. Her hands pulled the bedsheets back and even the young woman, wise beyond her years, had almost gagged at the sight.

 Waist down, with the darkest patch at the base of her torso, her chemise, bedsheet and mattress alike had been entirely soaked through with blood.

 A heavy guilt set in Hedi’s heart, that she could not and had not kept her safe in her short time here.

 “Gods…” Hedi had known this business, seen it for herself in the maidservants before her even, but she had never imagined that this sweet, quiet girl would have to suffer the same fate.

 On her bedside, sat a green purse made of silk. Hedi needed to only have one look to see there were silver and gold coins inside, money that any average maidservant would never have had access to. Coins only the upper class would have.

Or royalty.

 The older maidservant felt ill, as though she had failed her and not listened to her gut when it had screamed that she needed help.

 All the while Alanna was still crying helplessly in the corner, “She is dead, isn’t she…” she’d asked in a weak voice.

 Hedi swallowed thick and hurried Alanna out of the room, “Go to Mari’s room now, child. And do not say a word of this to anyone, understood?” Hedi instructed quite forcefully, ushering Alanna out of the room and locking it behind her.

 Every step through the Keep to Queen Alicent’s chambers became heavier with Hedi’s hurried breathing, feeling the urge to both vomit and cry at the same time. The image of that young woman in her bed, locked behind that door and bathed in blood would be sealed into her head for the rest of her life. And though she was in no position to accuse anyone, she could at least show Alicent what her son was capable of and the irreparable damage that had been done.

Aemond had been silent the entire time, watching something akin to a tragedy unfolding right before his eye. He could feel his mother shake violently, in both a state of upset and anger at her eldest son.

 Hedi had confirmed that the little maidservant was indeed dead, divulging the more clinical details that had included words like ‘perforation’ and ‘infection of the womb’. Alicent turned away, as if it would protect her from the words, holding her chest with her hand to calm her breathing.

 Hedi’s watery, red eyes had met Aemond’s gaze then and that is where he had felt the hot whips of panic on the back of his neck. He knew. He knew that she also knew, but could not say anything. He watched as Hedi’s expression went from grief and mourning, to one of anger and a deep female rage that he couldn’t quite comprehend. Like she had felt the pain and loss of her death in her very being herself.

 Hedi was the one who had seen her come back from her duties, hair down, limping and crying quietly. And she looked at him as if he were the most vile person she had the displeasure of laying eyes on.

 “Do you…know of any family living?” Alicent asked.

 Hedi briefly moved her gaze from Aemond, “A living sister, your grace”

 “Send her wages and…necessary funds to her next of kin. Do not divulge her true manner of death, we shall say it was a low fever” Alicent said with a shaky breath, not wishing to look anyone in the eye.

 Heid nodded, feeling dejected and saddened, for having to write to her living sister to tell these lies about her. And she thought…that the little maidservant would not feel right about it, but sincerely prayed that her soul would be at rest, and only hoped that she felt at peace in the end.

 Once the maidservant was gone, Alicent turned to her second son, looking up at him, pale and disorientated. And when their eyes met, it was like Alicent was seeing Aemond for the first time, as if she’d just realised he was a man and no longer her small, desperate child. Her lips had parted then and Aemond felt hot and prickly all over.

 Perhaps she knew as well. Deep down.

 That both of her sons were capable of the same sordid behaviour.

She looked mournful. Grieving the loss of the Aemond she thought she knew. The one she had protected.

 But if Alicent had seen it in Aemond, she did not say anything. And she left, letting Aemond stand there to ferment in his self-hatred.

 His maidservant was dead.

 And it had been his fault.

 It had all been his fault.

 Aegon and Aemond looked at one another. Aegon held the silken purse in his hand, looking at his younger brother knowingly. But instead of returning the purse to its rightful owner, Aegon had gripped it tight and gave Aemond a hard frown.

 It had been his fault, and yet, with three people knowing without speaking, he had somehow managed to evade blame.

 The maidservants took the bloodied bed sheets and mattress from the bed to be burned, standing beside the flames as they licked the blood away into ash with tears covering some of their cheeks. Freiya had not cried and instead, stood with a bitter expression, scolding the silly girl who had passed away for being involved in such vile actions.

 Aemond did not see her bloodied corpse. Couldn’t, without revealing his own involvement.

 But he wasn’t sure if he wanted to see her like that.

 He just knew he wished to see her. Alive.

 A wish that could now, never be granted.

 Her dearest friends, amongst Hedi and Alanna, had cleaned her body and given her one of their light cotton nightdresses, laid on the bed she had died in with a sheet laid underneath her. She didn’t look dead in the least, but only very pale. And all laid out in white like that, she looked just like a bride.

 She could not afford a proper burial and so her body was committed to the flames. Her ashes returned to the earth.

 History would not remember her.

 She only existed in the memories of the people she had touched around her. And with their deaths, would be lost forever.

 It was only expected that a lot of maidservants handed in their notices and left the employment of the Red Keep. Alicent understood and sent them off with a good reference, thinking that it was the least she could do to offer this kindness. A new wave of maidservants had arrived, as if there was a never-ending supply of young girls excited to serve under the Targaryen family and their new King. Something squeezed tight about Hedi’s heart to hear them sound so excited. She’d known at that moment, they needed her protection.

 So Hedi had stepped in as Aemond’s personal maidservant. To protect them.

 As if he had even wanted them in the first place.

 Every single morning, Hedi entered his chambers, forever with an angered frown to her face, and a loss of that carefree lightness that was there before. She only ever greeted him with ‘Prince Aemond’ and left before he could say anything else to her. It was as if she knew that Aemond could not hurt her, could not raise his voice at her of all people, nor dismiss her.

He hated how quickly her death was forgotten, brushed over in less than a week's time. As if everyone else was not feeling the same tear in his heart as he was. That deep, burning, vomitting sensation he always got whenever he saw the back of one of the maidservants, their hair tied up on the same braids.

He willed his bed to give him her warmth. Arguing internally that she had been there not a week before, glowing for him as radiant as the day he'd laid eyes on her.

 He had dreamt of her voice.

 “Your grace”

 He had dreamt of her skin, her soft, supple flesh against his. The warmth of her plush insides.

 Her heart beating against his. The life that she exuded.

 He didn’t think he was capable of feeling grief. Is this what it was?

 This pain.

 “Your grace”

 There was nothing to contain him any longer. No outlet for his rage to find a home.

 His fire had already claimed its first victim.

 So he allowed it to kindle, with the ghostly whisper of her voice forever haunting him, his dreams. Her blood. Reminding him of what he had done. Reminding him of who he was. As if she was doing now in death what pain and regret she had always wished to inflict on him in life.

 “Aemond”

General Aemond Taglist: @risefallrise @valeskafics

Consequences Taglist: @iiamthehybrid @manitskatrina @dahlias-and-marigolds @okfashionista @the-common-cowgirl @toodlesxcuddles  @darkenchantress @magnificentdelusionr   @tinykryptonitewerewolf @tssf-imagines @mandiiblanche @xdeath-soulx  @daemonlover @iiamthehybrid @thedamewithabook @hiatuswhore @apollonshootafar @ladymarg0t @hopeless-addiction-love @leeleebabe101 @babyblue711 @croatianprincess @what-is-your-wish @55gyi53vtnquwziq5 @garnetbutterflysblog @queenmizuki @tempt-ress @ithoughtulikedme @babyblue11 @qyburnsghost​ @heavenly1927​ @madislayyy​ @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo @eddiemunsonsgroupie @iloveallmyboys @malynn​ @qorirah 

*Bold means I couldn’t tag, if I can't tag you you can always turn on notifications for when I post. DM me if you wanna be removed besties

[cal-flakes]

Dark!Rafe when crybaby!reader is refusing her punishment???

╰┈➤ y/n can’t follow orders (blurb)

warnings: triggering content, hints of dub-con, knife play, degradation, slapping, smut, kind of? innocent!reader.

summary: dark!rafe gets jealous after a dinner party.

“rafe! that hurts, stop it!” she plead as he dragged her through their shared home, into the bedroom. “that hurts, stop it!” he mocked, venom laced in his tone. y/n gasped as his grip moved from her wrist to her throat, pinning her against the now closed door.

“what’s the matter? huh? you were all giggly and smiley when you were talking to mr turnbull at the party, what’s changed?” he sneered, his hot breath hitting her in the face. her brows furrowed as she struggled to connect the dots.

“oh? you don’t understand? you never do, do you? just a silly little girl who never knows what she’s doing..” he spat, chuckling slightly as the words left his mouth.

“rafe..i’m sorry..” she croaked, breathless from his tight hold on her neck. “prove it”

staring up at him through her lashes, her forehead creases deepened, once again, utterly confused.

sighing deeply, he released his grip, instead sweeping his palm over his face in frustration. “get on your knees, and prove it” he snipped, staring her down like prey. “show me how sorry you are..”

“rafe, just let me explain..” she muttered, reaching for him as he began to step away from her, jaw clenched.

her mouth fell agape at his sudden movements, stepping behind her and kicking the toe of his shoe into the back of her knee, forcing her to the ground.

she landed with a thud, arms outstretched to stop her from faceplanting. gathering herself, she was taken aback but the sudden pool forming in her panties, chest heaving as her bundle of nerves throbbed against the material.

smirking at her forced submission, his fingers danced along the top of the wooden draws, lingering near the handles. “i want to try something, m’kay angel?” he asked rhetorically, pulling the draw open to retrieve the small blade.

rounding her small frame once more, he crouched in front of her, internally groaning as the sight of her caused a strain in his suit trousers. using the tip of the sharp metal, he tilted her head upwards, inciting her to suck in a deep breath.

“now, you know what to do if you want to stop, yes?” he asked, staring at her wide eyes. “mhm” she hummed as her heart pounded in her chest.

she’d never surprised herself more than she had then, to be so internally excited about her boyfriend holding a knife to her throat? y/n’s mind was conflicted for a split second, she knew this was certainly crossing some sort of line, but rafe loved her, and he wouldn’t hurt her. right?

“you gonna be a good girl now yeah?” he breathed, unbuckling his belt with one hand, freeing his hard cock. y/n’s eyes darted to it, her mouth salivating as she awaited his next orders. humming in response, she looked up at him innocently.

“you’re sorry huh?” he smirked devilishly, almost tickling her cheek with the tip of the knife, dragging it along her jaw bone. y/n nodded frantically, suddenly desperate to please him, almost yearning.

“open” he instructed, situating his free hand in her long locks before pulling her head closer.

y/n’s tongue teasingly swirled around the tip of his cock, she pressed gentle kisses to his base, coating his length in saliva.

the tension in her stomach only grew as she watched him, brows furrowed as he threw his head back, sucking in a sharp breath.

her core fluttered in validation as she pushed his cock further down her throat, moaning slightly as it reached the back.

her head bobbed as grunts and groans fell from his lips, one hand tangled in her hair while the other gently held the small knife to her neck, tracing the outlines of her jugular.

her eyes streamed as she attempted to fit his whole length into her mouth, chest heaving. rafe stared in awe, watching as mascara coated tears rolled down her cheeks, trickling down onto her tits.

“can’t take it all?” he whispered menacingly, tugging her off of him roughly before pulling her up to shove her onto the bed. he placed the knife by her head, going hands free for a short moment.

her lip quivered slightly as a deep exhale left her lips, relief washing over her as she saw the knife was discarded.

quick to notice, rafe’s eyes narrowed before he cupped her cheeks softly, stroking his thumb over the now-dried tears, drawing her in to a false promise of passion.

her eyes flitted between the look on his face and his hands, observing as he reached for the knife once more.

“can’t take me in your mouth huh…” he snipped, thinking out loud. her hearts pace quickened as he threateningly brought the knife to her neck, smoothing it over her bare breasts before trailing it down her stomach, all the way down to her growing wetness. rafe, fascinated by the way she jolted against the blade as the cool metal tickled her skin, moved his gaze to her wide eyes, slowly.

“what about your pussy? can your pussy take it?”