#tiny dark deeds

[books1311]

November reads. 😊

[aroacettorney]

in a way, ludger is an iconic example of "irredeemable" characters, as in those who cannot be fixed and not because they are throughly evil but because they stubbornly reject / give up on every chance and opportunity to better themselves.

in ludger's case specifically, his irredeemability is a self-fulfilling prophecy because he is constantly trapped in the loop of believing that he doesn't deserve to get better.

[kumkaniudaku]

Creatures of The Night

Summary: Stack meets his match on a return trip home.

Pairing: Elias 'Stack' Moore x Black!Fem OC

Warnings: Smut (18+)

Word Count: 3,779

As much as Mississippi had changed, it was still the same. Vast rolling plains of farmland tilled by rough, Black and brown hands still carried the stench of oppression thought to be a relic of a different time. Poverty still touched communities loudly crying out for relief. Generations of families still lived in shotgun houses and small brick dwellings passed down from faces they'd only ever seen in photo frames grouped together on tiny altars as reverence for their tireless sacrifice. And, deep in the darkest parts of the city, when the sun went down and the moon illuminated deeds hidden in the light for decency's sake, a hole-in-the-wall establishment made room for all sorts of devils and demons to enjoy themselves in the dead of night. 

Beneath bright lights and a thick, impenetrable haze of sour weed smoke, Stack sat perched at the bar, sipping dark brown poison to mimic patrons around him. He hadn't had much taste for the stuff since the '30s, but it brought him comfort. The jitters of being so close to home were enough to stoke the flames of nervousness he thought he'd long relinquished to the past. He'd tried several times to go from Jackson to Clarksdale, pay his respects to loved ones lost, and disappear until the next time the supernatural pull of days past whispered for him to return. But something about the spruced-up warehouse fitted with leather couches bunched around small tables and platforms sporting chrome poles nearly touching the ceiling had a hold on him. Or rather someone.

She moved like water. Fluid and calming, capturing Stack's attention with minimal effort. Sable skin illuminated under blue neon reminded him of the young woman from the film he'd financed years back. Hip-hop was still nonsensical and watered down trash in his mind, but involvement had it's benefits – club environments, glitz, glamor, fame, fortune, and an endless supply of thick skulled idiots willing to do whatever necessary to live a life of fleeting pleasures forever. Then her. A beauty beyond compare, acting as a siren calling him to destruction on troubled seas. 

Stack's first visit to Dreams was by accident. The low rumble of bass knocking so hard against the wall he thought the doors might blow open from the force sucked him into a vortex he couldn't escape. An unexplained magnetism knocked him off his path and past a long line of patrons hoping for a few hours of illicit fun. A couple dollars, slick talk, and a kind request for entry helped him past unfriendly looking security and into a world in and of itself. And there she was. Walking through the crowd in white lace, leaving little to the imagination with a switch in her hips beguiling enough to earn his attention well into the wee hours of the morning. 

Lily is what the DJ called her from his booth alongside the stage. Fitting. In a room full of miscreants and hoodlums, she seemed like too perfect a flower for a place like this.

Night one, Stack only watched. Behind dark lenses in an even darker corner of the room, he gathered information like a student studying a master at work. Glossed lips curled into a smile, flashing bright white teeth at every man she encountered. While she spoke them into a slurring, lust-drunk stupor, they handed over wads of cash surely meant to take care of a family at home. A talker. Stack liked that. 

The second night, when he'd had some liquid courage, and the crowd was thin for a Thursday night, he noticed her already noticing him from her throne on stage. Every twirl around the pole produced an opportunity for intense eye contact lasting the full duration of her performance to Juvenille's 'Slow Motion.' As the song wound to a close, Lily left him with a wink, fluttering long lashes as her fingers wiggled a greeting in his direction. Stack never saw her again that night. But he felt her. She'd imprinted herself on his brain and all but dared him to stay in Jackson another night. 

Friday night, with nightcrawlers from far and wide filling every corner of the club, Lily and Stack made first contact. 

"Why you be in here by yourself?" Lily's down home alto came in loud over T-Pain's voice while Stack took sips of poor quality bourbon. 

A slow smile crept across his face. "Chillin'. I ain't from here." 

"You sound like you from here." When her veiled question induced little more than a chuckle, Lily tried a more forward approach. "Where you from then? You one of them rap niggas from Memphis?" 

Ever perceptive, Lily saw Stack's chains and rings the moment her suitor walked into the club earlier in the week. If he wasn't a rapper, he sold drugs. Either one worked just fine for her. Income was income, illegal or otherwise. She couldn't care less if she could put a few of his dollars into her pocket by the end of the night.

"Nah. From up the road a little bit." Stack's intentional lack of information made Lily smile as she nodded. 

No need for details. She knew less about other patrons, but that never stopped them from pouring 10s, 20s, and 50s into her g-string like water from the tap. "I can sit down?"

Lily teased a smile, hoping her charm would be enough for Stack to grant access to the castle he'd made for himself. He didn't answer with words. A half smile and a gesture toward the spot beside him was enough of an invitation. 

Sliding herself against worn leather, Lily tested the waters by scooting within an inch of his thigh. When no objection came, she deliberately caressed his knee with hers and leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table. 

"Where your ol' lady at?" Surely, there was a missus in the picture. 

Stack chuckled. "Your guess good as mine. Ain't seen her in a few years," he answered before taking another sip. A partial truth couldn't hurt. He knew where Mary had gone. It just hurt too much to say it. "Where your man?" 

"Your guess good as mine." Mirrored cheeky grins spread across their faces in tandem. Stack fought hard to keep the full spread of his lips at bay, hoping to conceal the true nature of his identity. Lily pretended not to take notice of the canines calling for her attention, preferring to live in the fantasy Dreams offered everyone who walked through the door. Lily scooched closer. "What's your name?" 

A name. The question caught Stack off guard. In all his travels, he had no problem proudly alerting anyone who asked that they were speaking to the last of the Smokestack twins. But here, so close to home and the fables that seemed to stick no matter the decade, too much information could crack the seal on problems kept bottled since he fled years ago. 

Stack took another sip to bide his time before setting the glass on the table and answering. "Eli. Yours?" 

"You know my name. Rico call it a hundred times every night. Much as you been in here, you had to have heard it by now." 

"So, you been keepin' tabs on me?" 

"I keep tabs on a lot of people. 'Specially the ones like you," she smiled, showing a gold framed tooth of her own. Without breaking eye contact, Lily reached for Stack's glass and pulled it closer to her side of the booth. 

He watched her with keen focus, noting how her lips parted slowly to invite a healthy sip of alcohol. Each swallow made her throat bob seductively as a subtle mating call that he couldn't leave unnoticed. A master at her craft. Stack couldn't help but admire the work, even if it was at his expense. 

When she slid the empty glass back over to him, Stack licked his lips to stop the trickle of saliva attempting to escape. "That wasn't free, baby girl." 

"Say my name right, Eli." Lily's sing-song command made Stack's stomach clench from arousal as her fingernails danced up his thigh beneath the table

He sat up straight and threw an arm over the top of the booth for stability. "That wasn't free, Lily," he corrected. "You owe me." 

"I always pay my debts. Come see me tomorrow, hm?" 

"What about tonight?" An eager inquiry, but he couldn't promise another day. Stack had to get moving. 

Lily opened her mouth to speak, preparing to offer a rebuttal, but found herself cut off by Rico from the DJ booth. 

"Y'all ready for Lily to come back to the stage?" 

Of course, they were. She was the biggest draw in town. Chatting up the secretive stranger on his third consecutive visit couldn't supersede getting to the money. 

Rolling her eyes, Lily began to exit the little corner of desire they'd built together. "Tomorrow. Come 'round three in the morning. I got something for you in the back."

"Y'all close at two," Stack countered, trying to snuff out Lily's endgame. 

"That's just what the police say. We open as long as the money comin' in." Finally free from the booth, Lily made a show of adjusting her all-white outfit and smiled. "Three o'clock. I keep my word, Eli. You just worry about gettin' here." 

Stack didn't intend to stay in Jackson, Mississippi another night. He had plans – moves to make, gravesites to visit, offerings to leave for souls long passed on. October 16th had come and gone with him shirking responsibility in the name of cheap thrills and a beautiful woman. In over 70 years, he still hadn't learned his lesson. 

At the worn-in bar, perched on a barstool with another glass of bottom-shelf bourbon in his hands, Stack watched the digital clock behind the bartender tick to the top of the hour. He didn't have much time. 'Get in and get out,' he coached himself as he adjusted the Michael Vick jersey on his shoulders and centered the Jesus piece on his chain. 

Sure enough, Dreams was still jumping with no end in sight. Stack's eyes slowly scanned the room behind his sunglasses, hoping for any sign of his target. Familiar urges tingled the base of his spine, begging for the green light to taste the focus of his desires. Turning Lily was a new development. Longing for a partner to walk alongside him in the curse known as eternal life hadn't left him since Mary's untimely demise. Lily fit the bill just right. She didn't need to continue showing herself for money. He'd take all that away and replace it with even greater riches if he could get her alone for a conversation.

As he searched high and low for his prize, a set of fingers danced up Stack's back before lips caressed the shell of his ear. "Welcome back, Eli. Follow me." 

Simple instructions and chills manifesting all over his warm skin convinced Stack to follow the long-legged beauty through the throng of thrashing bodies and past a thick velvet curtain partitioning an area reserved for more private encounters. 

Blue lights were no more. In the quiet of backrooms sparsely populated with men willing to spend a little extra dough and dancers intent on milking them for more, red lights tinted everyone's skin into a hue reminiscent of Satan in his imagined form. 

Stack tried to mind his business as Lily tugged him along to the room at the end of the hallway. From the corner of his eye, he swore he saw a man's eyes roll back into his skull, mouth hung open in an unexplained trance while a young light-skinned woman whispered into his ear. There wasn't much time for Stack to make sense of what his mind had conjured. A second attempt at peering past the thick tinted glass was robbed just as Lily pulled him into their soundproof hideout. 

Low lights and black padded walls shielded the pair from outside influences trying to force their way into their fortress. Stack ran his fingers along the soft fabric, wondering just how effective it was at keeping all sorts of sounds from leaking out to the public. 

"You gon' sit down, or you came to do a dust inspection? Whatever you find, make sure you talk to Varis about all that." Lily's attempt at a joke received a cool, closed-mouth smile as Stack studied her body from head to toe. She pointed to the couch spanning the length of the room's back wall. "Sit down. It's me and you now." 

Good. The less prying eyes and intrusions, the better. 

Lily watched Stack take measured steps to the back of the room, studying the swagger in his walk and where his wallet bulged in his back pocket. Most men came with all they could spare without being caught by wives concerned about dwindling cash flow. Eli was different. Money seemed expendable to him. A real spend some and make it all back type. Perfect. 

A sure heel-to-toe strut carried Lily across the room to a decanter full of dark liquid and a pair of glasses resting on an empty bar cart. Stack watched her pour from the glass container, looking for something to comfort him in an unfamiliar predicament. He felt a rush of unexplained wind whip past his ear as a shiver manifested in his fingers. 

"Why's it so cold in here?" Stack questioned as Lily walked the drink over to him. 

She smiled but withheld her answer until she'd stopped her journey to stand between his legs. "When it's warm," she started with her arm extended to hand over his beverage. "Things get too soft. Ice cream, butter…" Once her hand was free, Lily eased her way into Stack's lap to plant her knees beside his hips. "Nipples. Dicks. You don't wanna go soft, do you, Eli? What we gon' do with that?" 

Lily's warm tongue tracing figure eights against the spot under Stack's left ear trapped a sound in his throat, leaving his body to betray his thoughts. Lily felt the quick contraction and release of his muscles, but remained committed to her task. 

"You should take a sip," Lily suggested as she switched sides to give Stack's other ear attention. "I owe you, remember?" 

Stack considered the advice, taking a slow look at the unfamiliar elixir. He'd learned a lot of lessons in all his years. Never trust a man saying 'trust me,' mind the business that pays you, and only drink the troubles you pour yourself. Lily embodied all things beautiful in the world, but wasn't that fine. A principled man was a man too difficult to manipulate. His brother taught him that. 

Stack took a second look at the glass and ultimately shook his head. "I'm good, baby. Trynna remember this one. Maybe next time." 

"Suit yourself." Her nonchalant nature almost made Stack change his mind and take a swig just for the taste. It couldn't hurt too bad. 

But, just as soon as he'd rejected her offering, Lily had pulled the cup from his hand and set it aside. 

Kisses against the throbbing vein counting each heartbeat disarmed Stack's guard and senses better than any drink or pull of cigarette ever could. A pretty face and the spark of danger were still his weaknesses. He'd battled for years to overcome the sinister draw of a woman's treasure, even going so far as to plan and follow through on a sham of a wedding in Las Vegas. He and Mary knew it wouldn't work, but it felt good. Being joined to each other by loose legal documents and cheap rings plucked from a sleazy jewelry store just before a chapel with only the spirits of loved ones there to witness their union felt right.

He wondered how Mary might feel now, knowing he'd fallen back into old habits instead of mourning her like a husband was supposed to. He'd slipped so deep into thought that he didn't register Lily's hands sliding into the front of his jeans until her fingertips grazed his shaft. 

"Can I repay you," she whispered against the scar on his neck. "You wouldn't take my drink. At least enjoy what the private room was made for." 

Stack let his heavy eyelids flutter closed and released a deep breath. "We ain't 'posed to touch back here, ain't it?" 

"I do what I want. Don't worry about the rules when you with me."

"You don't wanna turn on some music, at least? Can't be that quiet in here," Stack questioned, still trying to gauge their true level of privacy. 

Lily smiled against his neck. "Nope. Let 'em hear." 

Deft fingers and a delicate palm freed Stack's member from the confines of cotton and stiff denim, giving it room to stand proud between them. They watched together as she closed her hand around it and began to stroke. 

"Looks like the cold is helping, hm?"

"Fuck," Stack whispered into the ether. Her skin felt like fine silk enclosed around the part of him that ached for touch the most. He'd lost the battle. The only hope for redemption was to finish with his mind intact and leave Jackson, Mississippi without looking back. 

Slow kisses stole the last modicum of focus Stack had left. "You like that," Lily questioned in her seductive timbre. A murmured 'mhm' spurred her forward. "I wanna show you something else." 

Stack wished he would've asked Lily to elaborate. Maybe he would've given himself more time to prepare for her mouth to envelop him in a warm embrace. His hips jolted upward, pressing his tip to the back of her throat and receiving a soft gag as his thank you for a job well done. 

Pleasures belonging to another time flooded Stack's entire nervous system. He flew through boyhood, when fooling around with Mary was new and exciting. The audible slurp from saliva escaping the corners of Lily's lips took him back to a woman in Chicago sneaking to be with him when her husband chose to turn his attention to business and away from matters of the home. There was the time he'd snuck into the French Quarter, freshly turned and searching for a body to claim. Remembering her name would take too much of his rapidly diminishing brain power, but he'd never forget that pretty face and how she seemed to welcome his fangs sinking into her skin. Stack always wondered what happened to her and if she fared well after the turn set in. His mind tried to drift to something, anything to ward off his incoming completion, but each mental swipe through his memory's Rolodex became infiltrated by Lily as she pulled her mouth away from his lap.

"Can I tell you somethin'?" Lily's question barely registered as Stack curled his fingers against the couch. She kept her hands busy, smiling to herself while she watched his eyes roll into his skull. "I'm sort of like you. Sometimes, when I want to feel like everybody else, I pretend. It's fun, you know? Keeps me goin' until the next time somethin' excitin' happens." 

Stack felt his body struggle to come back to baseline. Every alarm bell in his head rang at once, screaming for relief. No luck. He was at her mercy, eyes still rolling as release became imminent. He groaned for help that no one would hear. 

Lily chuckled and shook her head. "I almost wish you wouldn't have come back. That's why I ignored you that first night. They still tell stories about Elijah and Elias Moore to this day, but I didn't believe 'em. Motherfuckers lie around here. Too much time on they hands." Balls tightening in her free hand while she continued to get him off signaled an approaching end as Stack attempted to will himself free of her clutches to no avail. Lily continued. "Them biblical names somethin', ain't they? Seem like the most evil people in the world named after somebody in the good book. Your brother, your old girl, you…" Lily trailed off before bringing her eyes up to meet her victim's face. "I didn't quite make the cut. Lilith still has a nice ring to it, though, right? It's memorable." 

The feeling of being watched, the magnetic pull, the men in a trance and passing out money like candy – it all came rushing back to Stack as he felt his body weaken with every quickening stroke. Succubus. Tales of their existence always sounded like more myth than tangible reality. Smoke chalked each story up to weak-minded men looking for someone to blame for their lack of focus and restraint. Stack thought it might be fun for a beautiful woman to use him as a sexual object for a night but sided with the wisdom of his older brother. He never expected to find out. But lust had won again. His fatal flaw had lured him to the edge of death once more.

Stack opened his mouth wider, trying to scream with no sound reaching the atmosphere. It wouldn't matter anyway. No one was coming. He wouldn't be saved. The witching hour had overpowered him a second time. 

"It's almost over, baby. Be good for me," Lily taunted, her eyes darkening as her once dazzling smile curled into something more sinister. 

Climax felt like a slow death. Stack prayed for something quick. An instant draining of his life force to make the misery worth it. He'd reunite with the ones who loved him on the other side. Unfortunately, natural deaths full of promise and peace no longer had a place. A second curse had been levied upon him. A forever damning to serve as the source of life for another immortal being until he served no purpose and could be discarded like waste on the highway. 

With her mouth back to work, Lily welcomed every drop of semen onto her tongue like a dog lapping for water in the hot sun. She'd been waiting for someone like Elias. Someone to provide an endless treasure trove of what lesser men provided in feeble quantities. Forever had come to her with little effort. What a gift with a beautiful host to sweeten the deal. 

When he was empty and heaving for a break, Lily relished in the slow creep of euphoria consuming her from within. Stack remained frozen, eyes wide with fear and his jaw slack. 

Nuzzling her face against his thigh like a feline does her trusted companion, Lily smiled with traces of her trophy still coating her lips. 

"Welcome back to Mississippi, Elias. Stick around this time, won't you?" 

------

No tags. Enjoy the one off! For now, at least.

[floatyflowers]

Dark Single Father! Male Faerie x Reader

The air of the forest hung heavy with the scent of damp grass and pine, a blissful eerie sound of rustling leaves and nightly creatures adding to the forest's beauty.

You had heard the warnings about wandering too far into the woods, especially at night, but you needed to collect herbs for your child who suddenly got sick in the middle of the night.

And your empty jars of herbs forced you to wander far into the forest.

A journey you had to undertake alone due to your husband being an awful, useless man who never showed support in maintaining your household and instead shirked his responsibilities, leaving you to bear the burden.

That night, as you stepped over twisted roots and through patches of glowing mushrooms, you felt the air shift

A strange hum echoes through the air, raising goosebumps on your skin and sending a shiver down your spine.

It seemed to emanate from the woods around you, growing louder with each passing second.  

Before you could turn back, a shadow detached itself from the darkness beneath the trees.

It moved with an unnatural swiftness and silence, gliding over the forest floor like a phantom.

Then, two points of eerie light ignited within the shadow, piercing the gloom like malevolent stars.

They locked onto yours, holding you captive in their unwavering gaze.

The last thing to register in your terrified mind was the faint sound of laughter echoing through the trees, a chilling notable contrast to the frantic beating of your heart.

                              𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊

Your eyelids fluttered open, and you found yourself in a room that seemed to defy logic.

The walls shimmered as if woven from starlight, and the air carried a faint, sweet scent of flowers.

But what truly caught your attention was the weight on your chest.

You looked down, your breath catching in your throat. Nestled against your chest, swaddled in a blanket of silken gossamer, was a baby.

Their skin glowed faintly, and tiny, delicate wings, translucent and shimmering, rested against their back.

The child slept peacefully, their tiny fingers curled around the fabric of your dress.

Your heart swelled with an inexplicable tenderness.

Despite the baby being of a different species, their innocence and vulnerability reminded you of your own son.                      

Before you could fully process the situation, you felt a presence in the room.

Your eyes snapped up, and there he was. The figure from the forest.

His dark green eyes watched you intently, and his expression was unreadable, a mask of calm that only deepened your unease.

"You’re awake," he said, his voice low and smooth, holding an enchanting effect on your ears.

It was not a question, but a statement, as if he had been waiting for this moment.

You tightened your hold on the baby instinctively, your voice trembling as you spoke.

"Where am I? Who are you? And why… why is this child with me?"

He stepped closer, his movements filled with grace, like a predator circling its prey.

Yet, there was something in his gaze something that softened the edges of his intimidating presence.

"You are in my realm," he said simply.

"I am Cathal, lord of the Seelie court. And the child… she is mine, her name is Gwen"

Your breath hitched at his words, knowing very well that Faeries are horrid creatures due to their mischievous and cruel behavior towards humans like you.

Their wild nature made them unpredictable, and their magic, while beautiful, is used for wicked deeds that brought harm to unsuspecting mortals.

The baby, his daughter, stirred slightly in your arms, her tiny wings fluttering before she settled again.

You looked down at her, your heart aching with fear at what he might do to you.

"Why did you bring me here?"you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Kael’s gaze lingered on the child, his expression unreadable for a moment before he spoke.

"She needs a mother," he said, his voice tinged with something you couldn’t quite place.

"Her mother is gone. Dead, leaving me to raise her alone. But I can't take on that role."

"I have a child of my own, sick one that needs my care, I-"

"I know,” Cathal interrupted as his dark green eyes bore into yours, and for a moment, you felt like shrinking back into yourself.

“I have seen your struggles. I know of your child, your husband, I have been...watching for months."

"I don't care why you've been watching me," you forced out.

"I need to go back. My son needs me."

"I have sent someone to care for your child, but if you want to reunit with him, you will have to be the best mother to my Gwenn."

The Faerie Lord smirks mischeviously, as if he'd just delivered a particularly delightful jest.

"However," he continues, his voice turning sharp and cold,

"If I feel like you don't care for my daughter as you should, that you do not love her as fiercely and devotedly as you love your own son, I will have him killed. And not a quick death, either."

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

you’ll like it eventually

a/n: shout out to the booty lovers! this one goes out to you, babes!

summary: “remember, back in the basement, when we came up with that brilliant plan to draw at random who gets the honour of popping this cherry? Well, guess who the winner was.”

warnings: innocent!reader x frat!lloyd hansen, stepbro!steve rogers, smut, dark content, dubcon/noncon, college au, polyamory, corruption kink, pervy frat bros making y/n clean in a slutty maid outfit, kissing, clothed sex, dirty talk, size kink, manhandling, multiple orgasms, squirting, overstimulation, edging, orgasm denial, impact play, pain kink, spit kink, crying, dacryphilia, oral, fingering, pussyjob, anal, loss of anal virginity, painal, oops it just “slipped” in, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, just a bunch of unrealistic details about anal (like no prep or anything) but this is just porn so it's okay

word count: 2384

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

take her under your wing au masterlist | 101, intro to the au

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“Hmm… yep… I’ve had this dream before.”

Tearing your gaze away from the dusty shelf, you’d climbed up on a chair in order to wipe clean, you glanced down to spot the guy who’d appeared and promptly leaned back against the doorframe.

“Sorry, Lloyd. I thought I’d be done with your room before you got back,” you sucked in a breath at his presence.

“Not that I’m complaining, but why are you in here cleaning my room?” he then tried to sneak a peek up your skirt, “looking like a fucking pornstar and everything.”

You’d come to learn that there were very few things in life that you despised more than having the guys be mad at you. It had been a few weeks since the incident with the Gamma Sigma Zeta boys and the consequential slap over the wrist that you’d gotten afterwards, but your stepbrother and his friends had still not fully forgiven you yet, and you couldn’t stand it.

So therefore, in your desperation, you found yourself doing anything and everything under the sun to crawl your way back into their good graces.

This time, it had just started as a throwaway comment yesterday about how much the unorganised and messy state of the fraternity stressed you out, to Steve promptly suggesting that if you had such a problem with it, then you were more than welcome to do something about it yourself.

Now, what you hadn’t expected was the tiny maid’s outfit that he handed you as soon as you came to do the deed. It was dangerously short and black, with a little apron and dark stockings to match. He’d even demanded that you hand over your panties, rendering you to roam around the house completely exposed if you so much as shifted an inch.

You wanted to protest and throw it back in his face, you truly did, but if a little humiliation was what it took to get him to smile at you like he used to, then so be it. You could take it.

“I just–… wanted to do something nice for you all…” you ended up saying, instead of the long-winded explanation, in hopes that it would aid your case, “but the get-up wasn’t my idea, that was all Steve.”

“I know. He bought it last month after that beer pong tournament when he found you down in the kitchen, organising the pantry instead of partying like the rest of us.”

“Of course, he did…” you sighed as you finished cleaning the shelves and crawled back down from the chair. Shifting under his stare, your eyes briefly darted back to him as you muttered, “did you wanna be alone? I can come back and finish later, if you want.”

“No, no, you go ahead,” he pushed himself away from the doorframe and slipped further into his room, “do what you gotta do, I’ll just enjoy the show.”

Watching as he settled down into the chair by his desk, whirling it around in order to face you, a sharp breath then filled your lungs as his stare ate you up, “…right…”

And as you then began to strip his bed of the dirty sheets, the slick sounds of his fist shamelessly stroking his fat cock found your ears before you peeked back at him to see.

“You know, I’ve got something you can polish up real nice for me.”

“Oh, I bet you do… but I’m kinda busy right now–”

“Aren’t you losing your fucking mind?” he promptly cut you off, ignoring your words completely as your task made it impossible for him not to stare directly up your skirt at your bareness, “none of us have banged you since that little stunt you pulled and we all know you don’t know how to take care of business by yourself,” he chuckled condescendingly.  

“I’m okay,” you swiftly uttered before a lie rushed out past your lips, “I mean, yeah, I-I can’t do it by myself, I don’t know how yet, but I manage,” you fibbed, even though you hadn’t been able to stop making yourself cum, even since professor Richards gave you that little lesson a week prior.

“Well,” Lloyd then rose from his seat as he decided, “maybe you don’t have to just manage anymore…”

“What are you–,” twisting your neck, you cast a glance over your shoulder at him just before he kneeled down behind you and caught your hips. With your frame already bent over the mattress as you crawled to put on the fresh bedding, the frat boy barely had to do a thing to get his mouth on you, “oh my god…” you gasped as his insistent tongue swiftly parted your petals, though you still stayed cautious and rigid in his hold, “I-I thought you guys didn’t wanna–”

“The ban on not touching you lifted a whole week ago, it’s fine,” he muttered in between sloppy pecks as he began to bully your clit, “so what if the others are stubborn. Doesn’t this feel good?”

“Y-yeah,” your eyes promptly rolled as he suddenly took a detour and began to direct all of his focus on your other little hole, his tongue lapping at the little rosebud as if it was made of candy, “but–”

“No buts, don’t think about it,” his voice tickled your skin as he barely paused in order to talk, “just let me make you feel good, yeah?”

Peeking back at him, your fists curled in the sheets below as you couldn’t deny how fiercely you missed this, “…okay.”

Feeding himself on his obsession, Lloyd continued to eat you out, though mostly focused on that little untouched button of yours, till you were right about to cum.

But just as your thighs began to tremble and your eyes fluttered closed, his lips disappeared with a pop as he instead straightened up behind you, denying you of the ecstasy.

But just as you were about to complain, you glanced back to watch as he propped up a knee to rest on the edge of the mattress, his fingers enveloping the base of his dick before he tilted his hips and buried himself deep in your pussy in one fell stroke, greedily thrusting right past the tightness that had built back up over your brief patch of celibacy, and letting you simply huff and puff to try and take the sudden stretch.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this sweet little pussy of yours…” he groaned in your ear as he savoured the sensation a moment, the tip of his length nuzzling up against your cervix as he gently rolled his hips against your ass, before he reeled on back and snapped back in.

You were quick to scramble back to that sought after high, especially when Lloyd pounded your pussy like a man possessed. Though as you unravelled, the orgasm was so blinding that your cunt clenched down around his girth so severely that he was squeezed out completely. And as your cream now dripped from his thick cock, your body promptly flopped down to lay flat atop the bed.

Like a shadow, he followed you down. As his weight squished you further down into the softness, it also kept you in place as you began to squirm, the manner in which he didn’t hesitate to reach down to part your sensitive petals with his dick being nearly too overstimulating to bear.

But then as his movements grew sloppy, messily sweeping his hardness against you so crudely that he flicked all the way up to tickle against your puckered little asshole as well, soon a sharp stretch stung your senses and snapped you awake.

“Lloyd!” you gasped as the very tip of him breached, splitting open your virginal hole.  

“Sorry, it just slipped in,” he lied as if it had been an accident, “it’s your fault, you’re too fucking wet,” he argued, pointing out the obvious.

“Ow, pull it out!” you panted as the unfamiliar and sudden intrusion made you tremble beneath him, but to your horror, he didn’t so much as move an inch, “Lloyd, stop! Pull it out!” instead the cocky bastard just bullied his way in a tiny bit deeper, “what are you doing? You’re not supposed to–”

“What? Fuck your ass? Actually, I am,” he proudly stated before nipping at the back of your neck, making your poor fuckhole clench around him, “remember, back in the basement, when we came up with that brilliant plan to draw at random who gets the honour of popping this cherry? Well, guess who the winner was.”

“No, no…” you muttered into the bed as your face promptly scrunched up at the dizzying burn.

“Oh, yes,” he only chuckled as he slowly attempted to move, though his unhurried speed had nothing to do with kindness but everything to do with the innocence of your tight little hole, “and I know, I know I should have probably taken my time, prepped and worked you open over the course of an eternity, but you’re just so fucking hot, I couldn’t stop myself…” he drove his fat length in even deeper, making you squeak beneath him in protest. However, as he then murmured, “come on, you’re a good girl, you can take it…” your thoughts couldn’t help but drift to your dream that had pushed you to prance around the fraternity in a ridiculous outfit and clean the entire abode. Perhaps enduring this could do the trick, even though the ache of the unfamiliar stretch was nearly too much to bear, if that was what it took for everything to revert back to normal, then you’d sure as fuck lay there and take it.

Catching your quivering hands, Lloyd trapped them at the small of your back as he then tilted back and sat up a bit to let his glance catch sight of the way he broke you in, “oh my god, your little hole is so tight,” he briefly pulled all of the way out, just to watch how it winked back at him, “it just snaps right back into place,” his thumb drifted down to brush over the quivering rosebud, though only for a moment before he stuffed you full once again, “god… it’ll be fucked up by the time I’m done…”

And with your palms entangled by his grasp just over the curve of your bottom, it not only held you in place, but also kept you from reaching down to tickle your clit, something that might have made the whole process a bit smoother.

“Shh, it’s alright,” he cooed when he noticed the hot tears that soon began to stream down your cheeks, “tell me how it feels…”

“Hurts–,” you blubbered truthfully, though you tried your best to put on a brave face.

“Yeah? It hurts?” a grin lit up his features, “does it hurt?”

“Mhm,” a faint nod found your head.

“Well, that’s okay, baby. You’re doing so great,” his free hand came down to palm at your butt, kneading the cheeks and pulling them apart, “you’ll like it eventually. You just gotta keep taking it till you do.”

And the next thing you knew, before you could blubber another squeak, his broad palm had found the back of your head and shoved your face down into the mattress, muffling your soft whimpers.

Through the soreness, you ceased to notice the way in which your puffy pussy throbbed for attention. In fact, even before Lloyd’s hefty balls began to tap against your neglected cunt from the steadily increase of his pace, it had already begun to drip and leak from the new sensation you were experiencing.

“Hmm… must not hurt that badly, just look at that pussy,” he soon noted as sticky strings kept your bodies connected, the embarrassing webs only worsening with each zealous thrust, “she won’t stop drooling,” he groaned and your cunt clenched around nothing, “she’s just begging for some attention, isn’t she? Asking so nicely for me to stop and go back to her… well, too fucking bad… she can make all the mess she wants, I don’t care.”

When you then unexpectedly tumbled over the edge once again, your lonely cunt cumming so wickedly that a gush of squirt shakily showered the clean and rumpled linens below, nothing but the purest form of confusion possessed your foggy mind.

How could a sensation so strange make you cum so hard? Was it really so excruciating, or did the initial pain of Lloyd’s harshness just mask a whole world of euphoria?

“Fuck… that’s it… that’s a good little anal slut…” he moaned when you gushed around nothing, leaving you a shaky mess beneath him as he selfishly kept up his pace, fucking you into oblivion, “we just gotta keep going till you give in and start craving it… train this little ass, real good…”

Crudely, his wide palm then found your buried features and raised them back up, making your back arch as he made you blink up at him. And just as your hazy eyes locked with his, in the heat of the moment, he first let a drop of saliva collide with your face, before then prying open your lips with his broad thumb and spitting on your soft tongue as well.

“That’s my little hole,” his gravelly grunt vibrated in his chest and buzzed against your spine as he craned down to stare into your foggy eyes, “so fucking pretty…” his grasp stayed locked under your chin to curve you back, “it’s mine, right? Tell me that it’s my hole.”

“It’s your hole–,” you mindlessly mumbled, “I’m your hole–,” before he then ultimately came undone.

Pumping your little ass full of his hot cum, it first began to leak out once he’d caught his breath and rolled off of you.

“Fucking shit…” he briefly reached for your butt, spreading your softness apart to watch for a moment as his load began to drip from your sore little opening. But then, just as you expected his warm palm on you to sweep up and around you in a tender hold, it instead smacked your raw bottom before he got up from the mattress and exhaled, “alright… enough dilly-dallying. You still aren’t done cleaning the house.”

© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[mrsvante]

A Gentle Kind of Forever: Epilogue

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: ceo au, established relationship, soft yandere

summary: tucked in the hills, there’s a home built from quiet mornings and whispered promises, where yoongi keeps you hidden like a secret the world isn’t worthy of. years have folded gently into one another—marked by lullabies, candlelight, and the warmth of tiny hands reaching for yours.

life here is soft. slow. full of him.

and even when the quiet feels too perfect, you find peace in the illusion… because love like this doesn’t let go—it only grows.

warnings: soft yandere yoongi, obsessive love, dark romance, psychological manipulation, domestic isolation, soft horror undertones, implied surveillance, possessive behavior, gentle coercion, unreliable reality, cult vibes (but make it romantic 😜), hidden wife trope, pregnancy, parenthood, yoongi builds you a dream you don’t want to wake up from

a message from our sponsors 💁🏽‍♀️ i wrote a short little epilogue last night because soft yandere yoongi is just SO unsettlingly dreamy to me 🫠 just another reason why i’m single

word count: 2,241

There’s a house on the hill that isn’t marked on any map.

It’s tucked far enough outside of Seoul that the city lights fade before you reach it, but close enough that deliveries still come on time. The air is cleaner here—sweeter, full of pine and soft fog and jasmine vines that grow unchecked along the stone fence.

Yoongi rebuilt the house for you.

Every corner, every tile, every light switch. His name isn’t on the deed. No paper trail. But his fingerprints are in the grains of the wooden floors, the curve of the staircase, the deep bathtub that cradles your body when he washes your hair with a touch more tenderness than the moment warrants.

This house is everything he ever wanted: quiet, private, and full of you.

And soon—it’ll be full with more of your love.

::::::::::

Your daughter is six now.

She looks like you—Yoongi insists she does, even though her sharp eyes and deadpan humor are all him. She has your laugh, though. And when she presses her tiny hand into your belly to talk to the baby growing inside you, she does it with the same instinctual care he’s always had for you.

You’re almost twenty weeks along. The bump shows when you wear anything tight, and Yoongi encourages you to.

He likes seeing it. Likes knowing what he put there is claiming space. Growing.

Some mornings, you catch him watching you from the doorway as you brush your teeth or stretch by the window, his gaze dark and unreadable. You don’t ask what he’s thinking.

But you feel it. All of it.

He’s never looked at you like you were his wife.

He looks at you like you’re his home.

His prize.

His perfect, permanent proof.

::::::::::

It’s a Tuesday morning when it really hits him.

You’re in the garden, barefoot in the dew damp grass, your sundress fluttering around your legs. The sun hasn’t fully crested the trees yet, and the world is still blue and quiet. He watches you from the kitchen window while the kettle whistles behind him.

You’re humming.

He doesn’t recognize the song, and maybe you don’t either, but the sound carries across the yard like a memory from another life.

You twirl once.

Just a little spin in the early light, like your body forgot itself and remembered joy.

And Yoongi’s chest aches.

Because he built this world from ash and want, from fear and hunger and desperation.

And you… you look like peace.

::::::::::

He brings you tea in a mug with a chipped handle—the one you’ve used since you found him again after Florence. You take it without looking at him and sip like it’s a ritual. He watches the steam curl around your lashes.

You’re always softer in the mornings.

Softer now than you’ve been in years.

Pregnancy makes you slower, warmer, easier to keep.

“Do you feel okay?” he asks, crouching beside the chair to lay a hand on your thigh.

You nod. “Tired. But good.”

He runs his thumb over the swell of your belly, then presses a kiss there, closing his eyes for a beat too long.

You brush your fingers through his hair.

He wonders if you know what you’re doing.

::::::::::

Later, when your daughter wakes, Yoongi helps her brush her teeth and packs her lunch in little animal shaped containers. She tells him she wants to bring an extra rice ball for the baby, “just in case they get hungry too.”

He smiles.

“Appa, do babies eat food in your tummy?”

“No,” he tells her gently. “They eat whatever Eomma eats.”

She pauses. “So if Eomma eats spicy food… will the baby be spicy?”

Yoongi laughs softly, gently tugging her braid. “Maybe.”

You’re already at the table when they come in, tapping away at the digital tablet he gave you last Christmas. You use it to draw sometimes. To journal. You tell him it helps keep your thoughts in order, and he nods even though he knows every entry is backed up automatically to his server.

He doesn’t read everything.

But he could.

And that’s enough.

::::::::::

You used to resist him.

In small ways—quiet ones. You’d flinch when he mentioned more children. Ask when you’d be able to see your friends again. You once left the gate open just to see how far you could get before he noticed.

He never punished you.

He didn’t have to.

Yoongi believes in patience.

He believes in shaping the world so well you choose to stay.

So he gave you time. Space. Love. Obsession, hidden under silk and soft linen sheets. He made the idea of leaving so abstract, so unnecessary, that one day you simply stopped thinking about it.

And now?

Now you wake up in his bed and kiss him good morning before your eyes are fully open.

Now you walk the house like it was always yours.

Now you carry his second child without fear.

Even if something inside you occasionally whispers—This life is too still. This man is too careful. This door is never locked for you, but never open to anyone else.

You hush the voice. You don’t ask questions.

You pour more tea.

::::::::::

On your daughter’s seventh birthday, Yoongi throws a garden party.

It’s bigger than anything you expected.

Colorful streamers twist between the trees. Ribbons flutter from the wrought iron fence. Long tables are draped in linen and covered in trays of tiny cakes, fruit shaped like stars, and handmade gifts wrapped in tissue paper. A woman with kind eyes and a fake laugh paints flowers on children’s faces while a man juggles balloons just off to the side.

You blink.

You hadn’t known there were this many families nearby.

Your life in the hills has always been quiet. Still. Barely a hint of another home beyond the forest. And yet—today, the garden is full of children. Smiling, running, giggling in packs. Their parents linger at the edges, sipping sparkling juice and making polite conversation as if they’ve all known each other for years.

They wave at you. Introducing themselves like this is a neighborhood potluck. And for a moment, you feel dizzy.

Because something feels… off.

Too perfect. Too polished. Too orchestrated.

::::::::::

You step aside, fingers brushing over your pregnant belly, and scan the crowd.

Each child is neat—perfectly dressed, not a shoe out of place. Their hair is freshly combed. Their hands stay remarkably clean, even with cake nearby.

They don’t whine. They don’t cry. They smile on cue.

You recognize none of the parents. And somehow, despite the dozens of faces, no one ever asks you how long you’ve lived here. No one comments on the lack of a school drop off. No one mentions birthday parties past.

It’s as if today is the first, and only, day these families exist.

::::::::::

You glance toward Yoongi.

He’s crouched beside your daughter, helping her open a gift. His expression is soft, full of adoration, lit by the gold of the afternoon sun.

He glances up, meets your gaze and smiles.

Warm. Reassuring.

Like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. You smile back. Because what else can you do? And you feel it settle inside you—that warmth. That wonder. That truth you’ve come to live by:

You are loved. Utterly. Deeply. Without condition.

The families might be strangers. The children might be part of a story Yoongi wrote without telling you. But the picture is perfect.

And the life you live inside it is real.

::::::::::

By sunset, the families are already dispersing.

Their goodbyes are brief. Their cars disappear one by one down the gravel road that seems longer than you remember. You stand with your arm around your daughter, watching until the last silhouette fades into the trees.

The quiet settles again. Like the world exhaled. And the illusion folds neatly back into place.

Yoongi kisses your cheek. “Perfect day, wasn’t it?”

You nod. But your fingers press into your belly with a little more pressure than necessary.

::::::::::

When you give birth to your son, it rains for three days.

You give birth in the house. Not at a hospital. Not with a full team of strangers poking and prodding. No, Yoongi plans it all. Hires a private midwife who signs enough NDAs to make a lawyer sweat.

The bedroom becomes a sanctuary. The windows covered. The lights low. Jazz humming through the air like a lullaby.

When you scream, he’s the only one who stays calm. He holds your hand while you labor.

Strokes your damp hair.

Keeps his breathing steady even as yours unravels.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers, over and over, like a spell. You’re mine. You’re mine. You’re mine.

And when the child cries, he breaks.

He sobs—not loudly, not wildly, but with his entire body trembling against yours.

You’re too exhausted to speak.

Too spent to process the piety in his touch as he takes the baby from your arms and kisses his brow like a priest blessing a king.

“He looks like you,” you whisper, eyes fluttering closed.

Yoongi nods.

But he’s looking at you.

At the sweat on your collarbone, the raw edge of your voice, the slack in your limbs after the fight.

And all he sees is his future.

Tangible.

Complete.

Eternal.

::::::::::

The house is quieter after that. You’re tired. All the time. But Yoongi never falters. He does everything.

Cooks.

Cleans.

Tends to the baby while your body recovers.

He worships you like the temple where you first met. Like he’s still waiting for a god to strike him down for taking you away from the world.

But nothing ever does.

You’re his reward.

And he’s earned you.

::::::::::

The years blur after that.

You learn to live slower.

You don’t ask to go into the city anymore.

He brings the city to you in curated slices—art books, imported wine, custom tailored clothing that hugs your figure like worship. He keeps the world small and quiet and beautiful, and you stop trying to make it bigger.

He teaches your daughter the piano.

Teaches your son how to press flowers between the pages of your old notebooks.

You think about your old life sometimes, but not often.

Just enough to wonder if the version of you who once existed would even recognize the woman you’ve become.

Would she scream?

Would she run?

Or would she fall to her knees and weep, overwhelmed by the softness of it all?

::::::::::

Some nights, when the world is sleeping and the air outside the windows smells like damp moss and cut jasmine, Yoongi lies awake with you curled beside him and your children sleeping down the hall, and he thinks:

This is all I ever wanted.

A life no one else could take.

A love no one else could see.

And every breath you take beside him is a victory.

A vow.

A possession.

He touches your belly in the dark—flat again, for now.

And smiles.

Because he can have more.

He has all the time in the world.

::::::::::

One night, when the children are asleep, Yoongi pulls you into his lap on the living room floor. You’re in nothing but one of his oversized shirts, the collar askew on your shoulder. His hand slides beneath the hem.

You tremble—but not from fear.

Never from fear.

“You’re too good to me,” you murmur.

His fingers curl along your inner thigh.

“You’re mine,” he replies, as if it’s the answer for everything.

You nod.

And then he says it.

“I want another.”

Your breath catches.

He leans in.

“I want to keep you like this. Swollen. Soft. Full of me.”

You close your eyes.

The fire crackles beside you.

His breath is warm on your cheek.

“Say yes, my love.”

You don’t answer right away.

You don’t have to.

::::::::::

Weeks pass before you say anything.

You’re folding laundry in the living room while the children nap and Yoongi’s finishing a call in the studio downstairs.

You stare at a pair of socks—tiny, pink, soft—and something in your chest twists.

You think of that night in Florence, of the rain, of the man who watched you like you were something fleeting.

Now, he holds you like you’ll never slip through his fingers again.

You don’t know which version scares you more.

::::::::::

That night, you crawl into his lap without a word.

He looks up from the notebook in his hands, eyebrows raised in quiet surprise.

“Baby?” he says, cautious.

You kiss him.

Soft. Intentional.

He doesn’t move at first. Then his hands find your thighs, your hips, the nape of your neck. His mouth parts like it’s muscle memory, like this has been waiting for weeks to bloom.

“I want to try,” you whisper.

He stiffens.

“You’re sure?”

You nod, throat thick. “I want to see more of our love.”

His grip tightens—just barely.

He exhales through his nose.

Then—

“Good girl.”

And when he lifts you in his arms and carries you to bed, you know exactly what’s waiting.

The same thing that’s always been waiting.

Devotion.

Obsession.

Forever.

::::::::::

You’re pregnant within a month.

Of course you are.

He times your cycles. Tracks your symptoms. Has been prepping your body with subtle shifts in your diet for over a year now.

You don’t know that.

You think it’s fate.

He lets you believe it.

Because if this house is a dream, you’re the soul inside it.

And now, he gets to live it all over again.

one | masterlist

[blueberrypancakesworld]

The unification of lovers

Friedrich Harding x wife!reader

warning : kiss, fluff, hurt/comfort, breaking social norm, tiny emotional

Summary : A marriage for which he was resented and she was stigmatised as a money-grubber, but it was a marriage of pure love and no compulsion for the two of them. They loved each other and no one would break them up, not society, their families or anyone else. United at the altar, they would finally belong to each other.

info : I just had to write more for Friedrich (maybe the others will have a look too) and can be seen as a continuation of this one. Have fun reading ;)

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

Bells rang out whenever a couple got married in the great church of Wisborg, the only large religious building in the harbour town, the rest had to suffice for the docks where the boats anchored and the houses of the crowded town only seemed to get wider and higher.

Which is why the church almost seemed to drown among all the noise and the deeds that people did every day.

But not on this day, at least not for a small group of friends whose path led them to this church, the place where the most controversial couple would be married.

The clouds that usually hung over the city and swallowed up the sun even for the couple shone through and let the sun shine on the carriage that was on its way to the building.

A couple who seemed to be looking gracefully and confidently into an uncertain future, but a couple who, on second glance, came from such different social backgrounds in Wisborg that it was a scandal.

Friedrich, the rich heir and head of the Harding family of ship merchants, a man who could have chosen any woman, whose name and, above all, money would have opened doors and any woman in Wisborg and beyond would have given him everything...but his choice had fallen on a housemaid, his housemaid.

It was like light and shadow here in this neighbourhood, in society, in everything they all knew, as if someone would just sail into the thick fog of the sea and expect to find their way out again.

But it didn't matter, the couple didn't care that there would be an outcry, that Friedrich's father had almost beaten him in anger at the ‘foolish youth’ as he had called it.

She, his wife, although congratulated by the house staff and the couple Thomas and Ellen, had felt the eyes of the town on her since the announcement.

She couldn't seem to take a step without seeing the contemptuous looks, hearing the murmurs and even being spat at in front of her dress - it was the greed and jealousy that came from the town.

A darkness that brought tears to her eyes and she tried to cover her face as best she could with the bonnet until she was back with Frederick, whose embrace and voice shone like the light of hope.

Blue eyes that looked at her with a kindness and certainty that made her hope, ,,Leave them the jealousy, they will become ugly, they will never have what we have" he had assured her and hands held hers, hands held one another as he engaged her in a kiss.

The weeks leading up to the wedding were filled with feelings high and feelings low, Frederick's every whisper in his company about the wedding.

He would not tolerate people talking about his future wife with such an ugly voice, he was a man of class and he would do what he wanted and he had chosen her.

She was the one his heart belonged to, he reminded her every day when he came back to her, the kiss on the back of her hand, ,,The colour of love and our wedding" he meant the slight smile visible on his lips.

The smell of roses that he brought her surrounded her, various flowers and jewellery he would give her everything she wanted, it was the least he could give her for her hand in marriage.

When they could finally give each other the attention that society denied them, sitting together in front of the fireplace reading and talking, nibbling on biscuits and holding hands.

It was the little moments of hope and affection from Friedrich that made her look up whenever she walked through the streets.

He made her feel reassured, like on that special day when she got into the carriage where Ellen was sitting and the black-haired girl helped her with her white dress to get it into the carriage.

Ellen had become a good friend, someone she appreciated for her extraordinary nature and liked to hear her dreams and secrets, they were there for each other, two birds that could seemingly look beyond Wisborg and see the bigger picture.

There was nervousness in her, hands playing with each other, adjusting her dress and she saw Ellen's calm but happy look, ,,Mrs Harding you will be today, a wonderful moment believe me" she heard the words and looked at Ellen's ring, simply beautiful, Thomas's pride as he proposed to his Ellen.

Taking Ellen's hand gently, she squeezes it appreciatively, ,,Everything looks with disgust at us, at me...but not you two. My Friedrich is like a crack in the mirror that shows me that there is something behind it that is not always the same", she admitted, thinking back to those moments.

Countless glances in the house, the light touches that always seemed to be an accident and the gratitude in his voice, she had fallen for him from the very beginning.

Just as he had fallen for her the first time he saw her, when she had started working for him, an angel in a dark hopeless city. With a kindness and goodness that had overwhelmed him and made him give her his heart.

The clatter of the hooves on the stone slowed to a stop, the door opened and Elllen was the first to get out, Thomas was already waiting for his wife outside the church, ,,A wonderful dress" he said with a cheerful smile as he helped her out of the carriage.

The couple gave the bride one last cheer and encouragement before heading into the church, the few who came at all, as her own parents were months away in the country and Frederick's family had turned their backs on him.

But it was a small gathering at which the bride and groom agreed to unite the classes and let nothing stand in the way of their love, and when the bells rang again, the door was opened and they walked down the aisle.

She saw Ellen and Thomas who seemed to be overcome with emotion, the house staff on the other side of the benches wiping away their tears and proud of her and Friedrich, her beloved Friedrich couldn't take his eyes off her.

Blue eyes just like hers, tears already threatening to flow as she stood opposite him, the suit and dress harmonised it looked and felt right, ,,We have gathered here today to consummate the union of these two young people" the priest began and at last they could hold hands again.

She could feel him joyfully and caringly stroking his finger over hers again and again, something he had always done to soothe each other.

Friedrich's seemed just as trembling as hers, gazing along at each other, a smile and joyful overwhelmingness as the ceremony progressed, finally in a few moments they would belong together.

When the yes word finally came from both of them, a few tears flowed down her cheeks as she saw the golden rings, the engraved names inside, ,,May our love last forever" he spoke as he took her hand and placed the ring on her finger.

Blinking away the tears and seeing that he was fighting tears himself, she reached for the other ring on the pillow and took his hand, ,,And let no one break this bond of love" she spoke, tears threatening to flow again as she felt his hands on her side, pulling her closer.

They could finally give each other the kiss that would start their time together as husband and wife.

As her friends and acquaintances cheered and the bells of Wisborg announced another wedding and the marriage between a rich merchant and a housemaid was sealed.

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

@juliemarauderfan , @g0dhasbeen , @luhvbot , @lavieenvalentina , @wattyey , @deepestplaidscissorstoad

[fawnwilde]

I Want To ✮⋆˙

Kieran Duffy x reader

rating: all audiences

The gang isn't all that nice to the ex-O'driscoll, but he's never been anything but nice to you. After Sean headbutts Kieran, you decide to go fishing with him to make him feel better.

content warning: f reader, completely sfw, fluff, bbg on bbg crime (sean hurting kieran), love confessions, slight angst, but mostly fluff, kieran deserves the world

word count: 2.5k

You may not be the sharpest, but even you knew that Kieran Duffy was no O'driscoll.

Sure, when Arthur brought him back to the gang in Colter, he sure looked like an O'driscoll. Green scarf, dark clothes, slight expression of fear when met with the consequences of his actions.

But it was soon enough made clear to you that this strange little man was not like the other O'driscoll's you'd had the displeasure of meeting.

You're a relatively new member of the Van Der Linde gang yourself, joining alongside your friend and hunting partner Charles a few months back. In the short time, you had gained some trust from being handy with both a bow and a gun, and from your sense of loyalty. But that loyalty was being tested every time you watched the others pick on the poor boy.

Initially, you held the same indifference to the man as the other girls did. He hadn't slighted any of you personally, but he was an O'driscoll. It was a general rule that anyone wearing the signature green scarf was no-one worth your sympathy. With all the hatred towards the Irish gang, you assumed the one captured in Colter would be an evil, bloodthirsty little snake.

Boy, were you shocked when you were met with the sight of the frowning, whining man tied to the tree.

Since arriving in Horseshoe Overlook, the man was being held prisoner. Strictly not allowed the bare necessities, and bullied and tortured to gather information. But really, anyone with eyes could see he wasn't the kind of man who needed to be broken. If he knew anything, he would have snitched the moment they pulled down his pants and threatened to geld him.

You quickly began to pity him.

He really wasn't a threat, being half the size of Bill and as frightened as a mouse in a sawmill. Whenever you passed him, he would beg for water while adamantly denying his involvement in the O'driscolls business.

It took you less than day to cave.

When night fell, your conscious had gotten to you. Leaving your tent, you crept around in the dark until you found him, tied to the tree like a mutt. As your feet crunched against the grass, his head shot up in fear. But his eyes softened as he saw it was you approaching him, not one of the men.

You wordlessly came to his side, lifting his chin with one hand while you brought a tin cup of water to his lips with the other. He gulped it down greedily, with such eagerness you were amazed he didn't choke.

He sighed in relief after emptying the cup, his eyes meeting yours in the low light of the distant campfire.

"T-thank you very much, miss." He breathed, his face more relaxed now in your presence.

You smiled slightly, stepping back from him and nodding in satisfaction over your good deed. You turned to leave again, anxious to not be seen "consorting with the enemy".

"What- uh, what's yer name, miss. I-if you don't m-mind me asking, that is!" He whispers, not wanting to lose the presence of his only sympathiser.

You stop, turning to look over your shoulder. At his sad eyes, you offered him a half smile, giving him your name.

He whispers it, almost like he was trying to see memorise it. He smiles, his usually dimmed eyes looking a tiny bit livelier, "T-thank you, again. Oh, my name's Kieran, b-by the way. Kieran Duffy."

"It's nice to meet you, Kieran. You get some rest now, if you can."

You turn away again, leaving the strange man to watch you walk away, a wistful smile on his grimy face.

He couldn't remember the last time someone thought it was nice to meet him.

Today, just like every other day, you found yourself feeling sorry for Kieran Duffy.

He had finally been allowed the freedom to wander camp, after saving Arthur's life. You were immensely happy about that, as Mr Morgan had become a dear friend of yours since joining the gang.

Though, despite this gallant deed, most people still treated him poorly. Bill would often threaten to finally take his balls, Micah would spit at his feet, Dutch would sneer whenever he passed. The best members of the gang would simply ignore him, which you could tell Kieran was appreciative of.

He seemed just content to be breathing, doing his little chores taking care of the horses and polishing saddles.

You yourself were content to leave him to his own space, but you tried to offer him kindness where you could.

If you passed him in camp, you would nod or greet him, a simple 'good morning' or 'good afternoon' before going about the rest of your day. It cost you nothing, except maybe the respect of Bill or Micah.

Oh, the horror!

Truly, it cost you nothing, but you were rewarded by Kieran brightening up immediately. A shy smile would appear in his face, his shoulders shifting away from his ears for a moment. He always responded, stammering words softly, his hands fidgeting with whatever he was holding as you passed him.

It was almost... cute. You tried to ignore the slight flutter in your chest whenever he locked eyes with you.

You were expecting to do this again today, if only Sean hadn't decided to be a prick for no reason. I mean, come on, he's been back for mere hours and already causing a commotion.

The sun was high in the sky as you chatted with Charles, talking about a nearby heard of deer you could hunt. Your attention drifted when you heard Sean call out for someone, and you internally sighed as Kieran stumbled over to him. Like an eager dog to heel. A gut feeling told you what would happen, but you were still shocked and disturbed when the Irishman headbutted poor Kieran and sent him to the floor.

Charles called after you as you swiftly walked over to the scene.

"…Our old neighbour back in Donegal was called O'driscoll. And we couldn't stand him neither." Sean sneered. You came to a stop beside the two, a frown on your face as you saw Kieran touch his bleeding nose.

Sean chuckles, and you make eye contact with him.

"What's wrong, lass? Want me to pull him back to his feet so you can get a lick in?"

"You can be a right piece of work sometimes, MacGuire." You sigh, swatting at him. You liked him, he was a good laugh, but he was always up for a fight. He'd scrap with a raging bull if it looked at him wrong.

Sean winks, huffing at you with a grin. He tosses his bottle down at Kieran without a second glance, sauntering away without a care in the world.

Your attention drifts back down to the man, who looks down at the blood in his palm before looking up. Once again, his gaze softens noticing. He seems almost... embarrassed about being seen like this by you.

"Come on." You say, your voice gentle as you offer your hand, "Let's get you cleaned up."

Kieran's eyes widen, looking around at the others who milled about. A few people watched with curiosity, and it made Kieran shrink slightly, looking back to the ground with a frown.

"You d-don't have to do that, miss..."

"I want to."

He looks up, eyes wide and surprised. His eyes search yours for any sign of insincerity, or deception, but he finds none. He nods, taking your hand and letting you pull him up.

Ignoring the glare from Bill, the judgment from Karen, the curious confusion Charles, you keep Kieran's hand in yours, pulling him gently away from the centre of camp.

Kieran spent most of his time on the outskirts of camp.

The horses are kept there, which is the main reason why you suppose, but you know he also feels unwelcome, and eats and sleeps away from everyone else.

You relate to that, you and Charles kept to yourselves when you first joined. But now, as you both came to the outskirts, you were saddened to see his bedroll on the floor and looking as isolated as Kieran himself was.

The man in question followed behind you as you lead him further from camp, almost tripping over his feet in his eagerness to follow you and bring as little attention to himself as possible. You turned to look back at him as you arrived at the horses, finding his head hanging and his unoccupied hand twitching at his side.

You gently unclasp your hand from his, amused as he keeps holding your loose fingers. You chuckle, startling him as he looks back up at you, clearly lost in thought. He looks down at your intertwined hands, dropping yours swiftly like he was burnt by it.

"Oh, I'm- I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hold onto you like that. That was weird of me..."

"It's fine, Kieran." You say with smile, turning back to get your horse ready.

He moved automatically, grabbing your saddle with ease and putting it on your horse, doing your job for you. You watched with a raised eyebrow, unused to someone doing something so menial for you.

Once he was satisfied, he blinked at the horse, then at you, "Where are ya going, miss?"

You laugh, "We are going down to the lake to clean you up."

He gawks, blinking at you and nervously touching his fingers to his battered face.

"Oh, you really don't have to do all that." He reasons, shaking his head, "You- you've already been so nice to me. No need for you to keep going out yer way-"

"Kieran. I want to." You reiterate.

That shuts him up. He stares at you, an expression you were unfamiliar with on his face. You try to ignore it as you grab his own saddle for him.

Like a bolt of lightening, he rushes to grab it, causing you to stifle your laugh against your hand, an all too familiar flutter appearing in your chest.

The sun was starting to set as you sat on the wooden doc by the lake, gently dragging a damp cloth over the drying blood on Kieran’s cheek.

He sat stock still beside you, nervously picking at his nails. His eyes kept flickering from your face to the ground, to the sky to the water, almost making you dizzy just to watch.

Every time your fingers brushed against his cheek, he blushed harder, taking uneven breaths like he was doing it manually.

You were trying to keep your face straight, fighting a laugh and an affectionate smile, hoping not to draw too much attention to his discomfort.

“I'm almost done, don't worry.” You reassure.

“O-oh, okay.” He says quietly, and you can sense a bit of disappointment in his tone.

You place the rag back in its bowl, leaning closer to him to get a look at the cut on his nose. His eyes widen a fraction, and he seems to stop breathing, like he was avoiding any movement that might startle you.

With slow movements, you inspect the cut, before sitting back, “I don't think it’ll need to be stitched or anything. I'll grab you some salve from Strauss to stop it getting infected.”

“Thank you.” Kieran whispers.

You smile, taking a breath and looking over the water.

“So, fishing?” You ask as you stand, turning from him “I don't have a rod but I’m happy just sitting with you.”

You hear Kieran stand up behind you, but he makes no more movement, remaining silent for a moment. The water ripples around you, and birds chirp nearby.

"I don't think yer fella would appreciate me taking so much of yer time." Kieran jokes, but there's a sad lilt to his voice.

You laugh, looking over your shoulder and raising an eyebrow, "My fella?"

"Y-yeah, Mr Smith?" Kieran says softly, his expression morphing into confusion.

"Oh, honey, no. Me and Charles are just friends, have been for years." You chuckle, walking further along the dock to watch the setting sun.

Kieran just stares at you, his cheeks flushed, his face flushing even more.

You called him 'honey'.

That shouldn't have broken his brain as much as it did. You were always calling people 'honey', it was just a way of referring to your friends. Sadie, Abigail, Hosea, etcetera. If you referred to him that way, maybe you consider him a friend.

Hell, he just wants to mean anything to you.

You've noticed his quietness, turning to see if maybe he had fallen into the water or something. But no, he's just stood there, fishing rod limp in his loose grip, eyes on your face.

"What? Got some dirt on me or something?" You chuckle.

Kieran blinks, shaking his head, but still silent.

Growing concerned, you take a step closer, "Kieran?"

"Yer so beautiful."

You blink. He said it so softly, just an exhale, his face unchanging as he watches your face like one watches the moon. The sincerity catches you off guard. He didn't say it like he was flirting, just stating a fact.

There's that feeling in your chest again.

The moment snaps as Kieran realises what he said. His eyes widen in panic, looking away from you and taking a couple of steps away.

"I- I am so sorry, I shouldn't have said that... please forget that, I-I'm so, so sorry." He stammers, shaking his head.

He looks ready to turn tail and run away, so you walk towards him. Possibly too suddenly, as Kieran flinches and inhales sharply. Perhaps thinking you would berate him, or strike him.

But no, you reached forward and took his hand in yours.

This only furthers his confusion. He looks down at your hand, so soft compared to his calloused, slightly clammy one. When he looks into your eyes, you notice they're slightly watery.

“Don't be sorry, Kieran. Please don't ever be sorry with me. You ain't done nothing wrong.” You say, squeezing his hand.

“You… you deserve better than someone like me…” Kieran sighs, moving as if he was going to extract his hand.

You don't let him, tugging him closer so you can cup his face with your other hand. He immediately melts into your touch, sighing audibly. His facial hair is surprisingly soft, and his blue eyes sparkle like the lake behind you as he looks down at you.

Your eyes move down to his lips, and he grows shy again.

"Oh, miss." Kieran sighs, leaning into your touch eagerly, but his expression remained doubtful, "You... you don't have to..."

You smile, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

His eyes widen slightly as you lean in. His lips are warm and chapped when you press them to yours. When you pull back, a soft sigh escapes him.

"Like I said." You whisper, pressing another kiss to his cheek, "I want to."

AN/ i literally love this silly little guy so much i'm unwell

[naffeclipse]

Speakeasy

Reader x Mob Bosses!Sun and Moon

Commission Info

Many thanks to Anonymous for letting me go ham with the mob boss brothers and making them absolutely dastardly! I love the scenario for this one and just how sinister but sweet Sun and Moon can be when they have their favorite little thing sitting in their laps. The boys just love to show off what's theirs.

Content Warning for suggestive themes.

———

You are anxious, to say the least. Two large hands escort you. One rests on your shoulder, the animatronic’s off-white and yellow thumb sliding slightly underneath the neckline of your dress to stroke the bare skin of your shoulder. The other is on your waist, dark blue and silver, keeping you close despite your urge to race straight out of the speakeasy.

The mob bosses smile down at you with the wicked, wide smiles of sharks. In no uncertain terms, they are keeping you with them.

Swallowing your visible nervousness becomes hazardous as you realize that the illegal venue is very much open for business. Instead of a nightlife of posh people prepared to spend exuberant amounts of money on smoking and drinks, then swing away on the dance floor open before a small stage for a band, there are gangsters everywhere. They line the bar stools, sit in the plush, rich leather couches and seats, and musicians play low, soft jazz as if to not disturb the entrance of the crime lords of the Celestial Gang.

Your throat becomes thick as you smell cigarettes and alcohol and sharp, overapplied cologne. Low lights burn yellow and cast thick, clogging shadows around the open room. Several animatronics already flank a center sitting room away from the bar and dance floor. Human men dressed in sleazy suits quickly move towards the mob bosses. 

The small swarm settles when Sun and Moon escort you to a fine, black leather couch big enough for just the three of you. You bow your head under the scorching attention, all eyes seemingly upon the outsider their bosses brought along to the business meeting. Your hair falls into your face as a brief curtain to the overwhelming atmosphere. 

How did you get here? One moment, you’re researching the famed Celestial Gang for a column in the newspaper which pays you well to find the best, most reliable information, and the next, you were ‘borrowed’ by none other than Sun and Moon. The crime lords have done dark and dirty deeds to keep themselves high in the underground. Why kidnap you for a few days just to put you in a red dress and take you into the heart of their illegal dealings?

“Take a seat, love.” Sun presses close to your ear, warming your face when his faceplate touches the corner of your cheekbone.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Moon’s rough voice touches you. He lifts a hand and removes the shield of your hair and sweeps it behind your face, exposing your freckles and wide, green eyes. “What would you like? A drink, perhaps, my dear?”

You recoil, revealed by force once more to the many eyes, but the real danger is the ones with their hands on you, refusing to allow you to escape. A stutter begins in your throat. Swallowing it down, you force yourself to say in a tiny, demure voice, “No, thank you.”

“Later then.” Sun nods his sharp sun rays towards a man behind the bar. He moves swiftly, his hands flying out of sight. 

Sun and Moon promptly set you down on the couch, and you can’t help but wonder if this is what a minnow feels when crowded by two sharks as they take their seats on either side of you. Caging you with their bodies, your eyes widen at how they press their legs against yours. 

Sun leans forward in the slightest to take your hand between his own and unfurl the anxious fist you made. Moon leans deeper against the backrest and slides his arm behind you, cradling your waist. Stiffening, you hold as still as a doe deer in the sights of a hunter. All the while, every last goon stares down the three of you but not a word nor electric breath leaves those who await their bosses’ command.

The man behind the bar emerges carrying a silver tray with one lowball glass filled with a rich amber liquid. Close beside it is a dark blue pack of cigarettes.

You shift in your red dress as the bartender approaches. The fabric of your gown is rich and built to flare out when dancing. You didn’t want to put this on—no matter how lovely—but Sun and Moon cowed you with firm reminders. While they’re ‘borrowing’ you, they intend to dress you as they please. 

The checkered shrug was all you could manage. It took much to convince them to allow you to wear it but you pleaded, and they seem to enjoy it, much to your embarrassment.

The bartender bows and offers the tray to Sun first. Strangely, the animatronic accepts the glass while containing your hand in his other grasp. The amber liquid swirls between his nimble fingers. The bartender crosses to the other side of the couch. Moon tilts his head. His red eyes glance at the offering in approval before plucking the pack and immediately opening it.

Your mind spins with how they might indulge in the very human vices, but to your amazement, it seems to be a sort of ritual. There’s something ceremonial about the presentation. The enjoyment of something refined and toxic without partaking.

You watch the liquor glimmer in the crystalline cup. Sun pale eyes, sharp and dagger-like, pierce you with a glance.

“It’s bourbon, dollface.” He tips the glass closer, offering it to your lips. “You couldn’t imagine how much blood and money went into acquiring this one small glass. Would you like a taste?”

You flick your gaze up. He leans over you, crowding you, dwarfing you until you’re almost sliding onto Moon’s lap. His brother eagerly keeps you in place as Sun studies you. His smile holds an edge while he squeezes your hand in the slightest.

“I shouldn’t,” you murmur, but you shrink as you speak.

Sun’s eyes flash like the tip of a blade. He lowers the glass closer still to your mouth until a rich aroma spills upward and invades your senses. 

“Oh, but I say you should.” His grin bears down upon you. “No one touches my bourbon but I do want to know if it’s as worthwhile as the bottle says. One sip, turtle dove.”

You hold his gaze, almost trembling. It won’t kill you, certainly, but this is more than the pressure of a drink.

“Okay,” you concede meekly.

Sun’s smile is lethal as he presents it to you. Gazing into the amber liquid, you lean forward, unable to even hold the glass as Sun carefully presses it to your mouth and gently tilts it. A sweet spiciness spills over your tongue, reminding you of the solar crime lord. You merely wet your lips before it smoothly slides down your throat before you turn your head away. Sun allows it, satisfied with a sharp electric click of his tongue.

“How does it taste?” he purrs, catching your chin and lifting it higher as he admires you. A flutter overtakes your middle.

“Expensive,” you manage, “and strong.”

Tilting his head, Sun’s grin widens as his voice enters a growl so sweet it matches the bourbon’s flavor, “Good. It’s earned all the blood and money I spent on it.”

A few bodies shift from foot to foot and animatronics blink a few optics. Mercifully, Sun releases your chin. Again, you duck your face to hide as the liquor cools your stomach. Only a few drops and you already feel strange and tiny like a trapped rat.

Moon flicks a lighter. The sharp spark of it catching causes you to jump, and Moon chuckles a dark, rolling sound deep within his chassis.

“Relax, baby.” His red eyes search through the curtain of your hair. “You’re in good hands.”

You take a long strand of hair hanging in your face and begin twirling it around your finger. Twisting and twisting the lock, you watch Moon methodically pick a cigarette from the pack using one hand. Slowly, he slides his arm out from behind you. A dark pulse to his gaze washes down you until he reaches for your face and sweeps back the hair dangling in front of you.

“Look me in the eyes. You’re too pretty to hide from me,” he says in both warning and affection, and it chills you to the bone. “Don’t do that again.”

“Okay,” you breathe. Every function within you shrivels under the intensity of his red eyes holding you captive.

His fingertips slide over your cheekbones, lingering for a moment as if he might count every freckle dusting your skin. You tremble inwardly. Moon shifts the cigarette dexterously to his fingers. Holding it steady, he leans forward.

“Be a doll,” Moon rasps. He’s not asking.

“I—” you take a deep breath, your heart pumping hard. “I don’t smoke.”

“I know, my dear,” Moon chuckles sinisterly. You do not doubt that he does. “You’re going to help me light it, nothing more.”

A part of you writhes but you can do little but part your lips. Your fingers twitch as if you had a hope of taking it yourself, but Sun’s firm grasp on your hand is thick as shackles and Moon is as unyielding as a cold night.

He sets it softly on your lips. Unfamiliar with such a ritual, you freeze as Moon holds out the pale flame. He cups it, looming over you while he sets the end aglow with red-hot heat, and all the while, his eyes are devouring you whole.

“Hold still,” Moon commands. 

He lights it, and on instinct, you inhale. A poor choice, considering the flood of smoke that quickly sets fire to your lungs with a singing flavor of anise. A fierce cough overtakes you. Moon takes the cigarette from your lips as Sun tuts his tongue. 

“Naughty thing,” Moon chastises as he allows you to finish your fit, but he draws the cigarette away from you, holding it perfectly between his fingers while his other hand roams your back, hitting softly until you, at last, expel the last of the forsaking tobacco now staining you fiercely.

“You need to be good, love,” Sun reminds close to your ear. His digit plays with the dangling jewelry hanging from your earlobe. A shiny, silver sword. “What are we to do with you if you can’t behave?”

You choke but for a far different reason.

“I’ll be good,” you say, unable to get out anything else but whatever might please them.

“That’s all we ask, baby.” Moon’s hand slips under your chin to turn you towards him. Your lips part as he squeezes in the slightest, and you feel like a fish with your lips puffed into a pout. “Business will only take a moment, then we’ll get back to you.”

You bleed a fierce blush at how he holds you, his eyes commanding you without restraint. You utter a pathetic sound of agreement before the crime lords share a look.

They keep you firmly in place all the while they conduct the mafia meeting. Throughout, Sun’s and Moon’s hands are constantly upon you. Sun speaks of numbers, how well the handling of merchandise such as alcohol has transpired and Moon focuses on conflict, the safety of the gang and the casualties suffered, and how to strike back against those who crossed the line against them. You listen, feeling little more than a plaything in their palms. Moon rubs your side gently. Sun traces his thumb over your knuckles. You endure their forced closeness, unable to even hide behind the curtain of your hair as per their warning.

Then, at last, Sun and Moon lean back with a sort of finality. The goons relax in the slightest, able to ease off from their strict attentiveness before a slow murmur of talk stirs the air. The music picks up a touch louder. A slow, smooth sound of jazz that fills you to the brim. You can hardly unclench your jaw before Sun and Moon share a look so devilish, you fear for your soul.

“We worked hard today, Sun,” Moon drawls out sinisterly.

“We have. We need a reward,” Sun hums, pleased and dastardly. 

“What are you talking about?” you ask, your heart racing within you.

“A dance, of course, dollface.” Sun takes your hand and lifts it high. Moon captures your other before you register how they lift you from the couch in one swift motion.

You reel as they escort you to the dance floor. One flick of Moon’s hand commands the musicians to turn up the music, and the gangsters’ eyes follow you as you’re pulled onto the last place you want to be. The dance floor. 

In one sure motion, Sun begins to remove the shrug from your shoulders. Any resistance you might have made is cut by Moon holding you in place by your chin until Sun carelessly tosses the checkered cloth off to the side. 

“Beautiful,” Moon announces. His thumb finds the tattoo of a quill on your right bicep and strokes it adoringly. You shiver under the caress.

You freeze when another presence falls into your shadow.

“Lovely little thing,” Sun says as he traces a finger along the line of your bare shoulder. Another shudder rolls down your spine.

You turn as if you might escape but Sun seizes you by the hip and lifts your arm high, twirling you until the world is a blur of low light and smoky haze, and dips you. You gasp. The same nefarious hands catch you by the waist, bowing so close to your face, the sharp crown framing Sun’s head in sharp, yellow rays takes over your vision. A blush fills you to the brim.

“There’s nothing to fear, love. We’ll lead,” Sun reassures you with a laugh that flips your heart. “Won’t we, Moon?”

“We will.” Moon answers by stealing you away into a swift step that leaves you dizzy and with a head rush. He half drags, half carries you with a tight grip on your hands. You can barely catch up. 

You flush, trying to protest that you want to leave, now, and stop being a shining new toy to show off to their underlings, but there’s no denying the crime lords. Moon sweeps your feet off the ground as he grabs your waist and lifts you in a half circle. The red fabric of your dress flares out. Your stomach drops and your heart soars.

Then you’re back on your feet. Breathless, left spinning after Sun’s dip and Moon’s twist, you can hardly register the closeness until both mob bosses are upon you. At your back, Sun clasps your hand, holding it behind your waist as if he intends to pin you against his brother. Moon likewise captures your other hand, holding it shoulder-level. Two palms fall to your hips, and in a strange, electrifying motion, Sun and Moon force you to dance with both of them.

“How do you know how to do this?” is all you can gasp. It’s too perfect. Too prepared. Sun looms over your shoulder with a lethal warmth while you turn your cheek as if you might keep both of them in your vision. Moon presses closer to you, hanging over you like the cool threat of a storm.

“We have thought long and hard about what we might do with a troublemaker like you,” Sun speaks low into your ear. “You’ve been learning too much, turtle dove.”

You stiffen in the slightest. Despite this, your feet are caught in their rhythm, slowly spinning in time to the romantic tune floating in the air.

“What?” you breathe. “How did you—”

“We have our ways,” Moon reminds. He tilts his head, his fedora covering the lowlight and shadowing his face even deeper. 

They know. You found out their relation to their elder brother. The police chief.

You also found that they haven’t spoken to each other in years.

Your pulse picks up in horror. This is what this has been about. This whole time, the cat-and-mouse game, is because they’re going to kill you.

“Please,” you say, trembling. Their hands squeeze your own. 

“Hm? Speak up, love,” Sun laughs, taunting you. “I can’t hear you.”

“Don’t kill me,” you say it starkly, quietly. Your eyes are wide. There is nowhere to hide while they trap you between their chassis. 

Moon stares at you, his red eyes darkening into crimson before he releases your waist and slowly leans down. He captures your face between his palms. With Sun holding you in place, there is nowhere to run. You close your eyes.

A brush of something cool and tasting of anise falls against your lips. You start under the lunar crime lord’s kiss. When you open your eyes, his grin is pleased, wicked. He holds you a moment longer under his sharp teeth.

“That would be a waste, don’t you think?” he rasps.

Sun grunts something before he spins you around by the hips. Moon allows him, and he takes you by the waist to keep you on your feet while Sun looks upon you with desire so fiery, that you fear it will engulf you. His pale eyes gnaw away at your every edge.

“I thought…” you murmur senselessly. 

“You thought wrong.” Sun presses a finger to your lips with a wicked grin. “I need to take a bite out of you too.”

This time, your eyes are wide open when he bends down to press his faceplate to your lips, and you gasp underneath his hungry kiss. He pushes and pulls, and you almost sway were it not for the Moon stabilizing you. Sun releases you slowly, greedily.

“That’s right, dollface,” Sun purrs as Moon presses close and kisses the back of your neck. “We have plans for you.”

[certifiablyinsanez]

Stolas has probably spent the majority of his life wishing he was dead. He sang to his little daughter “when I’m gone you’ll be okay”. He’s made it clear that he places little value on his life. Before Blitz arrived in his life, he was probably hanging on by a frayed thread, his daughter being the only thing keeping him alive. But with his certainty that his daughter hates him, what does he have to live for? As someone who was passively suicidal for 13 years, I can say definitively that it isn’t enough to only stay because of the people you love. The suffering is just too great. The reasons someone stays alive are often unromantic, minute, and seemingly insignificant. More often than not, you’re only still alive because you can’t actually make yourself do the deed. You wait for the right day, to do it in the right way and the stars just never align to make it happen. Your days blend together in a haze of misery with tiny seeds of hope sprinkled here and there, and then one day you realize that maybe you do want to live. You never see it coming. You never plan for it or expect it to happen, or know when it’ll arrive. Blitz is that reason, that blazing light in an endless darkness. The shooting star that burst through a night sky as dark as pitch. The reason to live that surprised Stolas with how much fire it put back in his life, how much joy, how much light, even when it was causing him pain. Stolas Goetia, who has spent his whole life surrounded by glittering jewels and castle walls, able to summon the skies of stars and suns, had no light in his life until Blitz arrived. Blitz is the light.

Blitz has had to be stone for most of his life. In his childhood he had to brace his little spirit against all the odds, because he was an imp who had weird dreams, and was surrounded by people who had no faith in him. And the few people that loved him were lost to him. With no home and no family or friends, one can only imagine how hard his life was for many years after that. He had to steel himself, become hard and heartless just to get by. He still had dreams and ambitions but remained deeply lonely for many years. “You tried the solo act, it didn’t work out very well.” He’s a wounded dog that doesn’t know why he bites. He’s convinced he’s a walking curse, that he does nothing but hurt and leave misery in his wake. And because of all this, he didn’t bother trying. He allowed himself to take and leave nothing behind. He allowed himself to hurt because whether he tries or not doesn’t matter because the end result is always the same. Stolas was another thread in his tragic tapestry, but his thread was bright gold in a sea of beige. Blitz tried to ignore the thread. What’s one more? But it shimmered too brightly. It was too beautiful, too rare, too exquisite to disregard. His heart, sick and small, was removed in a strange twist of fate, and Stolas put himself in the hole that was left behind, giving parts of his own heart that overflows. Stolas is his heart.

[aemondsbabe]

From Ashes, Fire | Claimant Pt 3

summary: dragons take what they want, you and your brother are no different. but what will be left to burn in the name of happiness?

pairing: dark!aemond x sister!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, dark aemond, angst, angst but happy ending, very cersei/jaime coded moment that's all i'll say, major character death, noncanonical death, very brief descriptions of injury, blood, i promise it's nothing graphic, reader turns to the dark side lol, piv sex, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), minor breeding kink, possessive aemond, possessive reader, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 8.3k oops

a/n: this is it, the grand finale! i had so much fun with this series and i hope y'all enjoy the last bit!

gif creds to @aemondtargaryensource

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🔪read part 1 and part 2 here!

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"Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty."

“Jaehaera, please,” Helaena’s voice is gentle and melodic even as she scolds her daughter, pointing at one of the straw-stuffed dolls in her tiny hands, “You must share with your brother; how about you let him play with the knight, hm?”

One of Maelor’s little fists wraps tightly around your pointer finger as you chuckle at the displeased frown on the toddler’s face when she shoves the doll in Jaehaerys’s direction, though her lips quickly lift into a smile at her mother’s praise. 

“Good, that’s very sweet of you,” your sister smiles, watching her eldest two children play, sitting cross-legged beside them on the plush blanket she’d had spread out on the grass. 

A cool breeze blows through the grassy field while you idly look around at the many red tents and campfires, observing the groups of people gathered around – knights sat at one of the many wooden tables, a few servants peel vegetables brought from the Keep, and various nobles, lady’s maids, and other court patrons shuffle about. 

Taking a deep breath, you turn your face toward the sun, cooler now as day turns to evening, and savor the first moment of peace you’ve had in nearly a week. The days since your marriage to Jace have been… eventful, to say the least, with each new duty feeling like another stab to your already fragile heart. Respite hadn’t even found you in the night, each one spent fending off your new husband’s advances with excuses of your menstrual flux having come early, headaches, and various other ailments. He was getting anxious, you could tell – each night he pushed back a little more, arguing the importance of consummating the marriage, reminding you of the vows you had both uttered in the Sept. 

But how can a vow mean much if the Gods know it was only ever a lie?

You had felt your mother’s eyes on you at every turn, watching you and your brother like a hawk. Though as the days progressed her fiery stare cooled to one of guilt – a penance for subjecting you to the same fate that had befallen her. You suspected that was why she and Rhaenyra had organized this little trip; a celebratory hunt they’d called it, to commemorate the rift between your two families finally being healed. 

“Dear, dear wife,” your oldest brother slurs, goblet clutched in one hand as he staggers toward you and Helaena, groaning when he flops down on the bench next to you. “Oh, you look… ravishing,” your lips quirk up into a smirk as he drapes an arm around your shoulders, giggling and making faces at Maelor. 

“What did I tell you,” your sister says through a huff of laughter, violet eyes finding yours, “They ignore you until they’re drunk.”

If only that were the case, you think as you force yourself to laugh in time with her. 

“That is quite rude,” Aegon chastises, brows furrowed in offense while he takes a messy swig of wine, a few red drops run down his chin. “Do you see how she treats me?” He pouts, leaning closer to you with a wry grin, “The deed is done though, yes? Bastard knew where to put it?”

“Aegon!” Helaena hisses, swatting at his knee. 

The two fall into a playful round of bickering, thankfully leaving you out of it. With a sigh, you let your gaze wander again, tumbling thoughts muffling your siblings voices. 

“It’s not as hard as it looks, here,” Daemon’s voice catches your attention and you watch as he points a knife at the belly of a deer he and Lucerys had hunted earlier in the day, showing the boy where to cut, “Get your knife in there – good, like that, and now just cut downwards, one clean movement…” You glance away as blood spills from the beast’s abdomen, staining the grass below it.

Looking over the treeline, you try to ignore the sick feeling building in the pit of your stomach, though you know it won’t be settled until Aemond’s back at camp. Biting at your lip, you let out an irritated huff when you can’t make out any movement in the distance, no sign of your brother or Ser Criston, even your husband. 

You’d only spoken to Aemond once since your marriage – a hushed conversation hidden away in an alcove when the two of you had a spare moment alone after supper. He’d held you while you’d cried against the crook of his neck, shushing you and running a soothing hand up and down your back. You remember the way his jaw felt, teeth clenched as he rested it atop your head, letting you tuck yourself into him while he vibrated with barely contained rage. 

“I can’t do this, I can’t,” you lamented, peering up at him with a mournful sob as your fingers clung to the dark jacket he wore, “They’re planning on going back to Dragonstone! Dragonstone, Aem!”

“Shh, little one,” his hands had cupped your cheeks, wiped away your tears with calloused thumbs, “I’m not letting them take you.”

His words had held such conviction, you’d wanted nothing more than to believe him, yet you’d shaken your head anyway. “I don’t think there’s any stopping them, this time,” your breath had hitched with each word, “You heard Rhaenyra, they’re leaving as soon as we’re back from the hunt and she would never agree to leave Jacaerys here, never.” 

You had known you were spiraling, head spinning as you’d looked up at him, and yet the words tumbled out anyway. “I hate him, I wish he’d just… just disappear!” It was a childish little jab and yet, your heart had leapt into your throat the moment you’d said it. You were expecting to feel the clawing ache of guilt gnaw at your stomach, however, a weightlessness followed. You’d never felt lighter than in that moment – tucked away in the shadows, a secret you’d harbored since childhood finally set free.

Aemond had stayed quiet, but you saw the way his violet eye sparkled, the gears turning in his head.

Your words had echoed in his head, calling out to him like a siren’s song – the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. 

Finally convinced that the three men are truly not just going to materialize at the edge of camp, your gaze shifts to where your mother and Rhaenyra sit, huddled together beside one of the many firepits. Bouncing little Maelor on your lap, you’re vaguely aware of Aegon and Helaena idly chatting beside you, something to do with how your brother believes some such thing about the Small Council is a waste of time – a frequent complaint of his since taking the throne. 

You’re hardly listening though, head cocked to the side while you watch the two women laughing and animatedly conversing; they remind you of the young girls at court – youthful and carefree, too wrapped up in one another to notice much around them. 

That’s why she let them go together, that shadowy voice in the back of your head hisses, Too distracted to know better. You clench your jaw, only halfway aware of the stinging pain at your cuticle as you dig a nail into it.

“What say you to accompanying me on a hunt, nephew?” Aemond had asked earlier in the afternoon, voice low as he slunk over to where you, Jace, and your mothers had been sitting at one of the wooden tables, picking through a light lunch the cooks at the Keep had prepared.

“Aemond,” Alicent had sighed wearily, leaning heavily on her elbows while Rhaenyra regarded your brother with a cool indifference – evidently unaware of your family’s tensions. 

“What? I merely wish to bond with my dearest sister’s new husband.”

“Uncle,” Jace had finally spoken up, pointedly grasping one of your hands that had sat on the table, “As much as I would love to accompany you, don’t you think it a bit unwise for only the two of us to go? If I remember correctly from my youth, your father used to take a whole host of men into the woods with him…” 

“Do you not think yourself man enough to take on a measly buck, nephew?”

“Aemond!”

“Don’t fret, mother. ‘Twas only a joke, a tasteless one, I admit,” your hackles had raised at that, at how quickly he had stood down, so wholly unlike your brother, “Besides, I’ve taken the liberty of asking Ser Criston to accompany us as well.”

It was then, at the mention of the knight, that Rhaenyra had leaned closer to Alicent, the two of them laughing softly and sharing knowing glances while your half-sister whispered into her ear. 

“Surely the three of us are more than capable of subduing a deer or two, don’t you think?” 

Jace had balked at that, sighing heavily as his grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly. 

“I think it sounds like a wonderful idea,” you had coached your lips into a tight smile when you interjected, “Doesn’t that sound like a lovely idea, mother?”

“Hm?” She had blinked, finally parting from Rhaenyra, the ghost of a smile still on her lips. 

“For Ser Criston to accompany Jace and Aemond, to go hunting with them.”

“Well, I –”

“Surely that would be safest, yes?” You pushed, glancing at Jace before locking eyes with Aemond, “A knight with them, a Kingsguard no less.” 

“I think it sounds like a fine idea,” Rhaenyra had smiled, squeezing one of your mother’s hands, “They should take the time to bond, no? Savor it while we’re together these last few days.” 

“Yes… yes, a fine idea,” she had immediately agreed, always swaying to your half-sister. 

“Wonderful,” your brother murmured, a slow smile spreading across his lips as he clasped his arms behind his back, “I’ll have Ser Criston ready the horses.” With that, he had stalked away, giving you one final glance. 

“You truly think this a good idea?” Your husband had questioned, turning to you while your mothers got lost in yet another hushed conversation.

“Of course!” You had nodded, clasping one of his hands in both of yours, “Aemond is… odd with his affections. This is just his way of attempting to rectify things, I’m sure of it.” 

“I suppose…,” he had sighed, running a hand through his dark hair.

“It’ll be fine,” you had urged, going so far as to lean over and press a kiss against his cheek, one of the scant few times you had initiated any affections. 

Those words had echoed in your head while you watched the three men sheath their swords and load various bows and arrows onto their horses, the midday sun suddenly feeling much too warm against your skin. 

It’ll be fine, you had reminded yourself for the millionth time when they set off, horses galloping along a narrow path that led into the Kingswood, He’s not letting them take me, it’ll be fine. 

“Oh, shit,” Aegon whispers beside you, nearly dropping his goblet. 

You quickly follow his eyeline, looking to where he stares at one of the small paths that lead into the camp – the sight wrenching a hitched gasp from your throat. 

A hush seems to fall over the entirety of the camp, only for the quickest of seconds, before chaos erupts. Aemond stands before one of the horses, a grey one you recognize as Jace’s, steadying it while Criston pulls your husband from the saddle, smearing the side of the animal with thick streaks of red. 

Daemon quickly runs over to assist while you hastily hand Maelor back to Helaena, hardly looking in her direction as you do. 

“Jace? Jacaerys?!” Rhaenyra calls, picking up her skirts as she sprints over, violet eyes wide with terror, “What is it? What’s happened?”

Every noise sounds muffled when you make your way over to the huddle of commotion, Alicent following closely behind. A strange detached sensation fills you while you watch Criston and Daemon lay Jace down on a nearby bench, blood immediately soaking into the silk fabric of the pillows. 

It feels as if everything is happening both too quickly and too slowly all at once – a few of the other knights rush forward, hastily pulling his tunic out of the way before pressing stark white medical linens to the gaping cut on his side. They bark orders over his body, yelling for the servants to bring water and more linens. 

You feel your mother and Helaena grabbing at your arms and it’s only then you realize you’re shaking, swaying in place like a leaf on a branch; you know they’re talking to you but their words are dulled by the rushing of blood in your ears.

Somewhere in your periphery, you register the sound of Daemon’s voice, thick with desperation as he shouts question after question at Criston, “What happened? When? How? How long ago? How could you, you were supposed to protect him?!” They blend together, echoing through the haze in a roaring hum. 

Distantly, you register the feel of another warm body pressing into the small pack you find yourself a part of. Helaena shushes someone next to you and your gaze tears itself away from the pools of crimson gathering on the grass just long enough to realize that it’s Luke. Your heart breaks at that, a sharp pang in your chest at the fact that the poor boy is distressed enough to seek comfort from your family, of all places. 

“No! No, no, no!” Rhaenyra’s wails slice through the fog clouding your mind in such an exacting manner that your knees buckle, “Jace, Jace, look at me, please? Sweetling, please look at me!” She sobs, leaning over her son, one hand cradling his cheek. 

Unseeing brown eyes stare, unblinking, up at the hazy orange sky while yours focus solely on a single, paralyzing flash of violet. 

He’s not letting them take me, it’ll be fine. 

The Sept is eerily quiet, normal for this time of night but unsettling all the same; the occasional fizzling noises of the dozens of flickering candles is the only way you’re able to discern that time hasn’t simply halted. Pale moonlight shines in through the windows, bathing the floor in a star-shaped pool of light and making the whites of the painted eyes resting atop Jace’s face glow like beacons. 

You had picked out the stones and painted the eyes on them yourself, taking them from a spot in the gardens you knew he had favored when you were children and spent hours sourcing the pigments to make just the right shade of brown – one that reminded you of the rich chocolates that had been imported from Essos for your betrothal feast. 

“A wife’s duty,” your mother had said.

Rhaenyra had glared at you the whole time; silently, you wondered if she somehow knew it wasn’t duty that drove you – only atonement. 

Atonement, your mind echoes as you sit upon the cool stone steps beneath the Seven-Pointed Star, leaning your head against the bannister as you force yourself to look at his body, still atop black silks. 

Must one feel guilt to atone? Must I atone for not feeling it? When will it end?

Those questions had plagued you in the days since Jace died, bled out like a hunter’s boon in the field by the Kingswood. They’d settled over you like a fever, an ever-present haunting ache, made only worse by the soft, sinful voice in the back of your head that whispered the truth – that you didn’t care, that you don’t even now. 

You hadn’t cared, even as blood seeped from the gash at his side, even as you forced yourself to kneel by his still warm body and press gentle kisses to his forehead – the performance of a good wife. 

You hadn’t cared in the carriage ride back to the Keep, letting your mother and your sister hold you while you cried – I’m sad, I’m sad, I’m crying because I’m sad, I’m crying because I should be sad.

And you hadn’t cared when Aemond had come to you in the dead of night, had slipped into your chambers – your chambers – through one of the many hidden passageways in the old castle. 

“How?” You had asked, tracing patterns onto the pale skin of his bare chest while the two of you laid tangled in your silk sheets. 

“A boar,” he answered plainly, speaking through a sigh while running his fingers over the thigh you had draped across his hips, “Just as I’ve told you the last four times you’ve asked.”

“Aemond,” you sighed in that same tired tone your mother so often used; your eyes had narrowed when you saw the corner of his lips just barely twitch up into a smile; were it any other time, he would’ve made a cheeky comment about the similarity. 

“I’ve told you,” his grip tightened ever so slightly on your thigh and his other hand had grasped at your chin, guiding your eyes to his, “We had been tracking a buck, had gotten close and dismounted our horses, and had, I assume, stumbled into the beast’s territory and it charged at us.”

“Brother,” you had whispered, shaking your head and cupping his cheek, “Have you forgotten that I can tell when you lie?” 

He had stayed silent for a long while at that, jaw clenched while he stared at some point off in the distance, lips drawn into a tight line. Eventually, you had laid your head down, resting your cheek on his shoulder while you tried to accept that you wouldn’t be getting the truth that night, if ever.

It was only then that he had spoken.

“Please, let me protect you.” 

“Protect me?” You had looked up, brows furrowed as you studied his face, “From what?”

“From the law –”

“Our brother is king, if he says it was not murder, if he says it was an accident, which he already has done, then no one will question his –”

“Fine, then,” he had snapped, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, “From the damn Gods! I…” He trailed off, sighing heavily while he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“... the Gods?”

He’d finally looked at you again and your heart had pinched meanly in your chest when you saw tears gathering in his violet eye, “They will judge me harshly for what I’ve done, whenever the time comes, but… I will not subject you to the same fate.”

You had scoffed at that, had rolled your eyes when he looked away shamefully and had climbed atop him then, straddled his hips and turned his face toward yours, “I don’t give a shit about the Gods.” 

“What?”

“I don’t,” you repeated, leaning down until your forehead touched his, “If they were good Gods, if they cared, they would not have subjected me to that sham of a marriage in the first place. They would’ve guided our mother rightly, but they didn’t.”

“Sister, I –”

“And I hate that our nephew paid for that, Aemond, I truly do, but I am the one who told you to do it.”

He had shaken his head while a mournful peal of laughter clawed its way out of his throat, “You didn’t tell me to do any–”

“Perhaps not directly,” you interjected, smiling sadly while you cupped both of his cheeks in your hands, running a thumb over the scar beneath his eye, “But I did. I could’ve told you not to, could’ve said I didn’t mean it, could’ve cautioned our mother against letting him go with you, but… I didn’t.”

“No… no, I suppose you didn’t,” he sighed, swallowing thickly as he tried in vain to blink away tears.

“I didn’t,” you echoed, your words hushed and cooed, like a mother soothing an infant, “I know what you’re capable of, I knew it then, and I didn’t.”

He nodded, his breath stuttered in his throat as a single tear rolled down his cheek. 

“Because I knew you’d protect me… and you did.” 

“I did,” he mumbled, nodding up at you as his face twisted and a small sob bubbled from his lips, “I did, I did it. I did it, I did. For you, for us.” 

“I know,” you murmured sweetly, stroking a hand over his long hair while you pressed sweet kisses against his forehead. You held him as he cried, huddled together in the dark of your chambers 

And you hadn’t cared when you realized you were smiling. 

“The hour is quite late, little one,” the suddenness of his voice makes you jump, though you settle quickly. 

“So it is,” you smile and look over your shoulder, tilting your head up while he walks down the steps to join you, “The hour of ghosts, yes? Fitting.” 

He huffs as he sits beside you before regarding you with a slight smirk, “I suppose it is,” he murmurs, only sparing the red and black draped body on the altar a passing glance.

“Why are you here?”

“I was looking for you… Hel said you would probably be here.”

“Mm,” you nod, idly running a finger over the pattern on your skirts, finding a morbid sort of beauty in the way the rich black silks glimmered in the candlelight. 

“Why are you here?” Aemond asks, eye following the line of your profile. 

“Praying.”

Without looking, you can practically feel him rolling his eye beside you, huffing a little breathy laugh again, “Have you forgotten that I can tell when you lie, sweet sister?”

Hearing your own words from the night before parroted back to you pulls a laugh from you as well, though you wince as your giggle echoes throughout the Sept. “It’s funny,” you sigh, glancing about the cavernous space before finally looking at him, “This is the only place where no one wants to be.” 

He hums next to you and nods his head, lets the two of you sit in silence for a moment before you continue. 

“I don’t have to pretend when I’m here.” 

“Pretend?” 

Biting at your bottom lip, you nod and lean into his touch when he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “That I’m sad… that I feel anything, really,” you sigh, breathing the words more so than saying them, “All Rhaenyra does is cry, Daemon is ready to strangle anything that moves, Lucerys is despondent to the point of being mute. Even our own mother cries for him and I cannot muster a single tear that isn’t a farce.”

Your eyes trail back over to Jace and you regard him with a mournful stare, staying silent for a long moment as you try to will yourself to feel sad, to feel angry, to feel guilty… yet nothing comes.

“Everyone grieves differently,” Aemond mumbles beside you, though his words only serve to make you more bitter, “Perhaps, in time –”

“In time nothing will happen,” you snap, grimacing at the harshness in your voice, “I’m not sad and I am… I’m tired of pretending I am.” You murmur, leaning your head on his shoulder. 

Aemond is quiet for a long while, though you can feel the energy radiating off of him in waves – you’ve always been able to tell when he has a lot on his mind. You’re content to simply let him think, taking his silence as a cue that it’s your turn to let him sort through things. 

“You… are happy, though? Yes?” He finally asks after several long minutes, going strangely rigid next to you as if he’s afraid of your answer, “I know you say you aren’t sad but…”

“Aemond,” you sigh, sitting up and staring at him as a slow, creeping smile spreads across your face, “I have never been happier.”

“Truly?”

“Yes!” You quickly shift yourself on the stairs, turning yourself more toward him and placing a gentle hand on top of his thigh, “Big brother, you saved me.”

He opens his mouth to speak but you don’t let him get a word in edgewise before the emotions you’ve been bottling up over the last few days finally spill over and you practically throw yourself into his lap, straddling his hips. 

“Brother, I've been tethered to him since I was eight and you have freed me from that,” you say softly, voice hardly carrying in the air. Slowly, carefully you pull his eyepatch off, the only one ever allowed to do so; there is a sadness in your smile when you gently trail your fingers over the crease of his scar, “We both lost something that night and have suffered for it ever since.”

Without another word, you press your lips to his and savor the groan your kiss pulls from him. His hands grab at your hips in the same instance yours card through his hair while your lips move together in a practiced rhythm. 

Impatient, one of your hands travels down his chest and stomach, though you hardly have time to pull at the hem of his dark tunic before he grabs your wrist, stopping you. 

“Aemond,” you huff, fighting against his grip. 

“Surely you don’t mean to defile this place in such a way,” he murmurs, violet eye sparkling as if he were challenging you, even as he glances over your shoulder, “What would your dear husband think?

You grin at the lecherous smirk on his lips, heart pounding in your chest as a familiar ache settles at the apex of your thighs. You give one final glance over your shoulder before turning back to him with a dismissive shrug. “Husband in name only,” you remind him, yanking your hand out of his grasp and trailing your fingers over the growing bulge beneath his trousers, “I have only ever been devoted to you.”

A rough growl leaves his lips and he clenches his jaw, narrowing his eye. “We will burn for this, sweet sister,” he huffs, pale cheeks flushing while he stares up at you, one hand still settled on your hip as the other comes up to cup your jaw. 

“The Seven can have their say,” your cunt clenches at the way he looks at you – surprise, lust, even reverence giving such an intensity to his gaze that it nearly knocks the wind from your lungs, “The Old Valyrian Gods can as well, I don’t care. Aemond, I don’t.”

Your hand finally, blessedly, pulls free the ties at the top of his trousers and you quickly find his length. The sharp grunt that’s wrenched from his throat when your hand wraps around it echoes through the Sept, each iteration of it making the fire in your belly burn brighter and brighter. 

He doesn’t attempt to stop you when you plunge a hand beneath the fabric of your black skirts and hastily tug your smallclothes out of the way, he merely studies you in awe, as if watching a newly hatched dragon spread its wings for the first time. His gaze makes you shiver, though you dare not look away.

“What do you care about, little one?” He murmurs suddenly, unable to help himself from glancing between your bodies, licking his lips while he watches you use your fingers to prepare yourself as you rub your own slick through your folds. 

“You,” you whisper, shuddering at the way you both gasp at the same time when you rut against his already throbbing length, “You are the only god I’ve ever worshiped, big brother.”

A loud groan bursts free of his lips at that and the hunger in his eye nearly catches you alight, and yet he still grabs at your hips tightly, preventing you from sinking onto his length – so out of his element, wholly unused to being taken in such a way. “Come, let us go to my chambers,” he tries, breathing your name against your neck as he leans up, “Where I can take you properly, hm? No risk of anyone interrupting…”

Undeterred, you simply shake your head and lean forward, pressing your lips against his in an eager, near feral kiss. It’s mostly teeth and tongues and thankfully, it’s enough to shock him into loosening his grip, just enough for you to take what you want. You bite at his bottom lip when you sink down onto his length, hard enough to taste iron, making him growl into the kiss, the sound of it deepening to a low groan at the feel of your tight cunt around him. 

The feel of his cock stretching you open somehow only gets better each time and leaves you gasping in his lap, your hands grabbing at his shoulders for leverage while you begin grinding yourself against him, impatient and ravenous. “Ohh, f-fuck,” you curse, squeezing your eyes shut while your walls flutter around him. 

Aemond’s chest heaves under your hands while he stares up at you, lips parted ever so slightly as breathy groans spill, unbidden, from them. Opening your eyes, your gaze is immediately drawn to a little smear of red beside his mouth and you lean forward – licking his pale skin clean without a second thought. 

“Little minx,” he smirks, meanly grabbing at your hips again and bucking up into you. He huffs a soft laugh at the sharp moan that bursts from you, sounding louder still in the large open space of the Sept; there’s a dangerous, challenging gleam in his eye that makes you shiver. “Go on, then,” he rasps, trailing a hand up from your hip to cup the underside of your breast, his touch warm even through the bodice of your gown, “Worship your god.”

A soft, stuttered moan wrenches itself from your lips at that and you quickly obey, staking your claim over him. As you find your rhythm, rutting wildly in his lap, the only sounds echoing off the walls are that of panted breaths and the slick, wet noises from where the two of you connect. “You’re mine,” you breathe, leaning forward to bite at his throat, determined to mark him in as many ways as possible, “Y-You’ve always been mine, Aemond.” 

He nods his head, hands scrambling at the ties on your bodice, determined to free your breasts. “I’m yours?” He taunts, sighing victoriously when he finally manages to practically rip the top of your gown open; his tongue darts out, wetting his lips at the sight of them and he allows himself a few seconds to appreciate the way they bounce so enticingly with each of your determined movements, “Show me, then… show me who I belong to, sweet sister.”

Something snaps inside you then, breaking and clicking perfectly into place all in the same breath; the feeble thing that was holding the dam inside of you shut disappears. Whatever greedy darkness Aemond has always harbored within himself has been slowly seeping into you since the night of your betrothal feast and now, it seems, it has finally settled into your bones as well. It’s as if he can sense it in the same instance you do and gives a subtle nod of his head, commanding you to give in. 

With renewed vigor, you grind against him harshly, pressing your hips as far down onto him as you can manage until you can feel his cock pressing against the entrance to your womb. The thought of him there, of the possibility of his seed catching, of the possibility that it may already have, spurs you on further. 

“I would kill for you, too,” you say lowly through clenched teeth, licking up the side of his neck until you can whisper into his ear, “I’ll do anything to have you, my love, I don’t care what it is.”

A low groan reverberates from within his chest, both of you all but snarling as you move together; his hips rut up against yours, unable to hold still any longer, and he bites a path down your neck until he reaches the softness of your breasts. You gasp as he teases at one nipple, flicking at it with the tip of his tongue while his fingers toy with the other one, only to cut yourself off with a loud moan when his lips seal around it. 

“I would burn this city to the fucking ground if that’s what… what it took, brother,” the words tumble from your lips when you card your fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his head and holding him against your chest. Your head tilts down, heart pounding in your chest while you watch him savor the feel of your warm flesh in his mouth; his violet eye snaps up and his gaze bores into yours, making your cunt clutch greedily at his length. 

Feeling the knot building quickly in your belly, aided by the way your sensitive pearl brushes against the small patch of hair at the base of Aemond’s cock, you only grow more needy – craving confirmation that he is yours, that no one will be able to take him from you again. Your breath catches in your throat when you recall a conversation the two of you had had a few nights ago, the night of Jace’s death.

The two of you had been cuddled in your bed together, panting in sweat-damp sheets, when he had cupped your cheek and turned your face to his. 

“What is it?” You asked, familiar with the faraway look in his eye – God’s knew where he could’ve been in that moment.

“Marry me.”

His whispered demand had knocked the air from your lungs then, the whole world may as well have come to a grinding halt on its axis. “Aemond, we must wait, you know this. I hate it as much as you do but –”

“We need to wait for a Westerosi wedding, yes,” he murmured, leaning over you and shushing you with a soft kiss, “Too soon and it looks suspicious.”

“But –”

“But… a wedding in the tradition of our house need not wait, little one,” the determination in his eye had shocked you then, had warmed you from the inside out, “Our sister and her cunt of a husband hardly waited until Laena and Laenor were cold before they married… we could do the same.”

You had stayed quiet after that, too much death and change and uncertainty clouding your mind to give him an answer, and yet you knew he was right. Rhaenyra and Daemon had married in secret, so soon after Laenor’s sudden passing that it had always seemed a bit odd to you. Yet, no one ever questioned it; your own father had accepted it without so much as a blink, writing the marriage into law with no fuss. Aegon would do the same for you, you felt certain. 

Nothing was stopping you, nothing that mattered, anyway. 

That thought fuels you now as you rock on Aemond’s lap, both of you barreling toward your eventual ends. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging him away from your breast despite his growl of displeasure. Just as he had with you, you cup his cheeks, focusing his attention on you. 

“Marry me.”

The rhythm of his hips hitches at your words and he fucks up into you harshly, moving you more desperately against him as another loud, guttural moan echoes through the chamber. 

“Tonight,” you continue, brows furrowing as you stare at him, greedily drinking him in, “I cannot wait any longer, brother, tonight, please…” 

A vicious, conquering smirk grows on his lips, white teeth gleaming in the low candlelight like a snarling dog. “You wish to be mine, is that it?” He teases, reaching between your two writhing bodies to rub hungrily at your pearl, savoring the pretty breathy moans he earns. 

You’re shaking your head before he can even finish speaking as an unrelenting, all consuming possessive ache starts spreading out from your heart, flowing through your blood vessels like fire. “I don’t wish it,” you pant, forehead resting against his while the wildfire burning in your belly threatens to burn you whole, “I told you, I would kill for you and… and, fuck, I swear it. A-Aemond, no one will have you ever again, never, none except me…”

Your words descend into a barely intelligible murmur as you finally let go, pushed suddenly over the edge at the thought of being so tightly bound together that no one would be able to tear the two of you apart again. Your brother growls again at the feel of your cunt pulsing around him, the movements spurring him toward his own end. 

He grabs at you when he follows you into oblivion, holding you against him as if you’d disappear otherwise. The feel of his spend spilling into you, filling you, nearly sends you over the edge again and you cling to him just as harshly, holding him while he trembles beneath you. 

“You are a vicious little thing,” he says softly after some minutes, holding you against his chest while the two of you catch your breaths.

“I learned from the best.”

He only sighs at that but you don’t need to look at him to know he’s smiling. “I would do it again for you,” he mumbles, eye fixed on Jace, “I would do it a thousand times over.”

He speaks in a reverent whisper, promises of death and destruction as sweet as a prayer on his lips. 

Aemond’s hand is warm in yours as he leads you through the winding corridors below the Red Keep, the flickering light from the torches lining the walls making the various statues and reliefs dance in your periphery. 

“I’ve always hated that he’s down here, stowed away,” he murmurs, yet his voice still carries some among the stone hallways.

“Mm,” you hum in agreement, glancing into each shadowy alcove you come across while you try to ignore the wild beating in your chest – the way your heart clenches at the thought of finally being so close to what you’ve always wanted. “Yes, he should be out in the sun, somewhere he can be celebrated.”

The old cellars under the Keep have always seemed so haunting to you, so cold and empty. The thought of the walls down here being lined with the ashen remains of generations upon generations of your ancestors had never failed to send a shiver down your spine. Yet, they unfold before you now like paradise; even the still, musty air begins to smell as sweet as honeyed wine. 

For the briefest of seconds, guilt joins you – walks alongside you, invisible like the Stranger. A stuttered heartbeat, that’s all and then it’s gone, at the thought that Jace would join them tomorrow, still warm from Vermax’s fire. 

How ironic, you think, glancing up at your brother and admiring the way the light gleams on his sapphire eye, That a place that holds so much death would be where our lives finally begin.

“I don’t want to wait any longer,” you’d said again, retying your bodice while Aemond tucked himself back into his trousers and searched for his eyepatch.

“Nor do I,” he agreed, stuffing the small scrap of fabric into a pocket – the streets of King’s Landing would be deserted enough at this time of night that he could get away without wearing it. “Tensions are bound to rise after tomorrow, after everything is said and done; I don’t want to leave anything to chance.”

You had nodded and followed him out of the Sept, through one of the many old, forgotten tunnels that only a scant few knew existed, the list of which definitely didn’t include the guards stationed at the front of the building who had escorted your carriage earlier that evening. 

While he had helped you onto the back of his horse, the two of you shared a knowing look, each of you already thinking the same thing. 

Turning down one final corridor, your heart thuds in your chest as you’re finally met with Balerion’s petrifying gaze and, just like every other time you’d been in his presence, a little huff of reverence leaves you. Your eyes dance over the rows of his razor sharp teeth, gleaming in the glow of dozens of candles, and you can’t help but imagine the horrors those jaws have inflicted, the pain they wrought while subduing the continent – all in your family’s name. 

“Targaryens have always taken what we’ve wanted,” Aemond murmurs beside you, staring up at the gargantuan skull with just as much respect as you are, “Tamed our desires in fields of fire.”

“And rivers of blood,” you turn your heads at the same time, soft smiles on your lips when your eyes meet, like you’re sharing sweet words of love rather than painting pictures of horrors. 

Perhaps that is what wrath is for us, you wonder, your eyes flicking between violet and sapphire when you turn toward your brother, What is death if not the sweetest of devotions?

He takes your hands in his, glancing down when your fingers intertwine before looking back up at you; you can feel yourself blushing under his intense gaze, heart squeezing in your chest as he looks at you like that in and of itself is an honor. There’s such softness in his eye, you would think him incapable of violence if you didn’t know better. 

“You truly wish for this?” He questions one last time, needing to be sure. 

“I’ve told you, I do not wish,” your hands squeeze his, “I need this, Aemond… I would kill for you, for this – for us. Anything, just as you did.” 

Your voice trembles when you speak, the intensity of your hushed promises making your head spin because you would. The want you feel, that you have always felt, is not some soft yearning thing. It’s not so simple as some mere whisper uttered in the dead of night at a holy altar while your skin is awash with the glow of candlelight, no. 

No, your want is something far more insidious – something deep-seated. An oppressive, clinging thing that has always coaxed you further and further down into that shadowy part of yourself; the part that has always reminded you too much of him. 

The demon, lurking in your periphery, that has always begged you to look, has tempted you since childhood with the sweetest of promises, finally rejoices. 

Aemond nods, a satisfied smile pulling at the corner of his lips, and you watch as he lets go of one of your hands to unsheath his dagger. The sight of the worn leather handle makes you smile bashfully, though your core clenches all the same, and you gasp when you feel another drop of his seed soak into your smallclothes. 

“You know the words?”

Again, he nods and your head cocks to the side curiously when a wash of pink grows on his pale cheeks; he smiles again and fixes you with that same intense stare. “I used to spend hours reading them, over and over, when we were children,” he whispers, leaning closer to you like he’s revealing some deep, dark secret, “I always wanted to get them perfect for you.” 

A little peal of laughter echoes through the cellars before you swallow thickly, trying to tamper the tightness at the back of your throat as the backs of your eyes sting, tears pooling in your waterline. He cups your cheek and you smile when he brushes one away, a pleased hum leaves his lips when you nod. 

Aemond raises the dagger, glancing between its shining blade and your lips while you ready yourself, one hand clenching at the black silk of your skirts. “I’ll be gentle,” he promises. 

You hold stock-still, gasping when he presses the cool edge of it against your lower lip, yet your eyes don’t leave his when he finally cuts – nicking your delicate flesh just enough to draw blood before offering you the dagger. Grasping it, you mirror his steps exactly, just as careful with him. 

Setting the dagger to the side, you both reach up at the same time, swiping a thumb over your own lip before reaching out. Your arms intertwine when you brush each other’s foreheads, leaving behind two crimson lines. 

His gaze never breaks from yours as he takes the blade again and carefully cuts his palm, holding it out to you again and waiting while you do the same, gasping at the sharp sting. Finally, the two of you join hands, blood mingling together as a few drops of it splatter on the stone floor as Balerion bears witness to your union. 

“Hen lantoti ānogar, va syndroti vāedroma, mēro perzot gīhoti, elēdroma iārza sīr,” he recites, murmuring the words with care, making sure to enunciate each syllable, to make the vows unmistakeable to whichever ghosts may be listening, “Izulī ampā perzī, prūmī lanti sēteksi, hen jeny māzīlarion,” (Blood of two, joined as one, ghostly flame, and song of shadows. Two hearts as embers, forged in fourteen fires, a future promised in glass.)

Aemond pauses, taking a breath as he squeezes your hand with his, echoing your smile.

“Qēlossa ozūndesi, syndroro ōñō jēdo, ry kīvia mazvestraksi,” he finishes, all but breathing the last few words as his eye grows misty. (The stars stand witness, the vow spoken through time, of darkness and light.)

The two of you stand still for a moment like you’re waiting for the world to crash down around you and you can feel his heart beating in time with yours as your palms press together, both of you seemingly in shock at finally, finally having everything you’ve ever wanted. 

You can’t tell who moves first but suddenly you’re crashing against him, dagger clanging as it hits the floor, while the two of you clutch at one another desperately, uncaring of the blood smearing on your clothes. 

Your lips press against his like they’re a lifeline and you moan at the touch, swiping your tongue over his while you grab at the lapels of his jacket. His hands cup your cheeks, staining one with red, before carding through your hair. 

“Gods,” he groans, resting his forehead against yours while the two of you pant, breathing out soft laughs. “My little wife…” He says the word slowly, lets it drag over his tongue. 

“Husband,” you reply between soft kisses to his cheek, head spinning at how a word that once had to be dragged from you, that had scraped against your skin like thorns, now felt like silk slipping cooly over you. 

Your brother growls deep in his chest and his eye flutters shut for a second before his hands are at your waist again and he’s walking you backwards, only a few paces, until you’re pressed against one of the stone columns surrounding the great dragon’s skull. Though your landing is soft, it wrenches a gasp from you all the same but you don’t have time to question his intent before his lips are on yours again.

You moan into the kiss, matching each of his deep groans with one of your own as your tongues tangle together. “Aemond,” you pant when he begins trailing kisses down across your jaw and neck, “What –”

He nips at your cleavage then and you can feel him smirking at the loud whine he pulls from you, soothing the skin after with a sweet kiss before sinking to his knees before you. The sight is enough to make you weak – the man that loves you more than eternity itself, who loves you enough to do terrible, monstrous things, kneeling at your feet and staring up at you like you are his salvation. 

Your hands tangle in his soft hair while he pulls at your skirts, pushing them up and out of the way, kissing your thighs as he goes. “You had the chance to worship at your altar, sweetest little wife,” he pants, groaning when he pushes your smallclothes to the side and licking his lips at the sight of your cunt, still wet with your combined spend, “Now let me worship at mine.”

That’s the only warning you get before he dives in, lapping at your center with a loud, satiated growl. Your head thuds back against the column while your eyes are fixed, half-lidded, on Balerion, on the fire that surrounds him. 

You understand, then – the curtains of fire that blanketed the continent were necessary to conquer it, just as blood was necessary to bind the two of you. Perhaps one day you’ll be called to answer for that, but even then you would do it a thousand times over; even if the dark, shadowy parts of yourself, of him, lead to the deepest pits of the Seven Hells. You would do it, again and again, for him. 

You were always meant to burn together.

thank you for taking the time to read! hope you enjoyed! :)

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[rebeccathenaturalist]

Have a little good news to start the week. One little butterfly may not seem like a big deal, but every species we manage to save means better biodiversity and a healthier ecosystem overall. Moreover, there is something profound in knowing that you've helped to protect a unique evolutionary lineage that has fluttered on for thousands of years, and which once lost would be gone forever.

I know the world can feel overwhelming at times, with extinctions happening at a much higher rate than normal, ecosystems worldwide in peril, and headlines focusing primarily on the negative. But remember that there are also so, so many people working every day--right now, in fact--to protect these most precious, wonderful beings and their homes that we share this planet with. The above story is just one of thousands, most of which never hit the news cycle, but which are still having a positive impact quietly, behind the scenes.

I think it's an important thing to remember in these days. I know this particular Gandalf quote only came from the Hobbit movies, not the book, but I still think it's appropriate here: "It is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love." And what else motivates someone to save a tiny butterfly, but an intense love for the natural world?

[catghoststories]

Frank, Eddie, and the Tell-Tale Heart

So, I know the main focus of this update was Poppy, which I was happy to see (though I'm not happy to see what happened to her).  I do have a theory cooking about her, Sally, and the Commedia Dell'arte, but Frank n' Eddie are my favorite pair, and I've been stewing over this particular theory since the July '23 update.  This tiny line from the Looky-Loo storybook is what cinched it for me.

Source: Merchandise Page, Looky-Loo Storybook

This line isn't read out loud, but we can see it at around the 9 minute in the video, above Eddie, looking so polite.  It reads,

"Villains!" I shrieked, "I can deny it no longer! I admit the deed!—tear up my flower bed!—here, here!—it is the ticking of my beloved alarm clock!"

This isn't the actual line from The Tell-Tale Heart.  The original line reads "Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks!—here, here!—it is the beating of his hideous heart!"

Source: The Tell-Tale Heart

The Tell-Tale Heart is about someone murdering their roommate, cutting him into pieces, and hiding the evidence under the floorboards of their house. 

And I think this is what Frank is going to do to Eddie, in an attempt to protect him in a perverse, misguided way.

This rewritten lines seems very specific to Frank and Eddie.  We know Frank loves his garden.  And who's the only character in the Neighborhood who owns a clock?  Eddie.

At the end of the Homewarming video, Frank sees how distressed Eddie is.  As many have theorized, Frank seems to be somewhat aware of what's happening, although we don't know to what extent.  But he sees that Eddie is now in the line of fire of The Powers That Be, and he becomes worried for him.  

I think Frank will dismantle Eddie and hide him in his garden until he deems it 'safe' for Eddie to come back, once the 'eyes' are off him.  (Kind of reminds me of the Eye of Sauron from Lord of the Rings).  An unintentional—or perhaps intentional—side effect of being dismantled and put back together, with new parts, is that Eddie doesn't remember things well. 

Including, possibly, his and Frank's relationship.

This goes along with the theme we've seen several times in WH now, including this new Halloween update.  The puppets unintentionally—yet seriously—harm their loved ones in order to protect them from something they deem far worse—whatever that may be.

As these posts by kykudos, oniongrass, and nikkiiiscute discuss, there is an image from one of the hidden bug clips of Frank's garden with 9 clothespins—one buried in the dirt.

Source: Welcome Home Hidden Audio ('til it's back on the official site :3)

And there's the references to burial in Bug-a-Bye and Goodnight, too.  This post by the-nosy-neighbor goes quite a lot into this song very well, especially how it might indicate Frank could put Eddie into a suspended state!

Source: Transcript Page, Bug-a-Bye and Goodnight

Now I have been thinking about this dismantling/reassembling thing for a long time, especially since the last Halloween update.  Eddie is one of the puppets with a new costume, and he is Frank(enstein)'s monster.  And he has a big yellow band-aid on the back—Frank's color.  If Eddie is taken apart, Frank will patch him up again.

Source: Clown's Tumblr

(Also, I'm curious about the blue hand and face in Eddie's costume design. That's Barnaby's color. Does Frank use Barnaby's spare parts to put Eddie back together?! 😳 Especially since I feel like Barnaby's time on Mister Bone's Wild Ride is fast approaching—but that's yet another post 😅)

But based on the Tell-Tale Heart line, Frank may have been the one to do the dismantling in the first place, which is quite dark.  Based on the below picture from the former staff member page—clearer image here from Clown's Tumblr—Frank may be aware they're puppets and made up of various parts.

Source: Welcome Home Wiki until it's back on the official site :3

There is also an intense piece on Clown's Ko-Fi here (please support Clown if you can!) that shows butterflies doing SOMETHING to Eddie. Are they putting him together? Or taking him apart to join them in their hibernation? 🤔

Frank also likes gelatin. As he tells Poppy in their hidden audio, 'it holds perfectly sliced fruit beautifully'.  Perfectly sliced, cut up fruit, eh?  Gelatin is a preservative that we also see in the cookbook recipe, and we all know Eddie has an unholy encounter with his single pea.  So yet another symbol of suspended animation that is related to Frank and Eddie.

Source: Merchandise Page, Cookbook

So it seems like Frank has some experience in preservation, hibernation, etc. and knows how to use it, if it comes to it.

The next big update will likely be spring-themed.  A long time ago, Clown posted that Frank has a holiday in spring. Of course this isn't canon until it's on the website, but either way, I think Frank will have an important role in the spring update, which I believe will also focus on Julie.  We may see him wake up Julie from hibernation...and Eddie from his dirt nap.  

Source: Clown's Tumblr

(I've been so curious about that shadow behind the flower.  At first I thought 'OMG, it's Eddie's hand!', but I don't think so. 😅 I dunno what it is, but it doesn't quite seem flower like to me...🤔)

This Ko-Fi post (again, please support Clown if you have the means!) was posted around Easter this year and had a bunny/Easter theme.  Clown says "What is there to say though... Well! We know what the next holiday is in our Home Sweet Home, I'd say."  A huge theme of Easter/Spring are Rebirth and Resurrection.

As this post by serene-hatterene so beautifully details, Frank may feel pressured to kiss Julie to wake her up to prove his heteronormativity.  Maybe to further protect Eddie, too, to prove they aren't a thing.  Seems like Julie's family may show up this update, too, and we know family can cause a lot of pressure for couples during holidays. 😬

My last item isn't that strong, but I have been thinking of since the July '23 update.  In Eddie's Big Lift, Frank says the following line:

Source: Transcript Page, Eddie's Big Lift

The tense of "You always did work too hard" always bothered me.  Why doesn't Frank just say, "You always work too hard!"  And Eddie doesn't seem to know what he's talking about. Frank sounds almost wistful here.  It's like he's talking about his ex—a former version of Eddie, pre-dismantling, perhaps?

(Also, 'Enjoy the ground, Mr. Dear'? Dude, if this theory is right, that line is even more screwed up than it already was. 😳)

Here is my order of how I feel these events actually happened:

Secret Bug Audios (Eddie and Frank flirting) -> 1st Halloween Audio (Eddie still seems like his chipper, knowledgeable self) -> Homewarming -> Springtime (and Eddie's Resurrection)? -> Eddie's Big Lift

Not quite sure where this last Halloween update lands, but I feel like it's later.  Eddie seems ignorant of the potential adverse effects The Brickening (TM) could have on Poppy.  I feel like he's been more sensitive to Poppy and others in the past (but maybe I'm wrong, I'm biased towards him, heh).  Perhaps after his Reconstruction, his memory has now been reset, and he has "fallen into line" with the other Neighbors and their weird, pile-onto-one-person ways.

Anyway, what do you all think? 😬😬 I do hope I'm wrong, since Frank is my favorite, and this would make me feel very differently about him. 😬😬😬 Please tell me your own WH theories, too! I find them so interesting!

[babeilovemonsters]

You know what? I'm so BORED of big monsters. Okay no, I absolutely love big monsters. Monsters that tower over you. But when I'm in a size kink mood, and I specifically want shorter monsters, absolutely zero content. So you know what? I'm making my own.

I can probably do a bigger post about different types eventually, but today, I want fae.

I want a short fae. A piskie, pixie if you're not Cornish like I am.

They stand at no taller than 1ft, usually only 13 inches, and live mostly in trees. Their skin feels more like scales, similar to the bumpy, rough texture of a bearded dragon, with tiny spikes, and often comes in green, orange, brown, and other such colours, and smoothed down their back is much softer than up towards their head. They have big, pointed ears on the sides of their heads, similar to a deer's in shape, with thin, jagged ends, mimicking that of a leaf. Their wings are also very reminiscent of leaves, but aren't for flying. While their bones are hollow like a bird's, they don't actually fly, but rather glide. That being said, they can hold their air time for quite a long while, travelling up to half a mile with the right height and wind strength. Their claws are sharp and perfect for climbing, and their feet are also similar to a lizard's, so they can still grab on. They have small, wirey thin tails, for keeping balance in the treetops, only reaching to their knees. Their eyes are big, and dark, perfect for spotting little details under the blanket of nighttime. Being omnivores, they have both sharp and flat teeth, similar to a dog's.

Some choose to wear clothing, fashioned out of leaves, ripped fabric, litter, and even wooden armour. But not all find dignity in covers, and so choose not to. This is a respected practice, so long as they keep their sexual deeds private.

Their genitalia is able to be concealed, hidden in their sheathes until horny enough to awaken and slide out on their own. The females are larger than males, and tend to be thicker in muscle mass. Males are smaller, thinner and faster, but not as strong. Thus, females are often the ones in charge. They aren't mammals, and ultimately lack breasts, laying eggs instead. During breeding process, the fucking is normal, until the eggs are fertilised. After the females are successfully bred, they'll wait a few weeks for the eggs to develop enough, before taking down some unfortunate mammal, usually a human. Y'know, cause these fae are cold blooded. They aren't warm enough for the eggs. All the currently pregnant females deposit their eggs via an organ reminiscent of a female hyena (if you know, you know), and keep this incubator nearby, before either letting them go or eating them when the job is done. Depends on how they feel.

Because of this, it's not uncommon for female fae to fall in love with the human. But it IS uncommon for the males to. The males don't really have a need for the human. But you know how it is. Maybe they just get curious, or have a human kink. They're not instinct driven animals, they're people too. They might just like humans. Hell, the human doesn't even have to be the incubator for a fae to fall in love! They might fall for someone who frequents the woods quite often. Maybe the human feeds the wildlife, or plants flowers in the trees. Maybe they bring their dog(s) every day, and the fae find it cute. Everyone has their individual reasoning.

Personally? I wouldn't wanna be an incubator. Sounds hot in concept, but realistically thinking, I wouldn't be very comfortable. But I'd love to feel a gaze on me in the woods. It starts very slightly, probably just a squirrel or bird, I think. But then I start getting that feeling more intensely. Sometimes the feeling follows me. Sometimes it starts the moment I enter the woods, like something was waiting for me in those trees. Sometimes I'd notice little flowers or berries put in specific patterns on the path ahead, always the same exact paths I take every day. I'd start leaving gifts in return, like little ribbons, or beads. I'd start noticing them delicately placed on the branches in decoration, and keep the collection going.

I just think it'd be nice. Having something wait for me every day.

However, piskies do tend to stay in 'packs'. I say packs lightly, as they are on the same wavelength as humans, probably moreso, and some aren't comfortable being compared to an animal. Sensitive topic. But point is, they stick together. You'd REALLY need to be someone special to have one leave it's family to accompany you, though definitely expect requests to visit.

Fae are smart. Incredibly smart. It'd find ways to get around, especially as small as they are. Maybe it'd hide in your bag? Or in the hood of a baggy jumper? Maybe it'd sneak alongside, hiding in the trees and bushes near the path, while keeping an ear out for your breathing and footsteps in order to navigate your location. In your house, perhaps it'd hide in the walls when company is around, giving nothing more than flash of mystery and wonder to your guests as they catch the slightest glimpse. It'd find ways to hide, while never really leaving your side. They are incredibly loyal, after all.

Most, but not all, piskies are asexual. They're not very sex focused. Of course, some are definitely kinkier than others, and they do get sexual pleasure, physically. Some are comfortable with the idea. Some are indifferent. Some are very much against it. But sex is rarely their first instinct. It's mostly food or games. This means you would probably have to initiate something. They'd do their absolute best, of course! But it can be difficult for something of their size to really do a good job. They weren't exactly built to satisfy monsterfuckers of other species. Maybe sex isn't their forte. You can definitely work with it! Some are wonders with their tongues, such long and agile muscles usually used for licking honey out of beehives, while others have more joy in using their hands and arms to reach in and drag their nails delicately across the insides.

But hey. If you can get a fae to love and trust you that much, you can do what you want with it. Cuddle, play, fuck... Just make sure your fae is comfy, and they'll never want to leave.

Hey, isn't it supposed to be the other way around? Damn, treetop piskies are pathetic, huh?

[saturnmosaic]

succulent berries nestled in the yard.

pairing : ellie williams x female reader

synopsis : ellie, your wife, gives your cat away, out of envy or circumstance, you can't tell. leaving behind the past, you and your wife move into a new home. but with a relationship on the brink of ravage, the house seems to harbor sinister forces. and with the insatiable hunger for berries you discovered in the yard, things crumble rather fast.

warnings : pussy eating, mentions of miscarriage, animal deaths, blood, cannibalistic yearning, figures/ creatures sorta?? haunted house.

wc : 1.8k

a/n : um yeah...it's kinda bad and not executed well but i wrote this during the week of my exams, can you blame me? also i got kinda lazy during sum bits sooo

betrayal lingers in the car, stirring amidst the crisp air of the AC. the tapping of the rain against the mist covered windows, like the rhythmic pumping of your ruptured heart, does no good to the gnawing feeling inside you. how could she have given away your blythe. the tiny creature always so nimble on her feet at the call of her name, so fond of seeking slumber on your lap.

you’d found her on a similar day like this— grey hues enveloping the sky, water droplets crashing the tender and moist earth with all their might, and the rumbling of thunder in the distance. amidst all that chaos, her meek meow had stood out. her black fur was sleek with the heavy rain, and her belly was smeared plum dark.

you’d taken her home on an impulse. time and medical care healed her. and she had healed you. a lovely year spent with her, reminiscent of a lilac bloom in the summer. but now she was gone, taken away from you by your own wife. your own wife! a blasphemy.

"are you still mad at me? we had no other choice." aventurine eyes dart away from the distorted road to get a glimpse of you. your eyes still bleary and bloodshot, hair ever so tousled, and the silk of your dress embracing your petal-like skin. a bittersweet sight.

"don't say we." not even a glance spared her way, the face you’d seek for in every room you entered, now a face foreign and surreal.

"oh come on, she was sick anyway. it was only a matter of days before she died!" her temper, planted in her like a tempting hydrangea, speaks before her rationale can articulate words, knuckles gripping the charcoal leather of the driving wheel.

"she was not sick."

she sighs, the guilt of her deed looming over her like a sickly, withered willow. “baby, we both know she was and i’m really sorry but we can’t do anything about it. we’re moving to a new town, a new house. bringing her with us would be..a burden. besides i’d rather you not witness her death, i don’t wanna see you suffer like that.”

“i’m already suffering, aren’t i?”

“well, what the fuck do you want me to do, huh? i’m just trying to do what’s right. a-and it’s like i’m always second to that cat!”

the confession, lays bare like an ornate scroll, and makes you ponder if envy was the cause of it. but was what she said entirely fallacious? maybe you had been giving blythe more attention that she’d felt frivolous in your eyes.

“just- i’m sorry, okay? but i promise jesse will take good care of her.”

silence ensues, and soon the quaint house surfaces into your eyesight. the rain and dusk obscured it's intricacy but from what you could make out, it was painted in warm whites and browns, with ivy weaving up the sides and windows curtained in white lace.

…

a house is a body, your mom used to tell you. a haven meant to be worshipped in return for solace and warmth. this house became your body. its walls were alive in the daylight, screeching and beckoning for something while ellie was at work. it fed on your sorrow and resentment like a famished beast, stripping them away to procure life. your heart was indented in these walls.

the house would foist bad omens on whoever visited. aunt daphne had a miscarriage, the frail thing of a baby was bled out on the black and white tiles of your bathroom. it stirred memories of your own miscarriage, and ellie thought that was the reason you leaned so heavily on blythe, loving her as though she were your own child. when uncle luke visited, his golden retriever was found dead in the yard, leaves sitting idly on its fur like an atonement.

ellie wasn't one to believe in curses or anything remotely superficial, but she'd felt something innately sinister residing in the hollow of the house. she wanted to move, but moving away meant leaving behind your body, so you stayed, which compelled her to stay rooted to the house too.

…

on a sunny morning, beads of sweat kissing your skin, damp hair heavy under the sun’s gaze, you’d been lead to the brambles in the yard by the house itself. the raspberries were glistening and plump with saccharine juice.

they might’ve been tainted with fox piss, so you gather them in a dainty basket and slip back into the confines of your home to wash them. the water from the tap cascades down onto the fruits in your hand, ridding them of the insect debris and other dirt.

a tatted arm snakes its way around your waist and a head heavy with sleep rests on your shoulder. it had almost slipped out of your mind that it was a weekend.

ellie's other arm reaches out to turn the tap off and put the dampened raspberries away from your hand. without warning, pearly whites bite down on your neck and her tongue flicks out to languidly soothe the bruised splotch.

a carnal desire courses through your veins. ever since you moved here, and ever since blythe was no longer in your gentle arms, words barely existed anymore. and sometimes silence felt like a human presence, mocking the insubstantial souls around it. without words, sex was your salvation.

she turns you around to hoist you up on the counter, shadows smudged under her eyes. she'd come back from work late last night, you figure.

her calloused hands are on your thighs, pushing them apart with a fervor. a similar fervor that'd paint itself on her whenever you showed her a hint of normalcy. your hands still in her tousled hair, as the velvety pads of her fingertips tug your underwear off.

her knees hit the marble tiles, warmed by the sunlight streaming in through the kitchen windows, as she lifts the fabric of your dress up, a gentle rustle against the morning ambience, revealing your slick folds.

her tongue teases your weeping cunt, one hand clutching the dress up and the other resting on your thigh. you whimper in desperation, pushing her head further.

“ellie..”

she pats your thigh in response, fucking you with her warm muscle, feeling your insides devour it with a hanker. noises flow out of your mouth as smoothly as the tranquil descent of a waterfall, as your fingers dig into her scalp.

a sultry moan muffles into your hole, and she pulls back, the taste of you lingering on her tongue.

“what the fuck? why’d you-” your whine is silenced by the solace of her lips. her tongue slides into your mouth and presses against your own, slick and insistent. your own taste dissolves into your mouth, mending with your saliva.

you bite the soft pillow of her lower lip, drawing crimson liquid and earning a throaty noise from her. somewhere between a moan and a grunt.

“babe..” she lowers her gaze in an attempt to catch sight of the fresh blood. before she can wipe it away with the pad of her thumb, you lick the red off her pillowy cushion of flesh.

the taste is seraphic as it sits on your taste buds, a pure bliss, like thyme on a wound. the sensation of her tongue back inside your clenching walls heightened this feeling, if not subdued it wholly. but the taste still lingered.

her fingers soothe your swollen clit, circling around it as if afraid it’ll be seized from her grasp someday.

she laps at every drop of juice that manifests, like she’d done to your tears, as a fatuous inside joke, a long while ago. so long, she can’t remember if it was a hazy dream.

“fuck. i’m so close.”

her mouth pulls away when you reach your pleasant climax, her fingers still on your clit, helping you through your high. your hands go limp in her hair, and she languidly wipes the glistening slick from her mouth and chin with the back of the hand that releases your bunched dress.

...

the berries stay forgotten until the next morning, when it’s delicacy is withered and rotten away under the exposure to air and temperature. you throw the shrivelled fruits away and pick several more.

the new ripe ones sit snug in a ceramic bowl, alluring and tender. you feast on ten, eleven, twelve, and then the count numbs in your brain. the fluid so grossly alike to ellie’s blood, makes you delirious. it’s utterly enthralling, the juice dripping down your chin, its sticky residue settling on your skin. your teeth and lips and hands stained in a crimson hue, a crimson hue reminiscent of ellie’s blood. ellie’s blood. they chant themselves on the tip of your tongue.

spindled figures, engraved on the floors, long limbs and pulsing eyes, they seem to close in on you. the bowl is emptied, raspberries already in the pit of your stomach. the yearning grows in agony, an animalistic desire surging through the ivory of your bones.

you feel light like you’re meandering through the air, though you can feel the faces of the figures underneath your feet, something metallic making its home in your hand.

you blink and you're standing in your bedroom, ellie coddling her apatosaurus plushie, as her eyes stay fluttered. a vulnerability so immensely coating the room. the knife glides down her supple skin, the smell of meat stirring your senses. was her heart the sweetest part of her body?

"what the fuck are you doing?" her raspy voice cuts through your trance and suddenly the object in your hand feels foreign. with a sharp yank to your arm, the metal clanks on the marble floor.

"what is wrong with you?" ellie's gripping your arms, her face contorted with disbelief, shock and wrath.

"n-nothing." but something is. you both know. tears gush through your eyes, the salty pearls melding with the sweet smear of berries on your skin.

"god, it's this fucking house! we should've moved. fuck!" her grasp on your arms are gone, her hands fumbling for her phone. frustration envelopes her like a smothering blanket as she talks to demolition contractors.

your pleas fall on deaf ear, your mere presence as measly as a lamb. you let yourself be escorted out of the house, eyes sodden, red flickering in them, as you watch- watch the house your body collapse to the ground.

the berries come retching out of your mouth, along with a hideous flow of blood. the walls crumble and the world around you dances like an uncanny painting. sirens wail in the distance and layers of black pierce through your eyes, shutting them for slumber.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Just One Reason: A Walk in the Park

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Lloyd Hansen

masterlist - to be added

Summary: A chance encounter at the sandwich shop doesn’t end how you expect.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You push through the door of the lobby and hold it open for the elder woman hunched over her walker. You patiently let her through but she doesn’t even acknowledge your deed. It’s too bad that most times you help people, you don’t even seem to notice. That’s fine. You’d feel worse to see her struggle. 

She heads for the outer door but before you can rush over to get that too, someone else does. You blanch as you recognise the man with the bristly mustache. It’s Lloyd. You haven’t seen or heard from him in the week since the sandwich shop encounter. You just assumed it was another random crossing of wires. 

The woman mutters as she passes through the door and his cheek twitches as he waits until he’s through to let go. He shakes his head and turns to you, “there ya are. Didn’t know your unit so kinda just been hanging around.” 

You blink, “you’ve been waiting on me?” 

“That lady was a grouch, huh? Not even a thanks. Telling ya, tootsie roll, you’re too sweet,” he says. That pet name is cute but a bit much. 

“Um, yeah, but she’s probably in a lot of pain. Maybe one day I’ll be in the same way and someone will hold the door for me,” you shrug. “But uh, why exactly are you waiting in my lobby?” 

“Friends stop by to say hello, don’t they?” He grins.  

“Sure, but uh...” 

“You said we’re friends so... did I misread this? Were you just being nice? The way you do, huh? Because lying isn’t very nice, tootsie.” 

You shake your head, “no, I just... I don’t know. I’m surprised. That’s all.” 

“Good surprise?” He lifts a brow. 

“Yeah, of course,” you squeak. 

“Mm, and where are you off too, besides helping little old ladies?” He challenges. 

“Just going for a walk. I like to walk through Garnet.” 

“Garnet? You mean the sh—the path down there?” He points to the wall and you nod. 

“They have pretty flowers.” 

“It’s... almost winter,” he sniffs. 

“Yeah, I know. I like it though. There’s still ducks around.” 

He nods, his eyes narrowed discerningly, “you always see the silver linings, don’t ya?” 

“I try,” you shrug. 

“Well, can I crash your walk? Could stand to stretch my legs.” 

You nod and hum, “that’s fine.” 

“Just fine?” 

“Lloyd,” you give him a look, “you’re more than welcome to walk with me.” 

You tuck your earbud case away. The left one is broken anyhow. He pulls the door open again and waves you out. 

He follows and catches up to you on the sidewalk. You walk down the pavement and breathe in the brisk air. You fix your beanie over your ears and slip your hands up your sleeves as you cross your arms. 

“Damn cold, isn’t it?” He puffs a cloud of steam into the air. 

“I can’t wait for the snow,” you say.  

Your father always loved the wintertime. You would watch the flakes drift down and build a snowman, even a tiny one if there wasn’t very much, and you’d have hot chocolate on the porch in your mittens and pajamas. And Christmas... 

You push away that thought. 

“You’re quiet? You alright?” He nudges you with his elbow. You flinch. You forgot he was there for a second. 

“I’m wonderful. How are you? How’s your ear?” 

“My ear...” he echoes. “You remember?” 

“Did you get it looked at? Does it still hurt?” 

“Yeah, it’s alright. Still a bit fuzzy on that side,” he shrugs. “It’s whatever. I’m a big boy.” 

“Right, but did a doctor say so or--” 

“You worry about me that much, tootsie?” He scoffs. 

“It’s important. You never know, could be worse than you think. And if it’s nothing at all, at least you know,” you say. You don’t want to nag him, even if you should have nagged your dad. Maybe... 

“No, I didn’t. Really, it’s not the first time I got a good blast to the ear,” he says. 

“Right,” you accept as you turn through the gate to the park. The arch is missing letters but it’s still beautiful. 

He sighs again and rubs his hands together. “God, I hate the cold.” 

“You should get gloves,” you uncross your arms and reach into your pocket, “I don’t know, mine might be too small.” 

You offer him the woolly mittens. He clicks his tongue, “that’s cute, definitely too small.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and chatters. You look at his jacket. You try to see the inside above the collar. “What are you doing?” He glances at you from the corner of his eye. 

“Is that lined?” You ask. 

“What?” 

“Your coat. Is there a lining in it? It looks thin.” 

“I’m just fine, mom, thanks,” he snips sharply. 

“Gosh, sorry, I just... I could sew a lining into it. I replaced the inserts in my boots too. It’s not that hard.” 

He furrows his brow, “it’s whatever. I spend most of the winter south. Right by the equator where it’s nice and sunny.” 

“Ooo, that sounds cool,” you say. “By the ocean?” 

“Surrounded by it,” he says nonchalantly. 

“Wow. I’ve never seen the ocean.” 

“You haven’t... tootsie, what’re ya doin’ to me? You’re lying.” 

“Nope,” you shake your head. “I’m sure one day I will. Is it pretty?” 

He looks at you and his nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath, “yeah, it’s... beautiful,” he looks ahead thoughtfully. “Guess I should pay more attention, but yeah, real blue and big and sh—stuff.” 

You bounce on your feet and stop suddenly. You hit his arm and point, “don’t scare him.” 

He nearly trips as you gesture to the little chipmunk on the broken bench. You can’t help a squee as it skitters onto the seat and glances around nervously. You squeeze Lloyd’s sleeve without thinking. 

“He’s so c-y-ute!” You say, “isn’t he?” 

He doesn’t answer right away but you’re too enamoured with the tiny critter to care. 

“Yea, super cute,” he agrees at last.