#slept to crickets and leaves and a fire

[katkalis-the-fanartist]

The serpentine twins with their chosen mate! Ingo vigilantly keeps watch while Emmet eagerly learns what foods their precious partner prefers! Their den is a comfortable temperature, while a fire warms the brothers' scales and helps them remain limber!

Also I now decided that I'll allow asks to be sent, directed towards them! If you wanna interact with them or have an oc step up to their home. You name it! Or if you want you can just ask general questions about them.

Even though I cant guarantee a sure response date, I'm hoping a few asks will inspire me to make more art of the scaled boys!

[vixstarria]

Seeing stars

Welp, I wrote more porn.

Astarion x F!Tav/F!Reader

18+, smut, porn with plot, porn with feelings, jealous Astarion, soft dom Astarion, dirty talk, fingering, PIV, elf ears and more! Humour, banter and fluff mixed in per usual. Tav failing several insight checks in the process.

I also poke fun at the in-game romance mechanics, and Wyll's Act 2 scene in particular.

This is the last time they have sex before the "I want us to be something real" conversation.

Approx. 2,900 words

AO3

“You won’t believe the ludicrous encounter I just had with Wyll.” 

You burst into Astarion’s tent. Well, it was ‘Astarion’s’ tent only notionally at this point. Yours still stood, but it now served solely as storage space for your assorted junk. You had effectively moved in with Astarion, having first coerced him into replacing the wooden plank and bloodstained rags he slept on with some sensible rugs and blankets. 

Astarion lounged half-naked on one of the bedrolls, reading something by candlelight. 

“Oh?” he looked up at you. “Do tell.” 

“First the massage you promised earlier,” you said sinking down onto the floor of the tent and stripping off most of your clothes. “My back is killing me after carrying everyone all day.” 

“Oh please...” he rolled his eyes. “I recall you nearly walked into your own cloud of daggers, again, and would have if I hadn’t pulled you away in time. And then you blasted Lae’zel off a cliff. It’s a wonder we haven’t kicked you out yet.” He shook his head. “And if you’re carrying anyone, I’m the one carrying you.” 

Still, he sat up as you laid down on your stomach.  

“Who do you think you’re fooling with this modesty, darling?” he murmured, noticing that you’d kept your underwear on. “Just lose it now,” he added, as he slid it off, leaving you completely naked, before he settled over you, his fingers commencing work on your shoulders. “So what happened with Wyll?” 

“I was making my way back here, and found him... performing some kind of jig by the campfire, pretending like he didn’t know I was there.” 

“The ‘Blade of Frontiers’, dancing alone in the middle of camp?” Astarion snickered. “Did you mock him? Please tell me you mocked him.”  

“Well... I was going to, but then he asked me to dance with him, very earnestly.” 

“That scoundrel...” he mused. “And let me guess - you agreed, didn’t you?” 

“Oh trust me, at that point it would have been more awkward not to dance with him, I had to play along.” 

Astarion scoffed, with a chuckle. 

“Do you always go along with whatever people want from you just because it would be too awkward to say no?” 

"I try not to – last time I did, I ended up with a vampire who won’t stop sucking me dry,” you deflected. “I figured there was no harm in indulging him. Besides, I don’t see you dancing with me. It was kind of nice,” you teased. 

“I hate dancing,” he said. 

“Right,” you said. “I’m sure you hate dancing just as much as you hate poetry, flowers, art, cats... What else?” 

“Children,” he answered. “I also can’t stand children.” 

“No, that one I could see being true,” you grinned. 

“So anyway, you two dolts pranced around the fire to the sound of crickets, then what?” 

“And then he tried to kiss me,” you admitted, with a sigh. 

Astarion’s hands paused for a moment before resuming their work, slightly harder than before. 

“Well look at you, receiving the Duke Ravengard’s heir’s attention. Moving up in the world, hmm?” 

“I didn’t let him.” 

He laughed. 

“Is there even a single person left in camp that hasn’t tried to get into your pants, darling?” 

You had to think for a moment.  

“Are we counting Volo?” 

“Sure.” 

“Then just Karlach and Withers.” 

“Gods, I fucking love Karlach,” he murmured. “Don’t tell her I said that.” 

“Why? Getting jealous all of a sudden?” 

Astarion was silent for a few moments. 

“I just don’t understand it,” he said. “You’re with me every night. I’m at your side every day. They see us. They hear us. Still, they don’t take me – or you and me – seriously. Tell me, is there something about me that screams: ‘Please, go ahead and take my lover for yourself. Come on in and snatch her right out from under me, I don’t mind’?”  

Perhaps you’d made a bad judgment call when you thought Astarion would find the absurdity of the situation humorous rather than offensive. Still, you had to bite your cheek to keep from laughing at the dramatics he added to the delivery of the last few lines that left his mouth. 

“Stop laughing,” he said.  

“I’m not laughing,” you laughed.  

“I can feel your back muscles twitching in your efforts.” 

“Well, they’re aware this all started as a joke. Perhaps they never realised that it’s long stopped being one?” you offered. 

Astarion’s hands had been moving lower and lower along your back. They had now reached your ass and continued to rub, stroke and squeeze, as you let out a soft groan. 

“That’s not my back, Astarion.” 

One of his hands kept squeezing an ass cheek, while the other dipped to stroke you between your legs. He gave a satisfied hum when two of his fingers entered you effortlessly. 

“Maybe if they could see how wet I can make you just by rubbing your back they’d reconsider how much of a joke this is,” he said, his voice low. He continued to pump his fingers in and out – you were almost embarrassed by the loud squelching sounds that came out of you. You moaned and tried to lift your hips higher, but your legs were encased between his thighs, pinned down on the bedroll. “Do you think you’d be reacting this way to young Ravengard, darling?” 

“Stop it,” you hissed. “You know I don’t want anyone but you.” 

“Stop?” he pulled his fingers out, to your dissatisfied whine. You looked back to see him studying your slick on his fingers. “I should go smear this on his face right now... The audacity to try to get his hands on what is not his.” He licked his fingers clean instead. He turned his attention back to you.  

“Maybe if you were more vocal about your devotion to me the others wouldn’t make these mistakes.” 

His hand returned between your legs, spreading your wetness and slipping lower to tease your clit.  

“I could be... encouraged... to be more vocal about it,” you breathed, trying to grind against his hand.  

“Yes... I should make you scream my name, so they all know who you belong to.” 

His fingers returned inside you, teasing you with shallow strokes.  

“You can try,” you taunted him. 

Astarion let out an indignant huff and shifted to spread your legs open with his knees, simultaneously placing a hand on your back to firmly hold you down. You expect to feel his cock enter you, but he continued to stroke you with his fingers, turning his hand to curl them downwards.  

“Is that a challenge, darling?” he asked, his voice dangerously low. “You should know better by now than to bet against me,” he said, continuing to flex his fingers inside you. 

It started off pleasant enough, but rapidly grew into... more. And more. You weren’t sure what he was doing but whatever it was, it was just about making you see stars. 

You sputtered as the new sensation started to take hold of your whole being.  

“Ast… what..”  

You couldn't manage anything coherent, as his fingers continued to dig into you, gradually picking up speed and pressure. You started to squirm to try to get away despite yourself, but he simply put more weight against the hand on your back, securely pinning you to the bedroll. 

“Always getting yourself into situations you're not prepared for…" he murmured. "You're not talking your way out of this one.”

His fingers were relentless. You were worried you really would scream and wake everyone in camp. All you could do was bite down on the pillow, hoping that it would muffle your drawn-out moans. 

“Let go, darling... I know you want to.” 

It's not so much that you let go – rather, all your decorum was ripped from you, as your muscles convulsed, the orgasm rolling through your entire body. You panted and shuddered, trying to keep quiet, your hands clutching desperately at the covers beneath you, trying to hold on to anything like your life depended on it. 

Once the feeling subsided, you came back to your senses to find Astarion hovering over you, kissing the back of your neck and shoulders, grazing them with his fangs, almost but not quite hard enough to draw blood. You felt his erection rubbing against your hip. 

“Has anyone fucked you like this before?” he whispered hoarsely into your ear, his breath ragged from his own arousal. “Tell me.” 

“No,” you gasped, trying to catch your own breath.  

“I thought so,” he whispered with a smile, kissing your neck before he sat back up. 

You turned back to look at him over your shoulder. He watched you with a self-satisfied grin, his fingers returning to stroke you lightly between your legs once more. 

“Do you want me to do it again?” he purred. 

A part of you wanted to wipe that smug grin off his face after what he just put you through. Another, much larger part, wanted nothing more than to submit yourself to whatever he would do to you.  

“Yes,” you admitted sheepishly. 

“Turn around...” he narrowed his eyes mischievously. “I want to see your face this time.” 

You flipped around onto your back, under his watchful gaze. His eyes never left yours as he stroked your slit, teasing your engorged clit with his thumb, before his fingers slipped back inside you. 

You found yourself mewling in anticipation before he really even started doing anything.  

“So eager,” he smirked. “So wanton...” 

He curled his fingers again, moving his whole hand to mercilessly claw into a sweet spot you didn’t even know existed inside you.  

You tried to relax into and accept this sensation, now that you were familiar with it. A growing pressure kept building at the bottom of your stomach. It was too much. It was entirely too much. You couldn’t take more of it. You couldn’t- 

“Let go, I’ve got you...” His whisper sounded so tender in sharp contrast to the depraved way he was handling your body. 

You sobbed as what you hoped was cum gushed out of you, your legs quivering.  

“Good girl”, Astarion laughed with glee, bending down to place a kiss on your lips, continuing to stroke you lightly, “Your body reacts so perfectly to me... Do you want more?” 

“You... I want you...” you groaned, biting his lip. 

“If that’s what my good girl wants,” he purred, discarding what was left of his clothes.  

You groaned as his cock entered you, rocking your hips against his, trying to find that feeling again. 

“So wet and needy for me...” he goaded you. “I’ve completely ruined you for anyone else, haven’t I?” 

He held absolutely nothing back as he fucked you, lewd insistent sounds of skin slapping on skin combined with your shared grunts and moans disturbing what was likely otherwise a silent night. 

“Anyone awake knows exactly what I’m doing to you right now,” he rasped, voice thick.  

Your walls clenched at the thought, making him shudder and sigh as well. 

“You like that thought, don’t you..? I know you do,” he continued. “So shameless...” 

Despite yourself, you whimpered, clenching again as another orgasm started threatening to overtake you. 

“That’s it... Come for me again,” he groaned. “Come for me, my love.” 

‘My love’..? Just a figure of speech, you thought. You’d thrown that phrase around, jokingly, but it’s never sounded so... raw. You wanted to hear it again. You wanted to keep hearing it.  

“Your what?” you gasped.  

He didn’t answer. Instead he caught your lips in a deep, devouring kiss, pinning your arms over your head.  

Your body gave in and you trembled under him, caught up in waves of pleasure again.  

He released your arms and eased his movements once you rode out your high, but kept kissing you, hungrily, unwilling to release your lips from his.  

Clearly, no further words of love would follow, you thought to yourself with a tinge of both relief and disappointment, deciding to let it go. 

“You’re so good to me,” you managed, breaking your lips from his. 

“Aren’t I just?” he groaned, speeding up again to chase his own release.  

You kissed your way up his jaw to his ear, pausing to nibble on his earlobe.  

You couldn’t see it, but a ditsy, open-mouthed smile started to play on his face. 

Astarion gasped with a sharp intake of breath as you continued further, running your tongue over the inside of the shell of his ear. 

“Oh sweet hells,” he sighed with pleasure, immediately grinding into your harder. 

You smiled as he tilted his head, just about pressing his ear against your lips. 

“Do you like that?” you whispered in his ear, running your tongue over it again, lifting your hands to run your fingers through his hair. You knew he did. You just wanted to hear him say it.  

“Yes... Don’t stop...” His words sounded like a desperate plea. 

You continued to gently nibble on the edge of his ear, soft moans escaping you from his movements. 

“That’s it, take what’s yours” you groaned, as his hips crashed into yours harder. 

His breathing and movements were becoming more and more frantic.  

“Astarion...” you whispered, grazing the shell of his ear with your lips. 

He let out an uncharacteristic whimper, all his usual composure slipping from him, as he bucked his hips, fucking you with quick, shallow thrusts.  

“My sweet...” you breathed against his ear. 

He came completely undone, spilling into you with forceful, jagged thrusts, before finally stilling. His whole body seemed to melt into yours as he stayed on top of you, trying to regain his breath. 

You wrapped your legs around his hips, not wanting to let go of him yet, but he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to lift himself from you either. Instead he trailed light, tender kisses from your neck up to your lips.  

You delicately traced the contours of Astarion’s face with your fingertips, running them from his cheekbone down to his jaw, as he leaned into your caress, gazing into your eyes.  

Astarion parted his lips slightly, as though to say something, only to seal them again. He tilted his head to kiss your knuckles as your fingers gradually made their way back up, to run through his hair. Eventually he spoke. 

“You would really choose me over the more... blatantly obvious options you have at your disposal here?” he asked quietly.  

“Haven’t I made that abundantly clear already..?” 

“Well of course you have – no one else is this good,” he said with a tired smirk. 

“I’m not talking about the...” you blinked. “You know I’m not with you just for the sex, right..?” you frowned, looking into his eyes. 

He looked away, slipping out of you and moving to lie down next to you.  

“Is that so?” he said softly.  

You found yourself suddenly feeling rattled. Was he simply fishing for compliments again, or had you been utterly oblivious to just how deep his insecurities ran this whole time..? 

“You have a wealth of other qualities that I... enjoy and appreciate,” you said, somewhat lamely.  

Astarion propped his head up on his hand and raised an eyebrow at you quizzically. There was a hint of vulnerability in his eyes despite his outward nonchalance.  

Oh for fuck’s sake, you thought. I’m not ready for any serious conversations now, especially not with cum running down my thighs.  

You turned away to grab something to wipe yourself down with. 

“A gentleman would clean up his own mess, by the way. Not one of your strong points. But you do have some virtues that make up for it. For instance... I can leave cheese unattended around you, knowing you won’t eat it.” 

Astarion went to pinch the bridge of his nose, sighing.  

“You’re a treasure trove of useless information,” you continued. “But unlike some of our companions you usually keep it to yourself.” A hint of a smile played on his lips at that.  

“Your hand feels nice and cold on my forehead when I have a headache.” You laid back down next to him, mirroring the way he was lying. 

“You always smell nice, especially for a dead guy. You never hog the mirror.”   

“What about my hair, won’t you mention that?” he smiled. 

“No, fuck your hair, it makes mine look awful in comparison.”  

He chuckled at that. 

“I do rather adore the garnet puppy eyes though,” you murmured. “What else... You make me laugh, and, more importantly, I make you laugh – which is great for my ego,” you continued.  

“As long as you understand that I’m usually laughing at you,” he countered. 

“Prick... Then there’s the fact you’ve saved my life four times.”  

“Seven,” he said quietly, looking into your eyes.  

“Five.”  

“It’s seven, dear, I counted.” 

“Whatever. When it comes to battle, you’re silent but deadly,” you said. “Like a-” 

Astarion’s hand covered your mouth.  

“Do not finish that thought, darling.” 

You grinned from behind his palm.  

“I think we can be done with this conversation,” he said.  

“Wait, wait, one more...” you laughed. “You’re eccentric, unpredictable, often irrational. I never know what’s going to come out of your mouth.”  

You smiled as Astarion groaned dramatically, covering his face with one hand.  

“Knowing I’ll get to spend another day in your mad company gives me a reason to get up in the morning,” you added, softly. 

“Come here, you sweet fool,” he whispered, drawing you against him.  

You hugged him tightly. It took so long for him to start initiating these embraces that wouldn’t lead to sex... You relished each one.  

Tomorrow, Astarion thought to himself, unbeknown to you. I have to tell her tomorrow.  

~~~~~

Follow up bonus scene

This work is part of a series - here is the master list

Next in series - Confession

AO3

Tags: @littleenglishfangirl @something-pithy @darlingxdragon @tallymonster @tragedybunny @spunky-89

@spacebarbarianweird @kittenintheden - hey, I heard you like elf ears

[zae-heeyyy]

Seraphic

Summary: You are Arthur's angel. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word count: 2,222 Tags: smut, high honor Arthur Warnings: 18+ MDNI

a/n: Whew 😅 I'm a little nervous to post this one. 🫣 Been sitting on it for a while (no pun intended) I've read and reread it a million times, and I'm ready to share. Also, we're pretending like Arthur's tent actually closes. Anyway thanks for reading!

Seraphic: something angelic or celestial in nature, often suggesting purity, beauty, or holiness.

By 1 a.m., the sounds of camp had reduced to the songs of crickets and the crackle of the fire. While everybody else slept, you waited up for Arthur, reading a book under lantern light in his tent. He arrived eventually, keeping his greeting short and joining you on his cot with slouched shoulders, seemingly exhausted. When he took his hat off, the grimace on his face became all the more apparent. His expression and tense body language told you all you needed to know; whatever happened out there wasn't good.

You handed him a match and a cigarette from his nightstand, and he thanked you with a nod. Using the heel of his boot, he struck the match and lit the cigarette, holding it with his thumb and index fingers. Flickering lantern light and the burning ember tip illuminated his bruised knuckles.

"Should I ask?" You traced a gentle finger over the bruises, and he shook his head.

"Best not," he replied, exhaling a ribbon of smoke.

"Well, I'm glad you're still in one piece," you said, looking him over. His shirt had seen cleaner, less wrinkled days, and sweat plastered his hair to his forehead. "Well, mostly in one piece."

He let out a gust of air, a failed attempt at a laugh, before pinching the bridge of his nose and groaning.

"Headache?" you asked, and he confirmed. The discomfort came with the life he lived. Loud gunfire, the rush of adrenaline, and focusing on his shots all combined to leave him in pain afterward. You exited the tent momentarily and returned with a bowl of warm water, a cloth, and a bottle of miracle tonic.

"Here—for your head." He took the medicine and snuffed his cigarette. Rejoining him, you sat on the cot and dabbed his face with the wet cloth, wiping away dirt and sweat. A soft kiss on his temple prompted him to lean into you, the tension finally dissipating. You wrapped your arms around his big frame and held him close. Obviously, he was your safe space, but oh—were you his. Eyes shut, he rested his head on your bosom.

Arthur found comfort in his typical role as protector and provider. But in these moments, when roles faded, he could feel the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders—a crushing weight he didn't even realize he was carrying. Being with you like this made him wonder if heaven was real because you were godsent.

To Arthur's dismay, you unraveled yourself from him to tie the tent flap closed, sealing the two of you away in the dark. Walking between his legs, you untied his neckerchief and dusted his soiled shirt.

"—Needs a wash. Your blood or someone else's?" you questioned, fingers undoing the top button.

"Not mine," he answered. Peeling the shirt off and tossing it aside, you studied him for a second time tonight. He'd seemed more relaxed than when he arrived, but his brow stayed brooding. Still positioned with his legs on either side of you, you caressed his face, one of your thumbs stroking the hairless scar on his chin.

"What else can I do?"

"You done enough; I'm fine." He gave your hand on his face a reassuring squeeze.

Leaning forward, you kissed him tenderly. His arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you nearer until your foreheads touched. You spoke low against his mouth, a playful grin forming on yours.

"You gotta stop getting yourself into so much trouble, Arthur Morgan."

Your demand was met with a chuckle, and he replied, "I'll do my best, darlin'." You peppered his lips with loving, tender kisses, making him smile against them and squeeze you tighter in a hug. You would do just about anything to see that man smile at you the way he did, all soft and endearing.

Your kisses subsided, but Arthur's affectionate gaze stayed fixed on you. The slight smile on his face had straightened, his expression mirroring the intensity of the one he wore when he first confessed his love for you.

"Got that look on your face," you told him, and he just blinked slowly, awestruck. Though he often swore he was a man of few words, he could fill volumes with his devotion for you. You loved it when he got like that, entranced and overwhelmed with love.

The way he watched you set a fire within you that warmed the most intimate parts of your being. He was surprised when you let yourself fall heavily into him, trying to get as close as possible. Maybe he was going to say something or make a noise, but he didn't have the time before your mouth was on his again, your tongue pushing through his lips to tangle with his. You only pulled away when you needed to breathe.

Instead of pressing your lips to his once more, you dropped to your knees in front of him. Eyes widening, he tried to bring you back up to your feet, shaking his head, once again astounded by you.

"Sweetheart—"

Still on your knees, you patted his cheek and looked up at him with doe eyes. "Shhh, let me take care of you, Arthur." His hand found yours on his face, and he turned to kiss it, nodding placidly. Both of you managed to keep your volume low as you helped him strip down to his union suit. You began working at the buttons of his neckline, doing more ripping than unbuttoning, shoving the fabric down his shoulders.

As more clothing fell away, you trailed sweet kisses down his abdomen. At the same time, his hands roamed wherever they could. The rough pads of his fingers lightly tracing your skin mirrored a faint electric charge. Despite being a brute of an outlaw, he was overly careful with his hands when it came to you; your body was fine china and deserved to be treated as such. Goosebumps formed in a wake left by his touch.

As you kissed down the trail of hair under his belly button, his rapid breathing hitched, and the bulge between his legs strained against the flannel fabric, begging to be unleashed. You tried to find his eyes as you groped him through the underwear, but his head was tipped back, his mouth agape.

"Look at me." You whispered, and he snapped to attention like a soldier following commands. Eyes locked on his, you unclasped the last button, and his length sprung free, the pink head of his cock primed with anticipation. A teasing laugh crept up within you as you trailed soft kisses from the base of his shaft and left one long lingering peck on the tip. The loud, rhythmic thumping of his heart was music to your ears. Not wanting to keep him waiting any longer, you took his entire length in your mouth, bobbing your head up and down, taking him deeper until your nose touched the curly hairs at the base.

Then he couldn't hold it in anymore; a deep, guttural groan escaped him.

Your mouth was the warmest, most intoxicating blanket he'd ever been wrapped in, and he never wanted to leave. He gaped at you, seeing your mouth full of him, his pupils dilated with pure lust. The blunt tip of his cock pressed to the back of your throat, making it constrict around him. His whole body shuddered.

"Look whatchu' do to me, woman," he rattled, tangling his hands in your hair. Despite his eagerness, you withdrew from his aching sex, a string of saliva joining your lips to him. Something reminiscent of a whine exited him when you stepped away, but his open mouth fell shut at the sight of your bloomers slipping down your legs. You kissed him, savoring the salty, bitter taste of his arousal mixed with the tobacco and herbs of his mouth.

"Lay back," you murmured in his ear. Obeying your command once again, he let out a grunt as he felt your weight on top of him. You straddled him, and he held you up, his fingers digging firmly into your sides. Bending at the waist, you kissed longingly, your hips undulating against his. He pulled your nightgown up around your midriff, one of his hands gripping the flesh of your ass while the other one went between your legs. His index finger sank painstakingly into your weeping cunt, then brushed over your clit, making you shiver. He raised himself on his elbows, reaching for the hem of your sleep dress.

"Take this off; let me see you." You raised your arms and let him yank the garment away, leaving you completely exposed on top of him. "Beautiful," he breathed, using the back of his hand to graze your skin. Breathy sighs escaped you as he traced delicate circles around your nipples. His eyes bored into you, absorbing every detail like you were the most captivating thing that ever lived. Hyperfocused on your body, he fondled your breasts before gliding his hands down your torso, ogling, taking all of you in.

Freezing, his stare intensified as you massaged the tip of his cock up and down your glistening slit. Touching his lips to yours, you pushed him into your wet folds. Neither of you could contain the sounds building with you. He split you open, stretching you, making room for him, filling you. You held yourself up with your hands braced on his chest, but you went weak as he bottomed out within you, brushing against that deep, tender spot. You would've fallen if he wasn't there to hold you up, a thought mirroring one he had about you so often.

"I got you," he whispered into your ear. It took every ounce of restraint he had not to snap his hips up into you, the warm embrace of your center clearing his mind and driving him mad all the same. Finally, you started to ride, surging and sinking into him. He was a simple, agnostic man, but being with you like this made him believe in all the theocracy of angels, soulmates, and divine intervention. This was his bliss. This was his heaven, and you were his seraph. He'd go through hell every day if it meant coming home to this—to you. Hypnotized in the rhythm of you, a new thought crossed his mind every time you bounced.

Up.

She's so goddamn beautiful.

Down.

So perfect.

Up.

My girl.

Down.

My girl, my girl, my girl, my girl.

Up.

My angel.

Down.

I love her so much.

Up.

So wet.

Down

So warm.

Up.

So danm tight.

Down.

Shit.

And before you could come back up again, he squeezed his eyes shut, halting your hips with all the strength he could muster, fighting the damn-near irresistible urge to cum inside of you. Sweat had built up on his brow, and his stomach rose and fell quickly with each panting breath. You folded to kiss him, your hard nipples grazing against his chest.

"It's okay," you whispered, patting his face and grinding antagonizingly slow against him. You wanted him—needed him— to come undone for you. With that goal in mind, you picked up the pace and rolled your hips relentlessly, moaning your every thought into his ear.

"You feel so good inside of me."

"I need you."

"I love you."

Your climax was building fast, and you reached to give relief to that sensitive bundle of nerves atop your center. Arthur pushed your hand away swiftly, replacing it with his own. Always a giver, he'd do anything to feel useful while you were treating him like royalty.

While one hand worked your clit, his other gripped the meat of your hip, rocking you in time with his upward thrusts. His head tipped and hit the pillow, and you could feel his thighs tensing and shaking beneath you. Lips parted, he stared up at you. You felt him twitch inside you, and his brow finally relaxed.

That did it for you.

You were wordless as your orgasm ripped through you, your head swirling, and your veins on fire. Arthur's guiding hand on your hip didn't stop, and he fucked you through your climax. Hugging your body close and nuzzling his face into your neck, he growled as he painted your inner core with his own release. You stayed like that, glued to each other as you came down from your highs.

"You're too good for me," he finally said. You clasped a hand into his, kissing the long-forgotten bruises on his knuckles.

"Shut up." You responded, and he didn't say another self-deprecating word. It was the least he could do.

You cleaned up and redressed, nestling into the small, one-man cot. Finally settled for the night, you resorted to your regular bedtime positions: your head on his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you, your legs tangled in one another's.

He rose before you in the morning, perching himself on the cot's edge while you slept behind him. He wrote in his journal, his thumb leaving a smudge on the page:

"For a long time, I believed I could not live a bad life and expect good things to happen to me. Yet somehow, this woman of pure goodness entered my life, and it is clear now that I have been a fool."

[annwrites]

⸻ no sound but the wind. part one.

· pairing: adar x fem!reader · type: part of mini-series · summary: adar finds personal use for you as a slave of a different kind. · tw: non-con · word count: 3,212

“And do you swear allegiance to Adar, father of the Uruks?”

You stare ahead at the man he speaks of—if he is even truly a man at all—observing his long, black, silken hair, his gray, sallow skin, the ruined sides of his face where the skin is pulled taught from scarring due to, you presume, fire—his thin lips tightly pursed while he awaits your answer. And it’s then that you notice his pointed ears.

His is an elf. How—how could he let this happen? How can he partake in it? He is meant to be wise and strong, yet gentle and fair. Not…whatever he has instead become.

It does not much matter how he has come upon the path which he now follows. What’s done is done.

All is now lost that once was to you because of it. That you’d most loved. That which had brought you joy and much more.

Like your village, where trees had flowered and bloomed year-round. Those of almond and chestnut, apple and peaches, sour lemons and limes. Some, which ivy grew upon the trunks of, while blossoms were peppered throughout green leaves that dappled the ground below in sunlight, which rays shone through from a clear blue sky above—white, fluffy clouds slowly floating past.

Or lush, soft, green grass which you would lie upon and nap. Clear, cool running water in streams that were always warm in the summer, and crisp in the autumn when those same sticky apples fell into the soil, feeding it until the year next when farmers would tend their fields of potatoes, carrots, pumpkins, lettuce, and strawberries—the various types of crops nearly endless. Mayhaps a few bushes of berries were to be had, as well.

Animals grazed the fields: cows and sheep and goats alike, and chickens would peck about around the settlement while pigs oinked in their pens, lazy cats slept upon windowsills, and pups ran along after smiling, playful children—their adoring parents watching along after them as young couples in love strolled into the small market in the middle of town to purchase goods.

Like spices and cured meats, colorful fabrics and dresses, woven baskets and pillar candles, pots and pans, and shimmering, beautiful glassware, among so much more.

And there would be gatherings in the square quite regularly: dances and festivals, competitions in archery or axe throwing, or quilt-making and pie baking.  Woodworkers and blacksmiths would presents their creations to all for purchase, for the cost of a pretty, shining coin—celebrations abound. Music and delicious foods were to be had, young maidens with flowers in their hair waiting for a kiss as their dresses of chiffon and tulle swayed round their slippered feet.

In the evenings, fireflies would flit through the air like tiny sparks of light while you and your mother would prepare dinner, your father always tending to something. Whether it was in your household’s small stables outside—where horses would quietly whinny as he fed them or brushed them down—or inside, fixing something in the cottage where the three of you lived contentedly.

And you would listen through open windows to crickets and cicadas while you quietly read your parents a story or two from a novel you’d retrieved from upon the mantle your grandfather had designed when the home had been his and your grandmother’s—the books hers—the three of you sitting before a small fire in the main room’s hearth.

And now… Now the once-fertile and emerald hills are unrecognizable. They have been, instead, replaced by black sludge and darkened, smoking ash—the skies overcast and always looking to be on the verge of an ugly storm as these hideous beasts rape the land for all it is worth.

They take and they take, and for what? Perhaps merely just to destroy for the sake of the act.

You will not willingly partake in ruining your beloved homeland. You would rather die and be with them: your family, your friends—forever to live upon those rolling hills once you shut your eyes for the last time.

You raise your chin, ignoring how it trembles when you meet his black, empty eyes.

He does not react. Does not so much as raise a brow in interest as he gazes back at you.

Something shifts behind you, and you steel yourself—refusing to look. You will not tremble in the face of death which calls you home.

And then he raises a hand from where it rests beside him, upon the arm of his make-shift throne—but barely, at that.

“Wait,” he calls quietly.

You hear something settle into the dirt and gravel behind you once more.

He rises slowly, descending step after step in measured moves, until he’s standing before you.

He places an index finger beneath your chin, tipping your face upwards, forcing you to meet his eyes.

He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable.

“Comely little thing, aren’t you?” He says softly, his voice monotone.

You keep your mouth shut.

He nods infinitesimally. “Take her to my tent. Ensure she’s watched carefully. I’ve use for this one.”

One of the monsters he commands takes hold of your upper-arm, his other hand coming to tug at the shackles which bind you, pulling you away.

“Kill me!” You finally shout, tears brimming in your eyes.

He turns slightly from where he’s begun ascending his throne once again, looking at you from over his shoulder.

You tug against your restraints, pulling free of the revolting thing that touches you.

“I want to die, so kill me. I’m of no use you to here. I do not know how to…”

You shake your head, grasping for words in your panic. “How to carve wood, or assemble structures, or break apart stone—”

He chuckles lowly, turning round fully, coming back to you.

He slides his rough hand along your soft cheek before cupping the back of your head. He tangles his strong fingers in your hair, yanking your head back by those same strands, causing you to whimper in pain.

“You think I desire you for hard labor?”

You gulp in fear.

“I have far different plans in-mind for you. You will serve me well in other ways. Ones more…”

His eyes trail slowly along your body, before meeting your own once again. “Suited to your feminine form.”

You choke back a sob, realization filling you, along with an unbridled sense of terror.

He releases you again, nodding toward his crony.

You’re taken in-hand once again, and led away—your pleading cries falling upon deaf ears.

Adar’s tent is nothing exceptional—somewhat opposite of what you’ve expected it to be.

His bed is not a cot, surprisingly—certainly large enough to fit two, if not two-and-a-half—and he has a rather cluttered war table, which you’ve been informed, quite firmly, that you are not to touch. So you look at it, instead, from a distance from the wooden chair you’ve been provided.

You see small metal and wooden figurines placed about—construction plans, you assume.

You fail to understand what he could possibly want with the now-destroyed land, but decide you ultimately don’t want to know. You’d rather remember it as it’d once been instead.

You glance to the entrance of his tent, where an Uruk stands guard—the flap pulled back, allowing you a peak outside as the others like him mill about, coming and going and working.

Bile rises in your throat at the sight of them. They’re wretched. Cursed. Vile.

You won’t let him touch you.

You’ll do whatever you must to instead give him cause to drive a blade through your beating heart instead. You will not dishonor yourself—not even for the sake of survival.

You will die as you had lived: as yourself.

You’d waited so long for him to come—rehearsing in your head all the ways you might achieve that which you most desire at his hand; but nevertheless of your own causing—you’d fallen asleep.

You jolt awake when heavy footsteps enter the tent, staring in fear as bastardized elves carry inside a large, wooden tub full of steaming water.

They settle it into the middle of the space, retreating just as promptly as they’d come.

And then he steps inside, the once-open curtain flapping closed behind him.

He settles his arms behind his back as he gazes down at you.

He glances to the tub, then back to you. “Bathe. Once you are finished, I shall next.”

He goes to his war table, seating himself heavily, opening a scroll which lies atop it, and he begins reading over the item in his large hand.

You remain seated, too terrified to move.

“I need…privacy,” you say—your voice breaking, tears filling your eyes.

He keeps his back turned to you. “And you have it. Now, do as I bid you.”

You slowly stand, feeling unsure on your feet—your movements hesitant and wavering—as you come closer.

You study the back of his head, nervously flitting your eyes about the table before him, searching desperately for a weapon.

“I would not attempt it.”

You jerk in surprise.

He sets the parchment aside, retrieving a small, sharply pointed figure in the shape of a diamond. “You’d do well to make things easier for yourself. Obey me, and your days will be easy. Don’t—”

You interrupt. “I’ll never give m-myself to you willingly. I’ll—I’ll kill you,” you say, the threat sounding far more like a question than anything else.

You do not see how his lip twitches in mild amusement.

Finally, he sighs, pushing out his chair, standing.

You shuffle backwards, desperate to get away from him—from this place as a whole—from all of the rot and disease that has now claimed this land you’d once called home. Once you’ve backed yourself into a solid pole, which upholds the side of the tent, you stare up at him.

“So you should instead kill me,” you finish.

He softly shakes his head, cupping your cheek gently, brushing his thumb along the apple of it.

“You merely think that you wish for death. I have quite…creative ways to make you obey, until death is so far from your grasp that all you can see ahead of you is more of whatever I’ve been forcing you to endure. Until you break. Until you are ready and willing to do as I please just to make the pain stop.”

He cups your other cheek, holding you firmly in-place.

“I have been here for a very, very long time. Longer than your young mind may ever comprehend. I am not a man who is easily swayed. Nor am I merciful to any others than my children. It is not in my nature. But, for your sake, if you do as I command, I may consider a more gentle touch.”

He releases you. “Time shall tell.”

Your face crumples and you begin to cry, all hope fleeing you of obtaining a different fate than whatever he has in-store for you.

He seats himself once more.

“Now, do as I’ve told you. I will not ask again.”

You tremble violently and feel distant from your body, but you still manage to strip yourself of your soiled, stained gown, letting the heavy material pool at your feet, before ridding yourself of your smallclothes next.

You keep your eyes on him—never removing them—as you step closer to the tub, and then ease yourself into the hot water, sucking in a sharp breath as you seat yourself.

 You grab the small bar of soap you’ve been provided, lathering yourself.

You wish to be finished sooner than late, but also want to take your time—to savor this final moment of something…nice. Because you will do it: find a way tonight to make him take your life.

You’ll not stop until he does.

The two of you remain silent as you cleanse yourself—desperate to get the stench of this new environment from your skin. It is no longer that of fresh air and flowers. It is now that of something pungent and oily.

Death.

That is what it is.

Eventually, you rise, drying yourself with a small towel, and then you glance around in a panic for clean clothes.

Just as you think to dress once again in your previous garments, he gestures toward the small wooden dresser beside the table where he sits.

“You’ll find clean tunics in the second drawer.”

Once you’ve put one on, you take a step back. “What of…trousers, or smallclot—”

“You won’t be needing them any longer,” he replies, rising, the two of you staring at one another as he unbuckles the belt from his waist which holds his sword, setting it atop the previously-occupied table.

You promptly look away, your nose growing warm and eyes stinging as you seat yourself at the foot of the bed, watching as shadows pass by the curtain at the front of the tent.

You tightly grip the blankets beneath you, considering, watching intently.

You hear water lapping, and then a quiet groan as he leans back, enjoying what heat still remains in the water that fills the tub.

“I wouldn’t,” he states in that rasping voice which barely reaches above a whisper.

You bristle.

“You’ll not make it more than a handful of steps before my Uruks return you to this tent. To me. You won’t enjoy what happens to you next.”

He sighs. “Save yourself some pain.”

“Why’re you doing this?” You ask tearfully.

He begins to wash himself, keeping his eyes trained on you. “What is it which you refer to?”

“You’re an elf. You’re supposed to… Meant to be kind. Wise and—”

“You think I value that which I come from?  You think the high elves of this land care any more for your life than they do my Uruks? Pride is their virtue. They see themselves above all else, including men. Because they’ve made it so. They would see us all sequestered away to darkened corners of Middle-Earth if it meant all could be theirs once again.”

A tear slips down your cheek. “You destroyed my home. Took everything from me. And you think I mean to give myself to you? Willingly? To play at being your—your—”

“You will be my concubine. And nothing else. That is your role now. In time…you may come to see matters differently. Come to see me differently.”

“That will never happen,” you whisper.

He rises from the tub—his damp strands dripping at the ends as he shrugs on a clean tunic, padding toward you.

He grips your chin, forcing you to look up as he towers over you. “In time, I believe it will. For your survival, if naught else. Even if you find such a prospect to be of little value to you now.”

He grabs you roughly by the arm then, forcing you to your feet.

Your chest presses against his own as tears slip from your exhausted eyes—your heart pounding like a hammer against cloth at him being so close.

“I’ll give you one final chance, child. Give your body to me willingly, and be given mercy, or don’t, and I will unleash upon you pain unlike any you’ve ever known.”

You make a split-second decision, praying it be your last.

You swing your free arm upwards, swiftly, and slap him as hard as you possibly can.

He barely reacts as he turns his head back in your direction, shaking it lightly.

“Pain it is, then.”

He throws you back onto the bed, swiftly removing his tunic, settling all his muscled weight atop you, weighing you down—forcing you into place as he forces your own garment up and over your head, ignoring your screaming, pleading, panicked protests as you battle against him.

You squirm and pound your fists against his chest, and kick your legs and wail in terror, but he acts as if he does not even notice.

He grips each of your wrists tightly in his hands, holding them above your head while he knocks your legs apart with his knee.

You suddenly still, fervently shaking your head, choking on your own tears as you struggle to draw in even one steady breath.

“Please—Please don’t. I beg of you! Please, not this! Please, please!” You scream shrilly.

“I gave you another way and you refused it. Now, you will learn.”

He plunges inside of you with one forceful buck of his hips and you choke on your own saliva at the excruciating pain which manifests between your thighs. Burning. You feel as if you are on fire where his body now connects with your own.

And he is anything but gentle, just as he had promised you he would be.

He ruts away inside of you, grunting quietly, his skin slapping against yours as his long, throbbing member plunges in and out of you while he searches for his peak against your will.

You stare upwards, at the billowing canopy, desperate for it to end. Desperate to die. To disappear.

This is nightmare from which you will never wake, and you have naught to comfort you from it.

No home.

No family.

No friends.

No warm bed of your very own where you may rest.

No village which is full of joy and safety.

No nothing.

Nothing is left.

Not even that which you’d hoped to one day give to your husband.

He has taken every single thing, and intends to take even more yet still.

You break then—far sooner than expected, than you'd hoped—resigning yourself to letting him have it.

You will instead go away inside yourself, back to the place you most wish to return to.

And you find peace there. In a quiet field where vibrant butterflies flit about, and chimes which hang upon tree branches tinkle gently in the wind.

You close your eyes, humming in contentment as the sun warms your skin, listening as sheep baa at one another close by.

And then you are ripped from the fantasy and forced back inside that claustrophobic tent as he pours himself deeply inside of you, moaning as he takes his final thrusts—pushing his rotten seed further into your core.

Finally, he collapses beside you, heaving for breath.

You do not move. Not an inch.

Hot tears slip silently from the corners of your eyes while he runs out of you elsewhere. Your body begins to gently jerk against your will in shock, and you sniffle and whimper in pain and fear.

After a moment, he rises, washes himself off, then pours for himself a mug of water, downing it quickly.

He pours himself another, leaning back against the dresser across from where you lie.

“It will get easier when you let it,” he states.

He takes another long drink. “It’s been…many years since I’ve had a woman—a maiden, even more-so.”

You refuse to look at his blood-stained member.

He returns to you, seating himself upon the edge of the bed, his leg bent at the knee as he gently grasps your chin, his fingers ghosting along your hot skin.

“As such, I don’t intend to let you go. So, do what you must.”

He sets his mug atop the bedside table, climbing atop you once more.

“I shall do the same,” he states, sheathing himself inside your slick core once again.

[screwsfall0ut]

Tim Drake Befriends a Bee Minific

When Tim was young and very lonely, he befriended a bumblebee. 

Back then, he was curious in a way that teased wonder on every rusted fire escape. At 9 years old, even Gotham’s grimiest streets sparkled under the right light and perfect Summer days were for adventure, not dread. 

It had been one of those perfect days - balmy, sunny, fresh, and crisp - when Tim almost stepped on a bee. He paused, one leg raised, light up sneakers still flashing, and hopped to the side. 

He carefully picked it up. The poor thing didn't have wings. It was so delicate. Its tiny legs tickled Tim's palms.

Tim was stricken with fear that it would die on the hot pavement, alone and scared. It needed to be protected. It needed a chance.

An eyedropper of sugar water and 30 minutes later, the bee was moving - crawling all over the table and, eventually, over Tim's hands. He brought the bee out into the garden, letting it examine the roses, the lavender, the yarrow.

Tim couldn’t leave it out there, defenseless, with no one to watch over it, to make sure it wasn't eaten or crushed or lonely. 

He named the bee Sisko, after his favorite Star Trek character, and because it was an onomatopoeia of the strange buzzing sound Sisko would make while traveling up and down Tim’s arms.

Day after day, Sisko and Tim would make new sugar water, then go explore every flower and bush and stone on the Drake property. Sisko’s favorites were the yellow roses, which had bloomed brighter and taller than anything else that season. Sisko would always crawl back to Tim’s hands in the end, or his arms, sometimes even up Tim's neck and into his bushy hair to keep Tim company while heating up chicken nuggets or peeling open protein bars or chowing down cold pizza. 

At night, Sisko slept in the ratty, soft stomach of Tim’s favorite stuffed animal, a bunny his Mom had given him when he was too young to remember. Tim moved the stuffy from his bed to his dresser (he was nervous about rolling onto Sisko in his sleep) and every night checked that Sisko was safe and sound before turning out the lights. 

They were friends - best friends. 

With Sisko, Tim lost the urge to wander off in Gotham proper for batwatching. Instead, he’d re-learned every step of Drake property, fell in love again with the flowers and trails, the old, old trees, and the pond out near the property line. 

Tim knew Sisko was on borrowed time (of course he did) but against all logic, Tim was certain that Sisko wasn’t any normal bumblebee. How could he be? Not when he’d chosen Tim, not when they'd made a home together. Anyway, why should it be so ridiculous to think that Sisko might be a witch's familiar or a companion like Jiminy Cricket. Magic was real, and there were stranger things on Gotham's streets every day.

Tim started to believe, actually believe, that one day he and Sisko might slip into Narnia or Wonderland or Middle Earth. Every day was an adventure.

Eventually the cold began to creep back, hardening the ground, taking the flowers, and turning the leaves. It was a chilly Sunday afternoon when Sisko crawled into Tim’s palm, fell asleep, and never woke up again. No matter how much Tim begged and begged and begged.  

He'd died so quietly. So unceremoniously. Tim wasn't ready. It wasn't fair.

Sisko was just a bee, and Tim was just a boy, and there were no magic wardrobes waiting for them.

Tim buried Sisko under the yellow rose bush, long gone spindly and brown. He cried so much that he'd thrown up in the dirt. 

Later that week, Scarecrow broke out of Arkham. For the first time since June, Tim pulled out his black clothes and his camera bag to watch Batman and Robin save the day. 

The click click of his camera shutter, the smoggy sky, the sweet rot smell of the dumpsters: that was familiar. Tim was a shadow again. He could lose himself: in the dark, in the night. 

Tim tucked his bunny stuffy into the back of his closet. He stopped waiting for magic to find him, at least, not the kind you'd read about in storybooks. Magic may have been real, but it was for people like Robin, people who swung from rooftops and laughed loud and made the world brighter. It was never meant for someone like Tim.

[platinumshawnn]

Bound by Blood and Fire | Benjicot Blackwood -- pt vi

Synopsis:

Two days to the wedding and the risk of more bloodshed looms at the boundaries between Brackens and Blackwoods as the council encounter a bump following Benjicot’s actions.

Serra begins to hear rumors around the castle of the impending battle and word from King’s Landing regarding an army of Aegon’s that is making its way along the western shore and targeting the houses on his behalf. Serra approaches her father again regarding the matter amidst finalizing wedding plans and finds comfort and friendship in another Blackwood.

masterlist | playlist | backwards | forward

A/N: hi!!! popping in from the queue, i threw in a slightly suggestive scene at the end plus some bi-icon alysanne/blackwood siblings serving cvnt <333 I also have chapter seven coming this Friday at 9:01am EST which will be the wedding finally. i want to preface that the next chapter will contain smut, for anyone who is not comfortable with that, anyways!!

Content Warning(s): MDNI — 18+, adult language, mentions of blood, violence, and war; era related sexism and gender based harassment/discrimination, sexually suggestive content, mild depictions of family based violence, implied suicide ideation.

Word count: 10.1k

He could still see his face when he slept. 

Benjicot spent a better part of his youth in the woods beyond Raventree on hunting trips and generally just wandering; mapping out every corner of their land on the days he had off from duties, such as training or shadowing his father’s council meetings as a boy. It was a place of comfort for him, where he had never experienced trouble finding sleep whenever he found himself camped there, and yet for the past two nights, he had been lucky to even find an hour of sleep without being startled awake. Suddenly, it felt like every chirp of a cricket or snap of a twig from a deer that calmly strolled through the trees in the distance had him on edge and jumping awake and frozen in fear; worried that it was the Brackens coming for him or his father to drag him back to their home. It did not bring him any relief to know that Emrys had been suspended from patrolling the lands in the meantime, since returning and word reaching Raventree of Rodrik’s death, leaving the grounds nearly unguarded beyond a couple of young boys whom Benjicot knew could barely hold a sword. 

Emrys could only sneak to him once a night, creeping out after dark once he knew that Samwell was asleep — even then, doing so involved bribes to sneak out with the boys. 

Even when he had managed to find sleep, it was plagued by nightmares of Rodrik’s face -- his eyes, wide and dead as he laid face down in the mud after landing with a thud that echoed in his mind. Benjicot had been covered in Bracken blood as he, Emrys, and Davos dragged him back over the boundaries into their land, whilst Benjicot had nearly been swept away by the river, choking on mouthfuls of water that threatened to take him away in its angry grasp, his vision blurred. They had nearly lost Rodrik in the midst, slipping on mud and grunting with exertion as they dragged his body from the waters and back to dry land. He could still hear Emrys’ complaint as he was dragged through the grass, “This bloody boy weighs a ton.” 

Benjicot had insisted that they at least provide him the decency of rolling him onto his back, rather than face down, earning a confused glare from Davos, who was beyond exhausted at that point. It was then that he had seen the damage he had done. Sliced from collarbone to pelvis, a large gash from his throat and down his belly, his house colours torn down the front. Benjicot had fumbled to undo his cloak and cover him, leaving his face exposed for once someone came in search of him — he knew it would only be a matter of time. 

Davos had grabbed his House pin from his body as they had begun to leave and pressed it into Ben’s hand as he brushed past him to retreat to Blackwood land, muttering something about a ‘trophy’, as if he should be proud but Benjicot was anything but proud of himself. He hadn’t returned the pin to its owner, though. The pin had remained in his tent, finding himself staring at it every so often, whenever he woke up from his nightmares or whenever it caught the light in the corner of his eye which felt like every couple of hours. It was a reminder of what he had done.

Benjicot had jolted awake again after falling asleep after supper, nodding off only because he was so exhausted, it physically pained him. Again, Rodrik’s face was there behind his eyelids, that horrified expression on his face as he fell, choking on his blood—  this time, he was haunted by the image of his sister behind him, screaming and sobbing as she watched on, unable to do anything, her hands at her belly as she cried into the grass. He had tripped out of his makeshift bed on the ground, bolting out of his tent and hardly making it outside before he had fallen to his knees, hunched over on all fours as he threw up the fish and water he had barely managed to stomach earlier; coughing as he choked up the contents. His fingers dug into the grass, red-faced and panting as he dry heaved for a few moments, his body convulsing with effort as he leaned into an elbow; caring little if he got any on him. 

He had hardly noticed Emrys approaching, standing a few feet behind him, “You look like shit.” 

He weakly turned to glance behind him, eyes slowly coming to look up at his cousin who stood near the edge of his tent, a hand on the bag that hung at his waist; head tilted and watching him. He spit into the grass, the taste lingering on his tongue, and coughing one last time as he pushed himself up to his knees, “How did you get out here so early?” 

“I asked to go out for errands with Henry,” He said, opening the bag and pulling an extra shirt from it to toss at him. “I had to promise to cover for him tonight to sneak off with some…servant girl.” He explained, waving dismissively. 

Benjicot used his sleeve to wipe his mouth, slowly moving to pull down the straps of his breeches and pull off the soiled shirt. He let out a breathless scoff, “That sounds nice.” He replied, delirious from exhaustion as he tossed the shirt beside him. He took the clean shirt and pulled it over his head, stumbling to his feet and nearly toppling forward, prompting Emrys to rush forward and catch him by his elbow in an attempt to steady him. 

“Have you eaten anything?” Emrys asked. 

Benjicot gestured to where he had thrown up with his chin, a hand raking through his hair. His cousin glanced to where he pointed, grimacing in disgust and releasing him, “Tried to.” He grumbled.

“Come. I was able to bring you something.” He sighed, his face still pinched up in disgust as Benjicot turned to follow him. The two men entered the tent, Emrys’ hand out and ready to catch Benjicot in case he tripped again; the eldest of the two sitting in his blankets. 

The blonde sat across from him, sliding the bag from his shoulders and placing it down in front of his cousin, allowing him to open it and though Ben’s stomach was still churning, he couldn’t deny the grumble as he opened it and began to dig through it. With dirty hands, he pulled out a bun and let out a sigh, euphoric as he bit into it and paused to relish in the much-needed change of things—  after two days of leaf, grain, and the odd thin fish he had been lucky to catch with his hands, bread seemed like a commodity that Ben had never thought to be grateful for. 

As he chewed, tearing bites from the bun, his hand continued to rummage through the bag; holding the bun momentarily between his teeth as he pulled out a cloth, unwrapping it. He fought the urge to groan aloud at the sight of a small roast duck, the smell wafting through the tent as he set the bun aside and tore off a piece with his hands, ravenous and feral as he ate, “Gods be good, slow down-- you look disgusting, you know that?” Emrys said, though his tone was laced with a light sense of humour as he moved to unsheath something from his waist.

Ben let out a grunt, hardly containing himself as he bit into the duck, his eyes lifting briefly. He watched as his cousin presented a leather flask from his side, opening it and extending it to his cousin, whose hands practically trembled as he took it from him. He lifted the flask to his mouth, greeted by the sweet, bitter taste of wine from home that melted any remaining tension from his shoulders as he gulped down two mouthfuls before placing it down on the ground beside him. 

The two men sat in silence, besides the sound of Benjicot eating, birds chirping with the day -- if not for the circumstances, Ben would have found it all peaceful and calming. 

After a few moments, Benjicot spoke through a full mouth, “Has there been any news?” He asked, taking another swig from the flask and finishing what little remained. 

Emrys hesitated, staring at him, “Nothing new, Amos sent ravens to Grover Tully and your father.” He said, shifting to pull his knees up to his chest and resting his elbows over them. “They know about Rodrik. They know of your hand in it. Our plan wasn’t successful.” He quietly added. 

Benjicot raised his eyebrows, sniffling a bitter laugh, “As I suspected.” He said, returning the lid to the flask and tossing it back to his cousin who caught it and swiftly attached it to his belt. 

“It was a good idea.” 

“And you thought you would outsmart Samwell Blackwood, with your boyish plans, aye?” He asked, pausing his eating to look at him. “You thought he wouldn’t see through your stupid little—“ Benjicot snapped. 

“Oi, I get you're angry, but don’t take it out on me.” Emrys bit back. 

He settled, falling silent briefly, “Sorry.” 

They fell into silence again, Benjicot’s stomach-churning once again at the thought of his father’s reaction when he received the raven. He resorted to picking at the duck, his eyes down, “He’s furious, right?” 

Emrys snorted, but the sound did not possess any trace of humour, “He was ready to burn down everything in sight in search of you, he almost came out here and dragged you back himself.” 

He looked up, “Why didn’t he?” 

His cousin shifted uncomfortably, shrugging his shoulders.

“Kermit insisted he be the one to bring you back and pleaded on your behalf. He knows you will return eventually,” He explained. “Your father has given him until the end of the day to bring you back.” The younger man admitted. 

“Did he now?” He rhetorically questioned. 

Emrys let out a hum, quiet as he looked down at his shoes, “Elmo has suggested they break off the terms of your engagement, too.” 

Benjicot stilled, looking at him for a moment before he set down the rest of the duck back into the cloth, wiping his hands off on his pants. His mouth opened, hardly able to hear over the sound of blood thundering in his ears as he spoke, “Why?” He asked, mouth dry. If his father wasn’t already furious over the unnecessary bloodshed, this would have tipped him over the edge, blinded by rage — Benjicot could picture his room a mess, tearing through it and shouting as he threw whatever his hands could find. 

Emrys glanced out through the entrance into the tent, partially ajar as a breeze blew through the fields, “He doesn’t trust you.” He admitted, looking at him. “He feels you have broken your promise to keep Serra safe from harm, and rather, have placed her directly in its path. It has brought into question your loyalties.” 

Benjicot averted his gaze, looking at the roof of his tent as his breathing quickened. He swallowed, trying to organise his thoughts, “I did not…” He stuttered, looking down again. He was reminded of the pin that hid in a pile of his belongings in the corner, suddenly regretting not leaving it in the fields with Rodrik where it should have been. His nausea had returned, fighting down the urge to retch as he let out a choked sound, “I did not mean for it to happen this way. I did not mean to kill him, you believe me, right?” He asked, his words coming quick with panic as he looked at him again. 

Emrys' shoulders dropped, his expression softening, “I know.” 

“Then you know I would never do anything to jeopardise our alliance with the Tullys and sabotage our agreement.” He stated.

Emrys hesitated, looking down at his hands, “Emrys, please…” Benjicot begged, his cousin still avoiding his eyes. “I…I lost my temper, I did not want any of this. I have made a lot of mistakes in my life, both in my name and in our houses, but I never meant for things to turn out like this. You have to believe me.” He pleaded, breathless. 

“Did you do it?” He asked suddenly. 

Benjicot looked at him, confused by his words. Of course, Emrys knew that he had been responsible for Rodrik’s death — he had been there to witness it and had helped move the body from their land, but the edge in his voice suggested more, “His sister— did you bed his sister?” He asked, tone harsher as though he was losing his patience. 

He stammered, unsure how to answer, his thoughts going a thousand miles an hour. He had forgotten that he had been present for that too, bearing witness not just to his death, but the accusation as well, “Did you father a bastard with a Bracken?” He asked finally. It seemed to click into place why the accusation had even come up, or how Rodrik had come to know of their affair and his comment, sitting back on his knees in defeat. He felt his face drain of colour, his mouth snapping shut and swallowing, “Those mongrels have done nothing but steal from us and treat us like shit on their boots. They have killed our men for hundreds of years, and you would father a bastard with one?” 

“I did not mean to.” He quietly answered, his voice cracking. “I cared for her at one time. It’s a mistake that I am forced to live with every day, one that I wish I could undo but I…I cannot deny that it is a possibility.” 

“You cared for her?” He asked with a bitter laugh. 

His face dropped, pausing before he replied, “Yes.” 

Emrys, in his inexperience with love, could not quite make sense of the coupling but the look on Benjicot’s face caused him to hesitate. He looked at him, the frown on his face frozen there as he processed the confession, clenching his jaw and letting out a breath, “And what of Serra?” 

Benjicot hesitated, “It is complicated…this was before her.” 

“Do you care for her?” He asked, correcting himself, his voice stern. “Is she where your loyalties lie now?” 

He hesitated again, pondering the question, “Yes.” He breathed out. 

He could see his cousin’s expression soften, averting his eyes as he looked down briefly and sighed. Emrys moved, rolling forward and pushing to stand up in front of him, Benjicot’s eyes following his movements; hanging in a place of anxiety and worry that he had not said or done enough. Emrys bent to collect his bag, replacing it around his shoulders and beginning to exit the tent just as he quickly stumbled after him, clamouring to his knees and rushing out behind him, “Emrys, wait.” 

The blonde paused, stopping abruptly in front of him and looking up towards the sky with a squint, “Do you forgive me?” He asked. 

His cousin paused, shoulders dropping with another sigh, “Yes.” He said after a moment, “And I think the gods will too, in time. You’re a good man, Benjicot, I have never doubted that. I just wish…” He said, turning to him. 

“I wish you would forgive yourself, too.” He said, reaching out to clasp his shoulder, “Come back. Let us face it together. We will figure it out.” 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Serra had always been taught as a girl to not concern herself with a man’s business—  that men had their separate duties to that of a woman. Men prioritised the political matters of the house and women did the rest—  bearing children, taking care of the house, supporting their husbands, and being loyal, dutiful wives and mothers, just as her mother had been. But it did not contain the curiosity that piqued in her every so often whenever she saw her father and brothers disappear to their meetings, followed by councilmen who were loyal to them only and hanging on to their every word like it was gospel. To be heard and valued, Serra had always wondered what that felt like to possess such power. 

It didn’t stop her from listening from outside the hall whenever they gathered for the day, eavesdropping in the hallways, and listening carefully to the gossip of the staff of the house —  in her ten-and-eight years, she found that listening to the staff served useful and provided her with intel on topics her father would otherwise dismiss her of whenever she tried to ask at dinner. 

Today had been no different, as she sat on the bottom step, her hands in her lap and picking at her nails as she listened to the intense arguing happening from within the great hall, where she had watched her family disappear early that morning. Despite his gentle protests, Alistair stood opposite of her, perched in a corner as she listened. 

“Amos’ letter claims that your son was at the borders that night,” Elmo’s voice echoed from within the room. “He claims that his men hold Benjicot responsible for Rodrik’s death—  I had only assumed with your restraint, Benjicot might take after you in such ways, but I am starting to question whether you have any control over your son.”

“Benjicot is an impulsive boy,” Samwell replied, his irritation evident in his voice. “You have known this since he was young.” 

“And yet I expected with your guidance, he would outgrow it. I was wrong, it appears.” 

“I cannot be held responsible for every stupid thing he does,” Samwell argued. 

“This is not a stupid thing, Samwell -- do you know how poorly this reflects on our house? I have never questioned your house’s loyalty, but I feel the need to begin.”

Her father sounded angry and disappointed -- from her place on the stairs, she could picture the furrow of his brow, angry as he leaned over the table, “Not only does your son insult our house by slaughtering Amos’ nephew, but to further add insult to the wound, he has also fathered a bastard according to Amos Bracken's letter!” 

“My son would do no such thing.” Samwell barked, interrupting any further accusations. “My son may be impulsive and stupid, but to accuse him of fathering a child with a Bracken-- ” 

“Amos says otherwise.” 

The revelation caused Serra to snap her head upright, wide-eyed, and lean towards the door as she could faintly make out the sound of hushed mutters, angry and going back and forth. Her eyes darted to Alistair who purposely avoided her eyes, his gaze fixed on the wall and unwavering as she slowly stood, inching towards the door and crouching to press her ear to it, “I don’t ask for much, other than you declare your loyalty to House Tully-- have I not been generous these past months?” 

There is a mutter, “You have.”

“And have I not only also asked that Benjicot care for and protect my only daughter?” 

“Yes, my lord.”

It was an odd sound coming from Lord Blackwood, to be small and quiet to a voice of authority that was not his own; but it was not often that her father used that voice. She struggled to envision what it looked like to sit in and witness him, submissive to her father as he was stern and flipping the roles.  

“You know, Lord Grover did not want this betrothal. He, even from his deathbed, fights and pleads that I do not go forward with it-- he cautioned me against it actually,” Her father ranted, exasperated. “But I pushed back. I defended you, I defended your son. I fought for him to see reason, that you have one of the largest armies within the Riverlands… that you are a fierce warrior and leader with experience and insight that could be beneficial to House Tully. All that despite your history of impulsivity and your temper-- which I see, Benjicot has taken after instead.” Elmo spat. 

“My Lord…” 

“I am starting to realise he may have been right! As senile as he might be,” Elmo spluttered a bitter laugh. 

“We can still fix this.” 

It was then, amidst the hushed mutters, that Serra could make out the soft voice of a woman -- her words were quiet, not quite reaching her ears as she shifted her stance. 

“And how do you plan to do that? You cannot bring his nephew back from the dead, you cannot rid the child from his niece’s womb! I should have accepted the offer for Serra to wed Aeron Bracken, you know that?” Elmo shouted, a clatter of silverware echoing from the room. The room fell back into silence, as though the room had frozen in time, only broken by her father’s annoyed sigh as footsteps echoed, coming towards the door. Serra launched up to her feet and turned, ready to rush up the stairs and out of sight as she assumed her father had called an early end to the meeting and would come out any moment however she hardly made it three steps before the doors opened as she expected, her hand reaching out for the wall as she nearly tripped over the hem of her dress. 

“Serra Tully.” The voice was surprisingly smooth and feminine, causing her to whip around towards the voice. 

Her eyes found a thin woman who resembled the men of her house — striking in appearance, with dark hair and eyes that bore into her with such intensity, that it pinned her to her very spot. Her gaze absentmindedly scanned her frame, finding riding gear in place of the expected gowns of red and black; tall and slender, as she stood halfway in the doorway and watched her. Serra’s eyes darted back to her face, mouth once ajar now clenching shut. She could have recognised her anywhere, recalling the few memories she had of her in their youth, being that she was so close in age to them; she always seemed to be in the yard, engulfed in her training, but Serra had encountered her a handful of times — her voice, though lower and softer than it had been as children, still held its familiar edge that brought back memories of warning her nephew whenever he stepped out of line. She seemed to be the only force that could keep him grounded, regardless of how rowdy and wild he could become. 

“Lady Alysanne.” 

Her eyes cast to her left in the direction of the room of men that remained uncharacteristically quiet, before stepping further into the hallway and in the direction of the stairs -- Serra could faintly see the hint of a smile on her face, “You have grown much since I last saw you.” 

“It has been many years.” Serra politely replied, her voice quiet as though she was worried her father would overhear her. She had already overstepped and been caught eavesdropping, she did not need to make things worse. 

“Indeed it has,” Alysanne nodded, pausing. “Come, join us.” 

Confusion arose in Serra at her invitation, her head tilting as she opened her mouth to protest, “Oh- I…I don’t know anything about the matters of council.” 

Alysanne’s smile widened, “Now seems as good a time to learn then. You have thoughts and opinions, don’t you?” She asked. 

“Of course, but none that possess any value at a table of men,” Serra replied. 

“That is plenty enough. It is not a suggestion, Serra.” Alysanne quickly added, ceasing any further protests she could muster. She extended an expectant hand to her, the young girl’s gaze dropping to it. Serra was slow in descending the stairs, back towards the doors, and meeting the Blackwood at the bottom of the steps at which point she felt a hand come between her shoulders to guide her inside.

The room turned to watch as they entered, side by side, all eyes focused on her. The urge arose to turn and flee, uncomfortable under the eyes of the several men who sat around the table; her father stood at the head of it, with his face screwed up into a look of disapproval but she was forced forward by Alysanne—  she wasn’t convinced that if she did try, she would allow her to get far, and would just drag her right back. Her hand led her towards a seat across from Samwell, two open chairs awaiting them, timidly finding herself to one. Alysanne soon sat beside her, a hand coming up to give her elbow a reassuring squeeze. 

Her father finally sat down, his eyes never leaving her as a few moments passed; the tension in the room was palpable enough to slice through as she slowly lifted her gaze to scan the room. She soon met the familiar eyes of Oscar, who sat only a few seats down from her, his gaze possessing an evident uncertainty. 

“Oh, this is just absurd!” A councilman, Robard Mooton, cried. “She is just a girl, what does she know that could serve this council? Let us not waste any more time and…”

“She knows more than she lets on.” Alysanne interrupted, her tone calm. “Doesn’t she?” She pointedly questioned. 

Serra felt her eyes on her, hers lowering to the table. 

“What do you know of recent events, Serra?” Her father asked, sighing and dropping a hand from his mouth onto the table. She turned to look at him, her hands balling in her lap as he nodded encouragingly. 

She hesitated, “I know of Benjicot’s involvement in the death of Rodrik Bracken.” She replied, her voice small amidst the room. “Amos Bracken has made several accusations against House Blackwood and its heir.” 

“She listened from outside the door, how does this help?” Robard continued, losing patience. 

“Criston Cole has allegedly called for men to march west.” She admitted. 

Her father inhaled, leaning back in his chair, “And you understand the position this puts us in.” 

She slowly nodded, watching him carefully for any sign that she was wrong and overstepped, “You also know your grandfather means to break off your engagement to Lord Benjicot Blackwood for his hand in his death, too.” Aldric Vance spoke up, her eyes darting to find him -- an older man her father’s age, his eyes kind as he stared at her; awaiting a response. Serra nodded again. 

“We would like your insight on the matters,” Her father said, leaning forward against the table and resting his elbows atop the wood, holding a hand out to her. Serra tensed, blinking a couple of times before she reluctantly offered him a hand that he took, his eyes searching her face.

“Why?” She asked, her voice small. 

“Because it is your betrothal in question, my dove.” He softly replied. “I will not force your hand if it is not what you desire, I only mean to protect you from further ruin.” 

Serra recognised the hypocrisy of the situation, considering that it had been him who had pressured her into this position, to begin with. She lowered her eyes again, staring at their hands, quiet as she pondered his offer to end things, “Should you say the word, we can return to Riverrun in the morrow.” He quietly stated. 

She sucked in a breath, unsure how to answer. The silence stretched on as she weighed the option —  she admittedly missed the comfort of her childhood rooms, Riverrun, and its familiar sounds and sights. 

“She’s just a nosy girl,” Robard snapped. “I told you she was of no use to this table. Let us just end this engagement and be done with this grotesque misalliance-- we will extend an offer of peace to Amos Bracken, and if he is merciful enough, he will reconsider a marriage between his nephew and Serra.” He rambled. 

“Give the girl a moment.” Alysanne snapped, her gaze fixated on the man who stood. “You are too invested in ending this engagement, I feel it necessary to remind you, that you are not the one who will be expected to bed him.” She spat, her eyes narrowing. 

Serra looked between the two with wide eyes, “Though I am beginning to wonder if that is your preference for bedding young boys,” Alysanne continued, taunting the man who now seethed from his place down the table. “I suppose I am not one to judge, however, considering your earlier accusations, Lord Robard.” 

“You wretched cunt!” He finally exploded, rushing to lunge across the table towards Alysanne, a mild level of pandemonium ensuing as men clattered to grab the Lord Mooton, pulling him back. Serra’s attention was drawn to a quiet snort across the table, finding Samwell with his head down and a small smile on his face, his gaze fixed down on his lap as he appeared to fidget with something there. His gaze lifted, looking around the table and watching as Lord Robard was yanked back towards his seat, briefly finding Serra and his younger sister who sat beside her. 

“That is enough!” Elmo bellowed, his voice loud and thundering, “I demand a level of decorum be maintained while we try to figure out what is to happen! Lady Alysanne, Lord Robard, return to your seats!” 

The room quieted, Serra’s eyes watching as the council slowly found themselves back to their spots around the table, a hum of mutters and grumbles filling the room, “Samwell, I would ask that you remind your bitch sister that she is a guest here at this council.” Lord Robard spat. 

“Lord Robard, enough!” Elmo snapped, releasing Serra’s hand. “I will have no more insults at this table today.” 

Alysanne dropped back into her seat, letting out a scoff as she leaned back in her chair. Serra watched the look exchanged between the two Blackwood siblings, Samwell’s expression a look of pride and amusement as he looked back down quickly, a lopsided grin on Alysanne’s face as she rolled her eyes. 

Her father allowed for a moment of silence as the rest of the table settled back into their seats, whatever conversation that lingered soon ceasing, even Lord Robard finally quieting; despite the scowl on his face, his gaze still watching the raven-haired woman to her left. Elmo finally looked back to Serra, sighing, “Serra. Any thoughts?”

She hesitated, heart racing as she was yet again placed on the spot, “I…” She stuttered, swallowing. She scanned the table again, briefly meeting Samwell’s gaze as he continued his fidgeting -- she could now see what had previously held his attention underneath the table; his hands absentmindedly twirling a dagger as he watched her, its blade catching a glimmer of light as it moved between his right and left. She looked at her father, “House Tully has always been a house of their word…and I suppose Lord Benjicot has never given us any other reason to doubt his loyalties, otherwise. I do not see any reason to not see our agreement through.” She quietly explained, trying to feign some level of confidence as she sat up straight, squaring her shoulders. 

Her father paused, mouth opening as if he wanted to say something. Instead, he nodded, “It is settled then,” He muttered. “House Blackwood and Benjicot will be expected to fix this mess. We will see to it our end of the prior agreement—  that will be all for this afternoon.” He sighed, dismissively waving a hand. 

Despite his dismissal, the table did not yet move. Instead, they stared at him for a moment longer, sharing looks before they slowly began to stand; Serra finding a hand wrapping again around her elbow and gently squeezing. Her eyes found Alysanne looking at her, who offered her a small smile that she reciprocated with a forced, tight smile that dropped quickly, eager to get out of there as she pushed up from her chair. She moved with her head down as she gathered her skirts in her hands with a tight grip and shoved by the men who were slow to leave, a hushed whisper over the room. 

As she reemerged into the hallway, she was met by Alistair who waited for her; his head bowing as she approached. He was close on her heels as she hurried towards the stairs, wanting to put as much space between herself and the great hall as she could, and not look back -- she didn’t feel confident in her choice, but there would be no turning back now. She would be married in two days to Benjicot Blackwood. 

She wasn’t sure if she was nauseous with regret, but her hands felt clammy as they wiped against her bodice, her eyes focused straight ahead as she walked. She had barely made it two steps before she tripped over one of the stairs, catching herself with her hands against another step, her ribs colliding with the marble stairs as she tumbled forward and felt the air knocked from her lungs as she clung to the step; cold against her palms that screamed in agony as the dirt and stone embed itself into her hands, her face hot and red as she choked for air, “My Lady.” Alistair gasped, rushing forward. 

She felt his hands on her shoulders, hearing a rush of footsteps as Oscar appeared at her side, “Serra?” 

She shook her head, waving their hands away as Alistair withdrew his hands quickly; Oscar resting one against her spine, “I’m fine-- I am okay.” She breathed out, still trying to catch her breath as she awkwardly hurried back onto her feet. Her brother’s hands remained close, despite her words, his eyebrows furrowed. 

“Should I call for the maester?” Alistair asked.

Oscar held her elbow as she wiped her hands off on her dress, scraped and red, but otherwise unharmed; her hair falling into her face as she smoothed out her clothing. She quickly shook her head, “Are you all right?” Oscar asked. 

“I am fine, I just…” She breathed. “It’s just been a long day, I am tired. It was a mistake.” She insisted. 

“Do you want us to get Maester Edric?” He asked. 

“No, I am fine. I just need rest.” Serra insisted. “Do not bother him, it was just a slip.” 

Oscar’s eyebrow rose, “Are you sure?” 

“I just want to go back to my room,” She pleaded. Her brother hesitantly nodded, waving Alistair back down as he laced her arm through his, beginning to lead her up the stairs; relief washing over her as she used her free hand to lift and brush back her hair when a shout echoed from the yard. 

“Fight back, you fucking coward!” Kermit screamed. 

Her wide-eyed gaze looked at her younger brother, his arm withdrawing from hers as he turned to look towards the front doors that sat open; the sound of shouting continued from the yard, “Alistair, take Serra to her rooms.” 

“What is that?” She asked. 

“Go to your room,” Her brother instructed. 

“No, wait—  let me come,” She begged, watching as he turned and bolted from the stairs. The men who had gathered in the foyer all appeared to hear the commotion too, turning to crane their heads towards the noise as they piled towards the yard, her father and Samwell shoving through them to rush outside along with Oscar. Her head was spinning, but she hurried down the stairs and past the men, using her elbows to shove through the mass; her cheeks burning as she felt Alistair reach for her to pull her away. 

“My lady!” 

She ran into her father’s back as he held out an arm to catch her, preventing her from going too far as she reached the front steps; her eyes over his shoulder, his hand grabbing her wrist and pinning her against his side. She had to lean around him, half stepping to the side and craning her head to watch as Kermit stood over Benjicot; several other men surrounding them on their horses and watching as Kermit struck the young Lord, whilst Benjicot knelt before him and visibly defeated as he took the hit. His head snapped to the side with such force it caused her to cringe, hair falling into his face and covering his eyes as he spit into the grass -- his nose was already pouring blood, staining the front of his shirt as her eldest brother circled him. 

“I said fight me, dammit!” 

Kermit’s foot rose, slamming into his shoulders from behind and knocking him forward into the grass. She let out a gasp, watching as Benjicot painfully writhed against the ground, struggling to push up onto his knees -- her brother panted, face screwed up in a rage, “Stop him!” Serra quietly cried out, desperately looking up at her father. He avoided her eyes, mouth ajar. Kermit stomped on Benjicot’s wrist, circling him again to stand before him.

“Get the fuck up!” Kermit screamed, bent over as he yelled. 

“He’s going to kill him.” Serra pleaded, gripping her father’s shoulder as she tried to shove past him, being pulled back by his arm again. 

“Wait.” Elmo insisted, his eyes still focused on the two boys. 

Benjicot’s head hung low as he brought a hand over his chest, gasping for air as he avoided lifting his eyes as he let out a weak, “No.”

She could see Kermit’s eyes widen, staring at him, dumbfounded, “You dishonour my sister, my house-- and now you won’t even fight me?” He asked.

“I will not fight ... my friend,” He panted, looking up at him. “I am innocent, I have done nothing to dishonour your house.” 

Her brother froze, shoulders tensing. His hand suddenly shot towards his hip, hand wrapping around the hilt of his sword and tearing it from its sheath to bring its sharp tip to his throat, forcing his chin upwards, “Liar!” 

“Kermit, that is enough!” Elmo finally ordered, releasing Serra and stepping down the stairs. 

Her brother stopped, his lunge cut short as he stared at Benjicot, holding each other’s gaze. Slowly, his eyes drifted towards the crowd that watched, his hand clenching so tight around the sword, his knuckles turned white as his hand shook, “Sheath your sword.” Their father instructed. 

Kermit hesitated, but did not yet lower his weapon, "Put it away." Elmo repeated, firmer this time. His mouth twitched, looking back and forth between his father and the Blackwood in front of him. The blade dropped quickly, Benjicot flinching as the tip nicked him as it dropped, his shoulders slumping whilst Kermit returned the sword to his sheath. There was a hushed series of whispers from the council, "Where have you been, boy?"

Benjicot collected himself before responding, his eyes moving with Kermit as he stormed away from him and towards his father, “The woods, my lord.” He admitted. 

“For the past two days?” Elmo asked.

Serra waited, her eyes on Kermit as he went to stand in front of her before she rushed forward, her feet dragging her toward Benjicot. She could feel the eyes on her back as she found herself at his side, kneeling beside him and immediately beginning to assess the small cut at his throat; the rich shade of blood oozing from the edges. Her head ducked, taking his chin into her hand, “Yes.” Benjicot breathlessly answered. 

“What has brought you back?” Her father asked. 

She glanced over her shoulder, meeting Kermit’s discontent stare as his hand remained at the sword on his hip. She looked back at Benjicot, finding his eyes as she quickly reached for the scarf that she had given him two days prior, tucked in his belt and hurrying to bring it to his throat against the wound.

“I have come to declare my innocence and clear my name.” He replied, his eyes tearing away from her. 

Elmo paused, “Speak, boy.” 

Benjicot pushed her hand away from his neck, visibly wincing as he shifted his weight to his left knee, "My lords, before you, I swear on the Old Gods and the New that I am innocent of these vile accusations that bind my name to Myrna Bracken. By the gods above and the earth below, I have not dishonoured my betrothed, Lady Serra, nor sullied my family’s honour with such treachery."

He paused, his breath laboured but his resolve unbroken. "Rodrik Bracken met his end by my hand, but it was no premeditated act of malice. It was in defence of the honour of House Blackwood and House Tully when he hurled false accusations and sought to drag Serra and I’s union. I struck him down in the heat of the moment, driven not by hatred, but by the duty to protect what is sacred—our families, our honour."

Benjicot's voice grew firmer as he continued, "But if there is doubt in your hearts, if my words are not enough, then let me prove my innocence by the blade. I stand here ready to offer my life, to face trial by combat, and to fight for the truth that lies within my soul. Should I fall, let it be known that I did so with loyalty to Serra and to House Tully, willing to sacrifice all to uphold the bonds that unite us."

His gaze swept over the assembly, his tone resolute. "I stand before you, not as a man seeking mercy, but as one committed to the truth. I will go to battle, and if need be, I will lay down my life to prove that my honour, my loyalty, and my dedication for Serra remain untainted and true."

Serra’s gaze had been fixed on him the entire time he spoke, hanging onto his every word; her heart pounding beneath her ribs and holding her breath. Once he was done speaking, her eyes shifted to look towards her father who watched him with narrowed eyes, his jaw clenching and scanning the boy in front of him from head to toe; weighing his words. 

“That will not be necessary for now,” Elmo finally replied after what felt like hours. It did not fall on deaf ears as Kermit scoffed and shoved his way back inside, finding Lord Robard scowling too at her father as he watched him from the corner of his eye, “Heed my warning, though, should you misstep again; I will have your head.” 

Benjicot nodded, a meek gesture as he slumped forward, visibly relieved as he fell into Serra’s side. Her hand came up to his chest, buried among the fabric of his clothing and becoming sticky with blood that dampened his shirts, holding him up as he let out a breath. She did not want to rush him to his feet as he wiped his nose which continued to bleed. 

Her father found her eyes, but he quickly averted them and turned away from her to head back inside. With the last of the men trickling in behind him, Serra sought Alistair, finding him by the doorway and already coming towards her, “Alistair, please help me-- help me bring him inside.” She pleaded as her arm slid under his and wrapped around his ribs. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“You do not have to mother me, Serra.” He sighed, wincing as she turned him by the cheek to dab a cloth against his cheekbone; swollen with a bruise that was already beginning to form. 

Her eyes remained on his face, focused and frowning as she uttered a soft ‘sh’. His nose had ceased bleeding finally after pinching it by the bridge, tender under her touch when they had returned to her room; ushering Alistair to the door. She knew it was risky to bring him to her room, but she felt there were no other options right now -- the councilmen still lingered, and her family hovered, eager to tear her away from him. She needed space to work away from prying eyes, refusing any further help she deemed unnecessary. 

She stood between his knees, with Benjicot planted on the edge of her bed and a cloth between his hands as his cloak had been tossed behind him. His eyes screwed shut, letting out a frustrated sigh as she wiped the blood from his face, a bowl of water nearby on a stool that she had pulled to her feet from in front of the fireplace that was lit. He had fared better than she worried besides a small cut to his face from where Kermit’s ring had made contact, bruised; a bloody nose, and the nick under his chin that she had since cleaned up to inspect. It, too, had already begun to clot and slow. However, she couldn’t help but wonder what lay underneath his clothing -- an idea that while not intended as sexual, still felt shameful and dirty to even cross her mind. She could only imagine the boot prints that littered his skin from where her brother kicked him similar to the one against his sword hand, not brave enough to even consider asking to check; but she knew he was tender and bruised beneath his clothing, having listened to him wince and cry out when she and Alistair dragged him up the stairs and down the halls to her room. 

“Stay still,” She quietly ordered, bringing the edge of the cloth to the angry red imprint just shy of his eye. 

Benjicot let out a hiss, flinching as his hand shot up to catch her by the wrist, “It’s fine.” He insisted. 

She huffed, dropping her hand to her side. Her hand blindly extended to dip into the bowl, ringing and squeezing out any excess water, “It’s not fine.” She replied, her eyes scanning his face. “You could have at least fought back. If you had just stayed and not gone to the borders, none of this would have happened. I told you no good would come of this.” 

“I couldn’t,” He said, looking up at her. “You know I couldn’t.” 

“And you think you were better off letting my brother nearly beat you to death? Going to the borders and making a mess of things? Are things not worse than they were?” She asked, scoffing. 

“He wouldn’t have killed me,” Benjicot replied, withdrawing when she attempted to bring the cloth back to his face -- she sighed and dropped her hand, shooting him a warning look. “He only did what I deserved. I had to go, you know that.” He said. 

He barely had time to react as her hand came up behind him, grabbing him by the nape and forcing his head forward, the cloth coming up to his nose to dab at some dried blood at the edge of his nostril, “You think you deserve death?” She asked, her voice hardly above a mutter. 

“Maybe,” He admitted. 

“I doubt that.” 

“You don’t know what I did.” 

She hesitated, her eyes briefly meeting his, “I know enough.” She said, resuming her actions. They were both quiet for a moment, her touch delicate as she gently scrubbed him clean, “What did he even do to provoke such violence?” She finally asked. 

The thought of violence always felt unnecessary to her -- it never seemed warranted, unless there was some threat that was life or death. It had been a thought that lingered in the back of her head since the news had reached Raventree, but she never quite dared to ask. But something about their isolated presence, away from the noise of councilmen and the watchful eye of her father, left her with just enough to finally ask now that they were alone.

“You know enough,” He replied, throwing her words back in her face. She pressed against his nose, deliberate and annoyed, earning a hiss. “Don’t be like that.” He warned, attempting to withdraw from her again. 

“I am just trying to understand you, Benjicot.” She shot back, ceasing her actions. “Did it have anything to do with his sister?” 

He looked up at her, hesitating, “He said something about how you were to be married to Aeron and some other stupid shit.” He said, dismissing the topic. Serra was not oblivious to how he avoided the question. 

“What of it?” She asked. 

“What?” 

“Aeron and I.” She calmly asked, gesturing him forward again. He was reluctant, relenting with a sigh and letting her turn his face from one side to the next, moving his hair out of the way to scan for any other marks, “What of it?”

“I don’t know.” He answered. “Is it true?” 

“Yes.” 

He looked at her, his right eye twitching as he appeared visibly confused by her honesty, “It was long before the prospect of you and me when I was ten-and-five.” She explained, voice softening. “My father only meant to get me away from Riverrun after my mother had passed, he wanted to protect me from his grief. I spent weeks begging him not to, and to let me stay.” 

“And he changed his mind?” 

She smiled, a small half-smile that did not quite reach her eyes as she looked down at him, “No. Kermit convinced him to reconsider. I was not ready to leave Riverrun and he knew that better than anyone.” 

Her hand dropped from his face, the hand at his nape finding rest on his shoulder, “Did you ever wish things turned out differently and that you had married him?” He asked. 

Her smile faltered, “Yes, at one point.” She admitted, causing his eyebrows to shoot up. Her shoulders shook with a laugh as her smile returned, “You have not exactly been the…easiest man to warm up to.” 

His mouth opened, tempted to challenge her but he knew she was right -- there was no denying that he had been difficult and terrible since she had arrived. How she overlooked it baffled him. He let out a short laugh, a choked sound as he rolled his eyes, “And now? Do you think you would have been happier with him?” He asked after a moment. 

“Mm,” She hummed. “I’m not sure. If it had been by my choice, I would have been happy living in a small, modest home in the woods, away from the chaos of politics and men.” She said, her voice lilting with humour. 

She brought her hand back up, touching the cloth to his eye one last time. He grabbed her wrist again, stopping her, “I’m serious.” He said, searching her eyes.

She blinked, gaze averting towards the writing table that had been shoved against the wall. She seemed to think about it, narrowing her eyes for half a second before her eyes returned to him, “I would not change anything.” Serra softly answered. “I think I have come to accept it and be happy with things as they are-- good and bad, I am content.” 

Benjicot felt a sense of relief at her words, nodding slowly. 

 She set down the cloth back into its bowl of water, the liquid now pink with blood, as she eyed his face; observing the bruises and wounds of her brother. She had yet to step back from her place between his legs, but there seemed to be an invisible string that held her there, tethered to him and lifting a hand to touch just below the wound beneath his eye with a light thumb that still elicited a wince of pain as his eyebrows furrowed whilst his eyes shut briefly. He sucked in a breath through his nose, his face turning away from her, "Sorry." She softly said, withdrawing her hand quickly.

“No, it’s okay,” he said, voice quiet amidst the room. His eyes slowly opened, squinting as he looked up at her, finding her gaze still on his face, “thank you.” 

“For?” She replied. 

“For being so kind to me. I know I don’t deserve it.” He admitted, a hand coming up to rest on her hip. Her gaze lowered towards the small bit of space between them. 

“I think you’ve been handed enough cruelty in your life, Benjicot.” She softly said, her left hand rising boldly to touch his forehead, brushing back the overgrown hair that hung there in his face as she found his eyes again. Her hand dropped, fingers tracing along the shape of his face and outlining his cheekbone; Benjicot’s gaze remained on her. A flush of colour spread across his cheeks, mouth parting as though he wanted to speak, but rendered silent as his eyes closed, inhaling deeply and embracing the warmth of her touch. There were very few things in the realm that could silence him, but something about the gentleness of her hand accomplished it as he leaned into it, face turning towards her palm and letting out a sigh. Her hand fully cupped his cheek, her other hand lifting to mirror it and holding his face between them as her thumbs skimmed over the skin beneath them. 

Up close, she finally had an opportunity to observe him for all that he was — though it had only been two days since she had seen him, she felt he was changed; both in the way he carried himself and his appearance. The boyish, clean-shaven appearance having been abandoned in the woods, and returning a man-grown, the facial hair that peppered his chin and spread across his upper lip alluded to maturity. Her right thumb brushed his cheek, prickled by stubble as the pad of the digit glided across the skin. Up close, she admired the imperfections that made Benjicot the man he was. From the scar that stretched from his upper lip to nose, his crooked nose — and the eyes, striking and green in the light as they opened to look up at her, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep breath. 

He stood suddenly, towering over her and nearly driving her back into the stool that held the bowl of bloodied water, his hands lifting to hold her waist — his hold was loose, and bordering cautious as though he was trying to be as delicate with her as possible. His gaze never left her face as he moved, her left hand moving to absentmindedly rest against his bicep as she stared up at him, her eyebrows furrowing and using her other hand to plant against his shoulder. She watched in silence as his gaze scanned her face, slow and taking in every feature with such intensity, that it felt almost too intimate a moment for an unwed couple to share — the whole situation could appear questionable should anyone have barged in at that moment, the pair of them clinging to one another, alone and heavy breathing. One hand rose to cup her face, drawing her closer to him until his breath fanned hot across her lips, her ribs pressed against his as she sucked in a deep breath. 

His mouth pressed to hers with such force it caused her to stumble back a step, only steadied by his hands as his kiss practically sucked the air from her lungs, the hand at his shoulder finding the nape of his neck. Serra was half dragged onto the balls of her feet, falling into him as her fingers dug themselves into the root of his hair, desperate to ground herself somehow as she clutched onto him as if her life depended on it — the actions earned a carnal moan that reverberated from deep within his chest, his hands creeping up to the small of her back. She felt the way he pulled her into him, like he was trying to embed her in his skin, desperate for closeness whilst she melted in his hands as his mouth found her throat. The foreign sensation set her skin ablaze, her mouth falling agape as his lips trailed down her throat and claimed her like he had any right, his hands tugging at her skirts and manhandling her. She let out a soft sigh as the cool air that permeated her room tickled the back of her thighs, her dress being tugged upwards when Benjicot stepped forward with his knee pressing between her legs, his fingers rough against the soft skin of her thighs, calloused and desperate. 

A knock echoed through the room, causing the two of them to jump, Serra breaking away from him first. She shoved his hands off her thighs, pushing her skirt back down and smoothing over the fabric as Alistair spoke up, “My lady?” He called from outside the door. 

There was a pause as she stared at Benjicot, wide-eyed and red-faced, with heavy breathing and flushed cheeks as she stumbled back and away from him. Benjicot was visibly dishevelled as he withdrew, leaning into her bed and mouth agape, sucking in air as he caught his breath, “Yes, Alistair?” Serra asked, breathless as she smoothed out her clothing and reached for the cloth that had been abandoned in the bowl. 

The door slowly opened, revealing the guard who had spent the past several days at her heel, his eyes immediately finding her and hesitating — he glanced at Benjicot who avoided his eyes by looking down at the floor, “I…have given you as much time as I can spare.” Ser Alistair said, looking back at her. “It is getting late. Lord Blackwood should be getting back to his chambers before anyone begins to question his absence.” He quietly explained, his gaze still fixed on the young Lord, who finally dared to look up; his mouth twitching, darting to glance up at Serra who let out a breath. 

She nodded, “Of course.” 

Benjicot stood, turning to collect his cloak that sat on her bed and taking it with him, “We were all done here, anyways,” He said, brushing past her and not giving her another glance as he made his way towards the door. “Thank you, Alistair.” He quietly said as he passed him and exited the room. The guard nodded, his eyes following him out the door as Serra dropped the rag back into the bowl of water and wiped her hands off on her dress. 

Alistair blinked a couple of times, unmoving but silent as she gathered the bowl and took a deep breath, sighing aloud as she approached him, “Could you discard this for me? I must be getting ready for bed.” She said, struggling to find his eyes. 

He took the bowl from her, his face creasing with a purse of his mouth and furrowing his brows, “My lady, if I may…speak plainly.” He quietly spoke. 

She paused, eyeing his face, “Yes, of course.” 

He avoided her eyes for a moment, clearing his throat, “I would advise you to be careful with…the time you spend alone with Lord Blackwood.” He slowly said. Serra felt the colour drain from her face as she frowned, “It could appear improper, is what I mean to say— should anyone question it.”

He knew.  Serra felt stupid enough to think he wouldn’t know or figure it out somehow. 

“Are you going to mention tonight to anyone?” She asked, her voice small with worry.

Alistair eyed her, his eyes finding hers. His features softened, “No. But it cannot happen again, I cannot guarantee I can protect you a second time should your father or brothers ask.”

Serra finally let out a sigh of relief, withdrawing and wiping her hands against her skirt again, though she radiated anxiety as she nodded, “Thank you.” 

Alistair’s head bowed, “Of course, my lady.” 

She watched as he turned and left, leaving her alone finally in her room and overcome with worry. Despite his words, she still felt a sense of unease as the door closed and turned to retreat towards her bed. She turned slowly, leaning back to sit down and flop into the bed, her arms at her side — though the action was disturbed by something pressing into her leg. She reached down, her hand blindly searching the blankets for a moment before her fingers met the cool metal; bringing it up into view and turning it in the light. Her eyes scanned the pin used to fasten a man’s cloak, recognizing the Bracken sigil as she turned it in between her fingers. She sat up from the bed, her feet planted against the ground as she pulled herself from the comfort of her blankets; her feet guiding her towards the fireplace. 

Her eyes turned towards the door momentarily as she stopped in front of the fire, warming her skin; listening for any sign of life beyond her room. When she was confident in the silence that she found, she looked back, her eyes on the flames as her hand propelled forward to toss the pin in; allowing the fire to engulf it.

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[whatyadrawin]

The Fruit After the Flesh 18+ -Chapter 7-

Minors DNI!

Masterlist

Approximately 3,543 words

Pairing: Thomas Hewitt (Headcanon) x AFAB reader

This chapters Warnings:  Sexual language, health concerns, foul language, mild mention of abuse, brief mention of infertility. I guess just all the usual slasher fucker warnings? Use your own discretion.

A/n: I went into the ZONE for this one, I spent all day on it, ALL DAY. In this chapter I round out some characters a bit more and I get Y/N to push some boundaries. I'm falling in love with this little world. Check the masterlist for some home layout references if you're interested in the layout of the property. As always, reblogs, likes and comments are extremely appreciated, and I hope you enjoy the chapter and art!

Tag-List: @fan-goddess

Chapter 7

A week went by slower than molasses as you stayed in Luda Mae’s room the entire time, only leaving to get a little bit of movement. You were generously allowed to stay at the Hewitt house until your home could be repaired, the entire time you stayed at the house you were weak with a persistent cough from the smoke, so you slept most of the time you were there so that you could recover; Today, you finally feel back to normal.

You had made a call to a company in the next town over who specialized in reconstruction from fire damage, they let you know that the work would take at minimum 4 months to complete and the cost was fairly high; You were fortunate enough to have a large sum of money from Tilly, who left you a dragon’s horde of wealth in her will, so money was not a stressor for once in your life.

Waking up to the sounds of a farm everyday was comforting, the wind blowing through the tall grass, crickets and birds singing songs, chickens and cows going about their business, it was extremely pleasing to hear these sounds every morning. The more you explored the property, the more beautiful you realize it was, despite being banned from viewing certain rooms and areas, there was still so much to see; you could tell that this family was once quite wealthy, they had a large mass of land and the home was enormous, there were fixtures which only the rich could have afforded, they were old and a bit damaged but the extravagance was still there.

You made your way to the kitchen for some coffee and see Luda Mae frying some eggs, she turns to see who entered and smiled when she saw you,

“Mornin’ sweetheart! It’s real nice to see you up and movin’ around this early. Want some eggs? I just been fryin’ some up for breakfast, there’s also coffee in the pot over by the stove.” She turned back to her frying pan and grabbed a plate to place the eggs onto.

You accept her offer and make your way to the coffee pot, you had been so drained of energy the past week that you always woke up so late and were unable to walk around much without coughing up a storm, today you felt strong. You place your coffee on the table and sit down, the kitchen was quite a decent size much like the other rooms in the house, American houses in the south had such massive rooms, they all felt so spacious.

The kitchen was full of mixed technology from varying eras, the stove and fridge were from the 50’s while the coffee maker and the smaller appliances were all from the late 90’s or early 2000’s. There was a theme to this kitchen which tickled your brain, strawberry themed. The kitchen window was situated in front of the tub style sink, it had white curtains with a red strawberry pattern which just added to the coziness. The walls were colored a salmon pink which beautifully accented the white laminate countertops, you saw that the molding was painted that same soft eggshell white from Luda Mae’s bedroom but the floor was still that dark walnut wood which ran throughout the house.

You turn to Luda Mae and say,

“I feel really bad for staying in your room, I really don’t mind sleeping on the couch or somewhere else so you can get your space back.”

She laughs and replies,

“Funny you mention that ‘cause I have a surprise for you. Been workin’ on it the whole time you been here.”

You were wondering what she got up to everyday, it seemed like she was nowhere to be found whenever you were awake. You even rarely saw Tommy while you stayed at the house, but Luda Mae assured you it was just him wanting to give you space to recover; apparently, he asked about you every day, and would keep watch for whenever you emerged from the room.

You quickly finished your breakfast in the anticipation to see what this surprise was,

“Ok Luda Mae, I want to see what you have in store for me and then I’ll come back and do those dishes.” You didn’t want to seem like a lazy freeloader, it was the least you could do. She responds,

“You ain’t wasting time doing no dishes while you have your first day of full strength. After I show you what I been workin’ on, you best go outside to get some fresh air.” She smiles at you playfully and takes your hand to guide you to where the surprise was.

You pass the main foyer and make your way through the dining room to reach the edge of the living room where there was a door. You were not allowed to go in the room past that door so you were curious to see what she was hiding, she stops you before you go any further and says,

“Ok Y/N, I know you been wonderin’ what’s behind this here door, and I don’t blame you. I want you to close your eyes and don’t peek ‘till I say so.”

You agree and cover both your eyes with your hands, she guides you through the door and walks you into the room,

“Ok now open ‘em!” she says excitedly.

You open your eyes to reveal a large bedroom, there’s a queen size bed still covered in its original plastic in the far corner of the room, and a writing desk by a large bay window overlooking the meadow. Large cabinets and wardrobes fill up space on the walls while another set of doors can be seen on the opposite end near the bed leading to the outside patio; The walls are a very old white color with one good size chandelier in the middle of the room dangling from the high ceiling, still with all its crystals in-tact. Your eyes widen and you are struck with awe, Luda Mae squeezes your hand gently and says,

“This was bein’ used as storage, it was meant to be my daughter’s room from a very long time ago but, I was never fortunate enough to have her.” She looks down at the floor,

“What happened?” You ask, not realizing that it may be a touchy subject,

“Oh, I’ll tell you that story someday. I want you to know that this room is yours to have, regardless of when your home is fixed, it’ll always be here for you.” She smiles at you endearingly and then continues, “And you can call me Mae from now on hun, no need to say its entirety, just don’t call me Luda.”

You nod and follow with, “How come you don’t like Luda, if you don’t mind me asking?”

She shakes her head,

“Me n’ Charlies Pa used to call me that, he was as mean as a starvin’ coyote, liked to hit and berate us both.”

You understood and dropped it, “I’m sorry you went through that, I’ll make sure to just call you Mae then.”

Luda Mae smiles and hugs you with one arm from the side, you match her and hug her with your arm and you both look at the room together side by side.

“I have no words for how grateful I am to have you in my life Mae, you have been like a mother to me and I feel like I could never repay you for your kindness.” You start to feel tears well up in your eyes, overwhelmed with the generosity of this woman.

“Theres’s nothin’ to owe dear, I did this of my own volition. I want you to enjoy it, all I ask is that you start feelin’ like family, because you are.” Her sincerity was enough to make tears stream from your eyes, which she wipes with her handkerchief.

You give her a hug and hold her tightly; you don’t know how to thank her but you promise yourself to make her as happy and loved as she has made you feel.

“You’re such a sweet girl Y/N, I want you to make this here room your home, do whatever you want with it, paint it, move the furniture, hell, whatever your heart desires!” She kisses your head and you release the hug saying,

“Will you help me decorate?” you ask.

Luda Mae looks at you with an excited smile, “I was hopin’ you’d ask!”

-

After the incredible surprise, Luda Mae left to go clean the kitchen and she sent you to go outside to get some sunshine, she handed you a straw hat and said,

“Go on now, explore a bit. Maybe go bug Thomas for a bit, he’d like that.”

You laugh and make your way outside; you start looking around the property and notice a whole lot of things. In one end of the property, behind the house near your new bedroom was the meadow for the cows to graze, next to the house across from the barn was a wheat field, in another end behind the small forest there was what looked like a vehicle graveyard which spooked you a little; there were cars with license plates from all over the U.S. and many different kinds of vehicles in varied states of decay. You decided not to explore that section due to potential hazards; you make your way through to an unexplored part of the property behind the forest which was between the meadow and car graveyard.

This area of the property had some trees around it which gave it privacy, in the middle of this tree perimeter was a large swathe of tall green grass, you found this odd since most of the land you saw was covered in dry, yellow grass. You tried to make your way through the bush, ensuring you don’t step on something dangerous, the further in you went the more wet the ground got -this must be where all the ground water is rising up- you felt a sense of excitement as you got closer to the center.

You finally reached a pond; it was fairly large and was surrounded by beautiful native plants. The water was crystal clear; you could see right to the bottom which was modestly deep, there were lily pads dispersed throughout the surface, and tadpoles played in the shallow zones. You felt an overwhelming desire to swim in it, the water was so pure looking that it was like a dream. So, you did.

You took off all your clothes, the surrounding forest shielded you and the Hewitts were all too busy with chores and farmwork to bother coming by, so you felt sure that you would be left alone. The water was a refreshing temperature and it felt amazing on your skin which was sweating from the heat of the day, as you made your way into the deeper parts of the pond you see small fish bolting out of your way, you decided to only go as deep as your shoulders.

You weren’t sure how long you were in the pond for, it was too incredible of a sensation to pass up spending time in. The birds sang for you and the water felt so comfortable, the shine of the sun passing overhead left a shimmer effect on the pond surface. You kept your hat on to protect you from the intense rays and you could not have been more relaxed, the small fish now were coming up to your toes and nipping at them which tickled you. Nothing could be better than this, it felt magical.

Back at the house, Luda Mae checked the clock on the wall and called out for you, when she didn’t hear a response, she went to ask Charlie if he had seen you.

“I hadn’t seen that sweet piece of ass nowhere Luda, I been busy as hell fuckin’ with this damn broken fence.” He was mending the fence by the road all day which had some damage from cows messing with it, he followed with,

“Go ask that kid of yours, I bet he knows where she went. He’s always tryin’ to get a peep on her. He needs to let off some of that pent up frustration, the boy’s brain is already like mud we don’t need him fantasizin’ all day.”

Luda Mae rolls her eyes and heads toward the barn where Tommy was feeding the chickens, she walks up to him and rubs his back asking,

“Son, have you seen Y/N today? She isn’t responding when I holler.”

He shakes his head and looks worried,

“Can you go check to see she hadn’t gone too far out? I worry she got herself lost. I have lunch ready for everyone too so both of you come on back to eat when she’s found.”

Tommy nods his head and immediately heads out from the barn to search for you, he began looking around in the wheat field which didn’t take long because of his incredible height he could see over all the wheat. He goes to check the meadow but doesn’t see you, the car graveyard was next which worried him. When he looked around all the vehicles and didn’t see you, he grew more concerned, the forest area had human traps still left in it from the bad days in the past, he was scared that you were stuck in one.

Tommy carefully made his way through the forest, cautious to avoid trap areas, he still didn’t see you and this made his heart race. He didn’t want to find you hurt and there was a very real risk of that, he paused and tried to listen. The sounds of humming could be heard in the distance, that’s when he remembered the pond and he bolted towards it as quickly as he could.

When he got to the pond area the humming was just you singing a song to yourself, he thought it was the most beautiful sound in the world. He decided to quietly make his way through the reeds so he wouldn’t scare you and stop your singing. For such a bulky man he was incredibly quiet, and with his hushed footing he got past the reeds and saw you in the water, naked.

Tommy immediately turned his head away; he was already intoxicated by your body from the night he saved you from the fire where you had so little clothes on already, and now your body was completely bare. Tommy tried his best to be gentlemanly but his aroused curiosity got the better of him and he just sat there gazing at you like a lion hiding in the tall grass watching their prey.

You looked like a mermaid, your singing was like a siren calling to him, putting him under a spell, he didn’t want this moment to end. He couldn’t see anything much below your shoulders thanks to the sun illuminating a glittering glow around you, he wanted to black out the sun for hiding your beauty from him.

Tommy couldn’t resist moving in for a closer look, he had never seen such beauty in his life, all he wanted was to be with you in this pond sharing in the relaxation and freedom. He wasn’t careful where he stepped and his weight was too much for the soft mud shelf to bear, so he fell in the pond making a lot of noise. You let out a scream and turn around to see a large splash, you try to think if there’s alligators in Texas, and panic sets in.

Tommy got his footing and stood up in the pond, the water in that area was deep for you, but on him it only reached under his pecs. You felt relief at the sight of him, his hair was slick and stuck to his face, he looked like a dog with long fur who was getting a bath, it was cute. Tommy gasped for air and moved his hair from his face pushing it back away from his eyes. You were so taken by him revealing his face again that you didn’t move, his dark green t-shirt clung to his chest and revealed erect nipples underneath. You couldn’t help but giggle a little bit after he turned his head to you looking embarrassed.

You had the biggest crush on this behemoth of a human, every day last week was like agony not being able to see him, he was all you could think about which helped keep your mind off the memory of the fire. He didn’t move from where he stood, he also couldn’t stop staring at you, a devilish smirk appeared on your mouth. You move your wet long hair over your chest for modesty and call out to him,

“I didn’t know you guys had a paradise hiding on your property.” He rubs the back of his head and looks around nodding, you follow,

“Why don’t you come out of the pond this way, it’s a gradual incline here so it will be easier to get out for you.”

He shakes his head and tries to turn back to get out the way he came, so you push,

“Thomas, I can move out of the way if you are too scared to look at my body. Don’t put yourself at risk of drowning, just come out this way.” You felt so bold, the magic of the pond gave you a strange confidence, and Tommy being so shy was endearing and only bolstered your sudden jolt of extroversion.

Tommy hung his head and covered his eyes as he made his way past you, he slipped on the slick mud underneath and fell backwards into the water right next to you, splashing you as he went down. You giggled as his head slowly came up from the water, a very annoyed and embarrassed expression on his eyes. He was able to sit with his butt on the pond floor and his head was able to remain above water, he didn’t move from being too scared of further making a fool of himself.

Seeing him so close to your bare body made you incredibly aroused, you couldn’t help but swim up to him and get between his legs so you could hold onto his chest. You smiled at him and said,

“Don’t be embarrassed, I don’t think this pond is very friendly to such… impressively large men. Why don’t you stay a while and just relax in the cool water with me?”

Tommy’s eyes were so wide you thought they would fall out of his head, you saw his cheeks flush and he was breathing heavily, you were close enough to hear his heartbeat which was racing. He had never been this close to a woman before, well, a woman who was alive and willing to be near him, let alone a naked one. You stare into his eyes, they were so full of emotion and deeply blue like the Pacific Ocean on a summer day reflecting the light of the sun on the water, you were mesmerized, you said,

“You have the most beautiful eyes, Thomas; I could get lost in them.” You reach out to move some stray hairs away from his face.

Tommy was overwhelmed with carnal desire; it was taking a lot of restraint to not touch you and he was worried that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop. He had never felt this way before, he thought his heart was going to explode from pumping so fast, he could feel his veins throbbing and a very specific organ was painfully pressed against his jeans. When you touched his face, he couldn’t take it and instead of just grabbing you and taking you, he got up and ran out of the pond towards the house at lightning speed. The last thing he wanted to do was to hurt you, or overstep a boundary you didn’t want him to cross, his head was so full of new swirling emotions, he was drunk on the desire you put in him and it was too alien of a sensation for him to handle.

You watched as Tommy got up and ran away from you, it made you laugh seeing him flustered like that. You knew you were tempting a beast but there was a deep lust and longing inside you that wanted him to let loose and ravish you. You were so erotically excited that your groin was aching for touch, it didn’t help that you noticed a massive snakelike shape pressing through his jeans as he got up to escape your spell, the prospect of his size was enough to make you bite your lip thinking about what it looked like freed from the bonds of his pants.

You got out of the pond and put your clothes back on, you made your way back to the house feeling proud of yourself -at least now he must know where I stand- you were looking forward to more overtly flirtatious encounters in the days ahead.

Next chapter-

[pompomqt]

Journey to the West Chapter 52

POV: You just threatened to Slaughter Sun Wukong's friends

Welcome back to this week's chapter of Journey to the West with @journeythroughjourneytothewest. This week Sun Wukong continues to struggle against a fillet- and surprisingly it's not the one on his own head. So let's get into it shall we?

Back to the story at hand, we find that Sun Wukong is back together with his most important companion- No not Tripitaka! His Staff of course! And he's telling his allies about it, they're a little put out that he grabbed his own weapon but didn't get any of their stuff. However Sun Wukong assures them that now that he's got his weapon back it'll be easy enough to grab their stuff to.

So Sun Wukong get's ready to face the demon again. And this time Sun Wukong doesn't even need to bang on the Demon's door- since the demon is pissed that Sun Wukong broke into his house and robbed him, and so he's coming right towards them along with his minion army. So the Demon yells at Monkey for robbing him, while Monkey retorts that the Demon robbed them first, and the two fight for a while, until it gets past the demon's bed time and he calls a time out before retreating back to this cave.

The gods once again praise Wukong for his abilities, and Monkey decides that now's the best time to steal back the fillet and end this now that the demon is worn out and all. Also- everyone knows that robberies are done at night- Nezha!

So Monkey once again sneaks back into the cave as a cricket. Meanwhile the demon's are finishing up with dinner before heading to bed, but not before retrieving orders from the Boss Man to sleep lightly tonight in case Sun Wukong breaks in again. Monkey however feels pretty confident in ignoring the canon fodder, so he just sneaks into the Demon's bedroom, only to find the Fillet wrapped around the demon's arm. The Demon makes sure the fillet is secured onto his arm before tucking himself into bed. After which Sun Wukong transforms into a flea to give him a few good bites- just to be petty I suppose, since the fillet is to attached to him to steal at the moment. I'm mostly surprised that Sun Wukong didn't at least try cutting the Demon's arm off while they slept or something.

Since he can't steal the fillet, Monkey decides to do the next best thing and full fill his promise and get the gods all of their weapons back instead. So Monkey leaves the Demon's bedroom, and with a little bit of his lock picking magic, he enters the room where the Demon is keeping all of their stuff. First thing he grabs is of course his own belongings- this time his hairs that the fillet sucked up earlier. Now that he has them back, he once again transforms the hairs into clones to help him bring the groceries out. Once they have all their stuff, the Monkey's leave in style, by riding on the backs of fire dragons. They also set the cave on fire while they are at it, which kills like half the minion demon's just because. Anyways the gods watch as Sun Wukong makes that stunning entrance and are thrilled to have their weapons back.

Meanwhile the Demon is having a lot less fun as he watches his house burn. Luckily for him he still has the fillet, which sucks up the flames and banishes the smoke, but the damage is done. After that the demon does what he can to save his remaining subordinates, which is rather sweet of him, but there's not much he can do, and the survivors only number one hundred or so. Not only that, but the gods weapons are all gone- however Sun Wukong's companions are still there at least. Yeesh, last chapter Monkey was trying to drown Tripitaka and now this chapter he's trying to burn him to death, I'm starting to think that Monkey is more dangerous to Tripitaka then this demon is.

At first the demon thinks that one of his minions started the fire on accident or something, but the minions point out that all of the god's stuff is missing to. So the more likely explanation is that this is Sun Wukong's doing. The Demon agrees that blaming Sun Wukong is probably a safe bet and rages about it for a little bit.

Meanwhile Monkey and his allies decide that this is a great opportunity to kick the demon while he's down, so they all prepare to wage war against him once again. So Monkey once again goes to the cave entrance- but this time he doesn't bang on the doors, because he burned those two. Instead he just shouts at the demon to come out and face him. The Demon does so, demanding to know just who Sun Wukong thinks he is to be causing him so many problems. Which leads to Monkey gladly telling the demon his entire backstory.

Once Monkey is done with his full two page speech, they all begin fighting again- except the Demon still has the fillet so he kind of just steals all their weapons again. And Sun Wukong is once again separated from his most precious companion- while the Demon leaves to make plans to slaughter his other companions. And fix the door to while they are at it.

Meanwhile all the gods are left arguing about who's fault this is- forcing Monkey to be the adult in the room. Luckily Monkey isn't out of idea's yet, and he still really wants to know just who this demon is. However he already asked Heaven that question, to no avail, luckily though, Sun Wukong has one final card to play- and it's the Big One. Time to call upon the Bhudda. So Monkey tells the others that he's going to go ask the Bhudda who this demon is and what that treasure is so they can finally arrest this guy. All the gods agree, so Monkey zips off, and arrives at the destination they've all been trying to get to for the last two books. Pity it only counts if Tripitaka goes.

So Monkey arrives at the Thunderclap Monastery and after taking in the sights for a while, he manages to get in to see the Buddha. Buddha is surprised to see Sun Wukong here with Tripitaka, so Monkey explains his current demon troubles to him. So Buddha uses his all seeing Buddha eyes to find out who the demon is. He refuses to tell Monkey who the demon is though, because he thinks Monkey will run his mouth about how he learned that information and cause problems. So instead he agrees to have his eighteen Arhats go with Monkey to use the grains of golden cinnabar sand to capture the demon.

So Monkey goes out to meet the Arhats, but there are only sixteen instead of eighteen. Luckily before Monkey can kick up to much of a fuss about this, the other two come out and tell him that Buddha had some extra instructions for them. With that, the group heads out to face the demon once again.

Once they arrive Monkey goes to challenge the demon by himself while the Arhats hang out nearby to ambush him. So Monkey once again calls out to the demon and demands that he release his master and brothers. In response the Demon says that those four have already been scrubbed clean and will soon be slaughtered. Which causes Monkey to drop all sense of decorum and attack demon. Luckily Monkey isn't so angry that he forgets the plan though, so without to much trouble he is able to lead the demon to where the Arhats are waiting.

Once Wukong gets the demon into position, the Arhats dump the sand onto the demon, however before the sand can envelope the demon completely, he just uses his fillet to suck the sand up. However before Monkey and his allies can panic to much about how they are supposed to capture the demon now, one of the two monks that was late coming out earlier, tells Monkey the special instructions they had received. Apparently if this didn't work, Sun Wukong should search for the Demon's origins at Laozi's place.

Monkey wonders why Buddha couldn't have just told him that in the first place, but nevertheless he heads off to go pay Laozi a visit. So Monkey makes his way back to heaven and makes a beeline for Laozi's palace, and rushes inside without even waiting for someone to announce his presence. Monkey briefly greets Laozi with a small rundown before looking around his office. He quickly notices a boy fast asleep next to an empty corral, which is apparently supposed to hold a green buffalo. Monkey points this out to Laozi, who apparently hadn't even noticed. This clamor also wakes up the boy who goes on to explain that he ate a random elixir pellet, that knocked him out for a week. Which explains how this Green Buffalo was able to escape to earth and cause this current situation.

While Laozi searches his office to make sure nothing else is missing, Monkey tells him that the only treasure the demon has is the fillet. Laozi then realizes that his diamond snare is also missing- yes *that* diamond snare, the one that was finally able to capture Monkey back when he was causing havoc in heaven. No wonder it was able to cause so much trouble. Anyways Laozi grabs his plantain-leaf fan and heads down to the demon's layer, while Monkey follows behind.

Once they arrive Laozi has Monkey lure the demon out one last time so that Laozi can deal with him. So Monkey once again yells for the demon to come out and face him, and once he does, Monkey wacks him on the ear before turning to run back to Laozi. Once the Demon see's his old master, he freaks out and throws the fillet at Laozi, who just catches it. Laozi then recites a spell and uses the fan to revert the demon back to his true form- a Green Buffalo. Then just for good measure Laozi transforms the fillet into a nose ring for the Buffalo to lead him away by.

Now that the Demon is taken care of, it's just a matter of clean up. Monkey kills the remaining minion demons while the gods get all their weapons back and go home. Once all that's done, Monkey is able to untie his companions so they can continue on their- Wait. What's this? Turns out there is one last plot point that must be settled. But it'll have to wait until the next chapter of Journey to the West.

Current Sun Wukong Stats: Names/Titles: Monkey, The Stone Monkey, The Handsome Monkey King, Sun Wukong (Monkey awakened to the void), Bimawen (Banhorseplague), The Great Sage Equal To Heaven and Pilgrim Sun. Immortality: 5 + 94,000 years Weapon: The Compliant Golden Hooped Rod Abilities: 72 Transformations, Cloud-Somersault, Ability to transform his individual hairs, super strength, Ability to Summon Wind, Water restriction charm, and the ability to change into a huge war form, ability to duplicate his staff, ability to immobilize others, the ability to put others to sleep, and the Fiery eyes and Diamond Pupils, intimidating horses, churning large bodies of water, sleeplessness, seizing the wind, enhanced smell, discerning good and evil within a thousand miles, Spirit Summoning, lock picking, object transformation, distance reduction, vanishing in a flash of light, super healing, transforming others, and Invisibility Demon Kill Count: 9+ Unknown Number of Minions Human Kill Count: 1009 God's Defeated: 22 + Unknown number Defeats: 6 Crime List: Robbery, Murder, Mass Murder, Arson, Theft, Coercion, Threatening a Government Official, Resisting Arrest, Assault, Forgery, Employee Theft, False Imprisonment, Impersonating a Government Official, Treason, attempted murder, failure to control or report a dangerous fire, desecrating a corpse, breaking and entering, trespassing, violating Tree Law, looting corpses, trading counterfeit goods, criminal threat, animal abuse, Assisting or Instigating Escape, Damage to Religious Property, contaminating a substance for human consumption and Identity Fraud. Cry Count: 8 + 3 fake cries Mountains Trapped Under: 4

Current Tang Sanzang stats: Names/Titles: River Float, Xuanzang, Tang Sanzang, Tripitaka and the Tang Monk Abilities: Curing Blindness, making branches point a certain direction (allegedly), reciting sutras, pretty privilege, memorization, Heart Sutra and Meditation. Cry Count: 26 Tight Fillet Spell Uses: 31 Paralyzed by fear: 5 Bandit Problems: 2 Kidnapped by demons: 8 Falling Off Horses: 8

Current Bai Long Ma Stats: Names/Titles: Bai Long Ma (White Dragon Horse), Prince of the Western Ocean, and third prince jade dragon of the dragon king Aorun Abilities: Transforming into a human, a water snake, and a horse, eating a horse in one bite, flight, Magic of Water Restriction, Singing, and Sword Dancing. Cry Count: 1 Crime List: Arson, and Grave Disobedience. Contributions to the plot: 2 Kidnapped by demons: 1

Current Zhu Wuneng Stats: Names/Titles: The Marshal of the Heavenly Reeds, Zhu Wuneng (Pig who is aware of ability), Zhu Ganglie, Pigsy, Idiot and Eight Rules. Weapon: Rake Abilities: 36 Transformations, parting water, fighting underwater, cloud soaring, size enhancement and CPR Demon Kill Count/Kill steals: 2 Kidnapped by Demons: 4 Human Kill Count: 1 Failed Flirtation/romances Attempts: 3 Cry Count: 2 Crime List: Sexual Harassment, Murder, Kidnapping, arson, defamation, Damage to Religious Property, contaminating a substance for human consumption, Identity Fraud and Theft

Current Sha Wujing Stats: Names/Titles: The Curtain-Raising General, Sha Wujing (Sand Aware of Purity), Sandy and Sha Monk Weapon: Monster Taming Staff Abilities: Fighting underwater and Cloud soaring. Demon Kill Count: Unknown number of minions. Kidnapped by Demons: 3 Human Kill Count: 1 Crime List: Breaking a Crystal Cup, murder, desecration of a human corpse, Damage to Religious Property and contaminating a substance for human consumption

[falloutboylyricss]

Fall Out Boy and Night

Evening Out With Your Girlfriend

"Last night, I saw my world explode" - Switchblades and Infidelity

"Walking off that stage tonight, I know what you're thinking" - Pretty In Punk

"Forget it, I'll go out tonight and piss on her doorstep" - Growing Up

"Start the van, get me out of this one horse town, waste this night" - The World's Not Waiting (For Five Tired Boys In A Broken Down Van)

"Last night, I saw a movie, and I thought about many movies I've seen at your house" - Moving Pictures

Take This to Your Grave

"Where is your boy tonight? I hope he is a gentleman" - Grand Theft Autumn / Where Is Your Boy

"Tonight the headphones will deliver you the words that i can't say / Tonight I'm writing you a million miles away / Tonight is all about 'We miss you'" - Homesick at Space Camp

"Another night alone in the city" - Sending Postcards From a Plane Crash (Wish You Were Here)

"And the sun burnt out tonight" - Calm Before the Storm

From Under The Cork Tree

"Tonight it's 'It can't get much worse' versus 'No one should ever feel like...'" - Dance, Dance

"I spent most of last night dragging this lake for the corpses of all my past mistakes" - My Heart Is The Worst Kind Of Weapon

Infinity On High

"At night, we're painting your trash gold while you sleep" - This Ain't A Scene, It's An Arms Race

"A teenage vow in a parking lot, 'til tonight do us part" - Hum Hallelujah

"One night and one more time" - Thnks fr th Mmrs

"One night stand, one night stand off" - Thnks fr th Mmrs

"And the full moon pills got me out on the street at night" - The (After) Life Of The Party

"Everybody wants to drive on through the night if it's a drive back home / Things aren't the same anymore, some nights, they get so bad you almost pick up the phone" - GI.N.A.S.F.S.

"You saved my life that night on the roof of your hotel" - G.I.N.A.S.F.S.

Folie à Deux

"Lot lizards scales cool my nightlife moods" - Disloyal Order Of Water Buffaloes

"Does he know the way of the crickets that would convince me to call it a night?" - Headfirst Slide Into Cooperstown On A Bad Bet

"Doing lines of dust and sweat off last night's stage just to feel like you" - 27

"The P.A. system keeps my heart, heart beating tonight" - West Coast Smoker

Save Rock And Roll

"I'm on deck, I'm up next, tonight, I'm high as a private jet" - Alone Together

"Maybe I'll burn a little brighter tonight" - Miss Missing You

"'Cause tonight is just fire alarms and losing you" - Death Valley

"Tonight, the foxes hunt the hounds, it's all over now" - Young Volcanoes

PAX AM Days

"Now I've got love flowing in my nightmare girl" - Caffeine Cold

American Beauty/American Psycho

"And I slept in last night's clothes and tomorrow's dreams, but they're not quite what they seem" - Uma Thurman

"She's in a long black coat tonight, waiting for me in the downpour outside" - Jet Pack Blues

"Fight off the light tonight and just stay with me, honey, don't you leave" - Jet Pack Blues

"I am your worst, I am your worst nightmare" - Novocaine

"In between being young and being right, you were my Versailles at night" - Fourth Of July

"Do you, do, do you remember when we drove, we drove, drove through the night and we danced, we danced to Rancid?" - Favorite Record

"I just need enough of you to dull the pain, just to get me through the night 'til we're twins again" - Twin Skeleton's (Hotel In NYC)

MANIA

"And I'm stuck, night vision, so stuck, night vision, but I come to life, come to life" - Stay Frosty Royal Milk Tea

So Much (For) Stardust

"Who am I dialing tonight? That's a bummer" - Hold Me Like a Grudge

"I'm just a cherub riding comets through the night sky, screaming at the stars like night lights" - Hold Me Like a Grudge

"Late at night in my room, lie awake, think of you and all your little dooms / Last night, I dreamt I still knew you" - Flu Game

"Oh, I'm going neon in the night time" - What a Time To Be Alive

"I need the sound of crowds, or I can't fall asleep at night" - So Much (For) Stardust

Misc.

"Forget your night time, summer love on a gurney with a squeaky wheel" - Lake Effect Kid

"I just wanna come back to life, spark my crazy head to keep you warm at night" - Lake Effect Kid

"Call it a night when the booze hits (Sorry) / That'll never happen again 'til tonight (I'm so sorry)" - Super Fade

[ordonianhero]

It will be okay

Time sat up for the second shift on the night watch. It was sickly warm and the nightly breeze made the energy around the chain restless and unsettled. Though he normally resigned to getting lost in the sounds among their camp. The fire crackling, the leaves rustling in the wind. The crickets singing in the night. One sound that had his ears on alert was the soft sounds of the group sleeping.

For the most part they seem to all sleep okay. However, he was not alone when nightmares of their past adventures taken, before being they were brought together, but occasionally you can here a huff if their dreams are not settling or allowing one to sleep.

This was one of those nights as he was in watch. Everything usual in the ways of sounds of the night and among the chain. However, his ears this night pick up on the subtle sound of one of them sniffling. Not from a cold, but of a wet sadness. He looked around to pin point the sniffles. It seemed most of them were all sleeping somewhat peacefully. Then he spotted in the fire light a shake of one of them. Their shoulder shook and trembled. The member’s breathing being shaky.

Sky.

He quilt got up where he sat and walked over to the knight. Kneeling down. In the light as best he could see the puff red eyes, clutching of their blanket and the wetness on their cheek. He gently brushed the tears away. The youth opened their eyes and looked up at their leader. Another stream of tears flowed from their eyes.

“I miss her.” Their voice broke even in a subtle and quiet whisper.

Time took a seat beside them and rubbed their shoulder and replied, “I understand, I miss mine too.” He warmly smiled at them. Before looking over where the rancher slept with the champion curled up against him. The traveler also curling up beside the champion.

He softly smiles at the sweet scene. He then looked back down at sky. His thumb rubbing calming circles on their shoulder. “I miss my wife, but I know everything will be okay. Even when I miss so much. You will be too. Hopefully Hylia will be kind and drop us off in your era. So you do get to see them. For now. It’s okay to miss those you love. Or loved. We will all meet again in some time.”

The sky child looked up and nodded. Taking on of his hands to wipe away his tears. Time looked up and stayed quiet and then said quietly, “they never are truly far away.”

Sky looking at him. “How so?”

Time looking back down at the youth. He took their hand and placed over his own heart and he smiled. “Because they are always right here. Even we we are far from home.”

Sky sadly smiled. As he felt their leaders heart rate beat calmly.

“They are right here. No matter the distance.”

[georgiapeach30513]

Bullet in Your Heart, Part 6

Summary:  You and Clark couldn’t do it anymore

Pairings:  Clark Kent X Reader

Rating:  explicit

Warnings:  angst, mentions of Carter’s death, explicit language, smut, unprotected sex, PIV sex, creampie, 18+ ONLY

Word Count:  3K

Previous

Series Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics​

Clark leans his body against your doorframe.  You slept too much.  Refused to get out of the bed most days, and when you did it was stiff.  You ate only because your baby depended on you.  You got up only because Clark asked you to.  You survived because you promised Carter you would.  Your hand rubs over your tummy, and the baby rolls around.  Kicking at your stomach, wanting it to be known they were still there.

“Cricket bug,” Clark says softly.  He still struggled to walk past your door.  It didn’t matter anymore, Carter was gone and he was never coming back.  You were a widow, and the town accused you of sleeping with his best friend.  “I should find some place else to…”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” you sit up in the bed, red rimmed eyes.  No more tears fell from them, because there was nothing else left to cry.  “I can’t lose you, too.”

“I’m making it impossible for you to remarry.”

A pained giggle bursts out of your chest, and you wondered what he had going on in his head.  It didn’t matter.  None of it mattered in the end.  The waiting that you made Carter do, and for what?  “Why should I remarry?”

“Cricket, I know…”

“You know nothing.  I wanted Carter.  I still want Carter!  And…all I have left is his child, and those letters.  Our baby is never going to know him.  Never know the times that he told me stories about the type of father he was going to be.  Never know the plans he had for the yard.  They’re never going to know how much he wanted to hold them.  They’re just not going to understand.  And I want my baby to look like Carter, and then in the same breath I hope I don’t have to resent my child because I can’t have their dad back with me.  You think I care about what those stupid women think?  They don’t know, they don’t have nightmares of their faceless husband.  They didn’t have to say goodbye to a box because I wasn’t allowed to look at his body.  Everything was taken from me, and you think I care what other people say about me and you.”

You look up at the ceiling as fresh tears stream down your face and you wipe them away fruitlessly.  “I’ve lost enough, Clark.  Why should I have to lose you, too.  Oh,” you gasp, grabbing onto your stomach.

“Cricket?” He steps one foot into your room, but backs out.

“Ow.  Ahh…Clark.  Clark!” You scream out as pain sets your body on fire.  Gripping to your stomach.  “The baby.  The baby’s coming.  Get your ass in here, and help me.”

There was a hesitation until you scream again, and he crosses into your room helping you up.  Your body locks up as you yelp.  “I can’t…I don’t wanna do this alone.”

“You’re not.  I’ll be with you,” finally grabbing you up, he carries you to the car.  His promise to Carter be damned.  You needed more than his shadow looming into your presence.  You needed him to step up for you and that baby.  This wasn’t falling in love.  This was doing what he promised to Carter.

Clark cradles your little baby in his giant arms.  She was healthy.  Beautiful like you, had her daddy’s cleft chin, and even Carter’s smile.  He couldn’t believe that his friend had created this perfect baby girl that he could hold with one hand.  The domestic life wasn’t something Clark thought he wanted, until he held this pink bundle in his arms.

Clark wanted to take back all those thoughts about wanting to leave the house.  He just wanted you to have as good of a life as you could.  But this tiny thing had stolen his heart, much like you had the past couple of months.  It wasn’t falling in love.  It was a duty.  A promise.

The baby’s eyes open, and she searches out your body to suckle, “Charlotte, you let your mother get some sleep.  Charlotte Abigail Baizen,” he swallows the lump in his throat, because it felt wrong to call her that.  Carter was her father, but he was the one that bonded with the baby.  There wasn’t anything Clark wouldn’t do to keep her or you safe.  It was a promise.

Her lips part and a pitiful squeaky cry slips out of her mouth.  Even her cry was dainty.  She was perfect, and Clark hated the emotions that he was fighting off.  He didn’t want to.  “Clark,” you croak, sitting up in the bed, “Hand her to me.  If you give me that blanket, you can stay.”

“Can I hold her when she’s finished?” You give him a gentle smile and nod your head.  There was more brightness to your eyes since you had her.  It was like birthing her gave you a rebirth.  You smiled.  More than once he caught you giggling.  

Handing you the baby, he turns around to give you some privacy while you get yourself and her situated, before covering the two of you up.  You lean back on the bed, “Clark, you can turn around,” he sits in the chair beside you, and you reach out for his hand to hold.  Nursing was uncomfortable.  It hurt more than you were made aware of.  

“You’re doing a good job,” he says, his eyes only on you.  The looks lingered more than they once did.  But it was because he hadn’t left your side.  Took on the role of the father seamlessly.  “She’s adorable.”

“She’s a little princess,” you peek under the blanket, and sure enough that tiny thing with her perfectly little fingernails, and soft curls was doing as feeding babies do.  

“Carter….Carter would have been proud of you both,” it stung to hear him talk about Carter.  The emotional pain you felt from Carter’s death was always smothering you.  It never went away, and somehow talking about what he would have done didn’t help.  He was never coming back, and it made things worse thinking that he would.  

You were never going to love someone the way you loved Carter.  There was only one Carter Baizen.  But sometimes, women don't marry for love.  You were just one of the lucky ones that did.  Any relationship after was going to be lesser than.  There was no point in arguing that.

“I’m sorry about what I was going to say earlier,” Clark looks down at the blanket, before quickly back up at you.  “Can she breathe?”

You peek again, and that perfect angel was still feeding, and you smile watching her, “Yeah, she’s doing great.  What did you say earlier?”

“About me finding somewhere else to live.”

“Oh,” that was the last thing that you wanted Clark to do.  You felt like he was already home.  “I’ve been thinking.  I know why you’re in the basement.  But there’s rooms upstairs,” his eyes move from the blanket up to yours.  He didn’t know where you going with this conversation, but you had piqued his interest.  “You should, if you wanted to, just move to the main floor.  You know you don't want to be too far away from Charlotte.”

“Yeah.  Yeah, I don’t want to be away from her.  You’ll need help.”

“Clark…she’s never going to know Carter,” he looks down at his lap, because this conversation was giving him emotional whiplash.  He was overwhelmed with his feelings.  “I want you to be her daddy.”

“Cricket…”

“You’re the closest thing to Carter.  No one knew him better than we did.  You should be her daddy.  Raise her with me, and…”

“Mrs. Baizen,” the nurse interrupts your train of thought, while she checks your vitals.  Her eyes constantly looking over at Clark.  It was improper.  You had gotten yourself into a whole heap of trouble.  And judging by the way that man was looking at you, he was getting himself into some trouble as well.  “Looks like you’re all set to go home.”

Clark had somehow, subconsciously migrated to Carter’s chair.  Holding a freshly changed Charlotte in his lap, playing with her feet.  The little baby squeals out her giggles.  Her chubby little hands reach up for Clark.  It was yours and her favorite time of the day, when Clark came home.

He gave you the time to finish supper while he entertained the baby.  Had this been under different circumstances, these were the sounds you always wanted to hear in your home.  Laughter from both your baby and her father.  Clark filled the role well, but you had left such dreams behind with Carter.  He wasn’t coming back.

Your body once recoiled from Clark’s touches to your side, now it craved for him to stay longer.  Sighing whenever his hand would move from your hip to the giggling baby at his feet.  She adored him more than she did you.  Clapped her hands whenever she heard his voice.  

Charlotte might have been the one to bring you and Clark together, but the feelings he had bubbling up inside of him was of his own making.  You allowed it because he was close to Carter.  It was sick, and it was wrong, but you didn’t care.  There was never going to be another Carter, and there were worse people than Clark.  He could give you a good life.  

It was like some divine intervention that he was never drafted before the war ended.  It was like Clark was always meant to be with you, and become Charlotte’s dad.  “Cricket,” he removes a skillet from the burner, and turns to stare at you. Charlotte perched on his side with her head laying on his chest.  Patting over him as if to tell you that he was hers.  “Hon…you okay?”

“Yeah, just was…I guess daydreaming.”

“Well, don’t burn the house down, huh, mama?” He adds in animatedly, and looks down at the baby, who smiles her two teeth grin and shakes her head.  “You sure, you’re okay?”

“Yeah, Nancy called, it was just stupid gossip.  Got me in my head,” he starts to speak, but you press your hand against his mouth, “I’ll be fine, Clark.”

“Ehh!” Your daughter screeches, shaking her head no at you.

“Cricket bug, I think she wants you to quit touching her daddy,” it was bittersweet for you.  Charlotte would grow up knowing no different.  But you were going to have to give Clark something.  He wouldn’t stay.  

“Lottie, you quit being so mean to me.  You two go set the table.”

“Clark,” you whisper at the door of Charlotte’s room.  Just like every night he was staring down at her crib.  She had only just fallen asleep, so he had to make sure she was comfortable.  Needed to reassure himself that she would in fact keep her eyes closed.  “Clark, she’s fine, and…will you dance with me?”

He brushes a few stray strands of hair off Charlotte’s face, and walks into the living room with you.  You start a slow song on the record player; it was so low, it was even a struggle for you to hear.  Things were a lot more comfortable between the two of you now.  He never hesitated to put his hand on your hip, while the other holds your hand, and he spins you around the living room.

There was a shift in yours and Clark’s relationship the moment that Charlotte was born.  One that neither of you could deny anymore.  It was comfortable.  And if the whole damn town was going to assume that you and he were living in sin, you might as well be.  Dropping your hand out of his, you bring his hand to your hip.  Sliding your hand up his chest, before pressing a chaste kiss on his lips.  

Clark whispers your name, and you kiss him again.  Letting your lips linger on his, and he finally returns the kiss.  His hands firmly on your hips, he pulls you closer to him, sliding those meaty hands up your back.  Your body was on autopilot, and wanted to feel something real.  Opening your mouth when his tongue swipes over your lips, and he dominates your mouth.  

Sucking your own tongue into his mouth.  His hands roam from your back, to your tits.  Cupping the spheres before he backs off completely.  “Cricket, I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because….because it’s improper.”

“Fuck it.”

“Cricket!”

“All my life I have done things right, and what did I get out of that?  I don’t care anymore, Clark.  I just want to feel.  And right now, I want to feel you.  Please,” stepping closer to him, you run your hands up his chest, and start slowly unbuttoning his shirt.  “Please?”

“On one condition?” You stare up at him owlishly waiting on his condition.  You wanted it.  Wanted him.  You loved Clark, even though it was in a different way, you did love him.  “After tonight, you let me make an honest woman out of you.  We go to the courthouse, I don’t need a wedding.  I know I’m second best to you, but…I won’t have us shacking up together and feeding these gossip mongers.  You get tonight, if you take my last name.”

That was a lot to digest.  Clark wasn’t wrong, the two of you couldn’t play house.  The two of you are living together, and the rumors were getting to Clark.  You didn’t want that stigma over your daughter’s head, and if Carter couldn’t raise Charlotte, you didn’t want anyone else, but Clark.

“Tomorrow.  We can go to the courthouse tomorrow.  Tonight, I want you,” his hands grab your ass and he lifts you up, hauling you into the bedroom, laying you down gently on the bed.  Kissing up your neck while simultaneously unbuttoning your dress.  Clark was very skilled.  His body and limbs worked in tandem.  Very little effort had you nude underneath him, while he seemed to just walk out of his own clothes.

He was massive over you, pushing apart your legs, and pumping his cock in his fist, “You’re sure?  We’re ready to do this?”

“Yes,” he pushes into your warmth in one swift movement.  Your back arches off the bed, and you cling to his back.  Your fingers dig into his skin, and he gives you the sweetest smile when you whimper up at him.  “Clark…” you pant out.

He grabs your leg one at a time, wrapping them each around him before his hips piston into you.  Driving into you slowly and languidly, laying down on you, so you feel his entire weight.  Propping himself up by his elbows, he brushes his fingers over your skin, “I’ve always loved you, Cricket.”

“You know I’ve always loved you.”

“Not in the same way,” you gasp when he pushes himself in you fully.  Scrapping your nails all the way down his back, until you grip his ass cheeks.  Head throwing back with your mouth open.  “I know I’m not him.  But I’ll be a good husband to you.  A good dad to Charlotte.  And if you wanted, maybe some more kids?”

“I know.  Yeah.  Yes, I want more.  With you.  Ahhh,” his mouth crashes into yours as he muffles your loud moans.  Swallowing every one of them as your walls clench around him girthy cock.  It had been so long.  And Clark was new.  He was experienced, and there was something arousing about knowing that the Clark Kent was taking care of you.  The Clark Kent was going to be your husband.

You didn’t need a wedding.  You had one, and it didn’t give you any longer with Carter.  Clark never wanted one.  Never even saw himself getting married, until you.  He never even thought he was going to get to hear you desperately mewl as your body spreads pleasure all throughout your limbs.  He didn’t think he would get to see your body like this, or have another man’s child be raised as his own.

You wanted him so deep inside you that you were practically using his ass to shove him further down.  One of his hands slams on the headboard of the bed as he starts pounding thrusts into you.  It had been just as long for him.  And you were perfect.  Better than any woman he had ever felt.  Your body was so responsive to his motions, and was clenching down on him so tightly.  

Clark wished he could make this last longer, but it was too much.  Too much for him to stave off.  Emotionally too much for him because you agreed to marriage.  It wasn’t the most romantic thing, but he had been trying to figure out a way to approach you with marriage.  

He wanted you.  Wanted that baby, and he wanted more.  Wanted to add a white picket fence to the yard with a swing set for Charlotte and the other kids.  Wanted to come home to you for a kiss, and an evening dance while the children giggled in their rooms, or played music in the basement.  He wanted it all, and he wanted it with you.  

“Cricket…I…I…”

“Clark, please.  I want to feel you,” you give him permission to release his seed.  If you were to marry him, then he should get the perks of a husband.  He spurts so deep inside you, and he presses his forehead against your own.  His chest heaves with all that had transpired.  When he kisses you, his mouth turns up into a smile.  He was happy, and you would be happy.  One day.  Hopefully.

Starting to get off you, he looks into the floor at his clothes, going to grab the items up, but you sit up in the bed, “Clark, this bed is yours now.  Ours.  Don’t leave.”

He slips on his underwear, tossing you a nightgown before crawling in the bed behind you.  His arm wraps around your body, and he pulls you flush with his body.  This was the start to a new beginning.

Next

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season​ @marveloustaylortot​ @pono-pura-vida​ @sstan-hoe​ @infatuatedharleys​ @missusbarnes-rogers​ @peaches1958​ @seitmai​ @smile1318​ @andydrysdalerogers​ @charmed-asylum​ @cjand10​

[xnorthstar3x]

1) 𝑰 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈

With winter coming in fast there was a lot to do at the farmhouse. Farming was hard work, even more so when you're the only one doing it. Being as I was the last (L/N) at the family farm, it would seem that all the work would fall to me. But, it wasn't as bad as you'd think. During the summer I often slept on the screened-in porch listening to the crickets sing me a lullaby as fireflies lit up the fields.

In fall it was very prosperous as the large field of pumpkins was often ravaged by young children and their parents looking to buy a pumpkin or two for carving, or they came for the petting zoo, seeing the little piggies and goats often brought smiles upon visitors. Springtime came and brought people with curiosity, as this time some of the mares in the stable will have given birth to baby foals. The stallions were being used for horse lessons year round which was enjoyable and good exercise for the beautiful creatures.

Winter was the most trying time of year, if there wasn't canning being done then it would be very hard to keep myself fed. The harsh winters knocked out the plentiful harvest of warmer months and left a blanket of white across the fields. This is what was happening at this moment, as I hopped off my horse walking around the forest that surrounded my farm to gather pine needles in a large basket.

These could be used for tea or woven into small baskets. Picking up some wintergreen leaves to chew on every so often. Kash, a blue tick hound I had been given as a teen, came running back to me carrying a stick I had been throwing far into the trees for the past 30 minutes. I could tell it was getting colder as the month drew on, my fathers hand me down jacket no longer protected me from the chill currently blowing through the trees.

"I guess we should head back," I noted looking at Kash who dropped his stick, he walked over and rubbed against my leg.

"Let's go, buddy." I walked over to my horse Jack, he was a black and white American paint horse, my brother named him when we were little. He left him to me when he moved out for college towards the south. Climbing on, I made the long journey back to the farmhouse. Living this far out wasn't unpleasant, it had its cons, but the pros were so worth it. It was peaceful, with no loud noises or noisy neighbors. No smog, or nasty garbage smells. Just clean fresh air and beautiful land.

After putting Jack away in the warm barn, I entered the house to see the fire in the fireplace going steady. Kash came in and took his place in a big fluffy bed I'd made for him at the beginning of the season.

Lucky bastard

He didn't have any responsibilities, and he didn't have to change his clothes.

I found my place in the kitchen making a cup of coffee and picking up a book I had put down that morning.

Every avid reader is proud of their bookshelf. My collection included series like The Hunger Games and authors like James Patterson. My mother loved to read, passing that love down to her children.

Brrrrringgg brrrrringggggg

The landline let out a screech as a call came in pulling me from a world of witches and wizards. Walking over I set my cup down on the coffee table and picked the phone up delivering an introduction in my best customer service voice.

"Hi, this is the (L/N) family farm. This is (Y/N) speaking, how can I help you?" I greeted whoever was on the other end.

"Hi (Y/N) it's Mrs. Thompson. I'm calling to confirm our therapy appointment this afternoon." I answered her with silence, and she sighed. "These appointments won't help you if you don't show up to them. We've already gotten through the 'get to know each other' part of the sessions. The rest is easy, all you have to do is talk."

"I don't like to talk." It was silent until Mrs. Thompson sighed

"I know, but happiness isn't a destination. It's a journey. How do you expect to enjoy the journey if you won't even take the first step."

There was a long pause.

"I know I'm sounding harsh, it's only because I care. I know your mother wouldn't want to see you this unhappy." A tear graced itself down my cheek, meeting my hand as I roughly swiped it away.

"Fine. I'll show up."

"Thank you, I'll be expecting you."

The smell of the waiting room always made me uncomfortable, doctors in general made me uncomfortable. I hate the smell of hospitals. I hate the way people look at you with sympathy in hopes that your struggle becomes easier while they get to go home to their perfect lives. Their picket fences and smiling families.

Their families.

I hate their guilt-free attitudes. I envy the way they're so easily able to let go. While I sit here and wish my life was different. While I am troubled with guilt for wishing my mother and father never died.

"I'm glad you showed up. I hope to keep this progress, but hope is all I can do." Mrs. Thompson smiled slightly. I hated her smile, it was full of sympathy.

The only reason I'm here is because Mom would want me to be.

"Don't count your chickens before they hatch," I told her, she jotted that down. I hated when she did this. Everything I did she jotted down. Every eye movement is jotted down. Every breath jotted down. I'm sure if I gave her the chance she'd follow me to the bathroom to jot down how I wipe my ass.

"Well, I want to try something different today. Give me 3 lowlights of your week, then 3 highlights." She sat patiently watching me.

"My jacket is too thin, the last of the strawberries froze out, and my truck's heater went out."

"Now 3 highlights." She wrote down something on her notepad. I sat there, it was always hard to think of good things when life only seemed to serve you bad things.

"I found a winter green patch closer to the farm." I shrugged.

"Ok, that's good, because now you don't have to travel so far." She offered up a smile. I hesitantly smiled back.

"That's true I guess. I also finished the book I was reading when we last spoke."

"That's wonderful, how did you like it? Was the ending what you'd expected?" She sat her pen down.

"Well yes, I watched the movie when I was younger. But the ending to the book was more fulfilling. It gave me more information about the main character and what she thought during her struggles and prevails." I sat back in my chair, it was always comforting to talk about books.

"And do you have a third thing?" Mrs. Thompson asked.

"I showed up today."

Series masterlist

[jojolymes]

𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐃𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎; twenty-nine

࿔*:･ﾟ xxix.

next: ࿔*:･ﾟ xxx.  |  table of contents

YOU WOKE UP to the sound of what the Great Plains considered silence. The crickets were deafeningly and agonizingly loud just outside your tent amidst the rustling of the grass that made up the flat land around you. You had heard it for the past few nights but you were inexplicably drawn to the sound at that moment. It almost  sounded like the nights back at home, but you knew you were nowhere near your hometown. Instead, you were stuck in your little tent, surrounded by wadded-up fabric covered in blood, illuminated only by your dim, flickering lamplight.

"I didn't turn it off?" you rasped out, watching the flame flickering a few feet away from you, inches from your knee. You were surprised that you hadn't knocked it over in your sleep, though, you had learned that after a few nights of sharing your tent back in the beginning of the race had cured your restless kicking when you slept. You went to reach for your lamp, leaning up just slightly until your abdomen ached far too much for you to move any further.

"Fuck," you whined, wincing so hard that once you reopened your eyes after shutting your eye tight, there were white sparks dancing in your vision. You blinked them away quickly, grimacing as you looked down at your abdomen, wrapped in muddied red bandages and heaps of gauze. Had Johnny and Gyro- No, they wouldn't have helped you, especially not when they didn't believe you about Texas Red in the first place.

"Iron Maiden," you muttered, watching as your silver stand appeared beside you, flickering faintly like the flame of the lamplight you could see through her. You hadn't even gotten a chance to ask Iron Maiden a question before she flickered into thin air. You could only sigh— it wasn't like you really needed to hear it when you knew that only your spirit would ever try to help you.

As you lay there, you heard a sudden crash that consisted of clanging pans and rattling tin plates. You stared up at the top of your tent listening to Gyro and Johnny talking to one another with Gyro's obnoxious laughter echoing into the relative darkness. You couldn't see much besides their silhouettes and the remnants of the fire from the previous night just outside the comfort of your tent. You managed to make out their whispers, mainly consisting of the plans for the route.

Like hell were they going to leave you while you were injured even if they didn't know you were injured, or rather, didn't believe you were injured. No matter how much you despised them, you knew better than to ride on your own to the next town. Riding alone in your condition meant risking death and you had already done enough of that after stabbing yourself to get rid of Texas Red's stand.

You brought your arms back, resting them on your bedroll as you pushed yourself up, only to immediately fall back down. Your torso ached, the muscles strained and taut so tight that you feared for a moment that you wouldn't be able to move at all. You looked down at the mess of bandages once more, bringing a tentative hand to the bulging gauze and bandaged.

It was fine at first and all you could feel below your fingers was the bumpy texture that made the fabric of the bandages. But as you added just the slightest bit of pressure, your whole body flinched away, a stinging pain spidering out from the wound. You held back a whimper and threw your head back, tears flooding your vision as you bit down hard on the flesh of your lip.

There was no way you were going to be able to make it to the next town by yourself. Surely, if you were clearly on the brink of death, Johnny and Gyro would do something. You had just the slightest bit of faith in them to do so. Considering they were still human, there was probably some part of them that would make sure you didn't die on them. Hell, maybe if you did almost die on them, it would snap them out of their attitudes. As if that would make you trust them again, though.

"Alright, alright, I... I can do this," you told yourself, pulling your collared shirt over the gauze and bandages which thankfully didn't irritate your wound anymore than you had done to yourself moments earlier. You wearily pushed yourself up, this time being even more mindful of your wound. Somehow, you managed to sit all the way up, despite the shuddering of your body when you did so. After a sharp breath, you managed to get onto your knees and crawl to the entrance of your tent, pushing the flap open.

"Are we leaving already?" you asked into the dark, trying to keep your voice lighthearted despite the anger that bubbled in the pit of your stomach. You tried not to show the pain of your wound in your expression when Gyro looked down at you, the skin under his eye twitching just noticeably enough to piss you off even more. You shuffled out of your tent a bit further, sitting back on your heels before slowly pushing yourself up to stand in front of him.

"...Yes," Gyro replied as he turned to look over at Johnny who rolled a ways behind him, not bothering to acknowledge the fact that you were still joining them. It was obvious to anyone that they didn't want you there, especially to you, but you assured yourself that it wouldn't be much longer until you all reached a rest stop. You had seen it on the map back when you had actually been allowed to use it and Gyro wasn't claiming that you would get the three of you lost.

"Alright. Great," you stated with a tad more irritation, "I'll get all my stuff together then!" As you turned around on your heel, you felt your abdomen sear in pain once more, making you press your hand over it. You bit back your groan and started to get all your things together, not noticing the confused glances that Gyro and Johnny shared. Had you known, you would have pulled out Iron Maiden to help you pack up, just to get rid of their (in your opinion) feigned concern.

Soon enough, you were on the road, not straying far from Johnny and Gyro as they talked about where you all needed to go next. You didn't really listen in on what they were saying and made sure to keep pressure on your wound as inconspicuously as you could. It didn't seem to work as you found that Gyro and Johnny kept glancing back at you no matter how hard you tried to not make it obvious.

It wasn't long before you made it to Syracuse, the town Gyro had insisted you all had to pass through to get ahead of everyone. The plains were now sparsely littered with birch trees, framing the road that you all had found somewhere along the way. There were more trees a ways behind you, sitting in front of the large hill that you all had managed to clear in record time. But as you made your way down the path, you spotted a great mass of tan hanging from a branch, bent into awkward angles.

"What is that?" you muttered to yourself as you all grew closer to it. You narrowed your eyes, trying to make out what it was before you all got any closer. There was a puddle of red below it— blood, most likely— growing larger with every drop that spilled from it.

"A cow," Johny piped up unexpectedly. You hadn't expected him to talk to you, let alone answer your question. "That much is obvious." You frowned under your bandana. You expected as much from him. Clearly, there was no way that Johnny and Gyro were ever going to treat you like they had before. Gyro grinned and got closer to the cow, pulling a knife from his belt as he grabbed one of the legs.

"Hey, Gyro... I wouldn't touch that. There's an owner," Johnny called out, pointing out a brand that had been carved into the leg Gyro had grabbed onto. You brought Thunder a bit closer, making out the letters 'HP'. You really didn't want to mess with any more people during the race, especially when you had a gaping hole in your side.

"Look at this closely," Gyro smirked as he gestured toward the lack of the cow's upper body, "the coyotes already ate most of it. I'm just going to take about six hundred grams before it's all gone!" You sighed and led Thunder away from Gyro, looking out at the land around you all while Gyro cut out chunks of cow meat from the carcass.

Past the carcass, the once sparse trees became denser, filled with birch trees that all looked the same. You already knew that Gyro and Johnny would be asking for what direction you all would be heading in but with Iron Maiden still weak, you weren't sure how much help you would be. Plus, once Iron Maiden came back, your main priority was healing yourself and making sure you didn't keel over in the fourth stage.

"Yo, Speedwagon." You turned to see Gyro holding out a piece of meat for you to take, a larger piece of meat in his hands. His eyes flickered down to the bump in your side for a moment before looking back up at you, brows furrowed. You stared at him, blinking a few times at the piece of meat in front of you.

"Oh, um, thanks," you mumbled, taking the meat while peeking over at Johnny who looked at you from over his shoulder and then turned away. It was odd and for a moment, you debated getting rid of the meat, wary of the sudden kindness Gyro showed you.

"Don't worry, I didn't give you as much as I gave myself. You don't want to gain more weight, right?" You bit your tongue, glaring at Gyro from beneath the brim of your hat. That was it, you were leaving them. You didn't need to deal with any more of their bullshit. Once Iron Maiden came back, you'd heal yourself up.

"Right." You pulled Thunderstruck away from them, leading Thunder right past Johnny. You dropped the meat into his lap, ignoring his shouting that came immediately after. Gyro didn't seem too pleased either, grimacing at you as you led Thunder into the dense birch forest.

"What the hell was that for?!" Johnny screeched, following after you as Gyro followed behind. You rolled your eyes and continued forward, not bothering to answer him. Johnny kept persisting though, failing to whisper to Gyro about "how much of a bitch" you were.

"Figured you needed it more than me," you grumbled, looking over your shoulders to point at him, "you need the strength don't you?" Johnny glowered, scoffing as he sat back on his saddle with his arms crossed over his chest. You turned away to lead Thunder slowly down the path, only to spot a glimpse of hot pink. In the midst of greens and off-whites of the trees, it wasn't hard to see it, heading straight for you all.

"Gyro... look, it's him. He's coming this way," Johnny called from behind you, unzipping his bag to pull out a set of binoculars to look through the trees. You all continued forward until you reached a clearing in the trees, finally able to see a man in pink heading your way.

"What the hell does he want? Is anybody with him?"

"He's a lone wolf. He's currently got 155 points and is ranked third. An American... His age and real name are unknown, as well as any other information about him."

"Hah, so like Speedwagon."

You scoffed.

"He's on a good horse. He's also no hillbilly, judging by the way he carries himself."

"What should we do? Talk to him?"

"No... just ignore him."

You didn't make any effort to move for the sake of your wound and for your safety, still unsure of what this man was going to do. Johnny and Gyro were on either side of you, Johnny staring at him through binoculars for a moment before dropping them to his lap. It was odd not being behind them both rather than beside them but you didn't bother to move. Right now, the man coming towards you all was more important.

It was silent save for the rustling of leaves in the trees all the while the man grew closer, finally allowing you to make out his features. He had hot pink hair that ended at his chin in a straight edge. His clothes were adorned with gold pins and tufts of black fur that contrasted beautifully against the pink of his clothes. Although Johnny had said the man was American, you couldn't help but think he was foreign. He looked far too elegant.

Suddenly, he pulled out a rope, or rather three ropes, and threw them all over a branch that sat between him and the three of you. The second the three ropes hung in front of you, you realized that they were nooses not just loops of rope. You froze, paralyzed with a mix of fear and shock while the man sat back on his saddle, resting his arm behind him while he stared at you with no hint of an expression.

"Good day to you all. Let's skip the chit-chat and get to the point. I will now hang you all from this tree," the man stated matter-of-factly, scanning over the three of you. You didn't move at all but neither did Johnny and Gyro, albeit definitely for other reasons rather than pure fear.

"You ate my cow, didn't you? It was a cow that I paid for in advance to be grazing on this course. The penalty for cow theft is to be hanged. Put those ropes around your necks. That is the law in this place. There's no need for a trial," the man declared as he lifted the blue saddle cloth under his saddle to reveal the same brand that had been on the cow.

"Oh! That brand!" Gyro blurted, getting a stern look from Johnny. You grimaced— had Gyro not said anything, there may have been a chance of him getting away with it. Not that it mattered anymore.

"Ho- Hold on! I don't know the laws of this country too well, and..." Gyro's backtracking didn't help one bit and before you knew it, the man was heading straight toward Gyro. You leaned back, pulling Thunder away as Gyro grabbed his steel ball, getting ready to throw it until a beige-colored substance shot out of the man's lighter, hitting his hand and face. You took a sharp breath as it spread across his eyes, blinding him as he yelled.

"HOT PANTS! HE'S A STAND USER!"

[isabelasfriendfiction]

A Case of the Chills

Not me posting writing for the first time in 4 years?! I'd like to introduce you to some of the characters from my primary D&D campaign over the last few years. Finch is my tiefling arcane trickster rogue, Donahue is @brick-brooke's half-elf hexblade warlock, and Opal is another friend's dragonborn twilight cleric. More info on these characters can always be found on my main blog, @alistairweekend. The AO3 version of this includes art by Opal's player!

{ao3 link}

Finch was actually disappointed when her watch ended and she had to leave the soft warmth of the fire. After decades of living in a temperature-controlled palace and then several months in the tropical city of Kovali, adjusting to the temperate forest the Society for the Preservation of Fill found themselves in was proving a far larger problem than anticipated. Frankly, the situation baffled Finch. It wasn’t as if her clothing lacked, or there weren’t enough blankets, and by all accounts she ran warmer than most. Something about this forest just gave her the chills... literally.

As she exited the campfire’s embrace, Cricket landed on Finch’s shoulder and snuggled into the crook of her neck. “You cold too, buddy?” she murmured, reaching up to scratch the little faerie dragon’s head. Maybe she’d ask everyone in the morning how they were feeling.

She ducked into her tent and, taking care to avoid the two lumps that were Donahue and Opal, swiftly burrowed into the blankets of her spot in the middle. Cold. Of course. She gritted her teeth to try and prevent herself from shivering, holding on to the fact that the blankets should trap her body heat soon.

Minutes passed. And passed. Finch shifted, hoping finding a comfortable position would solve the issue, but she remained conscious. It was still just cold enough to be uncomfortable. Frustration bubbled in her chest.

At one point Finch heard rustling blankets as if in response to her movement. She stilled herself. “Donahue?” she whispered. “You up?”

No response. Finch let out an audible exhale through her nose. Then Cricket’s head poked out of the blankets, and he wriggled out to nimbly flit to the person on Finch’s left, an action rewarded with a grunt.

Finch rolled on to her side to face towards Donahue, who was nothing more than a mound of blankets with a faery dragon on top, nipping at the strands of blue hair sticking out. “So you are awake.”

“Maybe so,” he grumbled. “I’d like to not be, though.”

“Did I wake you up?”

He seemed to think about it. “...Yes.”

“Liar!” Finch hissed, propping herself up on an elbow and using her other arm to smack the blanket lump with her pillow. She immediately regretted the frigid air allowed to touch her skin at doing so, however, and gasped. “Gods, it’s fucking freezing. Are you cold?”

It was barely audible, but Finch made out a sigh from Donahue. “Yeah.” A moment passed, then he shifted to finally reveal his head. Cricket quietly trilled in delight and wasted no time in squeezing under the blankets, poking his head out right underneath Donahue’s chin. Donahue paid no mind and raised an eyebrow. “Wait, you’re cold?”

Finch pouted. “I know. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m starting to think it isn’t natural. It’s why I’m still up.”

Donahue’s demeanor seemed to sharpen into something more serious. “When was the last time you actually slept?”

“Technically, I don’t ‘sleep,’” Finch said, gesturing at her long elven ears.

Donahue scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Two can play at that. Neither do I.” He also waved a hand at his own tapered ears. “You know what I mean.”

Finch poked her tongue out at him but relented. “I was able to rest last night.”

“Ah. Lucky.”

“Oh? When did you last sleep?”

“Mind your own business.”

“Really? You’re gonna ask me and then say it’s none of my business to ask you the same thing, bitch?”

Donahue looked like he wanted to retort again, but his body betrayed him by making yawn, which he tried to stifle. “Ugh, fine. Two days ago.” Now that he said it, Finch did notice the dark circles under his eyes, even in the limited lighting. And he had seemed more tired than usual during the day, which was saying something.

“This is bad.” Finch put a hand to her face. “Especially if the others aren’t sleeping either. Though Opal seems fine...” She glanced to the right at their dragonborn companion, much more sprawled out than either of the blanket cocoons Finch and Donahue had made.

“Well, she’s a white dragonborn,” Donahue reasoned, “So she probably has way more resilience to cold than anyone else...”

“Mmmwha?” Opal suddenly mumbled drowsily, causing both Finch and Donahue to go wide-eyed and tense. Just as Finch was ready to believe she’d gone back to sleep, she spoke again, somewhat slurred: “You guys talkin’?”

“Sorry, Opal,” Donahue said, slightly above a whisper this time. “Go back to sleep. We’ll try to be quieter.”

Opal raised her head and rubbed her eyes, blinking a few times at them. The blonde fur tufts along her head and neck stuck out at wild angles. “You both aren’t sleeping?”

“Too cold,” Finch explained.

“That’s no good.” Opal’s brow furrowed as though thinking hard, though she was clearly still three-quarters asleep. “All right, everybody c’mere.”

Opal leaned forward, and suddenly blankets were being shifted and rearranged to the sounds of Finch and Donahue’s confusion and protest. When she was finished, all three of them were under the same pile of bedding. Finch found herself sandwiched between Opal and Donahue, not quite touching but still much closer than before, and she felt her face heat up. “I-Is this really necessary?”

“Warmer now, right?” Opal sounded entirely too pleased with herself. She stretched her neck out, which was just long enough to position her head right above Donahue’s. Cricket seemed thrilled by the new arrangement, settling in between Finch and Donahue’s shoulders.

Donahue had been incredibly tense, but slowly relaxed, if only a little. “Whatever. If it’ll help us sleep...”

“This is so embarrassing,” Finch groaned. “Nobody learns about this, got it?”

Donahue sighed and nodded, but Finch had more been asking Opal. Judging from the lack of response and steady breathing, however, she had already fallen back asleep. How did she do that so quickly?

Now Finch found herself worried about not sleeping for an entirely different reason. She had never shared a bed with anyone before, and was entirely too aware of both of her companions’ presences. She became acutely aware of the fact that any shifting she did could disturb them. But as the minutes ticked by, Opal was, to Finch’s chagrin, proven correct as the remaining chill faded away and her eyes fluttered shut.

[7r0773r]

Late Wife by Claudia Emerson

Natural History Exhibits

I. Sometimes they used the hoe, or the dull blade of a shovel, a stick of firewood, sometimes the handle of the broom. I grew up around women who would kill any snake, never mind what the men said about moles and mice, about markings or the shape of the head— the good ones, harmless. Draping the body over a low branch, my mother would claim, still breathless from the killing, rain, this will bring rain.

II. In this city's museum, beyond the rooms of taxidermy, past the lit cases of arrowheads and spearpoints, snakes are kept in bright glass cells— a whole wall of them, a live mural glistening, changing — the harmless by the deadly. I recognize without reading the sign the black rat snake; I know already that it kills not by sudden poison but wraps itself instead around its prey, then tightens that embrace until it feels the fear leave with the struggle, then the breath— until the constricted heart grows still.

III. It had to have come up from the cool underbelly of the first old house we rented, climbing pipes like branches to make a nest of the rusty sink-cabinet drawer where I kept the silverware. I opened it, and the snake lay coiled, brooding on its bed of edges —blades and tines— the hard bone handles, a wedding gift from my mother's aunt. The snake never raised its head. I hesitated, then eased shut the drawer. Later, I would wash every fork, spoon, and knife— and set the table.

IV. I know now I should have killed the snake and hung its long body as straight in death as the glistening barrel of a gun. I was young, new in my marriage-bed, but regret was al- ready sunk sharp in me. Like any blade, it would grow dull slowly. The wound would heal around it until its absence would cause the greater pain. A good story, though, how I let the snake escape, drain back into the house, and for years I told at that same table what I had to tell, how it disappeared the way it came.

***

Chimney Fire

I learned to dread winter early, before fall showed any real sign of itself, the world still filled

with locusts, crickets, bees in the boneset, ashen moths quickening the dusk. Then around the time the hickory nuts

began to fall— the tree far larger than the house and fertile with sharp husks that struck, and struck again, startling

the tin roof and me beneath it— I began to dread as well the silence I knew would come yoked

to the cold. By then, you'd cut and stacked the wood, cleaned out the stove. In late afternoons, we scoured

the undergrowth for fatwood—skeletal sap for lighting the fire you rarely let go out. Every night you'd close

the stove down tight before we went upstairs, and the meager heat from that slow burn might keep the pipes

from freezing, but it wouldn't reach the bedroom where we slept beneath layers leaden as water that would not

float me, dense as mud beneath that water. In the morning, all our breathing had turned to ice,

blooming like white lichen on the insides of the windowpanes. One night, one winter, nearing spring, the fire would not

be kept; the chimney caught it, and we watched, heard it pour up into the tree the fire would have consumed

with the house, if it had burned much longer. But slowly the flames turned back, receded to the familiar—rise of smoke, banked coals,

my eyes, my mouth filled with ashes.

***

Pitching Horseshoes

Some of your buddies might come around for a couple of beers and a game, but most evenings, you pitched horseshoes

alone. I washed up the dishes or watered the garden to the thudding sound of the horseshoe in the pit,

or the practiced ring of metal against metal, after the silent arc-end over end. That last

summer, you played a seamless, unscored game against yourself. Or night falling. Or coming in the house.

You were good at it. From the porch I watched you become shadowless, then featureless, until I knew

you couldn't see either, and still the dusk rang out, your aim that easy; between the iron stakes you had driven

into the hard earth yourself, you paced back and forth as if there were a decision to make, and you were the one to make it.

***

Frame

Most of the things you made for me—armless rocker, blanket chest, lap desk—I gave away to friends who could use them and not be reminded of the hours lost there, the tedious finishes.

But I did keep the mirror, perhaps because like all mirrors, most of these years it has been invisible, part of the wall, or defined by reflection—safe—because reflection,

after all, does change. I hung it here in the front, dark hallway of this house you will never see, so that it might magnify the meager light, become a lesser, backward

window. No one pauses long before it. This morning, though, as I put on my coat, straightened my hair, I saw outside my face its frame you made for me, admiring for the first

time the way the cherry you cut and planed yourself had darkened, just as you said it would.

***

Second Bearing, 1919

for my father

I have asked him to tell it—how he heard the curing barn took hours

to burn, the logs thick, accustomed to heat—how, even when it was clear all

was lost, the barn and the tobacco fields within it, they threw water

instead on the nearby peach tree, intent on saving something, sure,

though, the heat had killed it, the bark charred black. But in late fall, the tree

broke into bloom, perhaps having misunderstood the fire to be

some brief, backward winter. Blossoms whitened, opened. Peaches appeared

against the season—an answer, an argument. Word carried. People

claimed the fruit was sweeter for being out of time. They rode miles to see it.

He remembers my grandfather saying, his mouth full, this is

a sign, and the one my father was given to eat— the down the same,

soft as any other, inside the color of cream, juice clear

as water, but wait, wait; he holds his cupped hand up as though for me

to see again there is no seed, no pit to come to—that it is

infertile, and endless somehow.

[steed-of-waloed]

"I wasn't going to just leave you there. If you were any other man, mayhap...but as I've told you before. I like you. You're special~" He purred, giving the scouts face a caress before yawning softly and cuddling up against him with a sleepy sigh.

All of this had been quite fun but truly he was exhausted. That and Gav made a good pillow~ Sleipnir would coil his arms around his scout and let his eyes close with a flutter of charcoal lashes. "Hmm...I'm sure he won't mind. Mayhap he might even reward you for protecting his finest steed~"

With a mischievous giggle he was soon drifting off to sleep, falling quickly into a much needed deep slumber.

Night would soon paint the forest sky dark and soon all that could be heard were the gentle coo of wild beast in the distance, crickets, the crackle of fire and Sleipnir's own soft breathing against Gav's neck as he slept peacefully against him, curled at his side. Color too returned to his cheeks as he rested, no longer so pale or sweaty.

Gav was quick to set up the fire, knowing that a chill would settle in as the sun disappeared. Once he was satisfied, he gaze back at Harbard with a smirk, taking up the offer to sit beside the other.

For once, the scout was oddly calm about the situation. Normally, he would take the opportunity to put distance between him and the commander, and while the steed would prove to be insufferable at times, it was quiet moments like this when Gav would start to question his motives.

He turned his gaze with Harbard with a raised eyebrow. "I was just doing my part. Nothing to really thank me for..."

A soft laugh escaped him. "Aye, lucky me," he muttered, lifting his gaze toward the sky. He spotted a few stars, but it wasn't completely dark enough to see all of them just yet. He then thought back to the moment of flight, trying to capture the view within his mind's eye.

"I think I'm fine with keeping my feet on the ground." He turned his gaze back to Harbard, his expression softening a touch. "Wouldn't want your rider thinking I'm trying to steal you away. But...thank you for trusting me anyway."